#'dean winchester destroys everything he touches. we might as well give him someone already broken.'

[gayconfessioncas]

...

[sortasirius]

Dean Winchester be like:

I hate myself because it’s what my father taught me to do.  I hate myself because it’s a defense mechanism.  I use sarcasm to cover up the fact that I believe I am worthless.  I raised my brother into a good man, that’s the only good I’ve ever done.  I’ve saved some people, they don’t say thank you, but that’s okay.  I wish I could have been the man my father wanted me to be.  I break everything I touch.  All the people I love I end up killing or leaving me.  I am broken.  I don’t do romantic love, it’s asking for me to get my heart broken, more broken than it already is.  I sold my soul to a demon so I could save my brother, because he’s the best thing I ever did, the only good thing.  I’m afraid to go to Hell, but I pretend I’m not, because what’s the alternative? 

Hell proved that I was the person I always knew I was, a bad person, willing to torture to get out of pain.  I met an angel, he’s not like I thought.  He’s a soldier, like me, he’s taking orders from a father he can’t see.  He starts out as an ally, but he’s different than the others, they say he likes me.  He’s awkward, he stands too close to me sometimes.  I started the Apocalypse because I wasn’t strong enough.  My brother is going down the wrong path, and I don’t know how to stop it.  The angels tell me Lucifer has to rise, but the one that pulled me out of Hell disobeys to help me stop it.  I think I should consider him a friend.  Lucifer rises anyway. 

The angel is on the run from Heaven, he’s a good guy, I like him a lot, more than I think I should.  I don’t know what to do, if I say yes to Michael, we can save some people.  Maybe I’ll get to know peace, maybe my father will be proud of me then.  The angel and my brother are angry at me, but I’ve always been a coward, they just don’t know it.  But they know me best, I can’t say yes to Michael if it means disappointing them. 

My brother goes to the cage with Lucifer and Michael, the angel disappears, and I’m left to pick up the pieces, living a life I feel like I stole from somebody else.  I always sleep with a gun and holy water under the bed, even though I know every entrance is secure.  My brother comes back, but he’s different now, he’s not the same, I should have looked for him.  I feel guilty.  We found out his soul is gone, his soul, his soul.  The angel is back, but he’s no real help.  I kill myself to speak to Death, who brings back his soul in exchange for me playing Death, where I learn a few hard lessons. 

I find out the angel has been working with our enemies.  Why does it feel like my heart is broken when he won’t meet my eyes?  I leave him to the demons, but not before one last look.  I’m not sure why.  The idiot, he ends up dying trying to get souls from Purgatory, desperate to win his war in Heaven.  Why does everyone leave me?  The Leviathan are out there, a new threat.  At least I know how to kill, so I won’t have to think about the muddy trenchcoat in the trunk of my car.  I lose the closest thing I have to a father with a bullet to the brain.  I feel like I’m spinning out of control.  My brother loses his mind.  The angel comes back, he doesn’t recognize me, that hurts.  When he does remember me, I tell him we need him, but I really mean that I do. 

I get sent to Purgatory, I meet a vampire turned ally turned new best friend, but I won’t leave without the angel, I can’t leave without the angel.  We find him, he was running from me, why does everyone run from me?  We make it out of Purgatory, the angel gets left behind.  It turns out my brother didn’t look for me.  Why am I so dispensable?  The vampire is the only one I can trust now.  I dream about the angel, about the way I couldn’t save him.  I feel like I can’t save anyone these days.  I see the angel in the air around me, am I going crazy?  But then he shows up behind me, why do I care so much about him?  I don’t even care where he came from, as long as he’s here.  My brother takes on trials, they start to hurt him.  We find a place to call home.  I’ve never had my own bedroom before.  The angel is distant, I wish I could reach him.  He doesn’t answer my prayers.  He and I find the angel tablet, he hits me.  I tell him I need him, never able to tell him that I think I might love him too.  He snaps out of it then walks out of my life again.  I wish I was lovable.  I almost lose my brother to the trials, he has to know I can’t lose him, he’s all I’ve got.  The angels fall, I wonder about my angel, if he’s alright. 

My brother is dying, and I make a deal with an angel to save him.  My angel says he’s a good guy, and I’m too desperate to vet him properly.  I watch my angel, now a human, die in front of me, the angel in my brother saves him, it’s one of the only times I’ve ever put someone else over my brother.  I feel guilty about that.  I have to kick my angel out, it tears me in half to do it, but I have to protect my brother.  I watch the angel from a gas station window, I try to find the courage to go see him.  I use humor to hide how much I miss him.  My brother finds out about the angel, which cost the life of a kid I was supposed to protect, he’s so angry at me.  Well, I deserve it this time.  I take the Mark of Cain to defeat Abaddon, it can’t be all that bad.  I start to lose my grip on myself.  My angel gives up an army for me, and it’s the closest I feel to being me in months. My brother and my angel try to stop it, but it’s too late.  I die in my brother’s arms.

I wake up with black eyes.  I don’t care about anyone, anything.  There’s a tiny part of me that’s screaming to wake up, but I drown him out easily enough.  My brother finds me, says he wants to cure me.  I don’t want it, I don’t want to be me, not feeling is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.  They do cure me though, my brother and my angel, and waking up from the blackness is like surfacing from deep water.  For a while, I feel loved.  But after what I did, I don’t feel like I deserve it.  I’m still not me, and when my friend, who I loved like a sister is taken, I go off the deep end again. It’s too easy, but violence is all I know.  The angel tries to stop me.  I have him where I want him, a blade to the heart and this is all over.  But I still can’t kill him, I still can’t kill the angel.  Death tells me I have to kill my brother.  I almost do it.  But killing Death releases me, and I’m me again.  Sometimes I still wish I wasn’t.

I have this connection to this Darkness.  It scares the hell out of me.  I wish I understood it, I wish I could stop it.  Am I pulled towards the Darkness because I, myself, am darkness?  Is it because I am, because I’ve always been bad?  I lose the angel to Lucifer himself, how did I not notice until it was too late?  Why would he leave me like this?  Will I ever get him back?  My head is foggy around the Darkness, but not when it comes to him.  I just wish I could get through to him.  Lucifer taunts me, my heart rips in half.  We get the angel back, but nothing good can last in this life, can it?  God himself returns, I have to sacrifice myself to stop the Darkness.  I’ll do it, because of course I will, if I have an opportunity to do some good, I’ll take it.  The Darkness doesn’t kill me.  She thanks me.

My mother is alive.  It’s everything I’ve always wanted.  I have to learn fast that she’s not what I thought.  That’s hard.  Me and my brother end up in prison for trying to kill Lucifer, and we find out this girl is going to have his kid.  How will we kill someone innocent?  I can’t think about that, I’m a killer, I’ll kill if i have to.   The angel kills a reaper to save me, but what will happen to him?  We start looking for this kid, but do we even want to find it?  The angel nearly dies for me, he tells me, my family he loves us.  I wish I could tell him the same, but the words won’t work right in my brain, so I do what I always do, I look away.  The angel finds the girl, but the kid inside her gets to him, and he runs away from me.  Why does everyone run from me?  We find them just in time to find a rift to another world, and my brother has to drag me away from the angel, who is going to sacrifice himself to kill Lucifer.  He comes back, but before I can say the words I’ve been holding onto for so long, he dies in front of me, only this time, it’s real.  My mom is taken from me too, and I’m left by the angel’s side, staring up at the sky, wondering why, why me?

I bury the angel, my brother insists we can’t kill the kid, even though it’s his fault my mom is gone and the angel is...  I beg God to bring him back, please, bring him back.  You owe me this, please bring him back.  He doesn’t listen.  I’m alone.  We burn the angel, and I try to learn to live with regret and grief and crippling pain all at once.  I hate the kid, this is his fault.  I kill myself again to save some souls, but also because I want to die this time.  I can’t take it anymore.  Death tells me I have work to do, but how much more work can there be?  How much more can I take?  It’s like the Universe reads my mind, because my angel comes back, and it’s like the last few weeks haven’t happened.  I still can’t say the words, but maybe this time I’ll get there.  Maybe this time.  We go to the other world, we save some people, I find my mom.  I let another Michael from the other world possess me to defeat Lucifer, but then I can’t expel him.  Before he shuts me in my memories, I am desperately afraid.

My brother and the angel find me in my own head, the snap me out of it.  I should have known this bar was too good for me, I knew I didn’t deserve it.  I shut Michael in there, but I know I won’t last long. I think I’m too weak to hold him, so I build a box designed to hold me forever.  I dream about it, claw the sides of the wall until my nails are bloody, but if it’s my eternity or Michael’s rule?  I’ll take the ocean every time.  The angel will always try to save me, I still can’t say the words.  The kid, my kid, he destroys Michael, but something is wrong, and I don;t realize until it’s too late.  My mother is dead, at the hands of the kid, and I have never been angrier.  I hate the kid again, I hate the angel too, I hate myself more.  I pull a gun on the kid, but I still can’t pull the trigger.  Sometimes I wish I could put it to my own head.  God comes back, turns out he was the villain all along.  Typical.  He kills our kid.  I can’t let myself feel.

The angel tries to convince me that we’re real.  How can I believe that?  Is everything I am just a story?  Have I ever chosen anything?  Does the angel really care about me?  Do I really care about him?  Another one of our friends dies.  I blame the angel, I push him away, because I can’t look at him if I think what I feel for him might not be real.  I meet up with someone I loved.  He’s a monster now, I have to kill him.  He dies holding me.  I wish I was dead sometimes too.  My brother is sick, he gets kidnapped by God.  I’m spinning in circles.  Me and the angel end up in Purgatory again.  He gets taken from me.  I’m so alone, so scared, I break down in the one place I could get lost in forever searching for the angel, I don’t want to leave him, please, don’t make me leave him.  I have to keep looking, get back to the real world to save my brother.  How will I choose?  Thank god, or, whatever, I find the angel.  I’ll tell him this time, but he stops me.  He must know.  He doesn’t want me, no one wants me.  Why would they?  Chuck has taken everything from me.  I have to kill him, no matter the cost.  The cost is gonna be our kid, raised from the dead by Death.  I guess the one thing we have going for us is we don’t stay dead for long.  I’m ready to let my kid die for my freedom.  My brother stands in the way, I pull a gun on him.  He talks me down, he’s the only one that can.  I decide to take it out on Death, my pain, my anger, my rage.  I take the angel and we find her, she chases us.  Another trap.  I realize that I’ve trapped us both.  Why am I so worthless?

The angel looks at me.  He smiles.  He tells me how worthy I am, that I’m good, that I changed him.  How can I tell him how he changed me.  He tells me he’ll die for loving me.  Then he shouldn’t, I’m not worth his life.  Don’t leave me, please, I can’t lose you, you don’t know what it does it me when you leave me.  He tells me he loves me.  I try to tell him a fraction of the things I feel for him, but it’s too late.  He’s taken before my eyes, and this time I know there’s no getting him back.

I’m left on the floor, unable to move.

This time I know, I’ll never let myself love again, because my heart is so shattered that it’s powdered, there’s no repairing it now.  I’ve always been broken, but this time I’m not just broken: I’m destroyed.

[herstarburststories]

tolerate it

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader

Summary: your love for Dean used to be celebrated, but now he tolerates it.

A/N: here it is, hunters! First fic of the year, wow! I hope you guys like it! Based on Taylor's song tolerate it. Also requested by @ashleyygeza!

Warnings: so much angst, language, smut

There was this thing you always liked to do. It was mostly the learned behavior of a child that grew up in motel rooms. It was usual for the adult that called a bunker her home, too. You’d lay on your back, staring at the light on the ceiling and squint your eyes to the point the glimmering white light could be mistaken as the moon. You never thought you’d end up doing that to people as well.

It used to be something so sensual and sequin back then, but now the fact that he's so much older and wiser only makes you quiet. You see his bruised hands and worried glances; the stubble on his face growing as his sense of self starts to fade with borrowed time. Dean used to love you in screaming colors; now he just sits in silence reading with his head low, researching the next case under the dim light while you watch him. Sam can't seem to stand slow deaths either -- he just clears his throat and leaves the bunker with the empty excuse of a supply run. 

Still, you remain here. You stand still like a good ornament in Dean's collection of lovers. It seems like it's a matter of time until he leaves you too. Yet, you’re sitting and watching him, and you can't help but wonder if you aren't just another wrinkle on his face. You’d been a memory of something worth dying for, once, but now you were starting to believe you were just another battle scar; marred skin that had spent so long settling that he didn’t even notice the scarification anymore. 

Hours pass as quickly and emotionally draining as dry heaving. His huffs of annoyance and thirsty fingers of whiskey were difficult to ignore. The eldest Winchester doesn’t dare to approach you; to throw those dust-collecting books away and make love to you with dumbfounded grins and breathless groans like he had done so many times before. That was when you were a complete person and not just the husk of a lover destroyed. Once you held the strength of Jeanne d'Arc, now you sit and wait for a man to love you back. You’d be disgusted by your weakness if you had any pity left to spare.

If you look at someone too much you can confuse it with love. And if you already love someone and keep looking, you might waste all the rose-colored visions love could create. Maybe that's what happened to Dean. It’s a treacherous game, and it seems like he’s winning. Perhaps it’s your fault, your snide mind speculates against your will. You should try harder.

You don’t miss Dean’s hidden sigh of relief when the door makes a noise, announcing Sam’s return. How could you? You notice everything he does or doesn't do. At first, you fantasized that, even if it started getting messy before, he was pushing you away because of the whole fighting God problem, now you aren’t so sure. The clues were all over the place when Chuck was gone. Dean smiled at Sammy as if there was no tomorrow and said we’re finally free without sparing a glance at you. When they-- when he started building other worlds, where were you? That long-fraught, battle-ridden past of the Winchesters might be gone, but the more you try to turn the page, the more they stick to each other.

‘’Sammy,” his gruff voice says. It is the first word in hours that wasn’t half-hearted mumbles agreeing with your occasional comments or the tuneful hum of a classic rock song between reading and drinking. ‘’Did you bring any bacon?’’

‘’Yeah, but they need cooking--’’ Sam interrupts his brother, already familiar with this conversation. Dean’s half-open mouth and wiggling brows meant one thing. He was such a kid sometimes. ‘’And no. I’m not frying this cardiac embolism waiting to happen for you, dude.’’

You get up, aiming a smile at the long-haired hunter. ‘’Don’t worry, I can cook it. I was gonna make some pasta anyway.’’

Sam slightly nods before tilting his head towards you. ‘’You sure?’’

‘’Yeah. My butt’s already sore from the research. Those chairs aren’t that comfortable.’’ You scrunched up your nose with a good-humored grimace. 

‘’Okay, thanks.’’ You nod, throwing a last glance at Dean, who barely moved since you got in the conversation. You turn around, walking to the kitchen when Sam’s voice reverberated through. Deciding to overhear against all your sense of privacy, like a schoolgirl in the bathroom, you lean against the wall. You can’t believe the point you got to at those moments, but the answer to the question Sam asks may be the solution for your personal tophet. ‘’What’s up with you?’’

Dean doesn’t seem phased by his brother’s prodding. ‘’What do you mean?’’

Sam arches his eyebrows. ‘’No butt jokes?’’

At least you aren’t going crazy here. Even Sammy noticed something peculiar about Dean and you. There had to be an explanation or reason.; something broken that you could fix.

‘’I’m a grown-ass man, Sam.’’ He scoffs as you heard the chair being pushed. You nibble on your bottom lip, catching your breath as they continue.

‘’Yeah, sure,” the younger man snaps sarcastically. Dean rolls his eyes. ‘’Actually researching when I leave you two alone? Come on, Dean. Did you guys argue or something?’’

‘’We are just fine.’’ His boots scuffing against the wood floor makes a well-known melody, just like Sam’s loud sigh. You know him; he thinks this his brother’s way to avoid the subject and run away. You can’t say you don’t agree with that.

‘’Dean…’’

“I’m gonna take a shower. I spent two hours reading. I gotta get ready for my bacon.’’ It is a simple answer that made your heart spin like a girl in a brand new dress. You had the sudden realization that at least he spent those hours with you, right? Deadly in his quietude, but he was there. Women always are excellent at convincing themselves that crumbs are a whole meal. Therefore, convince yourself this is enough.

You hear the creaking under his strong, heavy steps as he leaves, and a couple more from Sam as well. Ultimately, you turn around, clapping your hands together as you glare at the food still waiting to be made. You give yourself a comforting smile as you speak: ‘’Time to get to work.’’

Then you go. You pace around the kitchen, preparing the lunch with everything you have. Make it perfect, make it delicious. Fuck, even make it deluxe with pre-made bacon and vegan pasta on a Tuesday afternoon. It’s so silly how you make such a lavish effort with the smallest things only to maybe catch a glimpse of his attention. As if Dean would see, truly look at you again. You gave him the best you had, and when you ran out of that, you gave him what was left too. 

The pasta is smelling good. You two used to be each other's better halves, but since the coin had been tossed, you are now each other’s worst reflections. He’s your coldness; the gelid nature that was so useful as a weapon to hurt those who came before him. The ignorance, the lack of care for the ones who claimed to cherish you with their ripped out chests and open hands. You can see you in the way he moved, told white lies and walked away. All the most brutal aspects that your soul built through the years. You almost burn your hand, but at least it isn’t his bacon. And in you, you hold all Dean hated in himself lately. The clingy behavior, always urging to serve and make someone else happy. So needy for a gentle touch, one single proof that his lurking was wrong and he was worthy, that he could be loved someday if he just tried hard enough. Desperate in earge for aprovation, just like you grabbing the Men Of Letters’ sumptuous tapestry and the elegant candle holder, laying the table with the fancy shit.

‘’Wow.’’ Sam says once he arrives in the dining room. Dean refrains his reaction to arching his eyebrows in an unspoken question: what the fuck is happening there?

‘’Is the queen visiting us or somethin’?’’ You catch the pissed off glare that Sammy gives him, yet the older Winchester just shrugs. His little brother had the same eyes as him in many aspects, he had to agree that all those snobby objects were too much.

Unbothered, too used to his butch nature, you chortle. ‘’I just thought we deserved some nice things tonight.’’

Dean hums before adding: ‘’As long as there’s bacon.’’

Sam praises how good the sauce you made tastes. Of course, Dean just nods and agrees with a grumble, not even taking a second glance at you. He doesn’t notice that you are watching him, neither does he compliment your cooking. You never get the reaction you expect from him. Not a thank you, or a true smile, or even a drop of love in the saliva of his kiss, but you keep trying. Just like he tried to make daddy proud for so long. You both should know that's not how it works, but who can argue with a broken child mosaic in an adult damaged heart?

The green eyed man purposely sets the scene in a manner that his brother would be between the two of you. And yes, you manage to double cross this signal and sit down on another chair by his side. Although, when your elbows accidently meet during the homemade feast, Dean doesn’t look at you with the lopsided grin that you love so much. He doesn’t lean in to steal a kiss. Instead, he moves to the side discreetly. You were the roots of hope once, the one who could grow inside him and wrap around his organs for some relief of the hematoma and blood. The Winchester held the arm that pulled you closer and made sure you would stay. But he no longer touches you and the plants died of thirst and you are still here. In these moments, your trick mind asks: why are you still here? You can’t answer.

The lunch goes by filled with your and Sam’s chatter, Dean’s loud chewing and Miracle’s ocasional barks until there’s no food or reasoning to postpone staying together. All the three of you raise up, adamantly ignoring the strange atmosphere. 

‘’We’re leaving in an hour.’’ It’s all Dean says before leaving the room. Sammy dares to squeeze your shoulder softly before following his older brother’s path. With a suspire, you collect all the plates and lead to the kitchen again, starting to put the 60 minutes to good use. Polish plates until they gleam and glisten, maybe Dean will sneak in and wrap his arms around you, press a kiss to your neck and tell you to go to bed, that he will take care of the dishes. He used to do that. This was then and this is now. It’s easy to get lost in the tangles of time.

Of course he doesn’t. Though the hunter shows up with a bag and shouts from the living room for you to hurry up, so you do. Sleeping in the backseat of Baby through the streets of the United States, you wake up with Sam gently shaking your shoulder. Dean is already inside the restaurant. You try not to think too much about it, he could’ve been needing to hit the bathroom or something. As you and the youngest Winchester enter the establishment, four trained eyes fall on your boyfriend and the waitress, who’s clearly leaning forward to make her cleavage more evident. You two pace towards the table just in time to hear the end of their conversation. 

‘’Call me if you need anything.’’ The name tag says that the brunette is called Andressa. She's tall, tan and beautiful, smiling in a way that you never can never conquer. You miss having that confidence, how you’d walk in a room and be sure people would stop and stare. Remember when you used to be like that?

‘’Betcha.’’ He gives her a lopsided grin, the one that used to be directed to you. Andressa winks at him and leaves, swapping her hips in the most seductive way, which catches Dean's eyes like it's the whole Aurora Boreal and not just a woman's ass.

‘’Nice shirt, yeah?’’ You take his indiscretions all in good fun. Dean, though, takes a deep breath and wipes his face, as if he's the one with the right to be annoyed in this situation. It's so stupid how you keep making yourself smaller to fit in whatever expection is comfortable for him. At some point you'll disappear-- but hey, no body no crime. You attempted to explain yourself, ‘’I was just kidding.’’

He tightens his mouth into a thin line. ‘’I know.’’

‘’I saw one on Shein.’’

‘’Come on, Y/N.’’ The green eyed hunter scoffed. ‘’That’s like, Belladonna’s boobs sort of thing.’’

It’s so stupid how his opinons can change your whole weekend, as if your emotions were some sort of board game that Dean played by his own rules. You hang your head low, playing with the menu. You can ‘’Yeah, you’re right. It was dumb.’’

‘’That’s not what I---’’ He stopped himself with a deep inhale. Why did it seem easier for him to criticize than compliment you? You are using your best colors for his portrait of stares, yet all you gain are vacant side eyes. That man killed for you, and now every second by your side seemed to be murdering him. ‘’You’d look good on it.’’

You decide not to go on the next hunt, give both of you a break from the grey skies that always seem to suppress you and Dean. What if you two just need time apart? You live together, work together, and even have the same group of friends. Putting the whole monsters and multiple deaths aside, it was pretty much like a normal relationship. You must just need some time alone to miss each other. So you start going on less and less hunts. God, past you’d hate that scared little girl act, begging to be seen like a shiny toy.

Your cell phone buzzes, causing a smile besides the burning anticipation building up in your veins, crawling under your skin like a million little stars, or bugs. It depends on how you choose the perspective, no surprise you’d go for the romantic one. Well, it's a text from Dean. Plaid and crude: getting home in ten minutes. Why’d you be unpleasantly anxious about that? He’s your boyfriend and he’s coming home after a week! Your fingers dance around the keyboard before answering a sweet waiting for you, with a couple hearts in the byline.

You get his favorite burger and a whiskey older than you in the Deancave, which is settled up with a three hours marathon of Scooby-Doo. It was always so adorable when Dean and you made bets to see who’d guess the episode villain first. Even his hot dog pants and his robe are on the armchair. As for you, you are waiting by the door like you’re just a kid, in a vat to greet him with a battle’s hero welcome. One, two, three, minutes piling up as uncountable as the hidden tears that you cry each week in after the city’s asleep. Let’s be fair, you should’ve seen this coming from a mile away. What was the last time Dean accomplished something he promised to you? He doesn’t even reply to your text message asking if he was okay. Minutes trapped into hours, and you’re sitting with your back to the wall, right next to the door he should have burst out long ago. Time’s ticking, your mind is so tired and your body is sore; it’s exhausting to love someone like this, so you take a rest when sleep wins your hopeful, unclever thoughts.

Dean arrives one hour later, an oral scarlet letter on his tongue that tastes like beer and unregrettable priorities, an apologist expression accompanied of a very grumpy-ish Sam as the door is pushed open. The short haired hunter purses his plump lips at the sad sight; you sleeping on the floor next to the door, probably waiting for him. Maybe he should've answered your text earlier and not just rolled his eyes and ordered another drink. What a suburban mistake for a Winchester.

Dean doesn't turn around to face Sammy; his brother made his opinion on that matter very clear during their roadtrip. Instead, his aching body just leans in and picks you up bridal style — that would've made him smile in the gentlest way his blood-stained mouth and sharp teeth could, eye dipping with joy and a silent promise for the future, but now that only gets a stoic expression as he walks towards your shared room. 

He dares to sigh. There you go, taking too much space and time. This might be a deceiving concept dappled with melancholic nostalgia, but to take space and time wasn’t a trouble before. Dean once worshiped the light-hearted emotion you could bring out his inner little monster - or his soul, whatever you wanna name it. The time wrapped around your finger as he was, and things were just good. Raw good. Yet, now he sees it; time’s always running, and so is him. It’s no surprise the heart he was holding fell and was left behind at some point of the race.

The hunter bumps on the door with his shoulder, leading inside the bedroom and placing you on the mattress. Your body can’t help but to cling to him as you mumble in your sleep; maybe it’s your fond memory, used to Dean’s body seeking some human contact only in the middle night.

Clicking his tongue, he pulls away. The movement is docile, just enough to wake you up. Dean can’t help but to groan at this.

‘’You came back.’’ You murmur, while Dean adjusts on the spot next to you in bed.

Arching his eyebrows with some comedic background, he answers: ‘’Of course I did. I live here.’’

Live. You wouldn’t call what he does living. More like a ghost hunting his old house when you are around. Or maybe you were the ghost and sure, most people would run away from it, but Dean always goes looking for the supernatural beings anyway. Unnerving that he’d make someone he loved out of one.

‘’Why didn’t you pick up the phone? I was worried.’’

He shrugs and kisses your hand. ‘’Was busy.’’

It’s a poor excuse, but those are all that have been holding you two together lately.

Here it is. Your inner anger for being treated wrong, the mad woman inside you scratching to come back. He has been treating you like a coat in Texas’ summer, like a stained flannel, like a forgotten feeling. You deserve more than this. You are so much more than this. Who he thinks he is?

But he has those green eyes that cried single man tears, and he’s so close you can feel his breath on your cheek. And you love that man so.

Instead, you smile and reach out for his hand. ‘’I missed you.’’

Dean doesn’t answer. He restricts any emotion to a grin, and suddenly you are under him. He pushes his lips against yours in a desperate act of recovery, to gain back what he somehow lost through the way. The green eyed man might not find his love in you, but there’s something else he can work with; luxury. Love was always harder to spell than lust anyway. To you, the way he howls against your lips is love. To him, it’s the confirmation of the absence of it. But he can’t let go.

Your hands and his, still together coaxing each other into giving in. It’s so easy that way. Dean rushes to rip your t-shirt, gaining a laugh out of your and a kiss to his jaw. He’s out of his pants before you can even pull away to assist him. The male catches your earlobe, kissing that sweet spot to make you whimper his name.

‘’Dean.’’

Your wince, his shirt is tossed away, just like your skirt. You aren’t wearing a bra, and quickly your cherry panties are pulled apart with a simple move of his finger.

‘’Gonna make you feel so good, babe.’’ His index finger is shoved inside your tight cunt. You throw your head to the back, spreading your legs open. You want to beg him to make you feel anything good, for him to be the reason of the holy and not hollow, just this once. ‘’You are so wet--’’ Another finger, they move inside of you in an attempt to find the right spot. ‘’So fucking tight for me. I’ve fucked you so many times and you��re still so tight.’’ Dean’s thumb caressed your clit as he licked his lips, relishing how you squirm and whine his name. What a good girl. ‘’Can’t wait to fuck you.’’

It doesn’t take much longer. The eldest Winchester quickly replaced his skilled fingers with his pulsating cock. His member begged to be inside you, squeezed by those warm and tight walls. Your pussy was always so good for him, taking him so nice. Dean moans at the sensation, his hand losing yours to hold the bedpost, his thrusting wildly against yours.

No more praising words, no more foreplay. He comes to get what he wants and you’re willing to give. He used to touch you like a priceless wine, now his hands are hustled and careless like you are just another bottle of cheap beer. Dean fucks himself into you and you can’t do anything but groan in pleasure. Sometimes the hurting can be delicious, too.

You crave more, though. Your hands, tiny compared to his, meet Dean’s back, nails digging into the bare skin in a reminder I’m here, you’re still mine. Your legs wrapped around his torso, which only caused his moves to go faster and more ferocious, destroying your needy cunt for any other. It feels so good to have him inside you, fucking you up to the point you are an inchorent ball of cum and sweat. He’s gonna get you there, it’s certain, Dean always does.

His thumb comes back to your vagina, digital press to your clit as he attacks your neck. You try to move your head and get those plump lips against yours, but he sounds like an animal, increasing his rhymin and sucking your tender skin.

Everything is so hurried and irrational and not intimate. He comes inside of you after your own release, marking you up with his orgasm. As soon as he’s dones, he crawls out of you and lays on his back. Sure, you come around and rest your weary head on his chest, but that’s what it is. Deep silence. Not the one where love or magic or whatever Aphrodite is made of fills the void and makes the lovers comfortable. No, this one is visceral, like a chuckle empty of joy. It’s like the tie of gold that tried you two were tangled and ripped. Your love should be celebrated, but he tolerates it. He tolerates everything you do. He tolerates your presence. 

The wrath sneaks in smoothly and astute. You aren’t just one night stand or a sweetheart. How can Dean act like you are? You lift your head and watch him breathing with his eyes closed. It’s so brutal, emotionally violent how you are aware that he’s only doing that not to have pillow talk. Where’s that man who’d throw blankets over your barbed wire? Easily misplaced by the one who threw your boundaries away and out the trap there nowadays. You made him your temple, you mural, your sky, now you’re begging for footnotes in the story of his life.

In the rare cracks of lucidity, you picture what would happen if you did what your old, better self would do. Dean appears to assume you are fine, but what would he do if you break free and leave you two in ruins, took this dagger in you and removed it, gain the weight of you then lose it? He was so comfortable with you. Maybe he didn’t think you would ever do that, but there’s just so much a woman with your determination and cleaverity can take. Believe, I could do it. You did it before with others. Sometimes you need to leave to breathe. Perhaps it's time. 

But then, he embraces you. Just like that, all your doubts and fears and bruises caused by his kisses are reduced to paranoia. You decide maybe you got it wrong somehow. Not even blinking at the thought that Dean enjoys cuddles. No, he’s pulling you closer and snucking his nose into your hair because he loves you. Convince yourself. You are majestic with lies, it gets surprisingly facile to tell them when you nuzzle into the Winchester’s neck like his smell is some sort of placebo.  

You aren't tiptoeing around it, or even stepping on the doubts with tiny hoaxes. You are barefoot on his love-- but his love feels a lot like walking through a street of fire and thorns. But hey, isn't that the point of devotion? To put something, someone first? To go through any suffering and starve to get to the prize, to walk through the golden gates? If this was a church, the priest would tell you to get on your knees and pray harder. You can see where he’s going. You’ll do better. Be everything Dean needs. You can be worthy-- you are worthy. You were his everything once and you can be that again. Pick up the soul tapestry he shrewd so unintentionally and patch it up. Most of those things must be in your head anyway, and if they aren't… Well. He will love you that deeply again, right? Right? It’s an echo. Right.

Tomorrow you’ll try again. In the name of love, condepedency, or whatever it is. Sit and watch him.

Comment & reblog. Feedback is magic! Check my masterlist ♡ Tags in reblog!

[wwwafflewrites]

A Rewrite of History

Chapter 4—Dead in the Water (Part 2)

You tapped your pen on your lap.

Things were looking pretty bleak. You had an hour before the Winchesters tried to talk with Bill. And you knew it was going to be exactly like your dream had played out. 

Was there any reason to stop it? The Winchesters knew you were here already, so what difference did it make?

Bill was going to say that you were there, in his home. And if everything hadn’t broken apart already, it would then. Any part of the Winchesters that still believed you could be innocent would be gone—brushed away by the stacking evidence of your guilt. Your shot would be missed.

Especially if you let Bill Carlton die.

You sat in your car for the longest time. Just staring at your sad little list.

A. Destroy the dam.

B. Save Will from drowning in his sink.

C. Stop Lucas from touching the lake.

D. Salt the lake?

You hadn’t even put Bill the list. Probably because you had just assumed Will would have been the domino to keep him from killing himself.

In all honesty, the possibility of you failing to save him hadn’t crossed your mind.

Everything you did, it felt like a higher power was deciding otherwise. Or maybe the bastards just wanted to mess with you. Because once again, the Winchesters now had pretty good evidence that you were behind all of this. Why wouldn’t they think that?

Dipping your head, you scrawled another bullet:

E. Save Bill Carlton

///

When you made it to the Carltons', the police were gone, and the Winchesters had left. You could see Bill sulking on the dock. 

You made your way up to him, not sure what to say. So you said nothing, even when he saw you come up. You gave him a good ten feet of space and sat down on the dock, staring at the water. You thought, maybe, some silence would be a good way to start this conversation. 

Then, you started small. "I can't imagine," you said softly. "What it is like to lose your children."

"Then why are you even here?" His voice was raspy from crying. Desperate to be alone.

"Because I know what it's like to be without your family. I know what that's like, Bill." When he said nothing, you sighed. "And I know what you're going to do today. And I want to help you get through it. I want to keep you from making this mistake."

"There's no point anymore. My world is gone," he said. "They've taken everything from me."

Your shoulders sank. Didn't that sound familiar. "Please. Please, just let me help you."

"You can't."

Here come the tears. Frick. You couldn't help it. Even in front of this grieving man, you began to cry. At first, you tried to control it, but soon your breaths were shallow and your shoulders shook with ugly sobs. 

It was a delayed breakdown—one you should have had the first day you showed up in this godforsaken universe. But it hadn't happened until now. Because you were always either in the midst of danger, where you were forced to keep your emotions in check, or you were exhausted from a day of running around.

"Please," you managed to hiccup. "I just need one—one win today. Let me help you."

You can feel his stare at the back of your head. "Why would you even want to," he said. "You… you hardly even met us yesterday."

Embarrassed, you composed yourself. He was supposed to be the emotional one. It was just… shit. "There—" you paused l, cringing at the crack in your voice. "There's um… there's a saying." Your tears were working against you, and you blinked to contain them. "It’s 'Always Keep Fighting'."

Bill was quiet.

"And… I've been trying. I have. It's so hard to keep fighting through this… this mess that I'm in. And I'm struggling. I keep thinking, what the hell is the point of running in circles like this? It will never work out. Everything is already gone. What the hell am I even still doing this for?" You took a breath. "If you had asked me yesterday, I would have told you I don't know. But I think I've figured it out now."

"And what is it?" he asked.

"Saving people," you said. "I was… hopeful before. Thinking maybe I could… maybe I could actually do this. But after…" you trail off.

"After..?" he questioned. Then, he realized. "After Will?" he murmured.

You nodded your head. "I failed Will," you admitted. "I had this… whole plan in my head. But I really hadn't considered failing." You closed your eyes. "I am… so sorry about your son. It's my fault. It's all my fault."

There was nothing for a while—just the hum of the breeze in your ears.

"It isn't your fault."

You looked at him, taken aback. Your lips part for a moment, not sure how to digest that yet. "I…" You weren’t sure if you should share that you know about his past. You did anyway. "I know about what happened. Um... years ago, I mean. When you were a kid. With Peter." Before he could say anything, you cut him off. "But I still want to help. I still want to keep you from doing this."

"Why?"

You finally turn to him fully. His expression is a mixture of emotions. "You… you made a mistake."

"I still killed him."

"You were a kid. You didn't know better."

"He's just going to keep taking everyone I love."

"Not if I can do this right."

He sent you a sad, questioning look.

"Peter's ghost is tied to this lake. It can get into the pipes in this town, but that's its limit. Theoretically, if you left, he wouldn't be able to reach you or the sheriff. The lake won't be here in a matter of six months. It shouldn't bother you ever again." You rubbed the back of your neck. "I… I can't bring back your kids, but I could keep it away from you for good. You could rebuild."

He looked to be contemplating, still torn on whether he should just get on that boat. "I don't know," he said. He looked so hopeless. "It will still be out there, waiting for me to come by again. I've already lost everything. You can't ask me to do it again."

"Actually... I might have an idea how to solve that," you said. "Any chance you have a computer?"

///

It was the first time you'd seen Bill actually look a little alive. Maybe some company was helping. Maybe it was the thought of saving the sheriff's family from going through what he had gone through. Regardless, he was actually pitching in a little.

You’re scrolling through news articles on the dam. "So, they've relocated all the fish to drain it. And…" you freeze, clicking on a link in excitement. "No way."

"What is it?"

"They're going to purify the lake. The town isn't so keen on using the water that three people have died in. So they're going to filter the whole thing when it drains. Do you know what this means?" You look up, a smile lighting up your face. "It means no more ghosts in the water."

"It will be gone? For good?"

"No ghost can get past salt. I should get trapped in the dam. And I have an idea for that, too."

"What?"

"When the sucker is done draining, I'm going to blast the dam down. Or… someone who's better at covering their tracks will do it for me." You wrote your notes down, nodding to yourself. "Bill, I need you to do something for me. I need you to tell those… agents you saw the other day that you came up with this plan. Don't tell them it was from me. If they ask, you came up with it.”

“They’ll buy that?”

“If it goes how I think it will, they'll gladly go along with the plan. Can you do that?"

Bill still looked pretty beaten down. This certainly wasn't going to bring back his family, but you could tell he was fighting now. "I can do that."

You ripped out a new sheet of paper and handed it to Bill. "You think you can write these down in your own handwriting? I don't need anything hinting that it was me."

Bill watched you. "Are you running from these guys or something?"

"Or something. We don't exactly get along."

"I don't see why not. You seem to have the same goals."

You laughed a little at that. "Yeah, well… we had a misunderstanding. And right now, they don't like me so much. It would… make my life easier if you didn't give me the credit on this one."

///

You knew the Winchesters were going to show up soon.

Instead of finding Bill on the boat, they were going to find him with a plan. You just hoped that Bill would pull off the whole 'look'. As in, like he'd rather ‘take action’, than mope around his house like he had been before. 

It wasn’t probable that the Winchesters would fall for that bit... they'd probably be suspicious, but it was the best you had. If they could blow the dam up once the lake had drained six months later, which was already damaged, then the ghost would be gone. It would be thoroughly salted and burned.

You asked Bill to leave town for that time. In fact, you suggested he check out the Roadhouse in Nebraska. Sure, it was a while from Wisconsin, but it might take his mind off his kids and set him in a place that could relate to people. The Roadhouse certainly had a lot of old stories to share. 

You weren't asking Bill to become a hunter. No way. If it came around to that, that was his choice, and his way of coping. You’d respect that. 

Simply, you thought that he might find comfort in an environment he would empathize with. Besides, the Roadhouse wasn't a hunter-only bar. It was just... hunter-popular. Normal people went there all the time.

Tonight, you knew Andrea was going to almost-drown in the bathtub.

You thought for a minute, though. When Bill died, the Winchesters had gone to speak with the sheriff, Jake Devins, who kicked them out of town. Then Lucas tugged on Dean's arm, alerting him to come back…

But since Bill didn't die… did that mean that hadn’t happened? Would you need to save her yourself because the Winchesters wouldn't know about it?

Crap.

There were two ways this could go down. One, they didn't know, you showed up, and you might not be strong enough to save her. Two, they did show up and save her, but you're in deep crap… because Winchesters.

Double crap.

///

You showed up at their place way too early, hidden in the trees. The bicycle was probably beneath your feet.

You sat on a nearby log, positioning yourself to hide from the main view of the road, but with enough of a window between the trees to watch the house and its pattern of lights.

You noted where Lucas's bedroom was, and where the hallway to the bathroom was, and then where Andrea's bedroom was. You didn't have a terrible view. You could see the bathroom's hallways pretty well from there.

Then, after a few hours passed, the lights shifted. She was going to take a bath. You sat up, watching and waiting. Should I go? I should just go, right? You struggled to decide, standing and hesitating to walk forward.

Before you grew enough courage to move, though, deus ex machina—the Impala—drove up.

You sat down, crouching behind the trees to hide yourself better. You watched it unfold from the shadows.

If you had gone out there just a minute before, they would have seen you. 

Frick, were you nervous. You needed to calm the hell down. They were going to save Andrea now—there was nothing to get worked up about. 

Still, you felt your anxiety heightening, so you brought out a granola bar to munch on, and tried to let your mind wander elsewhere.

First of all, they did end up seeing Lucas again. Which meant that they did go to see the sheriff, who didn't kick them out of town. Which meant they probably went to discuss the dam after getting Bill's note. Which, you supposed was good.

That meant they'd taken the note seriously, at least. It meant it was a decent plan in their eyes. So that was hopeful.

You could breathe again once you saw Andrea, very naked and very afraid, but alive.

Your heart began to calm, and you were able to get more comfortable against the log. Your vision began to blur, staring at the warm yellows and the calm manners of the Winchester brothers trying to console Andrea.

It was enough to lull you to sleep. 

You saw a figure in the distance. A trenchcoat that swayed in the calmest of breezes.

You feel dizzy and out of it when you stand, pushing through the trees to reach the figure. “Castiel?” you ask. It becomes harder to stand, harder to focus on keeping balance. Your feet feel like lead. “Cas? Cas, help me.”

“I’ve been getting your prayers.” He turns, peering down. He reaches out, steadying you. “Things are going to get more difficult. I need you to understand this.”

But you don’t understand. “Why?” you ask dumbly.

“Your car will hold the necessities for your next trip. I can’t explain it to you. There isn’t enough time. It is difficult enough to contact you as it is,” he looks up, into the distance with alarm. “You need to wake up.”

Sunshine seeped into the world, and you blinked at the blinding nature surrounding you. Everything was so bright. “Cas?” you ask, desperate and terrified. “Cas, I don’t under—”

“Wake up.”

You do. Abruptly. It takes a second to catch up with your surroundings. It’s morning and your back feels like a slate of concrete. You choke on a small sob as you sit up, hand immediately reaching for your back.

You see the Winchesters talking with Andrea, and then Lucas looks in your direction. 

Where the bike is.

Oh shit. You scramble and run deeper in the wooded area,where they won’t see you. You have to throw a hand over your mouth to conceal your heavy breathing. You watch the confrontation between the sheriff and the Winchesters, your heart half beating out of your chest.

From the corner of your eye, you see Lucas’s figure nearing the lake, and you don’t even hesitate to sprint past the Winchesters. 

You had to choose what was more important to you. It wasn’t even a competition. You couldn’t go through what you went through with Will. Not again. 

So you straight up tackled the kid on the dock. 

You were panting and tense with adrenaline, Lucas pinned beneath you to keep him from reaching out for Peter’s ghost. 

Everything seemed alright for a moment. Despite the Winchesters racing at you and Lucas, nothing moved.

Then the dock creaked.

Your eyes widened and with freak strength, you tossed the kid at Sam Winchester, who barely managed to catch him against his chest.

Nothing moved. Not you, not the Winchesters, not Lucas, not the sheriff, not even the ghost. 

“I just tossed a kid,” you said, hysteria breaking into your voice. “I just tossed a…” You shook your head, then looked back up at the stupefied Winchesters. “Keep him out of the water. Um… I’m gonna leave now.” Breathless, you made an escape on the motor boat.

The Winchesters finally came alive. “Wait!” Dean shouts, running up to the dock, but it’s too late. “Sam, she just... what the hell?”

You were far away by then.

///

You got to your car later, which, thankfully, the Winchesters weren’t tracking yet. It offered you a place of refuge and slight comfort.

You furrowed your eyebrows at the bag sitting in your passenger seat. It was so conspicuous that they might as well have placed it on the roof of the car. “Do you want me getting robbed?” you muttered.

So... your dream had been somewhat real. Castiel really had visited you. But what were his intentions? It was only Season 1, after all. You couldn’t be sure that Castiel was on your side. 

If it was Season 4 on, you could probably judge where his loyalties lied, but so early, you couldn’t be sure. You’d just have to be careful, it seemed.

You unlocked the car and pulled the bag to you. Several things shifted in the bag. First, you grabbed the money. It had a note on it, reading,

For the flight.

Well, that actually helped a lot. Plane tickets were expensive.

Curiously, you fumbled with the box inside. What else is in here? You pulled it out, staring at the box, dumb-stricken.

“What the hell, Cas?”

[theexecutionerssong]

Hey Gaëlle ! Est-ce-que tu aurais des recommendations de fic Destiel ? Sans trop de smut, surtout pas beta/Omega (c'est même plus du smut à ce niveau-là...) et beaucoup de pining ? ( Je devrai être en train de réviser mes partiels d'ailleurs... 😅). Merci beaucoup ! 😌

Hellooo ! Alors tu as frappé à la bonne porte parce que je lis jamais de smut, ou alors quand c’est dans des longues fics, je passe juste ces passages là. (mais j’aime beaucoup les fic a/b/o qui ont pas de smut, parce que les sentiments sont quintuplés donc pining + angst on a whole other level). Y’a peu de fluff dans mes fics préférées, love me some angsty life and death moments, mais ça finit toujours bien. Enfin. Vérifie les tags quand même :)))) J’ai mis les liens, si y’a pas c’est qu’elles ont été supprimées mais j’ai les pdf donc hit me up.Et révise tes partiels !!!!

CANON

A turn of the earth -https://archiveofourown.org/works/5138552/chapters/11825306

Dean’s your typical half-orphaned, monster-killing 22-year-old until a trenchcoated stranger crashes into his back windshield one September night, claiming he’s an angel that knows him from the future and that he’s on the run.

Frigging fantastic.

(Or, in which Castiel gets stuck in Dean’s timeline preseries and Dean kind of hates it—until he doesn’t.)

Probably my favorite fic set in Canon. It’s set around season 11, and I love how we dive into Dean’s past pre-series and then as time goes by, we catch up with the show timeline’s. It’s incredibly well written.

525,600 Minutes - https://archiveofourown.org/works/507228/chapters/892693

A man wakes up alone on the streets of Detroit. Lost and somehow forgotten, he's dressed in blood-soaked clothing without memories and without a name.

This is his journey to find it.

It was first published in 2012 set after s5, but it was rewritten last year. I still have the old version for nostalgia’s sake but the new version is even better. It’s got some amnesia so great for pining :))))

The inexhaustible silence of houses -https://archiveofourown.org/works/560268/chapters/1000755

Almost two years after the world doesn't end, Castiel falls from grace—and loses his voice in the process. It is the impetus for confession and change; before long, he is settling into a loving relationship with Dean, the Winchesters are tired, and hunting for a place to land has taken precedence to hunting anything else. Dean and Castiel fall in love with the strange little house on the end of Swallowtail Drive, and for a little while life is as it should be—sweet, affectionate, and beginning afresh.

But more and more Castiel sees and hears things in the house that beg the question of whether or not a place itself can be alive. The walls and rooms seem to shift and grow and breathe, and one night, Dean comes home from a hunt changed in a way that Castiel cannot explain. In the months that follow, their domestic bliss takes turns for the dark and sour, and the confusion of their circumstances will ultimately test everything Castiel knows about the man he loves, and everything he believes to be true.

Listen, I cried. I cried SO MUCH. There was a lil fandom war going on for a time between which was the hardest, this one or Twist and Shout, and both destroy me completely. But this one is set in canon and closer to the characters, to me, so I’ll always recommend this one first (unless you want a happy ending, in which case, don’t read it)

Only if for a night - https://archiveofourown.org/works/826303

Castiel is captured by a djinn. Dean goes slightly crazy, and Cas discovers a thing or two about himself.

I’m a sucker for Dean/Cas in Djinn verse and this one is by far my favorite.

The Bird That Feels The Light (not slash) https://archiveofourown.org/works/210860

AU from 5.18 (or thereabouts). Castiel awakens in the middle of a smoking crater, stranded and very much human. According to the people who have discovered him, it’s six months to the day after Michael and Lucifer faced off on the field of battle outside of Detroit, and Castiel isn’t the only one to have returned. When, at his insistence, they take him to this other person, he finds a child –a little boy– and realizes that, contrary to all his expectations, he has been reunited with Dean Winchester. The world has changed in their absence, and not for the better. Sam is gone, whether dead or simply missing is uncertain. Castiel is given the name of a man in Idaho who may have answers for him. He is faced with the task of travelling cross-country with Dean, who is dependent on him now in ways he never was before, in order to discover the truth. But along the way, as he and Dean learn to know and trust each other once more, Castiel begins to realize that the answers he thought he wanted might not be the ones he needs.

It’s not slash at all since Dean is a kid but I’ve read it probably about 20 times and I still love it as the first time. There’s just something about human Castiel carrying a 4 year old Dean across the world and fighting monsters and demons and humans to survive that gets to me.

Hands, From Which All Things Are Built - https://archiveofourown.org/works/747324

Castiel travels with the angel tablet and without the Winchesters. One day, Dean gets a text from some anonymous number. (They speak in the language of need.) A post-08.17 Goodbye, Stranger story.

If you want pining, this one is definitely for you.

Last Man Standing - https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8363328/1/Last-Man-Standing

This one is set just after the season 7 finale, it’s a Purgatory fic with so.much.pining I always need to hold a pillow to my chest when I read it or I go insane sdfghjkl I haven’t read it in probably 4 years but I remember absolutely loving it.

Outrun my gun - https://archiveofourown.org/works/281887/chapters/448388

"The two of you are so stubborn you've made Heaven blink." Finally convinced that Sam and Dean will never say yes and accept their destinies, Heaven and Hell come up with a new plan, one that will redraw the Apocalypse and make everything run much more smoothly. All they need is Dean Winchester's soul.

Don’t mind the MCD tag, it’s got a happy ending. Also a classic set in canon, it’s from 2011 so quite oldish but it’s incredible how the characterization is on point. Love love love it.

AU

Tramps Like Us

Dean Winchester's life is falling apart. He's lost his job, his apartment, and his brother, all in one day. He seems to break everything he touches. Frustrated and alone, he drives off into the night with no idea where he's headed. But then he meets Castiel Novak, a quiet and reclusive man with a haunted past, and suddenly he finds himself with a very specific destination in mind.

I feel like everyone has read Tramps Like Us but just in case, I’ll put it on the list. Not sure what I can say that hasn’t been said by half this website already but well… it deserves the hype.

Til The Last - https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001935/chapters/1984189

When the war came, Dean Winchester was determined that he was not going to get involved. He had more important things to worry about than some rich man’s fight. He had work on the farm and he had taking care of his family. Nothing else was worth his worry. But in August in the Year of Our Lord 1863, when the soldiers came knocking, they weren’t asking. They dragged Dean away. 

Dean and Cas have been best friends since they were kids. When Dean is drafted into the Confederate army, to what lengths will Castiel go to ensure that Dean makes it back home alive?

OH BOY. OHHHHH I could talk about that one until the day I die. It’s a complete AU but it has great parallels to canon, it’s incredibly well written, humanity in all it’s ugly truth and “I will fight for you ‘til the last, Dean Winchester” jesus christ it’s so good, so good

Out of the Deep - https://archiveofourown.org/works/548878

Stay away from the light-beds. Stay in the deep.

It is the first thing hatchlings are taught the moment their fans unfurl and they can swim without their parents to buoy them along. It is the first rule, the first law. It is the beginning of every boogey-monster bedtime story told when they settle against the cliffs to sleep.

Castiel should have listened better.

I love everything she writes but I think this one if my favorite. It’s sooooo long, and angsty as fuck but all ends well and it has some very fluffy moments. If you’re into this kinf of AU then 100% go for it.

To Raise a King - https://archiveofourown.org/works/1961403

This must be some kind of horrible joke at Castiel’s expense. Is he truly expected to protect a King? One who has been their enemy for as long as he can remember? He is much more suited to being a part of the army, or at the very least someone who helps to train the knights. That would be far more preferred than having to watch over the King. It means Castiel would get to keep fighting – and that’s the only way he knows to give meaning to his life.

An AU too, Cas is tasked to watch over Sam and Dean -there’s an 8 year age difference between Dean and Cas. I loved it because it’s set over about 15 years and Cas is asexual and I love time period AU in general :’)

Painted Angels https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085792

Author Castiel Novak has finally hit the big time, with a book based on his failed college relationship with a brilliant painter. He's put all his pain behind him, but at a book signing, he comes face to face with Dean Winchester for the first time in twelve years, and the reunion doesn't go like Cas hoped. Dean's a broken man, with a lot of scars and secrets, shoulders weighed down by his demons and self loathing. Cas sees a second chance with the man he's never stopped loving, but Dean's moved on, and is about to get married. Sam launches a "brilliant" plan to reunite his brother and his best friend, but Cas is worried it will all blow up in their faces, and he'll go through the agony of losing Dean a second time.

This one is hard to read because for the most part, it’s heartbreaking. There are happy flashbacks all along but it’s still hard when what happens in the present it’s a fucking tragedy. But I would still read it a thousand times over, and the timestamp completely make up for all the pining and the angst. It’s rare to find fics that last an entire lifetime.

[lobotomycas]

DEAN WINCHESTER DESTROYS EVERYTHING HE TOUCHES WE MIGHT AS WELL GIVE HIM SOMEONE ALREADY BROKEN SOMEONE EXPENDABLE

[incarnateirony]

Time for a rant

And some hard fucking truths about this fandom. And shipping culture. And related LGBT issues.

Edit for reblog: Since everybody’s trying to be highkey mad about everything right now, if the cut didn’t warn you, or the title, that this is going to be an unpopular AF opinion you should read all of before jumping to any conclusions, let this edit notice be that. But this post includes a bunch of shit. History I more recently and more fully talked about. The LGBT men I know that won’t touch this fandom with a ten foot pole because of shipping dialogue. And the accidental two season canon Destiel RP troll that we finally snapped and voiced beyond the meta wall from PURE EXHAUSTION.

(related posts in reference: (x) (x) (x) )

we know season great we know season 9 and its potential we know season 10 -- and most of us know its cut scenes humanity, being human, colette, the altar of winchester, the secret admirer, the boyfriends that strapped into the abaddon/colette parallels, all of it we know carver himself wrote the s10 finale and got it to film and then it got cut we know s9 he gave misha a note to play as jilted lovers from the showrunner but then we ask why did this never make it well nobody in fandom was paying attention nobody paid attention to SPN struggling the first seasons nobody paid attention to gamble's era almost getting nuked they all swore up and down this outdated americana show was about to have a queer pairing go canon because, yes, at that point *reads crumbled note* wallpaper

In fact that last one, to this date, no much how much legitimate structural meta or even deadass text current meta fandom breaks down, whether they just study the microcosm of Destiel or the macrocosm of the text with Destiel as a piece of it, can not escape the claims of *reads note again* wallpaper and T-shirts.

one year into Carver who was pulling the show out of the cancellation trashcan and vying for it to continue now that it was on netflix a DUMBASS EXEC wandered into twitter and opted to talk to fans

the goddamn network CEOship had just rotated even

”Well I blame” [disembodied force outside of our own]

no honestly I blame (parts of) pre S9 meta fandom, and I say that as a meta author they had been convincing people of intent for years When these showrunners and even rotating network execs were thrashing for life Like literally even the heads of the CW were changing not even just SPN but some fucking how the “sages” of that era didn’t have any gat damn insight onto how that might influence future engagements So out of the blue a newish network crew gets BLINDSIDED by accusations of queerbait and giant danger articles that are huge PR bombs and it turns into protect the product mode which turned into the new S10 press releases with the spontaneous sexuality field on the characters and half the filmed content ending up on the floor the short end of it is fandom fucked up hard Carver was fighting for them But in result he got a corporate shut down on a product he had ironically exploded globally too well that was earning too much profit too quickly to catch that kind of bad PR Chad Kennedy was a fateful fucking day Ever since then showrunners have had to pitch the idea at corporate when it was a nonissue before And prove why it's a valid move with test groups and marketing You can say "prove it" I really don't have to in this rant, I really do not give a SHIT if you believe me, I don’t CARE if you want to reject what is otherwise logic because I’m not about to throw anybody under a bus I really like not getting people in trouble, but this alone is a glint in the fucking RADAR of how I'm going off.

hell ask yourself why we went from Robbie calling Destiel canon to being eviscerated by queerbait claims because it didn’t fulfill what a specific audience wanted or expected, to deleting his post, to only annual actors free of their contracts daring to talk about Destiel, to corporate shutdowns where it’s crickets until Emily’s return where she’s started YOLO posting about it -- but why, why, why did we go from actual support and discussion to silence that you still rage about

Without the season nine kennedy explosion I'm pretty sure we would have had inarguable destiel canon in season 10 like late s10 Carver passed his torch to Dabb mid S11 where they kept stringing it out and ramping it up within restrictions which is why Dabb runs a very weird fucking line Dabb knows he has no promise of getting it as far as his forebearer wanted or even had written AND FILMED but he will hedge out as many lines, esp with the hand of Berens that Carver originally passed the directorial note with, as he can Wayward was a huge factor in that and tbh my hope died when Wayward died that was a HUGE weight in the network Berens was pulling

I'm at a point where i've conceded to our jane austen novel but want to see how far they take that to completion, though in reality that completion was 13.5/6 that's when I went from like, I passively enjoy and accept this content to screaming into the dumpster it's not the landmark people wanted but story structure wise within how SPN handles it's the sufficient one Recalling Dean's implicative hookups since like season six I mentioned on one hand The fact that they went full circle and bookended it in direct script mirror to Lisa after the S13 lead in would be amply sufficient to het drama and I refuse to enable hets running around the goalpost on queer people I would love better open blunt representation but I also recognize the genre of the show It's something Dean and I struggle with our server actually DeanCas have been canon for a season and a half here but maintaining that without taking a distracting romantic genre tilt or whatever is its own form of challenge We write established relationship openly, without bars, to the point we DMed each other for months like WHEN WILL THEY CATCH ON WTF but the problem, ironically, is that it's so parallel to the show nobody caught on

which really, though it didn't start as a conscious experiment, and was natural tells me everything I need to know even wiping what I knew on production and itk ends even if I just had that it says e v e r y t h i n g I have literally watched people laugh track completely serious content, because it's gay ergo it's funny LGBT people. Shippers.

I wrote subtle lines. They got ignored. I wrote blunt lines. They flew past heads. I wrote lines designed to be overt to the point of painful. They got laughed off. Het culture is a hell of a drug. Both in this RP and in how we interpret romances like DeanCas, even LGBT people and shippers, because people are expecting performative results and statements where either for the former they don't fit the show or genre or for the latter, there's some sort of restriction or imposition but there's authors writing their gay little hearts out and tearing their hair out after.

I've been the author tearing my hair out until I wrote a Cas, explicitly, in a moment, to be as blunt and straightforward and unmistakable as I could, to the point I felt I was bending the character to even make it happen, and debated my options for like ten minutes before doing it, just to free myself of this purgatory. And STILL got a wash of questions wanting me to *confirm* the content they just saw instead of going, gee, that’s PROBABLY WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE.

Dabb is fighting the good gay fight and being woefully under respected for it, with Berens as his copilot, carrying a torch given to him by Carver, but people are too wrapped up in a mix of prior bitterness, performative culture, personal demands and shipping culture to see the forest for the trees, because he's deadass just writing an established fucking relationship but people would rather yell either queerbait or destroying the relationship. PR deadass pitched Absence like a het breakup drama and nobody blinked, just yelled how mean it was

Am I hinging my hopes on hammer-on-head-overt-canon-kissing-scene-DeanCas for the final season, no. Would I be surprised if it happened, knowing the execs? No, beyond breaking past corporate walls fandom dropped like a curtain in S9

But considering how "fuck performative culture" Berens is, as a gay man, fangirls absolutely should not fucking expect that either in even the most wild "the chains are broken, burn it all" method

Every queer man I know ships Destiel. Simultaneously, every queer man I know fucking loathes the sum of shipping culture with a vengeance.

Because it's grossly out of touch with MLM and is mostly WLW people trying to speak for what they think MLM should be when we already pretty much have the MLM right there.

YOU WANNA KNOW HOW THE ACTUAL QUEER MEN I KNOW SEE HOW THIS FANDOM HANDLES DESTIEL DESPITE BEING AVID SHIPPERS WHO SEE IT AS CANON ALREADY AND GET SCREAMED DOWN?

And since everyone likes to imagine the straight male audience as some borg, have a straight male friend exploding when someone called a fandom speakpiece a trainwreck. Bless his heart for not getting what queer or bi really mean situationally but his heart’s in the right place

I’m tired. Tired of trying to illustrate this to an audience I realized I have never once in my life been straight-coded enough to incorporate myself to much less understand the lensing of. Tired of watching queer men that I know who love this shit hide away in the recesses of DMs to hide from conversations lest they be accused of being homophobes or whatever by people refusing to read context, and/or just be smacked down by actual homophobes or just deadass rival shippers that refuse to see anybody be happy with something they don’t like in something that was never realistically a rivalry to begin with, because rivalry implies relative equality-ish and while all ships are equal in fanon, they aren’t necessarily in canon, and despite the thrashing and baying of antis this isn’t and will never just be a “fanon ship.”

Unpopular opinion but the biggest enemy to LGBT people isn't hets, it's the LGBT community, because we're too busy invalidating own own content and creators to make a truly unified front against het culture (or in this case, the network), and waving a flag with a lot of letters doesn't do anything to fix that. Yelling online into tumblr doesn’t fix that. @’ing creatives who have no power in this beyond the option to drop any attempt at queer resonant content cold turkey for you all to yell at them about THAT too doesn’t fix it.

No, yes, DeanCas are perfectly valid as Thebian warriors where one is clearly ace spectrum and the other is bisexualish if repressed as long as they are clearly enamored with and engaged with each other; no, nobody needs to fulfill anybody's migrating quota list when every romantic checkbox has been hit already that would be respected if they're het; would coming out statements in this sort of complicated relationship be great, sure, but they aren't in the kind of show that even addresses that and there's no way to make them even perform as the isolationists that they are without breaking or damaging the characters, not in the public eye, not in a show that hasn't shown a single sexual dean encounter for six-plus seasons for any other reason than to highlight a major traumatic problem in his life. 

No, I wasn’t “hiding my gays.” My gays just didn’t have their bedroom times put on blast while they even openly made comments about the nature of their relationship everybody flagged down because they weren’t making out in front of everyone, even if that hand *did* drag a shoulder too long, even if Dean *Did* inexplicably drag a naked flatlining human Cas into the FUCKING med bay out of the Dean Cave at like 6 AM in the morning. Yes, your dedication to talking down content is that fucking loud even if you don’t realize it.

SPN is never going to be a show where the characters distinctly identify "I'm a nonbinary demiman ace-spectrum demisexual" and "i'm an aromantic bisexual with a female inclination", it's just not, stop trying to make it happen, it isn't gonna happen, realistically they are not the kind of people to engage gender politics, they're just going to be themselves. And it's queer, and it's beautiful. Fandom needs to stop moving goalposts because it's becoming more and more transparent. They just need to __. Go to dinner, check, have lingering touches walking past each other, check, admit love for one or the other, check, watches the goalpost run off into the horizon Kiss, you mean kiss, you want them to kiss, but Dean hasn't had that in how many years and what was the framing of the last moment of that. 

SPN isn't about romance. Antis are right in that. But romance exists in SPN and one needs to mind the framework of it to not tilt the entire central focus of a genre show. One can have romance without being about romance, but people need to be conscious of what that means before they advocate about it. When Ruby or Anna were around they were dangerously close to becoming "about romance" which is why there was such a goddamn fit because these women were clearly tailor crafted to be plugged into a light/dark parallel in the back of the Impala

They haven't had a kissing-based romance in SPN for eight years. Ten if you cut past Lisa as a literal prop.

And if we wanna demand creator confirmation before we consider ace-y romances valid we'll talk about the biromantic commentary of S8 or the jilted lovers of S9 or the confirmed parallels of S10 or any of the overt shit after that, which got hit by marketing walls. We had that. They got yelled at for queerbait. Because it didn't hit people's quota. So we yet again hit a wall. Shipping fandom exhausts me. And I say that as a DeanCas shipper

I am literally watching people run their own goalposts around all the goddamn time Cas is so much more than becoming background commentary in the back of the impala like ruby and anna were geared to be He's his own goddamn individual, currently all but free of the wants and lusts of man from food to sleep to drink to urination to sex to PBJ, but deeply enamored -- per actual citation on the S8 DVD -- with humanity by proxy of a man he's given everything for Dean is a complicated individual who is growingly aware of his tug and pull with Cas on all emotional spectrums but has never once cheapened him to just being a sexual tool, reasons of which we can headcanon away, but he's never turned Cas into one of his bad coping mechanisms like Porn Star or Amazon or Deanmon's Fling And those, plus one waitress and a vague strip club incident in grief he came home from, sum up his post-lisa excursions, from a man who used to lay a different woman every episode in early seasons WelCoME to mlm cuLTURE In the actual L for love, not lust because kinda like jensen's headcanon of prostitute Dean there's even a chapter of feeling tossed away that's not what it's a b o u t and never was so performative DeanCas enrages me genuinely And if people have a genuine kink okay I guess but like, admit that's what it is. Otherwise assess the actual state and stasis of the characters in play and the cultural/gender issues involved, because it's soooo often either WLW or straight girls looking at MLM and deciding what they think it should be and it m i s s e s t h e m a r k b y a a m i l e and then the gay dudes hide in nooks or get besgieged by fangirls or are a Ben and avoid fandom entirely best Deans I've ever written with were with gay dudes tbh Kemi got the art of it enough to pre-write some scenes before they ever aired but there's elements that just vanish into the aether with either queer women or straight dudes. Different parts disappear Never had a straight girl write a Dean, don't intend to ever try wE nEed RepResEntAtiOn [sweeps hand at the show] if people stop running their goalposts around to the calls of straight girls, homophobes, and shipping culture it's right there. Is it monumental and groundbreaking, no, but SPN started as an outdated callback piece to begin with and has vaulted into the almost-current, so let's check ourselves in what we expect out of it. It's not gonna be a banner. But it's content actual queer men AVIDLY invest themselves in only to be told it's not enough/whatever in a world where there is dangerously low bi male representation, most is gay male, and most of that is hugely problematic stereotype easily replaced by a rainbow lamp wearing a boa and a sticky note pointing people towards plot. And in generous cases, are like Malec, which are a mix of creepy and stereotype. Yes let's nevermind the ancient warlock drawing the 18 year old dude into the allure of his thick eyeliner and glimmer and spandex pants, nothing to see here folks. but somehow we've reached a point as a culture that the above is considered better than "ageless deity becomes enamored with humanity through bond with one man, falling into him regardless of gender, surrendering all it knows to become like that man and protect that man, and becoming like unto a man, and learning the ways of man, through all classic romantic tropes known to man, and even classic endings and bookends of all romances given to man, only to settle in to a stable relationship baseline with a man, after sharing courtship gifts with a man" just because somebody, some fucking where, in a mix of bitterness, homophobia, and goalpost moving decided "public kiss or it doesn't count" even if we're left to wonder how that timeless thing knew what was under his pillow he kept safe that he came into his room and played him to get after a classic romantic gift.

Stop. It.

Yall may be wanting to victim pose because somebody else convinced you that you were a victim here but I’m a middle aged person willing to view history and accept basic FUCKING responsibility.

Because there’s a distinct fucking difference between “victim blaming” and “have some perspective and some basic adult responsibility in the unfolding of history as it happened rather than reframing it post-event because somebody else convinced you that’s what happened”.

The only people anyone is victims of in this fandom is people they took the word of as gospel without them having any sort of actual developmental insight at the time.

You wanna play victim?

Take it up with them.

As a modern meta author that primarily deals with actual legend and theology mytharc with a side of DeanCas structure I STILL run in to walls from antis erected by the people before me that did, indeed, use the methods they whip up as excuses, so if you’re gonna victim pose, I’m just as much of a victim of those people as you are, difference is I wasn’t enough of a follower to believe them when they preached “performative queer canon gospel to meet fangirl hetnorm performative demands of MLM we mainstreamed into our basic expectations because somebody told us to” at the time or now or ever. 

In fact, here’s the conversation that LED INTO THIS RANT.

CastielToday at 12:27 AM Old SPN has its values in a form of nostalgia or genre-searching it had a sort of drifter grifter americana vibe the later seasons lost

GarthToday at 12:27 AM Ah, early 2000's

CastielToday at 12:28 AM Well it's more than just year it was definitely a genre piece back then

GarthToday at 12:28 AM No, I know, but shows that span a long time you can track in it where you can tell writers styles started clashing in a way

CastielToday at 12:28 AM and that genre was pretty much dead at that point so even when it was new, it induced nostalgia "This is familiar I miss this where did this go" but in being so oldschool as it aged forward it aged worse and worse against the modern and Misha was the first bolt that really sparked a dynamic shift it was a breath of fresh air that carried it through kripke's plan and almost doubled its respective viewership in scale but still kept the old spirit Gamble desperately tried to capture that spirit but did not understand the actual essence of that spirit and budget restrictions didn't help due to twitter buzz she thought that spirit was "just duh brudders" which is dangerously reductionist

GarthToday at 12:30 AM Hey, Misha saved it in more then one way.

CastielToday at 12:30 AM the brothers were ironic vehicles for that spirit that gave it faces but it was a weird form of american dream that america hadn't realized its dream had warped into 50 years ago the american dream was a 3/2 bed bath and business degree

StarfiraToday at 12:31 AM I don't get how Gamble thought Misha's Cas was expendable. She just couldn't get her mindset out of s1-3 mentality I guess.

CastielToday at 12:31 AM but as that became labored with culture and debt the american dream drifted into freedom, exploration and the road with some sense of familiarity in classics, be it cars or music

GarthToday at 12:31 AM Funny, I can watch some episodes and go "huh... well... it gets better" and that says a lot that I view Se1-3 like that

CastielToday at 12:32 AM Once security was no longer a security, and people became anchored by their illusions of security into desperate survival to maintain that illusion of security, the idea of roadster americana was the new american dream

GarthToday at 12:32 AM Hmmm good point

Aryn Prime #TokenStraight😘Today at 12:32 AM I just looked at spn Facebook comments and geeeezzz

GarthToday at 12:33 AM I keep having to remind myself about a few details outside of SPN because being able to just wait for Netflix to get a new season then rewatch it all from the beginning has made me have a different view then others.

CastielToday at 12:33 AM So especially to the older generation older SPN has a strong nostalgic value you were lik six when it aired so that era is gone to you

GarthToday at 12:34 AM Yeah, 1996 Nov is me

Aryn Prime #TokenStraight😘Today at 12:34 AM One dude on Facebook said he resents that the actors have kids since he heard that part of the reason that it's ending is because J2M want more time with their families Wtf

CastielToday at 12:34 AM Whereas when it first aired

GarthToday at 12:34 AM I first watched when I was 14

CastielToday at 12:34 AM it was reflecting an age lost

GarthToday at 12:34 AM Aryn, wtf?

CastielToday at 12:34 AM to people desperately trying to find it but in reflecting old times it aged very poorly Gamble still didn't understand what made the appeal so regressed it to brothers without that true americana vibe while culling Cas which was a disaster

GarthToday at 12:35 AM See, it's like the same thing on how I can enjoy some older shows while understanding that it no longer works anymore. Older shows don't age well normally. And yeah, Se7 hahahahahahahhahahahahaha man once I stepped back and looked at the details of season 7 during the third rewatch I was like "hmm..... yeah. this sucks."

StarfiraToday at 12:36 AM I graduated high school in 2000 so those of you were kids when you watched SPN make me feel old. LOL

GarthToday at 12:36 AM lmao

CastielToday at 12:37 AM MOOD STAR MOOD

StarfiraToday at 12:37 AM AT LEAST I'M NOT ALONE WITH THESE YOUNG WHIPPER SNAPPERS

CastielToday at 12:37 AM You were probably in the generation that if you had tuned in when it was fresh you would have been like OH I REMEMBER THIS

GarthToday at 12:37 AM LMAO

CastielToday at 12:37 AM I MISS THIS it's not by fluke that Dean's theme song is literally titled Americana

GarthToday at 12:38 AM Ah yes.... the theme song....

CastielToday at 12:38 AM It was a whole beautiful craft

StarfiraToday at 12:38 AM I'm actually in between Dean and Sam's ages

CastielToday at 12:38 AM But it had to get with the times and Gamble took it in the worst direction possible

StarfiraToday at 12:39 AM I was born in 82

CastielToday at 12:39 AM Carver... people have their issues with carver but IMO he recovered the show as well as he could with the plate he was handed in the times he was There were still problems sure

GarthToday at 12:39 AM It's gone through some ups and downs, yep.

CastielToday at 12:39 AM but to boot out of Gamble era into the modern world was no small task The WAY HE HANDLED THE PR he basically was like THAT SHIT WAS A HOT MESS AND I FLUSHED IT but eloquent it was some shit like REWATCHING THE LAST FEW YEARS I REALIZED THAT OUR LORE HAS BECOME A BIT DIFFICULT TO FOLLOW SO I DECIDED TO REVISIT MORE FAMILIAR ELEMENTS

GarthToday at 12:40 AM When the people working on the show go "shit, I forgot to make notes"

CastielToday at 12:40 AM It's not that Carver didn't make notes

StarfiraToday at 12:40 AM Oh man were so ecstatic when Carver was announced as a showrunner. Ultimately, he let me down in s9 and s10 but s8? Season 8 will always have a special place in my heart.

CastielToday at 12:41 AM it's that there was no kind way to voice that Gamble was a disaster He had a three year plan and for reasons™ got even derailed in that plan and half of it ended up in the cut footage Destiel fandom do not like hearing my take about it I'm a shipper but I recognize

StarfiraToday at 12:41 AM Is season 8 perfect? Nope, but I don't think it's easy to describe what breath of fresh air it was after the shit show of season 7 to those who weren't there when it was airing live and binged through it

CastielToday at 12:41 AM yall fucked up b a d nobody will ever own responsibility for it but carver's intent is clear as day on the creatives wall and season 9/10 became a fustercluck as a result I want everybody in this room to think about this from a creatives angle, first carver then corporate Carver said when he joined he had a three year plan with final notes on his desk from the second he walked in the door again he entered in season eight We know what happened seasons eight, nine, ten on screen

GarthToday at 12:43 AM Yeah, Star, I don't have as many problems with the seasons as others do because hello Netflix, but I can see where the issues are after some explaining and some insight into the PR stuff that happened with the fandom points at Min and others like her

CastielToday at 12:43 AM we know season great we know season 9 and its potential we know season 10 -- and most of us know its cut scenes humanity, being human, colette, the altar of winchester, the secret admirer, the boyfriends that strapped into the abaddon/colette parallels, all of it we know carver himself wrote the s10 finale and got it to film and then it got cut we know s9 he gave misha a note to play as jilted lovers from the showrunner but then we ask why did this never make it well nobody in fandom was paying attention nobody paid attention to SPN struggling the first seasons nobody paid attention to gamble's era almost getting nuked they all swore up and down this outdated americana show was about to have a queer pairing go canon because, yes, at that point reads crumbled note wallpaper

GarthToday at 12:46 AM Urgh, gotta go help with dinner prep. Mom doesn't like me being on Discord lately so I'm going to have to cut out now guys. Min, I'll catch up to your info drop afterwards lmao

since that still surprising some people too.

[wren-again]

In the Centre of a Restaurant

This is a scene from I’m So Dirty Babe (links in the reblog) that I know I released on AO3 a while ago, but I’m still proud of it and I wanna share!

Dom!Cas, Sub/Dean. Warnings for D/s, exhibitionism, and something in the realms of edging. Nothing happens but somehow everything does….

Dean spent the next few days constantly on edge, like he was stuck between Dr Frankenfurter saying antici- and -pation in the world’s longest production of The Rocky Horror Show, so it was, of course, just when he let his guard down, certain that Castiel has just decided not to show, that he turned up at his doorstep like a dark figure emerging from the rain in some crappy B movie. There wasn’t any rain, but that’s what it felt like. He was expecting to be instantly pushed down on the bed or crowded up against a wall, but Castiel, never one to follow expectations, grabbed his wrist and pulled him out the door.

“Have you eaten?”

Dean shook his head, stomach growling at the mention of food.

“That is fortunate, we were going to a restaurant regardless.”

Was this a date? It didn’t feel like a date, it sounded like a date, surely you were asked on a date rather than dragged out the door to one. Dean gave up on trying to find the answers, expect the unexpected, he internally chanted to himself, it was the only way to keep up with this man. Not that he was likely to be able to anyway.

Castiel clearly knew where he was going, he turned Dean away from his car and led him on foot to a restaurant a few blocks away.

Cas led Dean through the door with a firm hand pressed to his lower back, a strange mixture of gentlemanly and demanding. It was strange enough to be at a restaurant with a man who he had barely spoken to aside from filth in the wake of a murder, he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that the date was already far from conventional. Cas seemed more likely to rip his throat out than kiss him goodnight, a thought that left him both disturbed and aroused.

He was pulled through the room like a hostage in a gunfight, all violence disguised as affection. The hand around his waist pulling him close and gripping him tight enough to bruise. He couldn’t tell if Cas had always been intending to seat them at the table in the dead centre of the room or if he had only decided to do so when he felt Dean leaning towards the darkest corner booth. It was a decision that infuriated him, they were far too exposed here, but he clamped his mouth shut as Cas squeezed him slightly tighter in warning. Yes, he might as well have been a hostage, for all the choice he was being afforded.

Cas pulled out a chair for him, forcing him down with a hand on his shoulder, then took the seat directly beside him. Dean shot him a questioning look, which was only answered with a mischievous smile and an increasingly familiar controlling grip on his thigh. Dean took a deep breath and willed himself not to get hard in public, he had a sneaking suspicion it wouldn’t go well for him if he did, which, dammit, made it even more difficult to avoid. This was hot as fuck, but Dean Winchester sure as shit didn’t let himself get pushed around without a fight.

Cas released his hold and grinned smugly as Dean rubbed his aching leg, a look that was gone almost as soon as it had appeared. A waiter materialised at the table, asking them for their drink orders, and Cas had ordered two red wines before Dean could open his mouth and ask for a beer. The waiter was about to walk away when Dean decided that he had had just about enough thank you very much. He summoned up his most charming smile and ordered four shots of whiskey. He was expecting a reaction immediately, instantaneous world ending vengeance, perhaps that was what had been hoping for, because when it didn’t come there was a strange twinge of disappointment within him. An unreadable look passed across Cas’ face, then was gone.

An excited kind of dread settled in his stomach, which didn’t go away even as Cas pored over the menu, discussing aloud his choices for both of their meals. This was scarier than the threatening looks or possessive touches, he didn’t know how to prepare for silence. When Cas ordered their food Dean stayed determinedly quiet, telling himself half-heartedly that it was only because what Cas had ordered did sound really good. That still didn’t give him an excuse for the way he avoided looking at either Castiel or the shots when they arrived at the table.

They ate in relative silence, Castiel didn’t need words to control every action Dean made. He could do it with a look, a slight twitch of his eyebrows, a darkening of his eyes. It was so subtle Dean couldn’t be entirely sure he wasn’t imagining it, perhaps that was the game now, yet he still found himself eating more politely than he could remember doing maybe ever before. There was the occasional comment, like when he pulled a face at the taste of the wine, so friendly on the surface. Dean drank every drop, silently admitting that it wasn’t all that bad.

He was warm and content by the end of the meal, enjoying the food and the company, the lack of worry caused by no longer having to choose. There was no need to choose, Castiel appeared to know what he needed better than he did himself. The second, of course, that Dean came to this realisation was exactly when Cas decided to tell him, “drink your whiskey Dean,” in a deceptively calm voice, the true danger simmering just below.

Dean swallowed, ducking his head with something resembling shame.

“Nah, I’m good,” he said with a falsely cocky grin.

“Now now Dean, it wouldn’t do to let it go to waste, not when you wanted it so very much.”

Yes, there was that danger, an electric threat crackling behind his eyes. Dean tried to push two of the shots towards Cas, but was stopped with a look.

So that was how it was going to be.

He downed one after another, with only the briefest of pauses during which he silently begged Cas to reconsider whatever evil was brewing, but those eyes didn’t waver. Dean wasn’t accustomed to feeling shame. Guilt he was used to but shame was unusual. It was sickly sweet like chocolate cake, clogging his arteries. He hadn’t done anything wrong goddammit, he was a grown ass man and he could drink if he wanted to. Once again, a look instantly proved him wrong and he was reminded that he had entered into this knowing exactly what he was doing, he forfeited choice the second he opened his mouth for Cas’ cock. He finished the last shot and felt slightly nauseous in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol, then sat back and waited for the tidal wave.

What he hadn’t expected was Cas sliding his seat closer, leaning in, and pressing soft lips to his neck. Cas very deliberately blew warm air on his ear and Dean shivered at the sensation. He turned his head, more desperate than he was willing to admit, and Cas half climbed into his lap as he licked whiskey from his mouth. Dean didn’t trust it, he couldn’t trust it, couldn’t believe that Cas was the forgiving type. Still, it was good, so good he couldn’t stand it. When Cas pulled him up from the seat by the collar of his shirt and lead him into an empty corridor he almost forgot to be scared.

Cas crowded him up against the wall, lining up their bodies and breathing heavily in his ear.

“The things I would do to you,” his voice was deeper then he had heard it before, raspy and practically dripping sex, “I could make you scream with pleasure, or pain, whichever you desire.”

He rolled his hips to make his point absolutely clear, Dean moaned and tried to pull him closer, but Cas didn’t allow him to. He kept a careful distance between them now. Close enough that he could feel the heat from his body without getting any pressure where he needed it most. He continued to practically growl in his ear.

“I can see your longing, it shines out of you. I could take you against this wall, right now, I could make you come so hard you’d forget your own name. Have you bare and broken and beautiful, exposed before the world. Someone could wander into this corridor, see you opened up before me, and they would know you are mine. Maybe I would share, if I was feeling kind, I don’t think you would tell them no, I don’t think you could resist any demand I made of you. Or perhaps I should keep you for myself, my filthy little fuck toy. So subservient. Would you like that? Well would you, boy?”

Dean nodded and Cas grabbed his chin, turning him to look him in the eye.

“Say it,” he commanded with a voice that had got impossibly deeper.

“I’d like that, all of it, whatever… whatever you want to do to me.”

“Then beg for it,” that cruel glint was back in his eyes, and Dean knew, just knew, that there was no way he could win this game.

“Please, fuck me,” he whispered.

“You can do better than that,” Cas was definitely mocking now. Dean gulped and continued.

“Take me against this wall Cas- sir, destroy me, expose me, make me scream however you like. I need it, I need it so fucking bad,” he was babbling, half panting, incapable of keeping back the words no matter how much speaking them hurt, “please sir, please.”

Cas smiled with the satisfaction of a cat who just caught a mouse, and spoke one deadly syllable.

“No.”

Dean slumped back against the wall, mind blank with the need that had filled him only to be denied.

“Please I… I need…”

“Well you shouldn’t have drunk that whiskey then, should you?”

Dean was shaking like he’d just been slapped across the face, he wasn’t surprised, not really. He just knew that he’d lost.

                                                 ***************************

The more Dean thought about it the more he felt like he should be mad, but he wasn’t, that was the strange thing. He knew he liked being left unsatisfied sometimes, but what Cas had done was something far beyond that. He had destroyed him with barely more than a few words, cruelly broken him apart and left him to suffer. He also knew that, being honest with himself, that was exactly what he liked about it. He tried being mad, over the next few days, but when it came down to it thinking about that night just made him horny and desperate to do better next time. Desperate to be good, of all things. He hadn’t wanted to be good in years.

[salaciouscrumbb]

“Dean Winchester destroys everything he touches. We might as well give him someone already broken. Someone expendable.”

ohhhhhh i didn't think i could hate naomi more but i can! even tho it's only fan fic!

[deansdirtylittlesecretsblog]

The Arrangement: Part 1

Title:  The Arrangement: Part 1

Summary:  He’s a mechanic. She’s a lonely woman with more money than she knows what to do with. Fate brings them together and sparks fly. But only for six weeks. That’s the arrangement.

Author: Dean’s Dirty Little Secret

Characters:  Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Word Count: 1944

Warnings: None in this chapter, maybe language

Author’s Notes:  This is part one of a multi-part series. Shifts between two points of view. Huge thanks to @mamapeterson for her invaluable help.

Week One, Day One

The pop song streaming from the overhead speakers was annoying enough to make his ears ache. He was going to kick the ass of whoever it was that had messed with his radio settings.

“What is this crap we are listening to?” Dean yelled from beneath the hood of his beloved car.

When no one responded, he stood up, grabbed the towel that was resting on Baby, and halfheartedly attempted to wipe the grease from his fingers. He glanced around, but the garage was empty, of course.

Empty that was, except for the woman standing in the doorway. A woman he’d thought he’d never see again.

Dean reached over and flipped off the radio. “I hate that damn song,” he muttered before turning his attention back to her.

She looked nervous, standing there in a crisp, white dress and high heels, an expensive looking purse clutched in her hands. Her eyes darted around the garage, taking everything in. She was beautiful, ethereal really, her beauty nearly indescribable. He couldn’t believe she was actually standing in front of him after all these years. He took a deep breath before speaking.

“Can I help you?” he asked, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt.

She cleared her throat. “Yes, um...I don’t know if you remember me? Y/N Y/L/N?”

The name would have taken him by surprise if she hadn’t occupied his thoughts off and on since she’d climbed into her car and left him in her dust. It had been a few years since he’d been graced with her presence. He put a carefully neutral expression on his face.

“I do remember you,,” he replied, attempting to give her a reassuring smile. “It’s been a very long time.” He walked toward her, his hand outstretched.

The woman flinched, her brow furrowing in what might only be described as disgust as she looked at his outstretched hand. She took a step back, squared her shoulders, her hand tightening on her bag.

“It has been a long time,” she answered softly. She cleared her throat again. “I understand you are the best mechanic in Maine.”

Dean dropped his hand, ignoring the slight at her refusal to shake it. “I don’t know if I’m the best,” he shrugged. “But I’m pretty good. Can I help you with something?”

“You restore classic cars, right?” she asked.

“I do,” Dean replied, wondering what exactly she wanted. It certainly wasn’t everyday that someone like her wandered into his shop - the daughter of the richest man in town, which was saying a lot in Kennebunkport, summer home to two presidents. She hadn’t been seen much, not since her father had died almost four years ago, in an accident. Since his death, she’d hardly been out of their giant mansion on the bluff.

“I have a car I’d like restored,” she said, staring at her feet. “It’s a 1965 Camaro. It was my father’s. Would you be able to restore a Chevrolet?”

Dean smirked, stepped to the side, and pointed behind him. “You remember my car? She’s a ‘67 Chevy Impala and I’ve rebuilt her from the ground up. Twice. Trust me, I can handle a Chevy.”

He didn’t like how skeptical she still looked, or the way she raised one eyebrow, as if she was questioning him. He sighed heavily, crossed the room, and grabbed a folder from a stack on the desk. He turned back to her, clutching it tightly in one hand.

“Why don’t we go for a drive?” he said, pointing at Baby.

“I don’t see what good that would do - “ Y/N shook her head.

He shoved the folder into her hand. “Get in the car. You can see how well she rides while you look through that.” He pulled open the door and gestured to her. She hesitated for just a second, enough to send a flash of irritation rippling along his spine, but then she steeled her shoulders and stepped gingerly across the floor, avoiding the inevitable oil and radiator spills scattered around the floor. She gave him a grim smile as she slid into the car and he closed the door behind her.

This was going to be interesting.

Dean Winchester hadn’t been what you’d expected or remembered. You weren’t sure what exactly it was that you’d expected when you’d walked into Winchester Automotive, but it hadn’t been how intensely beautiful the green-eyed, intoxicating man standing in front of you was, that was for sure. If it was possible, he was even better looking than the last time you’d seen him. You had to force yourself to concentrate on the words coming out of his mouth, words spoken in his deep, thick voice, a voice that made you shiver, and sent an ache coursing through you. You remembered what it felt like to have that voice whispering in your ear, the way it would reverberate through every part of your body, how the words would catch in his throat when he -

You bit your tongue, flinching as you forced yourself back to reality. Now wasn’t the time to drift off into daydreams and memories, not when Dean was standing in front of you with his hand outstretched. Confused, you took a step back, squared your shoulders and tightened your grip on your bag. You needed to concentrate. You’d come here with a purpose in mind and you were determined to follow through with it.

Once you’d explained what you wanted - and most likely completely offended the only mechanic in Maine who could accomplish the task - you waited with bated breath for his answer. You were surprised when he asked you if you wanted to go for a drive, even more surprised when he opened the door of his beautiful black car and gestured for you to get in. You clutched the folder he’d handed you tighter and slid inside, releasing a breath you hadn’t known you were holding as soon as the door closed behind you. You let your hand drift over the soft leather, glanced into the back seat, a blush coloring your cheeks as you remembered the time you spent there.

You held your breath as Dean dropped into the car beside you and started the engine. She roared to life, her engine purring, rumbling beneath you. The sound brought tears to your eyes. You ignored them, flipped open the folder, gasping at the first picture of the classic car, one side of her completely destroyed, windshield broken, frame misshapen, tires blown, seats crushed. It was a massacre.

You ran the tips of your fingers over the picture, unable to believe what you were seeing. You put your hand on the door, intent on getting out and examining her for yourself, until you realized the car was moving, gaining speed as Dean maneuvered her through town and onto the coastal highway, picking up speed quickly.

With a flick of his wrist, he turned up the radio, classic rock filling the car. You chanced a glance at him from the corner of your eye, marveling at the confidence he exuded as he drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his knee, his fingers tapping in time to the music. Some things never changed.

He hugged the curves as he drove effortlessly up the mountain, easing the huge car along, controlling her as if she was an extension of himself. It was enticingly erotic, watching him drive. The memory of what it had been like to slide across the seat, to press yourself against him, to touch him as he drove hit you out of nowhere. You had to close your eyes and bite your lip for a moment; you did not need those thoughts clouding your head. It wouldn’t end well.

You opened your eyes as you felt the car slowing. Dean eased her off the road, parking in the overlook just five miles from your home. Had he brought you here intentionally or was it merely a coincidence? You turned away, watching Dean rather than the spot where you had -

He interrupted your thoughts. “Alright, Ms. Y/L/N, what is it you need me to do?”

Dean shook his head. This had to be some kind of cosmic joke. Or maybe he was being punked. Y/N had just offered him more money than he thought he’d see in a lifetime to restore her father’s Camaro. It was enough to help Sam with school, take care of some much needed upgrades at the shop, and set up a comfortable nest egg for himself.

“You’ll really pay me that much? Just to restore your dad’s old car?” He watched her carefully, trying to see if she was jerking his chain. “What’s the catch?”

“I’m only giving you six weeks, from today,” she replied. “And all of the work has to be done in the garage on my property. I won’t allow the car to be removed.”

“I don’t know,” Dean shook his head. It would be so much easier if he could work in his own garage.

“You don’t have to worry about having the proper equipment,” she assured him. “Trust me when I say my garage is fully stocked, with whatever you could need. And if it’s not there, I will get it. But the car doesn’t leave the property. Period.”

Dean rubbed a hand across his forehead. He’d be stupid to pass this up. Stupid. Bobby could take care of the shop during the day, and he’d be available if an emergency came up. He could work weekends, evenings, whatever it took to get the job done. He squeezed Baby’s steering wheel, his knuckles turning white, the hard leather creaking softly. He was really going to do this.

He opened his mouth to answer Y/N, already nodding his agreement, but she wasn’t looking at him, she was staring out the window over the water, a tear running down her cheek. The urge to wipe it away came over him, but he pushed it away, shoved it down deep. He barely knew her, not anymore anyway. Those days were over. She’d changed and according to the rumors he’d heard, she’d become cold, standoffish, aloof, no longer the carefree, beautiful creature he’d romanced so many summers ago.

A few seconds later, she brushed a hand over her face and turned to face him. Without thinking, he reached over and put his hand on hers, squeezing gently. She gave him a tentative smile, turning her hand to intertwine her fingers with his. It was cold. He held it tightly, staring into her eyes. His heart was trying to pound out of his chest, something it hadn’t done since the last time he’d lost himself in her, this woman who had used him, breaking his heart. How was it that she still had a hold on him?

Abruptly, she pulled away, turning to look out the window, pressing herself against the passenger door. She fidgeted in her seat, her fingers tapping on the folder in her lap.

“So, will you take the job?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied. He waited, wondering if she would say anything else and when she didn’t, he started Baby and pulled out of the overlook, so fast the tires spun, spraying dirt behind them.

Neither of them seemed able to look at the other as Dean drove them back into town. He had a bad feeling about this, a nervous twist in his gut that he didn’t like. He kept reminding himself it was only six weeks, just forty-two days.

Six weeks. Forty-two days.

He could do this.

Forever:  @aprofoundbondwithdean @jensennjared @mrswhozeewhatsis @the-mrs-deanwinchester @official-shipper @brooklyn-writes-flangst @climbthatmooselikeatree @mamapeterson @katnharper @raeganr99 @skybinx-blog @winchesterr67 @grellsutcliff105 @arikas5744 @faegal04 @the-girl-of-your-nightmares @mrsjohnsmith @kreborn17 @mogaruke @courageoussam @nerdwholikesword @growningupgeek @virgosapphire79 @sleep-silent-angel @bkwrm523 @iwriteshortstuff @for-the-love-of-dean @nichelle-my-belle @deandoesthingstome @andiamsoinlovewithyou @pizzarollpatrol @misswhizzy @supernatural-jackles @balthazars-muse @waywardjoy @awkwardnerdqueen @valee-ppiew @superbluhoo2 @deansbaekaz2y5 @roseangel013bf @deanwinchestermybae @jencharlan @kickasscas67 @chelsea072498 @neanealuv @deanscherrypie @kittenofdoomage @tjforston @purgatoan @just-a-touch-of-sass-and-fandoms @sckslife @sis-tafics @youwerelikeadream @i-dream-of-dean @impala-with-wings @bringmesomepie56 @basmaraafat @oriona75 @dearmisterhiddles @writingbeautifulmen @ultimatecin73 @gemini75eeyore @vote-for-pedro @tom-is-in-my-tardis @percywinchester27 @mysteriouslyme81 @faith-in-dean @that1seniorchick @milkymilky-cocopuff @atc74 @s4m-w1nch3st3r5287 @winsmut @squirrelchester @demonangelimpala @justacaliforniandreamer @xxsugarturtle @findingfitnessforme @wvnchxstxr @winchestergirl-love @petrovadixon @colorfuluniversewhispers @love-kittykat21 @velcr0kitty  @hidingfrommychildren

Dean girls:  @rizlow1 @eyes-of-a-disney-princess @winchesterenthusiast @salvachester @deanwinchesterxreader @love-me-some-pie21 @appleschloss @zanthiasplace @hybristophilaa @jackburtonsays @destiel-bae @winchester-bait @ioanashalala @meliluv26 @kayteonline @miss-devonaire @torn-and-frayed @piratedaydreams @myspnsmutsave @omgreganlove @secretlyfurrydragon

[hekate1308]

Once Upon A September, Chapter Two

Lawrence

Castiel groaned.

Crowley, while apparently unshaken at the spectacle in front of them, was quite as annoyed, if the way he showed the last Dean impersonator the door was anything to go by.

“Dear God, these guys were all pathetic.”

“Maybe you can’t just fake being of noble blood” Cas tried, but Crowley shook his head.

“No, Feathers. I will admit that a little something called dignity is always a plus, and that there is a certain charm one’s either born with or doesn’t have, but surely someone has to know how to play a prince.”

“There’ve been no plays in over eight years. Maybe all actors – “

“Come on. I’m still here, you’re still here. Someone in this godforsaken kingdom has to remember how to act.”

“Republic” he corrected him automatically.

“Not in my house.” Crowley sighed. “I think we should go to the Palace, check out a few of the old family paintings. Maybe if we get someone who looks enough like him, we can train him.”

“He was just a child – “

“Hair and eye colour don’t just change spontaneously when you reach a certain age. Let’s go!”

Castiel followed him because he had nothing else to do.

Lawrence, a few miles away

Michael had no idea what he was doing.

Sure, he knew something as stupid as a black feather had told him to go to Lawrence, but now he was there...

It wasn’t too late yet to return and go to the factory. It wasn’t too late to at least get a job.

But there was something about the city drawing him in.

Drawing him to a specific place.

He ended up standing in front of the old palace. Somehow, he knew exactly how it had looked like back in the days of glory, the days only few dared whisper about; the days of the Winchesters.

Michael had always been fascinated by the former royal family, but not because they had been by all reports excellent kings right until the revolution no one could explain; no, because of the tales of how much the king and queen had loved their children, Prince Dean and prince Sam.

He had always imagined that if he found his family, they would welcome him with as much devotion.

These days, the palace was deserted. Few dared approach it, but no one even looked at Micahel as he approached it.

It was easy to gain access.

Michael strolled through the abandoned corridors, imagining how it must have been, almost a decade ago. Had the princes played in the hallways? Had they been allowed to interact with the other children? Had the king and the queen made sure they saw them at least once a day, despite their many obligations?

He stopped and leaned down to pick up a few pieces of colourful glass. It wasn’t difficult to guess that they came from the window that had been broken by a brick, most likely on the night of the revolution most people wished had never taken place.

The glass still sparkled in the sun whine he held his hand up.

“Mom, what are they doing?”

She smiled at him. “They are renewing our windows... and this time, there’ll be colours.”

“I love colours!”

She chuckled and ran her fingers through his hair. “I know. And once they’re done, you can see the colours dancing across the wall.”

He shook his head, unable to explain where the scene had come from. It happened now and then, faces and rooms popping into his mind and fading away just as quickly. He knew there was no point to hold onto the blonde woman; she would disappear like everything else he’d ever tried to grasp about his past.

Michael continued walking around, unable to explain what he was searching for, but feeling that it was important.

Finally he came into what must have been the throne room. At least it had been called that; the Winchesters had in fact done away with the throne or any royal regalia generations ago, one of their tutors had confided to them one day; King John and Queen Mary had been sitting on simple chairs when they had listened to their subjects’ petitions. But once upon a time, there had a throne, and therefore the room would always be called that.

Even now, with Michael standing amongst the ghosts of a recent past that felt centuries away.

Just like his own.

He slowly made his way through the room the room, walking up to where the royals’ chairs would have stood. They had sat in front of a painting of their family.

The Winchesters and their two beloved sons.

Michael’s eyes scrutinized every single one of them, until he was just starting at the oldest child. Prince Dean.

They must have been about the same age. At least Michael believed he had been ten years old, minus or plus a year or two at the most, when he had been found.

Dean. A good name, really. He didn’t much care for Michael, but it was as good as any other until he found his real one-

“Now, now, what are you doing here?” a voice drawled behind him. He reeled around.

The palace, a few moments earlier

“It looked different back when I was a child.”

“And the prize for the most asinine comment goes to – “

“Not what I meant” Cas mumbled. “It seemed – bigger, that was what I was trying to say.”

“Everything seemed bigger back then.” Crowley pointed at a dark corridor. “That was where the royal suites were located. Dean had his painted all in blue, and with lots of toy carriages. He loved them.”

Castiel was beginning to wonder just how much time Crowley had spent in the palace before the revolution. As a kitchen boy, he’d never been informed about the guests of the King.

“The kitchens are then other way” he replied. “I always enjoyed cooking.”

The revolution had hit his whole family hard. The income the children had provided – he and Gabriel had both been working in the palace, although his happy-go-lucky brother had been a page rather than a kitchen boy – had disappeared over night, just like their tutors and their hopes of something better for all of them.

“Don’t look like that” Crowley scolded him. “Things are looking bleak, I grant you that. But either you are like all the other sheep and just drudge along, or you try to do something better.”

“I don’t think betraying a family’s hope is necessarily – “

“Details, Feathers, useless details.”

They had reached the throne room, where the old family painting was still hanging from a wall, five happy faces staring at nothing.

Or rather, someone.

Crowley reacted first.

Now

It was a good thing Castiel wasn’t alone, because he was looking at one of the most gorgeous men he had ever seen.

He had long been aware of his desires, and thankfully people like him were no longer persecuted in Lawrence; not even Metatron had dared change the Winchesters’ policy of live and let live.

“Aren’t you pretty” Crowley mused. “I have to say, for a burglar you give a girl all sorts of naughty ideas.”

“If I’m a burglar, you tow are as well” the main answered smoothly.

“What an astute observation, I can tell we – “ Crowley began but stopped abruptly, frowning. His eyes flew from the young man (maybe two or three years younger than Castiel, but why he registered that, he couldn’t say) to the painting and back again, and it didn’t take Castiel long to realize what he was thinking about.

The man had vibrant green eyes and brunette hair, like the boy Castiel remembered leading through the palace as it had been destroyed.

Crowley cleared his throat. “I think we’ve got off on the wrong foot. Name’s Crowley, this is Castiel. Who are you?”

He looked at them, clearly suspicious, but seemed to decide to risk it. “Michael.”

“Michael and?”

“And nothing. I don’t ask about your first name either.”

“Castiel is my first name.”

It was the only thing to say he could think of.

Michael – somehow, the name didn’t seem to suit him, like a piece of clothing a number too small – snorted. “Alright. So, last name?”

“Novak.”

“What about you, creepy guy?”

“No one has ever heard my first name and lived, my dear.”

“Not your dear.”

Crowley suddenly stepped up to him to scrutinize him. To his credit, Michael didn’t step back.

“What the hell – “

“Anyone ever tell you that you bear an uncanny resemblance to the lost Prince?”

He laughed, but it was not a nice laugh, not a happy laugh, not one Castiel wanted to hear from this beautiful person ever again.

“What is this going to be? Some “make a poor schmuck believe he’s actually a prince” joke? This ain’t Cinderella, pal. My own folks didn’t like me enough to stick around and I ended up in a hospital with no idea who I was. Still don’t know. So if you could kindly – “

“He’s got spunk. That’s good” Crowley mused as if he hadn’t heard him, “Dean was only ten years old, but you could already tell he’d be trouble when he grew up.”

“What – you knew the Prince?”

“Crowley” Castiel said resignedly, “Knew everyone. Still does.”

Crowley smirked. “Remember that.”

“I will – look, guys, I really don’t care, so I will just – “

“Now, now, not so fast” Crowley said, reaching out for him.

Michael answered by shoving him to the side.

“Alright, alright” he raised his hands. “No touching. More’s the pity, but as you wish.”

Michael huffed. “What do you want?”

“You see, we’re in a bit of trouble – “

“You are” Castiel said firmly.

“Come on, fathers, we’re in this together.”

“Because you decided we are.”

“Alright guys can you do anything else than bicker for half a minute? This one” Dean pointed at Crowley, “Clearly has an offer of some sort to make, and right now I’ve got nothing – I might even be desperate enough to take it.”

It was music to Crowley’s ears, no doubt, but Castiel would rather not have involved someone who looked so pure in their scheme.

“Just hear me out. I am guessing you are not the biggest fan of our president either?”

“How do you know that?” Michael asked, his eyes narrowing. Naturally, he was suspicious. Metatron’s agents were everywhere.

If Crowley hadn’t had his own reasons to want him gone, Cas could have easily imagined he’d have been one of them.

“Because you’d hardly be here, staring adoringly at a picture of the royal family if you were an admirer of his?”

“I wasn’t staring adoringly” Michael muttered, “I was looking at it. I was curious.”

“My point exactly. Now, here’s the thing. The one who has a right to the throne – the one who could kick Metatron out – is Prince Dean.” Crowley gestured towards the portrait. “Prince Sam will never be seen as having a better right to the crown until it is proven that his brother is dead, and that’s practically impossible. And the family has been looking for Dean ever since he disappeared. So we thought we’d find someone who looked like him – “

“An imposter, you mean” Michael said.

“Exactly. Hell, we could even be open about it with the royal family – I am sure they are eager to get rid of the president.”

Castiel wasn’t sure Crowley was telling the truth. He certainly wanted the money the Winchesters were ready to pay.

On the other hand, he really hated Metatron, so who knew? It would be just like him to keep his real motives a secret, too.

“So you want me to do what? Play the Prince? I have no idea what to do! I don’t even know with which fork to eat dessert!”

“That can easily be arranged. We only need you to be believable for a few months. Then you can step down and let Prince Sam have the throne.��

Any sane person, Castiel knew, would say no. And yet, despite everything, he desperately wanted him to come with them.

Michael blinked. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but fine. I’m in.”