2009 Fusion Challenge, Prompt # 17, Raving Madness [1/???]
Title: Sweat The Battle Before The Battle Sweats You
Title Inspiration: Cute is What We Aim For
Author: Octobersghosts
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jess
Warnings: Lots of slash-y goodness ;)
Word Count: Over 1,000, that much I can tell you.
Summary: Dean just got over a bad break up with his girlfriend Cassie who he's been going out with for years. Sam and Chuck decide to come and cheer the dude up. Chuck suggests a rave party. And why the hell not? Thinks Dean.
Author's Note: This is written for the deancastiel AU challenge. # 17 used.
Chuck takes his buddies the Winchesters to a rave!club where Dean meets Castiel, someone who's too innocent, too honest and too into the music to simply stand there and talk to him.
I don't know how innocent Castiel is in it though, hahaha. I don't know who it was that requested this :( But whoever it was, I really hope if you read this you enjoy it! It took me all day. Haha. Anyway, I'll get started on the second half a.s.a.p. I just needed a break, so I decided to cut the two pieces in half. Now I need to go replenish my fuel tank. Please rate and comment though, if you get the chance!
And Evan suddenly realizes at this moment as he reads his SciFi, action, romance filled novel that this has got to be if he calculated correctly, that since the song he's been listening to for five straight days and nights is approximately four minutes long, and there are one hundred and twenty hours in five days, that he has possibly heard this song play thirty times now? He may be wrong, for he has never been good at math and he has never been one for problems such as 'If train A left this station at such and such time, and train B left one hour after, at what time would train B arrive at Station B, and what time would Train A arrive at station C?' But if had to assume, it was around that many times, though if you asked him he'd say it seemed like it's been more. But further more, after so many times of listening to one song a person tends to memorize the lyrics of said song. And so, after his (as he estimates) thirtieth time now of hearing, oh wait, he listens as the guitar strums its last beat . . . and wait . . . ah! It is now maybe his thirty first time, that he can easily mouth the words and not make a single mistake, and if he was at an air guitar competition this would most honestly be his preferred song of choice to guitar along with if he intended to win such a competition.
He unconsciously was bobbing his head, and as his feet were propped atop the marble counter his right foot was tapping at the air along with the rhythm. The first night, when the guitar had suddenly started playing through the hallways of the apartment complex, Evan had been quite taken back. He was the doorman at Paradise Inn, or more or less had taken up the job because his father happened to own this place, and it was quite startling when Gene Simmons voice echoed along the empty hallways and reverberated off the walls. The other tenants had opened their doors, as he could clearly remember, and peeked their heads out to see where the disturbance had come from. He had quickly realized what patron had started the routine, because minutes before he had helped the same man up to his room.
He didn't know the short haired brunette's name, but he remembers that night very clearly. He had been sitting peacefully behind his post, precariously folding newspapers that the guests had not claimed into little origami creatures, to burn the time away. It was maybe nine o'clock, and soon he would be heading over to the 'house' with his dad, so the night doorman could set up watch, when very suddenly the doors opened, and he looked up to see a man stumble his way into the entrance of the apartment complex.
The man had been drunk, it was very obvious by the smell of liquor, smoke, and sex that had permeated off of his clothes and stained the air of the lobby as soon as he came in. Evan remembers after it all spraying two cans of lavender scented Lysol just to make sure his father didn't notice it ,and he also had the unfortunate pleasure of scrubbing down the carpet with a whole bottle of cleaner just to get rid of the stench and remnants of bile the man had happened to upchuck in his endeavor through the door (which had failed epically, might Evan add). For the man could not find the balance in his legs enough to walk, and fell onto his side upon the floor, where he had spilled his breakfast and laid quite pathetically for a moment until Evan was sure he would not empty his own stomach at the sight.
Evan had never particularly been a mean person, so though he hated himself (literally, wanted to die) as he sat with pursed lips, praying someone else would come in and help, as he ducked behind the counter and watched for a moment he gave a very reluctant sigh and slowly, hesitantly walked over to the man and asked if he needed help. Of course he did, though Evan if he had the will would have left him to lie there in his own filth, but just couldn't find the act of cruelness inside of him to do such a horrible thing. Which is why he helped the man (who is definitely bigger, not in a fat way) to his feet, let him rest his arm around Evan's shoulders, walked him to the elevator, waited for it to reach the third story, and then brought him into his suite. That night was spent cleaning up the evidence, taking a very long shower, and clambering into bed to savor the sleep he got. The next morning is when he awoke, to the sound of Kiss at seven o'clock in the morning, and groaned very loudly as he shoved his face underneath his pillow to smother himself dead. Needless to say 'I was made for loving you' has become a very familiar song throughout the whole of five days.
Evan is tired, a person could tell by the forming shadows creeping under his eyes, and the way his hair has become more and more unkempt as the days go by. He has become snappy and testy with anyone who happens to come his way, and finds himself caring less and less about the people's complaints which had begun since day one. Though no one really dared to say anything to the man (because the first person who did found themselves staring at a very grumpy set of green eyes, and the sight of the man's uvula when he was screaming for them to get the hell away it was a free fucking country). His father had also given up on trying to negotiate a compromise with the tenants. It seemed that the apartment had just declared defeat, and carried out their normal, everyday activities as if nothing was going on (even though it was like having Gene Simmons screaming right in your face).
Evan heard the sound of footsteps coming through the lobby, and didn't even notice the tinkling of the bell when the door had opened. He heard the sound of voices arguing, and pursed his lips, trying not to seem nosy (which he failed at, as he peeked over his novel and watched the two male figures facing each other as they spoke).
"Jesus, how long has this been going on?" The man who spoke had soft, tanner looking skin. He was big, and very built. (Was that a twelve pack Evan saw beneath that nice fitting shirt?) The man stared up at the ceiling as if it was the source of all the noise, and shook his head. "I'm surprised no one's gone up there and shot him yet. I would have and I'm his brother for God's sake."
"I'm assuming he hasn't taken the break up with Cassie well?" The scruffier, skittish, and smaller man beside him frowned and licked his lips. He looked sleep deprived, like he'd been up many nights partying too long and hard. His hair was greasy looking almost, and his eyes roamed around the room nervously, pupils shaking in their sockets even, searching for something that he just couldn't find before his nervous (were they nervous, or just really that crazy) eyes fell upon Evan's figure sitting calmly behind the counter. "Hey, you know what room number Dean Winchesters is?"
Evan shook himself from his stupor when he noticed he was being addressed. He set his book down, and tilted his head. "Dean Winchester? Is that the man who has been blasting his music for the past five days now?"
The bigger man who had been indulging himself by looking around the room, now looked quite worriedly at Evan. "Five days now? Jesus Christ, Dean, you dumb ass." He was running his big, paw-like hands over his face and through his wavy brunette locks as he began to pace the room, and the littler man took charge then.
"Yeah, him," he answered back, pursing his lips as he tried to calm the man who Evan assumed to be the suicidal Kiss fan upstairs' brother. "Could you give us his room number please."
Evan began to search through name names on his list, and found it quickly so not to prolong their worry. "It's 309."
And with that, they took to the elevator. Evan listened quietly, waiting for some kind of sign that they had found the room. It took a moment, but just as he anticipated the man had likely killed himself he heard the record player come to an abrupt halt, like Gene had, had a cork shoved down his throat, and he could hear a very disappointed shout. Smiling to himself he settled back into the comfort of his computer chair, taking pleasure in the silence. God, he would never listen to another Kiss song for as long as he lived - no matter how great they were.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"What the fuck Sammy! That's a great song!" Dean was pissed. He had been quite content in his room, indulging himself with take-out and other foods that didn't involve his having to leave the apartment. He was quite happy with sulking around his house, mourning the loss of his love. "Why the hell are you here?"
Sam looked stunned, like that was the dumbest question ever. "Because I'm your brother," he answered smartly, and Dean turned around with a defeated grumble. "And because I care. Dean, it's been five days. You've been fermenting up here - marinating in your own ragoo for five days now! I couldn't get a hold of you for five god damn days. Of course after a while I was going to check on you to make sure you hadn't hung yourself or something."
Chuck was nodding his head, a lopsided look on his face, as he just agreed with everything Sam was saying. He looked like he had a massive hangover, but he was really trying to hide it as he blinked uncontrollably. Dean thought it not fair that Chuck could do what ever the hell he wanted and if Dean even thought of being alone to brood in his own home Sam would flip a cow. He crossed his arms and put on a pout as he stomped over to his couch, which was littered with potato chip crumbs and pizza crust . . . and a noodle that had been there for two days, but that was beside the point! Clearly Sam was overreacting.
"I'm a big boy I can take care of myself Sammy!" Dean protested back, plopping down onto the dirty, stained blue cushions. Chuck hesitated at first to sit, but after dusting off a bit of the crumbs he found himself flopping down with Dean and letting out a very overly dramatic, tire filled sigh.
"Obviously you can't if you can just allow yourself to rot like a corpse inside your own self-piteous tomb!" Sam shouted back, frustration molding over his features as he paced the length of the living room. Dean kept his eyes on the TV, hopelessly moping and though he was trying not to he was listening to his younger brother. "Cassie's gone, I'm sorry. Maybe she wasn't the best girl okay? There are other fish in the sea. I know you're sad, but you can't just sit here and melt on your couch listening to the same damn Kiss song for the rest of your life!"
Dean found himself acting like a child, glaring at the TV now, and popping open a beer he had grabbed off of his coffee table (which was decorated in empty Coors Light cans). He was just about to take a nice, giant swig when a very firm hand snatched it away, and like a baby crying for it's mother's breast Dean whined and whimpered, following it with his lips as it was pulled away from him right under his nose. This pissed Dean off. You did not come into a man's house preaching how he should live, turn off his Kiss music, and take away his beer. Not even if it's your brother. "You bitch!"
"And you're a jerk! Great! Now, I'm sick of this self-pity party. It's time to pack up your problems and ship them off into the back of your head. Cassie's gone, and that's that. You need to move on too Dean," Sam stated, and again with Chuck's insistent nodding. Dean was getting sick of that. He punched the scruffy man's shoulder and crossed his arms after, ignoring Chuck's agape mouth and questioning stare.
"Ouch?" Chuck spoke, hating the fact that he was being ignored. He looked back and forth between the two Winchesters, who would not take their eyes away from each other. Chuck could feel the tension looming in the room like electricity, and he shuddered as all the negative vibes made his insides twist. It was awkward being in the middle of two brothers sometimes. They were the greatest of friends, but when one was mad at the other . . . The pandemonium was scary. Chuck leaned back, and rested his arms behind his head as he kicked out his legs. "You guys need to take a chill pill and loosen up a bit. And I need a drink."
"Shut up Chuck," the two brothers said, almost simultaneously, in sync they were that damn good.
Lifting his hands innocently, Chuck shook his head at them. He wondered again why he bothered to get into this mess? Why had that been? Was it because Sam had insisted that he come to check on Dean too, to make sure Sam didn't rip the older man's head off for making him worry so much? Chuck obviously couldn't even do that. He frowned and stared at the can of beer still resting in Sam's hand, almost longingly, like if he thought hard enough he could use the force and make it levitate over to him. But alas, he was just a starving artist that liked to party - not a Jedi Knight.
"Ugghh, you two totally are ruining this beautiful day," Chuck muttered almost sarcastically, looking out the window at the wasted summer sky. He really wanted to go party. He really wanted to get drunk and have his dick sucked. Was that vulgar and blunt of him to say? He shrugged, and turned his gaze back on the battling Stooges. "Maybe we should all go out tonight..."
This caught the two's attention. They both seemed to turn their eyes toward Chuck, who smiled as this simple comment had made a world of a difference and cleared some of the horribly depressing auras in the room. Sam seemed curious, head tilted and face scrunched up. "And where do you propose we go, Chuck? One of your horribly rave, crazy ass parties?"
Chuck gave a little shrug, lips puckering out and eyes widening. "Why not?"
Dean was simply listening, interest evident, and eying the man beside him wearily. "A rave party? What the hell are those? Does it have a lot of dancing or something?"
Dean was not exactly hip and up to date on the system of teenager parties. He was a down to earth guy. He enjoyed classic rock music and simple bars where he could drink till his liver shriveled up inside of him and fell out. Rave parties? He didn't even know what the hell rave meant. Sam however seemed to know as he shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had that look in his eyes as he stared down at Chuck, who looked utterly careless.
"What? Don't look at me like that Sam. I'm just saying. It would be fun." He smiled up at the younger man, who rolled his eyes. Dean was so lost and dumbfounded as he stared back and forth between the two, who were speaking telepathically he assumed. Though it was this thing they all had. They could speak with their eyes to each other, without having to say a damn word. Dean waited till Sam sighed and shrugged his shoulders, and at that moment then decided to bounce into their crazy talk.
"Dude, I want in," he spoke like an anxious child, like Sam and Chuck held a secret they wouldn't tell him.
"We can go to Ellen's rave club. She'd be happy to see all of us, and she'd make sure we all stayed in line because I know Sam has a stick in his ass when it comes to things like this," Chuck said, delighted that he had won the more serious man over, though the look he was getting was quite utterly set to kill. "Dean, it's just got a lot of dancing, a lot of drugs and alcohol, and a lot of lights."
"Ellen owns a rave club?" Sam looked taken back by this fact, and Chuck gave him the 'oh god, spare me' glance.
Dean's eyes seemed to narrow in suspicion, but he was all for drinking some more beer and dancing if that's what it came down to. After a crucial moment of thinking, the man's eyes softened and he nodded his head. "Okay."
Chuck was grinning from ear to ear. He checked his watch and pursed his lips. "Well, there should be one at eight." He looked back up, and suddenly his face contorted into disapproval as he looked the two men over. "Though . . . I suggest you wear something that doesn't make you look like a prissy uptight business man . . . or a reject."
The two men both seemed to disagree greatly with this statement. Sam looked himself over, wearing a nice light blue dress shirt, a tie, a blazer and some black simple, casual pants. Dean was pissed. He punched the same shoulder he had assaulted earlier, and Chuck gaped at him like a fish out of water. Nobody insulted Metallica, which was on the shirt Dean wore. He had totally won it at one of their concerts, and it had taken him a lot of trouble to do just that. How could you say something so insulting against his like, favorite band? Metallica owned!
"I'm just saying! You guys need to update your wardrobes. It's 2009, not 1979 okay? Get with the times dudes." And Chuck earned two more punches, same shoulder, and he swears he'll feel that the next day. "Just, we're going shopping. I don't care what you two say. I am not going to be seen with you otherwise."
And Chuck looked over at Dean, noticing the beard that was starting to grow on the man's face, and his expression fell into that of disgust as he looked (what almost looked like a hairy creature holding onto his face) it up and down. "And the beard needs to go before we leave, Dean. It makes you look like you're some kind of homeless person off the side of the street."
Chuck stood up from the couch, and began heading for the bathroom to grab the razor. Dean's jaw dropped and he touched his fuzzy mane possessively. He looked into Sam's eyes for help, desperately begging. "Dude, really? Chuck gets to keep his beard and I don't? That is so hypocritical!"
Sam cringed, and gave a sympathetic shrug. "He's kind of right dude."
"That's so unfair! How could you resist the beard? It makes me look like a fuzzy teddy bear."
Sam snorted, stifling a full out burst of laughter. "Yeah. If they had teddy bears that looked like Bigfoot."
And Dean sank into the couch with a gloomy black cloud of despair hanging over his head.
-------------------------------------------
Dean stared at himself in the store mirror, and didn't exactly hate his outfit, it just seemed strange. He wore darker, gray jeans that hugged his legs and ass nicely. Hey, Dean was proud of his body. He studied himself from front to back, exploring the way the new (Oh yeah, because Chuck said it was more up to date) Metallica shirt fit closely to his skin. He ran a hand over his nice, smooth face and just felt different as he gave a sly smirk. At least he got to wear boots (though they weren't as clunky, because Chuck insisted that you did not want to look like a clown on the dance floor. Or a tap dancer at that). "Damn Dean, you look fine."
Sam came out of the dressing room then, nostrils flared and a sullen look on his face. He was wearing jeans, and it had been a mighty long time since Dean had seen his brother wearing something other than formal apparel. Dean grinned at the younger, yet taller man and looked him up and down nodding his head in approval. His eyes stopped on the man's shoes. "Are those . . . converse?"
Sam was wearing a flannel, a nice green one, and some lighter toned jeans with CONVERSE. "Yeah, Chuck said they're classics. You can't beat 'em."
"You can't," said Chuck, appearing from out of nowhere and startling the two. He smiled as he checked them out, and nodded his head approvingly. "Now we can totally go and have a party."
Sam gave a small shrug to his older brother's questioning look, and they both simply followed Chuck out of the room.
------------------------------------
You remember that Dean had never heard of a rave, and had definitely not ever been to one at that. When they entered the club, his eyes widened a fraction or two, and got glossy as he admired the lights dancing in the darkness. He was so memorized by it that he didn't even notice the familiar motherly tone speaking, until he felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down at the older women who was smiling happily at him. He couldn't help but hug her as she reached out for one, and they held on for a while as Ellen rubbed his back. She was kind of like a mother to him, so when he heard her say "Sorry about Cassie," he shook his head, and allowed her to place her hand on his cheek and smile lovingly at him. She was the only one he allowed to do such a thing, and he nodded his head at her.
"I'm surprised to see you two here," she said after a moment, and let go of Dean's cheek to address the others. Her eyes fell on Chuck's figure, and she frowned and gave a very unsurprised expression at him, her left brow raising. He gave a small nervous laugh under his breath and pursed his lips. "Though I aint' surprised to see your face here. Corrupting my little boys, are you Chuck?"
He waved a dismissive hand in the air, acting nonchalant, and feeling uncomfortable under her stern gaze he said, "Well, I'll be out there if you need me," and slipped out into the mess of people screaming, shouting, and dancing.
Dean watched his back as he left, and rubbed his nose. "Well, you two be good. I don't want you doing anything too stupid okay?"
They both nodded, feeling like they were being lectured by a concerned parent. She gave them both a good squeeze before she slipped out into the crowd herself, yelling at a man who was getting a little two hands on with one of the girls. Dean snickered under his breath and looked over at Sam, who looked like he felt quite uncomfortable and out of place standing amongst everyone. He needed to loosen up, as Chuck had stated being the reason they were there.
"Hey, you should find a pretty girl to dance with Sammy," Dean teased playfully winking and nudging his brother. Sam gave Dean his 'bitch face' and looked around nervously. "Fine, be a tight ass all night. I'm gonna' go play around."
Dean left his gaping brother to be prey among the hungry ravers lurking around the club. He went over to the bar and eyed a few girls giggling near the end, wearing glow stick necklaces and watching Dean as he smiled at the three of them. He asked for an old fashioned beer, took a deliberately long sip, and pushed himself up off the table to go toward the group. They were all wide eyed and mystified as he came closer, and a blond spoke up for all of them.
"Never seen your face 'round here before," she said, in a flirty voice. Dean smirked back at her and shrugged his shoulders, pocketing his hands and looking away toward the rest of the crowd. She sipped her crazy drink that was glowing in the dark, and licked her lips provocatively. "Want to dance?"
That's what he was waiting for. He opened his mouth, and was about to say yes when someone bumped into his arm and caused him to tip his glass forward. Needless to say the beverage once in his glass was no longer there . . . Instead it poured onto the blond, and Dean just couldn't say a word as he stared down at the mess. She screamed, and he could tell he'd better slip away before she clawed his eyes out. And while she was making a fuss he slowly turned and walked toward a darker corner of the room so she wouldn't be able to find him.
"Oops." He downed what was left of his glass and set it down on one of the tables before he walked away to wander around the club. The music was loud, piercing techno and it pounded against his ears as he snaked around the dancing people, avoiding any contact as much as possible, which was as near to impossible as it was to touch your tongue your elbow. It was also hard to see, except for the swirling lights that people had hanging around their bodies, and there were many bodies. He was looking for Chuck, he supposed, but that was like searching for a needle in a haystack. Or maybe even hay in a pile of needles? Ouch.
Dean was busy thinking before he realized he was being pushed into. There were two on either side, and maybe they just didn't notice because they were too drunk or didn't care, but it was like an Oreo with Dean as the yummy filling in between. The girl behind him had initiated the sandwich, for she had locked Dean up against a man in front of him, and started rubbing her back side against his. Dean didn't mind the girl, but having a man rubbing up against him was a little disconcerting.
Now Dean wasn't homophobic, but he was not a homo. He awkwardly (and by God was it awkward for him) tried to maneuver himself out of the situation as quietly as possible, but the man that was rubbing up against him made it quite hard to get away. Especially when every time the dark skinned man happened to move down, he could feel the friction of their bodies and it sent heat down to his . . . Dean finally couldn't handle it and escaped the prison, a little flustered and red in the cheeks. And was he sweating?
"Dean! There you are!" Chuck was slinking toward him, swaying with his steps, and smiling like a Cheshire Cat. Two girls were wrapped around his sides, and Dean questioned how a man as strange as Chuck could get laid with so much ease. They were nibbling on his ears, and neck, and obviously aroused as all hell. "Hey, look over there."
Dean was puzzled, but he obeyed. He looked over to the direction the man was pointing and found Sam in his wake. "Look at your brother go!"
Sam was sitting at a table, drink in hand, talking to a nice looking blond girl. Dean smiled, because Sam looked happy. And when Sam was happy, so was Dean. He nodded his head, and turned his eyes back on Chuck who was moaning now deep in his throat. Ew. Dean shook his head, and shielded his eyes. "Go get a room Chuck!"
And Chuck left with no complaints. When he was sure the man was gone he removed his hand from his vision and gazed around the room. His brother was with a girl, Chuck was with TWO girls, and he had nothing. What the hell? There was something definitely wrong with that. He gave a little sigh as he worked his eyes across the darkness searching for anything that caught his interest.
He followed his feet as he wandered through the club, searching for God only knows what. Everyone seemed to be so caught up in the music, dancing with each other and having sex through touch. Dean found himself out of place, and found a corner to stand in next to a darker haired man that was eyeballing the crowd. He pursed his lips and watched the man, who didn't seem to take any notice or even care.
"Hey," Dean stated, trying to feel less awkward and start a conversation to ease the tension. Though he believed it was his own tension, because the man beside him really did not seem to notice him at all until he said something. "Why aren't you out there dancing with your friends?"
Deep blue eyes glanced curiously in Dean's direction, skittering over Dean's figure, and a small smirk tugged at pale pink lips. The man wore jeans that hugged his legs tightly, what did the kids call them these days, skinny jeans? He had a band shirt on, one that was definitely unfamiliar to the older man, and this man seemingly really wanted to get in on the grinding up on others movement, but he restrained himself. He stared intently at Dean for a moment, before turning his attention back on the crowd. When he talked his voice was very out of place, deep and gravelly. "Castiel."
"Castiel?" Dean asked, eyes squinting. That was a strange name? He'd heard it from somewhere though . . . "Isn't that like some kind of angel or what not?"
Castiel shrugged his shoulders. His hips were swaying with the beat, and he seemed antsy in his pants. Cas pursed his lips, eyes wandering from soul to soul like they were searching for someone perfect to dance with. He was biting his tongue as he said, very disinterestedly, "Yeah."
Dean felt so weird and unwanted next to this man. He shifted on his feet and gave a little frown. Castiel seemed to notice, glancing from the corner of his eyes to stare at Dean again, almost analytically looking him up and down. "Metallica huh?"
Dean started at the question, and nodded his head, smiling as a topic he was familiar with came up into the conversation. "Best band ever dude."
"Sure," Cas stated, nodding his head, smiling. Dean swore he saw the bastard's lips mumble something else, and he raised a thin brow.
"Excuse me? I beg your pardon? Didn't quite catch that," Dean stated, frowning at the man.
Castiel gave him a sly little smile, and tilted his head, throwing on the expression of a puppy. "What? I didn't say a thing."
Fine, Dean decided as he nodded his head. He could play that game. He smiled back, and didn't notice his feet step closer to the man who was once again staring off into the crowd like he yearned to buck his hips around and dance with the rest of them. Dean wondered what kept Castiel from going out there. He pondered the smaller man, and enjoyed the blue eyes that flickered back and watched him wearily. Dean couldn't help the laugh that escaped his throat, and the look of confusion that rested in those blue eyes.
"What?"
Dean puckered his lips and crossed his eyes, tilting his head to the side in a dumb, clueless little expression to mock Castiel's earlier act. "What? I didn't say a thing."
For a moment the man only stared, body slowly swaying tp the beat as he searched Dean, eyes holding him in place. But those full pink lips broke out into a terrible grin, and he laughed a little under his breath, nodding his head as he turned his attention on the crowd again. That was the last straw. Dean grabbed his arm and his attention.
"Do you want to dance or something?" He asked, brow raised. "Because you look like if you don't get out there soon you may start to in spontaneously combust on me or something."
Castiel's eyes glowed with the faintest hint of excitement for a brief moment, before they contained themselves and settled down. He tried to hide the rush of happiness racing through his veins as he searched for an answer, even though Dean already knew what it was. Dean rolled his eyes and began to pull him out onto the dance floor; Castiel looked nervous, as they stopped, for Dean had found a nice little open space that suited him. He smiled politely, noting how Cas could not stop looking everywhere but him, and how Cas twitched anxiously.
"Hey, I'm not very good at this so if you could help me out that would be great," Dean stated simply, snapping Cas' attention back on him. The younger man licked at his lips and cringed as he nodded his head unsurely at first. "Great! So, you can start when you want to then."
And it didn't take long before Cas was pressed against him, moving his body. It was shocking, in a way that made Dean give a soft moan in his surprise over the sudden warmth Castiel brought upon him. After a moment or two, Dean found himself moving with the other man. And it was surprising that Dean was doing this, because he wasn't gay. No, he wasn't. He liked nice firm breasts, silky skin, curvy bodies, long cascading hair . . . cut short, and messy, and blue eyes, and slender hips, grinding against him until he admittedly was hard beneath his jeans, and oh god was it uncomfortable to have those jeans on with all that friction rubbing against him.
When Cas turned around his ass pressed tightly against Dean, not seeming to care that Dean's erection was rubbing the inside of his pants thigh, and bucking hard up into him every time he moved down, making him lose himself in the music even more. Cas was panting then, and Dean was far too lost within the moment to notice this. Castiel felt the hand that found its way through the cloth of his shirt somehow, gripping his fleshy hip tightly, and rubbing up against him desperately. He could feel Dean's breath on the back of his head, making the hairs on his neck stand on end, and a shiver roll down his spine. He had to turn around, because he wanted to hide the large lump growing in his jeans as much as possible, even though when he turned it made the tension in his groin grow even more when he felt the first brush of Dean's crotch on his.
And Dean had to keep telling himself that he is not gay, but he was beginning to question why the hell this was turning him on so much if he really didn't like men? His hands were gripping Castiel's ass, nice and tight, nice and firm through the man's jeans, and he swears they're basically like rabbits in heat, dry humping in the middle of the rave club. There was sweat dripping down Dean's temple, and he was biting his lip so hard he could taste the copper-y flavor of blood in his mouth. Something gripped his shoulder, tight, and he thought it was Castiel's hand because it's an unfamiliar needy touch, but he couldn't tell if it was trying to push him away or pull him in?
"D-Dean," a voice rasped out, "We, we, we shouldn't be . . . " And Castiel gasped, and Dean thought it was somehow the most beautiful noise he'd ever heard. "Please, stop!"
Dean did. He did so abruptly that he stumbled back, but luckily found his footing before he fell. He was trembling with need of release as he stared into those deep blue eyes that looked utterly scared, and lost, and glazed with lust. Dean wanted to kiss those lips that opened and closed with missing words, and he found himself wanting all these things he just should not have wanted. Castiel took a step back, his breathing hard and his body trembling. Dean's eyes wandered down and he could see Castiel's erection outlined in his pants, and it makes his own dick twitch with need. It was unbearable, because it was the best he'd ever felt in a week or two.
"I . . . I can't," Castiel began, and tilted his head to the side. "No. I'm sorry. I need to go."
Dean wanted to run after him, to chase him down and grab him and hold him and kiss him, but he just watched. He just stood there, and watched the man turn and hurry away in escape. The crowd had been watching, and they were all staring at Dean, waiting for a reaction, but Dean . . . Dean didn't know what to do. He turned around and found his brother staring wide eyed at him, shocked. Dean's face turned grave, and he was mortified by his actions.
He pursed his lips, and looked to the ground.
"Dean, what the hell . . . ?"
Dean left before he had to deal with Sam's brotherly lecture. He found himself a cab and got a ride back to his apartment complex. He nodded at Evan in greeting when he entered through the doors, and the teen looked scared and nervous, like Dean would flop onto the ground and start convulsing like a fish, but Dean simply stalked over to the elevator and escaped up to the confines of his room. That night when he tried to sleep he found himself staring up at the ceiling, dreaming of dark haired men and deep blue eyes.
He dreamed of Castiel.
Title Inspiration: Cute is What We Aim For
Author: Octobersghosts
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam/Jess
Warnings: Lots of slash-y goodness ;)
Word Count: Over 1,000, that much I can tell you.
Summary: Dean just got over a bad break up with his girlfriend Cassie who he's been going out with for years. Sam and Chuck decide to come and cheer the dude up. Chuck suggests a rave party. And why the hell not? Thinks Dean.
Author's Note: This is written for the deancastiel AU challenge. # 17 used.
Chuck takes his buddies the Winchesters to a rave!club where Dean meets Castiel, someone who's too innocent, too honest and too into the music to simply stand there and talk to him.
I don't know how innocent Castiel is in it though, hahaha. I don't know who it was that requested this :( But whoever it was, I really hope if you read this you enjoy it! It took me all day. Haha. Anyway, I'll get started on the second half a.s.a.p. I just needed a break, so I decided to cut the two pieces in half. Now I need to go replenish my fuel tank. Please rate and comment though, if you get the chance!
And Evan suddenly realizes at this moment as he reads his SciFi, action, romance filled novel that this has got to be if he calculated correctly, that since the song he's been listening to for five straight days and nights is approximately four minutes long, and there are one hundred and twenty hours in five days, that he has possibly heard this song play thirty times now? He may be wrong, for he has never been good at math and he has never been one for problems such as 'If train A left this station at such and such time, and train B left one hour after, at what time would train B arrive at Station B, and what time would Train A arrive at station C?' But if had to assume, it was around that many times, though if you asked him he'd say it seemed like it's been more. But further more, after so many times of listening to one song a person tends to memorize the lyrics of said song. And so, after his (as he estimates) thirtieth time now of hearing, oh wait, he listens as the guitar strums its last beat . . . and wait . . . ah! It is now maybe his thirty first time, that he can easily mouth the words and not make a single mistake, and if he was at an air guitar competition this would most honestly be his preferred song of choice to guitar along with if he intended to win such a competition.
He unconsciously was bobbing his head, and as his feet were propped atop the marble counter his right foot was tapping at the air along with the rhythm. The first night, when the guitar had suddenly started playing through the hallways of the apartment complex, Evan had been quite taken back. He was the doorman at Paradise Inn, or more or less had taken up the job because his father happened to own this place, and it was quite startling when Gene Simmons voice echoed along the empty hallways and reverberated off the walls. The other tenants had opened their doors, as he could clearly remember, and peeked their heads out to see where the disturbance had come from. He had quickly realized what patron had started the routine, because minutes before he had helped the same man up to his room.
He didn't know the short haired brunette's name, but he remembers that night very clearly. He had been sitting peacefully behind his post, precariously folding newspapers that the guests had not claimed into little origami creatures, to burn the time away. It was maybe nine o'clock, and soon he would be heading over to the 'house' with his dad, so the night doorman could set up watch, when very suddenly the doors opened, and he looked up to see a man stumble his way into the entrance of the apartment complex.
The man had been drunk, it was very obvious by the smell of liquor, smoke, and sex that had permeated off of his clothes and stained the air of the lobby as soon as he came in. Evan remembers after it all spraying two cans of lavender scented Lysol just to make sure his father didn't notice it ,and he also had the unfortunate pleasure of scrubbing down the carpet with a whole bottle of cleaner just to get rid of the stench and remnants of bile the man had happened to upchuck in his endeavor through the door (which had failed epically, might Evan add). For the man could not find the balance in his legs enough to walk, and fell onto his side upon the floor, where he had spilled his breakfast and laid quite pathetically for a moment until Evan was sure he would not empty his own stomach at the sight.
Evan had never particularly been a mean person, so though he hated himself (literally, wanted to die) as he sat with pursed lips, praying someone else would come in and help, as he ducked behind the counter and watched for a moment he gave a very reluctant sigh and slowly, hesitantly walked over to the man and asked if he needed help. Of course he did, though Evan if he had the will would have left him to lie there in his own filth, but just couldn't find the act of cruelness inside of him to do such a horrible thing. Which is why he helped the man (who is definitely bigger, not in a fat way) to his feet, let him rest his arm around Evan's shoulders, walked him to the elevator, waited for it to reach the third story, and then brought him into his suite. That night was spent cleaning up the evidence, taking a very long shower, and clambering into bed to savor the sleep he got. The next morning is when he awoke, to the sound of Kiss at seven o'clock in the morning, and groaned very loudly as he shoved his face underneath his pillow to smother himself dead. Needless to say 'I was made for loving you' has become a very familiar song throughout the whole of five days.
Evan is tired, a person could tell by the forming shadows creeping under his eyes, and the way his hair has become more and more unkempt as the days go by. He has become snappy and testy with anyone who happens to come his way, and finds himself caring less and less about the people's complaints which had begun since day one. Though no one really dared to say anything to the man (because the first person who did found themselves staring at a very grumpy set of green eyes, and the sight of the man's uvula when he was screaming for them to get the hell away it was a free fucking country). His father had also given up on trying to negotiate a compromise with the tenants. It seemed that the apartment had just declared defeat, and carried out their normal, everyday activities as if nothing was going on (even though it was like having Gene Simmons screaming right in your face).
Evan heard the sound of footsteps coming through the lobby, and didn't even notice the tinkling of the bell when the door had opened. He heard the sound of voices arguing, and pursed his lips, trying not to seem nosy (which he failed at, as he peeked over his novel and watched the two male figures facing each other as they spoke).
"Jesus, how long has this been going on?" The man who spoke had soft, tanner looking skin. He was big, and very built. (Was that a twelve pack Evan saw beneath that nice fitting shirt?) The man stared up at the ceiling as if it was the source of all the noise, and shook his head. "I'm surprised no one's gone up there and shot him yet. I would have and I'm his brother for God's sake."
"I'm assuming he hasn't taken the break up with Cassie well?" The scruffier, skittish, and smaller man beside him frowned and licked his lips. He looked sleep deprived, like he'd been up many nights partying too long and hard. His hair was greasy looking almost, and his eyes roamed around the room nervously, pupils shaking in their sockets even, searching for something that he just couldn't find before his nervous (were they nervous, or just really that crazy) eyes fell upon Evan's figure sitting calmly behind the counter. "Hey, you know what room number Dean Winchesters is?"
Evan shook himself from his stupor when he noticed he was being addressed. He set his book down, and tilted his head. "Dean Winchester? Is that the man who has been blasting his music for the past five days now?"
The bigger man who had been indulging himself by looking around the room, now looked quite worriedly at Evan. "Five days now? Jesus Christ, Dean, you dumb ass." He was running his big, paw-like hands over his face and through his wavy brunette locks as he began to pace the room, and the littler man took charge then.
"Yeah, him," he answered back, pursing his lips as he tried to calm the man who Evan assumed to be the suicidal Kiss fan upstairs' brother. "Could you give us his room number please."
Evan began to search through name names on his list, and found it quickly so not to prolong their worry. "It's 309."
And with that, they took to the elevator. Evan listened quietly, waiting for some kind of sign that they had found the room. It took a moment, but just as he anticipated the man had likely killed himself he heard the record player come to an abrupt halt, like Gene had, had a cork shoved down his throat, and he could hear a very disappointed shout. Smiling to himself he settled back into the comfort of his computer chair, taking pleasure in the silence. God, he would never listen to another Kiss song for as long as he lived - no matter how great they were.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"What the fuck Sammy! That's a great song!" Dean was pissed. He had been quite content in his room, indulging himself with take-out and other foods that didn't involve his having to leave the apartment. He was quite happy with sulking around his house, mourning the loss of his love. "Why the hell are you here?"
Sam looked stunned, like that was the dumbest question ever. "Because I'm your brother," he answered smartly, and Dean turned around with a defeated grumble. "And because I care. Dean, it's been five days. You've been fermenting up here - marinating in your own ragoo for five days now! I couldn't get a hold of you for five god damn days. Of course after a while I was going to check on you to make sure you hadn't hung yourself or something."
Chuck was nodding his head, a lopsided look on his face, as he just agreed with everything Sam was saying. He looked like he had a massive hangover, but he was really trying to hide it as he blinked uncontrollably. Dean thought it not fair that Chuck could do what ever the hell he wanted and if Dean even thought of being alone to brood in his own home Sam would flip a cow. He crossed his arms and put on a pout as he stomped over to his couch, which was littered with potato chip crumbs and pizza crust . . . and a noodle that had been there for two days, but that was beside the point! Clearly Sam was overreacting.
"I'm a big boy I can take care of myself Sammy!" Dean protested back, plopping down onto the dirty, stained blue cushions. Chuck hesitated at first to sit, but after dusting off a bit of the crumbs he found himself flopping down with Dean and letting out a very overly dramatic, tire filled sigh.
"Obviously you can't if you can just allow yourself to rot like a corpse inside your own self-piteous tomb!" Sam shouted back, frustration molding over his features as he paced the length of the living room. Dean kept his eyes on the TV, hopelessly moping and though he was trying not to he was listening to his younger brother. "Cassie's gone, I'm sorry. Maybe she wasn't the best girl okay? There are other fish in the sea. I know you're sad, but you can't just sit here and melt on your couch listening to the same damn Kiss song for the rest of your life!"
Dean found himself acting like a child, glaring at the TV now, and popping open a beer he had grabbed off of his coffee table (which was decorated in empty Coors Light cans). He was just about to take a nice, giant swig when a very firm hand snatched it away, and like a baby crying for it's mother's breast Dean whined and whimpered, following it with his lips as it was pulled away from him right under his nose. This pissed Dean off. You did not come into a man's house preaching how he should live, turn off his Kiss music, and take away his beer. Not even if it's your brother. "You bitch!"
"And you're a jerk! Great! Now, I'm sick of this self-pity party. It's time to pack up your problems and ship them off into the back of your head. Cassie's gone, and that's that. You need to move on too Dean," Sam stated, and again with Chuck's insistent nodding. Dean was getting sick of that. He punched the scruffy man's shoulder and crossed his arms after, ignoring Chuck's agape mouth and questioning stare.
"Ouch?" Chuck spoke, hating the fact that he was being ignored. He looked back and forth between the two Winchesters, who would not take their eyes away from each other. Chuck could feel the tension looming in the room like electricity, and he shuddered as all the negative vibes made his insides twist. It was awkward being in the middle of two brothers sometimes. They were the greatest of friends, but when one was mad at the other . . . The pandemonium was scary. Chuck leaned back, and rested his arms behind his head as he kicked out his legs. "You guys need to take a chill pill and loosen up a bit. And I need a drink."
"Shut up Chuck," the two brothers said, almost simultaneously, in sync they were that damn good.
Lifting his hands innocently, Chuck shook his head at them. He wondered again why he bothered to get into this mess? Why had that been? Was it because Sam had insisted that he come to check on Dean too, to make sure Sam didn't rip the older man's head off for making him worry so much? Chuck obviously couldn't even do that. He frowned and stared at the can of beer still resting in Sam's hand, almost longingly, like if he thought hard enough he could use the force and make it levitate over to him. But alas, he was just a starving artist that liked to party - not a Jedi Knight.
"Ugghh, you two totally are ruining this beautiful day," Chuck muttered almost sarcastically, looking out the window at the wasted summer sky. He really wanted to go party. He really wanted to get drunk and have his dick sucked. Was that vulgar and blunt of him to say? He shrugged, and turned his gaze back on the battling Stooges. "Maybe we should all go out tonight..."
This caught the two's attention. They both seemed to turn their eyes toward Chuck, who smiled as this simple comment had made a world of a difference and cleared some of the horribly depressing auras in the room. Sam seemed curious, head tilted and face scrunched up. "And where do you propose we go, Chuck? One of your horribly rave, crazy ass parties?"
Chuck gave a little shrug, lips puckering out and eyes widening. "Why not?"
Dean was simply listening, interest evident, and eying the man beside him wearily. "A rave party? What the hell are those? Does it have a lot of dancing or something?"
Dean was not exactly hip and up to date on the system of teenager parties. He was a down to earth guy. He enjoyed classic rock music and simple bars where he could drink till his liver shriveled up inside of him and fell out. Rave parties? He didn't even know what the hell rave meant. Sam however seemed to know as he shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had that look in his eyes as he stared down at Chuck, who looked utterly careless.
"What? Don't look at me like that Sam. I'm just saying. It would be fun." He smiled up at the younger man, who rolled his eyes. Dean was so lost and dumbfounded as he stared back and forth between the two, who were speaking telepathically he assumed. Though it was this thing they all had. They could speak with their eyes to each other, without having to say a damn word. Dean waited till Sam sighed and shrugged his shoulders, and at that moment then decided to bounce into their crazy talk.
"Dude, I want in," he spoke like an anxious child, like Sam and Chuck held a secret they wouldn't tell him.
"We can go to Ellen's rave club. She'd be happy to see all of us, and she'd make sure we all stayed in line because I know Sam has a stick in his ass when it comes to things like this," Chuck said, delighted that he had won the more serious man over, though the look he was getting was quite utterly set to kill. "Dean, it's just got a lot of dancing, a lot of drugs and alcohol, and a lot of lights."
"Ellen owns a rave club?" Sam looked taken back by this fact, and Chuck gave him the 'oh god, spare me' glance.
Dean's eyes seemed to narrow in suspicion, but he was all for drinking some more beer and dancing if that's what it came down to. After a crucial moment of thinking, the man's eyes softened and he nodded his head. "Okay."
Chuck was grinning from ear to ear. He checked his watch and pursed his lips. "Well, there should be one at eight." He looked back up, and suddenly his face contorted into disapproval as he looked the two men over. "Though . . . I suggest you wear something that doesn't make you look like a prissy uptight business man . . . or a reject."
The two men both seemed to disagree greatly with this statement. Sam looked himself over, wearing a nice light blue dress shirt, a tie, a blazer and some black simple, casual pants. Dean was pissed. He punched the same shoulder he had assaulted earlier, and Chuck gaped at him like a fish out of water. Nobody insulted Metallica, which was on the shirt Dean wore. He had totally won it at one of their concerts, and it had taken him a lot of trouble to do just that. How could you say something so insulting against his like, favorite band? Metallica owned!
"I'm just saying! You guys need to update your wardrobes. It's 2009, not 1979 okay? Get with the times dudes." And Chuck earned two more punches, same shoulder, and he swears he'll feel that the next day. "Just, we're going shopping. I don't care what you two say. I am not going to be seen with you otherwise."
And Chuck looked over at Dean, noticing the beard that was starting to grow on the man's face, and his expression fell into that of disgust as he looked (what almost looked like a hairy creature holding onto his face) it up and down. "And the beard needs to go before we leave, Dean. It makes you look like you're some kind of homeless person off the side of the street."
Chuck stood up from the couch, and began heading for the bathroom to grab the razor. Dean's jaw dropped and he touched his fuzzy mane possessively. He looked into Sam's eyes for help, desperately begging. "Dude, really? Chuck gets to keep his beard and I don't? That is so hypocritical!"
Sam cringed, and gave a sympathetic shrug. "He's kind of right dude."
"That's so unfair! How could you resist the beard? It makes me look like a fuzzy teddy bear."
Sam snorted, stifling a full out burst of laughter. "Yeah. If they had teddy bears that looked like Bigfoot."
And Dean sank into the couch with a gloomy black cloud of despair hanging over his head.
-------------------------------------------
Dean stared at himself in the store mirror, and didn't exactly hate his outfit, it just seemed strange. He wore darker, gray jeans that hugged his legs and ass nicely. Hey, Dean was proud of his body. He studied himself from front to back, exploring the way the new (Oh yeah, because Chuck said it was more up to date) Metallica shirt fit closely to his skin. He ran a hand over his nice, smooth face and just felt different as he gave a sly smirk. At least he got to wear boots (though they weren't as clunky, because Chuck insisted that you did not want to look like a clown on the dance floor. Or a tap dancer at that). "Damn Dean, you look fine."
Sam came out of the dressing room then, nostrils flared and a sullen look on his face. He was wearing jeans, and it had been a mighty long time since Dean had seen his brother wearing something other than formal apparel. Dean grinned at the younger, yet taller man and looked him up and down nodding his head in approval. His eyes stopped on the man's shoes. "Are those . . . converse?"
Sam was wearing a flannel, a nice green one, and some lighter toned jeans with CONVERSE. "Yeah, Chuck said they're classics. You can't beat 'em."
"You can't," said Chuck, appearing from out of nowhere and startling the two. He smiled as he checked them out, and nodded his head approvingly. "Now we can totally go and have a party."
Sam gave a small shrug to his older brother's questioning look, and they both simply followed Chuck out of the room.
------------------------------------
You remember that Dean had never heard of a rave, and had definitely not ever been to one at that. When they entered the club, his eyes widened a fraction or two, and got glossy as he admired the lights dancing in the darkness. He was so memorized by it that he didn't even notice the familiar motherly tone speaking, until he felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down at the older women who was smiling happily at him. He couldn't help but hug her as she reached out for one, and they held on for a while as Ellen rubbed his back. She was kind of like a mother to him, so when he heard her say "Sorry about Cassie," he shook his head, and allowed her to place her hand on his cheek and smile lovingly at him. She was the only one he allowed to do such a thing, and he nodded his head at her.
"I'm surprised to see you two here," she said after a moment, and let go of Dean's cheek to address the others. Her eyes fell on Chuck's figure, and she frowned and gave a very unsurprised expression at him, her left brow raising. He gave a small nervous laugh under his breath and pursed his lips. "Though I aint' surprised to see your face here. Corrupting my little boys, are you Chuck?"
He waved a dismissive hand in the air, acting nonchalant, and feeling uncomfortable under her stern gaze he said, "Well, I'll be out there if you need me," and slipped out into the mess of people screaming, shouting, and dancing.
Dean watched his back as he left, and rubbed his nose. "Well, you two be good. I don't want you doing anything too stupid okay?"
They both nodded, feeling like they were being lectured by a concerned parent. She gave them both a good squeeze before she slipped out into the crowd herself, yelling at a man who was getting a little two hands on with one of the girls. Dean snickered under his breath and looked over at Sam, who looked like he felt quite uncomfortable and out of place standing amongst everyone. He needed to loosen up, as Chuck had stated being the reason they were there.
"Hey, you should find a pretty girl to dance with Sammy," Dean teased playfully winking and nudging his brother. Sam gave Dean his 'bitch face' and looked around nervously. "Fine, be a tight ass all night. I'm gonna' go play around."
Dean left his gaping brother to be prey among the hungry ravers lurking around the club. He went over to the bar and eyed a few girls giggling near the end, wearing glow stick necklaces and watching Dean as he smiled at the three of them. He asked for an old fashioned beer, took a deliberately long sip, and pushed himself up off the table to go toward the group. They were all wide eyed and mystified as he came closer, and a blond spoke up for all of them.
"Never seen your face 'round here before," she said, in a flirty voice. Dean smirked back at her and shrugged his shoulders, pocketing his hands and looking away toward the rest of the crowd. She sipped her crazy drink that was glowing in the dark, and licked her lips provocatively. "Want to dance?"
That's what he was waiting for. He opened his mouth, and was about to say yes when someone bumped into his arm and caused him to tip his glass forward. Needless to say the beverage once in his glass was no longer there . . . Instead it poured onto the blond, and Dean just couldn't say a word as he stared down at the mess. She screamed, and he could tell he'd better slip away before she clawed his eyes out. And while she was making a fuss he slowly turned and walked toward a darker corner of the room so she wouldn't be able to find him.
"Oops." He downed what was left of his glass and set it down on one of the tables before he walked away to wander around the club. The music was loud, piercing techno and it pounded against his ears as he snaked around the dancing people, avoiding any contact as much as possible, which was as near to impossible as it was to touch your tongue your elbow. It was also hard to see, except for the swirling lights that people had hanging around their bodies, and there were many bodies. He was looking for Chuck, he supposed, but that was like searching for a needle in a haystack. Or maybe even hay in a pile of needles? Ouch.
Dean was busy thinking before he realized he was being pushed into. There were two on either side, and maybe they just didn't notice because they were too drunk or didn't care, but it was like an Oreo with Dean as the yummy filling in between. The girl behind him had initiated the sandwich, for she had locked Dean up against a man in front of him, and started rubbing her back side against his. Dean didn't mind the girl, but having a man rubbing up against him was a little disconcerting.
Now Dean wasn't homophobic, but he was not a homo. He awkwardly (and by God was it awkward for him) tried to maneuver himself out of the situation as quietly as possible, but the man that was rubbing up against him made it quite hard to get away. Especially when every time the dark skinned man happened to move down, he could feel the friction of their bodies and it sent heat down to his . . . Dean finally couldn't handle it and escaped the prison, a little flustered and red in the cheeks. And was he sweating?
"Dean! There you are!" Chuck was slinking toward him, swaying with his steps, and smiling like a Cheshire Cat. Two girls were wrapped around his sides, and Dean questioned how a man as strange as Chuck could get laid with so much ease. They were nibbling on his ears, and neck, and obviously aroused as all hell. "Hey, look over there."
Dean was puzzled, but he obeyed. He looked over to the direction the man was pointing and found Sam in his wake. "Look at your brother go!"
Sam was sitting at a table, drink in hand, talking to a nice looking blond girl. Dean smiled, because Sam looked happy. And when Sam was happy, so was Dean. He nodded his head, and turned his eyes back on Chuck who was moaning now deep in his throat. Ew. Dean shook his head, and shielded his eyes. "Go get a room Chuck!"
And Chuck left with no complaints. When he was sure the man was gone he removed his hand from his vision and gazed around the room. His brother was with a girl, Chuck was with TWO girls, and he had nothing. What the hell? There was something definitely wrong with that. He gave a little sigh as he worked his eyes across the darkness searching for anything that caught his interest.
He followed his feet as he wandered through the club, searching for God only knows what. Everyone seemed to be so caught up in the music, dancing with each other and having sex through touch. Dean found himself out of place, and found a corner to stand in next to a darker haired man that was eyeballing the crowd. He pursed his lips and watched the man, who didn't seem to take any notice or even care.
"Hey," Dean stated, trying to feel less awkward and start a conversation to ease the tension. Though he believed it was his own tension, because the man beside him really did not seem to notice him at all until he said something. "Why aren't you out there dancing with your friends?"
Deep blue eyes glanced curiously in Dean's direction, skittering over Dean's figure, and a small smirk tugged at pale pink lips. The man wore jeans that hugged his legs tightly, what did the kids call them these days, skinny jeans? He had a band shirt on, one that was definitely unfamiliar to the older man, and this man seemingly really wanted to get in on the grinding up on others movement, but he restrained himself. He stared intently at Dean for a moment, before turning his attention back on the crowd. When he talked his voice was very out of place, deep and gravelly. "Castiel."
"Castiel?" Dean asked, eyes squinting. That was a strange name? He'd heard it from somewhere though . . . "Isn't that like some kind of angel or what not?"
Castiel shrugged his shoulders. His hips were swaying with the beat, and he seemed antsy in his pants. Cas pursed his lips, eyes wandering from soul to soul like they were searching for someone perfect to dance with. He was biting his tongue as he said, very disinterestedly, "Yeah."
Dean felt so weird and unwanted next to this man. He shifted on his feet and gave a little frown. Castiel seemed to notice, glancing from the corner of his eyes to stare at Dean again, almost analytically looking him up and down. "Metallica huh?"
Dean started at the question, and nodded his head, smiling as a topic he was familiar with came up into the conversation. "Best band ever dude."
"Sure," Cas stated, nodding his head, smiling. Dean swore he saw the bastard's lips mumble something else, and he raised a thin brow.
"Excuse me? I beg your pardon? Didn't quite catch that," Dean stated, frowning at the man.
Castiel gave him a sly little smile, and tilted his head, throwing on the expression of a puppy. "What? I didn't say a thing."
Fine, Dean decided as he nodded his head. He could play that game. He smiled back, and didn't notice his feet step closer to the man who was once again staring off into the crowd like he yearned to buck his hips around and dance with the rest of them. Dean wondered what kept Castiel from going out there. He pondered the smaller man, and enjoyed the blue eyes that flickered back and watched him wearily. Dean couldn't help the laugh that escaped his throat, and the look of confusion that rested in those blue eyes.
"What?"
Dean puckered his lips and crossed his eyes, tilting his head to the side in a dumb, clueless little expression to mock Castiel's earlier act. "What? I didn't say a thing."
For a moment the man only stared, body slowly swaying tp the beat as he searched Dean, eyes holding him in place. But those full pink lips broke out into a terrible grin, and he laughed a little under his breath, nodding his head as he turned his attention on the crowd again. That was the last straw. Dean grabbed his arm and his attention.
"Do you want to dance or something?" He asked, brow raised. "Because you look like if you don't get out there soon you may start to in spontaneously combust on me or something."
Castiel's eyes glowed with the faintest hint of excitement for a brief moment, before they contained themselves and settled down. He tried to hide the rush of happiness racing through his veins as he searched for an answer, even though Dean already knew what it was. Dean rolled his eyes and began to pull him out onto the dance floor; Castiel looked nervous, as they stopped, for Dean had found a nice little open space that suited him. He smiled politely, noting how Cas could not stop looking everywhere but him, and how Cas twitched anxiously.
"Hey, I'm not very good at this so if you could help me out that would be great," Dean stated simply, snapping Cas' attention back on him. The younger man licked at his lips and cringed as he nodded his head unsurely at first. "Great! So, you can start when you want to then."
And it didn't take long before Cas was pressed against him, moving his body. It was shocking, in a way that made Dean give a soft moan in his surprise over the sudden warmth Castiel brought upon him. After a moment or two, Dean found himself moving with the other man. And it was surprising that Dean was doing this, because he wasn't gay. No, he wasn't. He liked nice firm breasts, silky skin, curvy bodies, long cascading hair . . . cut short, and messy, and blue eyes, and slender hips, grinding against him until he admittedly was hard beneath his jeans, and oh god was it uncomfortable to have those jeans on with all that friction rubbing against him.
When Cas turned around his ass pressed tightly against Dean, not seeming to care that Dean's erection was rubbing the inside of his pants thigh, and bucking hard up into him every time he moved down, making him lose himself in the music even more. Cas was panting then, and Dean was far too lost within the moment to notice this. Castiel felt the hand that found its way through the cloth of his shirt somehow, gripping his fleshy hip tightly, and rubbing up against him desperately. He could feel Dean's breath on the back of his head, making the hairs on his neck stand on end, and a shiver roll down his spine. He had to turn around, because he wanted to hide the large lump growing in his jeans as much as possible, even though when he turned it made the tension in his groin grow even more when he felt the first brush of Dean's crotch on his.
And Dean had to keep telling himself that he is not gay, but he was beginning to question why the hell this was turning him on so much if he really didn't like men? His hands were gripping Castiel's ass, nice and tight, nice and firm through the man's jeans, and he swears they're basically like rabbits in heat, dry humping in the middle of the rave club. There was sweat dripping down Dean's temple, and he was biting his lip so hard he could taste the copper-y flavor of blood in his mouth. Something gripped his shoulder, tight, and he thought it was Castiel's hand because it's an unfamiliar needy touch, but he couldn't tell if it was trying to push him away or pull him in?
"D-Dean," a voice rasped out, "We, we, we shouldn't be . . . " And Castiel gasped, and Dean thought it was somehow the most beautiful noise he'd ever heard. "Please, stop!"
Dean did. He did so abruptly that he stumbled back, but luckily found his footing before he fell. He was trembling with need of release as he stared into those deep blue eyes that looked utterly scared, and lost, and glazed with lust. Dean wanted to kiss those lips that opened and closed with missing words, and he found himself wanting all these things he just should not have wanted. Castiel took a step back, his breathing hard and his body trembling. Dean's eyes wandered down and he could see Castiel's erection outlined in his pants, and it makes his own dick twitch with need. It was unbearable, because it was the best he'd ever felt in a week or two.
"I . . . I can't," Castiel began, and tilted his head to the side. "No. I'm sorry. I need to go."
Dean wanted to run after him, to chase him down and grab him and hold him and kiss him, but he just watched. He just stood there, and watched the man turn and hurry away in escape. The crowd had been watching, and they were all staring at Dean, waiting for a reaction, but Dean . . . Dean didn't know what to do. He turned around and found his brother staring wide eyed at him, shocked. Dean's face turned grave, and he was mortified by his actions.
He pursed his lips, and looked to the ground.
"Dean, what the hell . . . ?"
Dean left before he had to deal with Sam's brotherly lecture. He found himself a cab and got a ride back to his apartment complex. He nodded at Evan in greeting when he entered through the doors, and the teen looked scared and nervous, like Dean would flop onto the ground and start convulsing like a fish, but Dean simply stalked over to the elevator and escaped up to the confines of his room. That night when he tried to sleep he found himself staring up at the ceiling, dreaming of dark haired men and deep blue eyes.
He dreamed of Castiel.