#RIP Cas' pores

[destiel-wings]

Dean & Cas || Say yes to heaven

I finally posted my destiel fanvid!! 😍🥳

I was listening to this song more than a month ago and I thought it was absolutely perfect for Dean & Cas, and I went on youtube to search for a vid and got basically zero results (criminal, if you ask me), so I took matters into my own hands and made the one I wanted to watch.

I had a vision for the mood and feel of this vid, and in some way, a storytelling that I was trying to convey through the scenes and the song. Tell me what you think, I hope you like it as much as I do 💙

☆ watch it on YouTube

(I'm sorry for the delay, but I've had to render the video multiple times because youtube kept cutting its quality 😖)

Let me know if you want to be added to a permanent tag list for my future vids (or just subscribe to my YouTube channel so you'll see when I post new ones).

taglist under the cut:

people who asked to be tagged 💕

@castrotophic @butch--dean @cevansbaby-dove @wise-writer-girl @angelkissesdean @vendettasfanfictioning @cocohufflepuffs @antasarra @huggybearsunshine @winged-horrors

people who liked my post about this vid (i hope the tag is appreciated 💕)

@nyxietigs @markofcastiel @too-busy-for-this @maiagaia @eonblueinmay @rileyh20 @jeherion @envydean @sashalovescas @alo-20 @mcrrina @johnlockifconvenient @i-made-this-for-school @thisisacatperson @notsoshining @oblivionxd27

[safetypinned]

the smell of sulfur and sweat. metal and rust. blood and his own torn skin fills his mouth, his nose. lungs. seeps into every pore until it coils around his insides so deep that he can feel the pain swallow him whole. devour him in it's gnashing teeth until there's nothing left but laughter and agony. there's no escaping each lash. each rip that's torn into his flesh over and over. the wish for numb. for his mind to break and be unable to feel has long since been abandoned. just like his hope. of ever escaping this place. how many years has it been? time means nothing when you're gritting your teeth and gulping down every scream that wants to break out because it only gets worse when you break. wrists hang limp from shackles that bruise and cut. sam's head hangs forward, hair matted to the sweat on his brow as bloodshot eyes roll back and then fall closed. he grunts and whimpers. the devil only laughs louder. a shackle crumbles. one of the hooks inside sam's shoulder tears out of his skin. he screams. warm blood runs down his shoulder as he hangs from one arm. another rush of terror for what's about to come echoes the sound.

blinding light. sam's ripped into consciousness before his brain can disconnect from the horror show he was trapped inside. "dean!! help me!" his voice tears through the room as he battles against an invisible monster that doesn't exist. arms and legs flail against hands that are frantically trying to keep him from hurting himself. inside that fight, he hurts castiel. doesn't realize what he's done or where he is until the second time his voice is said. tears roll down the bridge of his nose as the fighting struggles to a stop. his arms gripped tight in the angel's grip as wild eyes finally focus on the oceanic blue begging him for forgiveness. his brows push towards one another like he's questioning what that pleading look is for before his features buckle and without any effort to free himself from cas's grip--sam pushes his face into the side of cas's arm that's closest (blocks out the world with it) and chokes on a sob he meant to snuff out. "m'sorry, cas. i didn't--i was--i'm sorry."

@safetypinned ;; loud and deafening silence (still accepting) night terrors .   hold  Sam after  he wakes  up  from  a  nightmare .

                                   CASTIEL HAS AN EXCELLENT SENSE OF HEARING, so even though he stays outside the hut to watch their surroundings for a possible Wendigo attack, he can hear Sam tossing and turning inside. He grunts and mutters, and when it sounds like he's in actual pain, Castiel decides to check up on him. Maybe the food he had for dinner was bad? There's a thin film of sweat on Sam's forehead when Castiel steps closer to the narrow bed with its dusty covers. His features contort and twist, and it takes the angel a couple of seconds to realize that Sam is dreaming. Or rather: having a nightmare. 

                                    Castiel hesitates, then gingerly places two fingers on Sam's forehead to dip inside his dream, wanting to soothe it from within. What he sees, though, makes Castiel regret that decision immediately. Metal rods and fire and smoke. Whips tearing skin to shreds, hooks in flesh, knives carving into bone. And above that all, the maniac laughter of the devil himself. Castiel violently pulls himself out of the nightmare, gasping sharply, and he almost misses that he yanked Sam into consciousness as well. He gets hit in the face by Sam's thrashing limbs because he got forced into wakefulness quicker than any human safely should, and while his nose is throbbing and hurting, he reaches for Sam's arms to stop him from maybe hurting himself. "Sam," he tries, voice trembling, "Sam, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." For waking him like that? Maybe. For being the reason Sam even has these dreams because he destroyed the wall inside Sam's head? Most definitely. "It was a dream. You're not there anymore. You're safe."

[naruhearts]

I’m done keeping my composure.

Sorry, this will be a LOADED post! (And I’ll be repeating the points others have made)

for real, to everyone being nasty and telling heartbroken fans that “Dean was always supposed to die get a grip you’re just butthurt etcetera etcetera—” F you royally.

How dare you police the brutal feelings that’s been embroiling us since the Finale That Must Not Be Named aired. 

The show you think you all watched, the show you all believe was the same SPN from Season 1-4, changed at some point. Kripke wrote his original vision, put it to screen, saw it through in S5 as he intended, and closed the door on that era.

In 2008, Supernatural was adopted and inherited. As you know, there was a supreme paradigm shift post-Kripke era. The show FLOURISHED (we won’t talk about Gamble thanks). It evolved, transformed, grew beyond trauma-induced self-worthlessness and toxic masculinity and endless death and hegemonic social ideals and conservatism and repressive anti-revolutionary ideas. Castiel, the iconic favourite and beloved staple of the series portrayed by Misha Collins, was introduced in Season 4 as the core lead character, and he ushered in a brand new era of Christian mythos that SPN took advantage of. Longevity SKYROCKETED. Audiences were INTERESTED. SPN amassed an incredibly groundbreaking fanbase infused by non-nuclear principles. A massive subversive wave began, fighting the Status Quo of the times since 2008. It’s precisely why such an abysmal ending to a show of extensive Freud-Jungian metanarratively meta META complex stature and social POWER will render us totally and unbearably broken for years to come.

Point is, DEAN WINCHESTER NO LONGER WANTED TO DIE. HE WANTED TO LIVE. HE WANTED TO SIT ON THE BEACH, PLUNGE HIS TOES IN THE SAND, AND SIP UMBRELLA DRINKS WITH HIS BROTHER AND HIS BEST FRIEND. He said this in Season 13. And then, a season later, he told the ghost of his long-deceased father — the source of his deep-running trauma and the figure of self-reductive authoritarianism permeating his arc since Season 1 — after being questioned why he didn’t pursue the Nuclear Fam, that he already has his own: his brother Sam, his adopted child Jack, and Cas.

Dean’s best friend Cas. Oh god, Cas, who made his inevitably permanent mark on Dean’s soul beyond allyship. Castiel, renamed to Cas, God’s -iel removed by Dean. Dean, the human spark that lit the fire of pre-existing autonomy in the inherently rebellious angel who was, this entire time, the catalyst for free will in God The Writer’s puppet show. Their friendship set on goddamn fire. I can also write paragraph upon paragraph about my love for Cas while devastated tears stream down my face, but I digress—

Cas’ romantic love for Dean pushed our main Heart of SPN to love himself. Love is free will. Free will is also love. Of note, Cas’ love confession in 15x18 was supposed to offset something so vastly important and fundamental...to maybe (read: most likely) pull the trigger on SELF-TRUTHS in conjunction with free will. And The Great Anticipated Follow-Up to the episode penned by the passionate Berens should have included (read: seemed like it was going to be) Dean, closeted trauma survivor in love with his best friend, being given the opportunity to do it right: to SPEAK HIS TRUTH, and then that very singular opportunity was STOLEN so grossly. After poring over it for days, I refuse to believe we made their years-long story up out of thin air, spun it out of fantastical-delusional dream cotton candy, because we DIDN’T. IT WAS REAL.

As I said in another post: “I’ve just been feeling physically ill for the past >40 something hours with the terrible knowledge that 19/20 undid years of vital progression towards healthy interdependence, autonomy, and a positive endgame, where Sam, Dean and Cas close the ring of found family in final empowering self-fulfillment...where Dean, no longer repressed and set free, is able to use his words and speak his truth as a queercoded trauma survivor, henceforth confirming and self-affirming his own bisexuality since S1 by reciprocating — by telling Cas that he always loved him, too, loved him endlessly, which would have altogether divested Supernatural of its cult status and catapulted it into global worldwide significance as the longest running sci-fi genre show in American broadcasting history that actually dared to defy and, by proxy, empower LGBTQ2IA+ everywhere who found profound personal meaning in Destiel through VALIDATION,” — found themselves mirrored in Dean and Cas’ respective character journeys individually and as each other’s queer love interests.

THIS IS WHY DEAN WASN’T MEANT TO DIE.

THEY WERE SO ESSENTIAL, NOT JUST TO THE OVERARCHING STORY AND HEALTHY INTERPERSONAL THEMATICS OF MODERN SPN, BUT ALSO TO THE SOULS OF THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE ACROSS THE WORLD WHO FOLLOWED THEIR JOURNEYS, HOPED FOR THEM, ASPIRED TO BE LIKE THEM, TREASURED THEM, WEEPED FOR THEM, AND FOUGHT FOR THEM, LIKE YOU AND ME.

Heck, how could anyone think Sam Winchester had a well-deserved characteristic ending? He didn’t. Dean’s brother was shafted so badly. He stopped hunting when seasons ago, he had canonically accepted that he no longer wanted an apple pie life. He simply...turned the lights off in a resoundingly empty bunker and left — abandoning his dead brother’s room — never to return (he did return later to get the Impala, family photos etc, I mean this symbolically)...as if — dare I say it — Supernatural itself eerily told us, in the negative-spaced pitch blackness, that the organic show and the wonderfully complex, matured characters we’ve grown to love weren’t going to survive or be revisited...that it was all going to perish, and that they no longer gave a single shit about their own show, which, to me, is the worst cardinal sin, because how dare they throw Team Free Will, an immovable and indomitable and passionate found family they built from the ground up, a found family CHOCK FULL TO THE BRIM OF LOVE AND LIFE RAGING AGAINST THE AUTHORITARIAN MACHINE IN ORDER TO ACHIEVE FREE WILL, under the bus no matter who is to blame. Growth was stomped on.

Then Sam married a faceless wife who wasn’t his textually established (and deaf) love interest Eileen, named his son Dean Jr., and grew old miserably, still mourning the passing of his older brother, shaken and sombre. Back to square one. IT WAS ALL ANTITHETICAL, even OUTSIDE a shipping context, and I ripped my hair out at this point in sheer disbelief.

This 15x20 ending would have fit somewhere between S4-7. Now? IT DOESN’T FIT. IT’S A JAGGED PUZZLE PIECE THAT DOESN’T BELONG ANYWHERE. IT’S THE FOREBODING UNKNOWN STRANGER IN ITS OWN LAND, BOTH LITERALLY AND FIGURATIVELY. This kind of ending was basically an illogical, unsound cluster of metastasized cells that, to me, ruined the viability of previous seasons to sustain bold praise and respect and dignity and rewatches and classic nostalgia in such insidious ways.

Dean Humanity Winchester and Cas, after everything they’ve been through, were silenced and lost in death, ripped apart from each other, unable to love each other the way they deserved, because of disappointing, vile incompetency and homophobia. The greatest love story ever told, again obliterated in less than 60 hollow minutes.

You know what this tells your audience, CW SPN? Death without self-growth is the way to go, and no one is allowed to forge their own path to freedom.

HOW INSULTINGLY HARMFUL IS THAT?

I don’t think I’ll ever stop grieving.

We all deserve answers.

[sahrayliathefaelia]

Dean grew up listening to Elton John as a little kid. John and Mary were big fans; they had many of Elton’s albums on vinyl and cassette, classics like Don’t Shoot Me I’m Only the Piano Player, Honky Chateau, and Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. When Dean was three, he would pore over the album artwork for Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy like one of his picture books. Mary and Dean would sing “Crocodile Rock” at the top of their lungs in the kitchen, both of them giggling while she stood him on her toes and rocked from side to side. John would teach Dean how to do air guitar for “Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting” in between cooking spaghetti and meatballs for dinner.

Then Dean turned four, and Sammy was born, and Mary died.

A few months after Mary's death, in the Impala on a long drive to some nowhere town, Dean quietly asked if they could listen to one of the Elton tapes, and John responded, cold and flat, "Sold them." When Dean asked why, John clenched his jaw and snapped, “Because we needed the goddamn ammo, Dean. I don’t want you listening to that queer, anyway.”

For the next near quarter of a century, Dean only heard snatches of Elton's music in random passing, drifting on the radio or playing faintly at gas stations in the middle of the night.

Then Dean made the deal to save Sam’s life that would send him to hell.

A few months before Dean is due to be ripped to shreds by hellhounds, Sam pulls a cassette tape out of his jacket pocket and pops it into Baby’s deck. The music starts, and Dean bristles, recognizing the voice immediately. The sharp, jagged bolt of angerconfusionsadness is at once strange as it is familiar. He swallows, forces it down, keeps it compact. He takes a quick, sipping breath and asks, carefully neutral, "What's this?" Sam pretends not to notice Dean’s weird reaction and smiles minutely, picking at his nail beds. "Elton John. Found a cassette at a yard sale last week. He did the music for The Lion King. You snuck us in to see that movie when I was 11, remember?"

Dean huffs and rolls his eyes. "Yeah, how could I forget? You practically begged me to steal those tickets. You were all excited about those baby lions." "I did not--" Sam cuts himself off to level a glaring bitchface at Dean, and Dean chortles, lifting his hands momentarily from the wheel in surrender. "Alright, I remember, Sammy, sheesh. Don’t get your panties in a twist. What, uh... what other stuff has he done?" Dean feigns ignorance. He learns about Elton John all over again through Sam, and it’s... it’s nice. Sam doesn’t know much about the music, but he seems to know a fair amount about the guy’s life, definitely way more than Dean ever did as a toddler. “Apparently he was married to a woman for five years,” Sam says at one point. Dean balks in surprise. “Wait, really? Isn’t he gay?” Sam shrugs. “I guess getting married was the safer option then.” This sits funnily in Dean’s chest. “If There’s a God in Heaven (What’s He Waiting For?)” leaves both of them in heavy, tense silence. Sam sniffles and clears his throat gruffly. He rasps, “Dean--” and Dean blasts the stereo, drowning Sam out. Dean has his mother back for the first time in decades. They keep each other company in the bunker kitchens when nightmares render them sleepless. Dean makes hot chocolate with cinnamon and whipped cream for both of them like Mary used to do when he was a child. He thinks about dancing to Elton John in his childhood kitchen, rocking on his mother’s toes, and something behind his ribs unfurls. He pulls up his music library on his phone and presses play on “Tiny Dancer.” He glances over to Mary after a few moments, silent, cautious. Mary’s answering smile is warm butter, and Dean breathes. On their three-year anniversary, Dean takes Cas to an old record store to buy vinyl for the jukebox player. He finds an Elton album he’s never heard before called Peachtree Road. The song titles catch his eye: “Answer in the Sky,” "Freaks in Love,” “All that I’m Allowed (I’m Thankful),” “I Stop and I Breathe,” and “I Can’t Keep This From You” stand out in particular. He drops the record in his basket. “Dean,” Cas calls. He’s standing a dozen feet away in the hip hop section, his chest and arms snug in one of Dean’s hoodies. Dean’s heart flickers at the sight. “I have found Lizzo’s newest album. This will be my purchase.” “Sounds good, babe,” Dean replies easily. “Found some Elton John, one I haven’t listened to before.” Cas tilts his head in consideration. “I don’t believe I have listened to Elton John at all.”

“First time for everything, right?” Dean quips. He adds, belatedly, “You’ll like him. He’s gay, like you.” Cas beams his radiant, gummy smile. “I’m sure I will.” Pop Rocks throw a party in Dean’s belly. He gingerly checks to make sure that the velvet ring box is still in his pocket. “Cool. Ready to go?” “Yes, Dean.”

They sway to “Your Song” for their first dance as a married couple. Dean hums the melody softly in Cas’ ear, and Cas shivers in Dean’s arms, and Dean is home.

[bestworstcase]

"zhan tiri becomes rapunzel's emotional support demon" I'M LISTENING?

yeah so the thing abt bitter snow cas tower au is:

1. cas grows up saporian, a culture that treats ambition and anger as virtues

2. the only reason she’s not cháthar by the time she’s fifteen is sirin going no you cannot gamble your life on the minute chance that drinking the magical pitch won’t kill you wtf

3. regardless the sensitivity to magic doing the crēdathámanē gave her is something she values and cultivates

4. it’s common knowledge in saporia that calanthe gothel is the failed scion

so

casāndra doesn’t stumble across the tower ravine so much as she is out hunting and notices a trace of the magic gothel uses to keep people away, and goes huh. this is tirian magic?? and spends a good long while picking it apart as she follows it back to the source; so by the time she hits the tower she knows she is breaking into the home of calanthe gothel, the traitor and then when it turns out there’s a seventeen year old girl with magic oozing out of every pore trapped inside it cas is like. UM

so it goes roughly like

rapunzel: i want you to take me to see the floating lights

casāndra: …sure thing but listen do you mind making a pit stop on the way because there’s this tree--

and then rapunzel gets a crash course in recent history to the tune of “king frederic ripped the flower out of the ground and then blamed and executed my parents for the plague he caused” and less recent history to the tune of “this bastard demanitus tried to destroy magic by erasing the cosmic bridge between the sublime and profane realms and now she’s trapped but my aunt has this theory that the sundrop and moonstone can free her” while en route to janus point

pre-hair-cut raps is a lot more in tune with the sundrop and the sundrop itself is a lot healthier, so while it’s not enough to break zhan tiri out altogether they do manage to tear open a much wider gap for zhan tiri to squeeze through and the result of that is: zhan tiri looks at casāndra and goes “oh you want magic? HAVE SOME” and she looks at rapunzel and goes “WHAT have the coronans done now” and also “aren’t you tired of being nice don’t you want to go apeshit,” and then they go to herzingen for the lantern festival in the company of a gigantic mangy she’s-just-a-weird-dog-we-swear! and rapunzel learns how to party the Zhan Tiri Way, which does not involve quiet romantic evenings in little rowboats whatsoever

[cyber-skeletons]

welcome to dwc!! how about ' You need to stay still. ’ for Cassandra?

Thank you sooooo much!! I had an absolute hayday with this!

CW: graphic impromptu surgery, lots of blood, near-crushing death (via ogre), feelings vaguely self-harmy in nature

Pronouns for Cas Adaar are it/its @dadrunkwriting

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Err,” Dorian started, placing a delicate knuckle to his jaw, “forgive me if I’m wrong, but uh, that’s a little too much blood leaking out of the Seeker’s armor.”

Cas whipped its head around to look at the towering, muscular woman where she stood, pale and flagging beside the body of the ogre of all things they’d just killed; she’d been grabbed by the monstrous darkspawn by throwing herself in front of Cas where the Tal-Vashoth had been lying prone, smacked away into a wall after it stabbed its daggers into the beast’s hamstring in an attempt to set up a killing blow to its head. It wasn’t moving, and the ogre was preparing to bite it, and so Cassandra did as she always did — physically put herself between the Inquisitor and harm.

Dorian froze when the ogre ripped her raised shield away and ignored her sword pierced through its fist; it just grabbed her with its other hand and squeezed, warping her armor into her skin, and suddenly he had no willpower or wherewithal anywhere in his head to stop the horror he was seeing.

Blackwall, however, didn’t freeze. The Warden rammed himself into the ogre’s back with all his strength and his loudest war cry, jarring it enough to stumble forward, and Cas summoned the strength to swipe its dagger across its eyes, blinding it, before flinching away from its tainted blood as it fell. Blackwall then severed the ogre’s tendons behind its knee, sending it to the ground, and in utter silence, Cas leapt upwards, battered and bloody, to pierce its daggers into the darkspawn’s eyes and twist, ensuring a permanent kill, ceasing the dreaded thing’s regeneration.

Their first concern had been the Inquisitor, checking it over to ensure none of the beast’s blackened, corrosive blood got ingested or entered one of Cas’s many open wounds; Blackwall, especially, was consumed with ensuring his Tal-Vashoth lover was not tainted. But then Dorian looked to Cassandra for reassurance — funny how he did that — and when he saw her he was very much not assured.

“By the Black City,” Blackwall breathed, running forward to catch the woman where she began to collapse.

A spray of blood erupted from her arm.

Cas made a noise not unlike a stuck bull and looked to Dorian, its expression as stone as ever save for its pinched brow and the way its tone pitched up into the scream of a hart.

“I don’t know healing magic! And even if I did, it wouldn’t be enough to help with THIS!” Dorian shrilly screamed back, gesturing wildly at Cassandra where Blackwall was dragging her away from the growing pool of black blood, mingering with her own pool of scarlet. When Cas snarled and grabbed his lapels, he shouted, “DAMMIT Cas, I’m a necromancer, not a spirit healer! If I can do anything to her then that means things have gone TERRIBLY WRONG!”

“I am fine,” Cassandra managed to grunt around her trembling jaw, and Cas immediately dropped Dorian where the Tal-Vashoth was holding him up off the ground; Dorian landed with an ‘oof’ as Cas skidded to Cassandra’s side.

<You are NOT. FINE,> Cas signed, its hands shaking in rage while Blackwall was hurriedly taking his gauntlets off.

“Cas, love,” Blackwall said softly, “I need everything off of her arm, now, or she will die within the minute.”

Without a sound, Cas curled its fingers around the straps of her gauntlets and arm plating and ripped them apart, hurling them into the distance.

“Put as much pressure as you can without breaking bone on the inside of her elbow and over the bleeding site,” Blackwall continued as he pored through his satchel, pulling out a needle and thread. “Dorian, I need your fire.”

Dorian dropped his staff and hurried over as Cas took off its scarf and pushed it as hard as it dared down onto the bleeding wound, holding it steadfast and firm. “What do I do?” Dorian asked quickly.

Blackwall handed him the sewing needle. “I need you to get this needle hot. It has to be sterile, or she may die before we can get her to a proper healer.”

Dorian huffed and took the needle. “Way to bruise my eg-”

“Now.”

Dorian rested the needle on his palm and then summoned flames into his hand while Blackwall scrubbed his hands feverishly with alcohol.

After five minutes, Blackwall gently ordered Cas to remove their ruined scarf and hold her wound open. Cas did so with steady hands that no longer shook, their eyes blank yet focused, and Cassandra finally stirred, letting out a pained noise and writhing.

“Cassandra!” Dorian gasped, a faint smile flitting past his face. “Hello dear girl! Stay with us now! Hold still for just a moment!”

Cassandra’s face just twisted in a grimace, and she writhed harder, sending a new stream of blood from her arm.

“You need to stay still, soldier,” Blackwall gruffed. “That’s an order.”

In her delirium, her rattling chest heaving, Cassandra did so.

“Stop that fire.”

Dorian similarly followed the order, and with his bare hands, Blackwall grabbed the razor hot needle; the only sign he was in any pain at all was the ticcing of a muscle in his jaw. “The both of you, hold her down and give her something to bite. This won’t be pretty.”

Dorian scrambled around to Cassandra’s other side, and with Cas, they both held the woman down with all their strength as Blackwall lowered the needle to the hole in her artery.

Cassandra screamed.

Dorian began to shrink away, but Blackwall growled, “Hold.”

Gulping, Dorian renewed his efforts to stop Cassandra’s thrashing, all the way until she passed out.

After her artery was cauterized, Blackwall made quick work of threading the still-hot needle with fingers steady as stone, even burned and blistered; he sewed up the laceration and used Dorian’s scarf as a clean bandage, and then all the rest of it was a blur as Cas gently picked Cassandra up in a bridal carry and the three of them rushed back to camp in a daze.

–

“Warden Blackwall?”

Blackwall looked up from where he was rewrapping his hand and gently smiled, a grim thing that didn’t reach his eyes. “Seeker. You look well.”

Cassandra shuffled on her feet and held the elbow of her wounded arm where she stood in the doorway to the horse barn. “I wanted… I wanted to thank you. It is my understanding that you saved my life.” She opened her mouth as if to say something else, then slowly closed it. “The healers cared for the infection, and now it is already little more than a scar. I wanted to see if your hand was similarly on the mend.”

Blackwall let out a gentle huff and flexed it, reveling in the sting of the bending burned tissue. A wound he acquired in saving a life, rather than taking it.

“It’s healing nicely,” he placated lowly. “And do not mention it. I was merely doing my duty as your comrade in arms.”

“Well,” Cassandra said slowly. “If it had not been because of my own weakness-”

“Lady Cassandra,” Blackwall said gently, and he finally stepped away from his work table to approach her. “It was my honor to aid such a brave, selfless woman. In another life, you would have made a fine Warden.”

Better than me.

Cassandra straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin at him with a low, grieved noise.

“Perhaps,” she hedged. “As it was, I was merely doing my duty to protect the Inquisitor.”

“Whom I cherish beyond as just my commanding officer,” Blackwall added, gently. “I am your brother on those battlefields, Cassandra. You are not alone in how much you are willing to sacrifice for your charges.”

Her expression softened for a fraction of a second.

“...Thank you,” she said slowly, then held out her hand for him to shake.

He took it. And he didn’t care that she accidentally asked for his wounded hand; the sting, the burn, the pain felt good. Cleansing. Healing.

It was a reminder that he was alive. That she was alive. And he had hope that maybe, just maybe, he would not view the first as a curse.

[watermelonlipstick]

Dreams, Chapter 13

If you haven’t read this series before, you might want to start on Chapter 1, or check out the Dreams Masterlist! Here’s the series description:

When Dean dies for good leaving Sam and his girlfriend (the reader) behind, they must figure out how to carry on without him. Alone, reeling, and unsure what to do next, trying to honor Dean’s memory and follow their hearts gets even more complicated when their nightmares become dreams that feel a little too real.

Title: Dreams, Chapter 13

Pairing: (past) Dean Winchester x Reader, (eventual) Sam Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 1513

Summary: The reader has another dream with Dean, where he emphasizes how he feels in a variety of ways.

Warnings: angst, fluff, swearing, s l o w  b u r n, this section has a little smut, oblique mention of suicide

           The last lingering kids are leaving the other side of the playground as the golden hour streams through the trees, likely going home to their families for dinner and homework and whatever else normal kids do on fall afternoons like this. Sunlight seeps into your jeans even as the air has a touch of chill to it, and when you pump your legs the balance feels amazing.

           “What’re you, trying to go all the way around?” Dean laughs, looking impossibly overgrown in worn shit kickers on a swing meant for children next to yours. You throw your head back to laugh, feeling the wind through your hair as you soar past him. When the chains start to jump a little you back off, letting your momentum wind all the way down until you’re swaying back and forth lazily together. You reach over and slip your index into a new hole in the knee of Dean’s jeans. He links his fingers into yours loosely, play-coy. “You always did love these, you little minx.”

           “What can I say? I like as much of your skin as I can get.” You give him your best Dean Winchester wink and he bites his lip through a chuckle. For a long minute you sit just like that, feeling the warmth and calm soak into your pores. “What should I do, Dean?” you murmur.

           He swipes his thumb across the back of your hand. “He needs time. It’s going to be okay, I swear. You know Sam he’s just—he’s in his head.”

           You nod to yourself. “It’s that we’re happier, right? Is that how this works, how you can come be my Friendly Neighborhood Freddie Krueger, or whatever?”

           “The way Cas explained it was ‘closer to true serenity and self-realization’ so whatever the hell that means. You are, though, right? Happier?”

           Meeting his eyes made you feel even more relaxed, steady and reassured regardless of how bizarre it was to tell him, “Yeah, I really am. Dean, I—I miss you so bad it still sometimes feels like I’m going to puke. But yeah, I’m happier with Sam. I love him, baby.”

           Dean’s gaze goes fuzzy with affection around the edges. “Well, he’s pretty damn lovable. Runs in the family, what can I say?” He kisses the back of your hand. “Good.”

           “Good?”

           “It’s not a trap, babe. You’re still my girl.”

           “I love you.” It’s all you can say, all you can think, really. You watch his profile for a moment as he squints against the low afternoon sun, casting beautiful sunflower light over his freckles. “What happens if I don’t wake up?”

           “Your subconscious will kick me out and you’ll wake up automatically. I don’t think you can really control it.”

           “No, I mean, like, if I don’t wake up?”

           Dean turns toward you, jaw set hard and nostrils flared. “That’s not fucking funny.”

           He tries to pull his hand out of yours but you tighten your grip. “What’s the point though? If you’re, you know, okay, can’t we just—”

           “No, we ‘can’t just,’” he scowls. “All the bullshit I’ve done over the years to keep you two alive, but fuck it, who cares? Let’s throw in the towel, really make the whole thing worth it.”

           “I’m—Dean, it’s not that. I just don’t understand what we’re waiting for. It’s not like Sam and I are even hunting anymore, there’s no more ‘bigger purpose’ to our lives, why be separated—”

           “The ‘bigger purpose’ is you fucking being alive. That’s the bigger purpose. Forget it, off the fucking table.”

           “Forgive me if I’m wrong, but it’s not really your call.”

           Dean finally yanks hard enough to get his hand out of your grip and braces his elbows on his knees to hold his chin. The serious angles of his anger look out of place as he sways slightly, boots in the playground mulch where he sits on his swing. He looks back at you after taking a deep breath. “Kid, please. Just, please? I’m—that’s all I want, is you guys getting old, really getting out. I can’t have—I can’t have Sam’s whole life be only hunting, he deserves more than that.”

           You scoff, half a derisive laugh. “Making his decisions from beyond the grave, that’s good, even for you.”

           “Is it really that bad? All I’m asking you to do is wait. You’ll get here soon enough.”

           “Yeah, it really is. It really is that fucking bad. And honestly, who are you to ask me that? You’re not here, Dean. How can you ask us to do it without you?”

           “It’s not like you two are fucking here with me! Do you think I’m loving every minute of it, getting grapes fed to me by 1992 Pam Anderson all goddamn day? I’m alone. It’s heaven and I can, whatever, visit Bobby or our folks, get so blasted I can’t see and wake up with no hangover, but you two aren’t there. Do you get that? So I get some glimpses of you guys and I know you’re taking care of each other and I can fucking wait, because that’s the way things are supposed to be.”

           He’s trying hard to keep his voice level but it’s coming out like a growl, and you know him, know from that clench of his jaw that he’s barely keeping it together, on this stupid swing set in this stupid gorgeous park, whose attached memory you can’t even recall.

           “Hey,” you breathe, getting up out of your swing to stand in front of him, taking each of his hands and putting them around your hips as you slot one leg on either side of his waist and settle on his lap. This close you can practically count each of his eyelashes where they graze his cheekbones and you take one hand to tilt his face up to yours, your toes just barely grazing the ground behind him. “Okay. I’m sorry. Okay.” You curl forward into him, catching the plush of his lips and kissing Dean in apology. He snakes a hand into your hair, winding his fingers in it and kissing you back, and you feel the twinge of desperate frustration, meeting him there with everything you have, shifting all your weight onto his center of gravity and working as best you can to weld your body to his. Dean’s other hand slides to your lower back, under your shirt, the callused tips of his fingers digging into the skin and he’s just as hungry for you as you are for him, grabbing at his chest hard enough that you’re at risk of ripping his shirt, pink lines from your nails marking up Dean’s neck.

           The hand in your hair tugs back, firm enough to be rough, and the noise you make is halfway between a moan and a whimper as he bites your neck, the sound hardening Dean through the denim under you and then he’s tearing at your shirt, not bothering with the obstacle of your jacket at all as he tries to shuck both off at once.

           “We’re in a—Dean, we’re in a fucking playground,” you hiss, about two inches away from not caring.

           “Babe, it’s a dream, we’re not really in a park,” he mutters along your jugular, the moist slick of spit turning ice cold in the fall air.

           That’s all the permission you need and you lean back to let him rip, flicking open the metal of his belt buckle and button, unzipping his jeans. “Fuck—kid, careful with the zipper,” Dean grunts, diction poor as you bite his lower lip.

           “I don’t want—to wake—up—before—" you murmur though fevered motion, licking and nipping along Dean’s jaw, and the realization gets Dean with the picture. He stands up fast, picking you up and crushing you into the metal pole of the swing set, practically shredding your jeans as his start to slump around his hips, worn plaid of his boxers covering the fast-thickening length of him and you turn to lean your chest against the pole, ready for him before he spins you hard.

           “Need to see you,” he says, almost quiet and gentle as his hands are moving roughly against your body, and you see the touch of wetness at the base of his eyelashes while you try to stand on one leg and yank the other out of your pants as fast as you can.

           It’s sloppy and goofy and unbelievably, gut-punchingly hot, wrapping your bare thigh around Dean’s hips as he shove-slides inside you, his hand protecting your skull from getting rammed into the metal. “I love you I love you I love you” you’re humming into the crook of his neck and Dean kisses you again, slowing down.

           “I know, baby, I know,” he says, pace no longer frenzied but rhythmic and building.

           You press a palm to his chest and Dean pauses for a beat, stretch of him buried to the hilt so perfect it’s almost distracting but you still have to ask, “When am I going to s—”

           “Hopefully soon.”

           And then he’s gone.

-

Continue to Dreams, Chapter 14

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[firefly124]

SPN 15x20 thoughts

I’ve been living in kind of a bubble today. Watched the ep first thing this morning. Cried a lot. Thought a lot.  Avoided social media because I wanted to really think it through before getting influenced by The Internet’s hot takes.

Overall, I liked it. There are definite areas that could have been better, in my opinion. At least one of them may have been pandemic-related, as in just unable to get someone to set for the final episode(s). The overall feeling of it falling a tad flat suggests to me that could be down to some of the changes they made.

Let me start with things I liked.

Call-backs to old episodes, particularly episodes so old I’d forgotten them.

Jack fixed Heaven , and

either he brought Cas there or Cas annoyed his way back out of the Empty again.

Sam getting to live the life he’s wanted since the pilot. (Okay, he may not have been a lawyer, but someone was raking in the bucks for them to have that home he died in.)

Bobby at Harvelle’s!

Brilliant use of negative space during the initial time back at the bunker.

Was that Thomas Padalecki? I squealed when I saw that kid. If it wasn’t him, it was a helluva look-alike. Either way, it was adorable.

Always Keep Fighting got thrown in there.

The shift between the original Carry On Wayward Son and the cover. The only way that could’ve been better would’ve been to just use the track from 10x05.

Each member of Team Free Will 2.0 closed out their arc, albeit only half did it in person, with at least something that linked back to something they had wanted since, if not their introduction, at least early on. Sam got his family life. Dean died with his boots on, fighting monsters. Jack fixed heaven, and Cas helped with that. Presumably, now he really is the “new sheriff in town.”

Some things I was less happy about.

Fell short of giving us full, reciprocated, textual Destiel. I had hopes for the papers Sam saw on Dean’s desk, but we never got to see what they said.

Mime-pires? Seriously? Why? I have some vague thoughts about the business of draining one, stealing the kids to farm for later, and ripping out the tongue of the surviving parent. Which kind of goes along with the mime-pire thing.

Has everyone forgotten Eileen ever existed? This is the one I think might be down to being unable to bring the actor to set because COVID. It would have made the most sense for Sam to end up married to her. The fact they kept his wife in the shadows says to me that they wanted to leave it open to interpretation, but I can’t help wondering if that’s one of the things that had to be changed.

Seriously, Cas has gotten out of the Empty twice, and Sam and Dean know it. Why TF didn’t they at least try to find some way to get him back? Even just a scene of poring over lore books and Rowena’s journals and saying they just can’t find anything would have filled this glaring hole.

Why could we not at least see Cas? We know Misha was up there. Apparently just for an interview he could’ve done from his living room, but whatever. Also, my eyes are not great, and that pan-out was too fast for me, but I think he may have been on that bridge.

Seeing Dean do a little more work of some kind to process everything that happened (probably not super-healthily, but not fifth-of-whiskey-a-day processing like early S6) might’ve made the “Yes, it hurts, but if we don’t go on living, those sacrifices mean nothing” seem a little less flippant.

After all the many bits along the way, starting from at least 2x02, a big part of Dean’s arc has been learning to accept himself. We got a piece of that in 15x19 when he told Chuck, “That’s not who I am.” Where was it, at all, in 15x20?

Dean’s death scene would’ve felt like a better end to his arc if we’d seen him mourning in this episode, not just at the end of 15x19. Yes, he’s come a long way since 13x05, but come on!

I’m sure there’s more I could add to both lists. And I probably will. I just wanted to capture my thoughts before I start reading all the meta and hot takes and fix-its.

[queen-of-deans-booty]

99 Problems: Part Two

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 2,284

Warnings: typical supernatural violence, language, angst, blood, you know the usual

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. Any and all comments on these are appreciated. I really want to hear what you guys think about this one!

Feedback is the glue that holds my writing together.

Tags at the bottom

If now isn’t the right time, then you don’t know when it will be. Things keep piling up, and you’re scared Dean is going to find out about you through someone else which will only make this worse. The guilt is eating at you from the inside, and you need to come clean about what you did.

“Dean, I need to tell you something,” you say while Sam is off making a call to the nicest angel you know.

“Yeah.”

“Dean, this is important. Like, really important.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, well, no. You see, a couple of weeks ago, I… okay, I'm just going to come out and say it. I—”

“I left Cas a message. I think,” Sam interrupts. He takes a seat and hands you and Dean a beer, and his attention is focused back on the case. “So, uh, what’s your theory? Why all of the demon hits?”

“I don’t know. Gank the girl? The prophet, maybe?” Dean theorizes.

“She’s not a prophet,” you interject.

“What?”

“She’s not a prophet because she’s not human. Prophets are human. She’s not, so therefore, she can’t be a prophet,” you say with some tension.

“How do you know she’s not human?” Sam asks.

“I just do, okay? I can sense these things.”

“Yeah, well, whatever is going on, sucks. These angels are sending these people to do their dirty work.”

“Yeah, and?” Dean asks after he takes a sip of beer.

“And they could get ripped to shreds.”

“We’re all gonna die, Sam. In like a month—maybe two. I mean it. This is the end of the world, but these people aren’t freaking out. In fact they’re running to the exit in an orderly fashion. I don’t know that that’s such a bad thing.”

“Who says they’re all gonna die? What ever happened to us saving them?” he asks angrily.

Before anyone else had a chance to answer, the church bells toll, and everyone starts to get out of their seats.

“Something I said?” Dean shrugs.

“Paul. What’s going on?” Sam asks.

“Leah’s had another vision.”

“Wanna go to church?” Sam questions and gets up.

“You know me—downright pious,” Dean smiles.

“Dean, seriously, I do need to talk to you. It’s very important.”

“What is it? Tell me now.”

“It’s not the time. Just please remind me when we have a chance.”

“Okay,” he nods, and the three of you head over to the church where everyone is gathered.

“Three miles off Talmadge Road,” Pastor Gideon says once it’s time to begin. Leah stands behind him, and she interrupts by whispering in her dad’s ear. “Five miles. There are demons gathered. I don’t know how many, but a lot. Thank you, Leah. So, who’s going to join me?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Rob volunteers.

“Someone’s gotta cover Rob’s ass,” Paul grins.

“We’re in, Padre,” Dean speaks for you three.

“Thank you. I’d like to offer a prayer. “Our Father in Heaven—”

“Yeah, not so much,” you scoff.

“—help us to fight in your name. We ask that you protect us from all servants of evil. Guide our hands in defeating them and deliver us home safely. Thank you, Amen.”

Pastor Gideon directs his crew to the house Leah told everyone about. There is something off about that girl, but you can’t place your finger on it. She’s not human, then what is she? She’s not an angel or a demon, then what is she? She’s not a witch, then what is she? There isn’t time to think about it since you arrive at the demon house. Gideon and his crew crouch down to see if there are any demons outside, and you look around for them.

“Do you see anything?” Dean whispers to you.

You lift up your right hand and swipe it from the left side of your house to the right. By doing so, you allow your magic to let you see an x-ray version of the house. There are at least half a dozen demons inside, but you don’t know why they’re here.

“Two upstairs, three downstairs, and one in the basement. I’ll get the one in the basement. Be safe,” you say and get up.

“How did she do that?” Rob asks.

“Not the time, Rob. Just listen to her,” Dean coughs and takes two men with him to tackle the two upstairs.

Sam and the rest take the ones on the first floor. You, however, find a door that leads to the basement, and you use your magic to unlock it. It’s dark and dusty, but you ignore the smell and walk down the stairs. You create a ball of magic to float beside you as a source of light since you didn’t have a flashlight.

“I know you’re down here. I can sense you,” you say loudly.

There is a bit of a scuttle from behind you, and you smirk. The demon gave away his position the minute he decided to move. Turning around, you threw your ball of light at the creature. He isn’t expecting it, and the ball slams into his stomach. His body absorbs the magic which causes him to cry out in pain. He lifts his right hand and uses his demonic power to throw you against the wall. It hurt, but not as bad as this might.

You get into a running stance before charging, and you put everything you have when you slam into his body. He grunts in pain when the wind gets knocked out of him, but he recovers quickly. He grabs at your throat in an attempt to subdue you, but he should know better than to mess with a witch. Your eyes flash bright blue, and you do the first thing that comes to mind. Much like you’ve seen Castiel do, you place your hand to the top of his bald head.

His eyes and mouth are wide with fear, and black smoke starts pouring out of every crease and pore. You don’t know how this is possible, but you are exorcising the demon without saying a word. Is this what Sam felt like when he was able to do this with his powers? Sure, he was hopped up on demon blood, but still. Is it weird to say you kind of like it? Maybe it’s the adrenaline talking, but you keep doing it until the demon is no longer inside the man. He drops to the ground, clearly dead, and you get up on shaky legs.

Did that really just happen? Did you exorcise a demon with your magic? You’ve never been able to do that before. It’s like you are unlocking certain things you can do. It all began after you found out you were pregnant. Shit, you were pregnant. You have to tell Dean. Dean! You hadn’t heard anything from above, and you don’t know if that is a good sign or not. Taking the stairs from the basement to the first floor two at a time, you open the door to see all the demons dead, Sam laying on some burlap sacks, and Dean with Ruby’s knife in his hands.

“Are you guys okay?”

“Yeah, are you?”

“Yeah.”

“Where were you?” Rob asks.

“Basement. There was a demon down there. Is everything okay up here?”

“Yeah, we got them all.”

“Great, we can leave now!” you smile.

It doesn’t take long to gather everyone and head outside.

“I guess that’s what it’s like, huh?” Sam sighs.

“What?”

“Having backup.”

“Guys I exorcised a demon!” you gasp happily when it was just the three of you.

Rob and his crew packed in their car while you and the brothers did the same with the Impala.

“Yeah, we all can.”

“No, with my magic! Like what Castiel does with he puts his hand on someone’s head? I did that!”

“Congratulations,” Sam chuckles.

“Be more excited for me, huh?” you scoff.

“Dean. Sam. Y/N,” Ryan says as he approaches you.

“Yo,” Dean greets.

“Hey. So, um, is—is that—is that cool that I get a ride back with you guys?” he stutters.

Dean makes eye contact with Rob in the driver’s seat, and he nods to let him know it’s okay if Ryan stays with you three. Rob doesn’t see anything wrong with it and leaves with the rest.

“Hey, you’ve saved my ass twice already. One more time, you can drive,” he laughs before turning to his brother. “Get a beer?”

Sam fetches for four beers from the car, and Dean tosses one over to the kid. Normally, you wouldn’t condone underaged drinking, but the kid earned it. Well, you don’t know how old he is, but he doesn’t look 21.

“Hey, you earned it. Don’t tell your mom,” Dean chuckles.

“Oh, believe me—I will not,” the kid scoffs.

The brothers open their beer and take a sip, but you finger the closed can. You don’t feel for alcohol right now, not when you have so much on your mind. You place the can on the trunk of the car, and before Dean has a chance to say anything about it, Dylan is grabbed by the feet and dragged underneath the car. He screams in pain, and you jump into action. Sam runs to the other side of the car while you and Dean help Ryan. There was a demon hiding underneath the car this entire time, and his only goal was to attack the kid.

“Dylan!” you scream and reach for the kid while Sam takes care of the demon with his knife.

When you see the blank look in Ryan’s eye, you know he is already gone.

“No!” Dean yells.

“Dylan, wake up,” you gasp and place your glowing hands on his face.

Dean pulls down his collar to reveal his throat had been cut by the demon. Maybe your magic can heal him, but you know that won’t work.

“Y/N, he’s gone,” Dean says painfully.

You pull your hand away as it fades to its normal color, and you lean against the car in defeat. This is not how you imagine this going.

“It’s all my fault,” you whisper.

“No, it’s not.”

“I should have known a demon was there! He died because of me! What am I going to say to his mother?”

It pained everyone when they found out about one of their own. The church obviously put together a funeral to remember Ryan, but you are more afraid of facing Jane, his mother. Rob is his dad from what you gathered before, but it’s the mother you are more scared of. At least Rob knows what the job entails. Janes doesn’t have a clue, not really. Everyone is gathered inside with you and the brothers posted outside of it. People are walking in, and when you spot Jane and Rob huddled together, your heart beats faster.

“Ma’am, we’re just, um, very sorry,” you apologize.

“You know… this is your fault,” she glares.

“Jane. Come on,” Rob whispers.

“It’s all my fault,” you sigh sadly.

“Y/N, why are you taking this so hard? People die on our watch all the time. It’s sad, but it’s true.”

“I know, but I do need to tell you something, and it’s been bugging me all day--all week—and I need to get it off my chest because it’s killing me.”

“Okay, after this we’ll talk, okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper.

Dean heads inside, but Sam stops you before you two can enter.

“You’re going to tell him? What happened to swearing me and Cas?”

“I can’t do it, Sam. When we died, all I saw was the daughter I killed. Daughter. It was going to be a girl. I thought I could do it, but I can’t. The guilt is eating me alive. I shouldn’t have done it. Oh, he’s going to hate me.”

“He’s not going to hate you.”

“Yes! I killed his child! I killed your niece! Why don’t you hate me for it?”

“Why don’t you hate me for what I did with Ruby?”

“You’re family. You’re--”

“Exactly. Dean will forgive you. Just give him time.”

“Thanks, Sam,” you sigh and head inside the church.

“I wish I knew what to say. But I don’t,” Pastor Gideon starts the service. It’s an open casket, and Ryan lays behind him. “I’m so sorry, Jane, Rob. There are no words. Dylan… I don’t know why this happened. I don’t know why any of this is happening. I got no easy answers. But what I do know is—” Leah’s eyes roll to the back of her head, and she falls out of her pew. She starts to have a seizure, and you watch from the back as this happens. “Leah, honey? Leah, honey? Honey? It’s okay sweetie. It’s okay.”

“Dad, it’s Dylan,” she mutters.

“Just rest a minute, okay?”

“No, listen. Dylan’s coming back,” she says with more urgency.

“What the fuck?” you whisper so low that no one else heard you.

Her dad helps her to her feet and lets her take the floor so she can explain what the fuck just happened. This never happened with Chuck. She’s not who she says she is.

“Jane, Rob… It’s going to be okay. You’ll see Dylan again. When the final day comes--Judgement Day—he’ll be resurrected and you’ll be together again. We’ll all be together. With all our loved ones. We’ve been chosen. The angels have chosen us. And we will be given paradise on earth. All we have to do is follow the angels’ commandments.”

“What are they?” someone asks from the crowd.

Oh, this is going to be a long ceremony.

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[ramblings-of-a-nervous-nerd]

Introduction ~ 1st Draft

This is the introduction to a story I am writing for my IBDP CAS Big Project. Constructive Criticism would be appreciated, but please be nice, this is the first piece of writing I will be putting online. This project will be ongoing for at least a few months.

Introduction

The golden light trailed fingers over the tips of amber spires, glancing off of glass and curved metal and delicate, filigree structures. A glow spread over the silent city, warmth coating the ground and hanging buildings, turning the long-settled dust silver in the dawn.

The dust was swept up in eddies and swirls of excitement in the force of a starship's thrusters, sending glittering sparks flying across planes turned beaten silver and struts gilded with liquid beauty under the sunslight. The starship dropped to the ground with a gentle thud and came to a standstill. A hatch slowly lowered itself from the belly of the semi-spherical capsule and two figures appeared at the end, the first visitors to this alien world in living memory.

BAM! “Hissssgh!” an angry hiss escaped the pores of the arthropod’s abdomen as his body hit the floor of the abandoned spaceport, legs nearly buckling from the effort of keeping upright. His companion roughly shoved his body aside with one foreleg as he stalked down the ramp, past where he had pushed his friend, striding further into the hanger with a disgruntled whistle.

“Stop here, Hiinto!” he mocked, irritation coating every hissing syllable as he pulled a satchel off over his thorax, gesturing wildly with his second pair of hind legs as he did so. “I’m sure there’ll be some people worth trading with here, sssee, ttthhey even hhhave a ssspaceport!” he continued, losing control of his consonants in his frustration.

His companion merely eyed him sullenly with his lamp-like gaze and said nothing. There was nothing to say when Hiinto got like this, and the planet really did look developed from above. Now that they were at surface-level though, it was obvious that something was very wrong. There were no noises. None. Not even the sounds of wildlife reclaiming an abandoned city broke a silence so dense it couldn’t even be called eerie, just oppressive and deafening enough that even Hiinto’s ranting was forced to end quickly, the weight of the noiselessness pressing down on him and locking the words back into his throat so as not to disturb the endless peace

The two traders gravitated towards each other as they wove through the sweeping tunnels of the abandoned spaceport, pearlescent and gleaming, throwing up the silver dust that lay, ankle-deep, on every surface. There were still no signs of life, or even death – no children running through the hallways and waiting rooms with weary parents having given up chasing them dozing in the chairs, no skeletons lounging on the benches or leaning up against the walls. There was no outward sign of what could have happened here, just the silence, the dust and the shell of a society that just seemed to have vanished.

The promenade they eventually exited onto was wide and impossibly long, stretching as far as the eye could see both left and right, with a balustrade held up by elegant, twisting columns. The whole structure was carved of the pure, white quartz of the mountainside they were emerging from and hung over the most elegant city that either trader had ever even dreamed of. The buildings were formed of smooth, curving planes and twisting helixes that blended seamlessly with the ground and one another, none of the mismatching peaks and flat roofs of most settlements. Every colour complimented and enhanced the building, the street, the city as a whole, a perfectly balanced palate of gold and silver and white and bronze stretching so far as to be beyond the limit of the imagination. An impossibly massive dome arched far above their heads, shielding the city from the elements and casting beams of light onto to scene through its soap-bubble exterior. Hiinto and Kanttho’s minds were filled with awe and respect for the architects of such a place, and terror for what could have brought such a people down.

No flaws marred the perfection of the silent city apart from the piles of dust that coated everything, their irregularity shocking against the uniform perfection of their surroundings. The dust piled heavier in some places, towering above head-height, and fell away sharply to patches of golden floor left completely clear of the glittering substance. It did not look as if it belonged here, in this perfect place, this paradise surely inhabited by a race so noble and brilliant as to be considered angels in the minds of others when considering their achievements. Kanttho found himself irrationally angry at whoever had caused it to be there, and bent to the floor in a flurry of movement, scooping some of the dust into his scanner-pouch in an attempt to track the origin of the culprits. His sharp movement caused flurries of the dust to swirl into the air, making Hiinto cough roughly as he inhaled the sharp larger pieces in his shock.

A tone rang out through the coughing, slicing through the silence before it could completely cover them again. A robotic tone followed.

“Analysis no.4,783. Two main components identified. First substance identified as organic material, most likely animal remains. Second substance is a form of airborne biological compound that appears to react with the structured identified in the first substance, and break them down on a macroscopic level whilst leaving individual cells and DNA intact. Likely classification – organic remains of an animal killed by a biological weapon.”

Kanttho froze, the anger draining out of him in seconds to be replaced by swiftly-growing horror. His primary stomach rolled, nutri-block threatening to make a reappearance as the remains of what could only be the people of this city continued to shift against his ankles. The ghosts of these incredible engineers seemed to be clutching at his feet, holding him rooted in place when all he wanted to do was turn tail and run. Run so far away that the ghosts could not find him and the beauty could not haunt his dreams. But he couldn’t move, could barely even think around the terror, the horror, the grief for the death of a civilisation so bright and wonderful. He turned his head and his stomach churned again, remembering the even thickness of the dust inside the spaceport, the number of people who must have died moving, trying to escape, in order to create that even layer, and his limbs finally started to cooperate.

He turned tail and bolted, ghosts howling at his heels, faces of beautiful creatures forming out of their swirling remains as he turned and ran, Hiinto hot on his heels. He galloped blindly through terminal after terminal, room after room, children and adults and adolescents and the elderly flashing through his mind as the irregularities began to stand out and become families embracing, the deeper piles on the steps of spacecraft becoming a desperate cram for shelter, for survival, the lights in that room becoming...

The what?

Hiinto hissed in shock and fear, crashing into the back of Kanttho’s abdomen at the sudden pause, but he saw it too – the light shining from the tiny space near the back of a room, half coated in a pile of dust that made their stomach turn at the image of people lying over their family or pets in a futile attempt to protect them. They crept forwards, the residual fear making their hearts beat double-time in their thoraxes, and peered into the class capsule, shot through with the ever-present gold of the buildings. Their breaths caught in their throats. A small figure lay, sleeping peacefully, cocooned in layers upon layers of wire and mesh and gel – impossibly, undeniably alive.

The two gaped at one another, at the pod, at the figure within. Their usual gruff common sense and rationally had been ripped out by awe and shot out of existence by fear. This shock had burnt the tattered remains to cinders and blown them off on the winds of hope. They stared around, at the ground, at each other, at the door, as a determination began to brew as a shadow within the shock. They nodded in unison.

The scavenger ship ‘Unstoppable 2’ tore away from the ghost-like planet like a bat out of hell. Or, perhaps, a sinner out of heaven. Its cargo was far from what had been expected upon landing – two scavengers, changed for the rest of their existence, the news of beauty and terror they carried, and one small stasis pod carrying the last member of a species that seemed to have managed to create utopia without their own imperfections destroying it.

[tibbinswrites]

Suptober Day 7 - Battered and Bound

Dean awoke with a splitting headache and forced himself to not move while he took stock of the situation, eyes closed. He was sitting up, head handing, adding a wicked crick in his neck that would take days to fully go away. The chair he was in was metal, heavy-duty, possibly bolted down. His hands had been forced through the slats of the back so they could be bound tightly. The rope was good quality, quite thin but strong, with enough give to prevent it from easily snapping. And it didn’t feel like the switch-blade was in his sleeve any more. Unfortunate. This wasn’t going to be easy.

He kept his head hanging, kept his breathing deep and even, listening for any hint of whatever thing had trussed him up like a damn chicken. It was frankly embarrassing the amount of times he’d woken up like this. For one of the most feared hunters in the country, it apparently sure was easy to sneak up on him and bash him over the head with something. Sam was no better, that boy would probably have some kind of brain damage by now if Cas didn’t periodically heal them.

“You can quit the act,” a female voice said. “I know you’re awake.”

Damn. So not an amateur then. That was about all he could narrow it down to really; vamps could hear the change in your heartbeat, djinn could sense when you were no longer under their thrall, werewolves could smell the chemicals that flooded a waking person’s system, angels and demons and gods… they almost always knew too. In fact, nine times out of ten the pretending-to-be-asleep shtick didn’t work. He only kept doing it because when it did, it was really fun.

Dean blinked and lifted his head, abandoning pretence immediately. He looked around first, taking in the stone room, the thick air of underground, hanging from the walls were chains with flakes of red on them, rust or blood he couldn’t tell from here. There was also a dirty looking cot against far wall. His chair seemed to be in the centre of the room.

Dean yawned and looked up at the woman with a smirk, “Congrats, you’ve got the torture dungeon model 38.4. Pretty standard really. Sweetheart, if you’re trying to scare me, this ain’t gonna do it.”

“It’s not your fear that I care about, Dean Winchester. Only your pain.”

At this point, Dean had given up on asking how the monsters they hunted knew his name. He was practically a celebrity. It was weirder when they didn’t know to be afraid.

This woman didn’t look afraid though. She didn’t have the smarmy confidence of a demon either, or the stick-up-the-ass look of an angel.

“What are you?”

“Apathetic.”

Dean frowned. The woman looked down at him passively. “My species doesn’t have a name, if indeed, there are more than me. I assume there are.”

“You don’t know?”

“It makes no difference either way.” Her voice was hollow, devoid of all feeling, but with a lilting accent he couldn’t place. She really didn’t care that she might be the only one of her kind. What the hell even was her kind? How could he pray to Cas to start researching how to kill a creature with no name?

He tried nonetheless. Praying mental snapshots of his situation and the woman in front of him, hopefully it would be enough if he couldn’t make it out himself.

“I’m going to feed now.” She said, stepping around the chair to avoid the reach of his legs – smart – and resting a palm around the back of his neck.

White-hot agony speared though him at her touch, shooting up into his brain, blotting out the until-that-moment-noticeable pain of his headache with something a thousand times worse. He thought he screamed, he must have tried to jerk away from her hand. The metallic tang of blood rushed into his mouth where his teeth must have ripped at the skin of his lip. He thought perhaps his nose was bleeding too, his eyes, his ears, his very pores oozing red fluid as it too tried to escape the all-encompassing torment.

And then it was over and a string of blood hung from his mouth, trembling with each one of his shuddering breaths.

“That all you got, bitch?” Dean spat, because he had to, because to admit that he would rather she run him through with a sword than touch go through that again would be admitting a weakness he couldn’t have, not in front of the monsters.

“I will not be hungry again for another few hours,” the thing said, clearly done with any kind of small-talk. She walked out of sight and Dean heard the sounds of a door opening and closing and locking, and then footsteps fading away.

As soon as he deemed himself in the clear he searched every inch of the room from his chair, he strained his neck around in all directions, trying to see something of use, anything. The last thing he remembered before waking up here was throwing down a few dollar bills onto a sticky bar top and standing to leave. He suppose this thing must have caught him on the way out. He didn’t remember seeing her in the bar.

They were investigating a murder, the murder of a guy who’d been missing for thirty-six years. He’d almost not been found at all, having been buried deep in protected woodland, but a ranger had noticed all the animals avoiding a particular spot and had gone to investigate.

The body can’t have been there more than a week but the skin was paler than it should have been by far. It was also stained with dry blood though there hadn’t been any visible wounds there had been considerable damage to the brain, and a handprint on the back of the neck.

It was just their kind of weird, so they’d packed up and shipped out and Dean had been asking around for anyone who remembered the guy vanishing nearly forty years ago. He hadn’t gotten anywhere.

Dean shuddered, knowing now what that poor guy had been going through for the past three and a half decades. He couldn’t go through that again, he wouldn’t last thirty years, his brain would explode way before then.

Weak, his mind hissed at him you were on Alastair’s rack for as long. You will suffer this as long as you need to.

Just long enough for Sam and Cas to find him.

Xxx

Four feedings later and Dean openly sobbed whenever the creature entered the room. Not that it mattered, she was as impervious to begging as she was to threats, unmoved by bargains, by bravado, by screams. She didn’t care that he told her this was nothing compared to Hell, she didn’t care that he was lying. She didn’t try to gag him or muffle his screams so either she had good soundproofing or she lived way out in the middle of freaking nowhere.

He measured time by feedings now, by the fear that ebbed and flowed with her presence. He still wasn’t sure what she was feeding on, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. She didn’t offer the information and he didn’t ask.

This was worse than any other time he’d been held captive. There were no taunts to bite back at, no cracks in her veneer to exploit. He was just here for when she was hungry and ignored otherwise.

She doused him with water once, immediately after feeding and he spluttered for breath, disoriented and confused. She also fed him, by hand, using a glove, and as much as he wanted to, he knew he couldn’t reject the food or bite at her if he wanted to keep any strength at all. She gave him water after each feeding, tipping the neck of a plastic bottle over his mouth. It was up to him whether to drink or not. He’d refused at first, keeping his lips tightly pressed together, but she didn’t seem to care about that either.

Apathetic was probably the most accurate way to describe her.

Each feeding was worse than the last. The lack of natural light, of any kind of social contact, of enough sustenance to do anything more than just keep breathing was taking a gruelling toll. She didn’t talk to him much. She would respond to his words most times, but everything she had to say was just so empty that there was no satisfaction in trying to goad or insult her. His sight had started to go fuzzy, something had fried back there during the last feeding and everything was just slightly blurry now and it strained him to focus. Not that there was anything to see. He’d looked for any kind of escape route, a weapon, he’d even tried to break the chair, slamming one of the legs with his bare foot again and again but tied up as he was, his strength draining by the second, it was looking pretty bad.

Xxx

It was coming up to feeding ten now. It must have been at least a week since his capture. His fingers had been numb for two feedings and he’d all but given up. How the other guy had lasted so long he didn’t know; perhaps that brain damage had kicked in around now because Dean could use some. He was done. His eyes hurt to open, everything was covered in a red film, so he mostly left them closed. His ears whined even when there was nothing to hear. Any words he tried to say came out slanted and thick his hands barely moved. He was a fucking useless hunter.

There was a muffled scuffling sound and Dean shook his head, trying to clear his ears. He was pretty sure they were blocked with blood. Everything tasted and smelled like blood here, and he didn’t even have a deal to take.

The scuffling continued for a while and then stopped, and then there were footsteps, regular, heavy, and it must be feeding time because Dean’s body was already straining in his bindings, trying to get as far away from the door as possible.

The footsteps stopped and then there was a loud BANG. The door flung open and two blurry shapes rushed in.

“Dean!” One of them yelled, and warmth filled him at the sound, though he wasn’t quite sure why.

“Suhme,” was the sound that left his mouth.

“Crap. Dean, how bad is it?”

Fingers reached for him then and he screamed and yelled, trying to shove his weight to one side, away from the touch. He heard something pop in his shoulder before he felt it, but that was fine, that was like a headache, it wasn’t a touch.

Incredibly, the fingers stopped advancing.

“Dean?” The voice was very small now and Dean wanted to cry, probably was crying, his face didn’t feel much any more.

“Let me see,” came another voice, deeper, more warmth, but different, something more painful, but not bad.

“Cuh,” his mouth said.

“Yes, Dean. It’s me, it’s Cas. We’ve come to take you home.”

“Hum,”

“That’s right.” The voice sounded strained. “I’m going to heal you now, as much as I can.”

“Nuh!” Dean yelled. He knew what that meant. It meant a hand on his neck, it meant more agony, it meant-

The fingers landed lightly on his cheek and his eyes blinked and sharpened. A mop of dark hair and huge, worried blue eyes gazed at him.

“Cuh?”

Cas nodded and forced a smile. “Sam, cut his hands free, I can’t heal much in here, the warding is strong.”

Sam, shaggy-haired and gaunt-faced gave a grim nod. Dean kept his eyes on Cas and Cas looked back steadily.

“We’re not going to hurt you, Dean. No more pain.”

“Nuh muh?” It was hard to believe, he barely remembered a time before the pain.

Cas’s eyes were bright and wet in the dim room and he shook his head. “I promise.”

“I pred.”

Cas’ expression softened even further and his fingers trembled against Dean’s cheek.

“I know, my love. I heard you.”

@winchester-reload

If you liked this, please consider buying me a coffee.

[collectionofdestiel]

“It’s a break.” 

“You don’t sound like you believe that.”

Castiel closed his eyes, knowing that his brother was right. Why else would he be in Gabriel’s kitchen a little after one in the morning with a duffel bag of clothes and fresh tear stains on his cheeks? How could this be just a break when Castiel’s heart has been breaking for months now and all that is left is an empty hollow shell of an organ. No, he didn’t believe it. He didn’t believe those three little words, not as he whispered them like a madman’s mantra on the drive over here. But if he admitted it, really truly believed that this wasn’t a break… Castiel feared he wouldn’t be strong enough to handle it.

Gabriel let out a sigh at the deafening silence. It broke him to see his younger brother battling so hard in his mind when the reality was so heartbreaking. Taking a deep breath and moving his eyes over to the clock on his oven, he decided tonight wasn’t the night to hash this out.

“The guest room is all set up. Lotta pillows and blankets. Get some rest and we can discuss this more in the morning.” Standing up, Gabe waited to move until Cas did.

But Castiel couldn’t move. It was like his bones were concrete and his skin would rip at the slightly movement. It was like everything that was holding his body together would suddenly collapse and he would be only a puddle on the floor. If he moved, if he slept in a bed that wasn’t theirs… it would be the beginning of the end.

“Listen, Cassie-”

“I love him, Gabe.” Castiel finally opened his eyes and stared up at his brother with the look of a man starving for happiness. “I love him and he-he-”

“I know.” Gabriel knelt down in front of his brother and set a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I know you love him but dammit Cas, this isn’t good for you. Or him. I know that you two love each other and would go to the ends of the earth for each other but this isn’t healthy and some times people can love each other and not end up together.”

A harsh sob ripped through Cas’ throat before he could stop it. “I can’t let him go. I can’t. I can’t let him go, Gabe, please, I can’t-”

Applying more pressure to Cas’ shoulder, Gabriel pulled his brother off his chair and held him to his chest on his kitchen floor. He rocked the other man for minutes as they both tried not to cry, Cas mumbling and pleading to a deity that it would be ok and everything would work out, and Gabriel clung to his brother and pleaded with every fiber in his being that he would be ok.

~

“It’s more than a break.” 

“Okay.”

Castiel felt the life seep from his pores as he stood in the doorway of his brother’s living room and said what he had been dreading to say as he lay sleepless the night before. After hours and hours of thinking about the past decade of his life, and the smile that used to mean everything to him, he made himself realize that it was over. It was all over. The life he built, the home he shared, the garden they tended on warm summer days… it was over.

“I am going to call him. Make arrangements to get my things.” Cas felt the sour taste of bile start to eat at the back of his tongue. “Do you mind if I stay here for a few days until I get back on my feet?”

“Days? Little bro you can stay as long as you need.” Standing from his place on the couch Gabriel walked up to Castiel and pulled him into a firm hug, scared he might slip away in despair if he didnt ground him right then and there.

Castiel leaned into the warmth and closed his eyes. “Thank you, Gabriel.”

Smiling sadly, Gabe pulled back and looked into Cas’ eyes. He searched them for any spark of the man he grew up with, the love and excitement that always shown through the deep blue, but found nothing except emptiness. Trying to keep the tears from gathering, he turned and made his way into the kitchen for a sweet treat.

Castiel reached into his pant pocket and pulled his phone out. He stared at it for a little while, watching his reflection in the black mirror. Last night he had been so emotional and stuck in his own head that he hadn’t checked for messages or calls. There wasnt really a part of him that thought his husband would have looked for him or cared. 

Gathering any energy he had left he pressed his thumb to the side of his phone and the bright light met his eyes. Gasping softly he read quickly through his notifications. There were thirty seven missed calls from his husband, and more ninety nine plus text messages. Feeling guilt start to seep into his bones, Cas slid open his lock screen and pressed the number that used to bring him comfort. Closing his eyes, he pressed the phone to his ear and listened with a heavy heaving heart as it rang.

The second it picked up he knew that this was going to be the worst phone call of his life.

“Cas!?” His husband’s voice ripped through the phone so abruptly Cas flinched.

Clearing his throat, he tried to remember the speech he had prepared last night. “Dean-” “Where the hell are you?” Dean’s voice was followed by a car door slamming. “I’ve been driving all over the goddamn county looking for you.”

A part of Cas wanted to call bullshit, to say that if Dean cared at all he would’ve guessed Gabriel’s house immediately. But instead he took a deep breath and pushed onward. “Dean, what happened last night has been a long time coming. We both know that things haven’t been  working between us for-”

“Are you kidding me?” Dean screeched. “You’re breaking up with me on a phone call?”

“Dean-”

“No. Don’t. Where are you?” The venom in Dean’s voice was dripping off each word. 

“You really don’t know?” Now Cas could feel his own voice rising, the anger starting to ebb into his head and twist his thoughts. “You really couldn’t guess that when I came home to my husband kissing another man on our couch that the first place I would do is Gabriel’s?”

Silence met his ears for a few heartbeats until Dean’s voice came through softer. “You flew our to Colorado?”

Seeing red, Castiel let out an angry snort or disbelief. “Really, Dean? Gabriel moved back here last year. How long have you been ignoring me, thinking about this other man? A year? Two? This whole time?! Was our entire marriage some kind of sick joke to you?!”

“Cas if you would just let me explain what happened last night! You didn’t even give me a chance to explain what happened! And I swear to God I don’t remember Gabriel moving back at all. The guy hates me, I never saw him even when he visited before.” A car engine roared to life. “Whats his address?”

“No.” Castiel felt his knees give out and he curled himself up into a ball with his forehead pressed to his knees. “I can’t see you, Dean. All I can see is that man… and you and-”

“I didn’t kiss him.” All the anger drained from Dean’s voice. “I invited him over for a couple drinks cause he’s a guy from work. We did a couple projects together and he seemed like a cool guy. When I went to get the remote to turn on the TV he… he kissed me. I pushed him off. I didn’t even know you had come home. I didn’t know until I heard your cry that you had seen it.”

Castiel clamped a hand over his mouth and tried to tense his muscles before the sobs broke through.

“I love you, Castiel. I know… God I know how this looks. We haven’t been on the same wave length recently and,” Dean sighed and groaned, “and I have been a shitty husband and I took us for granted because I mean… it’s always been you and me and I guess I didnt think about the fact that you could leave me.”

The tears were flowing freely from Cas’ eyes but he couldnt move, couldnt open his mouth or breathe. 

“I love you more than anything in this world or the next, I swear to that. I have never wanted anyone else. I know things have been rough but fuck me I’d rather have you like this than be perfectly happy all the time with someone else.” A deep breath and then the car engine stopped roaring. “I won’t come get you. I won’t guilt you or beg you or do anything else. If you want to stay there, I’m not going to fight you. I want you to be happy, Cas, that’s all I ever wanted. So, um, if this is goodbye then I won’t hurt you anymore.”

Castiel pitched himself forward and let out all the sobs he had been trying to keep in. He cried and cried and pressed the phone so hard to his face he could feel the soreness in his cheek start to ache. But he couldn’t make any words come out. Every time he opened his mouth it was only broken whimpers and staggered breaths.

“Castiel, I love you. Goodbye.” And then Dean’s voice was gone.

SIX MONTHS LATER

Castiel watched the people coming and going outside the window of his small book store. It was started to get cooler outside and he always thought that the best addition to his peep watching was the brightly colored hats and scarves passing by. Winter was always so vibrant to him, always the season that made him smile the most from simply looking out a window.

The coffee in front of him had long stopped steaming but he still hadnt taken a sip yet. Instead he found himself captivated by the bustling street laid out before him. Most days his bookstore wasn’t busy, most of his sales being online, but he couldn’t blame anyone when it looked so nice to be outside walking in the cool air.

The bell dinged causing his eyes to leave the window and meet those of whoever walked in. When they were met with a perfect green, he felt a lump form in his throat and his back straighten just the slightest.

Dean Winchester walked slowly up the counter, as if he himself was feeling nervous about this and any moment he may change his mind and bolt for the door. But he kept walking, their eyes never leaving the others, until he was standing directly in front of the front desk.

“Dean-”

“Look, I know what I said.” Dean’s cheeks flushed as he dropped his eyes and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I know that I said I wouldn’t fight or give you any more trouble. But, Cas, I can’t-I havent-I just can’t do this.”

Feeling tears well in the back of his throat, Castiel nodded to try to keep himself from crying again. “I know.”

“And um, I just, I know that we are seperated and I need to sign the divorce papers but every time I go to do it I just... “ Dean cleared hsi throat as his voice started to grow hoarse. “I can’t get myself to know that this is over.”

Castiel didn’t talk, but he nodded again and let the tears flow down his cheeks.

Bringing his eyes up, they looked into each other and for a moment the pain that had been clawing at their souls for months was gone. They could breathe again, there was hope sparking in their eyes that mirrored the others.

“I love you, Cas. And I won’t fight you if you want me to sign the papers and walk out of your life, but I will fight with you to keep you by my side.” Dean gave a small hopeful smile full of promise.

“Okay, Dean.” Castiel scrunched his eyes painfully as he let out a sob and ran around the counter to throw himself into the love of his life’s arms. “I never stopped loving you no matter how hard I tried.”

Dean held Cas to his chest so tightly it was hard to tell where one of them ended and the other began. “I know, sweetheart, I tried, too.”

~

“So, I can burn these papers, right?” 

Castiel looked up from his side of their bed with a yawn. “Hm?”

Dean, standing in the doorway to their bedroom with only a pair of low hanging lounge pants on, held up the divorce papers that neither of them had signed. “Burn these?”

Chuckling softly and closing his eyes to dive back under the covers, Cas replied with a simple, “Yes, honey.”

[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.

[ala-mhinyan]

V :: Vault

{{ Feat Mentions of: @talesfromthegameff14 }}

If you had the strength to take another step—could you do it?

Every avenue has failed her thus far; turning to alcohol, falling into despair, talking to friends, confiding in family, crying until her eyes burn red and swell shut. Kindness and wisdom count for nothing when it comes from those who cannot begin to understand what she goes through. She wandered listlessly, her feet taking her everywhere that wasn’t home—any place she could go that didn’t have the familiar eyes of family, friends or loved ones. A place where she meant nothing and had nothing but the clothes on her back and gil in her pocket. Even this brought nothing but frustration and anguish for remaining so utterly lost.

Her feet carried here across to pay the Ruby tithe, to wander aimlessly in the Steppe and beyond. On and on she walked, hoping that the further she got away… the further she went, the more clear the answer would become. So why, gods above, did her feet bring her to the steps where divinity sits waiting? Where her sins crawl up from her ankles and wrap thin like wire around her throat until flesh splits and blood runs hot over sand? Why, to the Destroyer’s feet, did she walk?

The Schism.

A holy land; temple built tried and true from the very first Fist of Rhalgr—having beaten flesh and bone into stone until there was a cavern where his destruction wrought. A low hanging sun paints the worn stone shades of orange and yellow, adding a beauty to it that normally it would not have. She stands alone at the base of the steps, anxiety creeping around ribs and whispering doubt into her ear.

‘You do not deserve to be here. You aren’t a real Fist—You sodden the land with your presence.’

A sharp flick and the idea is discarded, leaving only her, the heat of the desert sun and the stairs to the temple. Each step forward is a weight added to her heart, breath caught in throat as sweat glistens over golden skin. She shouldn’t be here. Her faith is shaky—she knows her praise and adoration to Rhalgr to be something of child’s play compared to the names of Fists she’s heard carried on the winds. Of the Fist she knows—Wyra’to, poison spitting snake he is, has more unbending faith to Rhalgr than she does. She is the last person to deserve to be standing here.

The last step is conquered and she finds herself before the mighty entrance to the Schism. In reality, it isn’t anything more than artfully crafted stone to an elaborate site of worship—something tourists and scholars dishonor with their incessant demand to see the location for themselves. But to her? It’s a library worth of information and prayer written upon the sand that skitters across stone, the taint of old blood on the walls and the lanterns that sit high—unlit—for years. Through the archways, across patterned tile, up a slant— into the wide cavern that was built by a single man of all his ambitions.

Green eyes shift from waning slits to waxing orbs of glittering emerald, a childlike wonder crossing her features as she stands riddled in awe. There are few things more beautiful in this world than this place—though dusty, beaten and worn through the years… It holds a mysticism and respect that has rightfully arted itself a holy land. She bends her neck and offers silent prayer, for the strength to persevere, for the heart to stand in her will. Doubt seeps through her pores, the whispering returning in ocean waves that crash into her resolve and she snarls into the dark to chase it away. The sound echoes in the hallowed cavern and she comes to the realization that, truly, she is alone.

Yet on her feet take her, down the steps and along the suspended bridge until she reaches the very last archway. Before her very eyes—the Destroyer watches. Fear creeps up her throat and threatens to suffocate, claws rip from her chest and sink into lungs. The ground erupts beneath her and she falls into nothingness—She can’t do this. It’s too much. What if she ca—

‘Anything worth having is worth fighting for. You, khti, are worth it.’

She blinks, turning sharp to look behind her. No one is there. Then why—

‘A burden shared is a burden lighter.’

She spins again, snapping her head upward in a frantic search for the one echoing these words to her. Who is… Why can she hear—

‘Do you trust me?’

A smile cracks through the panic, C’arha bringing her hand up to touch the center of her chest with a fond little brush. That’s right, she agreed to those words, did she not? Of trust. So why do this alone, dear sister, when you don’t have to? You need only reach. She can hear the words echoed in her skull, the chiding from an older brother rasped with frustration that someone is determined to carry all the weight herself. A puff of a laugh and the shake of a head. What a silly man. How she missed him.

Deep within, she trusts—despite how terrifying it is to reach for something in these ways, she does it regardless. One person has proven that no matter the hurt, no matter how scared or how awful it feels, she can trust. So she reaches within, through the scorching desert heat in her soul and calls for her brother’s aid.

‘Please. I need you. Hold tight, seni—keep me strong.’

Her gaze flicks up to meet the stoney gaze of the Destroyer, challenge tangled with flourishing respect and adoration. She will conquer this. She has to. The echo of footfalls continue until she stands under sunlight and directly under the unwavering gaze of her patron deity, beholden unto herself as mortal and falls to her knees.

Shaking fingers pull the glittering fire opal like soul stone from her top and she clutches it tightly to her breast, curling within herself with her head bowed.

‘Show me the way.’

A whisper, A plea—To both god and former master.

Maybe here, finally, she can find the answer.

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

[katymacsupernatural]

The Other Side of Reality Part 7

Dean Winchester x Reader

1100 Words

Story Summary: Y/N is a patient in an Asylum. Each and every day she noticed a handsome man sitting in the same place. Holding the same tattered book. Mumbling about ghosts, ghouls, and vampires. Almost two months later, she finally gathers up the courage to go up to him. To listen to his stories. Little did she know her life would change forever as she began to wonder if there was a hint of truth to his stories.

Catch Up Here: Masterpost

Warnings: slight mentions of assault, attempt at rape. Not very graphic

“Wakey, wakey,” Devon’s familiar voice pounded through your foggy brain. “We are going to have so much fun!”

“No,” you mumbled, trying to shake your head. Groaning as it pounded and you wanted nothing more than to fall into the sweet oblivion. But Devon’s voice sent fear running through your body, tensing up as you slowly blinked your eyes open.

“There she is,” Devon exclaimed, roughly patting your cheek. “I was wondering if you were going to sleep through everything. But that wouldn’t have been much fun. I like my victims awake. I like to hear their screams.”

“You’re going to pay for this,” you tried threatening him, but it came out muffled. A dirty cloth had been turned into a gag, making your word intelligible

“Aren’t you just adorable,” he sneered, his face close to yours. “But as you can see, it’s just you and me in this little room at the bottom of the asylum. They don’t even use this part of the building anymore. No one will ever come down here looking for you.”

Glancing around as he spoke, you knew his words were right. The room had peeling lead paint, the metal around the edges rusted. Surprised the florescent lights even worked, you only saw one door with a heavy, rusted handle. The only way out, not that you were going anywhere. He had you tied to a metal frame, both your ankles and wrists tied tight enough to cut into your skin. Vintage looking machines sat off to the far side, covered in dust and cobwebs.

“I bet a million thoughts are running through that pretty little head of yours,” he continued, heading over to the machines, running his hand along the control boards. “They said that with these machines they could fix that. Get rid of all those things that make you tick. Turn you into a meek little person who would follow my every order. Sounds kind of interesting.”

Struggling against the ropes holding you in place, your eyes widened when the machines started working. “A little Angel magic,” Devon explained, winking your way. “But before we start with that, let’s get a couple of other things out of the way.”

In a split second, he was back by your side, his hot breath against your neck, his hand pressing hard on your belly. “So have you remembered anything else about your previous life? Before we plucked you away and placed you in this shithole?”

Before you could even shake your head he continued. “I was always jealous of Dean. I watched the two of you from afar, wishing I could pull you away from Dean. Have this sweet little body to myself. After all, we used to be Angels in the same garrison. But you had to go and fall for a stupid hunter. You gave up everything! We could have ruled with God gone.”

“I’m an Angel?” You mumbled into the cloth, your heart beating fast as it all started to make sense. The way you had been drawn to Dean. How his stories hadn’t sounded crazy at all. The weird voices in your head, the power slipping from your fingers. You were an Angel. One that couldn’t remember anything.

“That’s not all!” He told you gleefully, his hand sliding underneath your shirt, lightly running his hand along your skin, making you gag. “Sam’s not dead. Neither’s Cas. Can you imagine how fun it was to make Dean believe that? To see the anguish on his face. They’re both alive and kicking, and have no idea where the two of you are.”

It was a relief, even though you couldn’t remember them, to know they were alive. Dean would be so happy. If Dean was…, you couldn’t think about that. Not right now.

His hand slid up, brushing against the underside of your breast, his lips against your neck. As his rough hand squeezed your tender skin, he spoke again. “Want to hear the best part?”

Trying to get away from him, you let out a squeal as he reached down, his hands skimming under the elastic waistband of your pants. “No!” You screamed. The gag had turned wet with your drool, getting pushed even farther into your mouth, making you gag.

Your struggle only seemed to excite him as his other hand reached up to rip your shirt in half, giving him easy access to your breasts. Biting down hard on your ear, he shoved his hands between your legs, and with your ankles tied you couldn’t stop him. “It’s not just and Dean. You broke Angel laws. You birthed a Nephilim. You knew it wasn’t right, but you did it anyway.”

You stilled at his words, wondering if it was true. Or if he was trying to torture you even more. “She’s beautiful. Looks so much like you. And only a couple of us Angels knows where she is. You’ll never see your daughter again.”

Roughly shoving his finger into your dry entrance, he leaned down, biting your breast. That, on top of the news he had just given you, sent a warmth spreading through you. It was powerful, spreading from your toes to the hair on your head. Tilting your head back, you let the light shine from your eyes before a blast of energy erupted from every pore.

Devon flew away from you, slamming against the wall, his head connecting with the steel. The ropes holding both your wrists and ankles disappeared and your shirt was magically fixed. Standing up, you felt as if every nerve was on fire, your body humming with energy.

The machines on the side turned on, connected through your energy. Raising a hand, you disintegrated the door. Almost floating with the power surging through you, you gave Devon one more look. He hadn’t moved, his head hanging awkwardly to the side.

Stepping through that door was like stepping through a time machine. Memories rushed into your mind, almost sending you to your knees. Thousands of memories, from the beginning of time to being captured by Angels and brought here. Feeling as if your head was splitting in two, you clutched your head, the power slowly fading away.

“Ava,” you whispered memories of your sweet little baby girl breaking your heart. She was beautiful, with her dark golden hair and deep green eyes. She was something you had never expected to have, to love as much as you did. The day the Angels had taken her away from you had been the worst day of your life.

Dean/Jensen Tags: @acortez82 @acreativelydifferentlove @adoptdontshoppets @a-girl-who-loves-disney @akshi8278  @bebravekeeponfighting  @brindz30 @colette2537   @deansgirl215   @its-not-a-tulpa @jerkbitchidjitassbutt @just-another-winchester @karouwinchester @keikoraventeller  @krys198478 @librarygeekery @mlovesstories @mrsambroserollinsacklesmgk   @ria132love @ruprecht0420     @sortaathief @superseejay721517 @squirrelnotsam @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @torn-and-frayed @tricksterdean @wonderfulworldofwinchester @woodworthti666

The Other Side of Reality Tags: @crazysocklovingfangirl @letmedrainwiththestars @raven1aris @spnbaby-67 @karouwinchester @demondeanismybaby @wxxnks @closetspngirl @omnia-pod @soullessdemontrap @musiclovinchic93 @pie46733 @yes-this-is-doggo @maydayfigment @choosemyname @nervousmemzie @bi-bi-winchesters @flamencodiva @love-nakamura  

Forever Tags: @alexwinchester23 @algud @amanda-teaches @andreaaalove   @artisticpoet @atc74 @be-amaziing   @bohowitch     @camelotandastronauts @chelsea072498  @closetspngirl   @docharleythegeekqueen @emoryhemsworth @ericaprice2008  @esoltis280   @gh0stgurl @goldenolaf25 @growningupgeek  @heyitscam99 @hobby27 @horsegirly99 @internationalmusicteacher @iwriteaboutdean  @jayankles @jensen-gal @just-another-busyfangirl @karlee-fay-my-wayward-son @lifelovelaughangell123 @li-ssu @linki-locks11 @littleblue5mcdork  @lowlyapprentice   @maui137 @mogaruke @musiclovinchic93  @nanie5   @percussiongirl2017 @plaid-lover-bay25   @roonyxx @ronja-uebrick @roxyspearing @samanthaharper2018 @samanddeanmyheroes @sandlee44 @shamelesslydean @sillesworldofwriting @sgarrett49 @spnbaby-67 @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @spnwoman   @superbadassnatural @thatcrazybookwormgeek   @thewinchesterchronicles @vvinch3st3r @whimsicalrobots @winchester-writes @zombiewerewolfqueen

[destiel-love-forever]

SPN 14.10 : CODA

Dean stumbles to his room for the third night in a row. It was another long day of doing research and taking care of Jack, all while smiling and promising everyone that he was fine. He cooked dinner. They watched the game on TV. Jack told a joke because it was too hard for him to see his three dads so upset over everything going on. It made them all laugh, even Dean - but that's the part that hurt. The moment that laughter stopped, Dean remembered. He heard Michael again. Felt the sharp, resonating pain of him pounding against his mind.

The second everyone turned into bed, Dean pretending to do the same, he dug out the whiskey. The bottle was empty after last night, so he had snuck away earlier to get a new one. Nothing felt as relieving as the moment he heard that seal crack.

Michael yelled at him. Laughed. Taunted.

“And it is written, the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in hell!”

Dean drank.

“You're a hypocrite, Dean. How did you feel when Dad sold his soul for you? 'Cause I was there. I remember. You were twisted and broken. And now you go and do the same thing...to me. What you did was selfish.”

Dean drank.

“Joke all you want, smart-ass. But you can't lie to me. I know the truth. I know how dead you are inside. How worthless you feel. I know how you look into a mirror... and hate what you see.”

He drank.

“You are nothing. You're as mindless and obedient as an attack dog.”

He drank.

“You can't escape me, Dean. You're gonna die. And this? This is what you're gonna become!”

A drink.

“You're supposed to help people, Dean, why didn't you help me?”

Another.

“Destiny can't be changed Dean. All roads lead to the same destination.”

One more.

“I don't envy the weight that's on your shoulders, Dean. I truly don't.”

He drank again. The tears began to fall.

“But then I couldn't do it anymore, Sammy. I couldn't. And I got off that rack. God help me, I got right off it, and I started ripping them apart. I lost count of how many souls. The... the things that I did to them.”

Doesn't even drink that time. Just buried his head in his hands.

“How I feel, this... inside me... I wish I couldn't feel anything, Sammy. I wish I couldn't feel a damned thing.”

The cries turned to sobs and he knew he needed to stop but he couldn't. So he stood up, stumbling to his room.

One hand holds the whiskey bottle. The other tries to navigate down the hall.

Michael slams again, making him choke on a sob. 

“Trust your instincts, Dean. There's no such thing as miracles.”

The bottle slips but he catches it. He drinks to celebrate his reflexes, then giggles to himself.

“But John, he was made of something unique, the stuff of heroes. And then came Dean. Dean Winchester. I thought I was up against it again. But, daddy's little girl, he broke. He broke in thirty. Ah, just not the man your daddy wanted you to be, huh, Dean?”

Dean gets to his door, fingers clinging to the wooden frame to keep him from falling. He hears a voice. Castiel’s voice. But it's replaced by Alistair’s as Michael begins a torturous echo. “Ah, just not the man your daddy wanted you to be, huh, Dean?”

“Ah, just not the man your daddy wanted you to be, huh, Dean?”

“Ah, just not the man your daddy wanted you to be, huh, Dean?”

“Ah, just not the man your daddy wanted you to be, huh, Dean?”

Castiel rushes forward at the sight of Dean in his doorway. The man looks wrecked. His flannel is off his shoulder and his face is soaked in tears. The scent of whiskey seeps through his every pore. When Castiel looks for the mainsource, he finds the bottle in Dean's hand. His fingers are just barely holding on to the tip of the neck, as if he wants to let go but just… can't.

“Oh. Dean,” Cas whispers.

The man's green eyes shoot up to him and the only emotion Castiel can find in them is relief. “Cas?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it's me.”

Dean allows himself to break. He falls forward into Castiel's arms and begins to shake. The bottle falls from his hand, smashing against the floor. He apologizes. Over and over he apologizes. He's sorry for the mess. The whiskey. Their lives. He's sorry Castiel fell for him. Both from heaven, and in love. He's sorry he was never good enough. Strong enough.

“Ah, just not the man your daddy wanted you to be, huh, Dean?”

“Please,” Dean moans, clawing at Castiel's back. “Make him stop.”

“Who?”

“Michael.”

Castiel puts a hand to Dean's forehead, eyes fluttering shut as he gets a glimpse of what's happening inside. When he looks down at the man he loves, he feels helpless. Weak. Vulnerable. Those green eyes search for an answer in him but he doesn't have one. He doesn't have a way to help.

So, he goes on instinct. He decides to say what he's wanted to say for years.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.” Castiel cups his face, lifting so Dean has no choice but look him in the eye and accept the words. “I'm so in love with you. You make me wild but safe. You make it hard to breathe, but I can't breathe without you. You make me feel human. So. Damn. Human. I love you, Dean.”

Dean tries to look away, whimpering when Castiel refuses to let him. “Cas, you can't.”

He scoffs. “Who says?”

“Me.” Dean licks his lips, craving another drink. “You deserve so much better.”

“You don't get a say. I'm the angel in the situation, so if anyone is dictating feelings, it gets to be me.”

“What happened to Team Free Will?”

Castiel chuckles. “Free will or not, I know you felt it that first time we saw each other. That night in the barn. Fight. Use your free will. Keep pretending it's not there. I'll be patient. Because I love you, Dean. I love you so very much.”

“I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.”

That relief he felt before, when the seal on the bottle cracked open? It's nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not against this feeling blooming in his chest.

Realizing that Michael has been silenced, but not knowing why or for how long, he rushes to speak the words he's been holding back for far too long.

“I love you too, Cas. You make me feel whole. You make me feel like I'm not a disappointment or a burden or a mindless soldier. You make me want to be a fucking hero. You make me want to run away from all of this and go live on the coast in some shack together.” Dean smiles. A real, honest smile. “Fuck, Cas. You make me happy. That's saying enough if you look at my track record when it comes to that emotion. I love you, Cas. So. Much. I'm so fucking in love with you.”

Castiel grins so hard his blue eyes crinkle. “Dean Winchester, you stubborn pain in the ass. It's about time.”

Before Dean can finish laughing, Castiel yanks him against his body. The moment their lips meet is life changing. Not in the usual, now I have a boyfriend, sense, but in the sense of the entire world around them. Every molecule seems to sing at a lighter frequency. Every sound is melodic. Every sight a masterpiece. As they breathe each other in, their worlds go quite. Still. Peaceful.

After all, all these two ever wanted was some peace.

“Dean Winchester is saved.”