Just Like James Dean

The Great Goldfish, Castiel Novak

Time passed too quickly for me. Yes, the calender said that 5 months had passed by, but nothing in this world could convince me that 3,652 hours had passed around us at anything but lightning speed.

My memory faltered at times - side effect of my "condition," the doctors would say - allowing me to remember only small snippets of the past, and days which I considered important. That should've been the first sign, really, that I was feeling something other than neutral. The only memories that would burn into my mind were the small moments I spent with Dean, and the times I observed other people walk down the street. I used to remember small and insignificant things, such as the shape of the birds' wings that flew by me when walking to school, or the girl with headphones that walked down the street with a limp and a studded choker. But now the small fractions of time were slowly being taken over by the brand of Dean's boots and the scar underneath his jaw.

This, still, was far from love, so very far into the distance that it became only a smudge on the horizon. This wasn't love; no, this was something stranger.

But why were these moments so important to me? Why did they run so deep?

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Memory #1

"Hey, you mind helping a brother out?"

A gruff voice who was a tad bit too close asked Castiel. He didn't look sad; he seemed more kind of lost.

He held the cigerette between two fingers, waiting for a response.

A part of me wanted to wait a while longer, just to see what he'd do - how he would blow me off.

I waited, silently leaning against the wall with my cigarette still hanging in my mouth, unlit. He didn't seem to have plans of moving anytime soon, so after a few clicks the flame lit up and smoke was filling our lungs.

The sky was purple tonight; I liked purple.

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Memory #2

I wonder what it would feel like to kiss his cheek. I've kissed many cheeks before; I've kissed my siblings and my Father; I kissed a boy's cheek in kindergarden; I kissed my mother's cheek goodbye; I kissed my mother's cheek at our last goodbye - but all of that seems like eons ago, and now the crave for human touch came crashing in like waves.

Crash-

/I want you to kiss me/

Crash-

/I need you to hold me/

Crash-

/why won't you hold me/

The taste of the wooden pencil started swarming my mouth, which was my queue to stop eating it before I died from lead poisoning.

Dean still sat there, appearing to be dribbling down notes, when in reality he was probably drawing that Chevy Impala he wanted so badly.

"Staring's not polite, Cas," He murmered, without looking up.

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Memory #3

/Breathe./

I tried taking control over my body, trying to make the panic attack stop.

/Breathe,/

I told myself. Just a couple seconds more; I could do it.

But soon my mind was flood with images of myself, suffocating, withering on the floor and begging to make it stop.