Fuck Yeah Wincestiel!

As We Both Gasp in the Evening Air

It’s eighty-seven degrees, even though the sun’s down, and the hot wind is kicking up dust on the old dirt road running past the dilapidated farmhouse they’re holed up in.  The rotting wood of the deck creaks with every movement, every twitch of Dean’s muscles, even the contraction of his throat as the cool beer slides down it.  Yellowed paint peels from the railing.  He picks at it absently, pulls away a strip, drops it onto the step beside him in the buzzing orange glow of the porch light.

The wood groans in protest as Castiel comes through the rusting aluminum door, its hinges squealing a descant.  His knee brushes Dean’s when he sits, his knuckles against Dean’s knuckles when he takes the brown bottle and swallows down a quarter of what remains, the condensation wetting his palm.

Crickets chirp and mosquitoes buzz.  The grass rustles.  Castiel’s lips are as hot and dry as the road.  He tastes like beer and sweat and humanity.