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The entire house thrums with the beat blaring from the speakers positioned high on the walls around the rooms, the vibrations unsettling Dean’s stomach and rattling his nerves. Too hot and over-stimulated, and absolutely not because he watched Castiel head this way just a few minutes earlier, he steps out the back door and inhales the crisp fall air.
His breath catches at the sight of the man leaning into the deck railing, one hand wrapped in a loose fist around a red Solo cup and the other running through dark waves of hair that curl just slightly at the ends. Dean’s eyes trail in a slow crawl down the length of his neck, over the broad shoulders and the toned back testing the limits of his white t-shirt, coming to rest on the sculpted ass framed by a perfectly fitted pair of faded jeans. By some miracle, he manages to tear his eyes away from the man’s backside mere seconds before he turns his head, casting that ethereal blue gaze his way.
“Hello, Dean,” he says, his voice rough sandpaper grinding over every frayed nerve followed by thick, sweet honey soothing the burn.
And, damn, how could he forget how deep Castiel’s voice is?
“Heya, Cas.” Dean tucks his fingers into his pockets as he takes a few tentative steps closer.
Castiel stares back for a moment, head tilted to the side, sampling the shortened version of his name, savory on Dean’s tongue. A smile breaks through the veneer, transforming his face from a mask of seriousness to something verging on amused satisfaction, plunging Dean’s insides into a freefall, equal parts exhilarating and nauseating.
Standing to his full height, just a couple of inches shy of Dean’s, he moves to sit at the top of the stairs, patting the spot beside him, an invitation Dean accepts without hesitation. Through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, Cas’ heat burns against his skin, sending his thoughts on a downward spiral that settles deep in his groin.
They talk about anything and nothing, but it’s not small talk. There’s not a single moment where it feels like they’re filling the silence. It feels substantial, the beginning of something real and profound. Dean hangs on every detail, no matter how big or small, craving each little taste of what makes Cas…Cas.
Castiel brings his cup up to his lips and Dean watches the bob of his throat as he swallows, the mental image taking hold and filed away for later. Now empty, he slips the cup to the step by his feet and thrusts out his hand. “Have you ever had your palm read, Dean?” he asks, quirking his brow and his smile into a decidedly sexy smirk.
“Can’t say that I have.” Dean may not believe in any of that superstitious mumbo-jumbo, but there is no way he’s going to miss out on the chance to feel Cas’ skin warm against his. He places his hand, palm up, in Cas’, letting himself sink into the feeling of warmth and softness.
With that serious look plastered back on his face, Castiel traces a finger over the lines in his palm in featherlight touches, sending chills rushing over Dean’s skin and making him bite back a moan. His thumb strokes over the pulse of his wrist and Dean is almost positive that’s not part of palm reading, but it feels too nice to risk saying something that might make him stop.
Besides, what does he know?
“So, this is your life line,” Cas says, dragging his finger down the curving arc around his thumb, “and it tells me you’re going to live a long and happy life.”
“What else?” Believer or not, Dean encourages this, whatever it is, to continue.
He points to the longest line crossing the width of Dean’s palm. “This is your love line…” Cas murmurs, voice fathoms deep and velvet soft, “and it tells me that you’re going to have one great love that you will compare all others to.”
Their eyes meet and Dean wants to believe every word.
Chest tightening around his quickening breaths, Dean barely manages to squeak out, “Anything else?”
“This is…” Cas trails off, the slight smirk returning to his mouth and ratcheting up the allure of his face tenfold. “Aw, I’m sorry, Dean. I don’t actually know how to read palms.”
Flustered, Dean takes a shuddering breath. “Then what was all that?” He would be lying if he said he was anything but disappointed after getting his hopes up.
“An excuse to hold your hand?” For the first time since they sat down together, Cas’ voice shakes with uncertainty, his eyes still bright, but guarded.
“Oh…”
Cas had made a move so subtle that it slipped by Dean completely. Glancing down at their hands now resting on Cas’ thigh, Dean makes a move of his own. He flips his hand in Cas’ gentle grasp, entangling their fingers, reveling in how natural it feels.
Too nervous to look him in the eye, his entire body flushes with heat when Cas tips his chin up with just the tip of his finger, bringing their mouths so close he can feel the humid breath against his lips as Cas exhales. Rather than lean in and take what he wants, Cas holds, Dean’s chin balanced on his fingertip, waiting for an invitation.
Reaching up with his free hand, Dean cups Cas’ face, thumb brushing over his chiseled jaw as he leans in and presses their mouths together, lips slightly parted, tongues just barely grazing. They break away for only a second, bodies turning and shifting to allow as much contact as possible, before they meet in a clash of lips and tongues, hands unclasped and groping over and under layers of soft cotton.
It feels so right, and he knows Cas was right about one thing. He is the one. The one he will compare all others to.