#and dean sure as fuck did not carry those recliners there by himself

[drulalovescas]

There were two recliners. And two beers between the recliners. TWO. And Sam didn't know about the Dean Cave. He had no idea. But Cas knew. CAS KNEW--

[wormstacheangel]

Tangled up in Words

For @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover cause you’re awesome. Thanks for the inspo post :)

Dean doesn’t know how he ended up getting talked into playing twister. Maybe it was seeing how Jack and Eileen were both laughing so hard they ended up falling on each other. Or when it was Sam’s turn to join with Jack, he was so tall that Jack called him out for cheating. Sam ended up laughing and falling which ended with Jack winning. Maybe it was seeing how happy Cas looked spinning the board and calling out the colors.

He looked so cute and human - because he was - as he doubled over laughing, his feet lifting just a little off the floor when he fell back into the recliner. 

So when Jack told him it was his turn Dean didn’t argue but now he wished he did. Because maybe if he fought it a little more or agreed to spin the dumb board instead then he wouldn’t be trying to balance himself in a weird twisted push-up position while Cas’s face was right under his because he was in a weird crab position. Everything was going fine and Dean thought for sure he was going to win until Cas tilted his head just a little and playfully stuck his tongue out at him to get his attention. 

Shock to nobody, it worked. 

“If I win I get to pick the next movie.” Cas grins at him and then that bastard had the audacity to wink at him. 

Gosh, he looked like such a dork doing it too but Dean went blank. There might as well be a dial-up noise coming out of his ears because he couldn’t register what he just saw. His heart pounded against his chest and he could hear himself loudly swallow before he slowly -or quickly, he didn’t know, time didn’t mean shit at that moment - leaned down to kiss Cas. 

Kiss is a generous term because Dean never remembered kissing someone like that. Just a soft glide of his lips because he wanted to - no he finally needed to - just know how they felt against his skin. 

Then everything went in fast forward and he saw Cas fall, eyes wide before he winced in pain when his head fell on the concrete floor. 

“Dean won!” He heard Jack called out but Dean couldn’t take his eyes off of Cas’s shocked expression that stared right back up at him.

“He sure did.” He heard Sam say but his voice started to sound further away and then the slam of the door made both of them blink. 

The magic freeze-frame of swimming in blue eyes was gone now when they both scrambled up to sit on either side of the plastic tarp. Dean didn’t turn to look at Cas, he instead grabbed his boots so he could quickly put them on and give himself something to do. 

The silence carried on until Dean saw movement from the corner of his eyes. He turned to see Cas get up, rubbing the back of his head, and go to sit back on the recliner. He looked up to meet Dean’s gaze and he should have looked away when green met blue but he couldn’t because Cas looked so… sad.

“I’m sorry.” The words came out automatically and he knew they were the wrong ones before he saw Cas’s gaze turn cold. He looked away from Dean and reached down to put his shoes on. “Cas.”

“I’m fine.” Clearly he wasn’t by that tone. 

“You’re mad.” Dean sighed as he finished lacing up his boots and looked back up at Cas who was tying up his laces, something he just learned because apparently on his first trip as a human he would just bundle it up and tuck them inside his shoe.

“You’re a genius.” The ex-angel has become much more sarcastic since becoming human because Dean could hear him roll his eyes now. Then he groaned in frustration while he fumbled with the laces. 

Dean crawled over to him and sat at his feet. “Dude, let me help.”

“I’m fine.” Cas doesn’t look at him but the hurt was now starting to come through the anger. 

“Stop stealing my line.” Dean pushed Cas’s hands away and slowly started to tie his sneakers. When he was done he tapped the foot away and tapped his knee so Cas can put his other foot on Dean’s knee. He slowly tied the next shoe. “I’m sorry I kissed you.”

“Me too.” Cas quickly said and yeah...Yeah, Dean deserves that. “I’m waiting for you to be comfortable with my feelings for you, Dean, but that… you can’t do that.”

“I know. I know.” Dean finished tying his shoe but didn’t look up from it. “I was being selfish and I wasn’t thinking.”

“Shocker.” 

Cas took his foot back and Dean knew that if they don’t talk about it now then they won’t talk about it for weeks or maybe months later. Hell, if things go the way they’re going it could be years. So Dean quickly boxes Cas into the recliner, standing up and placing his hands on either side of the armrest. Cas falls back into the recliner with wide eyes as he searches for something in Dean’s face but doesn’t fight him on it.

“You said you loved me.” Dean starts and Cas’s only response was a silent nod. Looking at him with curious eyes even as his body stiffened up. “And when we got you back I um...I said it back.”

“I know. I was there, Dean.”

Dean ignored him and continued. “I told you I needed time to sort my shit out but honestly I don’t think I’m ever going to do that, Cas.”

“Oh.” Cas looked down and away from Dean. “So there is no reason to hope for us then.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Cas looked back up, eyes narrowed in confusion. 

“Then what are you-”

“I love you, Cas.” Dean quickly breaths out. His shoulders fall as relief washes over him. “Fuck, I’ve been wanting to say that again so many times.”

“You have?” 

“Yeah.” Dean chuckles as he lifts one of his hands to hesitantly brush Cas’s curling hair back and make sure Cas could see him. “I love you. And...and I’m never going to be ready for this but just like everything I’ve done, I’ll figure it out as I go.”

“I’ve never done this before either.” Cas reminded him and then he leaned into Dean’s hand, making Dean suck in a breath by how cute that was. 

This is what he was afraid of? Touching Cas without death or danger lingering behind them? This is what he has been praying for and now that he has it...he was afraid?

Dean slowly leaned down and froze when meeting those blue eyes again but Cas nodded once before he closed his eyes. He tilted his head up and stretched his neck to meet the kiss halfway.

Tag List Below:

@galaxycastiel @superduckbatrebel @slipper007 @ar-bi-trary @winchestcas

@imlivingliferightnow @bi-bi-marie @nguyenxtrang @dancerdovegirl

@chocolatecakecas @trasherasswood @celestialcastiel @castiel-is-a-cat

@readeroftheimmortalbooks @marichankitty @confusedisaster @wigglebox

@castiels-bitch @destiel-bitches @tearsofgrace @queen-rowenas

[itmighthavebeenintentional]

I’m Ready

Summary: “I can’t...I can’t take my forever if you’re not in it.” 

Picks up right where the show left off. Not technically a fix-it, as I didn’t change anything, but I promise it gets better. 

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of (canon) child abuse and neglect, mentions of past trauma, working through trauma, denial, bit of pining (but, like, in a denial sort of way), some fluff, some angst (but not as much as there is fluff)

Author’s Note: So many thanks to @there-must-be-a-lock​ for endless suggestions, fixes, and beautiful images (header AND dividers!!!). Thanks to all my friends for cheering me on, especially @thoughtslikeaminefield​ ; I probably wouldn’t have kept going with the story without you.

This is my first Destiel story and my first time posting in a while. Please be kind.

Word Count: 7704

In case you missed it: ItMightHaveBeenintentional’s Masterlist

Dean isn’t sure how long he’s been in heaven, at least not by heaven’s timeframe. Probably years, maybe even a couple of decades. He doesn’t age in heaven, and time works differently, running fast and stretching slow. 

For Dean, heaven is a chance to rest, catch up with his massive found family, and just breathe for the first time since he was a kid. No worrying about Sam, no waiting for the next monster to pop out, no prepping for the next apocalypse.

Nothing like heaven to give a guy time to kick his boots off and just relax. 

Unfortunately, relaxing has never come easy to Dean. Sure, he can go through the motions (binge watching horror movies, binge drinking, hell, just bingeing in general), but relaxing is an entirely different matter.

Relaxing means letting his guard down. It means giving up his hypervigilance. It means sleeping hard and staying asleep until he wakes naturally and unassisted by attackers. It means spending long moments reminding himself the monster at the end of the book is really gone.

Sam is safe. Everyone he’s ever loved is safe and close, where he can reach them.

Almost everyone. 

...

Jake Walker is born on the ninth of July at twenty-one seconds past 9:14 AM. His mother Samantha is exhausted after a two-weeks-early delivery, but both she and the baby are strong and steady. Her wife didn’t faint, none of the medical team ever sounded the least worried, and she heard her son’s first shocked wail as he came into the world. Exhausted, but definitely good.

His mom Betty, on the other hand, is an absolute wreck. She’s been anxious the entire pregnancy, despite good news from the doctor at every visit, and she is terrified that the unexpected early arrival of their son means her worst fears are just beginning. 

Betty takes slow, calming breaths, focusing on not clamping down too hard on Sam’s hand. She has to stay strong, calm, for her new family. She has to keep her head on straight, in case—in case —

“Your son is absolutely fine, seems he just had a real particular time he wanted to arrive. Here he is.”

Betty opens her eyes to find a delivery nurse beaming at her, proffering a small, swaddled bundle.

“Never seen such a calm baby. Here, he’s been waiting for you.” 

Betty looks down into the startlingly clear, mossy green eyes gazing up at her from the squashed, serene little face, and she feels something click into place in the middle of her chest. Samantha leans her head back against her pillow, letting out a long slow breath as she smiles, and Betty’s pulse slowly finds its way back to something like normal.

“We’ve been waiting for you, too, big guy.”

...

Trauma doesn’t heal in a day, not even in heaven. All the shit Dean remembers — all the shit he tried to forget — everything he ever managed to suppress — drives him from his bed at night, leaving him sleepless on his front porch, staring blankly into the night, or tinkering on Baby in the garage, digging into the perfect engine, determined to distract himself from his spiraling thoughts. 

Dean has never been an idiot, no matter how many times he played the fool in life. The people he and Sam couldn’t save, the people he let down, none of those deaths are on him. Dean isn’t responsible for the pain and suffering, but he’s haunted by it all the same. 

The problem is, haunts don’t go away on their own. Every hunter knows that. 

It’s not that he wants forgiveness; how can he be forgiven for something he isn’t responsible for? He needs to see those people, though, see that they’re okay and at peace. He has to make sure everyone is where they should be, safe and at least content. And even if he ultimately isn’t their killer, didn’t want their deaths, would have done anything to prevent them, he still needs them to know...to know everything. 

He needs absolution.

And if the person who needs to hear those things the most is MIA, well, they’ve got a history of not saying a lot of things face to face. There’s always prayer, right? 

Dean starts by visiting a couple of people he hadn’t been able to save along the way, feeling strangely like someone following a twelve step program. Objectively, (ie, according to the people he talks to), he’s got nothing to apologize for. He did his best; he made tough decisions in situations forced upon him. They don’t blame him in the least, and most are truly and obviously thankful for his intervention.

Their words don’t make much of a dent in the mountain of guilt Dean carries on his shoulders, but it’s a start. 

Once or twice, Dean finds himself looking up at the sky, so far from empty, opening his mouth to call out — an action so common on earth it nearly became reflex —but he stops himself both times. He’s not ready for that conversation.

But he needs to talk to someone closer to him, a deeper connection than the monster victims he’s been visiting. 

He’s restless, needs to move a little, needs to talk to…

Someone. He needs to talk to someone. But he can’t. Hell, he can’t even say the name. 

Pacing the garage turns to a wandering ramble down the road, past Sam and his family’s house, past Mom and Dad’s house (there’s a conversation or fifty that he’s not ready for), until he finds himself in front of what can only be described as a hobbit hole. He shakes his head, not for the first time, the corner of his mouth tilted up as he knocks on the circular front door. 

He’s greeted by bright red hair, a surprisingly crushing hug, and one of the brightest smiles Dean has ever seen.

“Hey, Charlie. Can we, uh...You up for a walk? I was hopin we could talk for a while.”

...

Jake grows quickly and steadily, always near the top of all his growth charts but never alarmingly so. He’s bright, quick to anger and quick to laugh, and fiercely loving. He is both his mothers’ boy, always up for a cuddle or a wrestle, and he loves to build block towers and demolish them with equal abandon. 

He makes his displeasure with vegetables known early on. On this particular morning, he introduces his strained peas to the kitchen wall with surprising velocity. Betty knows better than to encourage this attitude, so she hides her smile behind calm, controlled admonition as she offers another spoonful. 

Jake looks her straight in the eyes, his smile dazzling and laughter bright, and she knows she hasn’t fooled him one bit. She sighs and lets her own smile match his. He won her over the day he was born; there’s not much point trying to fight it now.

“Come on, babe, eat your peas and we’ll see about some of those stewed apples left over from Mommy’s pie filling. Deal?”

She scrunches her nose and wiggles her eyebrows. Jake’s little eyes widen at her expression, and he tries to imitate it before dissolving into giggles. Betty takes the opportunity to poke a spoonful of peas into his open mouth. 

She’s not spent much time around kids before this, but Betty swears she’s never seen a baby look so resigned and exasperated in real life. But she’s played her trump card. He’s too young for the crust, but a couple of spoonfuls of smashed up fruit (apple is his favorite), and Jake is guaranteed to eat just about anything she presents.

“Pie?” she asks.

Jake smiles and opens his mouth wider.

...

“SURPRISE!!!”

The last time he was shocked this badly, Sam didn’t let him forget that fucking cat for years. Or ever, really. Seems like everyone he ever knew is stuffed into his living room, barely leaving room for the balloon bouquets and a massive… That’s not a cake, it’s…

That’s the most beautiful apple pie Dean has ever seen in his entire life. 

Dean is engulfed by arms, hugging and patting and slapping his back (was that a pinch on his ass?), everyone eager to get their turn with him, wishing him a happy birthday, saying they can’t wait until he opens his presents, it’s so good to see him, he’s looking so rested!

He manages to extract himself from the wellwishers, citing parental obligations, and finally makes his way over to Mary, smiling warmly and offering him a knife and a plate. His eyes flick anxious from his mom to the golden brown circle of perfection before him, but he can’t bring himself to ask. Mary’s smile widens.

“I didn’t lay a hand on it except to take it out of the box. Happy Birthday, Dean.”

Six plates of pie later, Dean reclines on his couch, letting the relaxed atmosphere of the party sink into his bones. The excitement and crowd of early have begun to wind down, leaving a double handful of family, both blood and found, all telling the most embarrassing, terrible Dean stories they can think of.

It’s possible Dean’s never laughed this hard in his entire life.

He heaves a deep sigh of contentment and props his feet ponderously on the coffee table, draping an arm across the back of the couch and surveying the room. 

Donna, one of the apparent party conspirators, tosses him a sparkling grin over her shoulder before turning back to a rather animated conversation with Charlie about the length of Dean’s wig at the LARPing battle. Sam and Kevin are recounting Dean’s worst cooking disasters to Garth’s wife, and Bobby is entertaining Mary with Dean’s disastrous attempt to flirt with the pizza delivery girl who delivered to Bobby’s house most weekends when Sam and Dean would stay with him. 

If Dean had to describe one perfect day, this would be just about it, down to the flakiness of the pie crust and the amazing collection of horror movies and original vinyls he’s been gifted. Almost every single person he could possibly want present is there, and since he isn’t dwelling on absence today, Dean decides to push his wandering thoughts out of his head and just soak it all in.

Every muscle in his body hums contentedly, and Dean feels strangely warm and peaceful, but excited, all at once. It’s weird, just sitting here and enjoying the moment, not worrying about the next minute or hour or day or even year. He’s full of pie, he’s got great tunes to look forward to, and there’s nothing to worry about. 

He’s happy.

Naturally, that’s when the panic sets in. This won’t last; it never does. Happiness can’t last. He learned that a long time ago. 

Sure, it’s heaven, but he doesn’t deserve to be here, so something is going to spoil it for him, for everyone. Probably Dean himself, he thinks as his eyes dart from his mom to his dad. Dean always seems to find a way to fuck things up, couldn’t take care of Sam, couldn’t keep himself alive, couldn’t even keep the Empty from—

“Hey, birthday boy.” Jody’s voice somehow reaches Dean through his darkening thoughts, and he comes back to himself in stages, focusing on the warmth of her hands on his shoulders. She stands behind the couch, leaning down to squeeze his shoulders. “Wanna get some air?”

He nods blindly and climbs numbly to his feet. Jody guides him efficiently out the door and points Dean in an arbitrary direction. They walk for what could be moments or hours as Dean plows through the morass in his mind. 

“I get it,” Jody finally says. 

Dean glances sharply at her. 

“I still have random panic attacks sometimes, wondering if Alex is safe at the hospital, if this is going to be the hunt that gets Claire.” Her eyes are fixed on some point in the distance, and he gets the feeling she’s deliberately not meeting his eyes. “I check on Owen every thirty minutes on my bad nights, and I have to lay hands and eyes on Sean to convince myself he’s really there before I can calm down. It always takes me a minute or sixty to make myself remember where we are, where everyone is, and that there isn’t some big or even small bad waiting around the corner or under the bed.”

Dean stuffs his hands in his pockets, stuffing down his automatic reassurances. The first half of his life was spent avoiding conversations like this, and it took him a long time to unlearn the knee-jerk reaction to brush off people’s concerns with some variation of “Everything’s fine.”

Jody, with an awareness born of decades of hunting and parenthood, senses his discomfort. She slows her steps and catches Dean’s elbow, turning him gently to face her.

“That feeling in your gut when the happiness comes, the panic, that knowledge deep, deep down that everything good is bound to turn to shit.” Jody reaches out and wipes a trickle of moisture from Dean’s face.

It’s not raining, he thinks, frowning. Where the hell did that come from?

“You're going to unlearn it. You’re the toughest bastard I’ve ever met, Dean, and you've been through literal hell. If anyone has earned their happiness up here, it’s you. You’re allowed to be happy, and someday you’ll know it.”

Dean would love to reply right now, to contradict Jody. He’d love to remind her of all the bad calls he made, of all the torturing he did in hell, of all the lies he told... 

But this knot in his throat is choking him. And still Jody persists.

“I know how goddamned stubborn you are, but you’re not stupid either. We have nothing to forgive you for. Maybe once you’ve talked to everyone on your list, you’ll see that, too. But in the meantime, take a deep breath, give me a hug, and at least say in your head that you’re allowed to enjoy yourself at your own damned birthday party, even if you can’t admit it out loud.”

And if the damp patch on Jody’s shoulder bothers her as they stroll back to Dean’s house to grab a couple of beers, at least she’s tactful enough to not mention it.

...

Jake takes care of his family. He’s a fairly serious, empathetic toddler, quick to kiss other’s ouchies. After receiving his first Elmo bandage, Jake insists on bandaging his stuffed puppy’s tail, his tyrannosaurus rex’s left eye (“He fight with stegosaurus,” Jake solemnly informs Samantha as he presses the adhesive strip in place), and then an old, almost-healed shaving cut on Betty’s left knee. 

“Mama better now?” Jake asks, somehow managing to sound strictly professional and absurdly adorable at the same time. He looks up to Betty for approval, and she wonders how she manages to let him touch the ground at all with how much she just wants to hold him all day long. 

“Mama so much better now,” she informs him, careful to stay serious. He rewards her with the golden smile that is the highlight of her days before rushing off to find someone else he can fix up. 

Both Betty and Samantha marvel in his quickness to share his snacks. They never refuse an offered Cheerio from him, no matter how damp or sticky (though a few of those disappear quickly when Jake’s attention wanders). 

The discussion over a first pet is fairly quick and decisive. Everyone agrees the pet must be something fluffy that can be cuddled. Betty vetoes anything smaller than a cantaloupe, citing her clumsiness and tendency to step on things that should never be trod upon. Jake vetoes cats, saying he just doesn’t trust them, and Mommy and Mama share one of their silent conversations before Samantha speaks up.

“A puppy it is, then, Jakey. Let’s go look up some good breeds.”

Their first pet is a rescue named Garth, at Jake’s adamant insistence, though they're still not sure where he learned that name in the first place. Garth is clumsy, awkward, easy-going, and the most spoiled and cared for pet in the neighborhood. 

Jake’s little sister Tabitha comes along shortly before his fourth birthday, and he takes to big brotherhood with an authority and self-assurance that delights every stranger the family meets. When she eventually starts walking, Jake is right by her side, guiding each one of her toddling little steps while a beaming Mommy and Mama follow close behind.

No one is even a little surprised when Tabby’s first whole word is “Hake.” She masters the letter j eventually, but continues to refer to his big brother by the name she gave him for most of the rest of their lives. Jake doesn’t even pretend to be annoyed.

“It was just a matter of time,” Samantha says one night, as she and Betty are getting ready for bed one night not long after Tabby has given Jake his new moniker. “You know what I mean?”

Betty, who has known exactly what Sam means since the day she literally tripped over her future wife at university, smiles and turns down the covers on her side of the bed. 

“That’s Jake,” she says. They’ve spent hours, discussing their son’s odd, charming quirks long into the night, offering up phrases like “old soul” and “wise,” and eventually realized nothing they said could ever completely encompass the loving little person they somehow managed to bring into the world.

“That’s Jake,” Sam agrees, and turns her version of Jake’s golden smile on her wife. Mischief sparkles in her eyes, and Betty wonders how she ended up with three people in her life that she absolutely cannot win against. 

“Ready to get sweaty, Betty?”

Betty groans but can’t hold back her grin. “You are the absolute worst, and that is exactly why I love you.”

…

Sam manages to shock Dean when he insists on a big family Christmas. His extra years on earth apparently helped the younger Winchester warm to the idea of holidays, finally getting to enjoy them with his son as he never did during his own childhood. 

Sam doesn’t have to try very hard to talk everyone into celebrating. Things have been calm and serene, more than a little on the uneventful side, and Dean figures it will add some variety to his afterlife. Something to plan, something to look forward to that won’t be crashed by murderous Elder Gods or various other supernatural entities. 

Probably. 

Dean secretly loves that feeling of finding the perfect present for someone, something he was never really in a position to do back on earth. He takes a deep breath, proactively reminding himself that this is okay, this is allowed, this is good, that everything is not only okay but actually kind of great, really.

He can be happy. He can. He can do this. 

 The shade of red Sam’s face turns before he finally dissolves into laughter is a thousand percent worth the degradation of actually gifting someone a signed vinyl copy of Celine Dion’s first solo album.

“It’s perfect, Dean. Thanks, man.” Sam pulls his brother into a hug, and his giant paw slapping Dean in the middle of the back literally knocks the panic right out of him. Deans huffs, at a loss for words, and hugs Sam back perhaps just a smidge too forcefully before letting him go.

“You’ll never top Sapphire Barbie for best Christmas present, but this runs a close second.” Sam shakes his head, still grinning as he reads over the back cover of the album while Mary and John look on, varying levels of confusion and amusement on their faces.

“What’s he talking about, Dean?” John asks. He takes a long drink of his whiskey. “Sapphire Barbie? Some kinda code word or something?”

Sam and Dean glance at each other, their shoulders tensing automatically. For a moment, Dean can actually feel the phantom hunger pains transposed over the current fullness of his belly, and he can see a tiny Sam (still way more hair than necessary), huddled despondent and hungry under a shitty, moth-eaten motel blanket, convinced there would be no Christmas. 

“Dean, uh...accidentally got me a Barbie for Christmas one year, it was — a, uh — yeah, he wanted to make sure I got a present, so he grabbed it, and…” Sam trails off. 

John huffs a confused laugh, and Dean’s hackles rise at the scoff, so like Sam’s and yet so much more...condescending. John rises from the couch and goes to refill his glass. Sam seems content to let the moment pass, but something in Dean’s gut, something latent and ignored since his heavenly ascension, sparks and smolders bitterly. 

“How the hell do you ‘accidentally’ get somebody a Barbie?” John asks, still chuckling, and Dean suddenly realizes he’s real fucking tired of biting his tongue.

“I stole the Barbie. Stole a couple of other things, too. A Christmas tree, some decorations, a baton.” 

Mary glances between her sons, confused, before turning to John. “Where were you while this happened?” 

A parade of emotions march over John’s face: confusion is followed by slow recognition. Guilt makes a quick appearance only to be chased away by dull, ashamed anger. 

Dean can practically see John’s mind flashing through the scenario, recalling more about the hunt than his own sons on that cold, nasty Christmas Eve. He knows the instant his dad reverts to default setting of laying the blame on his eldest son. Dean braces himself automatically, his body viscerally reacting to the familiar storm on his father’s face.

Dean has the fleeting thought that at least his dad is drinking from a glass now; ought to hurt a lot less than being hit with a whole bottle.

“You left your brother to go steal from somebody else’s home on Christmas? After what happened with the shtriga?” 

Dean knows true anger, near rage, for the first time in heaven, and the bitter wash of it through him is cutting and all too familiar. 

“Pretty stupid thing to do, I know, but I wasn’t even twelve yet, so I wasn’t making the wisest of decisions.”

“Not even twelve?” Mary cuts in. “Sam? Does anybody feel like explaining this to me?”

“What the hell were you thinking, Dean, anything could have—” 

But Dean had a lifetime of being plowed under by his dad’s inability to take responsibility, has had way more than enough of shouldering the blame for shit he should never have been left with in the first place.

“I was thinking that somebody should get a seven-year-old something for Christmas, should make sure he has enough to eat. Where were you, Dad? What were you thinking? Because you sure as hell weren’t thinking about us.”

That knot starts up in Dean’s throat again, the muscles tightening against the fear that blossoms in his chest, echoed from decades of training. Sam’s hand finds Dean’s arm, and Dean looks to him. Instead of the caution or reproach he’s expecting, though, all Sam simply nods. 

“Say it, Dean.”

Dean stands slowly, facing John Winchester with every bit of strength he’s built, every bit of courage he’s earned from a lifetime of terror, and realizes that the angry, bitter man before him is no more a threat to him anymore than Chuck is. And without looking, he knows Sam stands behind him, solid and resolute.

“I wasn’t even twelve. It was Christmas, and you abandoned us. Yeah, I stole Sam a Barbie doll. You know what I got for Christmas that year? The year before? Every fucking year before that for almost as long as I can remember?”

John opens his mouth, even now unable to admit his faults, but Dean barrels on before his dad can get a word out.

“Not a damn thing from you. Not one damn thing. Not presents, not food, not a warm place to sleep or a word of thanks or approval. Not even a fucking phone call to say Merry Goddamn Christmas.” Dean pauses one last time, and it suddenly feels like he’s towering over the man whose shadow always felt too dark, too large, too suffocating; the man whose respect he used to crave more than food and water. 

“What about me, Dad? Huh? What about me?”

Dean doesn’t recall leaving his parents’ house, doesn’t remember driving home, but he finds himself on his own front porch, leaning forward in his rocking chair. He takes in a long, deep breath before scrubbing his hands through hair and leaning against the back of the chair.

A breeze rifles the leaves of a nearby tree, ruffling Dean’s hair. He taps his thumb against the arm of the chair and takes a long moment to breathe in the night air. 

Dean lets his thoughts roll around for a while. The stars creep slowly across the black, the crickets chirp, and the breeze continues to tickle through Dean’s mussed hair. 

“You and I could write the book on shitty dads, am I right, kid?”

He’s not sure why he decides to talk to Jack. Just nice to have someone to talk to, knowing they’re not going to talk right back.

“Could just cut him out. Dunno how that’d work in heaven.” He thinks a moment, then grins to himself. “Not sure Mom’d let me get away with that. Sam would back me up, though.” Dean grins into the somehow not-empty night. “I would be the guy that brings a family feud into paradise, huh?”

Dean takes in the wilderness around him, the empty house at his back, the extra rocking chair for...a visitor, he supposes. He has learned today that heaven, as perfect as it is, still holds anger and bitterness and loneliness, and he figures that’s to be expected. 

“You still did good, kid. You and me, we did good even with our shitty old men in and outta our lives. Glad we cut yours out for good. Guess I’ll figure out how to deal with mine eventually. All I’ve got now is time, anyway.”

Dean pushes up slowly, still surprised at the lack of cricks, pops, and aches that accompanied the action his last couple of years on earth. 

“Night, Jack,” he says into the wind. He glances over at the empty rocking chair one last time. “If you see him, tell him —just tell him—” 

Dean frowns, shakes his head, and turns his back on the night.

…

Jake’s not a crier, not really. There are inevitable tears that come with bad falls, but Jake sheds tears like it’s a physical reaction that he’s getting out of the way so he can move on. 

So when Betty goes to change the sheets in her son’s room, only to find him silently crying on the floor, she panics. Sheets flop forgotten to the side as she drops next to his, reaching instinctively for his still-plump cheeks.

“Baby, what’s wrong? Are you hurt? What happened?”

“Nothing happened, Mama, I’m sorry I scared you,” he sniffles, his eyebrows down low on his small forehead. 

Jake has never lied in his entire young life, and Betty is torn because he is obviously upset about something, but his face is full of nothing but truth and confusion.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Jakey,” she says, settling on the floor next to him and opening her arms. He instantly climbs into her lap, hooking his own arms around her neck and nuzzling under her chin. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Can you tell me what made you cry?”

“I...I don’t know,” he says, his little voice quiet and heavily confused. “I was playing with Tabby, she was helping me build a tower with my blocks, and then Mommy came to get Tabby for her snack.”

Betty is stumped. Jake has never had any kind of separation anxiety, as far as she can tell. He’s spent nights with both sets of grandparents, even a couple of weekends with aunts, uncles, and cousins, and never shed so much as a single tear.

“You...are you crying because you miss Tabby? She’s right in the next room, baby, you can go with her for snack time, you know that.”

“No, Mama, I —I don’t know why I’m crying. Tabby hugged me, she said she loved me, then she went with Mommy, and I felt...really happy. Like —the happiest ever, and...it was too much happy?”

The last part comes out as a question, and honestly Betty isn’t sure how to answer it. 

“Well, baby,” she starts hesitantly, not sure where to lead this particular discussion. “Can you explain  what you mean when you say ‘too much happy’?”

He snuggles closer against her chest, his forehead pressing along her jaw. “I dunno. I think...maybe I’m not supposed to be that happy? Is that why the tears came out? Because I got more happy than I’m supposed to get? Was I wrong, Mama?”

Betty breathes slowly, tightening her hold on the little boy in her arms. “You weren’t wrong, Jake. You can be as happy as you want. There’s never too much happy, I promise.”

She feels him shift, and she looks down to meet his clear, green gaze. He studies her carefully, scrutinizing her expression, and she’s reminded why she’s always been so very careful to tell her children the truth, albeit on levels they can understand.

“You pinky promise?” 

The proffered pinky is smudged, pudgy, and absolutely perfect. Betty hooks her pinky finger with her son’s, bumping his nose gently with her own. 

“Jakey, you have my eternal permission to be as happy as you are capable of feeling. And no one is ever allowed to take that from you. Good?” He nods, and she carefully brushes the tear tracks from his cheeks. “Sometimes feelings are really big, and they’re just a little too big for your body. They have to find a way out, and that’s why the tears come out.”

“Is that why you cry when you watch the kissy movies?” he asks, suddenly smiling. “Your feelings are too big, too?”

“Yup. We’ve got big feelings in this family, Jakey. Better get used to it, kiddo.”

...

More time passes. Dean walks, he talks, he goes through the motions. He heals a little with every conversation, every time he reaches out, and even though some of the wounds feel as fresh as the day he got them, eventually all that’s left are faint scars. He’d never willingly erase the scars, anyway. He earned them, and he’ll be damned if something like a little death and talk therapy could just wipe them away.

Gradually — so gradually Dean doesn’t realize it until Donna makes a comment one night after their regular poker game — Dean learns to not only let his guard down but drop it entirely. He’s shocked to realize the loss of his emotional armor doesn’t even bother him. 

Dean works on Baby, drinks with Bobby, teaches Mary how to make an apple pie from scratch, and even manages to have a couple of honest, semi-civil conversations with his father. They don’t exactly reach Andy and Opie levels of father-son bonding, but John does eventually manage to grudgingly admit he fucked up some (a lot). Dean supposes anyone can make progress in heaven if they try hard enough. 

He’s talked to everyone he can think of, settled scores, smoothed ruffles, filled himself to bursting with absolution. Dean is so absolved he thinks he might punch the next person who pats him on the back and tells him how much good he’s done for the world.

And still, he comes home every night to that extra rocking chair. 

He waits now, waits while he talks with Sam, waits while he walks through the woods, waits while he changes Baby’s oil. He can’t shake the feeling that something is coming. He can feel it around himself, like a suit of armor or a second skin. Nothing terrible, nothing ominous, but something. Which is weird because nothing ever seems to happen in heaven, not really. 

Could be he’s just bored, but Dean doesn’t think that’s it. Not entirely.

He talks to Jack nightly now. It’s a habit, something to help Dean talk through and untangle his thoughts into something he can understand. He looks forward to their talks, being able to get his feelings out without being either validated or rebuffed. Just letting some steam off.

He’s done it for so long that he can barely remember the night he started. Dean knows Jack can hear him, but the kid’s been true to his word, stayed hands off and radio silent. He lets mortals deal with their own issues, keeping himself and the supernatural world well away. Even the angels leave people alone in heaven.

Especially the angels, Dean grudgingly admits to himself, late one night after leaving Sam’s house. Instead of going home to that extra rocking chair, he drives Baby slowly, aimlessly, yet somehow ends up back on that same bridge where he met up Sam all those years ago. 

He parks right at the end (no traffic in heaven) and strolls out to the middle, scuffing his boots and sending little puffs of dust in the air. His hands are stuffed deep in his pockets, out of habit more than anything else, and he lifts his gaze from the ground up to the full moon in the sky.

“Hey, kid,” he says softly. “Hope it’s goin good for you.Things are pretty good here. I know you know, you’re everywhere and all that,” Dean waves his hand vaguely, then continues, “Just wanted to let you know, I guess. I didn’t tell you enough, but we—I —really appreciated you. Appreciate you. You, uh...you did real good, kid. Then and now.” He pauses, then takes a breath, standing straight and letting all pretense go.“Please tell Cas...he did good, and...I miss him. And I know you’re all taking the hands-off approach, but —I dunno, maybe...he could —stop by? Or…”

The silence around Dean is heavy, comforting like a thick blanket.  

Or a tan trenchcoat, he thinks.

“Jack —“

He cuts himself off, though. He spent all this time in heaven working through rivers of bullshit, wearing down mountains of lies and self-loathing until he can finally be honest and open with everyone. And if he’s going to be honest with himself tonight, Jack isn’t who he needs to talk to.

“Sorry kid, I gotta put you on hold.”

Purgatory flashes before his eyes, that sense of loss and being lost, the desperation and certainty that he’d never see his best friend again. 

I can’t do this anymore, he thinks. I can’t pretend anymore. And I’m done lying to myself.

“Cas. Castiel. I hope you can hear me. I miss you. I don’t know where you are. Bobby said you were here, that you helped remake this place into something pretty damned awesome, but I never see you. I can feel you sometimes, can tell some things are up here just because you put ‘em there. Someone will tell a story, and I swear I can feel you standing right beside me, can almost hear you frowning and not understanding the joke. I…”

He knows there’s something left —knows he hasn’t found the right words yet. He has no idea what that right thing is, or even what he’s still waiting for, but he figures if he just barrels on, it’ll come to him. 

“There was too much in the way, back on earth, in Purgatory. Too much always coming after us, trying to kill us or worse. I got in my own damned way, never knew what to say or how to say it. Didn’t think I deserved...I should’ve…”

He’s not sure what’s more bizarre, that he’s praying to someone who probably won’t respond — probably can’t even hear him — or that he’s doing so in a place wildly opposite from that last time he prayed like this. 

Dean isn’t sure how he keeps ending up in this situation, but here he is, gasping out his feelings to the night air, barely able to squeeze the words past that perpetual knot in his throat. 

“It’s a lot clearer up here, more room to breathe and think. This heaven you and Jack made...it’s great. Hell, it’s damn near perfect. But there’s no you. And I just can’t see my heaven as right without you. I can’t...I can’t take my forever if you’re not in it.”

A wispy cloud, silver in the moonlight, drifts across an otherwise flawless sky. Dean stares upwards for several minutes, wondering if Cas can see the same stars tonight, wherever he is. 

“Maybe...I don’t know if you can come back. Or if you even left. I don’t know how any of it works.”

He’s on the cusp. He can almost taste the next step. 

Dean’s at a loss, though. He could be brave: he could say everything he should’ve said in that last moment, everything he should have told Cas. 

Or he could take the comfortable path, revert to being a dick and tell Cas exactly how he feels about all this silent treatment, about the no-show in heaven or not telling him about his deal with the Empty until it was too late, about waiting until the last second so Dean would have no time—

Or he could do both. 

Both is good.

Metal railings squeak under Dean’s punishing grip. He’s not sure when he grabbed hold of the bridge itself, but right now he needs all the support he can get.

“You left me! You should have told me, given me a chance. Another chance, just one more. I’m sorry, Cas, I knew but I didn’t. I— I should’ve told you, should’ve held you, I could have—“

The tears flow unimpeded, the air squeezed from his lungs in convulsive gasps, but Dean can’t stop now.

“I should have told you everything I felt, every day. I should have trusted you more, and I’m so sorry. You were always family, you were always there for me when I needed you. We both fucked up so many times, lost so much time together. I was so angry at you, at me, at everyone and everything, and I let it get in the way.”

The silence around him is maddening. Here he is, ripping his guts out in the middle of the bridge, and all he gets back is crickets and evening breezes. Dean shoves off the railing, too frantic to stay still.

“Gimme something, Cas, anything! I’m pouring my heart out! I fucked up, and I’m sorry, and I swear I’m gonna do better, but you’ve gotta give me the chance! Just...just give me some sort of answer, please? Let me know you’re there!”

The silence persists. 

Just as quickly as Dean’s rage crescendos, it fizzles suddenly. He drops to the ground, back and head slamming hard against the side of the bridge as he lets out a roar of helpless rage. His fists grip his hair, teeth grinding against the wave of helplessness that threatens to overwhelm him.

“I missed my chance, I waited too long, I should’ve said— I should have—“

And then it comes to him.

His hands draw down from his hair, scrubbing his face before steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. He can’t believe it’s taken him this long to realize. 

“I’m an idiot.” His voice is barely audible, even to his own ears, but he has no doubt his words will reach their intended destination. “This place you built, you and Jack, it’s as good as it gets. I deserve it, I earned it. I got my family, I got the easy life for a while. I got my family. I had my rest. There’s only one thing left in the universe I need, only one person I want.”

Dean stands, dusting himself off and turning his face back up to the stars. 

“I’m ready, Cas. I— I love you. And I’m ready for the next thing. Whatever that is. However that is. As long as—”

One last pause.

“As long as you’re there, that’s all I need.”

...

The inevitable day of separation comes: Jake’s first day of kindergarten. Samantha is proud of her guardian warrior, knows he’s going to succeed at everything he puts his little bullheaded mind to. Betty hopes very hard that he won’t be too lonely without Tabitha there with him. Tabitha only knows that Jake’s finger tastes good and makes her gums feel better when she chews on it.

Jake, as always, approaches this monumental step with aplomb and logic. 

“I’ll give it a shot,” he says casually as his little sister gnaws on his thumb. “An’ if I don’t like it, I’ll just stay here and take care of Tabby. You an’ Mommy can go to work, then, ‘kay, Mama? I can make nut butter n’ jelly sammiches. But I’ll try it out.”

...

School isn’t so bad, Jake decides on his second day. His teacher Mrs. Harris seems to know what she’s doing (she already knows who she can trust with scissors and glue), and the other kids are nice enough. There’s different toys (“learning tools”, Mrs. Harris calls them), so that’s interesting enough, but—

Something is missing.

“Can you tell me what you mean, Jakey?” Betty asks at dinner that night. “Are there supplies you need? We got everything on the list.” She wipes a smear of sweet potato off Tabitha’s face before looking back to her son. His mouth is turned down in a frown of concentration, like he’s trying to remember something.

“I don’t need anything, Mama, just...someone. I need someone. My friend hasn’t come to school yet.”

“It takes time to make friends, baby,” Samantha says. “It’s only the second day of school. Have you tried asking anyone to play yet?”

“Yeah, and they’re fun and all, but they aren’t my friend. My friend isn’t here yet,” Jake says. Then his frown vanishes with the sudden mood change of a five-year-old, and he turns beseeching eyes on Betty, aiming unerringly at the softer target. “I finished my green beans. That means dessert now, right, Mama?”

Jake decides on the third day that the best place to wait for his friend (he just knows he’s going to show up any day now) is the playground.

“My friend likes the playground,” he murmurs. “That’s good, I like the playground, too.” He eats his lunch slowly, watching the other kids wolf down their food so they can have extra playtime. He’s barely finished his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, though, when he’s distracted by movement on the other side of the play yard. The door to the school opens and the school secretary steps out. Then she turns and gently pulls someone out from behind her.

A small boy stands in the doorway, white shirt tucked neatly into black slacks. His blue tie is a little loose, as if he’s been tugging on it, and his tan jacket is a little too big, hanging loosely around his small frame. His hair looks like someone was in too much of a rush to comb it properly. He clutches a pink piece of paper in one hand and, in the other, a backpack inexplicably decorated with flying, winged slices of pizza. 

“Late drop-off, parent had to run,” the secretary tells Mrs. Harris before tiptoeing out of the room. 

With an anxious glance at the other children, the boy scuttles forward and immediately trips over his own untied shoelaces.

Jake is at the little boy’s side before anyone else can react, kneeling down to check on him. The prone child is too shocked to cry, both by the fall and by the sudden appearance of this unknown factor. Jake checks him over, then nudges him until he sits up. 

“You gotta keep ‘em double tied,” Jake says seriously. “Or else that’ll happen all the time.” Without waiting for an answer, Jake sets about the laborious task of looping each set of laces in turn, rabbits chasing each other around trees and down holes until the shoes are secure.

Jake climbs to his feet and reaches down, gripping the other boy’s shoulders and helping him stand. A dark smear of jelly stains the shoulder of the coat in the shape of a smudged purple handprint.

“Thank...thank you,” the smaller boys whispers. He lifts his eyes hesitantly, and clear blue meets olive green for the first time. “I’m Chris.”

“I’m Jake.” He thinks for a long moment, frowning. Something is settling in his chest, something big and permanent and scary; at first he thinks it’s too much. 

Then he thinks back to what Mama told him: you can be as happy as you want. 

He smiles at Chris. “You’re with me. You’re the one I was waiting for.”

Hope and just a bit of delight flicker across Chris’s eager face. 

“I am? You mean it?”

Jake nods and grabs his new friend’s hand. “Yep. Now you’re here, that’s all I need. And nobody's allowed to take you from me, Mama said so. C’mon, let’s play cars.”

[tibbinswrites]

Somewhere Back Along the Line

Rating: Explicit

Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Fandom: Supernatural

Relationships: Endverse Castiel/Endverse Dean Winchester, Endverse Castiel/others, Castiel/Dean Winchester

Summary: After Sam said yes to Lucifer, those left at Camp Chitaqua must carry on as best they can. This story is not a happy one.

Read it here

Somewhere back along the line you lost your love and I lost your trust. (Fade Away  – Bruce Springsteen)

When Dean pushed through the bead curtain of Cas' cabin, he didn't even look surprised to see him lying underneath one of the camp's other residents. 

He grunted and gasped out encouragement as he was fucked deep and tender. One hand clutched at the guy's ass, the other slid through his receding hairline. For Cas' part, it didn't bother him that Dean had just walked in either, he just glanced in his fearless leader's direction without his hips even slowing their pace. Dean stood there with his arms folded and looking all kinds of imposing. Cas just rolled his eyes; sex was enjoyable, one of the most enjoyable things he had found, in fact, and Dean was not going to spoil it by being… well… Dean.

"Get out." Dean said harshly.

Cas cursed as Jeremy practically toppled off (and out of) him in shock, accidentally planting an elbow in his (soft, weak, malleable) stomach.

"Sir!" Jeremy stammered, trying to salute while grabbing for his pants with the other hand. Cas smirked, shifting himself more comfortably against the pillow so he was at least more reclining than lying. He didn't bother to reach for the sheet, there wasn't any part of him that Dean hadn't seen before. He tucked an arm behind his head and tried to affect a coquettish tone.

"Is it your turn now, Commander?" He teased as Jeremy scrambled from the cabin with his fly still open and his shirt unbuttoned.

"Are you the camp whore now, Cas?"

"Of course not, I don't get paid." He rolled over to reach his bedside drawer and pulled out a joint and a lighter, not bothering to offer one to Dean, he wouldn't take it, not anymore. "You couldn't have waited until we finished?"

He took a deep drag, letting the drug work its magic and sighing as it did. Suddenly his stomach didn't hurt quite so much, and that brief flash of irritation was soothed away.

"Would you have finished?" Dean said. And it wasn't a question, merely what passed for his version of a joke now.

Cas snorted obligingly. "One way or another, yes," he answered anyway.

"Put your pants on."

"Why? Aren't you going to just take them off again."

Dean looked revolted, as though he hadn't fucked Cas in this very room multiple times.

"I'm not interested in sloppy seconds. And we've actually got more important things to think about than your dick."

Cas took another lazy drag, more just to irritate Dean than because he actually wanted to. The smoke curled in front of his eyes and through the haze he saw Dean's shape and could almost, almost pretend.

"Are you sure?"

"Cas!" Dean barked.

"Fine."

Cas dressed one-handed —far more gracefully than Jeremy had, it had to be said (heh, graceful he wasn't, not anymore, no, he was gracegone, gracedepleted, gracedead) —and after a few minutes he stood in front of his commander, puffing on his joint.

"You sure you're not paid?" Dean observed, nodding to the weed.

Cas shrugged, "Tokens of appreciation aren't payment," he said, "I still let you fuck me and when was the last time you brought me flowers?"

Dean's entire face seemed to tighten then, he hated it when Cas referred to their naked activities when they were both clothed, or really at all. Honestly, Dean seemed to hate pretty much everything these days. It was getting depressing.

"There's a run leaving in fifteen."

"And you made me put on pants for that?"

Read more on AO3

[beckmorchaud-blog]

Huntress Chapter Two: I’m Keeping You In Sight

‘Huntress’ takes place in an alternate supernatural universe in which Dean Winchester gets involved with a female hunter, Susanne ‘Badger’ Browning, just weeks before the premiere of the series.

WARNINGS: Profanity, angst, some fluff

AN: Thank you all so much for all of the love on the last chapter. Here is Chapter Two. I struggled with this one a bit, but here it is. should be smooth sailing into chapter Three. Grammarly should have caught my most glaring errors. Feedback appreciated. 

Tags are Open! 

   “Son of a BITCH!” Dean exclaimed, holding the side of his face where my fist had made contact. I touched my lips absent-minded and stared at him. “The fuck did you do that for?” he asked, his eyebrows narrowed.    “I’m not some bag in a bar,” I said after a few moments. It had taken me a long few seconds to remember, not to mention catch my breath, but when I did, the reason came out firm.    Dean’s eyebrows furrowed. He continued rubbing his jaw and stared at me. I looked down.    “The hell are you talking about, Browning?” he asked. I reddened.    “I’m not going to fuck you just because we’re both here and you’re pretty,” I told him. I wasn’t nasty about it, but I didn’t pull any punches either.  I looked at my shoes as I planted myself on the bed behind me, knowing I was being less than successful at communicating my point in the firm and ‘screw you’ manner I’d had in mind when I’d let the right hook fly at the side of his face.  Dean stopped and smirked at me, still rubbing his jaw.    

   “Not my point, Winchester,” I said and crossed my arms. His smile faltered, and he redirected. 

   “Where the hell did you get that idea from?” he asked. He sounded incredulous. His avocado eyes looked back at me, brows still heavy as he let his hand drop from his face. Humor was rising in his eyes.  “Susanne,” he started, using my first name for the first time in years, “If I was looking for the chick-in-a-bar experience, don’t you think I’d be-” he paused, and the last few words rolled out over gravel, “In a bar?” “Maybe,” I admitted,  “But I’m just not the casual sex type,” I told him. I refused to make eye contact with him. I didn’t need to see the laughter he was holding back etched into his features. “Maybe that’s not what I want here,” he countered. He crossed to the mirror over the sink outside the bathroom and tilted his head to one side, eyeing the side of his face where my fist had made contact, “Jesus Christ, you pack a punch,” he mumbled, making eye contact with me in the mirror. “Then you’re gonna have to prove it,” I said, ignoring his second comment. I stood and swayed my arms back and forth in front of me, crossed the room back to the half-filled coffee pot on top of the dresser. I picked up the mug I had rinsed that morning before we had left and filled it with cold black coffee. I could feel Dean’s eyes on me as I moved and I rebelled against the blush threatening to crawl up my neck. I glanced over at him, and he was still rubbing against the two-day stubble on his chin. “Ok, cut the bitch routine and I will,” he said, turning around to lean against the counter. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, and I could see the muscles of his forearms moving under the thin white fabric of his monkey-suit shirt. I blew out a low breath, and without thinking, I took a sip of the cold coffee and grimaced. “Fine,” I said, opening the door to the microwave. I slid my mug inside. “Truce?” I said, leaning in his direction with one hand extended as I pushed the start button on the keypad. Dean took my head and shook it once, firmly. “Truce.” he agreed and walked over to kick off his dress shoes and plop down on my bed. I raised an eyebrow at this but said nothing. I pulled my coffee from the microwave and went around to the other side of the bed, sitting down myself and lying back against the headboard. “A break would be nice.” “I’m inclined to agree with you,” I said and looked at him. His eyes were already on me. “But I think we have a job to do,” I told him, leadingly. Dean thought for a moment, then looked at the clock on the bedside table. “Hell yeah,” he said, ignoring me and picking the remote control up and flipping on the television, “Judge Judy.” I laughed out loud, and set my coffee on the nightstand, getting up and fetching my laptop. “What’re you doing?” he asked, watching my progress back and forth across the room, unmoving from his spot, stretched out on one side of my bed. “Research,” I said, shrugging and reclining out beside him, “Might as well do something useful.” I opened the laptop as the bailiff announced Judge Judith Shiendlin and pulled the obituaries for the deceased. Generally, it was run of the mill stuff. I couldn’t find a single name in common among the surviving relatives, but moving to Myspace, all of the victims had three of the same friends in common. “Check this out,” I said. Dean Shushed me. I furrowed my brows at him and stared, my laptop still turned in his direction. I glanced at the television, where he was looking- actually watching- Judge Judy with a legitimate interest. A commercial came on, and he dropped the finger he’d been holding up to me and turned to face me. “What’s up?” he asked. I couldn’t help but laugh in disbelief. “Really? Judge Judy?” “What? Chick’s got balls- and you have 6 and a half minutes at max, so get on with it.” “All three victims have these three people in common,” I said, moving on, “Carrie Lender, Joseph Pelletier, and Danielle Ladd. Joseph Pelletier has himself listed as an assistant district attorney, Carrie Lender is a legal clerk, and Danielle Ladd is a court reporter.” “So they all had access,” he nodded, “We should probably start there… Tomorrow,” he said, qualifying firmly. He pressed two fingers to the top of my laptop screen to force it shut. “Watch Judy with me.” I sighed. Dean was apparently dead set on the ‘quality time’ angle, and I wasn’t being given much choice in the matter. I turned my head far to one side until I heard the snap-crackle-pop of the bones in my neck. “Not much of a Judy Fan, actually,” I told him. “What?” he said with faux incredulity, “What kind of person isn’t a fan of the ballsiest woman on television?” I chuckled.    “I’m not so sure about that,” I said, pushing down the urge to make fun of him, “There is that Geena Davis show about a female president that premiered last month,”    “Fiction. Judy’s Real,” he said simply,    “I think that is a relative term,” I said, tilting my head to one side doubtfully,    “Shut your whore mouth,” he said, but he was teasing. I stuck my tongue out at him. The show returned to the television screen, and he held up a hand to squash any further rebuttals. I tried to watch the second episode of Judge Judy that followed the first, but I couldn’t- I just wasn’t into it, and I kept running through my mind that the sooner we ganked whatever piece of shit was causing this, the more people who would be out of harm’s way. I blew out a long slow breath and stood up. “Where you going now?” He asked. “Getting ready- we have a lead so let’s follow it.” He pressed his lips together and swung his legs off the bed, switching the TV off with one hand. I dug through my bag looking for a spare set of hose. I found them, and balled them up in my fist, heading for the bathroom. “What, I don’t get to watch?” he said, following me with his eyes. I flipped him off, and he chuckled. I shut the door behind me and sat on the toilet lid, shaking out the nylons to gather up one of the legs and put them on. It amazed and scared me how easy it had been for me to put aside my anger and let Dean back in. I had been avoiding him for four months, and would have made it five if he hadn’t called and I hadn’t had a debt to repay- and yet there we had been, sitting on a hotel room bed watching bad daytime television. It wasn’t a new thing for us, as we had done precisely this with soap operas or Oprah or some other crappy programming that neither of us really had any interest in. I felt torn, however. This was something of a ritual for us, but We had never put the job aside to do it, and I felt myself itching to move on with the case. Despite his assurances that he wanted a break, I couldn’t understand why Dean wasn’t itching too; We were hunters, it was what we did, and Dean was one of those Hunters so rarely off the clock it was insane. Nylons safely up my legs, free of runs, I was proud to note, I opened the door and found my shoes. Dean had tossed his sportcoat back over his shoulders and straightened his tie already. He was now sitting on the side of the bed, neatly tying the laces of the shiny black dress shoes on his feet. I pulled the last of the pins from my hair and shook it out. I brushed it, added a little mousse for volume and parting it to the side with a practiced flick of my hand through the hair at my crown. “Nice,” Dean said appreciatively. I stuck my tongue out at him and slipped on my heels before crossing to my bag again. “FBI? OSHA? What do you think?” I asked, rifling through the cigar box where I kept my identification. Dean pulled something from his breast pocket and flashed a badge at me with expert precision. I nodded and selected the FBI Badge.    “I’m driving,” I announced, slipping the badge into my pocket and slipping my shoulder holster around my body, securing it under my breasts. I slid my 9mm, one of my least favorite guns, into it.    “Bullshit you are,” he said, “My baby needs to move, and you’re not moving her,”    “Your baby smells like french fries and ass.” This time he flipped me off. I picked up my keys and checked my reflection. Seeing nothing amiss, I headed out the door. I heard the jingling of keys as I walked out the door and headed for the silver Dodge station wagon I drove and climbed into the driver’s seat. Dean stood on the passenger side looking at me.    “This is busted.”    “The front end looks cop-like.”    “It’s a dodge.”    “So? You drive a Chevy older than either of us.”    “Yeah, but that’s-”    “Your baby?” I cut him off. He didn’t respond except to heave a sigh as he opened the passenger door and climbed in. I put the car into gear and reversed out of my space, heading toward the part of town where two of our three victims, as well as one of our three suspects, had lived.    Half an hour later, through traffic to beat the band, we pulled up to the curb in front of a plain concrete pillar of an apartment complex. Dean rang the bell for Jodie Lehan, our first victim’s apartment.    “Who is it?” The intercom crackled with the deeper tones of a male voice.    “FBI, Sir,” I said, “We’re here to investigate the death of Jodie Lehan?”    The buzzer sounded, and we headed up to the third floor.    A stocky dark-haired man with a thinning hairline opened the door, and we flashed our badges.    “Agent Kilmeister, this is my partner Agent Harry,” Dean said gesturing to me, “Mind if we ask you a few questions?” He stood aside and let us into the apartment. It was small but nicely decorated with feminine accents.    “I guess,” the man said with a shrug, “Jack Lehan,” he said offering his hand to Dean. He didn’t offer to shake my hand. Dean shook.    “Pleasure, Mr. Lehan,” Dean said, “You were the victim’s husband?”    “Victim?” Lehan said, “I thought Jodie died in an accident?”    “Accident victim,” I said with a soft smile, “There have been similar accidents since, so we are investigating the deaths,”    “The FBI does that? What about the police?”    “Yes, Sir,” Dean Said, “you’d be surprised what pies the FBI has fingers in,”    “Well I’m not really sure what I can tell you,” Lehan said.    And so we did the dance. Lehan told us his wife had been a sweet woman, no enemies, and nothing unusual had happened in the weeks leading up to her death.    “She’d been working late for a few months,” he said, shrugging, “That was the only thing unusual.”    “Wasn’t she a court reporter?” I asked, flipping back in my small notebook as though I was checking my notes. Most of the pages were absent-minded doodles. I knew his wife was a court reporter for sure.    “Sometimes the transcription part takes a while,” he said, a bit defensively. Dean glanced at me furtively, and I gave him an almost imperceptible nod.    “Well thank you for your time, Mr. Lehan,” Dean said, once again extending his hand.    “I appreciate you looking into this,” Lehan said.

   Back in the car, with the doors safely shut, Dean spoke his suspicions out loud.    “I think Mrs. Lehan was getting a little side action at the courthouse,”    “Sure seems that way,” I agreed, starting the engine. I drove back to the motel and parked in the same spot relative to the door of my room. It was nearly 7 o’clock, and despite having slept 12 hours straight through the night before, I was bushed.    “I think I’m going to go to bed,” I told Dean, taking the keys from the ignition.    “Can I come?” he said with that smirk. I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead. “You alright?” he asked, placing a hand on my shoulder.    “Yeah, I’m fine,” I told him, “Just tired… and trying to figure you out.” I told him honestly. I got out of the car, and he followed.    “Figure me out? What’s that suppose to mean?” he asked as I unlocked the door.    “ You’re acting weird.”    “Am I? I thought this was how I always was?” he questioned.    I opened the door and tossed my keys on the table, a hand running through my hair as I considered, and finally went for it.    “Why did you kiss me?” I asked, turning around slowly and meeting his gaze. “Omaha,” he said. The answer was firm, but he averted his eyes and didn’t look at me. I pursed my lips. “What about Omaha?” I asked him, my lower lip jutting out slightly. “You said something while you were drunk.” He glanced at me, and I felt a blush of heat rising up my neck and into my face. “I was drunk.” “Not that drunk.” I pursed my lips again and hissed out a low breath. “So, what? If I said something in Omaha, why didn’t you try something then?” I asked, tired. Dean walked around me, further into the room. “You said you wouldn’t be a stranger,” he explained, sitting down on the queen sized bed and kicking off his shoes. This was true- but the embarrassment of the whole whiskey-driven night had kept me from calling, and If I hadn’t owed him one, I might not have answered. I knew I probably Would have answered- there was too much history there to erase entirely over one crazy night, but I would have been tempted at least not to. “I found out three weeks ago that you’ve been in touch with at least three other hunters, looking for tips on whatever hunt you were on.” “So?” “So, if it’s all professional, nothing personal when you call Pastor Jim, Caleb, or Annie, why aren’t you calling me?” “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I didn’t think you had the right info?” I asked him, raising an eyebrow and smirking slightly. I thought I had an out on this one, and I took it. “Then why did you ask after me with Pastor Jim?” I snapped my jaw shut. It was good to know that Hunter phone calls didn’t have the same level of confidentiality as the confessional… or was that the Catholics? I thought, a bit wildly. “Fine,” I said holding up a hand in half-hearted admission. “So I got to thinking- If you really didn’t remember what you said that night in Omaha- or what you did, why were you avoiding me? It’s not like I gave you a load of shit for it,” he said, looking at me finally. “I’ll be honest, Badger, it didn’t take me very long to figure it out.” “What?” I asked, my voice wobbling a bit in the middle of the single syllable, rising slightly. “You’ve got it bad for me,” he smirked, swinging both legs onto the bed and leaning against the headboard, “Finally,” he added, crossing his arms over his chest. I paused and stared at him again, there on the side of my bed. “Finally?” I asked, incredulous. “The hell is that supposed to mean?” “I’ve been trying to get you in the sack for two years,” he laughed, not seeming to believe I didn’t know this, “remember Chicago?” he asked, loosening his tie and kicking off his dress shoes. I was mildly annoyed with both the question and the way he was once again making himself at home in my room. Chicago was the night that he had almost succeeded in what he claimed was his mission to bed me. I scoffed at him. “When you took home that leggy brunette?” I asked, pointedly. His face clouded over, and It was apparent he hadn’t expected me to remember that night. “Only after spending three hours trying to convince you to go home with me,” he said, a bit of defensiveness crawling into his voice. “I was in the fucking bathroom when you picked her up!” I spat. I sat down in one of the chairs at the table and kicked off my own shoes. “After telling me to get a grip,” he reminded. I hadn’t remembered that part, he was right about that. While I had decided to let him take me to bed that night, consequences be damned, I hadn’t told him I’d decided that… I’d kept up the hard-to-get routine right up until the end. I cursed myself internally. I pushed a hand across my eyes, frustrated and then back through my hair. “Well, I wasn’t saying what I meant,” I said a bit quietly. Dean didn’t respond for a long time. “You were going to-” “Yes,” I cut him off, “I was going to...Whatever... And now I think I probably should have let you in on that little tidbit.” I slid my mouth to one side and sighed. I bunched my hands into fists in my lap and waited. I heard rustling across the room in Dean’s direction but didn’t look up until I felt fingers on my chin. “I want you,” he said quietly, and then his lips crashed into mine.

   I didn’t resist or punch him this time. I closed my eyes and felt his hands pull me to standing as he kissed me hard and then soft alternatingly. His tongue swirled around my mouth, and I opened it, obliging. Arms swept around me and pulled me close, my chest pressed into the rough cotton around his midsection. My hands rose above my head and swept through the closely cropped hair at the back of his head. I pulled away gently, sliding my hands down his neck and looking at him, my eyes searching his face as he looked back at me.    “You still have to prove it to me,” I said softly. I stroked one thumb against his skin. He smiled softly and pressed his lips to my forehead. “Or die trying.” he chuckled. I leaned up on the balls of my feet and planted a soft kiss on his chin. He ducked it, and the next landed on his mouth.    “Does that mean I’m not getting laid tonight?” he teased, sliding one hand up my back.    “It means you’ve got to do a bit more than be a good kisser,” I laughed and pulled away from him. I grabbed my duffle bag and headed toward the bathroom to change. The jiggling of keys made me pause, and I looked over my shoulder. Dean had picked up my room key.    “That’s fine,” he said with a smile, “But I’m spending the night with you.” He opened the door and was gone before I could even think to protest.    In the bathroom, I rifled through my duffle frustratedly. I didn’t have a goddamn thing to wear to bed- not with HIM in the bed with me. I stopped, rubbed my forehead and took a deep breath. I had told him he had to prove he wanted more from me than a single night in the sack. There was no reason for me to wear something covered in lace that made my skin break out in hives if the whole point was to make him prove it was me he was interested in. I pulled out a Led Zeppelin shirt and the same pair of black basketball shorts I had worn the night before. I considered for a moment and took off my bra, stuffing it into the bag. I changed, washed my face and looked at my reflection in the mirror. I sighed and rolled my eyes at myself.    How did I get here? I thought. I cracked my neck and exited the bathroom. Dean wasn’t back from wherever he had gone yet, so I crawled under the covers on the bed, and flipped on the television. Jeopardy! Was on, and yawning, I balled the pillow under my head to watch while I waited for him to return.

   At some point, I must have fallen asleep because when I woke up, the clock on my nightstand told me it was after 9 o’clock and long past the Jeopardy!-Wheel of Fortune Power Hour. I closed my eyes again and listened hard to the room around me, unsure of what had woken me up. Very slowly, I slid my hand down the side of the mattress to the place I had stashed a .45 when I had arrived the night before. I found the grip and held on, listening. The door to the room clicked shut, and I spun smoothly, pulling the gun from between the mattress and box spring and aiming it for the door in a mid-sit-up position.    “Son of a Bitch, Browning!” Dean said, ducking the moment he heard me click off the safety. Hearing his voice, I released my finger from the trigger and brought the gun down to my knees. “That’s the third fucking time you’ve almost shot me!”

@foxysnob79

[pokeasleepingsmaug]

Strong Enough

 A Supernatural fic, so a bit different from what I usually post. Hope you guys enjoy it! Dean and the reader have a heart to heart after a hunt. Explicit. Trigger warnings: blood, mentions of past trauma, possible parental emotional abuse.

Dean never let you drive Baby, so you knew he must be hurting more than he was letting on when he tossed you the keys. He'd taken some pretty hard hits tonight. Dean never hesitated, fought like a god in a leather jacket, but tonight something had shaken him. It was far from his first nest of vamps, but you weren't going to bring it up. He wasn't really the talkative type, you understood that about him.

You started the car, the well-loved engine purring, and pulled out onto the winding country road. The vamps had been hiding out in an old barn a few miles from town, but with any luck you could make it back to the bunker tonight—it was about fourteen hours the way a normal person drove, but probably closer to ten the way Dean drove.

He reclined the passenger seat with a sigh, rubbing his shoulders against the back like he was scratching an itch. He hissed a little with the movement, and despite your raised brows he didn't say anything. You turned your attention back to the road, turning up the radio. REO Speedwagon was playing, and Dean grunted in approval before looking out the window.

You continued the drive in silence for a good chunk of time—a few hours, you weren't sure how many. It was therapeutic to drive Baby, and you started to understand Dean's undying love for the old car. She hugged every turn, accelerated at the slightest touch of the gas. She was a ridiculously responsive car, and you found yourself getting lost in the joy of every little bend in the road.

It was still dark when you felt eyes on you, and turned your head to shoot a quick smile at Dean. “Hey,” you called softly to him.

His returning smile was the gentlest expression you had ever seen on his face. “Hey. Enjoying yourself?” You caught the undertone of laughter in his voice.

“Yeah. Baby is awesome.”

Dean slapped the dash affectionately, nodding. “Yeah,” he sighed. He rolled his shoulders with a moan. You'd known the boys ever since John saved your life as a teenager, had hunted with them on and off for a decade or so, but never before had you heard Dean make a sound in pain. You pulled the car over and put her in park before switching off the ignition. “What are you doing?” Dean asked, brows raised over confused green eyes.

His face was pale and haggard, how had you not noticed before? “How hurt are you, Dean?”

“Not much,” came the cryptic answer, his green eyes going from soft to hard in the space of a breath.

“Bullshit,” you snapped. You bent back between the front seats, rummaging in your bag on the backseat floor. “The fuck is—Ah!” You crowed in triumph, sitting up straight with a tube of IcyHot in your hand. “I didn't see any blood so this is probably best. I have some Advil too.”

“I don't need any bitch mints,” Dean stated, crossing his arms over his chest. You sighed, looking up at him with as much toughness as you could muster. It was nearly impossible with him looking at you that way, hurt and guarded, unwilling to burden you with his pain.

“Dean, come on. I'm the one who has to put up with you for the next ten hours. This is more for my benefit than yours.” His arms dropped the tiniest bit as he pretended to consider it, but with that small motion you already knew you'd won.

He uncrossed his arms with a sigh. “Fine.”

“What hurts?”

“Everything,” he chuckled, then considered. “They threw me against a wall pretty hard against my left side. My shoulder and ribs are probably the worst of it.”

“Take off your shirt,” you ordered brusquely.

“Slow down, babe, aren't you gonna buy me a drink first?” He smirked, and you couldn't help but laugh.

“I've bought you plenty of drinks, honey.”

“I don't think you've seen me shirtless since we were teenagers,” he observed, pulling his shirt over his head with a groan, and you felt your face burn. He laughed when he noticed the blush, throwing his wadded-up t-shirt at your chest. His smile slowly widened. “That was a good night, Y/n.”

You snorted. “How is it that I always end up patching you up? Hold still.” You reached up and turned on the dome light, trying to push back memories of that night so long ago. You still thought about it sometimes. You had been seventeen, holding a wad of gauze to Dean's chest with shaking hands and praying for the bleeding to stop the night the Winchesters saved your life.

“You wouldn't need to if I didn't need to always protect you,” Dean teased lightly, trying not to wince as your gentle fingers prodded at the nasty purple bruise that covered his entire left side. You began rubbing the IcyHot onto it, trying not to apply too much pressure while still getting it to absorb into his skin. You felt him sigh and start to melt into your touch. “That feels really fucking good.” He looked at you. “Remember what happened after?”

“How could I ever forget?” John had taken one look at you, shaking and crying, helping his bleeding son, and shuttled you and the boys into the backseat of the Impala. When he got to the run-down local motel, he handed you a room key and gruffly told you that he and his boys would be right next door if you needed them. Well after any sane person would have gone to sleep, Dean knocked on your door. “How did you know I would need you?”

He tried to shrug but you batted his arm to stop him. He grabbed your hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. “I just knew. God, you were so young and pretty and just so fucking vulnerable. You broke my heart that night.”

“And you broke mine the next day,” you retorted.

“You know that wasn't my fault. And I called you. I found you again as soon as I could. I always made sure you were okay.” Dean's voice was passionate, raised a little, and you rubbed a soothing hand into the knotted muscle of his shoulder.

“I know, Dean. I just still wish you hadn't left. I still needed you.”

“You only thought you needed me. You were strong enough to deal with it on your own.”

“Even if I hadn't been, you still would have left me there.” You rolled your eyes, squeezing some IcyHot into your hand and starting to work on his shoulder. “At least your dad paid for an extra night at the motel for me. And breakfast, too.”

“That was me, actually.” Dean shot you a crooked smile. “Hustled a game of pool.” You laughed, increasing the pressure of your rubbing as Dean groaned.

“You're great with your hands, Y/n.” Dean's bright green eyes met yours, glittering with warmth. “I'd like to see what else you can do with them.” His husky voice sent a rush of warmth between your thighs, long-ignored lust demanding to be felt. “I'll still be here in the morning this time, Y/n, and if I could go back in time, I still would've been there the next morning.” His voice was barely a whisper as he continued, “You said you weren't strong enough, but I was the one who wasn't strong enough to say no to my dad.”

“I learned to be strong from you that night,” you told him softly, unable to tear your eyes away as he licked his lips.

“I've been wanting to do this since I looked back that morning. The sun was barely up, and your hair was spread all around you. Your face was so peaceful and open, and all I could think was that I wanted to stay with you. I wanted to wake you like this,” he breathed, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to your lips. His hand rose to cradle the back of your neck, his thumb stroking along your jawline as he broke the kiss. “And I wanted to stay with you. I've always wondered what would've happened if I'd been strong enough to stay.”

“You don't need to wonder anymore,” you promised, resting your forehead against his. The corners of his brilliant green eyes crinkled in a wide smile before he captured your lips in a hard kiss, his tongue demanding entrance. You gave it immediately, powerless to resist his onslaught. You moaned against his lips and he gasped, pulling you onto his lap. His large, warm hands rested on your hips as you ground yourself against the large bulge at the front of his jeans. His fingers tightened as you rocked your hips, lighting a flame in your core.

His fingers dipped down into the waistband of your jeans as he pulled back, smirking. “How about you show me what else you can do with those hands, babe?” You needed no further invitation to undo his jeans and pull down his boxers. He lifted his hips to help you, and you couldn't stop the moan that escaped you at the sight of his massive cock. You'd barely wrapped your hand around his shaft when he ripped your jeans and underwear down in one practiced motion and pushed you down to lay on the bench seat.

He settled himself onto you, supporting some of his body weight on one elbow, and the other hand traced its around your lips, then down your chin and neck. “I'm going to return the favor, of course.” His hand meandered its way down your body—squeezing each breast lightly, tickling the curve of your waist, stopping to gently tease your clit. “Because I'm pretty good with my hands, too.”

He leaned down to kiss you as he stroked your pleasure center. You could feel his grin against your lips as you gasped into his mouth. He dipped one finger into your folds and you ground yourself against the heel of his hand. He chuckled, nuzzling your neck as he lined himself up with your entrance. He sank into you with a throaty moan, and just the sheer size of him nearly undid you. He lifted his face to kiss you again, hard and hungry as he began to move slowly within you.

It wasn't long before he had you arching your back and crying his name, half-gasped and half-whimpered. The car rocked side to side from the force of Dean's thrusts, your entire world narrowed down to fogged windows and glimmering green eyes as your second orgasm carried you away like a flash flood.

Dean finished not soon after, slamming into you with all his might. The Impala shuddered into stillness as he collapsed down on you, both of you shaking. “I thought you were going to break me,” you gasped, rubbing his bruised left shoulder.

He winced before kissing your sweaty hair. “I knew you were strong enough to take me.”

[trksterlokid]

By the Roots (part 11)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10

Summary: When a case pops up in rural California, it seems like a normal gank and get the hell out of dodge for you and the Winchesters. However, with mysterious circumstances surrounding the bodies, and a certain archangel popping by, things don’t go exactly as planned.

Word Count: 1817

Tags: Gabriel, Gabriel x Reader, Reader Insert

Author: Stephany

Sam and Dean walked into the room, both carrying soda cups from a fast food joint and an extra bag of food. They were laughing lightly and barely noted the archangel sitting on the end of your bed as he’d become a regular around the room these past few days. Dean laid the food bag on the desk and walked over to the mirror, tossing his tie onto it and stripping himself of his jacket.

Gabriel looked up when they entered, watching the two of them who seemed to have no idea what had happened in the room nearly an hour ago at this point. Of course, why should they? But the entire room felt off to Gabe now and as he calmed down there was a nervous itch about him that he should have followed her, stopped her from leaving. However, it was too late for that now. With the enochian markings carved into her ribs by Cas, there was no way he could sense where she was.

Sam started changing as well and casually looked over at Gabe. “Where did Y/N go?” he asked.

“Out somewhere. Who knows?” he shook his head and at his final words he pressed his lips into a thin line as it hit him once more that he couldn’t just find her. If something happened to her while she was gone... there would be nothing he could do.

“Probably at a bar somewhere. That’s where she likes to hang out. That or she’s found herself a guy to take her home,” Sam ran a hand through his hair and went to pull one of his other shirts out of his suitcase, slipping it on over his head.

Gabe stiffened at the thought of that, but instead of picturing her laying in someone else’s bed, he was picturing her being stuffed into the back of someone’s trunk. Or laying in some field somewhere covered in dirt and blood, the next victim they’d be called for. His mouth went dry and despite angels not getting sick, he looked about ready to grab the nearest trashcan.

“What’s up with you? You look like you’re about to pass out,” Sam noted the odd change in Gabe’s expression, the way he’d turned pale. “You aren’t jealous are you?” he raised an eyebrow because that was the obvious answer.

Gabe shook his head slowly, though in any other situation the answer just might have well have been yes. “Something happened earlier today...”

“If you’re about to tell me some story about getting laid, please spare me,” Dean pointed a finger down his throat and grabbed the television remote before plopping down in bed.

“No. You idiot. Something bad. I just...”

Both of the Winchesters turned to him now. He had their full attention. “What happened, Gabriel? Spit it out.” Dean glared at him.

“Y/N got stuck inside a dream. There’s something... after her. It got into her head, she couldn’t get out. I had to reach inside her mind and pull her out. I don’t know what it is we’re dealing with but it seems like it’s focused on her.”

“You’re telling me that this thing, whatever it is, is ready to make Y/N its next vic and you let her go off on her own?” Sam sat up immediately from where he’d been reclining against the headboard.

“I didn’t let her, she just... left.”

“And you didn’t follow her?”

“No, I was... shit happens, Sam and she was pissed at me and I was pissed at her so no my first thought wasn’t about following her,” Gabe ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

“What did you do?” Dean glared.

“Why do you assume that I did something?” Gabe snapped though the thought of it being his fault she left twisted his stomach just a bit more.

“Because you always do something,” he growled.

“She’s the one who brought it up alright? We got into a fight because she wanted to know what I’d been doing here and she wasn’t very happy with the answer.”

“You said you’d been following someone,” Sam recollected. “Honestly you should have told us a long time ago. Did you think it might have something to do with this... whatever it is? Who were you following?”

“She doesn’t have anything to do with this case. I know she doesn’t,” Gabe snapped again and wondered what exactly it was that made him want to stand up for her. Maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe it was just what he believed.

“Who were you following?” Dean stood up then, walking over to him and slipping an angel blade out of his pocket.

Gabe flinched back. Those silver blades still made him nervous. He knew he’d never forget the way it felt when one was sliding through him, draining what life he had. He shuddered and sat back again. “Kali, allright?”

“That bitch from that stupid hotel all those years ago? The one who tried to kill you? Why were you following her?”

“Because she left the US a long time ago and hasn’t been back since. I wanted to know what she was up to. But she didn’t do this.”

“How can you be so sure?” Sam crossed his arms over his chest and Dean remained gripping the blade tight in his fist.

“Because, not only is she a woman, but she left before I got here. Left the state, left the country. Whatever she was doing here is done. That’s how I know this isn’t her. That’s why I didn’t bother telling you.”

“I’m not convinced she doesn’t have something to do with this.” Sam shook his head and walked over to his laptop, flipping it open.

Gabe fumed. “You can’t just blame her for your problems. I know she’s an evil bitch but I also know she didn’t do this. You’re doubting me, not her.”

“I didn’t say she did it, Gabriel. I said she might have something to do with it. And right now, if you think this thing is after Y/N then we need to figure out what the hell it is because there’s nothing we can do if we don’t know. If you don’t want her to end up like the others then I suggest you sit down and shut up,” Sam glared, not about to let Gabriel have a say in this. “We know that she probably something you’d deem important but if you were in trouble she’d try to help you.”

“Why does everyone assume I don’t care about her?” Gabe’s voice nearly reached a whine. Was that really what he seemed like? Your words kept echoing around in his head and he couldn’t help but beg that you didn’t truly think that he felt that way. But it was hard to show you otherwise when you could possibly be in danger and all he could do was sit on a bed in a motel room, waiting for answers.

Neither Winchester answered that question, only shot each other a look as Sam pulled up his web browser and started to type in keywords to try to pick up on something. But it took about  a half an hour before anything popped up. Meanwhile Gabe decided that sitting there wasn’t doing a damn thing and he flew to every bar in the area, looking everywhere for you, only to come up empty handed. It was only when he returned that he heard the muttering between Sam and Dean and frowned.

“What? What is it?” he asked, fingers playing with a loose thread on his jeans. Both of the Winchesters turned to face him and Sam lifted his laptop so Gabe could see it.

“Rakshasa, type of demon from Hindu religion,” he emphasized the word Hindu, just so Gabe would be forced to see the correlation with Kali. “This one in particular is one related to the trees. Go figure. Love to mutilate and rape humans, have huge claws, etcetera.”

Gabe’s face turned ashen once more and he swallowed thickly. “Well how do we stop it?”

“That’s the fun part, it doesn’t say. But what’s the one thing that can destroy a tree?” Sam pointed out.

Dean raised an eyebrow, “Burn baby, burn.”

“But we aren’t even sure if it’s right. I’m calling the lab. Going to get them to test that dirt to India, see if it’s a match.” Sam got up, pulling his phone out of his pocket and going to pace in front of the window.

Dean turned to Gabe, the look on his face making it clear how pissed off he was at Gabe. “I’m going to take it that you didn’t find her.”

Gabe silently shook his head. “Wasn’t at any bars but...” he frowned.

“But what?”

“One of the bartenders recognized her. Said she left with some guy a while ago.” Gabe chewed on his bottom lip because connections were being made. The other night, the guy that just felt off to him. He had looked to be from the same area as Kali. He wondered if he could have been on to something.

“I’m going to call her phone, see if she picks up. I tried while you were gone but didn’t get anything. Worth a shot.” Dean left too, pulling his own phone out of his pocket. From across the room Sam heard Sam muttering.

“They put me on hold,” he muttered, still pacing back and forth.

The next few minutes were agonizing. Gabriel felt useless. Give him the monster and he’d snap them into fucking oblivion. But when he couldn’t even find you? He remembered briefly how you’d previously mentioned possibly using yourself as bait. Gabe had been against it, but you had assured him he’d be there to protect you. Now, of course, instead of protecting you he was sitting by while anything could be happening and he’d never know.

Dean finally returned, shoving his phone back into his pocket. When Gabe looked up at him with the silent question, Dean just shook his head. Finally, Sam’s voice broke the silence.

“Yes, thank you. Sorry for putting this on you so late. Yes. Mhm.. I see,” Sam’s face hardened into a look of consternation. “Yes. Just a hunch. Thanks.” He hung up and turned to face them. “It’s a match.”

“Then what are we standing around here for, let’s go find her,” Gabe asked, already heading for the door.

“Not so fast. We have no idea where she is. We can drive around all night and not find her.” Dean shook his head.

“I’ll grab my tracker. Hopefully we can lock onto her number. Until then, Gabe you’re going to show us where that bar is. And you better pray to your dad that we find her alive,” Sam muttered and went to grab a few things before they finally walked out the door.

@heaven-bound-angel, @fand0maniac, @andtheraincamefalling, @exactlyhappystranger, @molly-hooperific, @negansgrimes, @fayemenelmir, @crowleysprincess159 @neeadinghugs. @vanessawolfblue

[cha0ticlesbian]

ARE YOU KIDDING ME??????

There were two recliners. And two beers between the recliners. TWO. And Sam didn't know about the Dean Cave. He had no idea. But Cas knew. CAS KNEW--