a l c o h o l & l o v e ↬ d.w. & c.n. [completed]

2 | eyes

back in the day, when everything seemed sun kissed and his soft freckles danced around on his face like his small body did on the sand beach, dean would never be able to just sit still like he did right now.
   his mind would gently poke him, telling him, in, what he looked at as, a secret language, to begin moving. at first his fingertips would rhythmically tap against any given surface, then his feet and legs would start moving as well. small circles, bigger circles, then he had to ran. he had to move.

   today he was happy about the silence and the calm moment. but his mind still poked him, only now they haven't got a secret language anymore. nowadays dean struggled to understand his own mind.
in calm moments like these, where he couldn't hear nothing but the gentle strokes of artists painting his figure, dean tried to understand.

    how did he got here?
he remembered the ride to the gallery, of course, that was not what he was thinking about, rather he thought about, what people liked to call, 'the big picture'. and those people were rich men looking at the reality and the poor, whilst justifying their terrible behavior.
  
    how was it that dean didn't feel the urge to run around on the beach again? back in the day he was 12, only 5 years later he now sat inside a circle surround by boring art students.

his sight was still focused on the teenager in his bright blue oversized t-shirt. he looked at dean with sharp yet soft eyes. and dean's still somewhat blurry gaze watched him do his, firstly fast and round, then more calm and precise, strokes.
   whenever their sights crossed path, it seemed that something changed inside the eyes of the artist with the black hair.

*

for 2 hours he sat still. his bad eye pumped again as heat floated trough the swollen skin. the rhythmically uncomfortable feeling made it hard for dean to keep everything together.
as he heard the shrill tone of the old clock, telling everybody that the time was over and the last stroke was to be placed, he let out a sharp breath and his muscles loosened.

with a warm smile on his face sam stepped inside the circle dean had to sit in, a glass of water inside his hand.
"you were great!" he exclaimed.

wordless he grabbed the glass and felt the cold water run down his sore throat. the cold was freeing yet he stopped himself from drinking it all at once. rather he put the half emptied glass against his eye.
   this form of relief was way more intense than the relief he felt while just drinking.

he closed his green eyes and just concentrated on the part around his eye were his hot skin met the cold glass, condense water building in the space in between, and some of it ran down his roughly shaved cheek.
   as he opened them again he saw the sorry look inside the eyes of his little brother, so dean decided to put on the best smile he could. and as he saw how small wrinkles build up around sam's mouth, his fake smile turned into a real one.
   but some amount of sadness laid in this happy moment, just like always, for dean knew that it would not last long, and that their lives weren't happy, regarding they laughed at a bruised eye to take away the seriousness of the situation.

**

castiel novak's hand drove through his own messy black hair as he took one step back, and his harsh look drove over the finished painting of one of the most interesting models he had ever seen.
   being his own worst critique he of course disliked the piece. he only saw scribbles and an oil-play on canvas. but the oils would not play together, no, in his eyes they played hide'n'seek like children. very unsteady, not fitting, too much movement.
   he thought it was terrible.

   but the model made it interesting again. how one could see the small detailed freckles on his sunkissed face. or how the bruise, only god knows how he got it, was a harsh contrast to the all black outfit he wore.
   and most important how the reflection inside his eyes made the piece come to life.

castiel novak saw his art and did not think of it as art because it was not complimenting the model.
   in his eyes the piece was no art because the most beautiful thing on the canvas weren't the colors but the motive.
for him the model was art. he was the only truly artistic and beautiful thing on the canvas.

castiel looked up from the colors and into the middle of the circle where the interesting boy say.
   self-confident he stepped towards him and sam.

THEIR GLANCES ONLY MET FOR A SECOND BEFORE BOTH LOOKED AWAY AGAIN.
    castiel decided to ignore him and talk to sam wincheter as if the model was not in the room, or like he was nothing more than furniture.
he smiled an the younger boy, greeting him without words. they knew each other for a while now but never really talked much.

"the class would benefit from it if your..." he looked at dean with furrowed eyebrows, his eyes wandering fast from the bottom to the top.
he looked back at sam, a world laying on his tongue, ready to finish his sentence, as a deep voice from behind interrupted him. "brother." dean spoke.

   again he glanced at dean, giving him a hectic smile which spoke a sarcastic thanks and then faced sam again.
"if your brother could visit us more often. maybe even for the nude classes."

the black haired boy turned on his heels to leave with a smirk on his face. whilst leaving he gave dean winchester a pat on the shoulder, leaning towards him, forcing the freckled boy to look at him. "don't worry, you're allowed to wear panties."

he left the brothers slightly confused.