#and then cas softening and putting dean to sleep like a good dog

[sloppyneedybmxboy]

Just watched a scene in supernatural so gay I fear that words won't do it justice. Sexy jehovas witness standing underneath a neon BAR/LIQUOR sign in the middle of the night preaching about how the end is nigh etc etc. "hey. I'm dean winchester do you know who I am?" "DEAR GOD" dean asks him to pray so he gets to his knees in front of dean?? "Dearest father who art in heaven..." then castiel turns up saying YOU PRAY TOO LOUD baby? dragging dean into a dark ALLEYWAY AND PINNING HIM AGAINST THE WALLS WHILST BEATING THE SHIT OUT OF HIM aka gay sex "I gave everything for you, and this is what you give to me?" babes you're literally millimetres away from each othrs lips. bloody dean. "cas please!!!" DEAN GRUNTING AND GROANING. cas looking down at dean on the floor dean dean on the floor and the WAY HE LOOKS UP AT HIM!! WTF ! WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK!

[occult-castiel]

The Same Page

This is my @destielsecretsanta2020 gift for @eclypseaf!!! The request was open, but bonus points for Miracle being present. So I wrote some post empty rescue fic!

This one honestly gave me a really hard time and I have no idea why. I hope you like it and have has an awesome christmas!

[Ao3 Link]

The portal spits them out in the dungeon.

Dean stumbles out first, a half step ahead of Cas. Human, malleable, and very much alive with one of the little dude's arms draped over Dean's shoulder.

Cas stumbles forward. Dean shoots an arm out in front of him, places a hand firmly against his chest. He maneuvers his other arms under his trenchcoat, grips his side firm.

His skins almost cool to the touch — much too cold to be safe. Not for a human, especially a brand new one.

And what if he's sick? Or gets sick and can't get better? Without his grace, there's a whole new set of worries. A bad flu that gets worse until he's gone, a hunt going wrong, fucking cancer. Heart disease kills pretty much everyone, doesn't it?

He takes a deep breath and focuses on the gentle thud of Cas' heart against his palm.

The last eight months haven't been easy. Not between the alcohol Sam eventually cut him off from, and the hunts getting sparse, and Jack being terrifying and gone until he wasn't.

Cas lulls his head to the side. His inky heart sticks to his forehead, and his blueberry-sweet eyes are unfocused but still manage to catch Dean's.

It's achingly familiar, and he smiles easy. "Hey there, sunshine."

Cas pinches his brows together as his head swims to stay upright. He slurs through some half-baked, nonsense question about coral reef bleaching, and Dean's so relieved he laughs.

Cas smiles at the sound, dazed and feather-light, but the joy is unmistakable.

It's the best thing Dean's ever seen. Fuck, he missed him. Missed him so much he didn't know what to do with himself.

Cas winces — what little help he was giving Dean in holding him up falls. He makes up the difference quick. Weak fingers curl around Dean's wrist.

"Sorry —"

"S'okay. Gonna —" he swallows hard. Tries to shove away the distinct pin-prick in his tear ducts that always means he needs to man the hell up. "Gonna get you to a bed, okay?"

Cas grunts, a pitiful noise that's mostly air and entirely feeble. "Tired."

"Rest then. It ain't far. I gotcha, buddy."

When he nods, his hair brushes Dean's neck.

It's not well thought out. The lack of work and overload of carbs haven't done Dean's muscles any favors. His joints creak and protest every step, but his room isn't far, and he'd be damned before he let's Cas feel like he has to do anything alone this time.

Miracle hops off the bed the moment the door opens.

Dean lays Cas on top of the bunched up blanket. Once he's down, Dean slowly works the trencoast and suit jacket off, his hands careful as they trail across the thin cotton of his shirt.

Cas shivers, and Dean wrestles to tug the blanket out from under him, Miracle nuzzling the side of his leg the whole time.

She's probably hungry. Or just wants attention. He hasn't exactly been available the last couple weeks, too busy with his nose in piles of research. But it all payed off.

Cas grimaces in his sleep, and it twists the cords in Dean's chest. He reaches his hand out and ghosts his fingers across the sweat-stained hair stuck to his skin, gently pushing it to the side.

He'd said it once, not more than a month ago, in the darkness of his room, Miracle tucked as close as he could get her.

He said he loved me, and I — I didn't say it back. But I do. God I do.

Dean trails his hand from his forehead to the flushed pillow of his cheeks. The other knuckles roughly at his eyes and comes back wet.

He has no god damn idea what he wouldve done without Miracle to talk to. Cause he could never get it out to Sam. Not those last moments. Not what Cas really means to him. Always too close to an edge of something larger than any apocalypse they've ever dealt with.

He traces down low enough to brush across Cas' wrist, the pained look still on his face.

Dean swallows, his heart hammers hard in his throat. Timid even though the guy is unconscious, Dean grabs his hand.

His mind blanks. Turns to complete static — a jumble of half-formed thoughts about every reason he ever told himself not to.

He's an angel. The worlds ending. Always ending. He doesn't feel that way. Can't, the equipment for it's not there. It's why he leaves, isn't it? And what the fuck could ever hope to start when it's all always falling apart? When they could fall apart.

Everyone leaves.

A flash of cold prickles down his back, and he tries to takes a deep breath. It goes down ragged. There was something he read once, about picking out a sense.

Cas' breath, slow and steady. The clink of Mircale's claws on the floor. A muted buzz from the florescent lights in the hall.

He breaths again, a little easier. His fingers curls into Cas' palm, and his finger twitch against Dean in response. The dent in his brows relax, his jaw goes slack.

"S'okay Cas." He squeezes. "Just... be okay."

When his phone rings, dumped and forgotten on the other side of the room, he isn't quite sure how to let go. Like the ligaments in his hand have cemented in place, forgotten the muscle memory to make the movements happen.

When the second call comes through, Cas mumbles something. Dean's shoulder slack, and he pulls his hands back, clammy and with a slight tremor.

It's Sam. There's a small tug of guilt — he should've called him the moment he put Cas down. He knows he would've been worried sick if Sam was the one that had to go.

Sam's relieved too, promises to buy stuff for dinner on his way back from where Dean went in the Empty about fifty miles out. And he must hear something in his voice, because he stresses to go watch a movie or something and let Cas sleep it off.

Of course he's right. They knew Cas would be out cold. But leaving the room is still hard, and he lingers in the doorway until he gets a good look at Miracle's mess of tangled fur.

He hasn't brushed her hair, since that's practically what the fur is, in weeks.

"C'mon girl."

He grabs the brush from the bedside table, casts on last look at Cas, and takes Miracle to the TV room.

She hops on the couch next to him, tail thumping with excitement.

"You wanna get pretty to meet Cas later?"

She nuzzles his hand, sticks her nose against the brush, and a little bit of the stress from today lightens up.

He flips on some netflix show about baking food, and talks to Miracle as he starts in on her snout.

It's ritualistic to touch on whatevers going on with her, at this point.

As her fur smooths, he tells her about the Empty. Its piss-poor lighting, the mind boggling way directions work, how it has this awful burnt-licorice and gasoline stench clung to the nothingness of its everything.

It kinda makes his head hurt.

Almost two full episodes in, he has all her fur neat and tidy, and his little monologue has circled back to Cas. She'd know a lot about him if she could talk.

"It's hard to believe he's really back. And — and maybe it'll be good. We could, I dunno, get you a yard?" He nods, smiles. "Yeah, I bet your spoiled ass would like that. The bunker ain't a place for pets."

Miracle leaps from the couch, and someone clears their throat from the door.

Cas stands in the doorway, hunched in on himself. Dark strands of hair twist up in random directions, and the casual clothes Dean left him fit snugly.

He looks... comfortable. Like he slipped into humanity ages ago, not this afternoon.

"Cas."

He tilts his lips up, tight and sheepish. "I see you have a dog now."

"Yeah. Miracle. She uh — she helped me." He motions vaguely to his head. "Might not be batting a hundred up here if not for her."

Cas glances down at her, and the tense smile softens. "I'm very grateful then."

Almost reverent, he scratches the side of her ear.

Dean shakes his head. Blinks. Two things he never thought he'd see side by side mixed with the insanity of the day make none of this seem real.

Deep breath.

"She can — she can be there for you too," Dean says. "If you need it. Dogs are great listeners. Even the Madonna types like this one."

Cas gives a contemplative hum. "They are both blonde."

He puffs a breath of air. It's easy to forget Cas actually knows what he's talking about now, sometimes. Even if he does still miss the point by a mile.

"It was your turn."

Cas raises an eyebrow.

"To, uh, pick a movie." He motions to the seat next to him. "If you want."

Cas runs his bottom lip between his teeth and doesn't look at Dean. Doesn't say anything either. Just nods, walks over, and sinks into the couch.

It's a respectable distance. Close enough Dean would be able to sense him, far enough away they won't touch.

Miracle curls up on the other side of Cas, head flopped on his lap, right next to his balled up hands.

"Is it over?" His voice is small.

Dean doesn't have to ask. "Chuck isn't aproblem anymore." Cas sighs, slinks down bonelessly into the cushions. "We figured it out, took his powers. Jack's fixing up Heaven with it. Says he's gunna do that, find a way to put Amara back together, and then come home."

"Good. I don't think I'm up to fighting standards." He rolls his head to the side. They're close enough Dean can make out each muscle in his neck when he swallows. "You didn't have to save me, Dean. I'd — made peace with that fate."

It's bullshit. It's bullshit and Cas has to know it. He almost tells him a much, but if he can't have that talk now, then he never will.

He licks his lips. It doesn't help the dryness.

"Did you mean it?"

It's a dumb question, but one he needs answered.

Cas doesn't miss a beat. "That and more." The serenity in his words is endearing as it is cutting when he adds, "But we don't have to address it. I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

It's Dean's turn to melt with relief. "Good — that's good."

Cas winces. "I understand if you'd like some space —"

He starts to stand up, and panic seizes Dean's chest like a vice grip. He grabs his wrist and Cas freezes.

"No! God no. Cas, it — it wasn't supposed to happen like that."

He looks confused, before some amount of understanding smoothes out some of the worried lines in his face. His eyes flick down to Dean's mouth for an instant. "How was it supposed to happen, then?"

"I thought, maybe on a hunt? Or — I don't know. Just... " some place I could say it back.

Its not good enough, saying it without saying it. Cas gave a speech. He saved Dean's life, saved the god damn world. All without knowing.

He shakes his head. Starts again. He had enough practice between thoughts he couldn't shove away and late night pet-therapy. "I thought you knew. Hell, I've been scared everyone knows. And if they did, you did too, right?"

"Subtly isn't always my strongest suit."

He laughs, and it's almost on the wrong side of sane. "Don't I know it."

He can do direct.

Slow enough that Cas has time to pull back, he runs his hand up his arm, cradles it against the back of Cas' neck. He leans across the small distance and kisses him.

It's clumsy and unsure, and Cas places a skittish hand on Dean's side like he's not sure what he's allowed to have even now, but their lips mesh together in a way that feels better than anything he can remember.

When they part, he's not sure either one of them are breathing. And he can't look at Cas, not when he says it. Not yet. So he presses their foreheads together, keeps his eyes fully lidded.

"I don't know how you could think you aren't worth saving. You — you're it for me."

"Dean —"

He shakes his head, and the tips of their noses brush. "I love you more than I know what to do with. You know that right?"

Bewildered, Cas says, "I didn't."

"Yean, well. Now you do."

He scoots back in place, flushed firm against the cushion. Their hands tangle together, and their knees are touching, and it's too much and not enough. But mostly not enough. Dean dares a glance over. Cas is staring at their hands, a pleased smile on his face.

And they're on the same page.

"I think you said something about a yard when I walked in?"

Instead of answering he says, "We should retire. I'm too old for this shit."

"Entirely?"

Dean shrugs. "A hunt here and there wouldn't hurt I guess."

"We'll talk about it later." He reaches over him, grabs the remote. "I think you said it was my turn?"

Dean grins, full and toothy. "Yeah, just no more romcoms, dude. I can only take so many."

Cas nods, curt and serious. "Of course."

He does anyway, and it's the best shitty movie Dean's ever seen.

[goldenraeofsun]

There is Only Try, Part I

“Love spell,” Rowena proclaims as she glides down the stairs to the Bunker floor like it’s her personal ballroom. Her midnight blue floor-length gown and elaborately curled hair look especially out of place - Dean’s pretty sure his shirt has pizza stains from at least three different pizzas. The shirt is red, so at least two of them don’t count.

Behind her on the stairs, Sam chokes.

Rowena turns around to face him. “And I thought this was going to be a challenge,” she chides. “Really, Samuel?”

“What do you mean, ‘love spell’?” Dean demands with a fleeting glance at Cas, who’s gone red in the face. Dean doesn’t blame him - between the hooker with the daddy problems and the stabby reaper, he’d be leery of anything vaguely love-shaped too.

“We called you because we need to translate the runes on a cursed box,” Sam says slowly. “We think it’s in some sort of cipher, since even Cas can’t get a read on it.”

“Well, did Tweety Pie touch the box?”

“No,” Cas says, offended.

Dean nudges him with his elbow, saying in an undertone, “C’mon, like it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Dean.”

Dean takes in Cas’s unamused face and scowls at Rowena's tinkling laugh. “Okay, Sabrina, what the fuck do you mean by ‘love spell’?”

“I mean the angel’s been cursed with a love spell,” Rowena says with deliberate slowness, like she’s giving a command to a particularly stupid lap dog. “Was it not obvious?”

Dean glances at Cas, horror trickling down his spine. “No.”

“Hmph,” Rowena sniffs. “Men really are oblivious to matters of the heart.” She waves her hand again, eyes glimmering violet. “Like I thought,” she continues, placing both hands on her hips, “A jardin d’amour.”

“A garden of,” Sam pauses, clearly trying not to laugh, “love?”

“A very basic love spell,” Rowena says disdainfully. “The lass didn’t seem to have any imagination.”

“The witch we ganked two weeks ago was a dude,” Dean says. A beat. “A man witch.”

Sam snorts.

“There you go,” Rowena says, lifting her nose into the air. “Most men don’t have that innate knack for the magical arts.” She turns to Sam, giving him the most obvious come-hither look Dean has ever seen. “There are some obvious exceptions, of course.”

Okay, Dean needs Rowena and her heebs with a large dosing of the jeebs out of the Bunker, stat.

“It starts as a tiny seed, a wee obsession,” Rowena explains, “and grows and grows until it consumes you.” She squints, wiggling her fingers, and Dean just barely stops himself from jumping in front of Cas on instinct. “I’d say the spell’s gone about halfway through its course.”

Dean crosses his arms over his chest. He throws another calculating glance at Cas. “He’s not writing love songs or grabbing a boombox, so he’s obviously not cursed.”

Cas, still suspiciously silent, shoves both his hands in his pockets and stares hard at a spot of the floor between his feet.

“Oh, but he is, darlin’,” Rowena exclaims delightedly. “I can see it clear as day. Look!”

Cas sneezes as the magic washes over him for a third time, and now they all can see the purple sparkles - really, Rowena? - hovering in the air around him.

“Okay,” Dean makes a face, “Now I’m confused.”

“Not for the first time, isn’t that right?” Rowena says with faux-sympathy.

Dean glowers. He turns to Cas. “Come on, she’s making this all up. You’d know if you got dosed with Love Potion No. 9.”

“I-” Cas says, his gaze skittering from Dean to Rowena and back again. He looks… caught.

“Wait,” Dean thunders, taking a step forward, “You knew?”

“I,” Cas starts haltingly, “had suspected.”

“And you didn’t think you’d tell us you’d been whammied?”

Cas shrugs. “It doesn’t seem to be affecting me at all. My vessel is functioning normally.”

“Sure, because you’re such an expert on normal-”

Cas’s eyes flash. “It didn’t seem relevant considering everything else-”

“What d’you mean every-?”

“Kelly Kline - Lucifer, again - the British Men of Letters - take your pick,” Castiel retorts heatedly.

“We’ve got that under control-”

“Killing a child is not ‘under control’-”

“It is if the kid’s the literal spawn of Satan-”

“I never thought I’d hear Dean Winchester defending the murder of an inno-”

Dean throws up his hands. “Did you miss my ‘spawn of Satan’ comment?”

“No,” Cas says, his expression as stony as the Bunker’s foundations, “my hearing is excellent.”

Off to the side, Rowena mutters in a carrying stage-whisper, “I can see how a wee curse like this is the least of your problems.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Sam says, running a weary hand down his face.

Dean rounds on them. “What?”

“Do you want me to remove the love spell or not?” Rowena asks, eyebrows raised. “My time is precious, you know. I don’t live to be at the Winchesters’ beck and call.”

“For the last fucking time, it’s not a goddamn spell!” Dean explodes. “Whatever it is, he is not in love. He hasn’t been acting any different.”

Rowena beams. “Well now, if he were already in love, it would have no outward effects. He’d…” Her expression becomes stomach-turningly sly, “...function normally, so to speak.”

Cas’s mouth sets in a firm line. As Dean goggles at him, Cas demands, “Remove the spell, now.”

Dean swallows. Cas can’t be - she can’t be implying - that’s impossible. He’s an angel. They don’t feel things like that.

Do they?

“I’m going to need some ingredients,” Rowena says, looking up to Sam. “Where might they be?”

Sam gestures her forward. “Back in the store room, I’ll show you.”

Rowena pats him lightly on the arm. “What a gentleman,” she simpers as Dean pretends to hurl behind her back.

Dean can’t bring himself to speak until they’re both out of earshot, their footsteps fading off into the distance. He turns to Cas, trying to keep his voice detached and failing miserably. “So, you think it got you after all?”

Cas looks away. “I know it has.”

“Oh.” Dean picks up his empty whiskey glass. He runs a hand down his face, trying to scrub away whatever he’s feeling. It doesn't work. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink. Fucking witches.”

“I - I could use one as well,” Cas says to Dean’s surprise.

* * *

“So, uh, who’s the lucky chick?” Dean asks as he makes a beeline for the liquor cart in the library off the war room. He grabs an additional glass for Cas and the bottle of Jack, tips the bottle down his own throat to get them started, and pours them out a few fingers.

Cas takes his drink, jaw clenching. He doesn’t look like a dude head over heels. He looks like his normal sleep-deprived, tax accountant self. He stays silent.

Dean thumps heavily down into a chair. “Have we met her?” he prompts because he’s nothing if not a masochist at heart.

“You could say so, in a sense.” Cas raises his eyes to meet Dean’s, face softening, and Dean’s going to hurl for real this time. Cas continues, “There’s not much in my life I keep from you.”

Dean swallows against the ball of self-loathing and disgust clogging his throat. “Some lady angel, then? Been dreaming about plucking her harp strings?”

Cas scowls into his drink. “No.”

“Not an angel?”

“Not a lady,” Cas says, his voice almost unbearably stiff. “And not an angel, either. A human - a beautifully flawed human.”

Dean has no words to say to that, so he drinks. Cas has probably met thousands of people - nice, normal people who aren’t fucked up in the head from ganking monsters their whole lives - since he’s been on Earth. God knows, he hasn’t been plastered to Dean’s side the entire time. Lately, Dean can’t even come up with a good excuse to get him to stay for more than a day or two at most.

“A guy, then,” Dean says to make sure they’re on the same page - because last time he checked, waves of celestial intent cared less about acing a Gender and Sexuality 101 class and more about whether a meatsuit could withstand a holy oil molotov cocktail.

Cas nods, his eyes narrowing. “Your opinion on homosexual relationships is part of the reason I’ve never brought it up before.”

“Hey, I don’t judge,” Dean says, not entirely truthfully. He holds his hands up in a gesture of innocence. “Homo it up, man. Love is love.”

Cas’s nose wrinkles, but he doesn’t comment on Dean’s hamfisted attempt at proving his acceptance of ‘alternative lifestyles’ as Dad might’ve put it charitably one time. “It’s complicated,” Cas adds, like any part of this fucked-up situation could fit under a goddamn Facebook status.

Dean hitches a grin on his face that probably wouldn’t fool a blind person. “So, apart from that, how come you’ve never come to me for help? I don’t wanna brag, but I’m kind of an expert in hookups. Sam’s kind of hopeless. He can’t get a chick into bed without her dying on him.”

Cas knocks back his glass. “I didn’t want to bother you with my feelings.”

Dean automatically grimaces at the mention of feelings. But, hell, he’s not a teenage girl. He can man up and be there for his best friend.

He has to - Cas hardly asks him for anything anymore.

Sure, Cas didn’t exactly ask Dean for anything this time around, but Dean can read between the lines. Now that he’s copped to what’s going on beneath Cas’s still waters, he can see how deep those feelings run. Especially if what Rowena’s saying is true and a love spell is barely a drop in the bucket.

“And, regardless, your ‘hookup’ skills wouldn’t be relevant, anyway,” Cas says quietly, lowering his hands. “I’m not interested in… coupling.”

Dean wrinkles his nose. “That reaper really screwed you over, didn’t she? Look, just because you got shanked, doesn’t mean all sex winds up with an angel blade-”

“I misspoke,” Cas says over him. “What I mean is, I would rather have no sexual relations at all if I cannot have all of him: mind, body, and soul.”

Trust Cas to spout the most profound cheese Dean has ever heard.

And also, what the fuck? Dean can’t get behind that idea at all. Dean’s always been a take what you can get kind of dude. He had to be, with what he has to work with - a pretty face, a killer's instinct, and an inability to have a normal relationship if his goddamn life depended on it.

Like, if Dean had gotten the slightest whiff that Cas was down with gettin’ down and dirty with Dean as his last hurrah (which of course he didn’t), Dean would never have bothered with that stupid den of inequity. As hilarious as the outcome was, he would have gone for a little something-something for himself before the end of the world.

Of course, Dean wasn’t in love with Cas yet then. Whenever it came to mind, it was just a fun thought experiment, an idle what if for him to think about during a dry spell. Like his fantasies about fucking Ginger from Gilligan’s Island. Or hatesex with Bela Talbot.

But none of that mattered because every step of the way from Castiel, mighty Angel of the Lord, to Cas, their friendly neighborhood angel-man, he never hinted he’d be down for a quick roll in the hay... or something more serious.

Dean remembers very clearly: Anna fell to experience emotions, even the bad ones.

And Dean’s not an idiot - Cas obviously experiences emotions now. Dude’s been through too much not to feel something. But Dean’s never deluded himself that they could ever include all the romantic lovey-dovey, chick-flick moments crap.

Family love, sure. Cas might love all his haloed siblings. Cas has been around for all the Top 10 worst decisions that are the Winchesters’ version of brotherly devotion. Cas even said the big L-word out loud himself, when he was bleeding out in that barn a month ago.

But romantic love? The big kahuna L-O-V-E?

Dean always thought scaling Mount Everest with a plastic beach shovel would be easier than convincing an angel to feel that way about anyone. Cas is a wave of celestial intent; waves of celestial intent don’t do anything as human, as stupid, as fall in love.

But apparently they do.

So maybe that’s why Cas has always been so hard to pin down, so eager to leave Dean all the time. He’s been off pining after this mystery guy.

Awesome.

Cas heaves a weighty sigh and finishes off his own glass of whiskey. Without another word, he half raises from his chair, reaching around the table lamp, to pour them both a second round. “I suppose there is a bit of a relief in finally saying it,” he says in a low voice. “I can’t be with him, but there is a certain amount of happiness in it being known, just being seen.”

Dean wastes no time in downing half his new drink. Throat burning in warning, he forces out, “Why - why can’t you? You’re a freaking angel - thought you could have anyone.” Dean frowns. “He’s not a civilian, is he?”

Talk about a recipe for disaster: Cas plus normal person equals uncomfortable questions and fucked up babysitting gigs.

Cas’s eyes widen. Almost imperceptibly, he shakes his head. “Ah, no, not really.”

“So he knows about angels.”

Cas gives a slow nod. “He doesn’t have a very high opinion of them, though,” he says ruefully, staring down into his glass. “They’ve made his life very difficult over the past few years.”

Dean scoffs, “He can join the club.”

Cas flinches.

“Hey, no,” Deans says quickly, “Not you.”

Cas raises head, his eyes unbearably bleak. “Why not me? I was the one who set the Leviathans and angels loose on humanity to wage their wars, among a dozen other transgressions.” He adds morosely, “Sometimes I wonder if it would have been better if a different angel rescued you from Hell after all.”

Dean blinks at Cas, his stomach turning over with dread at the very idea. He tries to picture some nameless angel yanking him out of the Pit or marching into that barn with all the righteousness of Heaven on his heels. Dean can’t do it.

Or worse, not a nameless angel. Uriel, who was ready to kill thousands without a second thought. Zachariah, that dickwad with the mind games. Even Hannah, who Dean reluctantly liked - he still can’t see her sticking by their side, falling, sacrificing everything for them.

Cas is their third wheel, the stabilizer that keeps Team Free Will upright and moving forward. Without him, they’re a tandem bicycle, and nobody wants a repeat of that opening scene from Gabriel’s sitcom from Hell.

“Yeah, but at least you always tried to do the right thing.”

“There is no try, only what I did or did not do,” Cas answers with a strange, defeated expression.

“Okay, but,” Dean starts, rolling his eyes at Cas’s butchered Star Wars reference, “Yoda’s a lot of things, but applicable to the real world without space lasers, he is not. Sometimes the only thing you can do is try, dude.”

God knows, Dean could never have forgiven Cas for any of the shit he pulled if he hadn’t been 100% positive Cas had the best of intentions. Cas did all those things to save the world, and, sometimes, to save Dean personally. Which gives him the girliest, fuzzy feelings and also makes him want to punch a wall.

Cas throws him a pitying look. “Every time I ‘try’ to make things better, I fail.” He shakes his head. “When you were taken, I searched for months to find you. Kelly escaped on my watch, and I couldn't find her. I’m a… dumbass.”

“I thought you preferred ‘trusting,’” Dean jokes, and it only sounds a little forced.

Cas throws him an exasperated look. “Perhaps a few years ago. But now? I’ve made too many mistakes, and people have suffered - you and Sam have suffered - as a result. You don’t need to spare my feelings, Dean. It’s hardly what I deserve.”

Dean frowns, tapping his fingers against his glass as he takes in Cas's defeated air. “Hey, what’s with the pity party?”

“It’s not a ‘pity party’,” Cas counters. “These are basic facts.”

Dean leans forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “You aren’t serious.”

Cas stares back. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Dean rakes his gaze up and down Cas’s face, looking for a break, for a tell - even though he knows he won’t find any. “You saved the world. A couple of times by now.”

“I also personally put it in jeopardy more than once,” Cas mutters. “I trusted Crowley to steal Purgatory. I trusted Metatron to bring peace to Heaven. I trusted Lucifer to take out the Darkness.”

Dean’s heart sinks with every reminder of Cas’s greatest hits. “Come on…”

Cas’s mouth thins, lips pressing together as he raises his glass to his mouth. “You don’t need to stay to keep me company, either,” he says in a low voice. “I’m the one under the spell. If you have anything more pressing, I can wait here for Rowena.”

“Shut up,” Dean says automatically. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Cas exhales a weighty sigh, his shoulders losing some of their tension.

“Hey, what you need - hell, what we both need - is a win,” Dean says reassuringly. “Everything’s been such shit, you need a reminder to keep going.” He gets up from his seat, his legs itching to move. “Why don’t you tell me more about that man of yours?” he asks quickly, his words nearly tripping over themselves to get out before the regret sets in. “Maybe that’s the key to getting your head back in the game.”

Cas doesn’t say anything as Dean moves to peruse a row of books he has no intention of ever reading. Eventually, Cas protests without much conviction, “My head is in the game. I am still useful.”

Dean’s head jerks around so fast it nearly gives him whiplash. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It isn’t?” Cas asks, head tilting in confusion.

Dean makes a face. “I mean, if you’re feeling down, you… shouldn’t.”

“I don’t understand.”

Dean paces to the other end of the bookshelf, unbelievably annoyed at Cas for making him spell it out for him. “Forget it,” Dean says instead. “I still owe you for ganking Billie-”

“But the cosmic consequences-”

“Will suck, but in the meantime you saved our lives. I owe you.” Dean turns so he’s back to fully facing Cas. “So, tell me what this mystery guy is into.”

Cas’s eyes narrow at him. “I’d prefer not to talk about it.”

“Seriously?”

Cas straightens and nods.

“But,” Dean says, words failing as he wars with himself. He could push Cas for more info or keep on living in blissful ignorance. But if he has to choose between his own personal peace of mind or Cas experiencing the one pinnacle of human happiness (or so Dean’s been told in countless chick flicks he’ll take to the grave), it’s no choice at all. He starts again, “If you tell me about him, it’ll make this a lot easier.”

“I don’t want it to be easier,” Cas says, baffled. “I don’t want this to be anything.”

Dean gapes. “Why the hell not?”

Cas taps his empty glass on the table, irritated. “Please, leave it alone.”

“No,” Dean says mulishly. “I wanna help you, man.”

“I don’t want any help.”

“Well, tough shit because you’re getting it anyway. You’re family-”

Cas’s face does a weird spasm.

“-And that’s what you do for family,” Dean continues, a little confused and insulted. They are family; Cas said so, back when he thought he was dying in Ramiel’s barn.

“Drop it.”

“No,” Dean argues, shoving down everything else as his temper rises. “You’re hurtin’, and I can help. Why don’t you trust me? You trusted Crowley, Metatron, fucking Lucifer-”

Too far. Shit.

Cas whirls around, his face a mask of frustration and an emotion Dean has never seen before. “I did, and you know what? They screwed me. And, please forgive me, Dean, but I am tired of being used and used up, over and over.”

Dean blinks, his anger falling away to a raw hurt only Cas can dredge up. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Cas runs a weary hand down his face. He just shakes his head.

“C’mon, Cas, it’s me,” Dean says - pleads, really. “You know me better than anyone else, ’cept Sammy. I won’t do something like that.”

Cas glares. “I do know you, so I know that is exactly what will happen.”

Dean reels back, and he can’t save himself in time before an undoubtedly pained look spreads across his face.

Cas’s hostility cracks, but Dean’s already gotten the message.

So Cas’s one big happy loving family message was only a deathbed thing. That’s… fine. Dean’s done it himself, a time or two. Told Sam to live his life and not go looking for revenge or a way to fix it - all a crock of horse shit, of course. He should’ve figured Cas was more human than angelic with that poison pumping through his veins, making him all weak and sweaty. ’Course he wasn’t above feeling human sentimentality in his death throes.

Face hardening, Dean turns on his heel. “You were right about one thing. I guess I do have more important things to do than staying here with you.”

“Dean,” he hears behind him, but Dean doesn’t look back.

* * *

Dean always hides a spare bottle of booze in the bottom drawer of the desk in his bedroom. It's mostly empty, but, hopefully, by the time Dean's polished it off, Cas’ll be cured, Rowena will be gone, and they all can pretend this never happened - Dean can pretend that Cas stopped keeping secrets because he’s learned they always blow up in his face in the past six years.

Anyway.

First, the booze.

Dean’s barely wrestled the top off with shaking fingers of leftover anger when a knock sounds against his door.

“’S the witch gone yet?” Dean asks without lifting his head.

The door opens. “Dean, it’s me.”

Dean takes a long pull of whiskey.

Cas sighs, audible in the stuffy, tension-filled space between them. He doesn’t approach, instead hovering in the doorway, and isn’t that how it always goes? Always poised for flight, that’s Cas. “Dean,” he repeats, which only makes Dean's blood boil that much hotter.

“What?” he demands. “What do you want now? ’Cause I can’t think of a single thing you need from me, Cas.”

Cas presses his lips together. “You’re making this very difficult.”

“Me?” Dean barks incredulously. “You’re the one hiding things and not letting me help you.”

“You won’t accept this is one area in which you can’t help?” Cas asks quietly.

Dean makes a scoffing noise in the back of his throat.

Cas shakes his head, his gaze focusing on Dean’s face with his patented laser intensity. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“Yeah, I’m just a jackass who can’t get a lady to stick around for more than a few hours. I get it.” He glances up to see Cas’s stricken expression. Frowning, Dean looks away.

Cas steps tentatively into Dean’s room, his face weirdly apprehensive. “That’s not what I meant at all.”

“Sure,” Dean says, tipping the bottle back like it’s water because he needs to be so much drunker to deal with Cas and his love spell bombshells right now.

Cas hovers awkwardly by Dean’s desk, his hands shoved into his coat pockets. “You’re so capable of love.”

“Cas-” Dean starts, but he has no idea where he’s going with this.

Cas keeps talking, thank God. “You don’t acknowledge that side of you very often, but I feel it every time we see each other, every time you’re with your brother. You care, you love, so wholly and completely.” Cas chuckles ruefully. “I didn’t realize it for a few years. I didn’t see how unique it was, how special you are, but you are the most selfless, loving human being I will ever know.”

Dean’s tongue finally unsticks from the roof of his mouth. Face flaming hotter than the inferno where he first met Cas eight years ago, he rasps out, “Cas - what the hell are you saying?”

Cas swallows, dragging his gaze back up to meet Dean’s wide eyes. “The reason I didn’t tell you about the love spell was because it couldn’t make me love you any more than I already do.”

Dean blinks, dumbfounded, at Cas, the words love you bouncing around his skull like a blocked radio signal. Cas said them; Dean heard them with his own two ears; but the meaning behind the words is getting lost in transmission.

As Dean’s brain struggles to make sense of just about everything, Cas nods once. “Well, now you know. I’ll go wait for Rowena’s cure in the kitchen.”

And then he leaves.

Dean slams the whiskey bottle down on his desk, cursing as it nearly topples over in his haste. He sets it right, swearing more as precious seconds pass by. He hurtles down the hall, half-convinced Cas lied to him to get a head start and is really halfway to Timbuktu.

But Dean finds Cas in the library, sitting more or less where he left him before Dean had his little wallowing session in his bedroom.

“Cas!” Dean blurts, skidding to a halt and grabbing onto the edge of the table for support.

Cas looks up, frowning. “I - “ he gives himself a little shake and starts again, “Is Rowena having trouble with the spell?”

“What?” Dean strides forward on shaky legs. “No - I mean, I don’t know. They could be fucking in a supply closet for all I care.”

Cas’s eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. For the first time today, he looks almost afraid. “Then why are you here?” he asks, his gaze darting towards the stairs to the exit. “I’m only going to stay in the Bunker until Rowena can finish. Then I will go.”

“Go?” Dean repeats, a spike of panic shooting up his spine. “You can’t.”

Cas inhales a sharp breath. “You want me to stay?”

“You want to bail?” Dean demands, his voice rising.

Cas pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. “You’re upset. This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“I’m not fucking upset!”

Cas throws him an unimpressed look. “You clearly are. Your pulse is rising. Your pupils are dilated. I can smell your elevated levels of adrenaline.”

Dean makes a face. “Dude - lines - crossed.”

“Fine,” Cas says, his face set. He gets up. “I can coordinate with Rowena at a later date. She should focus on the cursed box, anyway. It’s clearly a more pressing concern and the reason we called her in the first place.”

“Hey.” Dean takes a step forward. “Wait.”

Cas’s mouth sets in a thin line. “What do you want, Dean? I did as you asked. I told you the spell could only latch onto my feelings for you.”

Dean falters, his words failing him.

Cas’s shoulders slump. “I did warn you, you know,” he murmurs, trying to pass Dean on his way towards the door.

Dean grabs onto Cas’s bicep before he can disappear. “Gimme a moment. What you said - it’s a lot.”

Miracle of miracles, Cas stops.

Dean can practically feel the power thrumming underneath the trench coat sleeve in his grip, but Cas wordlessly lets Dean guide him back to the library table.

“Okay,” Dean starts, his head still mercilessly void of the right thing to say, “So that guy, the one you’re - well, it’s - he’s me?” he asks, stumbling over his words like he hasn’t since that one time Rhonda Hurley opened her underwear drawer.

Cas nods once, his face impossibly solemn.

“Right,” Dean grunts. He rubs at his chin, Cas watching the whole while. “That’s - wow.”

“Quite,” Cas says wryly.

“Hey, don’t be a dick,” Dean shoots back. “I had no idea.”

“That was the point,” Cas sighs. “But now you do.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, feeling like a tongue-tied idiot. If only he could be more like Cas with the grand declarations.

Cas opens his mouth, pausing for a beat before saying, “I was never intending to leave permanently. I will still help you figure out how to deal with Kelly Kline. I will still assist with research, translations, anything you need.” His blue eyes bore into Dean’s face. “I can still be useful.”

Dean’s chest aches. “Didn’t I tell you it wasn’t about that?” he asks gruffly.

Cas’s earnest expression falters. “Of course,” he says, subdued. “Regardless, know that I am always willing to help the Winchesters.”

“Jesus,” Dean mutters, “This isn’t - it’s never been - about you being goddamn useful.” He huffs an exasperated breath, frowning harder as Cas doesn’t immediately get it and launch himself at Dean.

God, that would make this so much easier.

“What you want?” Dean says, glaring daggers at the tabletop between them, “That whole, mind, body, soul crap? You got it.”

Cas blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“You already have it,” Dean says through gritted teeth.

Cas cocks his head like a perplexed chicken, still as clueless as ever.

It’s clearly time to bring out the big guns. If Cas is going to spout pretty speeches that steal Dean’s breath away and leave him weak-kneed but not actually, you know, make a move, Dean will just have to do everything himself.

Fine. That’s how he’s always operated, anyway.

Face determined, he leans over and grasps the lapels of Cas’s trench coat.

Cas leans back a fraction, his eyes widening in alarm or shock. But before he can utter another word, Dean brings their mouths together.

Cas takes a moment to get with the program. There’s a split-second (that lasts several years) when Cas almost seems to push Dean off him, but he kisses back before Dean can yank himself away first. Cas’s mouth is tentative against Dean’s, like he’s waiting for Dean to end it all and yell, “Got ya!”, but he unseals his lips with a light sigh as Dean gently parts them with his tongue.

Dean unclenches one hand from Cas’s lapel. He reaches up to cup Cas’s jaw, the raspy stubble a physical reminder of the goddamn win he’s finally getting. His knees twinge from awkwardly leaning over, but rampaging Leviathans could burst into the kitchen and Dean wouldn’t give any less of a fuck.

He has Cas right where he wants him, and he’s going to fucking savor it for as long as he can.

When Cas pulls away, his face shows nothing but pure confusion. “Why?” he breathes, raising a finger to touch his lips.

Dean, still half-standing, half-leaning over him, frowns. He falls back to his seat with a thump. “Because you weren’t going to do it first?”

Cas blinks. “I didn’t think you wanted anything like that,” he pauses, “with me.”

Like there’s anyone else around who wants to get real up close and personal with the most dumbass angel in the garrison.

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, the faintest inklings of embarrassment creeping in now they’re not kissing anymore and Cas’s first reaction isn’t to look like he got free tickets to Disneyland. “I did. Do.”

“Oh.”

Dean swallows past the lump in his throat.

Cas looks away from Dean for the first time, and Dean dies a little inside. Stiffy, Cas says, “If this is some misguided attempt to show your sympathy for my situation. I don’t appreciate the gesture.”

“Gesture?” Dean echoes, “What the hell are you on, man? I don’t kiss random dudes because I feel bad for them, Christ.”

“Then why?”

Dean grimaces. “You’re really going to make me say it?”

“Yes,” Cas says quickly, his gaze raking up and down Dean’s face. “I have misunderstood your actions in the past, and I have no desire to do it again.”

Dean groans. “Look, I didn’t think angels could have feelings like that.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Or I would’ve… done something about it sooner,” he says, and that’s mostly true. Probably would’ve tried to seduce Cas, failed, and then jumped off a cliff, but Cas doesn’t need to know that.

“Well, normal angels can’t,” Cas says, “but there’s something broken in me.”

“You’re not broken,” Dean swears loudly, his anger flaring. “You’re… better. A new and improved God Squad, far as I can tell.” He narrows his eyes, daring Cas to talk shit about himself one more time.

Cas bites his lip. “You truly mean it.”

Dean tries for a mocking leer, but it comes out more like a dopey, hopeful smile. “You wanna get it engraved? Put up in neon in the Dean cave?” he asks, eyebrows raised as excitement courses through his veins. Cas loves him. Dean can make good on all those what ifs that have been plaguing him for years. “Tattooed on my ass?”

Cas chuckles lightly. “That would be a start.”

Dean lets out a bark of laughter. He can already feel the insecurities looming on the horizon. There’s always a catch: Cas never stays; Cas might want Dean now, but he’ll fly away the moment Dean fucks up because he has no idea what he’s doing.

But none of that matters right now.

He kissed Cas.

And Cas didn’t smite him. Didn't tell him to fuck off. Didn't flutter off to the moon for shits and giggles.

Cas knows him, knows him better than anyone except Sam. And despite all the fucked up shit in Dean's head, Cas is staying anyway, with his eyes wide open like nobody else Dean has ever been with.

Cas smiles in return. “If I had known a love spell would result in this outcome, I would have sought out that witch ages ago.”

And just like that, all Dean’s happy-ending fantasies come to a screeching halt.

Read Part II here!

[castiel-left-his-mark-on-me]

The In-Between

I have become enamored with the time in between-- after they drove off into the sunset in 15x19, but before they awoke in the bunker at the start of 15x20; because there were some days there, and in those days, something changed in Dean. So it got me thinking ... what if ...

“Finally free.”

Dean had said the words— and he had meant them, but they didn’t bring the joy he thought they would. They didn’t leave him feeling as free as he wanted to be; because for the last ten years, he never dreamed of a freedom without Castiel.

It was supposed to be him, Sammy and Cas in the end.

They were Team Free-Will.

The three of them.

But now, it’s just him and Sam and a whole world that looks all too much the same for all they’ve lost... for what’s been sacrificed to save it.

Dean presses the gas pedal, and Baby roars down the road, eating up the miles like the beautiful monster she is. He looks over, and Sam is smiling, but there’s an emptiness to it—and Dean knows that his baby brother is hurting too. He still hasn’t heard from Eileen, so he still doesn’t know if Jack brought her back with everyone else; or … if he just took her to Heaven because, she technically should have been there all along.

And it seems like some kind of sick joke. Some punchline Chuck had built into the universe, and Dean and Sam were always destined to be the ones getting punched.

They were free, yes; but they aren’t happy.

The Winchesters saved the world but they lost so much more.

 They stop for gas somewhere outside of Sante Fe, where the fields stretch out forever and Dean thinks that if he just tracks the horizon long enough with his eyes, he can maybe fall right off the edge of the earth.

The pump clicks, and he caps Baby back up, giving her a pat on the trunk—knowing that both her and Sam would suffer if he was gone, so he blinks goodbye to the sun’s bed and climbs back behind the wheel, ready to continue on to nowhere, or somewhere. Right now, they’re just driving because they can and not because they have something to kill or someone to save, and that’s perhaps the nicest part about their new life so far.

“Holy crap” Sam says, looking wide eyed out the windshield.

“What?” Dean asks, following his brother’s gaze through the glass and out to the gravel driveway of the station.

And there, all shaggy and panting—is Miracle.

“No way!” Dean gasps, immediately jumping out of the car again to crouch and side step towards the mangy dog as quick as he can. “Hey—hey, boy! Is that really you?” He says, laughing and smiling, and the dog wags his tail a little, sitting still as Dean kneels down in front of him. “I thought we lost you, buddy” Dean says, looking into those brown eyes as they look into his. “I thought we lost you like we lost—” he starts to choke up, “like … we lost …” he leans over and pats Miracle on the head, “like I lost—” he bends down and hugs the dog close, crying into his fur; and Miracle whines, scoots in closer, nestles his chin onto Dean’s shoulder—and let’s the man hold him as he completely breaks.

“Dean …” Sam says softly, touching Dean’s arm as he squats beside his older brother and the dog. “C’mon … I’ll drive.”

Deans nods, wiping at his eyes before he stands back up, picking up Miracle with him and carrying him to the car. “We’re going home, buddy” he whispers, kissing the top of the dog’s head, breathing him in, breathing in the life of him, clutching his fur and losing himself in the solidity of him.

The dog is here, he is present.

He’s come back to Dean.

Some things can come back.

 Miracle settles quickly, and Dean settles into having something to take care of, because Sam is too grown and too stubborn to let Dean take care of him anymore; and lord know—Dean won’t take care of himself, so the dog will have to do.

Plus, he’s cute … and he follows Dean everywhere, and when he’s confused, he tilts his head to the side … just like —

Dean cries in the shower, knowing it’s the only place where he won’t be heard.

He cries with the memories, wishing that he could make them stop—stop the silence of them.

The loud memories— the memories where Billie is still banging on the door in his mind, the memories where he’s still begging Castiel not to go, not to do this, and even the memories of the Empty ripping through that wall, he’d take every one of those as trade over the gut-wrenching silence that followed.

The loneliness that followed.

The dog that follows him around like a four-legged cork in the powder keg that he’s become.

Dean cries as the shower’s hot water runs out; but when he turns it off—he knows he’s still not out of tears. He will just have to turn those off too, because he can be heard now.

The sun passes overheard without him knowing, and it’s not until Sam says he’s going to bed that Dean realizes how late it’s gotten. He’s just been sitting here, cleaning his weapons over and over again, trying to wash away even the smallest molecule of blood, because it was something to do. Something he could do without thinking; because thinking is more dangerous than any gun in his hand.

Miracle follows him into his room and curls up onto the pile of old blankets that Dean put down for him.

Dean shuts the door, locks it, and then looks around—noting the mess, noting the disarray. He never used to let his room get like this, but he can’t bare to move anything now, because it all is as it was when Cas was alive.

He might’ve touched something in here.

He might have left a small trace of himself on a book, or on one of Dean’s shirts, and if Dean can just hold in it in the right way, maybe, just maybe—he’ll unlock a memory, something he’s forgotten that won’t make the angel feel so far off, so permanently gone.

But—he knows that’s not how these things work. He’s lost enough people in his life to understand … that’s not how any of this works; yet, the books stay half open on the table. The clothes stay piled on the chair.

And Dean stays, buried alive in the middle of his mess of hope and discarded despair.

 He sits down at his desk to finish the paperwork he got from the auto shop in town. They were looking for a part-time mechanic, and Dean was inside the manager’s office and shaking the man’s hand before he even knew what he was doing.

He just needed something, anything that didn’t remind him of the hell he’s been living in all his life, and a normal 9-5 job seemed just crazy enough to work.

Dean’s eyes scan down the page—social security number, birthday, last employer … and he doesn’t know what to write. He doesn’t know if he can even put down the truth anymore. The world might still think Dean Winchester is dead, or a mass-murder, or a psycho or whatever.

Can he even be himself anymore?

Was he ever himself to begin with?

“Just be honest, Dean.”

Dean lifts his head slow but turns quick, looking up at Castiel as he smiles down at him. “Cas?”

The angel’s smile brightens. “More or less.”

Dean’s heart stops. “Wh-what does that mean?” He stands up from his chair cautiously, and he begins to notice how the light from the lamp in the corner of the room is shining through Castiel’s skin, as if he’s not fully whole … as if he’s not fully here. “Am … am I dreaming?” Dean asks, breathless, already starting to cry, because it doesn’t even matter what the answer is, he’s just so happy to see his friend again.

“That is how you’ll remember this, yes. However, Jack has assured me that you’ll know this was real.” Castiel looks down at Miracle, sleeping by his feet. “I see you’ve adopted a dog. That’s good. I always felt this place was one species short.”

Dean’s breaks into a teary laugh, reaching out to hug Castiel—and to his surprise, he can. He holds him. He holds him tighter than he’s ever held anyone, and shuts his eyes tight, wanting to put all of this away in his mind, every inch of feeling, every breath, every smell, every single second that passes so that when he wakes up and Castiel is gone again, he’ll remember.

He needs to remember.

Castiel’s arms come up to hug Dean back, and they stay there for as long as Dean stays—and it feels like hours before they finally pull apart again.

“How are you here?” Dean asks, shaky and quiet, once he can no longer simply stare at his friend in silence anymore.

“Jack” Castiel says, and Dean raises his eyebrows—gesturing for Cas to elaborate. The angel smiles, and he looks over Dean’s face the way he always used to, only, now … Dean knows exactly what that look means. “Jack saved me from the Empty and he brought me to heaven; however, my vessel … it was lost when the Empty took me. So, Jack fashioned this body; but since it was never of the earth, it cannot stand upon it and be known.”

Dean furrows his brow, opening his mouth to say something—closing it again once he realizes...he has no clue what he could say to that.

Castiel’s smile softens. “I wanted to come back to you, Dean … but I wanted to come back as myself. The me that you’ve always known, because you—you knowing me, that’s the only way I discovered who I truly was.”

“So … why didn’t you? Why didn’t you come back?”

“Like I said before, Dean … my vessel was destroyed, and Jack couldn’t recreate it exactly, not without disrupting the forces of nature. This was the best he could do, therefore … this dream is the best I can do at reaching out to you again. I am here, although—not really. I am solid, although, not really. I am as present as you wish me to be, and the very fact that we can touch …” Castiel reaches out and touches Dean’s hand, closing his eyes a moment as he loses himself in the feel of it, “means that you have been wishing for this almost as much as I have.”

Dean laughs in spite of the new wave of tears that has washed over him. “Almost?”

Castiel’s face sterns. “I’m in love with you, Dean. Obviously, my feelings are stronger.”

“Cas …” Dean scoffs, stepping closer to hold the angel’s hand fully, “if you can live for thousands of years—”

“Millions” Cas corrects.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Whatever. If you can live for millions of years, die a dozen times, become a God, become human, become—whatever the hell else you’ve morphed into, if you can still do all that, see all that … know as much as you know, but still not know how I feel about you standing in front of me right here, right now, then—I hate it break it to you, buddy … but you don’t know half as much as you think you do.”

“Dean, what are you—”

Dean shuts him up the only way he knows how … or more, the only way he wants to.

Miracle’s head perks up as the two beings kiss above him.

And they kiss, and they kiss—and they hold each other until the sun laps the world again and begins to breach the other ends of those fields; but Dean no longer wants to fall off their edge. He just wants to stay in his room, stuck between his two miracles, holding onto this happiness, holding on to this life.

“I want you to be happy, Dean” Castiel whispers, face buried into the collar of Dean’s shirt.

“Then stay” Dean says back, breathing in the smell of the angel’s hair – and it smells like clouds. He knows that’s the smell, even though he’s never been high enough to experience it.

“Dean …” Castiel pulls away again. “I need to go soon. I need to go back to Heaven—I need to go back to Jack and the other angels; and I need you to live your life. Start that job, start a family of your own, and be happy … your happiness is what I died for.”

“No” Dean is shaking his head hard, gripping onto the angel’s side and digging in his nails. “No, you couldn’t have died for that … because the second you were gone,my happiness was gone too. Don’t you get it, man? I’m no good without you.”

“You’re everything good, Dean. When will you learn that?”

“Cas, stop —  I’m saying that I don’t want to do this without you!”

“Dean” Castiel whispers, kissing Dean’s red, wet eyes, “you will never be without me. That’s what my being here is supposed to prove to you. As long as you exist … wherever you exist, I will be right there with you.”

Dean nods against Castiel’s cheek, pulling him closer, holding on for dear life, because it is dear … he sees that now. He knows it to be true. “You promise?”

“Of course, Dean.”

“But ... when will I be able to see you again?”

Castiel kisses his temple, his lips, blessing every freckle, praying to every tear that falls from Dean’s eyes. “When your time on earth is done.”

“That long?”

Blue eyes hold him steady, hold him to the earth, ground Dean in a way that’s never failed him … not since Castiel first pulled him from Hell. “It won’t be long enough. The world deserves your gifts, Dean Winchester; and I will be ready and waiting—as long as it takes. Just promise me you’ll be happy, you’ll live and love the world you’ve saved. The world that I save for you. And when you do finally make it up to heaven, know that I’ll be there waiting for you and loving you still.”

Dean’s eyes open. The room is quiet—the faint scent of clouds and rain, and promise still hang in the air.

Miracle hops onto the bed to greet him, and Dean welcomes him with open arms.

And when Sam says he’s been thinking about Cas—about Jack, Dean knows that the only thing he can say is what Castiel told him as they held one another the night before; whether it had been a dream, or something more, it was all still real, and it all settled Dean’s heart to a steady pace—one that it would beat to until its very last.

“If we don’t keep living, then all that sacrifice is gonna be for nothing.”

And when he sits beside Bobby in Heaven and hears him say Castiel’s name—Dean knows that the angel will kick his ass for coming by so soon, but he quickly smiles to himself, because... he told the guy before:

He didn’t want to do this without him.

[amwritingmeta]

The Truth

This ficlet picks up in the last few moments of 15x18 and follows Dean through 15x19. It doesn’t really come with any warnings or age tags? It’s canon compliant. Everything hurts. Thanks for reading. (prefer AO3?)

You sit in a room with no windows in a home with no sunlight and you can’t fucking stop crying. Your brother is calling again, a buzzing noise against cement, vying for your attention and all you do is dig the heels of your palms into your eyelids. Keep it together. Reach out, and do so greedily, for your scattering sanity and pull it back together. Ignore the pain. Ignore it igniting your insides. Ignore its persistent flame licking slowly at the air in your lungs, sucking it right out of you. A stuttered sob. Bite it back, bite down hard against it. Stop. Fucking. Crying.

You hate yourself. Suffocating self-blame like something sticky and sweet in your throat. Your chest is imploding with the building fury. If you’d only not been so goddamn stubborn. If you’d only not been so hellbent on revenge. Who the fuck do you think you are? You didn’t expect to live through this so why the fuck did you bring him with you? You don’t think. No, that’s not even true because you chose. You wanted him there. You didn’t want to go alone. You accepted his company because it made you think… made you believe you had a chance. His presence strengthened you, like he always does. 

Did. 

Fuck. 

Your eyes are aching. You stop pressing on them, open them instead, sight blurred, you give up, get up, get ready to walk out of the room with no windows into the home with no sunlight. Get ready to call your brother back. Tell him you’re alive, Cas isn’t. And you just stand there. Not ready. Not ready yet. Not quite yet. And your eyes are on the place where you stood a handful of minutes earlier, where words were said to you while this man you’ve known, and yet never really known completely, looked at you in ways that made your heart constrict and your skin goosebump and the memory is so fresh it makes you falter all over again, makes you feel something dangerously soften again, something that has always kept a tight fist around your every moment of hope, and you feel that wonder build itself back up, created with every new sentence telling you who you are.

How you’re seen.

By Cas.

But then he was taken from you. In the next breath taken away from you forever. He said it was forever. That’s what he said. That was the deal. Wasn’t it?

You clench your jaws and you look away. The fist tightens. You can’t linger. You’re ready because you have to be. The fight is far from over. You pick your phone up off the floor and you leave the room and you shut the door behind you. 

You’re still crying.

So you don’t call Sam. 

You get in your car and you let her tyres scream out into the lightening landscape and you follow roads you’ve driven a thousand times, roads you could drive with your eyes closed and a fifth of something strong and cajoling burning in your stomach, roads that are like black ribbons, like the wheels of Baby are grinding against a mourning band wrapped around the Earth, but you know there isn’t one, can’t be one, because everything remains just as it was less than half a day ago, for everyone except for you. 

Everything remains just as it was less than an hour ago for you—except for him.

And you grip the steering wheel and you fight the tears and you think the fighting might be causing them so you leave them be, let them run down your face, run their course, run out. You knew. You always knew it would end like this. Could see it coming like the glare of headlights on a dark highway. Of course it would end bloody. Of course it would finish in death and destruction. Why wouldn’t it? Have you ever, for even one second, thought that it wouldn’t and actually believed it? Deep down trusted that there was another outcome waiting for any of you?

No.

How could you?

Everything you love, you lose. Unless you fight for it, tooth and nail. Unless you rage against the loss until it scurries off to its corner and leaves you with pieces to be put back together. And you’ve put them back together. More times than you can count at this point, only for them to be torn back apart. Again and again. That’s life? Is that what living is? 

It’s your life. It’s all you’ve ever known. All you’ll ever know.

You don’t get further than Lebanon before you start noticing it: everything is standing still, nothing is what it was an hour ago, absolutely no one else remains. Abandoned cars gaping empty blocking your way, belongings dropped on sidewalks like their owners suddenly lost interest, vanished children from swings now played with only by a passing breeze and you can feel it. They’re gone. All of them. 

I cared about the whole world because of you.

And you shut your eyes to it, just for a moment, just to regroup, rearrange your thoughts, pick and choose which ones are wanted right now and which ones need to wait, because there’s no alternative. The fact serves to numb you. You open your eyes and take in whatever this whole new world is that lies before you; letting steely conviction prop up the waver inside you, an underlining for how if you don’t focus you don’t fix it. So you focus.

First you need to get your ass to where Sam and Jack are. Your brother stopped calling a while back. There are a dozen texts. You text him back you’re on your way. Just can’t tell him over the phone. Can’t say the words over the phone. Don’t even know what the words are. Cas is gone. It’s your fault. It’s always your goddamn fault.

You refuse the tears this time, and open the doors back up to the anger, acidic in your chest and directed entirely at yourself as you step on the gas, eyes on the road ahead, one hand reaching for the stereo, the blaring music serving as an intervention, a blocker for the impressions crowding in your head, of the man you’ve known and yet never known completely. Until today.

You reach your brother and the kid and you tell them. The words are perfunctory. The truth, but not the whole truth. So help you. They don’t question. You see their grief and you can’t indulge, can’t join them in it. You fix it, that’s what you do. By giving up? Giving in. Same thing. The kid is disappointed, but the kid doesn’t get that all the cards have been played and there’s no more choices to make—save this one. Sacrifice like a red thread through your entire story and its time to pull on it. You die, Sam dies, willingly, unwillingly, however God wants it, but the world lives. Cas lives.

No dice. 

God dismisses you, because what God wants is for you to stay in this moment of shame, of suffering, of loneliness. The ultimate punishment for disobeying, for refusing to heed him when heeding was offered, for staying defiant to the very last. And here it is then, the last. At last. And so you have your pick of bottles, and a second pick and third pick, pouring their contents down your throat, letting it drown the shame, flood the suffering, pool around the loneliness until you’re on the brink of forgetting the recent, because your mind swims in old memories, clinging to the good ones like they’re life rafts. Cas is right there, present in all of them. He would be. For all your years of denying it to yourself, you’ve known for a while that Cas is the one thing keeping you from drowning. Lending breath whenever you’ve felt like you were fighting for air. Grabbing hold whenever you’ve reached for something to hold onto. 

Sam is your cornerstone, but Cas is the mortar between the better parts of you, because he’s never backed down from calling you out on your bullshit. He never used to. Never did. Before… 

Fuck, you’re drunk.

It’s now, in the seconds between awake and sleeping, that you finally admit it fully to yourself that what you feel more than shame, more than loneliness, more than anything else is regret. What’s causing the suffering is the fact that, when this man you’ve loved for longer than you’re even sure of yourself told you that you’re the opposite of what you’ve always feared yourself to be, when he told you that he sees you as you are, understanding you in ways that you didn’t even realise yourself that you’ve always longed to be understood until he was standing there, understanding you, when this man confessed—professed—his love for you, all you could do was close up, and deny him. 

The failure to act, to speak, to do something, anything other than all the wrong things is like a blade, precise, unyielding, refusing to be ignored.

You are so broken.

You’re not.

How long? How long did Cas know that he loved you? How long could you have gotten to love him back, if you hadn’t been such a fucking coward?

No answer. 

You sleep. Deeply, dreamlessly. 

You wake needing something to kill the pain and needing that something in copious amounts, but the kid distracts you with his antennae pricking: someone else is out there. So into the Impala you pile yourselves and you drive the roads you’ve driven a thousand times with that fifth of whatever sloshing around in your stomach and you find a too quiet stretch of mileage to make a pitstop, but your bladder has to wait when there’s movement and what seemed as lifeless as every other place surprises you with a dog. One dog. The final dog. The only dog on the planet. 

What’re the odds of that? 

And your chest is suddenly swelling with gratitude, because it’s a goddamn miracle, and you feel there’s good here, a sign that there’s still good, and it’s like Cas is there with you, in that moment, standing beside you, his presence filling you up, like a wind billowing out a slackened sail, and you can’t stop fucking smiling. Because you know it’s going to be okay, even as memories blister themselves through your mind with all the times you almost touched him but stopped yourself, you know it’ll be okay, because he’ll come back. He always comes back. 

Then the dog is spirited away and Chuck gives you a smile and a wave and you want to kill him. But he’s gone and how the hell are you supposed to kill God anyway? You’re feeling like you could do it with your bare hands, but then you step through the doors of a church together with Sam and the kid and the someone else is there. An archangel. The one that’s stalked the edges of your story for as long as it’s been written. The one that opened a rift to Purgatory and allowed you reentry and a second chance to have a prayer spoken and answered and you feel yourself tense, because you owe him, but you don’t trust him: he reminds you too much of yourself. Even so, here’s a key for the lock you can’t seem to pick.

Of course, it doesn’t work. 

And then your phone rings. And you stare at the name on the display and it doesn’t seem possible that Cas would have found a way back this quickly, but then there’s his voice on the line saying he’s here and he’s hurt and can you let him in and you’re on your feet in the blink of an eye, taking the stairs to the front door three at a time and feeling worry and concern, fear and anticipation mingle like something mildly intoxicating in your brain until you open the door and face the devil on the other side. There’s shock, bright and discombobulating, like hands grasping your shoulders and shaking you, hard. Already inside the bunker, too late to be stopped, the devil sneers and smirks at his impersonation getting you to let your guard down, as he knew it would. You control the disgust, but barely. You feel like spitting on the floor, something bitter on your tongue, but don’t. The devil is amused. You can’t fucking stand how this ruse means the last time you heard Cas’ voice it was thanks to this dick.

It’s not the last time.

But there’s a sinking feeling in your chest, and the thought that yes, it is, even though you refuse it. Thankfully, the devil and his brother in the same room is more pressing, especially with a freshly minted Death there to read the God book. Everything happens with a rapidity that makes even your head spin and ends with Lucfier dead by Michael’s hand, the God book proving an absolute dud, and the kid taking you and Sam aside for a word in private. Because he just got juiced up and he says, in that quiet way he has:

“I thought this new power meant I was dangerous. That I was bad. So I didn’t tell you. And I know that was wrong, but I didn’t know how to. I’m sorry.”

It’s alright, kid. 

You’re how we fight God. 

You’re how we win.

The plan is formulated through lowered voices as you stand with your brother and the kid at the very back of the library, the dimly lit antechamber housing the useless inter-dimensional geoscope acting as backdrop, and as the steps you need to take are worked out between the three of you, you feel how that fist within begins to loosen again, only this time it’s not because of anything other than your growing faith that this is it. This is how it really ends.

The clarity that comes with it should be startling, but isn’t. Because you’re beginning to see it. How it’s a tapestry. Your past. Woven into something traceable. The only life you’ve ever known, but here the weave is changing color, thanks to you, no one else. Your choices determine the weave, no one else’s. And now, working together with two of your closest, the knowledge that you’ll succeed this time is like a golden thread through all of it, finally catching the light so that you’ll notice it, acknowledge it. You’re stronger like this: together. You always were. 

It’s Chuck’s weakness, because he can’t comprehend it. There’s no compromise in him. No loyalty, no selflessness, no love.

He can’t write your ending. He has no power here. 

You asked what about all this is real—we are.

Cas was right. If only you’d heard him sooner. If only you’d really listened, instead of stacking bricks against him, walling yourself in with your fear and all the self-doubt that has always accompanied it. Warding yourself against the overwhelming lack of control in such utterly idiotic ways; idiotic because your control was never lesser, never hollowed out: you’ve always had a choice. And there was a golden thread, ever present, even inside each brick. All you have to do now is tug on it, and the walls will turn to sand. 

You don’t hesitate.

Knowing you has changed me.

You tug.

Sunshine reflects off the waters of the lake as you pull up. It’s a pretty spot you’ve chosen. The plan is working like a charm. Every tooth of the trap you’ve set is snapping in place at its expected moment, every predicted choice by the opposing force has been made in response to your subtle manipulation of them. Both of them. Because Chuck takes the bait, and shows, and Michael dies at his Father’s hand, and the Father is rendered godless at the hands of his grandson, and the legacy of death and destruction stops here. You know it does.

Except the human on the ground thinks his ending is to be murdered by his own creation, thinks you’ll pull your gun and place a bullet between his brows, or reach down and strangle him, like you’ve had in your head for months, and you leave him behind with the knowledge that he’s been lying to himself, trying to keep you doing the same, but you’re done.

You’re ready for the truth, because the truth…

You’re the most selfless, caring human being I will ever know.

…the truth is a golden thread, catching the light.

[stusbunker]

What Lingers Within: Eight

A Supernatural Fan-fiction Mini Series

Featuring: Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Written for: @thisismysecrethappyplace

Prompt: Amnesia

Word Count: 3925

Beta’d by the amazing @itmighthavebeenintentional

Aesthetic by @thoughtslikeaminefield

Divider by: @talesmaniac89

A/N: Set in season 11. Flashbacks are still in italics. Thanks for finishing this journey with me and all your patience! xoxo Stu

Series Masterlist

     Dean woke up to an empty bed, which shouldn’t have been surprising, yet the realization that she wasn’t there beside him kept hitting him harder each day. She was asleep in the room next door; it was both reassuring and torturous having her so close, never close enough.

    He stood outside her room and debated knocking. It was too early, he reminded himself. He let her sleep, like the day before and the whole week before that. Dean cursed Sam for giving her a room on his every path and headed to the kitchen for coffee. She shuffled in just after ten, looking blurry eyed and warm. Her hooded stare burned right through him as he handed her the mug that had already become hers.

    “Got anything stronger?” she mumbled, trying to play tough. He didn’t buy it.

    “You know, we’re not exactly on a strict schedule here. You could even go back to bed--- if you wanted.” Dean dipped his chin, gauging if he could keep prodding or step back.

    “Sleep is dumb, and besides, my room is boring,” she pouted, cupping the mug in both hands.

    “Thought Sammy had that laptop all set up for you?” Dean tried, brow knit in concern. She glanced up at him sheepishly, the heaviness inside reflected in her posture and the silent plea in her all-too-familiar eyes. Dean couldn’t help but soften as he continued, “Right, well, I was going to skip research today. If you’re up for it, we could do some target practice?”

    Just as Dean had returned her small smile, Sam came in with a breathy, “Hey.”

    Dean closed his eyes, unsuccessfully hiding from the disappointment before he turned to look at his brother. “Where’s the fire?”

    “Sandusky, it’s--- probably her,” Sam’s voice was calm, but his eyes told Dean whatever it was, it was bad.

    Dean nodded. “Okay, well, looks like I’m going to have to take a raincheck.” He faced her and saw all the unsaid things staring back at him. Tendrils frayed between them as he had to pull himself away again. “You gonna be okay by yourself? It’s gonna be a long drive, both ways.”

    She rolled her eyes. “Are you kidding? I’m gonna be ransacking the place when you’re gone. How much do you think the Men of Letters shit will go for on Ebay?”

    Dean shook his head, even though he felt Sam flinch behind him. “Yeah, well, don’t touch anything that isn’t labeled as safe, alright?”

    “Go on, fight the good fight.” Her eyes sparkled with the forced casualness her wit always brought with it, letting them both off the hook.

    Dean sat in the driver’s seat, squinting in the afternoon sunlight, watching the hospital entrance with growing trepidation. Cas walked out with Sam first, the blood along Sam’s collar the only remnant of his injury. They quietly slid into their respective seats. Dean mumbled a greeting, but continued to stare at the glass doors across the parking lot.

    He ignored Sam’s sad puppy dog eyes and Cas’s perpetual confusion and waited, the keys grew sweaty in his hand against his thigh. She was discharged alongside Sam, though they played it off as a fender bender. Cas explained it all to her, as an off duty officer who happened to witness the ordeal and got them to the hospital in time.

    Dean had little problem bludgeoning her car to back the story up. 

    Fourteen minutes after Sam and Cas made it to the impala, she wandered out of the revolving door and into the life Dean had left for her. His eyes trailed her up and down the rows until she found her crumpled sedan. She fought with the driver side door and he almost got out to help her, but she managed. He exhaled as she disappeared from sight.

    His heart rotted inside his chest, arteries and veins strangled his lungs with the spreading poison. He sniffed and put the key in the ignition. 

    “Dean,” Sam started.

    “Don’t. Don’t say her name.” Dean snapped. “You mention her ever again and I will break your fucking nose, I swear.”

    Sam cocked his head and absorbed the rage in Dean’s words. He side-eyed Cas as they both agreed to those terms.

    Her car creeped behind them as she navigated the overly complicated traffic pattern between the hospital buildings. He gave her three minutes before he eased out of their spot and back onto the road. The only proof of his life with her was shoved into his duffle and buried in the trunk. The proof that couldn’t be written on the back of his eyelids or settled in the bottom of his gut.

    You stopped in the library for your laptop before settling at the kitchen table with a fresh cup of coffee. Your curiosity was piqued and a quick search brought up the horrors that had been unleashed in Ohio.

    ‘Four Dead, Seven Injured in Nursing Home Altercation’

    You scrolled through the news story wondering how this spelled ancient dark being to Sam. In the weeks with the Winchesters, you had quickly learned what hunters looked for in order to sort out the regular awful and the freaky awful. It wasn’t until the last paragraph of the article that your blood ran cold.

    The CNA that had called the cops said a woman in a black dress had been bent over the patient when she came to take the elderly man to the common room for lunch. But when she asked her if she was the patient’s granddaughter, the woman had disappeared. That patient went on to assault the others at lunch with his spork and his fists.

    Naturally, the article questioned the eye witness’s credibility, but you knew better and so had Sam. You suddenly felt very scared for your hosts’ safety, despite their expertise.

     You closed the computer as Dean’s face ran through your thoughts.

    That night you did lunges down the web of hallways, muscles burning and face twisted in effort and bouts of laughter. It was ridiculous and if anyone had been home, you never would have dared, but it felt good to be silly and to use up the nervous energy that had been bubbling up inside since the guys had left.

    It wasn’t that you couldn’t sleep, but rather that you slept fitfully. Katelyn’s voice snarled through your dreams, the feel of her spit on your hand mimicked by the sweat leaching from your body. You gave up after the second nightmare, texting Dean for an update in the middle of the night before you could think your way out of it.

    Amara appeared to Dean fully grown, bathed in shadow. The hollows of her face were almost voids as she whispered in his nightmares. The nursing home was a tragedy they couldn’t stop, couldn’t fix. Amara was growing more powerful and there were plenty of souls in one place to feed from. Wherever she had been hiding, she didn’t wander out for long. It felt off.

    She was the itch he couldn’t scratch in the back of his mind.

    He didn’t want to keep chasing Amara, but the quicker she was off the board the better. It was a selfish desire, knowing he wasn’t fully himself since she had been released, but it aligned with the greater good, so he leaned into the hunt. The text he hadn’t replied to still stared back at him almost three days later. 

    There was no update to give and somehow he didn’t want to disappoint Y/N with a “no news” bullshit response.

     The trail had dried up two days before Sam and Dean headed home, the unwillingness to quit wearing them both down to the edge of constant bickering. They stopped chasing their tails and settled on a couple of days to recoup before easing back into the usual hunts. Dean needed a win, but he couldn’t force Amara out of hiding, and even if he could, they had no way to end her anyway.

     They got in close to eleven at night, creeping into the bunker so not to wake Y/N up. Sam showered first, and Dean sipped on a beer in the library before he decided to grab fresh pajamas and the shaving kit he kept in his attached half bath. But when he went into his room, he found a mound of blankets twisted in the middle of his bed, snoring lightly.

       He felt suddenly self-conscious about the state he had left his room and tried to count back to when he had last changed his sheets. But that worry didn’t stop him from blushing with the rush of excitement seeing her in his bed once more gave him. He gently pulled the door closed, turning on the bathroom room light to let him grab his things. 

      She murmured something in her sleep and rolled over, causing Dean to freeze in panic. He was trained in the art of silence, but since she moved in, it felt like he had gained two left feet. Her breathing returned to a steady rhythm, letting him watch her from the wedge of light he stood in. Once his eyes readjusted he saw that she had brought in pillows from her room, but was only  using his. He chuckled despite himself.

      With a final glance at her sleeping silhouette, Dean left for that shower. 

    You were running through your office, rows of cubicles surrounded you like an endless forest. The click of heels on concrete followed you, despite the banal beige carpeting you were treading. Suddenly everything went dark and then you were looking down on yourself, hands around your own throat as you both inflicted and felt the pressure cutting off your air supply.

    You woke up coughing uncontrollably, flailing in the dark against the non-existent double.

    Your elbow hit something firm and you backed yourself into the corner of the nightstand, trying to escape.

    “Hey, you okay?” Dean’s voice scratched through the dank confusion and you sat up, struggling to cover your chest and tummy with your bunched camisole. 

    “Dean? When’d you get home?” You coughed again, and swallowed thickly.

    “A couple of hours ago.” Dean whispered, propped up on his elbow, he watched you. You slowly made out his features in the dark, pale skin a beacon, hooded eyes and wet lips. He was so beautiful and he was right there.

    “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come in here without your permission, it was just so quiet and being here made me feel sa---,”

    “It’s fine, I mean, you’re still a blanket hog, but I know you haven’t been sleeping,” Dean reassured, before he shifted the pillows so he was propped against the headboard. “So, nightmares, huh?”

    His hands rested in his lap, pajama bottoms firmly above the comforter, practically chivalrous. Especially after you had helped yourself to his bed.

    “Yeah, mostly,” you admitted, swallowing once more, the phantom pain had started to ebb with the conversation. “I should go, let you sleep, you had a long drive.”

    “Hey, come here.” Dean cocked his head, beckoning you to him as he opened his arms. You hesitated. Then he tipped his chin, and you were a goner. Awkwardly you situated your body against his chest, his strong arms framed you just so. “That’s better, in’it?”

    You sank into his warmth, refusing to be self-conscious about being half naked in your tank top and sleep shorts, and just relished in the firmness of his body and how it supported yours.

    He breathed in your hair, his lips grazed your forehead, and you squeezed him tighter.

    “I never wanted to be the bad guy. I don’t know what to do now, don’t know how to deal with this guilt,” you explained, staring at the slats on the bottom of the door.

    Dean pulled back to look you in the eye. “You did what needed to be done. That bitch was going to kill you. There is nothing wrong with defending yourself.”

    “I know. It’s just--- this--- being a fugitive is not where I ever thought I’d be,” you admitted, eyes closed in pained shame.

    The moments ticked away, the weight of your words increasing as your breathing fell in sync with Dean’s. His thumb tapped a gentle rhythm against your side, as you rested your head on his shoulder. You were so close you weren’t sure if you were smelling or tasting him.

    “Life on the run ain’t easy.” Dean shifted so your head fell over his heart. “But I do know you can’t lose yourself to guilt. Trust me, there are things that I have done that still keep me up at night. It doesn’t bring them back, it doesn’t undo anything. Except for maybe your sanity.”

    He let out a sad three-beat-laugh. 

    “Just keep doing what’s right. Make the world better in your own little way and hope that someday you’ll find your own absolution,” Dean spoke as if he was a million miles away.

    A moment before you thought better of it, you asked, “Have you found yours?”

    Dean stiffened in your arms and then exhaled, his fingers threaded through your hair. Slowly he relaxed again, his chest and arms softening to the point of you forgetting which parts were him and which bits were you. 

    “Right now, it feels like I might,” Dean whispered in response to the question you almost forgot you had asked. You blushed beneath the implication, the warmth between you intensifying Dean’s natural magnetism. His honeyed voice and steadfast embrace was hypnotic amidst the exhausted chaos of your thoughts. 

    “Dean, I ---?”

    Dean hummed in response before he shushed you. “It’s fine, just try and go back to sleep.”

    You fell silent, the emotions rolling through you in waves of strung out anticipation and tempering doubt. In the end your mind stopped trying to stay afloat and let you sink into the depths of a ragged slumber.

    Then one night, you slept. It wasn’t exactly refreshing, and it wasn’t perfect, but it was something. The fact that you had been crawling into Dean’s bed each night, may have helped. 

      Deep down, you felt the shift in your psyche: a glacial slide, the gradual progress of accepting what you had done which sprouted the fissuring magmic ooze that was hardening you into something new. Forged yet still fragmented, you bent to each sweltering degree as you navigated the impossible almost Dean and you had stumbled into.

      Dean was in love with you. 

       You felt it first when he called you honey and invited you to breakfast all those weeks before. And you knew it the moment he shared your past in a handful of worn photographs. Unfortunately, you just didn’t know if he loved the you that you were becoming or the woman you had been. Your past self, which you didn’t even know. 

      Both possibilities were equally terrifying.

      Winter slid into Kansas like a muddied dog, invasive and messy. Your usual and completely unscheduled call from Michelle told you that you were expected back for Christmas. No excuse, safe for an actual arrest, would suffice. You could almost taste your aunt’s green bean casserole already. You smiled to yourself, imagining Dean in an ugly sweater as Sam, oblivious, would knock his forehead on Michelle’s dubiously placed mistletoe.

      Because, of course, they were invited too. Not that you would have gone without them at your side; they were as much your family now as Michelle and her parents had always been. 

     You hung up without promising your cousin anything except that you would stay safe. Though Dean and Sam were never in the bunker for long, you were fairly certain you could persuade them to take a few days off for a real, home-cooked, holiday meal. You just didn’t know if you would be bringing your roommates/ bodyguards or if you would be bringing whatever it was Dean had become and his brother.   

      That would require you to address the real problem. One far scarier than the temporal question of Dean’s affections.

      You hadn’t let yourself fall for Dean. Not completely. You had been holding your breath, so oxygen deprived that you had developed tunnel vision. And no matter how patient or generous Dean had been, he couldn’t get you to acknowledge the silent, unanswered question in his eyes.

      No amount of cuddles or lips brushed warmly over your forehead or strong arms that held you through the terror of your nightmares had emboldened you to fully reciprocate his affections. You remained simultaneously in his arms and proverbially a day’s drive east.

     The problem was if you let yourself love him, you would be giving him permission to hurt you. Again.

      You had time, you told yourself, before you would be introducing your aunt and uncle to the Winchesters. And you would drag your feet the entire two and a half weeks until then.

One week later   

      The half-truths had grown comfortable, expected, predictable. Dean and Sam would return from a case and Y/N would have food in a crock pot or beer and popcorn waiting for them to unwind before bed. She would duck out early, and then Sam. Dean would have another drink alone, telling himself he’d be brave enough to say something if she turned up at his door again.

    He had too many misgivings about what she’d say. It wasn’t fair to make it about him when she’d get so riled up after the nightmares. 

    It was better to wait for the morning.

     “Dean?” Her voice broke through his internal rationalizing, and he held his breath. She wasn’t upset, no tension nor tears. The look in her eyes felt like a punch to the gut.

    “What’s up?”

    She laughed dismissively, a short trill ending on disbelief. “You didn’t even hear me, did you?”

    “Uh, no, not really. Come on in.” Dean stepped back, letting her in once again with his heart in his throat.

    “We should talk,” she repeated.

    “About?” Dean rested his hands on his hips, straightening himself as he watched her crawl into his desk chair and perch, heels along the edge, as she hugged her knees.

    “Us?” She made it sound like he was slow. His eyebrows shot up; this was happening.

    “Okayyyyyy,” Dean trailed off. She gave him nothing back. “What specifically do you want to talk about?”

     “You’re in love with me.” She smiled that secret keeping half-smile.

      He huffed in exasperation, but couldn’t help but smile back. “Really? You’re sure about that?”

     “Mmm-hmm.” She nodded. 

     “So?”

     “Sooooooo, it’s your turn.” She looked up at him, chin jutted out, challenging.

      “My?” Dean stammered, hand curled at his own chest. “You’re saying--- that I need to---- I don’t know, diagnose your feelings?”

      “Yup.” 

       She was going to be the death of him, that shit-eating grin already creeping up on her lips as she watched him huff and puff and try to pull himself together. He looked at her like a deer trapped in headlights, and she looked back; he felt like he was going to melt under the pressure.

       “I mean---- I don’t---- What do you want me to say?!” Dean chuckled self-deprecatingly. He dropped to the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees as he started at the floor, but finished to her face. “Christ, I know what I want to say, but I can’t say it for you, Y/N. You have to mean it.”

      “And what if I do?” Her feet fell to the floor as she leaned on her palms. She seemed somewhere between coming fully back to him and flying away for good.

    Dean started to let the hope sneak in. “Well, I was kind of thinkin’ you would’ve shown me already.”

    Time stopped.

    She launched at him, and just as he caught her, a notch above the waist, her lips stole his breath. He gave it away willingly, until there was no more to spare.

    Triumph. Relief. Yearning answered.

    Dean’s arms curled around her body, clutching her to him as her momentum pushed their top halves onto the bed. It felt like a dream; Dean wouldn’t open his eyes ever again.

    They tasted and teased each other, lips and tongues, whispers and snickers. She looked down at him like he hung the goddamned moon, and he prayed he’d never do anything again that would change that. He swallowed, not sure what to say next, unwilling to break that impossible moment.

    It just got better.

    She left a trail of punctuated kisses up his jaw and whispered in his ear. “I love you, too, you idiot.”

    In a flash, Dean rolled you onto your back, sliding you fully onto the bed at last. He practically purred as he nuzzled your pulse point before leaving a sloppy kiss behind your ear. You shivered, bolts of electricity shot through your body, burning from the inside out.

    “I--- just let me tonight,” Dean insisted, hands in your hair as he pleaded over your lips. “Please?”

    “Be my guest.” You didn’t know where all that nerve had been buried, but it was reassuring to find your footing after so long.

    He kissed you dizzy, stubble scraping and lips soothing. Slowly you were able to lay down your worries, alongside your clothing. With each brush of his mouth over your body you became lighter, leaving behind the fear and the uncertainty for something you’d never thought you’d get: trust and understanding. 

     True acceptance. 

     You fell into the moment, head first and determined, enjoying the knowledge he had retained of your body as he planted a firm palm over the thick roll of flesh above your mound, holding you in place before he dove in.

    His tongue told you that you were wanted, his fingers showed you how you were cherished, revered. His lips were lingering reminders that he wasn’t leaving again, that you were just where you were meant to be, that he needed to show you all the things he couldn’t say out loud. 

    That you came first, always.

    Bursting and brilliant, Dean saw to it, gentle yet persistent.

    He never stopped touching you, aching to hold you as long as you’d let him. Maybe longer. He crawled his way back up your body, nuzzling your nose with his before you got your mouth back on him. You drank in his now tangy desperation.

     You locked him in the cradle of your legs, telling him you were just as invested, a puzzle completed. Together you found your rhythm, your promises matched and measured. It was everything, and it was easy: no confusion or second guessing, just bliss. Dean’s moan broke on your name, and you felt it as if it had been the thousandth time, not your first. 

     It was you and Dean, forever as it had always been. These feelings had always existed, and they would never leave because not even the host of heaven had been able to snuff them out. They had lingered within you, and now that they were fulfilled, you knew you were going to make it in this uncertain life. 

      Because as scared as you were, you were certain of Dean. And he’d never stopped betting on your ability to keep fighting, to pull through all on your own. 

      His faith in you had seen you through the mess with Katelyn and years of unknown memories. Now you had nothing but time to regain what you’d lost, because lost things always have a way of finding their way home.

Series tags: @tiggytaylor @vicmc624 @kalesrebellion​

General SPN tags: @flamencodiva @dolphincliffs @dontshootmespence @thoughtslikeaminefield  @fangirlxwritesx67 @dawnie1988 @mrswhozeewhatsis @cosicas-cuquis @foxyjwls007 @tumbler-tidbits @defenderrosetyler @ericaprice2008 @princessofthefandomrealm @wingedcatninja

[jayus-fandom-writer]

Syrup and Pancakes. A Destiel and Sabriel Fanfic

Story summery:the two teen Winchester brothers have an unplanned sleepover with their angel friend. Then someone unexpected comes to see Sam.

Warnings: Absolutely none. Unless you die from being smothered by this fluffy fluff :)

Dean wakes up on the far side of his large bed. He looks around confused and sees Cas, still fast asleep, on the other side facing away from him. He then remembers that they had been just hanging out and looking through random posts Cas had made on his new phone. Dean's memory is confirmed by seeing the phone, buried slightly under the covers. They both must've fallen asleep. Dean smiles a bit. He's going to need explain why Cas is still over. Dean looks over at Cas. He's sleeping peacefully. A little TOO peacefully. Dean quietly gets up and puts a thick blanket on the carpet beside the bed. He then jumps into the bed and shoves Cas into the blanket. "Hey Cas wake up!" Cas yells as he falls off the bed, almost missing the blanket as he struggles to catch himself. "Dean what-" Cas looks up slightly angrilly at Dean. Dean hangs his head over the side of the bed, giving him big puppy dog eyes. Cas's gaze softens and he laughs. "Ok so who's gonna explain this to Sam?" Dean shrugs right as Sam enters the room, attracted by the noise. "Hey Dean you good? I heard a crash-" his gaze falls on Cas who violently is trying to get up while punching Dean at the same time. "Ah ok nevermind carry on." Sam smirks and starts to walk to the kitchen. "Sam- No it's not like that...- you son of a bitch!" Dean scrambles out of the bed, blocking Cas's punches while pulling him along.

"Ok," Sam says as Dean and Cas crash into the kitchen, "what do you two want for breakfast? Pancakes sound good?" Dean looks at Cas and they both turn back to look at Sam, voicing their agreement to the proposal. Sam's phone suddenly rings. "Hey what's up?" Sam's automatic answer causes Dean and Cas to stop fighting, interested in who this person is. "Oh ok yeah I'll be over in a second." Sam flips the phone closed and turns to Sam and Dean. "Gabriel wanted me to go help them plant their new garden-" Dean looks at Sam with a smirk. "Oh yeah that's fine have fun with your date, Sammy!" Sam rolls his eyes. Then grabs his keys. As he heads out the door he looks back. "You two can make the pancakes if you're careful. I think I'll be back in the afternoon sometime." And he shuts the door.

Dean and Cas look at each other, then at the cookbook in front of them. "A'right I think I'm the better cook out of the two of us..." Cas gives Dean a hurt look and walks over to the cabinet, pulling out the flour, sugar, baking power, and salt. He also pulls out sour cream from the fridge. Dean watches this quietly but when Cas pulls out a head of lettuce he sighs and brings the book over to Cas. "Ok fine maybe we're both pretty bad cooks but where are you seeing sour cream and lettuce?" Cas smiles a bit and puts back the strange ingredients. "You were right about the other stuff though. Here come look at the recipe real quick." Cas gives a small laugh and looks over. Sure enough, the dry ingredients had been guessed by Cas perfectly. Dean pulls out the eggs and milk and the two begin trying to work around and with each other. Dean thought Cas got a bit too close while he was mixing and flung a full cup of flour at him. Cas immediately let out a few dozen coughs while Dean, only mildly concerned, laughed at his white face. As the flour was flying around the room Cas shoots Dean a look of betrayal. As he tried to rappidly recover his dignity he tried to look as angry as possible. But seeing Dean's laughing face, also covered in flour, cracked a grin instead. Neither of them had realised how much time had passed. But Dean suddenly stopped laughing and instead tried to regain any self control he had ever had. Cas looks over to see a dirt-covered Sam smiling at them. "And you both claim you aren't a couple." Sam then took his leave of the two, walking to the bathroom, to take a shower no doubt, leaving Dean yelling a few choice remarks at him. The two then finish the pancakes with no further food battle.

After a short good natured argument the two decide Cas should be the one to fry the pancakes since Dean had had the honor of stirring the mixture. Cas cooked up beautifully golden pancakes and tossed them on the plates lying on the counter ready for their golden burden. Dean sighed and huged Cas, putting his chin on Cas's shoulder. Cas didn't seem to object so Dean watched him flip the rest of the pancakes in silent admiration.

Once all the pancakes were cooked Dean yelled to Sam about their completion. Sam soon came out from his room saying "oh yum people always say food is better when it's made with love." Dean imediently punched his brother's arm, a glaring look in his eyes. But then he simply laughed and muttered "bitch" under his breath. Sam returned the playful insult quickly with a louder "jerk!" Accompanied with a twinkle in his eye. Then all three sat down to eat their food. Sam complimented both boys many times saying that "the pancakes are very good, much better than your attempt at muffins last week!"

After the pancakes were devoured Sam headed back to his room, leaving the two friends alone. Soon the sound of his music could be heard faintly playing from his bedroom. "Geeze only Sam would listen to Taylor Swift and enjoy it." Dean remarked, turning to Cas. Cas laughed and said "hey you listen to her music on repeat all the time when you're in the car." Dean's eyes widened "what- who told you that??" Cas's expression turned into a straight face as he remarked gravely "Sam let me look through your 'roadtrip' CD's and you have 4 Taylor Swift albums."

"Well at least I... Uh..." Dean's comeback falls short but he quickly recovered himself, "at least I got all the syrup off my lips. Bruh, they look like they're covered with the stuff." Dean then quickly held Cas's face with both hands and gently kissed Cas's lips. He then realised what he's done and quickly dropped his hands and backed away quickly saying, "Damnit Cas I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..." He took the plates from the table and quickly moved away to wash them in the sink. He couldn't even look at Cas's face. But he also licked his lips just slightly once he's turned away from Cas. They're sweet with syrup. It's how he always imagined Cas's lips to taste.

Dean became so absorbed into his thoughts and dishwashing that he hardly noticed Cas getting up. He hasn't said a word but he walked over to Dean and looked up slightly. Dean is a good 3 or 4 inches taller so he has no choice. Dean hardly noticed Cas's efforts to get his attention, or at least was trying to ignore them. Cas turned off the water and grabed Dean's shoulders, forcing him to look directly at him. Dean's green eyes reflect his worry. He didn't want their friendship to end over a dumb kiss. "Cas..." But Cas cut in. "Dean it's ok. But just tell me one thing." Dean, slightly confused, asked what he wanted to know. "Did you like how my lips tasted?" Dean couldn't help but laugh a bit. But he replied back with only a hint of a smile, "Yeah Cas... I'm I did..." He scratched his head, worried about what Cas will say. Cas smiled. "Well you can kiss them again. Until you get all the syrup off at least. I don't think they'll taste as good after it's gone." He then leaned into a very surprised Dean and kissed him. Dean held Cas up to him gently, just trying to figure out if he's really there in front of him, TELLING Dean to kiss him. As Cas wraped his arms around his neck Dean could tell it was real this time. He's not just imagining it now. By this time the syrup's completely gone from both lips but they didn't care. They broke apart, each slightly out of breath. Cas snuggled his head under chin. Dean in turn held Cas more tightly. It's at that moment Dean looked over at the hallway and saw Sam standing there, leaning against the frame. The look of pure glee on his face told plainly that he witnessed that entire episode and he's pleased with his work. He slowly walked back to his room, laughing on the inside.

back inside his room he grabbed his phone and pulled up Gabriel's contact. 'Hey Gabe' he sent the message and then quickly typed and sent 'Dean and Cas finally kissed in the kitchen. All it took was some syrup. You were right babe.' Sam sent the message but then quickly realised the typo. "SHIT." Sam said out loud to himself. '*Gabe* sorry autocorrect is the pits isn't it?' but before he has time to send it a new message appears. Sam opened it and it read 'haha I told you so. they just needed that final nudge to get it going. and yeah I know babe lol I'll come over in a few minutes if you want to try it too? :)' Sam almost choked. He loved Gabriel but never expected him to actually like him back! 'wait what? Really?' Sam quickly replied back. 'REALLY. Not joking. I'm already in the car.'

'You dumbass bitch... What am I gonna tell Dean? And Cas??'

'idk you figure that out lol. I'll be there in about 4 minutes.'

'ok I'll get out the syrup.' Sam hopped out of his bed and walked back into the kitchen. Dean was pouring orange juice into a glass. Cas was clearing the table. "Oh hey Sam" Dean's eyes begged Sam not to mention seeing what just went down. Sam simply ignored the look, and chuckling slightly said quietly, "Hey Cas can you give me the syrup?" Cas, with a confused look at Dean, handed the syrup to Sam. "Hey wait- is that Gabriel's car out front?" Dean remarked, looking out the window. It was more of a statement then a question. Sam looked out. "Oh yeah it is... Huh wonder why they're here..." Dean burst out laughing. "Dude-" he then recovered himself. "Ok good luck." He grabbed Cas's hand lightly and lead him back to the TV room couch to watch some stupid old movie they had picked out. Sam brought the syrup to his room and sat on the bed. Is this really happening? Dean and Cas FINALLY get together and Gabriel is coming to see him to- to KISS him? WHAT? The knock at the door brought him to realize that this really is real life. It's actually happening. He realised this as he quickly hurried over to the door to let Gabriel in.

[themoonandotherslikeit]

Someone Alive, Part Seven

    Before the fall, Castiel spent a lot of time watching Dean. He was fascinated with the fireman. He had been stationed on earth for centuries, observing from the sidelines. It was so much of the same, but watching Dean felt different. It was like Castiel was getting to learn everything about Dean without having to intrude, insert himself. He was falling in love with Dean through the veil. 

Dean cooking, looking so focused with his tongue half out of his mouth. Chopping, measuring, and missing that bit of sauce on the corner of his mouth. 

Dean on a run with Sam, sweating, pushing himself to the breaking point. He would run until the dog was panting and asleep at his feet, his tongue still out in the water bowl. 

He’d spend his mornings scoping the internet and newspaper for fires he may have missed, cases of arson, or even cats up trees. He missed being in the station, it was driving him mad. 

One night he just stood in the shower under the hot water for an hour. His eyes were closed, his muscles tense, as the water ran over his newly healed arm. He leaned against the tile, his eyebrows knitted together. He looked pensive, pained. 

It took everything in him not to step behind the frosted glass, into the shower behind him, and leave a trail of kisses across his tense shoulders. He wanted to calm Dean, to know what worried him, to make him smile. But he couldn’t. Dean didn’t know he was there. 

Sam, though, did. 

The dog would look at Castiel with that tilted head look and ask him why ? 

Castiel didn’t have the answer. He didn’t feel he had any answers, if he was being honest. All he had was the want, the yearning to be closer to Dean. 

“Cas?” Dean called out, his voice full of pain. “You there?” 

He knew what Castiel was. He knew that Castiel was an angel so there was no real reason to hide from Dean anymore. Except Castiel couldn’t make himself be seen, no matter how many times Dean called out to him. No matter how much he wanted to. He was blocked by a twisting feeling deep in his gut. 

He didn’t have a name for it then, the feeling of dread that settled inside of him. He could’ve named the feeling after the green eyed man who called out to him even in his sleep, because the thing that crippled him was the thought of Dean asking Cas to never see him again. Telling him to leave forever. The idea of never seeing Dean again stopped Castiel dead in his tracks. He was frozen in space and time. 

“Cas? Just… please, come on.” 

It was futile. There was a reason that angels shouldn’t communicate with the living. It wasn’t something Castiel ever understood, but standing there in front of Dean he felt so close to the man that he loved, a breath away, yet they may as well have been separated by a galaxy. Because Dean was human, so beautifully human, and Castiel wasn’t. There was no amount of time and space that could change that fact. 

So Castiel stayed in the shadows, and no matter how much it hurt him, he listened to Dean call his name out into the darkness for the rest of the night. 

Present

Jo wasn’t driving fast enough, in Castiel’s opinion. He missed his instant teleportation. His flight with a single thought. In retrospect if he were to do the fall a different way, he thought perhaps he would choose a location just a bit closer to the cabin, a bit closer to Dean. “Can’t you drive any faster, Jo?” 

“Castiel, if you ask me that one more time I will slap the shit out of you,” Jo warned without turning to look at him. 

He’d asked a minimum of five times previously. Time had meant nothing to Castiel before the fall, minutes, seconds, years… they were a concept made by man. A concept that didn’t affect him much, but the moment he hit the ground it felt like the moments were slipping through his fingers. He didn’t have enough time. They’d never have enough time. 

Jo glanced at him after a while of silence. “So what happened to you exactly?” 

“I fell.” 

She laughed lightly and shook her head. “Well that’s pretty obvious.” 

He looked to her curiously, unsure of how anything about his situation could be humorous. 

She glanced at him again, her expression softening just a bit. “This thing between you and Dean… it’s real, isn’t it?” 

He nods solemnly. “I believe that it is.” 

“You love him?” 

“More than I ever thought was possible.” 

“I hope it works out for you two, I really do.” 

“Thank you. That is kind of you to say.” 

“I’ve seen him around Lisa, and he’s never really been like this with her. They’re okay together but it isn’t… I don’t know. Magic? That sounds lame, but.” 

“No,” Castiel said softly. “That’s exactly what it’s like.” 

“What’re you going to say to him?” 

He hadn’t thought about that up until that point. What was there to say? “I don’t know. What should I say?” He asked, suddenly incredibly exhausted, drained, and becoming a little hopeless.

“I’m not sure I can answer that for you. Maybe once you see him you’ll know what to say.” 

“I’ve never been good with words,” he said uncomfortably. “What if I say the wrong thing?” 

Jo considered this for a moment, tapping her finger on the steering wheel. “I think if he loves you it won’t matter what you say.” 

He hoped that she was right. He didn’t know what he would do if Dean turned him away. He could imagine himself standing there, vulnerable and human with a broken heart. He didn’t know how he would possibly survive that. 

They pulled up to the cabin, and Jo put the car in park, turning to look at him. She looked at him curiously, examining him, before she loosened his tie and unbuttoned his top button, she tousled his hair and smiled as if she was proud of herself. “You look good. Well, as good as you can with all of that dirt and blood.” 

“Hopefully it will be enough.” 

“Do you want me to stay?” She asked him softly. “In case you need a ride back?” 

He shook his head and unbuckled his seatbelt. “No, I can find my own way back if that happens.” 

If Dean rejected him he would have far bigger issues than how he would be getting back to Chicago. “Thank you, Jo, for everything.” 

“You’re welcome, kid.” She put the car in reverse. “You got this.” 

He nodded weakly, offering her a small smile. He opened the car door and exited, clicking it shut behind him. 

He looked at the cabin as Jo pulled away, gravel grinding against the car’s rubber tires. The cabin was old and run down. It didn’t exactly look like a romantic place for weddings, and Castiel had observed plenty of beautiful places to be. But he supposed any place with Dean would be romantic.

There was a twist in his gut, anxiety fluttering behind his belly button. His feet felt heavy as he tried to convince his legs to move. He’d spent so long on the sidelines just watching, never interacting, never sticking his hand in the water to test the temperature, that he’d been helpless. But now? Now he was human, and if he’d learned anything from his centuries of observation, it's that humans were not observers. They took action, and if he sat back and refused to act, he would lose Dean forever. 

That thought was enough to propel him to the front door, his curled fist colliding with the wood in three solid knocks. 

“That must be the pizza!” He heard Dean call from inside of the house. 

The sound of the love of his life’s voice made Castiel dizzy, his head light enough that he worried it would float away. He wasn’t prepared. He hadn’t rehearsed. He didn’t know what he was going to say. He didn’t know how he would react seeing Dean without the heavenly veil between them. 

The door opened to expose Dean, wearing a gray T-shirt, jeans, and just his socks. His hair looked a little messy like he had been laying around, and he was holding cash between his fingers. He was smiling when the door opened, bright and welcoming, but as soon as he saw Castiel his expression faltered. The smile fell off his lips, mouth open, as if he was trying to catch his breath. “Cas?”

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean Winchester had no idea what to say. He was without words, and that was saying something. He always had some kind of comeback, but opening the door to find Castiel standing there had rendered him completely speechless. 

The angel looked… well he looked like shit if Dean was being honest. There was blood and dirt smudged on his face, matting his hair. His clothes were dishevelled. Dean had never seen him not look put together. It was disorienting. He felt like he needed to pinch himself, to reach out and touch him to prove that he was real and not some kind of dream. “Cas?”

“Hello Dean.”

The low rough resonance of his voice sent chills down Dean’s spine, curling his toes in his socks. “What’re you doin’ here?” He found himself asking the question, when he really wanted to pull him into his arms and whisper I am so glad you’re here. But there was still time and space between them, an invisible barrier he couldn’t seem to cross. 

“I came to see you,” Cas said awkwardly. There was something distinctly different about him, like the thing that made him so ethereal had melted away. “I am sorry to interrupt.”

He looked shy, looking up at Dean through thick dark eyelashes, making his stomach flip in response. He felt like a teenager again. He felt completely overwhelmed. “Interrupt what?”

“I… I was told you came here with her. ”

Her?

Then Dean’s stomach dropped. Lisa. He opened the door a little wider. “Come in.”

Castiel looked a little green at the lack of response from him, but stepped through the threshold. 

“Why’d you come here, Cas?”

“To see you.”

“Yeah, yeah I know that’s what you said, but if you thought I was here with Lis…” His voice trailed off as he felt he suddenly saw Cas. He’d looked at him when he opened the door, sure, but he didn’t truly see him. Dean hadn’t taken a chance to take Cas in, to really observe what he was seeing and process it. It couldn’t be. It was ridiculous. Outrageous. Impossible. But yet there he was, standing in front of Dean bloodied, broken, and vulnerable. “What did you do, Cas?”

“I hoped I would make it to you before you made any decisions. I had to at least try, Dean, because the idea of losing you is more than I can bear.”

Dean leaned against the counter and watched Cas stand there awkwardly. One of his shoes were untied and it sort of felt like he was this damsel in distress. Like he was just waiting for Dean to sweep him up. 

“I hope I am not too late,” Cas added, his voice desperate.

“Too late for what?”

He needed Cas to say it, to make it real. 

“I… it’s real, Dean,” Castiel said quietly. His fingers flexed at his side. “What we have. The way I feel… it’s real. You said you wanted to be with someone alive, and I heard you. I understood what kind of life we would have if I were an angel. It wasn’t fair for you to give up so much for someone who was not willing to give up just one thing to be with you.”

“What’re you sayin’, Cas?” Dean asked, his voice tight, his chest tighter. It squeezed with every beat of his heart, his body begging to close the distance between him and the angel. He felt he had been a fucking idiot this whole time. He may have had a half life with Cas, but at least it was something. As the angel stood in front of him, with glistening wet, blue eyes and trembling full lips, a half life didn’t seem so bad. 

“I did it, Dean. I fell.”

It was like the whole ceiling was crumbling. The world fell apart around him so the only thing that remained was him . Castiel. The air was rushing in his ears, a deafening woosh. 

Castiel looked at Dean, terrified that it was over. He was too late. Dean was just looking at him, his lips parted slightly. Castiel had made a mistake, and his heart cracked in his chest. Is this what heartbreak feels like? He wanted to laugh at the prospect. He’d wanted to feel, after all. He just had only focused on the things he was excited to feel. Dean's hands, his lips, the way that he tasted, the pressure of his body against Castiel’s. He hadn’t planned for the bad things. He hadn’t planned for the ache of a broken heart, the throb of a cut on his face, the unthinkable possibility that Dean didn’t love him back. 

He hadn’t let himself consider these things because they were paralyzing. He didn’t want to be stuck any longer. He wanted to be free, and now that he had all the freedom in the world, next to Dean it all seemed so small and insignificant. Next to Dean, nothing else felt important. 

“Say something,” Castiel pleaded softly, begging for the end. He needed something to happen, anything to release the tension that coiled around him, constricting his muscles and lungs, even if it wasn’t the answer he wanted. Either way it would be over. 

“You said… You fell. Are you saying…” Dean was mumbling, uncertain, and his green eyes flashed up to Castiel’s as if he was asking Castiel to say it again. 

It took every breath from his body, every push that he had to bring the words back to his lips. “I am human, Dean.”

Evidently that was the answer that Dean wanted, because he let out a breathless word, single and quick. “Good,” he whispered, before closing the space between them. 

Dean’s strong arms wrapped around Castiel, pulling him into his chest. Dean kissed him, the pressure against his mouth almost painful from the cut on his bottom lip. The cut stung and throbbed, but it only took a moment before Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean’s neck, pulling him closer. He wanted to cry out, to take more of Dean’s breath into his body. Their chests pressed against each other, and Castiel’s eyes stung. 

He couldn’t ever have imagined what it would feel like. He had no frame of reference, no comparison that could ever equal this , and it was so overwhelming that Castiel wondered if he would ever feel anything like this again. Kissing Dean was what Castiel suspected it felt like to be born. He ran his fingers through Dean’s hair; it was surprisingly soft. His skin was warm, sunkissed from running outside despite the cool Illinois air. His long eyelashes tickled against Castiel’s cheeks and a warmth pulsed through his chest. The heat traveled through him, starting at the base of his chest and spreading through him. It was what he imagined fire to feel like. 

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but whatever was in his mind previously was wiped away the moment Dean’s tongue touched Castiel’s bottom lip, asking permission to dig even deeper into him. 

I think I know your soul, too. 

Castiel knew, as Dean’s fingers rubbed along his back, under his tattered suit jacket, that he did. Dean knew him more intimately than anyone before, but as Castiel pressed against him, their noses brushing, and Castiel’s belt digging into his stomach, he knew he wanted more. He wanted Dean to know all of him, and he wanted to know all of Dean. 

They parted, Dean almost panting, with this stupid grin on his face that made Castiel’s stomach flip. “You son of a bitch, you really did it.”

“Well, I do not look this way for my own enjoyment,” Castiel said dryly, gesturing to his tattered appearance. 

Dean’s eyebrow shot up as a laugh bubbled in his chest, falling out of his lips in a way that was almost bouncy. “Did you just make a joke?”

“I was just being observant.”

“Of course,” Dean said with a snicker. 

They stood there in the doorway in an awkward, palpable silence, just staring at each other, and suddenly Castiel felt unbelievably naked. He folded his arms around himself protectively as the details that had floated away when Dean kissed him were resurfacing. “Where is Lisa?”

“Huh?”

“Jo told me that you came here to… to marry Lisa.” The words tasted sour on his lips. He almost choked on them, feeling that they were stuck in his throat. “Where is she?”

“She isn’t here, Cas,” Dean said, his face softening. 

“I heard you talking to someone, Dean.” Static peppered through him, his fingers twitching against his biceps. He wanted to kiss Dean. He wanted to be with him, but the last thing he needed was for Lisa to come out of the shadows and shatter the little bit of strength and resolve that he had left. 

“What? I wasn’t…” The familiar smile tugged on Dean’s mouth as some kind of connection was made in his head. He brought his fingers to his mouth then, sticking them between his lips, and whistled, sharp and quick.  

Castiel felt disoriented for just a moment, the loud, high-pitched noise striking his ears, but it was just a second before the sound of paws padding against the hardwood floated through the quiet air of the cabin. 

Sam ran into the room and right to Castiel, nudging his leg for pets. The dog's large chocolate eyes looked up at him questioningly, his head tilted to the side. Castiel knelt next to Sam and scratched under his chin. “Hello, Sam.” The dog licked his fingers in response. Castiel could no longer hear him. The link between the earth and him had been severed when he hit the ground, but Sam didn’t seem to mind. He nuzzled into Castiel’s touch, not needing words to convey what he was feeling. The silky fur against his now wet fingers made Castiel’s eyes sting again and a sob rose in his throat in a sudden rush of emotion. 

“Hey, buddy,” Dean said, crouching next to him. “You good?” His hand brushed the side of Castiel’s face and it sent him tumbling over the edge, hot tears rolling down his cheeks. “Fuck.” 

“I am…” Castiel tried to begin, but the words seemed to tangle with his tongue. 

“‘Mere,” Dean murmured, pulling Castiel into his arms. “Get it out.” 

Wrapped in Dean’s arms, for the first time in his incredibly long life, Castiel crumbled into a thousand pieces, his heart cracking and letting out centuries of pain that he hadn’t realized he was carrying.

-------------------------

Part Eight

Masterlist

Read on A03 Here

Art Masterlist

[just-another-busy-fangirl-writes]

December 6, 2019

Feel free to tag me in ANY fics you post, and see previous weeks’ fic recs HERE

SMUT

If You Hurt Me, That’s Okay Baby by blue_jack (on AO3)    “$1,000 isn’t enough money,” Castiel said, pulling the sheet closer to him, scanning the rows of numbers. “Please,” he said, and some of the worry and stress he was feeling must have been reflected on his face, because her expression softened. “Isn’t there another contract I can do?” She fidgeted with the folder. “I do have . . . one option."

Flying Weight by flesh (on AO3)    Sam wakes after being soulless for three years to discover that Dean and his relationship with him have undergone some serious changes. Through traveling and hunting with Dean, Sam struggles to put his life back together after events he has only limited memory of. A season six wincest AU

Give and Take by @impala-dreamer​    Misha and Jared relax after work one night and things get a little…steamier than usual.

Along My Restless Palms by @sass-master-stina​ (on AO3)    Ever since Cas started staying in the bunker, Dean’s been having these crazy dreams—dreams that feature him and Cas in absurd, tawdry scenarios like something out of a filthy paperback. Dean chalks it up to exhaustion, or some monster messing with his head, anything to ignore the real cause: Cas in his personal space, in various states of undress, and, wow, way more muscular than Dean would’ve expected. But if it’s just physical lust that’s the cause, then that’s an easy fix, right? No big deal. There’s definitely nothing else that his subconscious is trying to tell him. Absolutely not.

Adulting 101 by shealynn88 (on AO3)    Dean has finally graduated college and is just taking a well earned break before he goes off into the world like a real adult. Then he meets Jimmy Novak, and his best laid plans gang the fuck agley.

SERIES

The Road Always Leads to Home by anarchycox (on AO3)    John is a bounty hunter and has dragged the boys around behind him. Omega Dean has pretty much raised Alpha Sam. John isn't abusive per se, but rather traditional (omegas are the homemakers, caregivers, weak). Sam and John have always butted heads, so Sam happily runs away to college, not really thinking about Dean. Now that his alpha son is raised John thinks it's too dangerous and too much worry to have Dean around, and thinks the best thing he can do is mate off Dean to one of his work pals. He doesn't intend to give Dean a choice, and Dean rather objects to this. He steals the Impala, some cash and hits the road. He travels so many roads and they all lead straight to Benny.

Boxing Gloves Make Good Oven Mitts by anarchycox and theprofoundblade (on AO3)    Dean has a good life, a great life. He runs a food blog, does beta testing for cook books, even caters a little. But maybe he's gained a little weight. And maybe his family teases him a little about it. Enough that it starts to bother him, though they have no idea how much the jokes hurt. So he decides to go to a gym. Only he's embarrassed as hell about it all and goes in the middle of the night. He hates it, the lights, the machines, but he hates the jokes and his body more. Only after a 4am work out he notices the fighting club attached because of the noise he hears. Sees a guy boxing and quickly runs away from the sight, only to see the guy in the locker room. A rather fit, gorgeous, tattooed guy with a beard and a great smile.  Benny is about to make Dean's work outs a lot more interesting.

Home Is by @castielslostwings​ (on AO3)    Abruptly terminated from his all-encompassing job at Sandover Bridge & Iron, company man Dean Smith makes a spur of the moment decision to embark on a cross-country roadtrip to "find himself." And if he's going, why not ask along the strangely attractive but down-on-his-luck homeless guy who's been sleeping outside Sandover's building? He looks like he needs some help finding himself, too. The hell with it, Dean's tired of playing by the rules, and playing alone. Little does he know, Castiel may be just what he needs.

Such Familiar Magic by @saltnhalo​ (on AO3)    When solitary witch Castiel finds an injured dog unconscious in his garden, he takes it in. He's expecting to heal it, look after it for a few days, then perhaps return it to its owners. He's not expecting it to be one of the strongest familiars he's ever met.

Corruption of the Corrupt by @thatsnotwhoifuckingam​ (on AO3)    Dean has been turning tricks to take care of Sam since he was old enough to know how. Sex is how he gets what he wants, how he gets what he needs. It's how he maintains control in a life that's definitely out of control. The small town Priest, named for one of Heaven's angels, is being put to the test dealing with Dean the confessor. Can he maintain his purity?

[spacematriarchy]

Title: after tomorrow Square Filled: The Cage (S5) Rating: G Summary: Sixteen hours til Detroit. One last night on Earth. So long as they were together, the time wasn't going to waste. Word Count: 2060 (read on Ao3) Created for @swansongbingo

The four of them lasted late into the night and into the small hours of the morning, but by two AM, after a long, difficult day of draining demons, it was clear that members of the party were fading, and they were fading hard.

With a big stretch of his shoulders, Bobby yawned, and collected himself and his empty beer bottle together. “Sorry, boys,” he said. “Guess having to walk around on my own legs all day takes more outta me than it used to. I’m turning in.”

“No worries, Bobby,” Sam said.

Bobby stood from one of the two camp chairs they’d thrown out on the front patio, and Dean, sharing the bench with Sam, dropped his feet from where they were propped up on the bannister to let him pass. Bobby turned to Castiel - long since having fallen asleep in the other camp chair - and lightly slapped him on the knee. He startled awake.

“Sorry,” Cas mumbled, though he surely couldn’t have known what he was apologizing for.

“C’mon, Columbo,” Bobby said. “Give the fellas some time before bed.”

“Of course,” Castiel said, still only half awake, and started trying to leverage himself out of the chair.

“No, Cas, you don’t have to!” Sam insisted.

“No, no, I’m sure you should talk…” Cas trailed off, eyes flitting away. He tried to follow Bobby towards the front door, but was stopped by Sam grabbing onto his sleeve.

“C’mon, Cas, one more beer?” Sam asked. “You’ve been conked out half the night, we barely got to spend any time with you.”

“I’m sure you’ll want this to be family time…” Castiel offered as a final, weak excuse, but Dean scoffed.

“If you don’t think you’re one of us by now, I’ve got some bad news for you, buddy,” he said. Castiel stared wordlessly at them, blinking through the lingering sleep in his eyes, and as he then ducked his head, the ghost of a sad smile crossed his lips. He didn’t seem to have the words for an answer, and when Dean stood and gestured for Cas to take his seat, Castiel did.

“Thank you,” he said softly, as Dean began collecting the empty and half-empty bottles littered about the porch. Sam handed his own over as well.

Sam still had blood under his fingernails. Dean did, too. Sam had known that, yes, but he was trying to avoid looking at his own hands since he failed to scrub it out that afternoon. That wrong feeling pinged in his chest, and he promptly tucked his hand back into his lap, out of sight.

Bobby and Dean went inside, the creak-slap of the screen door blocking them out, leaving Sam and Castiel in the airy drone of wind and crickets through South Dakota’s backroads. Cas stayed quiet, though he’d roused somewhat during the exchange, and Sam watched him from the corner of his eye, waiting for him to start up a conversation and set a tone for it.

He wished he knew the tone to set, himself. Poor Cas probably felt more out of his emotional depth than any of them.

Giving up on the prospect of letting Cas choose, Sam instead settled back against the bench and looked back out across the junk yard.

“So,” he said, tentatively. “Sleep?”

Castiel nodded. “It’s disconcerting.”

“Do you think your batteries will recharge at some point, or do you think…”

Sam trailed off, not sure if there was a tactful way to discuss the recent clipping of Castiel’s wings, but Cas nodded again, understanding without Sam needing to finish.

“I have no idea,” Castiel said. “My hope is, of course, that this works and I can find a way to restore my grace and go home, but I suppose it’s a bridge I’ll cross when I come to it. It’s not a priority right now.”

“Mm,” Sam hummed. “If you can’t, you know Dean and Bobby’ll always have a place for you, right?”

Castiel didn’t answer.

“And, I don’t wanna ask you for anything, Cas, but…” Sam sighed, turning back to Cas. “I’d feel a lot better if Dean still had somebody keeping him from doing anything really stupid.”

Cas looked up at Sam, in turn. He was pensive, brows furrowed, examining Sam carefully.

“If I’m able,” he said, putting careful consideration into the pledge.

“Promise?” Sam asked with a nervous chuckle, poorly hiding his feelings.

Castiel’s gaze softened on him. He nodded once more. “If I’m able, Sam,” he said. “Yes. I promise.”

Sam opened his mouth, just about to thank Castiel when the screen door swung open again, and Dean reappeared with three bottles, perched between the fingers of one hand like he was a human glass rack.

“Okay,” he sighed, loudly. “One, two…” Dean distributed a beer each to Castiel and Sam, then threw himself into the camp chair Cas had been sleeping in earlier and took a good swig. “Three.”

Sam felt the intensity of his small, private conversation with Castiel fade, and once again they were just relaxing out on Bobby’s front porch like they’d been doing for years. He looked at Dean - something in him felt eased by Cas’ promise, as conditional as it was. He could trust Cas. Cas was family. Even if he couldn’t be by Dean’s side, Sam knew Cas wouldn’t let Dean self-destruct, not really.

It still hurt to know that Cas was going to have to watch out for that, though. Dean wasn’t as good at hiding his Achilles heel as he thought he was.

“Sam was just saying,” Castiel said, directing his attention to Dean as he revived to conversation. “That if I’m not able to go home, I could stay and help you. Perhaps we could keep hunting together - it’d be much safer than you hunting on your own.”

Dean’s good - or at least fine - mood vanished. He scrunched up his nose and suddenly became very fascinated by his beer.

“Dean?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know…” Dean almost mumbled. “I mean, am I gonna keep hunting after this? I think if you take out the devil, the surviving members of your crew earn early retirement, right?”

“You, retire?” Sam scoffed. He didn’t feel the joy of the chuckle in the word, but he felt as if maybe, if he kept joking with his brother, his brother might forget to stop joking.

“What would you even do with your life after that?”

Dean didn’t take the bait. He just shrugged, and looked out across the lot, averting his gaze from either of the other two men.

“What do most people do?” Castiel asked, quirking his head in that ‘confused puppy dog’ way he always did. “You could find a new career. Or a romantic partner.”

Dean did, in fact, laugh at that one.

“No, seriously,” Sam said. “I just… I’d really like to know what you’ll be doing. I wanna know that you’re moving on. That you’re happy.”

Dean took another sip, seemingly mulling it over. He was quiet another long minute.

“I’ll figure it out, Sam,” Dean said, and he sounded so confident that Sam almost believed him. “I always do, don’t I?”

He didn’t elaborate.

They chatted about very little of substance after that, and Sam let the inanity of the conversation lull him into a false sense of security, turning off his own memory for a few short minutes. The mood, however, was unrecoverable. Not painful, not really, but solemn. Reverent. It became a bit harder for Sam to forget that he was attending his wake.

It felt like entirely too short a time before Castiel threw his head back and tipped the last of his beer into his mouth, making a face as he swallowed it. “Alright,” he said, after a breath. “I think my night is over.”

“You sure?” Sam asked, as Castiel stood. “You really don’t have to go, Cas, if you don’t want to.”

“I know,” Cas said. “But apparently I sleep now, and… and Bobby wasn’t wrong. It’s your last night together - you should talk between yourselves. I understand. I take no offence.”

Sam stood, not to stop Cas, but to embrace him. Wrapping him up, Sam put his chin on Cas’ shoulder and squeezed. “If you’re sure,” he said.

Rather than hugging back, Castiel stiffly brought one arm up and patted the back of Sam’s opposite shoulder, painfully awkwardly. Sam wasn’t any more offended by Cas’ lack of social grace than Cas had been at the need for Sam to spend time with his brother - it wasn’t like Cas knew any better. It wasn’t like Cas wasn’t deeply invested, regardless of struggle to return physical affection.

“I’m sure,” Castiel said. “But thank you.”

Sam pulled away. “We’ll see you in the morning?”

“Of course,” Cas said with a little nod. Though his gaze lingered, eyes soft and sad, he didn’t speak it. Cas then turned to Dean and gave him the same nod. Dean raised his bottle in a parting gesture, and then Castiel left, into the house, into the darkness.

Instead of sitting back down on the bench, Sam moved over to the other camp chair - the one beside where Dean now sat, the one that had begun the night as Bobby’s. He let out an ‘oof’ as he sat, the chair lower and saggier than he’d truly been expecting, and he sunk, curled, into the space it provided. His right foot sprawled over and rested against Dean’s.

Sam took a sip of beer, now watching his brother in profile as Dean did, too.

He hated to break the quiet, terrified of ruining the night by prompting, in any small, unintentional way, Dean to start arguing his case for why Sam shouldn’t go through with it tomorrow. With maybe twelve to sixteen hours left on Earth, twelve to sixteen hours left with his brother, he didn’t want to spend it fighting.

Maybe Dean didn’t either. Maybe that’s why he was so quiet.

“You getting tired yet?” Sam asked, in lieu of more dangerous questions.

“Not really,” Dean said. “Might not bother getting to bed at all, honestly. What about you?”

Sam nodded, though he knew Dean wasn’t watching. “Yeah, I’m thinking the same.”

I’ll sleep when I’m dead, Sam thought. If only.

“Then at least we’ve got each other for company, then, huh?” Dean asked.

“Yeah.”

Sam settled back into the chair, allowing himself to relax, and let his head fall back against the railing. He let his gaze wander, eyes unfocused, over the dark not-quite-horizon framed between the roof and rail of the porch. It was a warm spring night, just as South Dakota was finally thawing out, and though they were still bundled up to be out at night, it was as pleasant as it could have been. The stars were out, and the crickets were chirping. The little bit of pressure where his foot touched Dean’s, lightly, through the boot, was grounding to him.

Sam told himself that Cas would stay, and Dean would heal, and they would live with Bobby in peace, and they’d remember him. He tried not to think about the devil. He tried to think about how nice it was going to be to know his family was alright without him.

“Dean?” Sam asked.

“Yeah?”

“You know I love you, right?”

Dean turned to him, concerned. “Yeah,” he said. “And you know I love you, too, right?”

Sam smiled, in spite of himself, and nodded. He took a sip. “Just wanted to be sure you’d remember.”

“Trust me, Sammy,” Dean said, slumping in his chair much as Sam had, carefully keeping their delicate point of contact. “That’s one thing you won’t have to worry about.”

Sam shut his eyes, and realized they were stinging. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to swallow his fear - he hadn’t cried since making up his mind about their plan, and he hated to start now. Not now.

“Sam?” Dean asked.

“I’m okay,” Sam lied. “I’m okay.”

Dean didn’t seem convinced, but he’d never been the type to argue about that sort of thing. He watched Sam with concern, his own emotions seeming to be boiling just under the surface.

“Okay,” Dean said slowly.

Sam shut his eyes again. Warm spring air. Crickets. Dean.

He’d be okay. For his family. For everyone.

He didn’t really have a choice.

[ladylilithprime]

Sastiel Love Week - Day 2 (AU)

Sam woke to a pounding on the bedroom door, and an eternity of searing smoke and a world on fire. The smoke detector screamed overhead, lost in boiling dark clouds. Sam flew out of bed, inhaled a double lungful of hot, acrid smoke, and hit the floor. The entire inferno galloped down his throat with sharp, steely hooves, and he flopped on the carpet, fingers scrabbling for any kind of purchase. He rolled onto his belly and dragged himself forward, fueled by adrenaline as the oxygen petered out. His eyes watered, the door blurring in front of him. Underneath it, though, he could see a dull ruddy glow. This wasn’t how he was going to die, Sam thought, not like this. Not alone, trapped in the shitty bedroom of a shitty twelfth story apartment in Bed-Stuy. The floor vibrated as something bashed against Sam’s bedroom door again. Now Sam spotted two shadows, breaking the underworld glow. Feet. Feet? “SAM!” Bellowed the person on the other side of the door, and then again with more force: “SAM!” An oxygen mask muffled the voice, but Sam had a name made for screaming over oxygen masks. The door splintered. A couple precise chops with an axe and a well-placed boot managed the mickey-mouser doorknob lock. Sam’s DIY hardware (an extra slide bolt, because he trusted abso-fucking-lutely nothing to chance) went flying across the room. The door swung inward, revealing the owner of the feet. A fireman. Kitted out for the fucking apocalypse, like this was a disaster movie or a round of Team Fortress 2. “Sam? Fuck!” the fireman shouted, with surprisingly human fear. And oxygen-starved as it was, Sam’s brain still had enough juice left to do a little simple math. Castiel. Fuck, indeed. With the strength of a raging rhino, Castiel looped his arms under Sam’s and dragged him out of the room. Sam remembered later, in greasy smears of memory, the second fireman with the oxygen bottle and the long trip down. Reflections of the carnage wavered on the faceplate of Castiel’s mask. The glass had ripples, Sam thought; he thought something that important would be perfect. He lost the rest of the night. The white highway lines of twin fluourescent bulbs, as he rolled flat on his back down long hallways. Doctors and nurses asking questions, interspersed with long absences and a chaos of noise. An IV, and then two, and another oxygen mask. Someone came by with ice chips. Dean arrived, some time between sleeping and waking, and was there when the pain meds wore off. Minor burns, they said; smoke inhalation and some lung damage from the heat. If he’d been on his feet longer than a few seconds, he’d have been beyond saving by the time Castiel got to him. Dean tried to clean the soot away from Sam’s face, fingers running roughshod over the red welts someone smeared with cooling gel. He talked in a thick voice, little wet bursts of laughter about the cell phone that was probably melted, and how they’d have to find him some new clothes but the gift shop didn’t carry size ‘Yeti.’ Somewhere between all the white noise, Sam began to know he was safe. Safe. A memory ghosted up unbidden, of Castiel’s arms under and around Sam like bars of steel, and the hot white lines down the sharp edges of his mask. He’d been carried to safety and now here he was, alive, in a cool white room, his brother framed by the ugly blue diamond pattern of the separating curtain behind him. Fear smeared across his thoughts like the cinders of his burned apartment, and then relief. He was safe. The building was still on fire, he thought. Hundreds of other people might still be in there. And Castiel. Castiel was in there somewhere too, probably. But Sam was safe. He didn’t deserve to be safe. Sam’s chest tightened; eyes blurring as relief and guilt rooted themselves in deep. The fire in his lungs tried to force its way up his throat. Dean fed him more ice chips, although the nurse warned them to take it slow. The water cooled his throat, numbing the gritty stabs of pain that followed every hard swallow. They waited in the Emergency Room for hours. Dean wandered the floor, bringing back new details as they surfaced. The fire was almost out. Every hospital in the area had survivors from the fire. One of Sam’s next door neighbors ended up sharing his cramped room. They commisserated - awkwardly - about the fire and the kid with the snarky cockatiel and the lady who played Christmas caroles year round. Sam confirmed he wasn’t responsible for the garlic smell in the hallway. Dean smuggled him a diet Coke. The nurse came by and made him put his oxygen mask back on. Castiel arrived some time in the morning. It was probably ungodly early. Sam couldn’t tell. The emergency room was a windowless labyrinth of white light and lineoluem with lines in primary colors. Even in the heat of summer or a white-out snowstorm, Sam had the feeling this room would look the same. But it was different now, because Castiel was here. His shift must be over. And because it was Castiel, he’d come without stopping to change clothes, or clean up. The grubby flame-retardant gear made him bulky, larger than life; heroic. His handsome face was dark with soot, right up to the place where his goggles sealed to his cheeks and nose. He looked like a reverse panda. A Precious Moments panda, maybe. A panda with the saddest eyes. Castiel sidled in, twisting his car keys in his filthy hands. At the sight of him, Dean went from doting brother to attack dog. Sam reached out for Dean’s arm, bumping his IV into the rails of the bed. “Dean,” he croaked, pushing the mask away again, “Cas got me out.” Under Sam’s fingers, he felt the tension start to slide from Dean’s forearm. “Thanks for that,” Dean said, and made gratitude an insult. “Hello, Dean,” Castiel said wryly. Not unkindly. His gaze fell on Sam again, then, and wouldn’t be swerved. “You’re conscious. That’s very good. I’m grateful.” Sam nodded. The smell of Sam’s burned apartment intensified as Castiel drew closer, and he retreated behind the oxygen mask. Everything smelled like burnt apartment. Like plastic and sweat and grief. “I won’t - I won’t stay long,” Castiel promised, retreating a step, “I just needed - wanted - to see you. To make sure you–” He trailed off. Fiddled and clenched his keyring, in the hand nearest Sam. Finally, his gaze broke. He dropped his chin, like an actor ending scene, and brought it up again with a polite smile. “I’m glad you’re safe, Sam,” he said, turning away. Another smudgy memory surfaced. Of Castiel yelling his name, muffled by an oxygen mask. The panic that had been in it. The grief. Behind that, the memory of other times - when Castiel said it as he had just now. Soft, alive as a touch. Thankfully, Castiel’s name translated through oxygen masks just as well. And years, and tension, and memories so old they felt dead beside the heat of now. “CAS,” Sam coughed. Castiel turned. The saddest reverse panda in New York City. The man who’d dragged him out of Hell. The voice he’d missed. A second chance at forgiveness. And more, of course. There was more. This was probably insane. The smartest thing to do would be to let an ex-fiance walk out of his life again and stay. Chalk it all up to karma or something. “Stay?” Sam asked. Castiel’s expression shifted. Softened. He looked down at himself, and back up, and the sad panda look was back. “I’m filthy.” “Okay,” Sam replied, voice cracking with pain and hope, “come back?” He heard Dean huff next to his shoulder. “There’s a shower down the hall,” Dean said, amusement bright in his voice, “You need to change?” Castiel’s eyes darted to Dean’s like a wary animal. “I - probably. This material,” he fingered the heavy jacket lightly, “doesn’t. Um. Breathe.” Dean’s keys glittered in a long arc across the room. Castiel caught them neatly, and stared at them like they might bite. “I’ve got a change of clothes in the trunk,” Dean explained, “Top deck of the garage.” The slow smile that spread over Castiel’s face was almost, almost (not really) worth the burns. “The overwaxed, black Sixties-era extension of your penis?” he asked. “That’s the one,” Dean confirmed with a smile that didn’t quite say 'fuck you,’ but rhymed with it. When he was gone, Dean turned to Sam and said, “Are you sure? Seriously. You probably have like thirty different toxic chemicals swirling around your bean right now from the smoke. Not to mention the percoset - I mean you’re probably a foot massage away from drooling on your shirt. This is a bad time to be making critical life choices, bud.” Sam rolled his eyes. “I dated him, Dean,” he protested, “And he just saved my life.” And it’s not like I can text him 'thank you’ later, he thought; my phone is probably a puddle of melted glass. “'dated him’?” Dean echoed in disbelief, “You mean the guy we went camping with for two weeks in Nevada? The guy I went tuxedo shopping with? The guy who was on my couch every Monday so you could watch Alton Brown torture cooks–” “–chefs,” Sam corrected, only realizing his lethal misstep afterward. Dean’s hands spread in defeat. “Fine, whatever. Look. Everything about you and Cas is a crticial life choice. You know it and I know it. You went on a date to the fucking bookstore. Months, Sammy.” “–Dean,” “I had to hear about that for months.” Dean gave Sam a flat look, a don’t-stop-me-I’m-on-a-roll-here look, and continued. “I’m not saying 'no.’ I’m saying if you wanna maybe wait until you get a new phone and a new apartment before you decide you wanna buy a 2018 Pinup Fireman calendar, I can shuffle him out of here right now.” The horrified part of Sam wished fervently that the smoke inhalation could make him pass out. Most of him, however, squeezed his eyes shut and laughed, even if it hurt his chest. “Pinup calendar?” “You know what I mean,” Dean whispered. Sam did know what he meant. As a matter of fact, Dean wasn’t wrong. Everything about the way he’d connected with Castiel had Critical Life Choice written all over it. They’d almost gotten married. But the secretiveness, the worry, the distance and the raw fights towards the end - was Sam ready to risk that? He hadn’t been an innocent then, and he wasn’t now. But there was a reason why, when he’d realized he was being rescued from a fire full bridal-style by a guy he was still (and probably always going to be) in love with, his first thought was 'fuck.’ Things would always be complicated with Castiel. A guy whose heart was huge. A guy who could have been born with wings on his back. A guy who was always fighting to leave the shadows of his brothers and his big, heroic, out-of-the-picture dad. Sam didn’t need a savior, and dating one made him itchy. But of the two of them, he’d always been the optimist. And if he was honest, whenever he thought about Castiel, Sam missed more than he didn’t. “Yeah,” Sam said finally, “I can handle it, Dean.” So Castiel came around the corner, clean and wearing Dean’s Metallica shirt and making it look like sarcastic commentary by default. And he sat down beside the edge of Sam’s bed, flustered by the metal rails until Dean showed him how to fold them down. When Sam offered him his hand, he took it. Which was a Critical Life Choice, of course, but by that point Sam figured they were five deep already so, what the hell. And he stayed.

Oooooh, my goodness, nonny, this was so amazing! You pulled me right into the action and fed bits of a wealth of history between these two into the narrative so brilliantly! It’s beautifully contained, yet also offers so much in the way of expansion, and is so brilliantly them even in this new setting! Very well done!

[w04hxo]

With Love

This is a sequel to Sp(ace) (https://woahthisguy.tumblr.com/post/162781938266/space) but can be read separately! @captainraye @supremetranstaco @socially-ineptnerd ****

Castiel waited anxiously by the coffee maker. He’d lived for millenia yet the six hours Dean spent asleep at night seemed to be a lifetime to Castiel. It did feel well worth it when Dean would finally drag himself into the kitchen, smiling groggily at Cas as he hit start on the coffee maker. They would sit in silence as it brewed, breathing deep the rich, rejuvenating smell of fresh coffee. When it was finished, Cas would pour them both a cup. That was Dean’s cue to get up again and begin breakfast.

Dean always explained to Cas what he was making as well as how to prepare it. He joked that they were emergency lessons in case Cas found himself human again. Castiel knew better; he knew it was Dean’s way of connecting with him, of sharing his life with the angel. Castiel didn’t mind in the slightest as he found humanity fascinating, even after his brief personal brush with mortality.

This morning Castiel hoped Dean would make french toast. He liked the way the bread went from disgustingly sopping with embryo to a spongey, cake-like dessert. Castiel had argued extensively with Dean over the purpose of eating sugary foods for breakfast. However, when the kitchen with filled with the saccharine smell of cinnamon and vanilla, even he had to admit he understood the appeal (despite it being entirely impractical).

He started to get nervous about Dean when he saw the clock tick past nine. Dean never got up as early as Sam, who was naturally up a bit before dawn to start his morning run. Still, Dean considered eight a.m. sleeping in. Sam came in shortly after Cas checked the clock, hair dripping from his post-run shower. He glanced at Cas before frowning at the empty coffee pot, “Is Dean still asleep?”

“I would assume so, ” Castiel answered, adding sadly, “He has not made breakfast yet.”

Sam pursed his lips, “You should probably go check on him.” He hit the button on the coffee maker, and Castiel felt a strange jab of territorial anger.

He watched it drip slowly for a beat before huffing out a sigh and standing, “I suppose I should.”

When Castiel arrived at Dean’s door, he saw the light was on, and he was instantly consumed with panic. He shoved the door open, poised to smite whatever was clearly holding Dean hostage.

To his surprise, the older Winchester was merely starfished on the bed, clearly wide awake. His face was ashen and his nose an angry red.

“Dean?” Castiel fixed him with a perplexed look.

Dean groaned, “I thought you were never gonna show up. I’m sick, Cas.”

Castiel finally relaxed, “Oh. Why were you waiting for me then? Do you want me to heal you?”

Dean gave him a scowl, “No, we’ve done that like three times in the last month. I think its messing with my immune system.”

Castiel squinted, “Then what would you like me to do?”

“I need you to make me soup,” Dean answered, his voice small and embarrassed.

“Soup?” Castiel parroted back.

“Yeah, that’s what you eat when you’re sick,” Dean explained, “That’s how humans get better.”

Cas considered this for a moment before walking over to Dean’s nightstand. He raised his hand to materialize a bowl of soup when Dean grabbed his wrist.

“No, no way,” he whined, “Mojo soup ain’t gonna work. You gotta make it with love.”

Cas tilted his head, but chuckled, “Dean, how would I add love to food? It is an abstract concept.”

Dean gestured as wildly as his weakened state would allow, “The making it is the love part.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Its kinda, kinda like a spell,” Dean did his best impression of Sam’s puppy dog eyes, “C'mon Cas, please make me soup.”

Castiel let out an exaggerated sigh despite the smile creeping onto his face, “Alright, how do I make soup?”

“There’s a couple cans in the cabinet,” Dean said, relief on his face, “ The instructions will be on the back.”

Cas nodded, “Very well, I’ll be back shortly then.”

Dean wore a dopey smile of victory as he watched Cas leave. When he was gone, Dean rolled over and went back to sleep. He woke up two hours later to no sign of Cas. What the hell was taking him so long? He momentarily terrified himself with the thought of Cas setting the kitchen on fire, but shook it off when he realized he would have smelled smoke by now. Dean’s stomach growled, and he considered going into the kitchen to check. He resolved to give Cas a little bit longer, and as if on command, Castiel returned with a glass of water and a steaming bowl that smelled a lot more savory than it should have.

“Where have you been, man?” Dean asked, sitting up and accepting the bowl.

“That canned soup was practically devoid of nutrients,” Castiel said accusingly, as though Dean was to blame for the travesty that was the canned food industry, “Instead, I did some research and made the soup from scratch.”

Dean stared at him, stunned. “I’ve never had someone actually make me soup before.” He inhaled deeply, “Whew, that smells good, but also like a LOT of garlic.”

Castiel smiled proudly, “Yes, garlic is very effective at fighting infection, and it also boosts your immune system.”

Dean rolled his eyes but tasted the soup tentatively. He let out a loud ‘mmm’ and looked over at Cas with wide eyes, “Holy shit, this is /awesome/.” He began scarfing it down as fast as the hot broth would let him.

Castiel puffed up under the praise before gesturing for Dean to scoot over. Dean did so without ceasing his gluttony, and Castiel sat down on the bed. He adjusted himself against the headboard before crossing his ankles. He smiled contently to himself as Dean ate. It lifted his spirit to know he could help his friend in this way. It had indeed felt like a spell, like every movement of his hands was infusing the soup with what Dean needed to become healthy again. Dean’s cooking lessons hadn’t hurt either. Castiel also had Sam taste the soup, asking him to be candid on how it had turned out. Sam’s answer had been to make himself a bowl, and Castiel figured that was a good sign.

Dean slurped the last of the broth from the bowl before setting it on the side table, “Thanks buddy. You were right on time; I thought I was gonna starve.”

Cas rolled his eyes and got back up. “There’s more,” he said, a glint in his eye. He went back to the kitchen and returned with a mug of tea he’d capped with a saucer to keep it warm and a generous slice of blackberry pie.

“Now that’s what I call ‘with love!’” Dean exclaimed, reaching for the pie.

“I assumed the pie would make you more amicable to drinking the tea,” Cas said smugly as he returned to his spot on the bed, “The echinacea and the honey will also help you get better.”

Dean scoffed, “I think you just wanted to feed me honey.”

Cas shrugged with a laugh, “Maybe.” He watched Dean happily eat his pie. Before he could think about it, he blurted out, “Are we in love, Dean?” The minute he heard the words, Castiel wished he could shove them back in his mouth. He knew Dean didn’t like talking about this sort of thing.

Dean froze with the fork in his mouth. He removed it when the shock wore off, chewing slowly before setting the utensil on the plate. He cleared his throat. “I, uh. Yeah,” he said finally, “I mean…don’t you think so?”

Castiel’s smile lit his whole face. “Yes Dean,” he said softly.

Dean grinned back before digging back into his pie. He drank his tea quickly. It tasted horrible, but Cas had gone to so much trouble. He couldn’t believe the angel went so far as to make him soup from /scratch/; he’d just wanted some Campbell’s. But he couldn’t bring himself to feel bad about Cas spoiling him. Especially since it had resulted in his confession of how he felt about Cas. Dean had known for months that Cas was his. It had been so concrete to him, what with Cas moving into the bunker and Dean spending every waking moment with him. He didn’t think they needed to address it.

Now he found there was something affirming in verbally acknowledging it even if he hadn’t exactly said it. And Dean would never forget how the galaxies in Castiel’s eyes danced with joy at his half-assed agreement about their already long-standing relationship. A warmth filled his chest that had nothing to do with the tea or the soup. He yawned, his full stomach making him tired again. He nestled back down into the bed. “Will you stay in here?” he asked, unable to hide the vunerability in his voice.

“I thought it was creepy to watch you sleep,” Cas snarked.

“Yes, it is if I don’t already know you’re in here,” Dean retorted before softening again, “Please?”

“Of course I will, Dean,” Cas replied. Dean watched him cautiously as Cas got up and grabbed Dean’s laptop. He positioned it on the desk where he could see it from the bed and put on a reality show about antique shopping. He knew Dean enjoyed it as much as he did, and that it wouldn’t be engaging enough to keep Dean awake. Dean was asleep again before Cas even finished laying back on the bed.

About twenty minutes later, Dean pitched fitfully in his sleep, his face contorted into a grimace. Castiel frowned. Was this a fever dream? Perhaps he should have given Dean aspirin. He raised his hand to at least tap away Dean’s nightmare. But before he could, Dean’s fingers dug into his trench coat sleeve. Cas thought about their handshake conversation and settled his hand over Dean’s, flicking his thumb in gentle patterns over Dean’s skin. Instantly Dean’s features relaxed, his body sinking deeper into the covers. Cas saw the corners of Dean’s mouth quirk up in his sleep. Cas sighed at that, mirroring his friend’s smile. Even with him asleep, Castiel could tell Dean truly did love him.

[justachorusgirl96]

Shower Surprise (part3)

Author’s notes: Ok, so I finally got around to watching season 12 and realized that this is not cannon at all and that I have inadvertently stolen the setup for this from @sdavid09 because I was inspired by one of her fics. I am so sorry. The cannon storyline is kind of a disappointment actually, but this is why I should stay caught up because then I actually know whats going on. Anyways, sorry this took so long; I know where I'm going with the story, it's just taking me forever to write it out. Also, I wrote it and then just forgot to post it... Please don't hate me! I'll try to be better. Love you guys, I really do!

Summary: You’re taking a shower after a bad hunt and fantasizing about a certain archangel, when it accidentally turns into a prayer, one that he answers.

Warnings: Language, slight confrontation, talk of injuries and physical violence, stuff

Word count: 1823 (I’ll try to work on making them longer)

Pairing: Reader x Lucifer

A/n: As always, let me know if you want to be tagged.

Need to get caught up? Master list

You emerged from your room a couple of hours later, hair still damp and un brushed, wearing your usual old hoodie and some pajama shorts. Your bare feet made almost no sound as you made your way down the long hall to the library. You could hear the gang before you reached them.

“You can’t be serious?”

“I’m tellin you man, new body, new virginity!”

You rounded the corner to find Dean and Gabriel engaging in a playful argument while Sam and Cas looked on. They all turned to look when you entered.

“Oh good, you’re out! Took you long enough.” Dean said with a mischievous grin. “I was just telling Gabe here that his new body comes with a new virginity. Now you’re not the only one in the bunker. The two of you could start a club!” He added with a chuckle.

Well that’s ironic... You felt a little heat rise in your cheeks and hoped no one would notice. “Yeah, not sure I’m really the ‘club’ type. I’m more the ‘suffer in silence’ kind of girl.” You offered with a nervous chuckle and an awkward glance at the elder Winchester. You felt the hair at the base of your neck prickle and shifted your gave to the source of the discomfort. Gabriel. He was staring a hole right through you. Shit, he can’t possibly know. The exchange seemed to be lost of everyone else in the room.

“Hey umm, Y/N, what happened to your injuries? You got beat up worse than the rest of us and now you seem just fine.” Sam cut in with that confused puppy dog look of his. You just had to ask didn’t you? “Gabriel’s been waiting to heal you since we got back.”

Dammit, I should have just stayed in my room. “Oh, that was nice of you Gabe, but Lucifer stopped by and took care of that already. Thanks tho-”

“What do you mean ‘Lucifer stopped by’?” Dean demanded.

“Exactly what it sounds like asshole,” you shot back.

“Oh so he just happened to stop by and decided to be nice and fix you up did he? What was he even doing here?”

“Yes, that’s pretty much exactly what happened!” You lied. “And he’s here a lot actually, you just ignore his existence unless he’s useful to you for something. He stopped by my room to inquire about a particular book from the library since I’m the only one who ever willingly talks to him. He saw that I was injured and healed me, plain and simple.” Please stop asking questions!

“Yeah, well I don’t like it. You should have waited for Gabriel to heal you.”

“We’re just worried that you might be messing with fire here. It is Lucifer after all.” Sam added.

You were indignant at that statement. “What difference does it make who healed me? It was a kind gesture and I was in serious pain. And no one bothered to let me know that Gabe was here to heal me so your argument is pretty invalid. I don’t have to justify this to you anyways; it’s already done.” You declared with a defiant glare. Damn were your brothers hard to get along with sometimes.

No one seemed to have anything to add and you fidgeted uncomfortably for a few moments before an escape plan came to mind. “I’m pretty hungry so I’m gonna head down to the kitchen. You guys want anything?” You asked as a peace offering.

Dean’s tone softened and he relaxed a bit. “Nah, we got tired of waiting for you to get out of the shower so we ate already. I left you a couple of burgers in the fridge.” 

“Awesome sauce! I”m gonna go eat that and then probably go to bed. This has been a pretty exhausting day.” As you turned to leave your eyes locked with Gabriel’s and you knew he wasn’t about to let this go. You noticed that Cas looked incredibly uncomfortable and wouldn’t meet your gaze and wondered what exactly was bothering him as well.

A few minutes later you were standing at the counter in the kitchen finishing off your cold burger when you heard footsteps coming down the hall, not just one pair, but two. Turning around you saw Castiel, uncomfortable and sullen as ever, followed closely by a very serious looking Gabriel. “Hey guys, whats up?” you asked trying to keep your voice casual and failing for the most part. Something in Gabriel’s expression was making you extremely nervous.

“Lets drop the pretenses and just be honest sweetcheeks? I know- that is, we know- that you just popped your cherry, and we know who popped it.” Gabe’s voice was flat and serious, lacking all of its usual humor. “Do you have any idea what kind of a dangerous game you’re playing?” There was no mistaking the worry in his tone.

You felt a little defensive at suddenly being called out on something so personal. “I’m not playing any kind of ‘game’. And its none of your business if I’m being intimate with anyone or who that anyone is.”

Gabe put his hands up submissively, “Hey, I’m not trying to tell you who you should and should not be intimate with; its your body, your rules. But I don’t have to like it or pretend that it doesn’t worry me.” His tone was softer and it was clear he wasn’t looking to pick a fight. “You’re my friend, my best friend in fact, and I care about you a great deal. Now I know my brother, and I know how much of a massive bag of dicks he is. I also know his feelings for you are very real and I think you’re good for him. But you need to be extremely careful; I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

This was really feeling like some sort of strange intervention. “Guys, I appreciate that you care so much about me, but really I’m fine. I can take care of myself and I really don’t think that Lucifer would hurt me.” You allowed your own tone to soften and ease some of the tension in the air.

“I agree, you can definitely take care of yourself. And I don’t think Luci would hurt you either. That’s not what I was talking about. What I meant was-”

“Nephilim are forbidden.” Castiel cut in, breaking his silence at last. “If you were to conceive accidentally, the armies of heaven would hunt you and the abomination mercilessly, and there would be nothing any of us could do to protect you.”

Castiel’s blunt explanation left an awkward cloud over the conversation. You were the first to speak. “I see. Thank you for that.. brutal analysis Castiel, but I don’t think you have anything to worry about there. I couldn’t conceive if I wanted to.” The two angles looked worried and confused so you continued. “When Dean and Sam found me, I had been taken by a vampire who was using me as a living blood bag and was planning on starting a nest with me as his first convert.” You closed your eyes and the memories flooded back to you. “He was incredibly violent and would often beat me when there was nothing else to do; which was often. Somehow during one of the beatings he damaged my uh... my womb, and now I am incapable of conceiving a child.”

Upon opening your eyes you saw that Gabriel looked completely taken aback, a look of most profound sadness in his eyes. Castiel already knew this story, but still wore a similar expression.

“Y/N, I- uh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know… But still, you should be cautious. Lucifer is an Archangel and anything could happen. The nephilim offspring of a lesser angel is incredible dangerous, but might stay hidden and go unnoticed for a while, but the offspring of an Archangel would have astronomical powers and and you would have no hope of avoiding detection. I don’t want to see my best friend get hunted down by my siblings.”

You stepped forward and pulled first Castiel, then Gabriel into a warm embrace. “Thank you for looking out for me. I promise I’ll be careful. That doesn’t sound like much fun to me either.” You forced a lighthearted tone into your voice, even though you were now incredibly worried. “Just don’t tell my brothers ok?”

“Pshh,” Gabe huffed, “I may be a jerk, but I’m not that much of a jerk! And you should get some rest now. He may have healed you but you still need to recover your strength. And I’m sure your ‘extracurricular activities’ didn’t help.” He added with a wink.

“Oh whatever!” You shoved him playfully on the arm. “Actually, that’s not bad advice ‘cause I’m exhausted. I think I will just go ahead and go to bed. I’ll see y'all in the morning.” And with that you padded off down the hall to your room, leaning against the door and releasing a long sigh once you were inside. Well technically that could have been worse. 

Wasting no time, you rushed through your evening routine and soon found yourself comfortably nestled under the covers, sleep already tugging at your eyelids. A sudden rustle of wings brought you back to alertness. There he was again, Lucifer, stretched out next to you like he had been there the whole time. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t my guardian angel again. Two visits in one day. What did I do to deserve that?”

“Well thats definitely the first time anyone has ever called me that.” He said with a chuckle. Lucifer paused for a while before reaching out and grasping your shoulder. “I was actually thinking that it might be better if I stayed with you more often; I’d get to see you, and it would be easier for me to keep you safe.”

“Oh, ok yeah, that sounds… umm…” What am I even supposed to say to that?

“You don’t want me around more often?” There was no mistaking the pain in his voice.

“No, no I do! I want you around as often as you like. I just also don’t want my brothers to figure out that we’re together yet. I need time to tell them properly. If you’re suddenly by my side all the time, well… I mean they’re not complete idiots; they will figure it out eventually. We just have to be smart about it; take it slow so you not just suddenly there. But,“ you paused, reaching out and grasping his face, "You can spend all the time you want in here.”

With that you pushed the angel flat on his back and rolled over on top of him. Leaning in close enough for your lips to barely brush the side of his ear you whispered, "And we can do whatever we want in here."

@sdavid09, @ravengirl94, @lucifer-in-leather