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Dean is a nerd. One hell of a horror nerd, really.
All because of Charlie “what’s your favourite scary movie, Sidney Campbell?” Bradbury.
Before he met her, he barely knew what the most popular thrillers were; Sam didn’t like horror movies if they weren't in the true crime genre.
Like one-sided speed-dating, Charlie spent the last few years introducing Dean to all of her babygirls. From Michael Myers to Patrick Bateman, without forgetting about Freddy Krueger or Norman Bates. Dean knows them all now.
Horror quickly became a shared interest for them, always having their back when spending quality time together. With Dean moving closer to Charlie’s apartment and the autumn season setting the perfect atmosphere for goosebumps and litres of fake blood spilled on screen, it became a part of their routine.
So when Charlie asked with a mischievous look on her face if Dean would like to put his horror genre knowledge to a test, he snorted and immediately accepted with a level of pride that would make a film bro reconsider their confidence.
He couldn’t regret his decision— at least Dean was getting a job for Halloween. He needed that money to pay his rent, being a fresh resident in California.
Days have passed since the contract was signed but he dares to reconsider. It’s the first night of Halloween season in Frightland, supposedly West Coast’s scariest scream park.
Charlie left him earlier with a kiss on the cheek before she exited the Impala in the parking lot to get ready for the night as a scare actor, wishing him good luck on her way, and it’s only now that Dean realises the terrible job he got himself into.
He stands in the main alley of Frightland, in the arsehole of the state, surrounded by teenagers looking for big thrills and an opportunity to get all touchy-feely with their dates. Dean isn’t so sure about the whole plan anymore.
Many benefits come with the park tester job; from the fast pass to cut the endless lines of people tediously waiting their turn on the rides, to the delicious homemade waffles seeping with chocolate and the hot coffee that warms Dean’s hands in the cold autumn weather.
The few downsides of the job aren’t to be messed with— Dean got the park’s merch. One ugly t-shirt that is definitely going to end up in Charlie’s pyjama tops drawer, one poorly printed bracelet and the worst of them all: a red headband with devil’s horns.
“Here you go, you’re all set up to get goosebumps for the night,” the woman behind the counter says, handing him the trinkets. Her face is covered in makeup, giving her a gloomy appearance that suits her witch’s outfit perfectly.
Dean nods politely, already planning to shove the merch into a locker in the cloakroom.
“Sounds like a plan,” Dean says, barely looking at his gifts to grant the witch a boyish smile, all charm and teeth. He doesn’t care if he looks too enthusiastic for his job— he is being paid for this. Might as well enjoy it. “Well, I guess it’s time. Bewitched, for sure, to meet you. Have a great evening.”
Like the penguins he has seen in the heartbreaking documentaries by Charlie’s side on rainy Sundays, the line doesn’t land at all. Hell, it barely flaps its wings, and crashes between them both, probably breaking a few teeth in the fall, but the lady stares back at him with an expectant look on her face.
Dean tilts his head with a frown, somehow chuckling like he is in a dumb sitcom to save face for his crushed ego, and eventually she understands Dean’s confusion. She points at the headband still in Dean’s hands. Green eyes follow the sign slowly, and a grumble escapes his lips about not hiding the hideous accessory quicker.
This is how he ends up wearing the devil’s horns headband, the bright red light flashing his surroundings as he makes his way through the crowd.
Before leaving her apartment this evening, Charlie insisted on experimenting with her makeup skills, especially SFX horror effects, on Dean. The horns perfectly light his face and cast shadows on his features to emphasise the bruised lip and strong cheekbone Charlie created.
Of course, because otherwise it wouldn’t be quite as fun, Dean looks like the most fanatic park enthusiast out of all the guests. Calling him a fanboy would be an understatement, definitely.
Frightland is one of these amusement parks with an exclusive theme of horror. The kind you never hear about unless you’re stuck on vacation with a bunch of friends in the middle of nowhere; most likely the perfect setting to get slaughtered without even pinky being raised. Somewhere with a bad internet connection, nothing to fill your days other than the local’s bar filled with endless drunk regulars like they’ve never experienced a hangover in their life.
So, in an attempt that rises to a crisis, you start to look for the crumpled brochures at the reception, and then learn about Frightland’s existence. The place is a safetynet in the eyes of these many westerners who deem Disney World just too far a drive.
Ah, yes, Frightland hits that sweet spot teenagers love so much — just cheap and generic enough to make it worth anyone’s while. The place is well-run, that is what Charlie told Dean; she grew up nearby and is so used to visiting that she has become friends with the owner and their family.
Out of all the regulars as scare actors, she would be the one to find someone to fill the job of park tester. Dean roughly got told that all you have to do is to write what you think on a piece of paper. We will use your feedback to improve next year’s season.
Very well, then. Dean will make the most of the opportunity to discover teenage Charlie’s favourite place.
Dean grabs a folded map of the park, considers the plan that unravels between his fingers. He takes the time to read the ride’s names and their short descriptions, some of them sounding familiar— Charlie’s favourites, most likely.
The scream park is divided into several parts, each one with a theme. From the Middle Ages area and its Phantom Castle that promises a terrifying encounter with cursed knights to Arthur’s Round Table that will chase away the guests to prevent them from escaping with the Holy Grail in hands.
Then there is the Theater area, offering remakes of the most popular plays with a macabre twist— in this one, Juliet slaughters Romeo, a tortured salesman Arthur Miller sells his own soul to the devil, and Antigone turns into a zombie after attempting to destroy her brother’s body with chemicals.
Dean isn’t convinced by the area but duty calls. He has notes to take so he dives into the spooky universe that stands before him. Haystacks and pumpkins decorate the streets, on top of the vaguely accurate settings of the designated themes.
Between two haunted houses, Dean stops by the Camp Lazarus Lake snack kiosk to grab a Friday the 13th Camp Counselor’s Blood— a scarlet-coloured coffee with a knife-shaped stirrer. Dean has to say, getting served a coffee by a waiter wearing Jason’s hockey outfit feels like a fever dream.
By the time he tosses the cardboard cup in the bin with one of those stupid baseball throws Sam always rolls his eyes at, Dean is facing the main gate of another section of the park— The 13th Gate Of Hell, the Devil’s City.
After passing the living scarecrows and the field of graves, there is a dilapidated church standing on a hill, named Till Death. Guests can walk around the place, haunted by two lesbian nuns and the ghost of their love, but as they explore, they come to realise that the area has become a refuge for many other supernatural beings.
Dean enjoys this one way more than he thought he would.
He survives the cornfield maze haunted by Lucifer trying to break the seals to bring the Apocalypse, and, eventually, he finds the most famous haunted house in all of Frightland: The House Of Fear.
“Let’s pay this bad boy a visit,” Dean cheers himself on with a wide grin on his face, as he cuts the line with his privileged fast pass held up. There is no way he will wait like those excited teenagers, dying from the cold gusts of wind sneaking under his beloved leather jacket.
“Hi,” Dean says, waving his fluorescent green pass at eye level, “I’m—”
“You’re the park tester, aren’t ya?” The ghost employee grabs the walkie-talkie at his belt to exchange information with the other employees managing the place. He grants Dean a warm smile as well as an empty form and a pencil, before sneaking ahead behind the thick curtains of the haunted house. “Hang on a sec’, please.”
Dean eyes the piece of paper with a suspicious eyebrow raised; he reads— House of Fear: SAFETY FORM. Eyes flicker to the lines of rules darkening the sheet, quickly understanding them as a reminder of what to do and what to avoid in a haunted house.
Still, he can’t help but chuckle at the “if you think of yourself as more of a fighter than potentially taking flight in a stressful situation, do our scare actors a favour and get the hell out of here!” quote. He eventually signs his name by the end of the paper, keeping in mind that he is giving permission for the scarers to have physical contact with their guest: him.
It’s not as if Dean will get stabbed… right?
The ghost employee gets back to Dean after mumbling a reply to the unintelligible voice from his communication device. Dean hands the signed form and watches the worker glance over the sheet to see Dean’s signature.
Once the formalities are dealt with, he leans against the paved wall behind him and a grave expression draws across his features, taking in the haunted house’s atmosphere for his role.
“There are a total of five different paths you can take in the house. Each one of ‘em brings a new experience.” Yells from the house emphasise the worker’s words and Dean snorts at how perfectly synced the entire act is.
Dean shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket, crumpling his review notes before he slowly shrugs, unimpressed. “Okay then, I’ll do all of them.” Dean cocks his head to one side, a wide smile stretching his lips. “You know, don’t wanna miss the show's climax.”
“That is, if ya don’t get killed by Leatherface before.”
Dean frowns a second, trying to recall where that name comes from. Eventually, a spark of playfulness catches fire in his eyes, bringing a smile to the ghost’s face. It’s not usual for guests to recognise the movies’ references.
“Oh really, that dear Texas Chainsaw Massacre?” Dean smirks, a fond look on his face at the memory. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen that one.”
“Let’s hope it’ll bring back some memories.” The worker checks his watch and draws the curtain to one side to leave room for Dean to pass. “Tell him I say hi.”
“Will do,” Dean assures as he enters the attraction, welcomed by the grand staircase of a Victorian house. The building looked smaller from outside.
He takes a deep breath in. Out. In. Finds somehow enough motivation to explore the house, already thinking about the warmth of his lighter flickering between his fingers once he’s out with a cigarette ready to be lit by the corner of his mouth.
Dean isn’t afraid of exploring the place— he’s just frozen in place out of boredom. Fear isn’t in his range.
“Honey,” Dean calls with a strong tone, reverberating through the thick walls, and the fake smoke creates a constant fog as he walks up the steps to reach the first floor, “I’m home!”
Old rock songs are playing through the sizzling speakers, ones that are probably part of Dean’s dusty cassette tape collection. Only the creaking wood dares to answer Dean’s words and that’s when he realises— he has been sent alone into the house.
Unlike the other guests getting sent through as groups, Dean is alone. All because he’s a friggin’ park critic. The weak, almost imperceptible red light by the upper corner of the corridor indicates surveillance cameras and that is the only motive for Dean to keep playing it cool, with his hands shoved down in his jacket to retain some warmth, his give-them-hell attitude and his boots stepping heavy on the floor.
There is something unsettling about the lack of sound to make up for his seclusion.
Dean turns to the first door on the right; nothing but a library used as a dead end. He clicks his tongue with a groan when he realises the whole place is a maze and he has to find the exit to actually earn his victory cigarette.
Very well, then. He takes a few steps back and pushes open the second door with his shoulder, giving way to an endless corridor. Dean follows the new path, the end emphasised by light spots aiming in Dean’s direction.
The way to the next room is clear— until a silhouette leans against the doorframe and begs to differ with Dean.
“Welcome home, sweetheart,” Castiel says.
He cuts Dean off, but only literally. There’s nothing cutting about it. His voice is blunted edges, not blunt like the wonky structure of the house somehow still standing or sharp like Dean’s pocket knife. Blunt with exhaustion from running after screaming guests— blunt like a pillow that both of them would like to sink their face into after this tiring night. Blunt. Rounded. Unsettlingly soft.
The tracks of Dean’s footsteps stop in a blink and his racing heart brings him back to his teenage years; nervous in front of the first horror movie he watched thanks to unrestricted access to the local video rental place.
The light of the doorway behind the silhouette gives Dean a rough idea of who he is facing; broad shoulders rising up and crashing down under strong breaths, an apron wrapped around his waist, the slow motion of his uncovered head tilting to one side— Leatherface.
Tell him I say hi.
How exactly is Dean supposed to say hi in this situation? Yell greetings at him? Keep playing the housewife? Kiss him goodnight?
Dean attempts to wave a loose hand through his pocket as a salute, lips parting while the beginning of a sound rolls on his tongue— but Castiel doesn’t give Dean time to make conversation. He throws his entire body in Dean’s direction and if the unsteady stance doesn't stress Dean out, then his dislocated strides does.
How the hell can he move in such an erratic way?
Dean feels like a deer caught in bright blue headlights, the big bad hunter rushing at him to get his skin. His mind is blank, half blinded by the lighting framing Castiel. Not a single thought to be heard in his head. He forgets where he is and why he’s here in the first place.
Dean has spent too many hours laughing at characters’ terrible decisions to run away while screaming their lungs out, freezing on the spot or, worse, running toward the sound of danger. Hell, it sounds easy when he is comfortably sitting on his couch, mouth filled with pizza and the safety of a soft blanket wrapped around his shoulder.
He needs to do something, at least attempt an escape.
As if the shoelaces of his dusty combat boots have been untied, Dean’s foot takes its first step back. Then a second, a third. He thinks the fourth might bring enough distance not to die on the spot, but his back harshly hits a wall that dares to disagree. Dean is trapped— he knows he will not get back on his previous track before Castiel gets him, so his only option is to watch him coming closer.
Castiel doesn’t slow down once he has launched himself, one, two, three stomps of his heavy boots, torso bent forward like some kind of feral animal. Soon enough he is facing Dean, stopping his walk abruptly. Dean’s breathing hitches in his throat and his eyelids shut down instinctively as he expects a physical contact that never comes.
Nothing.
Only the sound of Castiel’s breathing, the tip of his nose brushing against Dean’s chest before his back straightens and he faces Dean.
Dean opens one eye, then the other. He is blocked by Castiel’s wide shoulders, unable to move for now, and considering his heart pounding in his ribcage, Dean isn’t sure his shaking legs will follow the call to flight.
In the terrible lighting, Dean’s eyes can hardly discern Castiel’s features under the makeup and the fake blood. His nose is broken in a bump so convincing that Dean hisses under his breath in empathy.
The flesh of his cheek is torn apart from under one eye to his jaw in an impressive scratch, too; one that reminds Dean of The Lost Boy and how much he enjoys seeing men covered in blood.
There is something catching Dean’s attention, unknown sigils around his neck and as if the charisma radiating from that thick black tattoo wasn’t enough, the biblically accurate angel wrapped around his forearm dares to add some more.
At the moment, Dean can’t think of anything else; his eyes look right through the heavy makeup to meet Castiel’s— goddamn.
They are a beautiful shade of blue, the hint of colour mesmerising while the pupils retract from a spotlight hitting his face at the perfect angle for Dean’s view. The blue is a soothing hue, one that makes Dean forget all about the wonky haunted houses, the badly-made special effects and the supposed killer— a blue that Dean wishes he never has to peel his eyes away from.
But seeing the lack of violence and caving to his impulsive thoughts, Dean’s face does this strange, unexpected thing.
It starts grinning. It starts grinning hard.
Castiel blinks at him, head tilting.
Dean keeps his head up, straightened to his full height to be just above Castiel’s head level; he makes sure to be the one looking down.
Dean breathes out the last ounce of fear and just as an ecstatic relief takes over his body, he brings the cocky and sarcastic defence mechanisms. Arrogance takes over his features. A lopsided grin appears by the corner of his lips before he passes a tongue over them, smudging the fake blood Charlie painted on earlier.
Castiel’s eyes flicker to Dean’s mouth for longer than a blink, eliciting a snort from Dean that earns him a narrowing look. He feels lucky to be leaning against the cold wall or otherwise his buckled up knees would have given up a long, terribly long minute ago, and his confident persona would be gone, too.
Adrenaline triggers Dean's survival instinct; his heart jumps with excitement in his chest. He keeps grinning, harder, like standing there, so close to Castiel, is the luckiest thing to happen since the release of Alien.
Castiel blinks again.
His eyes disappear behind his rising cheekbones— he starts to smile, scarlet lipstick smudged on one side of his lip. Just a little stretch of the lips at first, then more, then beautifully. It’s soft and gorgeous. It fits him perfectly despite the bloody clothes and the unsettling way he plays a psycho killer so well.
“How you doin’, pumpkin?” The words roll off Dean’s tongue like the feverish last words of a sick Victorian child needing to be heard, but he is nowhere near infected by the plague. He is just a confident dumbass hitting on a definitely-not-paid-enough scare actor instead. “Been waiting for me all night— still, ain’t you a sight for sore eyes with that pretty face of yours?”
Dean registers his own words once they’re hanging in the atmosphere as if they are a desperate call for help— that damn boyish smile still stuck on his face while Castiel studies him, silent.
And it’s only now that Dean realises how much room there is around them. He isn’t stuck against the wall because of Castiel; in fact, Castiel seems to have consciously left enough room for Dean to walk away and leave.
Hell, he could take his shot and run out of the room before having to face the consequences of a pick-up line worse than any living nightmare in the whole park. Dean is sure Leatherface would nicely grant him a two minute head-start, and maybe even point him to the exit to make sure it goes well.
A rumble of footsteps rushes through the attraction entryway, putting an end to Dean’s distress— or at least distracting him from his raging flirtatious tendencies. A hand grips tight on Dean’s shoulder and Castiel drags him out of the way before the door flanks open.
Dean’s eyes follow the touch and he finds a bloody palm flat on his shoulder, tainting his jacket with pinkish blood. Dean will have Castiel’s bloody handprint on his jacket and the thought brings so much uncalled joy.
This tattooed, smoking hot dude just put his hand on my shoulder.
A scream steals Dean’s attention away from the handprint and he has to look over Castiel to take in the surprised faces of a whole group of overexcited teenagers.
Before Dean can even think of an idea on how to deal with them and make the teens leave so that they can be alone, Castiel’s head slowly turns toward the intruders. The stiffness in the motion creates goosebumps in every soul caught in the creepy show.
His entire figure faces them now, standing still. He has an unsettling stance that the darkness disfigures more and more the longer they stare. His hand rests on his victim, careful not to lose Dean.
Castiel stamps his foot to click his heels.
The metallic parts on the thick soles of Castiel’s boots slam thunderously against the floor, and it seems to do the trick. The teenagers leave, as quickly as they came, a trail of giggles echoing down the corridor and giving life to the gloomy portraits in the walls.
The hand squeezes Dean’s shoulder… gently.
Castiel levels a look at him.
Blue eyes gauge Dean’s expression with concern and Dean can’t believe the man dressed up as a bloodied serial killer is actually checking on him, despite the terrible attempt at a third option to avoid fight or flight.
For fuck’s sake, he is caring, too.
The teenagers’ voices are far enough to know they have gotten rid of that nuisance. Yet, as uncalled for as Dean and Castiel’s proximity to one another is, neither of them bothers to add distance between each other.
Castiel could be taking a step back, just like Dean could break free from the weak grasp on his shoulder, but neither do. Castiel takes a deep breath, meeting Dean’s stare again.
“Dude, do that again and we’re going to make out.” Dean needs to shut the fuck up. Dean needs to shut his mouth and never attempt to flirt with anyone again, especially the man with the beautiful blue eyes standing right before— Castiel scoffs at Dean’s lightweight threat.
He chuckles, even; the sound is loud enough for Dean to hear and it’s like the end of the world, biblical-style apocalypse crashing down on the universe.
The way his voice rumbles in Dean’s ears and echoes in his chest as if a feral bat is trapped in his ribcage, desperate to follow the light warming up Dean’s heart.
Dean is down bad, so much he is becoming quite pathetic. A mess of blush on his freckled cheeks, cockiness stretching his signature smirk, and playful eyes taking in as many details from under Castiel’s makeup as possible.
Dean genuinely thinks he’s going insane. He glimpses at Castiel’s teeth flashing in the beginning of a smile, and all of a sudden he feels the need to taste it on his lips.
“I should make this a routine, then,” Castiel murmurs. He confides the words into Dean’s ear, this little gift of a promise for something to happen again. He squeezes Dean’s shoulder before his hand falls down by his side. His fingers flex slightly, like a desperate chase after the ghost of the touch under his fingertips.
The promise steals words out of Dean’s mouth and he finds himself staring at Castiel while musing on the thought of encountering him in the future. After all, he is supposed to visit the amusement park for the entire week. The prospect of meeting Castiel again, in and out of the horribly decorated house, blooms a hope in Dean’s stomach, so passionate that he can almost feel the petals rising up to his tongue.
A sizzling from the device at Castiel’s belt brings them back to the haunted mansion— the intimate lighting disappears under the thick fake smoke, digging back out the terrible special effects of these poor movie productions.
Castiel brings a hand to the walkie-talkie, silencing the voice speaking, and he turns towards Dean. Dean tries not to think too much about the way Castiel’s shoulders lowered when he was reminded that he has a job to do.
“Duty calls, I know. Gotta kill people before they turn into final girls,” Dean says, flashing a playful smile under Castiel’s fond stare. He hasn’t walked away from Dean, mesmerised by the boyish charm radiating from him. Instead, Dean is the one taking a step back toward the corridor he hasn’t crossed yet. “You’ll be there once I’m done making us dinner, though?”
“Sure thing, sweetheart.” Castiel stretches his neck and rolls his head back to warm his muscles— Dean glimpses at his bare neck covered with fake blood and he feels worse than any feral man seeing a woman’s ankle for the first time. Castiel tilts his head to the side, winks at him as he confides, “I’ll always find a way back to you.”
Dean swallows hard, hot and a blushing mess under his makeup. He is already walking to the next room, afraid he might melt at Castiel’s feet, and throws a victorious glance over his shoulder. “Great. See you then, pumpkin.”
Dean breaks out his most flirtatious grin and winks.
Dean attempts to reflect on the whole gay panic he experiences while he visits the rest of the house— why was he so intimidated by the man, Dean wonders, barely acknowledging the small girl splashing fake blood and holy water at him from a water pistol in each hand.
After all, Castiel is far from being the local average hot guy Dean’s got used to seeing while walking California beaches— his walk is erratic, almost inhuman from the way he limps, head tilted to the side like he is fascinated by something he doesn’t understand.
Dean knows it’s an act. He knows it as well as the actors that they aren’t their characters, otherwise many of them would have ended up in jail instead of Hollywood Boulevard.
But behind the act and the unhinged behaviour, there is one thing that caught Dean’s attention; his eyes.
There’s something so pretty about his eyes and it throws Dean right back to his teenage years, losing his mind and giggling shamelessly over a glance thrown in his direction by his secret crush.
Dean passes by the cursed chapel area and high fives Dracula stretching a clawed hand to scare him. He snorts proudly at the idea, a stupid grin on his face as the scare actor chases him further into the chapel between the wooden benches.
By the time he has reached behind the altar, the sound of a gate closing makes Dean turn back and he realises Dracula has locked him up. He can only walk into the next room or stay in front of the vampire now taunting him with his wonky canines and hissing at him like a stray cat.
“You’re smiling a little too wide for someone that should be afraid of my jacket dripping in holy water…” Dean mutters, rolling his eyes as the scare actor goes back to his previous spot.
From a distance, a revving chainsaw resonates close to a growl— the thud of punches hitting the wall, if it isn’t an entire body launching itself against every surface on his way.
Soon enough, someone bursts a hidden door open right in front of him— and there is Leatherface.
Dean freezes on the spot, a hope blooming in his chest while his eyes light up.
“Hey, sunshine. Miss me already?” Dean throws out a charming smirk, giving him the how you doin’ nod that always earns him a giggle. He stands there like an idiot and looks hard for blue irises, shining under the ethereal lights— except that familiar colour is nowhere to be seen, dark eyes staring furiously at him.
That guy isn’t his Leatherface.
A roaring chainsaw held in front of him, the scare actor rushes at Dean and chases him into the maze that is the catacombs area. The man turns back once Dean’s far enough inside, and the dry chuckles coming from Dean’s lips echo through the quiet place.
Of course it isn’t Castiel— the one he just saw was too small in height, shoulders not broad enough. They may be all wearing the same outfit, yet his Leatherface is the one who wears the bloody apron unnecessarily tight around his waist.
Dean keeps walking through the maze, barely surprised by the jumpscares appearing along the way. He is too focused on deciding if Castiel’s promise might be a crap ton of bullshit and they won’t see each other ever again.
He follows the remote sizzling of radio, bass reverberating through the silence to a rhythm that reminds Dean of the make-your-ears-bleed soft rock he is used to listening to. He pushes a thick, creaking door, leaving the maze in the darkness, and explores a wizard’s cabinet of curiosities.
A scarer, dressed as a reaper with the make-up of a sick Victorian child, sneaks behind his back while he desperately attempts to put a title to the mullet rock song playing through the hidden speakers.
“Dean-O. I am coming for your soul.” The grave voice startles Dean and he turns to the sound behind him.
“What the—” Dean’s surprised face changes into a grumpy one when he recognises the familiar face. It’s Garth— one of Charlie’s childhood friends he got to meet a few weeks back. Dean swallows his fright down, reminding himself that there is no way he will show fear in front of someone who openly admitted being scared while watching Jaws: The Revenge, the terrible sequel of the original fish-starring movie.
Garth somehow gets in a fight with his own scythe; too big for him and getting stuck in the furniture of the room when it’s not hitting the walls clumsily. Eventually he caves to the self-war going on and abandons his weapon against a bookcase before walking up to Dean.
The familiar lyrics are still reaching Dean’s ears; he knows damn well what this song is, and he is now filled with the grief of hearing such a great song deviously used for musical slaughter.
“Don’t Fear The Reaper, really?” Dean raises his hands up like he is imploring the gods to give an answer to justify this world-scaled sin, but it’s just Garth beaming all bright and proud at him, fists on his hips.
“What?” Garth shrugs. “That's the perfect soundtrack right here.”
“That is friggin’ terrible.”
“No.” Garth points an accusatory finger and Dean knows he is done for. Whatever argument boils at the tip of his tongue is going to cause an overwhelming wave of regret in Dean’s chest for saying such things. Garth is an agent of evil, turning people’s drunk words against themselves. “You’ve said it yourself, you’d love to die to Blue Öyster Cult.”
Dean lightly kicks the bookcase standing next to him, the jars filled with blurry liquid and prop-organs clinking together on the shelves. He raises his head as soon as he hears Garth’s calumny. “Oh come on, that’s not what I meant!”
Dean walks around the room, snorting when he notices it offers two doors to take.
“Buddy, where’s Leatherface? The one with blue eyes?”
“He has been sent running after people behind the right door. Why, wanna be his next victim and live the homoerotic chase experience?”
“I’m bi,” Dean reminds him. He is comfortable enough to speak it out loud, knowing Garth is queer himself, and they have spent a whole night debating what Harrison Ford’s best role is before. “Homoerotic stabbing is just average business around here for me.”
“No way— I thought you were American!”
“To be honest, the entire country should be down bad for the guy.”
“You know you could just ask Charlie for his number, right? They’re coworkers.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Dean says, not fully convinced by the idea. Firstly, because Castiel might not be interested and he doesn’t want to creep into his personal life. And secondly, because chasing those blue eyes is the only thing motivating Dean to get through the entire evening.
Dean wishes Garth a good haunting and goes for the right door. It leads to a few stairs.
He pays a visit to the Shining-wanna-be-so-bad room with GNILLIK written in big, red letters on the broken mirror. Which Dean finds genuinely awesome because it’s just a cheaper version of REDRUM.
And then— in the middle of the room, a familiar silhouette appears like the glimpse of a ghost. Dean’s heart misses a beat, the jump in his chest far from being fearful.
Standing there, armed with nothing but a blinking devil’s horns headband and a big, stupid grin— Dean can’t help the way his face lights up.
“Pumpkin.” Dean’s voice is soft and the nickname slips out of his dry lips in a hitched breath.
“I told you; I’ll always find my way back to you,” Castiel says, his voice warm but firm in a way that makes Dean’s insides swish about like he’s some sort of vengeful spirit boiling in his feelings. Except he’s not catching feelings, not any more than he is a ghost.
Mirroring their first meeting, Castiel stalks with heavy stomps to reach Dean. Something catches the light and its reflection reaches Dean’s eyes in a flash— the blade of a knife in Castiel’s fist.
If Dean managed to easily walk down the small stairs before reaching this room, he totally seems to forget about it; the step blocks Dean’s step back. He loses balance— but before his back hits the obstacle, there is a firm hand grabbing the collar of his jacket and holding him in place.
There is also a warm breath brushing Dean’s parted lips.
Dean chuckles at the turn of events. He puts a hand around Castiel’s wrist and gives it a warm squeeze. It’s a thick wrist, solid and firm, and Dean tries not to flush as Castiel twitches an absent smile at him.
He has a small scar on the back of his hand— a real one, barely visible, but Dean feels it as his finger brushes past lightly.
Castiel’s heart pulse is warm and racing under Dean’s thumb, and his eyes are distractingly blue. His dark stubble emphasises the strong cut of his jaw Dean gets a lucky glimpse at from his low angle, and Dean might have a problem here.
His cheeks aren’t burning, it’s just really hot in here, under the scarlet lightspots. Dean Winchester does not blush, Charlie just overdid it with the fake blood and red bruises.
Dean puts on his confident smirk and nods at Castiel’s hand on his jacket collar, eyes flickering to the other hand holding the knife.
“Oh. Wanna make me your Bloody Valentine?” Dean says, idly watching the way his blue irises flicker over Dean’s features like their time is limited yet ridiculously precious, taking in every detail he can before it’s too late.
“Is that what you wish for?” Castiel ducks his head slightly, but Dean doesn’t stop smiling.
“Coming from a pretty boy like you, I wouldn’t say no.”
Again, Castiel’s expression changes without moving— ever so slightly, with what the makeup grants Dean to contemplate of the face hidden behind. It’s as if the fractional tilt of his head is enough to drastically change every feature of his face.
The blush gets worse.
“Pumpkin.” Dean tilts his head back to gain composure and he presses his tongue against his cheek; his look lingers on Castiel’s lips before flickering to meet his eyes. “Are we about to kiss right now?”
“You never stop, do you?” Castiel is speaking as if there’s a dream atop his tongue. He’s hushed and quiet in Dean’s ear, private but not furtive. As soft and filled with awe as a sunrise— the sight of the pitch black night through the windows confuses Dean as much as Castiel’s question does.
“‘Course not, for your biggest pleasure.”
“The pleasure is all yours, sweetheart,” Castiel corrects with a smile in his whispering tone, and Dean dies. He just dies. The remainder of his life force comes rushing out into a mess of words babbling from his lips, and then he is dead.
Castiel resurrects him one act at a time. He rolls the knife between his fingers like some kind of fidget toy, quick and easy, before raising it above their heads. The blade doesn’t shine enough to be a real blade, the darkness of the house hiding most of the cheap features of the props.
Castiel takes a deep breath in and Dean mirrors it, like they are one body. Dean’s attention drifts away on Bark At The Moon playing in the background, but he studies Castiel’s eyes opening in a delicate flutter of eyelashes and he is done for.
Melting under the grip on his collar, Dean’s lips part expectantly while Castiel brings the knife above Dean’s chest; so slow he would have thrown a sarcastic snicker if he wasn’t down so down for Castiel covered in blood.
The weapon goes down for Dean’s chest.
It’s like Castiel tore apart his ribcage, aimed right into Dean’s heart.
The spring mechanism of the knife creaks in a teeth-gnashing sound, blade sneaking inside the handle in Castiel’s hand, but the gesture feels real— oh, so real.
Dean’s heart is bleeding. He is bleeding and each rushed beat in his chest makes drops of feeling seep a little more from the open wound.
To the sound of the greatest hits of mullet rock, to the riffs of Shout At The Devil, there is Dean. Dean, falling heads over heels for a pair of pretty eyes, so much it hurts.
Dean gasps at the enduring pain, at Castiel’s mercy over him.
He finds solace in the blue of his eyes, too captivated by the visual contact to notice the blade popping out slowly with a drop of crimson on its pointy tip.
Castiel tilts his head to one side, peeling his eyes off Dean to put down the prop knife; he turns the gadget around, silently inspecting the new taint of scarlet. He eventually puts it down on the stairs by their side, concerned eyes now searching for something on Dean’s chest.
His hand brushes the few layers of clothes over his burning heart; under the jacket, only a t-shirt and a flannel, and the graze of Castiel’s fingertips throbs the pain harder.
“I apologise,” Castiel says, and Dean drowns in his tender words, his soft-spoken voice rumbling in the small space between their bodies, as if they are in a cheap horror remake of the Titanic. “I didn’t mean to be so rough.”
Dean shakes his head, unable to come up with a reply. There is nothing to be said, after all— it’s only Dean and his friggin’ feelings. No big deal, just a teenage-girl’s-prom-crush-experience kind of thing.
Castiel doesn’t let go of Dean, though. He passes a thumb over Dean’s cheek, fingertips brushing his fluttering eyelashes. “You are hurt,” Castiel states. The confused creases in Dean’s face encourages him to explain. “I think I really stabbed you with the prop knife.”
“I’m not…”
Dean grips Castiel’s shoulder to regain balance, and with as little help as possible, he gets up on his legs. The lack of oxygen from his unsteady breathing makes him so dizzy he falls against Castiel’s shoulder; Castiel’s hands were closely following Dean’s motions, catching him immediately.
A soft hum escapes Dean’s lips as his cheek, settled on Castiel’s shoulder, melts in the pleasant warmth through his shirt.
After a moment— minutes, about ten or maybe more, only Castiel knows; Dean sews the conversation back up like terrible patchwork, lazily mumbling with his eyes comfortably shut. “Oh, I’ll be fine. I just need to call Charlie.”
“You go find Charlie.” Castiel nods, the motion of his chin tickling strands of Dean’s hair.
A thought occupies Dean’s mind for a second, thinking about Charlie’s name spoken through Castiel’s mouth and he wonders when he will be able to hear him say his name. Tonight doesn’t sound like the greatest opportunity, if Dean doesn’t want to bleed himself dry or pass out in the hot scare actor’s arms.
It’s Castiel’s hand brushing Dean’s back that prevents him from napping on the spot. Slowly drawing his body from Dean’s, Castiel tries to look him right in the eyes.
“I need to get rid of the defective prop and let my coworkers know about the incident,” Castiel says, and he sounds so serious and convincing that Dean nods hurriedly before processing the words. A light squeeze on Dean’s shoulder makes his chest hurt again, whether it’s from the wound or the heartache to know that he will have to see Castiel again if he wants to dissect every nuance of colour in his blue irises. “I will find my way back to you as soon as I have my break, sweetheart.”
The promise throws Dean on what might be the best rollercoaster he has ridden during the whole evening, and Castiel’s wink hitches his breath out of his heavy chest more than any sudden ride brake possibly could.
Castiel leads Dean to the last door of the house, giving way to the main alley in The 13th Gate Of Hell area and the fresh air of the night. Dean’s arm over Castiel's shoulders slowly falls by his side, but their hands graze against each other ever so slightly and it immediately soothes the pain in Dean’s body.
“Thanks,” Dean says, and he doesn’t know where he’s going with his own words, but he takes the opportunity to add, voice tainted by the slight smirk stretching by the end of his lips, “pumpkin.”
“Leave now,” Castiel grumbles, because of the cold gust sneaking through the corridor as he opens the door for Dean; still, despite the obvious concern in his gaze, he turns to Dean with fond eyes. “We are still supposed to eat dinner together, don’t you remember, sweetheart?”
Dean raises an eyebrow and can’t help chuckling at Castiel’s head tilt.
“Is that a date?”
“If you don’t bleed yourself dry, it might be.”
“Awesome.” Dean shoves his hands loosely into the pockets of his jacket, Castiel’s handprint still visible on his shoulder. He tightens the leather clothing around himself, not to stay warmer but to match the shit-eating attitude coming back now that his adrenaline has settled down— the blush on his face feels hot enough to survive the cold weather anyway.
A sweet ache starts to bloom through Dean’s cheeks as he walks away, slowly, half-facing Castiel. He’s grinning. Been grinning for a while, by the feel of it, and he can’t seem to stop.
He puts his hand over his mouth, the other hand searches for his phone and he’s still grinning at his screen like a complete moron while he calls his friend’s number.
“Charlie, I think I met my soulmate. I think— I need some bandages, too, for the heartbreak or whatever the hell I’m bleeding for,” Dean says, interrupted by Castiel’s loud drumming behind the heavy door to answer the overheard confession.