All The Ways This Is Gonna Go Wrong

A Destiel college AU drabble that I posted back in March on my tumblr; one I liked well enough, in retrospect, to archive over here.

I’ll overthink it, like I always do. Hell, I think I already have if I’m writing this shit down. All the ways this is gonna go wrong.

Like:

I’ll plan really careful what to say and when, and then something random will happen–you’ll snort popcorn up your nose, or I’ll hit a pedestrian, or the bar will be too crowded after the movie and we’ll have to go someplace else. Except it’ll be Friday and every bar will be slammed with undergrads and you’ll get quiet and I’ll get pissed and we won’t go anywhere, fine, and you won’t even let me drive you home. You’ll insist on walking, ok, only like four blocks, but still, it’ll be enough to convince me that you’re out trolling for a soriority chick, like the last girl you were with in that LDR that you’ve brought up more than once just so I know that you’re not looking for a serious thing but that you’re free to fuck whoever you want, no strings but plenty of baggage. And then I’ll drive home with the radio off and scowl and slam the door a little harder than I should and wake up fucking Sam, who’ll interrogate me outta the goodness of his heart and his sympathy will make me want to punch a wall, which of course I can’t because then you’d see the scars on Monday in class and say:

Oh. Dean. Are you ok?

 

Or:

I will get it out, whatever it is I finally say: I like youlet’s fuck, you look really good in plaid, have I totally misread this whole thing? And you’ll stare at me blue-eyed blank and then there’ll be this flash of pity and a little sad and you’ll say something demure and appropriate and I’ll feel like a total perv, an ass, a less-than. And the worse part is that you’ll let me drive you home then, make small talk that says it’s coolwe can still be friendsyou’re a good guy, Dean. There’ll be that awful moment when the car stops and you haven’t opened the door yet and all I’ll be thinking is kiss kiss fuck and then you’ll say Goodnight, Dean like nothing’s changed. I’ll watch you key in and then drive home with the radio off and scowl and slam the door a little harder than I should and wake up fucking Sam, who’ll interrogate me outta the goodness of his heart and his sympathy will make me want to punch a wall, which of course I can’t because then you’d see the scars on Monday in class and say:

Oh. Dean. Are you ok?

Or:

I won’t be able to wait until after the movie, until I’ve had a few beers and you have too and you’re loose and smiley. No. I’ll get anxious and rush it and say something in the goddamn car right outside the multiplex, your face swimming in neon and a league of high school chicks streaming by outside. I’ll say it and you’ll stare at me for a moment, all quiet and shit, and it’ll be the longest 30 seconds of the year and then you’ll say: Oh. Ok.

Ok? I’ll say, fingers fist around the wheel. What’s that mean, ok?

And you’ll smile, that fucking mysterious one that’s a thousand promises in a taco shell. You’ll pitch outta the car without a word and I’ll scramble after, come around the side where you’re leaning against the door. And before I can say what the fuck, Cas? you’ll have your hands in my coat and your mouth in the neighborhood of mine and you’ll say:

What took you so long?

I’ll give you my tongue as an answer, kiss you fast into the glass until you’re shaking with laugher or want or both and you’ll say:

Ok, Dean. Jesus. Ok.

You’ll buy the popcorn and I’ll put up with Dr. Pepper and we’ll watch the goddamn movie.

You’ll let me drive you home.

You’ll pull me across the seat with your eyes. Invite me up to make out and we will, Christ, we will, backed up in the corner of the kitchen you never use until we’re both crazy and then you’ll slow down, bring us to a fucking trot and send me home stupid and hot and happy. I’ll drive home with the radio up loud and sing and slam the door a little harder than I should and wake up fucking Sam, who’ll take one look at my face and smirk and say: I told you so, asshatYou worry too goddamn much.

Whatever, I’ll say, still humming from your hands.

I’ll read over what I’ve written here and close my eyes. Crumble this in my fist and throw it away, triumphant, because of all the ways this is gonna go wrong, there’s way more that’ll make it go right.

And I’ll sleep with the sound of your breath in my ear that night, Cas.

Yeah. I will.

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