Dean Plays Guitar| Destiel

𝒟𝑒𝒶𝓃 𝒫𝓁𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝒢𝓊𝒾𝓉𝒶𝓇

Dean knew how to play the guitar- and he was proud of it. Sure, it was something to easily magnet women, and that was nice, but he felt truly immersed in his skill when he was here, like this, on his bed, cleansed of the blood that stained his previous clothes as he hunched over the guitar, watching every strung of his fingers, tuning his ears into the gentle hum.

"Dean," Cas's voice sounds, stern, and monotone per usual, at the entrance of his hotel room. Snapping up to the angel, his fingers halt. The lamp on the dresser next to him casts an orangish-gold hue on the bottom half of Cas's trench coat, and his neutral but slightly curious expression lingers in the shadows.

Dean lets his hand fall from the neck of the guitar and leans back onto the rustled bed sheets. "What's up, Cas?"

Cas doesn't answer for a moment, tilts his head innocently in a way that creates a collision of butterflies throughout Dean's chest and stomach. He shifts uncomfortably.

"What were you playing?" Cas asks and Dean looks down at the instrument of variant warm shades.

"Oh, uh, it's nothing," Dean says, a pint of discomfort prickling through him as he sets his guitar behind him.

The room stretches into silence, which isn't unusual for them. Cas easily gets lost in his thoughts and observations and Dean was used to it, liked it. But it's different with Cas staring at him like his gaze is magnetic to him.

Dean picks at a loose thread in his jeans, "So, what's going on?" He startles as Castiel takes a sudden seat next to him, the fabric of his coat swishing as he moves.

"It's beautiful." He says simply and it takes Dean a second but he lightens with pride and smiles concealingly at the floor.

"Thanks."

A rush spirals up Dean like someone's tickling his insides and he breathes it down. It happens a lot. When Cas enters a room, his gaze drifts to him immediately, of course, and it's like a bolt of amusement-park adrenaline when the ethereal attention of his vivid eyes notices him, and a wave of bliss when he feels the presence of Castiel next to him.

The only time Cas doesn't feel like hope is when something goes wrong, and he's in the danger of a split-second decision, a demon, an angel- an enemy that twisted favor and has gotten the upper-hand, slicing a line of Cas, bruising him, causing his eyes to widen abruptly. Then it feels like hell, like a ruthless digging of his heart, a shiver down his being, and he's lost it all.

Relief soon mends him up again but of course not fully because there's always a bitter reflection of "what happened?"

It's the only question he'll tolerate to pass through his mind because it's not "why?"

Yet, for whatever reason- maybe it's the light being lit so dimly on Castiel's face, the absence of monsters, the absence of Sam- maybe it's the weight packed in his subconscious crashing through, but whatever it is, he's unraveling.

"You know," He says suddenly, mind blank, words rolling off his tongue, "If monsters just didn't exist, and you were free to do whatever you want... what would you do?"

Courage retreats and Dean caves into himself at the stupid question but Cas scrunches his eyes thoughtfully. "I would go to a sunflower field in Europe."

Dean doesn't know what he's expecting but he laughs, "Of course, Cas- why?"

He shrugs, serious, "Bees love sunflower fields."

Dean smiles. He smoothes the thread down on his jeans and looks up at the bland wall of the hotel room, chuckling, "Ahh, Cas."

Castiel turns to look at him again, his features hardened with something that looks a bit like determination. "I would take you with me."

"You would?"

"Yes." He affirms. "I... don't know what I'd do without you."

Pause. A partly unveiled truth drips from Cas's tone and Dean's heart stutters. "No." passes through his mind quickly and nothing else. He fumbles with the sheets tangled in his hands, wordless. But Cas doesn't look like he's backtracking.

"I love you, Dean."

"Cas-" He breathes.

"Truly."

Dean's voice and mind are basically futile, mouth opening, closing. Sensors are going off in his brain, fumbling with the mess of feelings he's always felt in the presence of Cas, the thought of him. What if? Why? Does it mean-? He finally forces it shut, swallowing.

This is it, rising to the surface, "Cas, do you mean it how I think you mean it?"

Cas stutters, boldness wavering as he fidgets with the end of his trench coat. Dean's heart pounds with the uncertain few seconds of Cas's speechlessness and seemingly uncontrollable pattern of gaze. Flickering down to his lips and then some space behind Dean.

Dean gets an answer right then and there, "Cas-"

"I mean I wanna kiss you, Dean."