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Story by captainchesskelly based on my tags: #I am not sayin’ Dancer Dean and Photag Cas #but #Dancer!Dean #Photographer!Cas #destiel #au #someone write me this so I can roll around in it.
*Reblogging like this because the story is exceptional and a lot of people have missed it. My Chess is a fantastic writer and I want more people to read her work.*
His fucking legs, man. His fucking legs.
In all fairness, it’s not like they’re really that detrimental. They aren’t really all that noticeable, they don’t fuck with his day to day living, or his job, or pretty much anything else he wants to do.
Except, prominently bowed legs won’t distribute the weight the way he needs it to, to dance the way he wants to.
He tried for years, but teacher after teacher sat him down and apologized, telling him how good he was and how natural he was and then in the same breath telling him that physically, he’s just never going to reach the level of professional ballet that he’s been dreaming of, that he’s fought tooth and nail against his father and against every condescending look and stereotypical notion to be able to learn and practice comfortably, confident in his own skin.
He finds the hoop on accident.
Sam had begged him not to settle with less than his dream, to keep fighting whether it meant more classes or weird, new age stretching or hell, even corrective surgery, but Dean was tired of watching and wishing, and he knew they didn’t have that kind of money. He had officially quit for about two weeks when the awkward looking man approached him in that cafe. Dean could feel himself jonesing for it, the urge to find an empty room and just move simmering beneath his skin, so when the guy introduced himself as Castiel and asked if Dean would be willing to help him with a project, Dean said okay. He could use a distraction, even if only for a few hours. If he was still craving dance afterwards, well… Castiel wasn’t a bad looking man, and there’s a whole other sort of dancing that Dean’s never had problems with.
It turns out Cas is a photographer, working on a piece about how people in the city look in their usual urban environment, versus a simpler, more intimate set of photos taken in an empty studio. Dean lets Cas stammer through a stunted, embarrassing admission of being captivated by Dean’s stunning “aesthetics,” and laughs as he lets Cas take a few candids of him sprawled out at the metal table with his coffee and his greasy steak and egg bagel, happily watching Castiel’s awkwardness and anxiety bleed away a little more with every click of the shutter. By the time they finish, the two of them are laughing and joking, learning each others humor and bickering like old friends.
For the second half of the project, Castiel leads Dean to an empty penthouse, stripped of its furnishings and lined with windows, containing only a haphazard pile of weird props in the far corner.
“I’ll give you a few minutes to get into your head space,” Cas offers.
“For this half of the shoot, we want to focus on you, on who you are, rather than what your clothes or your surroundings imply about you,” he hands Dean a pair of loose, white trousers.
“Please change into these and just get comfortable. Feel free to use any of the props that you feel drawn towards.” And then Castiel was gone, leaving Dean alone in an empty room, holding a pair of pants. He figures people have done weirder things for the sake of “art,” so he shucks off his clothing and changes. The pants are brilliant, breathable and loose in all the right places, and Dean almost considers asking if he can keep them before he remembers he’s stopped dancing.
He shakes his head, trying to clear the funk creeping back up on him. He wanders to the prop pile, hoping for a distraction, and is not disappointed. Cas really went all out collecting some of this shit. There’s a massive pile of beaded jewelry, a bunch of scarves and fabrics, some wooden blocks and pottery, and Dean’s pretty sure that one over in the very corner is a harp. He laughs a little, picturing Castiel frowning and pondering over each of these things, deciding if it’s good enough to be in his pile. Still chuckling, he steps away, intent on pacing the room until his new friend returns, but he trips over the edge of something wooden. Frowning, he tries to pull it free, but it’s larger than he anticipated and stuck beneath some other items. It takes some work, but soon enough it’s out in the middle of floor.
Dean has no idea where Cas could have gotten this massive hoop. It’s solid, quality wood all the way around, and way too big to have been meant to be used as a hula hoop.
So Dean starts fucking around with it. He bats it around, slings it here and there… it’s weighted evenly, perfectly distributed, and circles smoothly on the floor. Dean’s mind starts wandering even as his body’s already moving, testing out whether it’s sturdy enough to hold his weight as it spins - it is. He exaggerates his movements more and more, spinning in wider circles and at new angles and all of a sudden he’s not just spinning, but dancing, dancing in every way he never could before, spreading his uneven weight along the hoop and compensating for the center of gravity that he could never manage get into just the right place thanks to his damn legs. He spins and he jumps and he flips and he balances and he’s suspended in air but then he’s sliding along the ground and then he’s back up in a perfect pirouette and Cas is standing in the doorway unnoticed, camera snapping away and warmth bubbling up in his chest.
