[FIC] Waves 5/? [College!AU, Hipster!Cas, light M]
Title: Waves
Author:
wormstaches
Rating: light M
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Cas, College!AU (Hipster!Cas/Jock!Dean)
Spoilers: None
Warnings: drinking, drug use, mild sex scenes, homophobia, language
Word Count: WIP
Summary: Dean Winchester is the average guy: football, college, kid brother, nice car, girls and beer; his life is black and white, that is until he meets Castiel Collins: pretentious, slutty, sweater-wearing genius, who won’t even take the time to look up at him from his obscure novel while he insults him. And then everything is shades of gray and Dean is drowning.
A/N: I'm never sure what to mark as a warning so if you think something else should be marked, please, please let me know.
A/N2: I'm uploading a double chapter today for you guys, so hang tight well I get that up as well :) Merry Casmas and Happy Chanukkah and Solstice and New Years etc. Thank you for reading :)
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It all became a blur to Dean. The days rolled by and things were divided evenly, time in his dorm, time with Jo, time in class, time with other friends, time at football, time asleep, time awake, time in the Impala. And then there was time with Cas and it was all mixed in there because he was thinking about him when he wasn’t talking to him which he almost always was when he wasn’t with him. And when he was with him it was all big blue and it felt like he was drowning.
He wondered if this was what falling in love was like-- something he never had planned to do.
It was less like a fall and more like sinking, surrounded by pressure and dark and gasps.
That sounded about right, Dean thought as he tugged Cas’s head back by the longer hair on the top of his head, sucking on his neck, getting a hiss in response.
He caught Cas looking at him sometimes, like how he did when they first met, a look he came to recognize as possessive. Like he could read Dean’s mind and knew exactly how full it was of himself. Like he knew Dean was trapped and he was happy about it, because Dean was his, all his, no one else’s. He was made to catch him as he fell, to pull him out of the depths.
He bit into Dean’s shoulder, harder than he should’ve and Dean let out a yelp of protest. He held Cas tighter, trying to gain some leverage, anything to put him back in control, the way he liked to be, send him off moaning into the hereafter, weakly thrusting, hands on Dean’s hips and leaving bruises. But Cas liked control even more and tightened his legs around Dean, shifting and groaning, and the noise was enough to render Dean incapable of thought.
• • • • • • • •
Dean heard a faint thrum followed by several soft plucking noises and the sound of a pen scratching on paper. He rolled over in the direction of Cas’s warmth and opened his eyes.
The room was blue and still, everything seeming slowed down, like they were underwater. A wide-eyed moon could be seen out of Cas’s small window. Cas wasn’t looking at Dean; He was sitting up, sheets rumpled around his waist, guitar in his lap and notebook open before him. He was shifting his fingers over the strings, without plucking them, although each movement left faint residual thrumming noises that tripped over each other. Cas bit his lip, scribbled something out, and turned to look at Dean, eyes soft.
“Cas?” Dean asked sleepily, a smile in his voice.
Cas started, eyes widening, pen dropping and guitar sliding off his lap with a hollow clang.
“Dean?” he squeaked,
“Shh, chill out dude.” Dean pulled himself closer to Cas, resting his head against his hip and giving him a light kiss on the protruding hipbone. “What are you doing up, anyway, Casanova?”
“We don’t have any class tomorrow, and…Casanova?” Cas fiddled with Dean’s hair.
“Cas-anova.”
Cas smiled, closing his eyes for a moment before looking at Dean again; his eyes seemed to have become brighter.
“What are you writing? Is it about me?” Dean teased, pulling the notebook towards him and lying over Cas’s lap to read the slanted cursive; he didn’t notice Cas’s blush. Dean froze, and turned to look at Cas with wide eyes.
“Cas?”
“Would you kill me if I was writing a song about you?” Cas wouldn’t look at him.
Dean wasn’t sure how to respond. There was a salty taste in his mouth and he seemed too full of big blue to say anything. So he kissed him; pushing him back against the bed and tugging the sheet up over their heads so the light diffused into a soft, ethereal blue and Cas giggled, so close that his laughter fell into Dean’s mouth and became Dean’s laughter.
And there was that time where we went to the beach
The waves were roaring and I could feel each one
Oh I could feel, I could feel each one
And there was that time where we went to the park
And sat on the bench in that darkest of dark
I asked you to hold me but you didn’t know how
I couldn’t say I loved you but I’m saying it now
The waves are coming I can see them from our bed
And the salt of our words is filling up my head
All I can see is this bright big blue
And falling and drowning is all that do
The waves are coming I can see them from our bed
All leather and concrete water’s filling up my head
Your scattered freckles turn to kisses on my back
The water is rushing, spilling through the cracks
• • • • • • • •
And that’s how things went, he supposed. On and on and he didn’t mind. It was all moments he felt rather than remembered. The sensation of it, of a memory composed of emotion, rather than thought, it was bizarre, it was incredible, but sometimes, it scared him; and despite all the soft kisses and warm water splashing over their legs in the bath, there was the darkness too. There was the anger when Cas pushed him against the wall, impatient, not taking his time; there were still the dreams of being torn apart by water, by blue and salt and rough whispers of the last thing Dean wanted to hear. There was the smell of pot when he got over and found Cas opening the windows with a guilty glance at Dean. There were the closed off eyes Cas tried to hard to hide when Dean said certain things, and Dean would drink beer with Jo and bitch about it-- about how they shouldn’t have secrets because, because-- because, what, Dean-o? He’s your boyfriend -- and Dean would tell her to shut the fuck up because what did she know and she’d laugh at him and ask if he’d told Sammy yet because you have to tell him sometime, Dean, he’s your brother.
Cas had become a well-loved and spoiled bad habit of Dean’s, and he was wondering when things would sour, because they always did. Perhaps it was an overindulgence, all this sex and smiling and deleting texts so no one found out besides Jo-- perhaps it was poison. He was waiting with baited breath he only exhaled when Cas looked away. Waiting for the other foot to fall, because it always did.
It started on a Sunday. Cas had pulled him out to go sweater shopping since winter was quickly setting in. They were in a tightly packed church thrift store in a chapel’s basement and Cas was shifting through what seemed like the hundredth rack of sweaters, focused intently on the myriad colored scraps. Dean watched him. Thrift stores had never appealed to him and he wondered when he became so much Cas’s boyfriend he could be whipped into going shopping with him. And holding the keepers, but no one ever needed to know about that.
Cas looked up at him suddenly, holding up a turquoise sweater with black vine patterns and asked, “Does this match my eyes?”
Dean was shocked to think Cas consciously brought attention to those magnificent eyes of his, since they seemed to shine so naturally.
“Dude, you’re already having sex with me. You’re not making me any gayer than that.”
Cas scowled and thrust the sweater towards him. Dean took it obligingly and draped it over his arm, on top of all the others.
“Then you don’t get to fuck me when I’m wearing it,” he huffed
“We’ll see about that. Hey, Cas? Do you really need all of these? I mean you already have like...a mountain in your room.”
“Yes. I do, Dean.” Cas handed him a hideous red and silver monstrosity with a fringy Christmas tree and plastic Christmas lights attached.
“I’m wearing this on Christmas.”
“No. You’re never wearing this.”
“But Dean...”
“You might be such a hipster you need to prove your superiority through clothing no one else has but I will not even be seen with you as a friend much less the guy I’m in the closet with if you wear this.”
“Dean--”
“This is so ugly I wouldn’t even bully you if you wore this because being in any sort of context, even by association with it would automatically render me unfuckable.”
“So you’re saying this sweater will remove the desire to copulate with me in others it is so ugly?”
“Yes.”
“I’m buying it.”
“Why?”
“So I can laugh when I prove you wrong.” Cas bit his lip as Dean glared at him, fighting a smile. He leaned over the rack, causing it to shift and several sweaters to fall off their hangers, as he leaned in for a kiss. Dean jerked away, neck prickling at the blatant publicness of the location and Cas’s gesture. Cas might be fine and dandy waving his gay or bi or pan or whatever flag, but Dean wasn’t. Dean didn’t even have one to wave. It was just Cas, although he’d never tell him that. He saw the hurt in Cas’s face as he pulled away though, the broken look creeping into the edge of his eyes, something he’d forgotten about, that he’d never wanted to see again.
He wanted to kiss it off.
“Cas, we should try on those sweaters.”
Cas tilted his head to the side for a moment, brow slightly furrowed, puzzled, before his eyes widened. “Oh. Yes, Dean. Yes we should, they might be too small. Wouldn’t want them too tight.”
The sweaters fell onto the floor of the changing room with a clatter as Cas perched on the edge of the seat, watching Dean wolfishly, legs spread apart. His nails scrabbled against the cheap wood paneling as Dean took him into his mouth, and he was glad the overly loud pop music blanketed their noise.
Cas left wearing the Christmas sweater, cheeks flushed and damp, gripping Dean’s hand tightly, smirk reaching all the way up to his eyes.
As they paid, he turned to Dean, who was eyeing the bags apprehensively and said, “Don’t be jealous, Dean. I love you more than sweaters.”
Dean froze, the crashing in the bottom of his mind flooding into the space behind his forehead, dripping into his heart, frothing in the corners of his eyes. He stammered incoherently for a moment, the frigid fear running into his marrow and circling in his ears. There were a thousand things he could say, a thousand things he could do. Angry things, careful things, all things that would make Cas smile, that he was sure would banish the look that hung like cobwebs in the back of his gaze. Instead he said,
“Did you love Balthazar more than sweaters, too?”
Cas said nothing, but his shy, nervous smile disintegrated. He handed the cashier his money, took his change and his bag, and walked out the door. Dean followed after him, stomach churning, the roaring sound still filling his ears, wishing Cas would turn around. Just look at him. Just that.
He didn’t.
“Cas,” Dean called.
He reached the Impala and walked around to the passenger side.
“Cas!”
Dean reached the car, opened the door and slid in. Cas yanked his door open and flung himself into his seat, tossing the sweaters into the space at his feet.
“Cas.”
“I don’t want to talk to you right now, Dean.”
“Cas...”
“That’s not fair of you. I never even talked to you about it.”
“Cas, I’m sorry. I--”
“Just don’t. I’m not--I mean--” He ran his hand through his hair, bags rustling as he shifted his legs. “--Everyone knows. I shouldn’t have expected you wouldnt’ve--I’m sorry, just--just drop me off at my dorm, okay?”
Dean said nothing, sucking on the inside of his lip, a salty taste in his mouth.
The drive was silent and he dropped Cas off.
“Bye Dean, I’ll see you later.”
He shuffled to the door without looking over his shoulder. As he fiddled with his keys he glanced at Dean, who smiled overly brightly back, but he didn’t return the gesture. Dean waved hesitantly as Cas opened the door and disappeared inside.
• • • • • • • •
Things didn’t stay bad, which Dean was grateful for. Cas called him after his test on Beethoven and they made out and ate microwave tacos and fell asleep in their clothes on Dean’s bed. Or rather, Dean in a t-shirt and his underwear and Cas in a sweater.
• • • • • • • •
They walked to Sacrilege the next day, because Cas wanted to wear one of his new sweaters out in defiance of the cold and Dean still felt too guilty to argue with him. Cas took his hand and Dean tensed, afraid someone would see even in the empty street. He quickly let go and after glancing around surreptitiously, Dean twined his fingers into Cas’s, squeezing slightly. Cas gave a sharp squeeze, almost painful in return, Dean’s joints grinding. The leaves were frostbit and crackled beneath their shoes as they walked, Cas speeding up when they approached a cluster, wanting to beat Dean to it. He loved the sound and Dean felt a pang in his chest each time he stomped down on them.
Since the thrift store, he’d been hyper-aware of Cas, of the little details that accentuated his Cas-ness. He catalogued them, cherished them, shuffled through them when he was by himself or bored with the people around him. He’d forgotten how broken Cas was, how much he didn’t say, that despite his confident smirk and the way he only had to glance at Dean a certain way to have him roll over, whimpering, he was fragile, liable to wash away. How easy it would be for Dean to fuck it up irreparably. Cas was good at fixing things, he’d noticed, but he didn’t want to push it and find out when things were too broken to be fixed.
Dean gave him a light kiss on the cheek and felt Cas smile at the touch. He squeezed the tips of Dean’s fingers and the constriction traveled up his arm, circling his ribs.
Since Cas had said it, however accidental, or intentional, as might have been the case, Dean couldn’t get it out of his mind.
“I love you more than sweaters.”
It would echo around in his head until it was all he could hear, and he wished he could hear it again, fresh. See that hewn luster in Cas’s eyes as he said it, the slight, apprehensive smile.
“I’m sorry,” Dean said suddenly, the words sharp in the cold air.
Cas looked at him. “Hm?”
“I’m sorry about...at the thrift store.”
“Oh. Yes. That.” Cas dropped his hand.
“That was really fucked up of me.”
“Yeah, it was.”
Dean fidgeted uncomfortably, pulling on his fingers.
“Who told you?”
“Jo. When I asked her to...find out who you were...she...” Dean blushed and hated himself for it.
“And she dug up all my dirt.”
“Just the...uh...college stuff yeah.”
Cas let out a huff Dean thought could possibly be taken as amusement. “I guess our pasts are never behind us, huh?”
“Not with that statue he made of you on campus.”
Now it was Cas’s turn to blush. “Right, that.”
“It’s beautiful. I actually sort of wish I’d made it. Or like...something...for you, you know?”
Cas’s hand slipped into his again. “It’s okay. I don’t have expectations for you in comparison to him.”
Dean’s lips twitched.
“I suppose you know the story?”
“Yeah, enough. Don’t really want the details since, you know...”
“You’re jealous.”
Saying no would have been a lie so Dean asked, “Do you miss him?”
“I guess you could say, yeah,” he sighed. “I mean, I miss waking up to him, you know? Certain things he would say, that I hear now or something like that, and I think ‘Balth would’ve said that.’ But, I think it’s more just having someone, because when I think about us, as Us, well, it was actually pretty shit. He wasn’t exactly nice to me, except when we were having sex.”
Dean flushed at Cas’s words, partially regretting asking in the first place.
“But, no, I mean, not now. When I was at the statue that night, I was questioning. It’s a place I like to think. I was thinking about you that night, actually, and then there you were--” Cas smiled to himself, glancing down. “No, I don’t miss him, Dean. Not now. There’s no room in here to.” He turned his eyes to Dean, meeting his levelly.
Dean caught his lips, everything going still in the frozen November street, except for the push and pull of their breath.
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