aka the one where I refuse to introduce Skye as ‘Daisy’
He stops his stride. With his shoulders back, a hand clenching a small torn note and a jacket the colour of bark, he scans the library. He inhales the air. A curve twitches on his lips but he doesn’t smile. The smell of books and the wooden scent of the bookshelves. He loves it.
Trying to hold onto Cas was like gathering water in a sieve: it invariably slipped away. And yet there was always the tiniest bit clinging to the wire mesh, a lingering suggestion of a desire fulfilled.
Half the time Dean wasn’t sure he wanted to keep trying. The other half of the time he tried not to think about it.
It reminded him of the skies over the 38th. The silverfish wings of his Sabre would sluice through the air and on hot, perfect days when the clouds were fluffy he’d wonder what it would be like if he could stick a hand out the window. How would those clouds feel if he could let them run through his fingers? He knew the real answer, of course. Clouds were simply floating specks of water that would part around his skin in frigid curtains. He wouldn’t feel a thing but the cold of absence. The illusion was all you got.
But fuck what an illusion. The thick morning light gilded Cas’ features in copper, and in these serene moments everything could be perfect. When Dean could watch the gentle rise and fall of Cas’ chest and pick the browning flowers from his hair they were normal. Together. The view from the near side of the glass sang siren songs.
But reality was far less attractive. He and Cas were no good for each other. They were destructive in the worst way, destructive like the quiet sabotage of water. A drop felt refreshing and so you’d welcome another. It wasn’t until drop after drop had worn the stone of your skin into featureless unrecognizability that you could ever admit there might have been a problem. Even if you’d felt the wearing down all along.
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Neither of them wanted to stop the wearing down, neither of them wanted to stop trying to gather the water up. Neither wanted to stop letting the few drops they had from carving holes into them one drip at a time.
The highlights of Cas’ hair caught the light like sun through bourbon and Dean traced them with hungry fingers. These were the moments when Cas was his and his alone.
But Cas was slipping through his sieve in puffs of smoke, in the slickness of chlorophyll-smeared fingertips against flushed skin. He felt the end like a tangible thing. It was only a matter of time before they destroyed each other, raining silverfish scales onto the battlefield below like so many unlucky planes in a hot, foreign land.