Supernatural 1. Opening Ceremony

The music played, resounding through the stadium. Castiel Novak's heart hammered in his ears, pounded against his throat, beat in his chest, and struck against his ribs. It was a continuous cycle of drumming heartbeats thrashing his anxious body senseless.

"Thirty seconds!"

The athlete wiped his hands on the jacket portion of his uniform and gulped. With each second that ticked away and spiraled into oblivion, the closer the grand entrance crept.

"Hey."

Castiel turned, glancing down at his partner who was smirking up at him. Meg Masters slipped her hand into Castiel's, weaving her fingers in his so their hands were locked together in an equally clammy, intertwined embrace.

"We're gonna be fine, Clarence."

"Twenty seconds!"

Castiel tried to be assured by the playful bounce in her tone, but most of her usual and easy cockiness had been drained from his best friend.

The male was frightened he would do something wrong. He was absolutely terrified that he would walk the wrong way or trip and fall and disgrace the Russian name. After the whole grand opening fiasco where the final snowflake didn't open into the last Olympic ring (and to make it even worse, Greece's rainbow clad fingers and Germany's vivid attire only added to the apparent uproar in their President's box because the heaven forbid other teams were wearing multi-colored uniforms to portray their gay pride), Castiel was afraid that he would only make it worse.

Everyone on his team had believed that if anyone would have made such a statement, it would have been the Americans what with their openly homo actors and even gayer TV shows. The whole predicament made Castiel very uncomfortable. Not because he was against gay rights, no, he was far from that end of the spectrum. He despised the smothering oppression that his President was putting upon the people for liking someone of the same gender.

But Castiel didn't have time to think about that. He couldn't think about anything while he was being haunted by his frantically racing heart, the thrum of music resounding through the narrow hall, and the thought of him tripping and falling flat on his face like the Austrian and bringing dishonor upon his team.

"Eight seconds!"

His confident teammates animated conversation died down with excited whispers.

"Seven!"

His team was counting along. His friend Balthazar, who had been chatting with their other teammate Michael, stepped forward and grinned at Castiel.

"Six!"

Castiel smoothed down the front of his jacket.

"Five!"

The Russian gulped and closed his eyes as tight as he could. The pressure in his head was building up and up and _up_...

"Four!"

Gabriel was in the crowd with Anna. They would be cheering the loudest.

"Three!"

Meg squeezed his hand. Castiel took a deep breath.

"Two!"

_'Don't fall, don't trip, please don't trip...' _

"One!"

Castiel's eyes flew open as light gushed into the hall and his team surged forward as one. Meg wrenched his hand tight and tugged him forward.

"_Russia!_" the prerecorded voice crowed.

The stadium pulsated with life as the music raced through him, sinking deep into his skin until his bones rattled in one swoop. The crowd was a living beast; it quivered with exhilaration and breathed cheered roars. Its skin consisted of hundreds of waving, multicolored flags and while its thousands of flashing eyes winked, its many ears tuned in as the Russian's stepped out and walked down the designated path. Their escort, dressed in what looked to be intricate glass, held their tag out proudly and smiled brighter than the shimmering eyes.

Adrenaline cascaded into his veins as Meg gave a whoop, waving to the screaming crowd as her lips curled up in her famous smirk. Castiel's gaze wandered over the audience as he took everything in. When he spotted a flag bearing his county's colors, his chest swelled with pride and all at once, his pale face flushed with color.

"See, this isn't so bad!" Meg shouted over the bellows. "We're gonna be famous, Clarence, I can feel it!"

It seemed so long ago at that point in time, but years ago Castiel's mother had once taken him to skate when he was three and as soon as his skates had touched the ice, Castiel had fallen head over heels for the sport. Through constant begging and pleading, his mother had finally let him take a class. It was his fifth birthday present. That was where Castiel and Meg had met. Meg had accidentally collided into the male and the dark haired children had been friends ever since. When there was a chance to skate and eventually compete as a duo, they had both jumped at the chance. Eighteen years later, they made it into the Sochi Olympics for ice dancing. It was their first ever games and Castiel owed it all to his mother and the audacious brunette beside him.

"Smile!" Balthazar suddenly squeezed between the pair and threw his phone out to take a picture. Castiel grinned as Balthazar declared it was going on Instagram. Meg was right. It wasn't so bad. All the hard work had paid off.

* * *

"That was amazing!"

Dean Winchester broke into a face splitting beam as Jo Harvelle, Jo Harvelle _the_ tom boy and _the_ girl who would knock your teeth out if you called figure skating easy and girly, actually _squealed. _It certainly wasn't something the American would have had ever expected to ever hear in the next few millenniums.

Jo caught his stupid smile and teasingly glared. "Oh shut up. Vancouver might have been a blast, but this is Russia! We're in _Russia_, Dean!"

Dean rolled his eyes but grinned nonetheless. "What did ya think, Sammy? Wasn't that amazing?"

Dean's younger brother was still gazing around, utterly awestruck as if he was a blind man seeing the world for the first time. Slowly, he came back down to Earth and nodded.

"That...was awesome," the toboggan rider said after a long moment.

"You would think you would be more like Sam with this being your first games and all," Jo commented.

"I am excited, I'm just spreading it out because we've still got the whole games to go," Dean remarked, taking off his hat and twirling it through the air by the tassels. He smirked, winking at a gaggle of girls dressed in Polish and Czech colors who were passing. They waved and winked in return. Dean sighed and continued on with, "Foreign girls, Scandinavian skiers, European speed skaters, Asian beauties...man I can taste the gold!"

"I feel you on that one," a new voice commented as a redheaded girl bounded into the conversation. "Especially on those Scandinavian skiers."

"Think you're going to get lucky with that Norwegian girl that does alpine, Charlie?" Jo asked, throwing an arm around her teammate.

"A girl can dream," Charlie replied, placing a hand over her heart for affect.

"Spread the love in front of the cameras," Sam suggested. "Maybe the bigoted Russian President will see. Dean was just telling me–"

Sam stopped in mid sentence as his attention fell on the one of the many large screens that was broadcasting the approach of the Russian team. The camera was focused in one of the lead speed skaters of the Russian team, some Russian by the name of Michael Dementyev.

_"He is the guy to beat," _one of the English commentators from NBC was saying. _"He has held the gold for the past eight years now along with his brother Nick, who is more well known for his nickname 'Lucifer' on the slopes. Nick is actually competing for Norway, where his mother is from." _

_ "Any other Russian hopefuls?" _another commentator asked.

_"Russia has a tough team this year. They are going to be hard to beat. They have a few newcomers, a new pair of ice dancers who will be competing in figure skating pairs." _

The camera suddenly switched to a cheeky looking man with a stock of ash brown hair and a week's worth of stubble.

_"And there's Balthazar Klimtsov, taking a selfie to document his third Olympic games._" The commentators laughed._ "Balthazar started in 2002 and as taken gold in the half pipe every year since then. Will this be his forth gold, or will hand off the torch to another?" _

Dean's smiling face popped up on the screen among with the faces of three others, one from Japan, Switzerland, and Germany. Jo and Charlie shot the eldest Winchester a grin and Sam clapped his brother on the back.

_"If anyone does have a chance of knocking Balthazar off the top spot, it's American Dean Winchester. We've heard all good things about Winchester and about his brother Samuel who's going to be competing in skeleton. Dean will be competing in slopestyle _and _the half pipe. Winchester is very talented in both, but I believe there will be better things for him in the half pipe. That is his principal area of expertise and he was at the top for American qualifications. If anyone can steal the gold, it's going to be him. Another p__erson who has a chance is __Matthäus Schoepke who–"_

"Like I said," Dean said with a smile. "This is gonna be a good year."

* * *

**This is mostly just me trying to set up the story, so this first chapter is, in a way, kind of the prologue. **

**I'm not sure if this qualifies for a "common" AU, but due to sudden inspiration to write, everything that is happening in Russia, and the Sochi Olympic games, this happened. **

**The story will include some events from the real Olympics but most of it will be made up as the fic goes on. **

**A HUGE thanks to my precious Sarah (ILove2Write13) for looking this over and inspiring me to be the best writer I could be. My life would be pretty much meaningless without you :) You should check out her stuff because her writing is _amazing. _**

**Until next time, **

**–Sav**


	2. Glide

The specific daily routine between Meg and Castiel (get up, eat, get ready, skate, skate, skate, eat, skate, sleep) had been thrown off balance. But, thankfully, it was in an exhilarating way. Somewhere crammed into there schedule, skate, skate, skate had become see, see, see.

The sights at the Olympic park were immense. Between hanging out with his team, his family, and prepping for the competition that was to come, Castiel had become a tourist. Because of the enormity of the country, Castiel had never been to Sochi.

Gabriel and Anna were enthralled with all that there was to take in. The rings and the torch were the most popular destination. Castiel had taken his sibling's picture there more times than he could count. He had lost track of all the pictures he had taken on the side of trying to tame his wild emotions that was some churning brew between anxiety and exhilaration.

Their coach had instructed that they were to wear their country's colors or Olympic jackets wherever they went so that when people saw the pair of figure skaters, they would bloat with honor to be in the presence of Russia's finest. That was where Castiel's anxiety came from. It wasn't for the tournament or the media (although public speaking was in no way a natural talent), it was from pressure of looking well and holding himself the most dignified way he could so when people saw him or camera turned in his direction, they would automatically know that he _was _Russia's finest even if he didn't feel that way inside.

On their second day in Sochi, Meg and Castiel spent the majority of the day just soaking everything in. The Russian felt like a sponge. If he was to be wrung out, images, thoughts, and sentiment would have gushed from his pores. Gabriel and Anna stayed with their mother while their father listened to his Bluetooth and did work from his tablet.

The third day was when the real work for Meg and Castiel began. Castiel was awoken bright and early to his screeching alarm clock and someone nearly pounding down the door to his hotel room.

Groggily, Castiel rolled out of bed and shuffled lethargically to unlock his door. It swung open with an angry _bang! _And, after rubbing his eyes, Castiel found himself face to face with his coach.

Maxim Zheleznov was a tall, powerful man with broad shoulders and an erect spine. His face was worn with evident age and his eyes, two molten pools of steel, were hardened with years gone by. As he barged into the room, his long strides were confident and perfectly balanced, like those of a wild animal. Castiel's room was a cage that was much too small for the largeness of Zheleznov. He was a man that seemed more like extreme fitness trainer or a veteran. Nothing about him, besides the heightened balance, could ever lead to the conclusion that he was once a champion figure skater.

"Castiel," Zheleznov growled. "As you know, the skaters are gathering today to warm up and train before qualifications this week. I suggest we get there early and have a real practice before we pound fear into their hearts."

Castiel, who snapped out of his drowsiness at the intensity in his coach's voice, dipped his head.

"Good." Coach Zheleznov looked Castiel up and down and nodded as well. He threw his shoulders back and left the room, the door closing in his wake.

Castiel turned when he was alone and began to strip down as he headed toward the bathroom. He climbed into the shower and tried to relax as the hot water pounded on his back.

"Hey, Clarence," Meg's voice sung, appearing out of nowhere as she rapped on the bathroom door. Castiel, who was in the middle of massaging shampoo into his dark locks and had gotten used to his companion's random manifestations, merely called back a greeting.

"Taking a shower? Mind if I join?" Meg asked suggestively, her voice lightly taunting him over the cascading water.

Castiel tried not to bat an eye but uneasiness quivered through him. He stepped out of the shower and dried off, rubbing the towel over his head and pulling on the clothes he had set out for himself the night before. He opened the door and faced Meg with a slight smirk.

"Too late," Castiel said.

Meg jumped up onto the counter as slathered Colgate onto his toothbrush and began to scrub his pearly whites clean. The female ran her fingers through his hair, tousling his already disheveled mop even more so.

"You've got some wild sex hair going on there, Hot Wings."

Castiel shrugged and Meg resumed playing with his hair, this time grabbing her partner's comb that was sitting beside the sink.

"Coach says the competition is going to be tough," Meg commented, trying to make conversation. "I know we're gonna do fine, though."

Castiel spit and rinsed, peering up at Meg as he did so. Something was buried beneath the bouncing snark and cheeky confidence, something oddly dispirited.

"Meg, what is it?" Castiel asked, wiping the corners of his mouth with his towel.

"What's what?"

Castiel raised an eyebrow. "Do not pretend I don't know. You can lie all you want to everyone else, but you cannot lie to me. We've been attached at the hip since we were five. I can read you like a book."

"So can I," Meg said, pursing her lips in response. "I'm sorry. It's nothing to worry about, Clarence, nothing at all. I just don't like the stress that's always on your shoulders. I don't like the President's laws."

Castiel froze at her words. Meg cracked a smile.

"Aw, don't give me that look. You're not the only one who's been paying attention for eighteen years."

Castiel always knew Meg had been against the President's laws from the day he stepped into office. Castiel had been too. The revoked rights of the homosexuals in Russia sickened him.

Mostly Castiel felt that way because he was secretly gay himself.

Castiel had struggled with it for years, wrestling with "queer" desires and trying to please his father. Everyone had always assumed Castiel and Meg would grow up, date, get married, and live happily ever after. But Castiel always denied her advances as lightly as he could. He didn't want to ruin their wonderful and perfect friendship and...well...he wasn't interested because he wasn't attracted to her.

"C'mon, Cassie, you seriously didn't think that I knew you were gay?" Meg questioned in disbelief. "Seriously?"

Castiel played with his hands, unable to look at her as he blushed. "Well..."

"I love you, Clarence. I don't care if you like it in the butt or whatever."

Castiel's face reddened until it matched the color of somewhere between a tomato and a 3rd degree sunburn.

"Sorry, sorry, that didn't come out right," Meg apologized. "I meant to say, I don't care if you like guys. I could care less. You love who you love, okay?"

Castiel stuttered out an incoherent response, relief rushing through him and cooling his unbearably hot skin. Meg leaned up and pecked him on the cheek and Castiel nuzzled her dark curls.

"Thanks, Meg. I didn't know how to tell you."

Although the awkward moment hadn't completely passed, Castiel pulled out of the embrace and brushed the tip of his nose across Meg's forehead in return.

On the way to the rink, Meg's hand didn't leave his once.

* * *

Dean huffed as bent over and pretended to be out of breath.

"I let you win," he promised.

"Keep telling yourself that, big boy," Jo laughed, patting Dean on the back.

Dean and Jo had raced from their hotel to the ice rink so Jo could practice and warm up before competition over the next few days. The slopes didn't open for another day or two, so while Sam had to wax his toboggan and tour with the others, Dean was free to do as he pleased. The jog to the dome had been a pleasant one. The sky had been alive as the sun ascended from the horizon and slowly rose into the multicolored heavens, bathing Sochi in warm, dawn light. Even though he would probably never hear the end of it and knew he could easily outrun Jo, he still let his friend win.

Dean straightened up, holding to door open for the ice skater. Together they moved into the dome and Jo laced up and took to the ice, leaving Dean alone in the stands. The rink was vacant except for three other people: a large man near the edge of the rink, his hawklike eyes watching the male and female pair on the ice with Jo. The man's gray eyes locked on Dean, his stare sending cockroaches up the American's spine. Dean avoided his gaze and sat up in the empty stands, fixing his Olympic jacket and pulling on his red knit hat against the chillness of the arena.

Dean crossed his arms as Jo waved and skated over to the other two skaters. The American lost interest, instead turning his eyes to the ceiling of the dome. The trainer's glare was burning a hole in the side of Dean's head. Dean licked his lips and focused on Jo who was lapping around the ice, twirling and spinning. As she crossed paths with the other two, Dean felt a shift in his awareness as he found himself watching the other two instead of his friend.

The two strangers were a man and a woman who couldn't be any older than himself. They were both dark haired and the female was considerably shorter than the other and much more curvacious than Jo. But the longer Dean watched them skate, the more he found himself watching the man instead.

Dean always thought figure skating _was _for girls, but as he watched the dark haired man glide and literally float across the ice, the American was starting to rethink the whole sport. The guy was in complete and utter synch with his partner. They moved as one as they ducked, spun, and flew. The male hoisted the girl up into the air and held her high above his head as if she weighed nothing and then flipped her through the air so fast it made Dean's head spin. He was a whole different kind of strong. While the skater possessed the strength that was normally attributed to men, it wasn't the usual brawn but _grace. _He guided the girl through the motions, throwing her across the ice in high pirouettes and flipping her off of his knees. His blades seemed to barely even skim the ice so it appeared he was soaring instead of sliding. He danced and revolved and moved so expertly that Dean found himself inching forward until he was out of his seat, at the barrier, and nearly on the ice.

For the second time in his life, Dean was absolutely hypnotized. The first had been when he discovered snowboarding.

The weirdest part was that the guy moved practically like a skilled ballerina. And it kinda turned Dean on.

* * *

Castiel flipped Meg over his head, moving her into a lift and skating for a few seconds until he whirled her through the air, twirled her over his shoulders, looped her around his neck, and spun her back onto the ice. Together they skated a few steps, building speed, and then leaped into a triple axel. They landed perfectly in synch that their coach let out a grunt of approval.

Castiel danced with his partner around the rink, avoiding the American skater who had joined. She was skating on one leg and pivoting at the speed of light on the toe of her skate. Castiel and Meg looped around her and pulled back into their routine, working their precise choreography.

"Take a break," Coach Zheleznov called. Meg and Castiel parted and headed to the bench where their team would sit during competition.

"We're gonna nail this, Clarence," Meg said. "I can feel it. I think we're gonna bring home a medal. That will show your dad to piss off."

Meg got up with a wink and sashayed away toward the drinking fountain to talk to their coach. Castiel smiled and looked to the ice where the talented blonde was working on a rather difficult spin while listening to her iPod.

Dean swallowed. He had never felt as nervous as he did walking up to the skater as he ever had before in his life. Dean thought the guy was Russian (he wasn't an expert but it _sounded _like Russian and he _looked _Russian if there was supposed to be a specific way Russians looked) and at least Dean knew how to say 'hi'. He wasn't supposed to be nervous. He was Dean Winchester, Mr. Perfect, a snowboarder, and an Olympian. Anxiety wasn't supposed to exist.

But for whatever reason he couldn't place, Dean found it creeping up his throat as he approached the bench. He was being stupid. He wasn't attracted to him. He couldn't be attracted to him. Dean Winchester was strictly into girls. Maybe he had had that one thing with that one guy, but he always went back. He was confident and sure and he just wanted to tell him that he skated like a pro.

So when Dean tapped the skater on the shoulder and the American found himself drowning in a pair of the bluest eyes he had ever seen, Dean couldn't help but think _oh fuck me. _

Castiel, who had been sitting alone one the bench waiting for Meg to return, wasn't expecting to be nudged on the shoulder. Nor was he expecting for his heart to leap into his throat.

Before him was a handsome, bowlegged man, tall and well built, with dirty blonde hair, stubble, strong shoulders, and a dimpled chin.

"_Privet_." He stuck his hand out and said, "Dean Winchester."

Castiel cleared his throat and did his best to relax. "_Privet. Kak dela_?"

The man named Dean Winchester's eyes widened slightly.

"Uhm," he said, "Sorry. I don't actually speak Russian. That's all I know."

The resonance of his voice was deep, full, and reverberating. His full lips had a certain way of moving that it was utterly captivating to watch. But his most predominate feature wasn't his chiseled jaw or his freckles that splattered across his cheeks as if a lazy wave of a paintbrush had put them there. It was his viridescent and deep eyes; they were so green that a person could become lost within them.

"Hello?" His mouth puckered around the 'O' and he withdrew his hand so it nervously cradled the back of his neck. "Okay, so you don't speak English. Right. Perfect. That's fine, sorry, I'll just–"

"No," Castiel blurted, cutting the American off. His eyes darted from side to side as he searched for the correct reply. "I do not usually speak English, so I was taken off guard. I'm Castiel Novak."

He followed the end of his first sentence in English for what felt like years with a light cough. Castiel held his hand out. Reassured by the use of his native language, Dean's sure grip slid down over Castiel's.

"I just wanted to say that you skate really well," Dean explained. "Holy shit can you skate."

Castiel processed his words words as quickly as he could, but it felt like it was at a snail's pace. The words swirled through his brain as he tried to connect the sounds into a familiar language and translate back to Russian so he could fully understand...

Castiel was unsure what to say or even if he could _say_ something. How could he could talk with butterflies swelling so much in his stomach he thought they would burst out of his mouth and fly away?

Even though Castiel felt as if on the inside he was immersed in a sea of nerves and green eyes, on the outside he was stone. All the years of training to conceal and not feel was finally paying off.

But Dean was calm with a cocky smirk quirking up the corner of his mouth. He didn't feel like Castiel did. He was just being friendly. Maybe he was trying to worm his way into Castiel's head and throw him off his A game. Coach Zheleznov always said that American's were specialized in distraction.

"Thank you," Castiel answered, fighting the urge to fidget and toy with his jacket and straighten Dean's crooked hat that appeared to be sloppily slapped on. It was falling off the back of his head.

"How long have you been skating?"

"Eighteen years. What do you..." Castiel faltered. He didn't know the word in English.

Dean was strangely patient for his crooked grin and messy hat. He waited for the Russian to find what he was searching for.

"What event do you...?"

When Castiel still grappled with his limited English vocabulary after a few heartbeats, Dean supplied the right locution for him.

"Compete?" Dean inquired.

"Yes, sorry. What event do you..._compete _in?" Castiel apologized, trying out the new word on his tongue.

"I snowboard. I do the half pipe and the slopestyle. I used to race a bit, but half pipe is what I'm good at."

As he spoke, Dean rapped his foot and adjusted his hat. His actions were quick and precise. He moved a lot, Castiel noticed. Maybe it was because his occupation thrived on speed and movement.

"Who's your friend, Clarence?" Meg asked, popping up behind of Castiel.

"A friend and only a friend," Castiel retorted.

Dean looked on, bemused by their fast Russian. Meg caught his stare and held it confidently.

"Oh, that's right. You're not from around here, are you?" Meg said in English, her voice finely edged.

"No." Dean's tone had become faintly sharp as well. "I'm from–"

"America. I could tell. You talk awfully big for those with functioning ears." Meg's eyes roamed over him once, twice, three times over.

Castiel could tell that Dean really wanted to tell her something along the lines of 'piss off' but instead he said, "That's the common stereotype. Wanna hear yours?"

"Big boy on the slopes." Her sentence was slowed drastically down to a drawl, her tongue teasing and lips a bassinet for each syllable that escaped them. Castiel's heart pounded as he spotted Coach Zheleznov coming up from around the rink, his fists full of his mahogany mane. Castiel suddenly feared for the American as Zheleznov rounded the next curve.

"We should get back to practicing," Castiel intervened. "I will take to back to your seat."

Meg opened her mouth to protest but her eyes wandered between the two of them and she nodded, seaming her lips together. "I'll be on the ice."

Although Castiel hated that he had just met the man and he was already siding with him against the girl he had known all of his life, the male couldn't help but walk with Dean. Castiel felt as if he should apologize to the stranger for his awkwardness and never knowing what exactly to say and that he was shit at conversation and his partner's behavior and barbed tongue and his impatient coach, but he couldn't find the words.

Castiel matched Dean's easy stride and when they were back to where the American had been sitting, Castiel flipped through his memory to find the right kind of English farewell that would be good enough for his freckled face and green eyes.

"I'm sorry about Meg's behavior," Castiel said. "She doesn't like strangers."

"You don't say," Dean countered somewhat bitingly.

"I would like to see you snowboard," Castiel told him, his heart speaking instead of his brain.

"Oh." Dean paused as if he was taken aback by the dark haired male's proposal. "I have practice for qualifications tomorrow."

"Qual...Qualifications?"

The whole thing was suddenly presumptuous and irritation began to gnaw on his insides. Castiel was out of his comfort zone and the idiot grinning at him was to blame.

Dean's gaze smoothed over him. The Russian cleared his throat and Dean flicked his eyes back up to him.

"You know, trials before you try to get the gold."

"Oh, _kvalifikatsii,_" Castiel noted in Russian. "I understand."

"Come if you can," Dean suggested with a laid back smile and wink. "It's at three. I'm goin' first because I got to go see my brother take his runs. See ya 'round, Cas."

_Cas. _

Castiel felt a strange flutter that he couldn't place as Dean turned away from him and to Jo who was skating toward him. But instead of correcting him, Castiel hopped back onto the ice.

For the rest of practice as the other countries and teams began to trickle in, Castiel tried to mute the jitters and all thoughts about freckles and green eyes.

* * *

**I wasn't sure whether to use how the Russian words look in English or the actual letters, so I opted for English. I am in no way a speaker of the Russian language (I used Google Translate so hey if you are Russian and reading this, I apologize if it's not correct).**

**P****rivet. Kak dela**: привет как дела

**Qualifications: **квалификации

**I can't thank you all enough for the follows and favorites. Thank you Sarah, for putting up with my shit and thank you, Tabby the Anon, for making me literally burst into tears. I am so touched by your review I could just hug you and kiss your face for 195893895087 years. Seriously, thank you so much. I still tear up thinking about you kind words. **

**Sorry for the wait. I had to crank out an English paper that took my writing time away. Ugh papers ;-;**

**Also, small note, Sam is now been transferred Skeleton. I watched if for the first time and all the dangerous possibilities *cackles ominously* **

**Until next time, **

**–Sav**


End file.

Supernatural, Friendship, Romance