Chapter Text
The second Dean feels even a sliver of consciousness, something is different.
The beating of his heart is faint, his breathing slow and practically non-existent, but sensations from outside his own body begin getting more and more frequent; a tug on his shirt; a faint touch on his cheek, like lips caressing his skin; and the soft heat of breath right on his own lips, slightly parted and unmoving. His heartbeat quickens as his body is overcome with shivers, his lungs demanding more oxygen and he starts stirring, bones like cold stone and skin like tight leather, immovable and numb.
Beat, beat, beat, it spreads like slow, warm syrup through his veins, chasing the cold and the numb away and leaving him tingly as a stuttering breath leaves his lips and his eyes open a crack, greeted by the sight of jeweled heels and shiny black shoes moving around him, the edges of dresses brushing across his skin occasionally.
Flexing his hands, he opens his eyes wider and lifts his head, piecing together that he's laying down on his side in the middle of what is a ballroom dance floor, couples of all kinds waltzing around him like clockwork, as if he's nonexistent, transparent.
His body feels fuzzy and stiff, but he staggers to his feet slowly and unceremoniously, colours dancing in his vision as it blurs and people continue to ignore him. He goes to speak but nothing comes out, just a huff of air that doesn't even reach his own ears, nothing's reaching them in fact, and all he hears is just a fuzzy static that makes his head feel weird.
A woman in a long red dress adorned with white crystals bumps into him and then stares him in the eyes as she keeps twirling with her partner, another woman wearing a short, floral yellow dress, her eyes completely white. Dean doesn't know why, but he doesn't find that weird, though somewhere in the back of his mind something's telling him it shouldn't be like this, that that's not possible at all, but it's not loud enough to lessen his haze.
He twists and turns, looking into the eyes of all the other people and blinking, trying to make sense of so much information at once. Everyone has dead white eyes, dancing their way around and around gracefully, dizzyingly, not missing a step. He looks down at himself, at his hands, his feet, finding everything there, but everything still feels off. Where did he get his suit? Why is he even wearing a suit? He doesn't remember coming to this party at all.
He turns and looks even more, not knowing what to do, but not wanting to just stand there, when he makes eye contact with a man, and stops dead.
Brilliant blue eyes stare into his own, and Dean's breath catches in his throat. Sky blue rings of light bore into his consciousness, the colour so bright it almost hurts, and Dean can feel his senses returning, sensations striking him all at once; the classical music playing from somewhere; the gentle laughter and chatter from other people; and the smell of food coming from a place Dean can't see.
The eyes never leave his, unwavering in their intensity, not even blinking, and Dean feels a shiver before a couple dances in front of him and he panics for a second, feeling his focus dim. He doesn't know why, but he has to see that man again. He feels some kind of . . . connection. It's almost magnetic, irresistible, hypnotic.
He rushes forward, stumbling his way across the floor as the dancers seem to start swarming around him all at the same time, forming a tight packed circle that has people jostling into him at every second but most importantly, stopping him from getting to the man. They all stay in perfect timing to the routine, like puppets being controlled by a skillful puppeteer, practiced and precise.
He tries to speak, call out, yell, no sound exiting his lips once again and then he tries to shoulder his way through the dancers but nobody budges and then he sees him again, over the shoulders of the circle surrounding him, dancing with a woman. Feeling Dean's gaze, he looks up, right into his eyes again, his black hair like an elegant fountain of midnight and his eyes still blue like shallow, pristine ocean water Dean always thought only existed in a paradise he could never afford.
The dancers start to tear away, but before Dean can even process it a woman in a jeweled black dress approaches him and suddenly he's dancing with her, his feet moving in perfect time with her's despite that fact that he's never ballroom danced before. It just feels natural, he does it without even thinking, in fact, his body is practically moving for him.
He tries to keep his eyes on the man but once he gets out of sight Dean again finds it harder to focus, feels his senses dim once again, so he pays attention to the only thing that doesn't make his head spin so much, which is the woman dancing with him.
Her eyes are pure white, like pearls straight from one of those necklaces Dean's only seen in movies, and brimmed with delicate eyeshadow and eyeliner, applied with inhuman perfection, lips dead black and face pale, almost like porcelain.
"When do you have to go?" she whispers softly, the only sound that reaches his ears other than the static, and Dean blinks in confusion. He doesn't have to go anywhere. He doesn't even know where he is, or why he's here. But before he can do anything else the woman leans forward and presses her lips ever so gently against his, her lips softer than anything he's ever felt. He stays still, startled by the action by not entirely against it, closing his eyes and getting lost in the feeling. She pulls away all too soon, leaving him standing there dumbfounded as he looks around. She's gone.
The floor becomes dizzy again as he has nothing to distract himself from the twirling couples, until a gentle hand on his shoulder turns him around as the eyes are back, soft and warm and Dean can't think, only moves when the man prompts him to and before he knows it they're dancing too, the man's hand resting on his hip as his other large, warm hand envelops Dean's own.
He watches the man's face, sure that he can't be real. It's not possible. He barely notices the movement of them twirling around, stepping in time and to the rhythm, or the fact that the other couples cleared the floor to stand on the outskirts, in the shadows, watching, and that they're the only ones still moving. Dean has eyes and mind only for the man in front of him.
The man's strong grip guides him around and Dean finds his hand slipping off his shoulder to run his fingers through the black mane, feeling the softness caress his skin, watching a smile appear on his face, a fond, affectionate one, and Dean feels warm. He feels relaxed. He feels happy.
He slips his hand out of the black tendrils and rests it where his neck meets his shoulder, and the man pulls him closer until they're flush together and their noses are close, breaths mingling together until Dean's pretty sure he's just breathing the air the man is letting out, his lungs filling up with him and making Dean feel even fuzzier, vision blurring, and he suddenly feels the urge to close his eyes, the clarity escaping him, sounds muffled and sensations escaping him once again.
With his last moments of clear thinking he drinks in the image of the man's face, his neat, trimmed beard that borders his cheeks and soothingly scratches his fingers as he brings up his hand to brush over it slowly, like a little kid trying to figure out something they've never encountered before. He takes in his lips, the smooth, plump skin a stark contrast to Dean's dry, cracked ones, and he wants to feel them, but he can't quite focus enough to do that.
He reaches the man's eyes again, a similar but on a whole different level colour to his own. He's reminded again of that rippling, clean paradise water; of the cloudless sky on a sunny, lazy afternoon. They're just deep pools of what feels like magic, and he can't help but get lost in them all over again. An eternity could pass by and he'd never notice, because time stops when this man looks at him, and Dean wants this moment to happen forever.
But without him realizing, his eyes slowly start getting heavier and heavier, and his neck gets tired from looking up into the man's eyes so much, so he calmly rests his head on the man's shoulder, using the last of his energy to hook his arms round his neck, breathing in his scent. He feels the man shift to encase him in a hug as well, eyes finally closing shut as they both just rock side to side, Dean's senses slipping away like specs of dust in an hourglass, his consciousness fading and fading to only the feeling of the man and then . . . nothing.