twentysomething

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: Dean/Cas

Length: 900 wordsish.

Warnings: this won't make any sense probably.

Notes: So, basically, this was written as a weird reincarnation au, and then season 6 happened and beat any love of supernatural I once had out of me, so. Womp Womp.



It's hot and dry.

The sun is almost directly overhead and Dean doesn't usually wear sunglasses but it's a fucking blinding mess without them- he'd caved five towns back and bought a pair of shitty aviators in a gas station. New Mexico is relentlessly boiling, but it's July and he's in the Southwest. It's a given.

He's not actually certain whether he's in New Mexico anymore or whether he's gone far enough West to have slipped into Arizona- it all looks more or less the same to him. One patch of scrub-lined highway is interchangeable for another.

Dean's been driving solely on instinct and a strange itching buzz just beneath his skin that's just shy of a full-on crawl, humming just under the tips of his fingers, making his thighs tense. He'd had to stop the car and get out. He sits, back against the rims of the car, tucked in what little shade the morning has left to offer him. He has no idea what's wrong with him, which is probably why he's been letting Sam leave voice mails for a couple of days- because he doesn't know how to say that he had to drive across the country to a godforsaken crossroads in the middle of fucking nowhere or he was going to rip his skin off.

Well, at least without sounding as crazy as he apparently is.

The shadow he's sitting in is suddenly darker.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean's head snaps up, and at first all he can see is the outline of a man- but it slowly resolves into a messy head of dark hair and eyes he knows are blue.

Before Dean can ask the stupid question- how did you know my name- another one comes out.

"Why am I here?" he demands and the man stares at Dean for a long, tense moment.

"Because God has work for you," and Dean knows his name is Castiel, but he doesn't know why.

Not Castiel- Cas.

"You look the same," Dean says, involuntarily- but- they've never met.

That's not true.

"You don't remember," Cas says, and Dean can't tell if it's a question or not.

"What should I remember?" Dean asks but Cas doesn't say anything, he just sticks out a hand toward Dean. Dean has no idea what he's doing, but he takes it.

Cas pulls him up easily and gestures for him to get into the car.

Dean feels almost drunk on complacency as he lets a total stranger take his car keys and easily turn the car back out onto the highway.

"Where's your car?" Dean asks, even as he knows that's it's stupid question. He knows Cas didn't drive there.

"Where's your car," Cas shoots back in an irritated tone that Dean can't figure out. They're driving his car.

After an hour of strangely comfortable silence, they pull into the parking lot of a motel that Dean gives serious concerns about communicable diseases. There are only three other cars in the lot- two pickups and a seriously vintage black car that seems to soak up and reflect all the light around it, in defiance of the dusty old trucks. Something about it makes Dean feel hot under the collar, makes him whistle low and slow, and he's not even that much of a car man, himself.

Cas parks the car a respectful space away from the beautiful black car and Dean gets out and stretches slightly.

"They don't make 'em like that anymore," Dean sighs, after another minute of covetous staring. Cas rolls his eyes.

"It's a 1967 Chevy Impala," Cas says expectantly. Dean whistles respectfully.

"Not bad for a 70 year old car," Dean offers and he tucks his hands in his pockets to stop himself from running his hands over it. Cas makes a quiet, frustrated sounding noise, but heads over to room 12, using a generic key with a novelty keychain attached that looks like a bowling pin.

Inside, the room is bowling themed. Jesus.

"So, do you wanna tell me what all this is about?" Dean asks, sitting down on one of the beds. Cas sits on the bed opposite his, looking at his hands, folded in his lap.

"I'm not allowed to tell you anything," Cas says flatly.

Just so you know... why I can't help you.

Dean stares at Cas.

"After I drove for three days straight to apparently pick you up in the middle of the desert, I would like some kind of an explanation," Dean tries again, because he knows- without knowing why- that Cas was the source of all the insanity, the too-tight skin and sleeplessness, just like he knows his name is Dean Williams.

That's not right.

"I can't tell you," Cas repeats, leaning across the two feet between the bed until he's close enough that Dean can see where Cas's cheeks are red- and he can't tell whether it's sunburn or windburn. It's not embarrassment, because Cas waits just long enough to have given Dean fair warning before he kisses the living daylights out of Dean.

It's like someone stuck his fingers into a socket.

His synapses are firing too fast- if there's anything worth dying for it's this- much of the time I'd rather be here- I need your help, because you are the only one who'll help me.