And Then You Wake Up (Supernatural fanfiction)
I swear to God I tried to write fluff, but it didn't work. All my Destiel is angst now. Oh, well. At least this angst is pornier than my previous angst.
I'm also experimenting with second person narration. Blame boazpriestly. I always thought second person was only for crappy choose-your-own-adventure books, but he makes it look good.
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You don't wonder how you got here. You don't question why he is with you. You let this moment exist outside of time because however it happened, he is on his back for you, offering himself up, and looking so beautiful the way he shakes and gasps with every thrust of your hips.
"Dean," he rasps. His fingers stutter their way up your back and into your hair. "Dean!"
It's so vivid. Every touch crackles with electricity. The leather of the car seat squeaks under your knees. You can even taste him. Everything around you screams that this is really happening, but still you slow and wait for him to catch his breath, kissing his eyelids until they open. Even lit only by the stars shining through the window of the Impala, they are blue enough to drown in.
"Don't stop," he begs, and you obey.
You can't remember how many times you've come, spilling inside him or over his body, or maybe you're just getting started and your clothes are falling on the motel room floor for the first time. You don't want to figure out which it is. It doesn't matter anyway, because in the next moment you will be lying beside him, spent, and also wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him into you, and also kissing your way down his back on skin that has never been kissed by any man.
It is always new and you have always done it a thousand times. It plays on repeat like a stuck DVD. The sun on his face when he wakes you up for another round in Bobby's guest room. The way he clings to you when he comes. Only occasionally does something break through the script, some word or some image, like when he flips you onto your back to ride on top of you and for a second you swear you can see his wings.
You know you should worry but you don't. You know you should be sad but you aren't. You know that something bad is happening but you can't remember what it is. Everything is Castiel inside this broken fragment of time, and you never want to fix it.
It is beautiful, it is perfect, and it is wrong.
"This isn't real," you tell him, and the words shatter the illusion in an instant. The background starts to fade. The sensations cease. It gets cold.
He doesn't seem concerned, only curious, when he asks, "How did you know?"
"Because…"
You want to say that it was the shifting locations or the impossible physics that tipped you off. It would even be better to point out the fact that, months ago, you watched as he walked into a lake and didn't come back out. But the truth is something simpler and much more pathetic than that.
You reach out and touch his face, trying to hold on to him for as long as you can even though his skin feels like bed sheets now and already you can hear Sam running the tap in the bathroom, and say, "Because I'm happy."
I'm also experimenting with second person narration. Blame boazpriestly. I always thought second person was only for crappy choose-your-own-adventure books, but he makes it look good.
-----
You don't wonder how you got here. You don't question why he is with you. You let this moment exist outside of time because however it happened, he is on his back for you, offering himself up, and looking so beautiful the way he shakes and gasps with every thrust of your hips.
"Dean," he rasps. His fingers stutter their way up your back and into your hair. "Dean!"
It's so vivid. Every touch crackles with electricity. The leather of the car seat squeaks under your knees. You can even taste him. Everything around you screams that this is really happening, but still you slow and wait for him to catch his breath, kissing his eyelids until they open. Even lit only by the stars shining through the window of the Impala, they are blue enough to drown in.
"Don't stop," he begs, and you obey.
You can't remember how many times you've come, spilling inside him or over his body, or maybe you're just getting started and your clothes are falling on the motel room floor for the first time. You don't want to figure out which it is. It doesn't matter anyway, because in the next moment you will be lying beside him, spent, and also wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him into you, and also kissing your way down his back on skin that has never been kissed by any man.
It is always new and you have always done it a thousand times. It plays on repeat like a stuck DVD. The sun on his face when he wakes you up for another round in Bobby's guest room. The way he clings to you when he comes. Only occasionally does something break through the script, some word or some image, like when he flips you onto your back to ride on top of you and for a second you swear you can see his wings.
You know you should worry but you don't. You know you should be sad but you aren't. You know that something bad is happening but you can't remember what it is. Everything is Castiel inside this broken fragment of time, and you never want to fix it.
It is beautiful, it is perfect, and it is wrong.
"This isn't real," you tell him, and the words shatter the illusion in an instant. The background starts to fade. The sensations cease. It gets cold.
He doesn't seem concerned, only curious, when he asks, "How did you know?"
"Because…"
You want to say that it was the shifting locations or the impossible physics that tipped you off. It would even be better to point out the fact that, months ago, you watched as he walked into a lake and didn't come back out. But the truth is something simpler and much more pathetic than that.
You reach out and touch his face, trying to hold on to him for as long as you can even though his skin feels like bed sheets now and already you can hear Sam running the tap in the bathroom, and say, "Because I'm happy."