#deansmypizzaman

[youreyesarelikestarlightnow]

Happy Halloween lovelies!

Some TNBC!Destiel, with Halloween Town ghoul!Dean and Christmas Town angel!Cas.

Inspired by this piece of fanart that I kinda hyperventilated over when I saw it

Dean creeps through the forest at the edge of the cemetery, adjusting the spider hanging on his collar and pulling his torn up vest closer around his body against the ever-present chill in the land. The hairs prickle on the back of his neck and he shivers delightedly, as any ghoul rightfully should.

He sneaks along expertly, double and triple checking over his shoulder to make sure he's not being followed. He knows the path now easily, having simply used it so many times, but the doorways are still technically forbidden to Halloween Town's regular citizens. The trees start to thin after a long while, the sky lightening and the air growing warmer

A circle of trees greet him, each one carved and painted with a different emblem. Dean smiles in anticipation as he approaches the familiar green tree and grasps the shiny gold door knob.

A swirl of white flakes rises from the unfathomable depths of the tree. Dean takes a deep breath and allows them to pull him in.

He opens his eyes to a flurry of white above him. The snow, now rapidly melting through his clothes, is actually a comfortable presence, if a little freezing. He quickly orients himself right side up and turns to peer over the hill he's landed on. Below him sparkles the bright cheery lights of Christmas Town.

Even after all his time spent here, Christmas Town is still strange and foreign to him. To be honest, he doesn't actually like it too much. The constant cheeriness and sappiness of its citizens is near sickening, and not in the way Dean can appreciate. Warmth radiates throughout and envelopes the entire land despite the endless blanket of snow and it makes him itch horribly beneath his clothes.

But even Christmas Town, with all its downright weird jolliness, is not without its perks.

For example, pie. Dean had never had pastries before visiting Christmas Town, simply because baked goods weren't a type of delicacy offered in Halloween Town. He can smell them now, the sweet scent of fruit and fresh crust wafting in the air. He wants to take one from the open window of the bakery, but he promised Cas the last time he was here he wouldn't do that anymore.

And Cas. Dean smiles a little at the thought of him, an upward turn of lips that looks far more menacing than it really is.

His feet leave deep tracks in the fluffy snow beneath him as he trails his way through Christmas Town. The streets are recognizable to him now, and he knows which shadowed alleys to lurk by in order to sneak around undetected. He watches for a minute as the funny little elves set about preparing for Christmas, stringing lights up around the buildings and carrying boxes of supplies toward the giant workshop in the heart of the town.  He feels a strong urge to scare them horribly, to listen to their high-pitched screams echo from their mouths, but he told Cas he wouldn't do that either.

He lopes from shadow to shadow, sneaking around the edges of buildings, jumping onto balconies. It takes him a while to get to his destination, but Dean's always been well-versed in patience, knowing the scare is that much better when drawn out.

He finally reaches one of the tallest buildings in town, a statuesque sort of thing, so pure white it almost sparkles. It's one of the only buildings not decorated with lights or wreaths and instead stands alone, glistening in the snow. Its long columns and lofty arches suggest at some source of power and eminence, but to Dean they just create more shadows to hide in as he begins to scale the building.

Through the windows he can see the angels doing their part to prepare for Christmas, wings fluttering as they fly about hanging garland and gold tinsel. They always have this strange type of solemnness to them, something that doesn't quite seem to fit in with the merriness of the rest of Christmas Town. As Dean continues to climb the building, he can hear them singing from within, indistinct hymns about babies and drummer boys and wise men.

From outside Dean spots Castiel, decorating a fat green tree, and he grins, climbing a little ways higher so that he's perched above, balanced on the window frame and out of sight. Slowly, he leans down to unlock the window and watches as the cool air flows inward, a sprinkling of snowflakes following.

He hears Cas pause inside and waits until he hears footsteps approach the window. He then scrapes his sharpened fingernails on the roof top, producing a shrill, eerie sound in the night. When he sees Cas lean out the window, halo shining like a target, he leans forward eagerly, ready to pounce until he hears:

"Dean, I know that's you."

He shrinks back and mutters under his breath as Cas turns and looks upward, smirking widely. He looks far too smug for Dean's taste (though he's always been impossible to scare, which is equal parts interesting and infuriating, because it's Dean's job to scare people). Still grumbling, Dean leaps down and swings in through the window.

Despite his annoyance, he still smiles when he sees Cas standing there, wings outstretched and glittering like ice crystals. He reaches forward to pull Cas into a close embrace, which Cas returns, his wings fluttering happily around Dean’s ears.

"Hello, Dean."

"Hey, there, Cas. How have you been?”

Cas rolls his eyes and sighs. “Same as always. We’re preparing for Christmas again, with the same old carols and trees and decorations. You?”

"Pretty much the same. There's a town meeting right now and they're already discussing the plans for next year, even though it's still 364 days away," Dean says as he shrugs and scratches at the back of his neck awkwardly before looking down. "But anyway, I, uh, brought you something,” 

“You did?” Cas’ eyes light up and his wings even flap so that he hovers a few inches above the ground for a minute. “What is it?”

“It’s, uh, just a--you know what, here.”

Dean reaches into his pocket and pulls out an orange jack-o-lantern ornament, mouth carved into an evil grin, hanging on a loop of thin black thread. Cas takes it carefully from Dean's fingers and watches with fascination as two green and purple striped snakes slither out of the mouth and twine themselves around his wrist and fingers before returning inside. He squints and brings the ornament closer to his face, trying to peer inside of it.

"Do you like it?" He grows increasingly nervous as Cas scrutinizes the small pumpkin, turning it this way and that.

His worry clears when Cas turns and smiles brilliantly. "I love it, Dean."

He darts off to hang the ornament high up on his tree, and he and Dean watch as the snakes glade back out and set about attempting to eat the other shiny bulbs hanging from the branches. Dean wonders what they’re going to do together tonight, if Cas will get some pie from the bakery, or if he’ll finally explain what those little leafy green plants Dean sees hanging from all the doorways are.

He stops wondering when Cas slowly reaches out to twine his hand with Dean's, and he grows oddly content for a moment. He knows how peculiar they must look, Dean with his glowing green eyes and patched up clothes while Cas stands beside him, pristine from head to toe, except for his slightly crooked halo hovering above his head.

They’re an unlikely pair, the Halloween ghoul and Christmas angel.

But, to be honest, they're quite happy that way. 

[kazchester]

I miss you honeybear

[buticancarryyou]

random caps: 9x01 // I Think I'm Gonna Like It Here

[buticancarryyou]

Mama told me when I was young "Come sit beside me, my only son And listen closely to what I say And if you do this it will help you some sunny day."

[youreyesarelikestarlightnow]

So um...more blind!Cas? (Part 2/?)

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One of Dean's favorite things to do is kiss Cas.

All the time. Before dates and after dates, in the middle of the sidewalk, across the table at the coffee shop they like to go to. Dean loves to press even the lightest, quickest pecks to Cas' lips, knowing that Cas can never see them coming. He revels in the look of surprise Cas always gives him when he pulls away.

So he might be taking slight advantage of his boyfriend's inability to see, but so far Cas hasn't said a word against it, so Dean keeps at it.

They kiss long and deep and slow, Cas' fingers tangled in Dean's hair in an attempt to pull him even closer. The only sounds in the room are the warm, wet slide of their lips as they separate and come together again, their breathing ever harsher in each other's ears.

Dean loves it because of the sense of equality in it. He doesn't need to see in order to chase the lingering taste of coffee on Cas' tongue, doesn't need sight in order to feel Cas' hands pressed against his back and down his side. The outside world melts away for a while, leaving only the two of them and the couch beneath them. His hands knock Cas' sunglasses, which had been pushed to the top of his head earlier, to the floor, but neither of them pays any attention to them as they clatter away.

And, for the record, Cas is awesome at kissing. It's like he was born to do it. He's never rushed or slopping, but slow and thorough, testing out every little technique and trick until Dean is breathless and gasping and wanting more.

There’s a problem that comes because of that: wanting more.

It’s when Dean unconsciously rolls his hips downward towards Cas', just a little, just enough to brush against the bulge in Cas' pants. Like clockwork, that's the second everything stops, coming to a screeching halt. Cas' hands still and he pulls away, blushing and awkwardly trying to maneuver his legs around Dean so he can escape to the kitchen. And normally Dean backs off and lets Cas leave because he's a good boyfriend and he gets it. Sex can be scary enough, probably doubly without the sense of sight. So he gets why Cas is hesitant but, in short, Cas is hot and Dean's frustrated and, short of his own hand, he can't do a damn thing about it.

And they probably should have tried sitting down and talking about it, like the grown-ups they are, but evidently they both suck at that because any attempt at that conversation tends to lead to impromptu make out sessions on the couch.

So that's why for once Dean doesn't let Cas leave and instead leans up onto his knees and grabs both of Cas' hands in his. "Cas."

And even though Cas is blind and can't see Dean, he turns his head away anyway. "Dean."

"We should talk about this. For real."

Cas sighs and tries to pull his hands away, but Dean tightens his hold. "Not now."

"Then when?"

Cas opens his mouth to answer but then just bites his lip and says nothing.

Dean stares at Cas imploringly, as if it would make a difference, and says, "Look I get that you're scared, Cas, but we've known each other for almost six months and have dated for more than half of that, and I'd like to think you trust me at least a little bit now. It's just me."

Cas stays silent for a long minute and then takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "It's not just you though," he says, his voice tiny, "It's not...sex with you that I'm scared of it's more like...sex in general." The last part comes out in a rush, hardly more than a whisper.

Realization dawns on Dean. "You mean you've never-"

"I lost my sight as a teenager, Dean. At the very start of sexual awareness, and, well,” he chews on his lip a little more and then says, a little bitterly, “Not exactly a lot of people were jumping at the chance to get with the blind kid, okay? You're...kind of the first."

The blush on Cas' cheeks has grown redder, more embarrassed now and he looks like there are about ten million places he'd rather be than on the couch. And Dean's sitting there in shock because, yeah, he probably should have considered the possibility of Cas being a virgin, but somehow didn't because, blind or not, Cas is gorgeous and smart, grumpy in the mornings and adorable at night and a whole mess of other endearing things.  The idea that he, Dean Winchester, is the first to realize that is such an incomprehensible concept it's almost laughable.

At some point in all of this, Dean's grip on Cas' hands loosens and Cas manages to pull away and swing his legs off the couch, quickly dodging the coffee table and all but running into his kitchen. Dean catches up with him a minute later and finds Cas getting a glass of water, one finger over the rim of the cup to prevent overfilling it.

Dean comes up behind him, making enough noise so that he knows Cas won't get startled. He wraps his arms around Cas' waist and presses a kiss below his ear. "I get it," he murmurs, "I get it and we don't have to do anything today or tomorrow or next week, but whenever we get there, I'll make it good for you. I promise." He already has a vague idea in mind, something warm with strongly scented candles and silk sheets, not simply for the romance of it all but because they're things Cas can enjoy without his sight.

Cas puts the glass down and slowly folds his hands over Dean's. He leans into the embrace and smiles a little. "Okay."

[youreyesarelikestarlightnow]

Dean doesn't think he's ever seen Cas so still.

He's grown so used to the Cas that was always on the move, a creature of light, constantly shifting and changing and moving. The one who blipped himself from one place to another, never slowing down, always looking for the next demon to exorcise or the next battle to fight. It was one of the things Dean hated most about Cas, how he could never manage to freaking stay put for more than a minute.

But suddenly he's here. In the bunker. Grounded. Human. He eats and drinks and rides around with them everywhere in the Impala, bound by all the mortal limitations of humanity. He’s sleeping now, passed out in a bed, and curled under so many blankets that Dean can only see the tiniest hint of dark hair peeking out of the cocoon.

It's frightening. Dean had thought he'd be happy to see Cas stationary for once, but the abrupt stillness is too much. He can barely tell that Cas is even breathing, and the thought of him not makes Dean's heart stop a little.

Sighing, he pulls up a chair and sits beside Cas' bed. He settles in and leans his elbows against his knees, chin on top of his hands, and prepares to spend the night counting the rise and fall of Cas’ chest.

Just to make sure.

[kazchester]

deansmypizzaman replied to your post “deansmypizzaman replied to your post: What the actual fuck is...”

I just want to stick my chest out and be like I don't care cause I love everyone!

laksjdas you are a sunshine laura

[kazchester]

deansmypizzaman replied to your post: What the actual fuck is happening right now on...

I don’t know either and I refuse to read the wank when I see it

good, most of the time I laugh at how stupid people are, but right now I don't even want to know. 

[youreyesarelikestarlightnow]

There's a little girl in Castiel's dream.

She's perhaps six or seven, not much older, he guesses. A flower crown with pale pink and blue daisies sits atop her golden-bronze curls, and she's wearing a clean cotton white sundress. Her feet are bare. She smiles at him toothily, reaches out, and takes his hand.

They keep on spinning and finally fall, laughing dizzily while staring up at the sky. When the world stops turning, the little girl gets up and tugs at his hand insistently until Castiel clambers to his feet.

They're standing in a kitchen, and although he's never seen it before Cas is opening up cabinets and drawers, pulling out plates and knives and forks as if he's lived there his entire life. The little girl is talking to him, her voice high and tinkling like a bell, but he can't make out anything she's saying. He smiles at her anyway, feeling strangely content as he moves to the fridge and starts sifting through jars of jam and vegetables.

He makes them sandwiches, and they sit at a sturdy little table to eat them. She's still chatting away animatedly, her legs swinging happily because they don't quite touch the floor yet. For some reason, Cas doesn't find himself questioning anything. There's nothing odd about the little girl, or the field, or the unfamiliar house that really stands out to him, and so he simply goes along with it. Just as people do in dreams.

They finish their lunch and take their plates back to the kitchen, and Cas finds a stool for the girl to stand on as they wash the dishes. He hands the wet plates to her for drying, and she stands up on her tiptoes in order to stack them neatly back into their place in the cupboard.

When the forks and knives are put away she steps daintily off her stool, comes to take Cas' hand, and for the first time he hears her, loud and clear.

"When's daddy coming home, papa?"

And he looks down at her, at her bright green, stupidly familiar eyes, and understands.

He wakes up with his head on Dean's shoulder, their legs tangled together. The dream is still fresh in Cas' mind, but Dean is still sleeping, so he says nothing for now. Someday, though, he'll bring it up.

Someday soon.

[youreyesarelikestarlightnow]

Blind!Cas (Part 1/?)

first | previous | next

The first time Castiel met Dean Winchester, he literally stumbled into him and the first words he heard were, "Hey, watch where you're going, man."

To which Cas lifted his thin white cane, smacked the legs he knew were somewhere in front of him, and wryly replied, "I would if I were able."

He still likes to imagine that a deep, embarrassed blush accompanied the string of apologies that followed, although these days he's much more concerned with imagining Dean himself.

Two and a half months after that first meeting, they're sitting in Cas' apartment on a sunny September afternoon, listening to one of Dean's many records and idly drinking beers. Everything is warm and loose and content, and for the first time ever Cas wonders aloud, "What do you look like, Dean?"

Cas frowns at that. He hasn't seen a human face in almost ten years, but no matter how he tries to imagine Dean, whether he has blond or red hair, or blue or green eyes, he's always imagined Dean to be quite attractive looking. Although he supposes his definition of "attractive" might be a little skewed. "That's not true," he says, certain. "Let me see you."

Dean laughs a little again. "Uh, Cas, I don't know how to break it to you but you're kind of bli-,"

"Not like that," Cas says, leaning forward on the couch to slap Dean's arm. He grins in satisfaction when his hand hits its mark. "Like-just-come here."

He feels Dean scoot over a few inches, the couch dipping a little.

"Closer," he says. Dean obeys, and suddenly Cas can smell the faint scent of car oil and cologne.

He reaches forward tentatively, hands coming to rest on Dean's forearms before making their way upwards. He feels the muscles in Dean's upper arms through his layers of shirts and rounds the curve of his shoulders before stopping at the junction just before his neck.

"Is this okay?" Cas asks. He's whispering, and he doesn't know why.

"Yeah," Dean breathes out. It tickles the air and Cas can feel it faintly flow past him.

Cas' fingers continue their journey up and settle on Dean's chin. He can feel the subtle scratch of stubble as he skims Dean's jawline, trying to commit the angles to memory. He ghosts past Dean's temples and over his brow bone, and then follows the straight line of his nose down to his cheekbones. Tracing the contours of his face, Cas' fingers briefly dance over Dean's closed eyelids and feel the caress of long eyelashes. He makes a second trip over his face, this time in reverse, and as his fingers finally brush over the curved smile of Dean's lips, he reaches his conclusion.

Dean is gorgeous.

Cas then feels stupidly self-conscious, acutely aware that he has had no notion of his own appearance for years now. His hair was brown as a child, and his eyes a watery blue, and he knows that he's at least somewhat lean and fit, but other than that he feels woefully inadequate sitting cross-legged in front of Dean. His thumb is still pressed against the corner of Dean's mouth, and to distract himself he asks, "What color is your hair? Your eyes?"

Dean coughs and Cas can feel all of it. "Uh...a sort of light brown?" he says, chuckling a bit. Dean feels beautiful when he laughs, Cas notes. "And my eyes are green."

Green, of course. Cas hasn't seen color for nearly a decade, and for a long time now he's simply stopped caring, but just this once he wishes he could see them again. He pictures a sort of grassy green, bright, with flecks of brown and gold throughout. He outlines the shape of Dean's eyes again and tries to imagine what they look like, sitting on the couch together in his freakishly neat and orderly apartment.

Removing his hands from Dean's face, he asks, tentatively, "And...what do I look like, Dean?"

Dean shifts and scoots even closer. "Shit, Cas, that's like-that's like asking me to describe the-" he breaks off mid-sentence, and then takes a deep breath. "I'm not good with words. You know that. Why don't you ask one of your insane siblings?"

No, it can't be Anna, or Gabriel, or Balthazar, Cas knows. They'd lie to him or make a joke out of it and he's suddenly overwhelmed by the need to know. "I don't trust them like I trust you," he says. "Please?"

Dean sighs again, his breath smelling vaguely of beer. He leans in close and starts, "You look good, Cas. Everything's in its proper place, nothing crooked or wonky or anything. You've got a nice peach fuzz starting to come in," he reaches up to stroke Cas' jaw and Cas swats his hand away, laughing. Dean continues, "You have dark brown hair, almost black, and it's never combed or styled properly, although I guess that's not really your fault. And- and you've got good cheekbones and a nice jaw and your eyes are...they're..." he trails off and suddenly his hands are near Cas' face again, this time slowly pulling away the dark sunglasses that shield Cas' sightless eyes.

He feels naked without the glasses. Cas remembers, once, seeing a blind person as a child, those flat, dead, cloudy eyes staring blankly off into the distance. He clenches his eyes shut, terrified.

But Dean's hands are there again, lightly brushing across his eyelids. "C'mon, Cas," he urges, "Open up."

"No," Cas says stubbornly, shaking his head. He starts to move, trying to make an escape from the couch and the charged air that feels too intimate for words.

A hand comes up to stop him, warm on his shoulder. "Please?"

Cas stills and tries to relax. This is Dean, his friend, no, his best friend, who let the blind weirdo feel up his face only minutes ago. If not Dean, who else? He takes a deep breath, and slowly, slowly, allows his eyelids to flutter open.

There's a soft intake of breath, just short of a gasp, and Cas wants to close his eyes again, for all the good it would do him. But Dean stops him again, cupping his face, close enough now that Cas can feel his every exhalation.

"And your eyes, Cas," Dean speaks with a strangely reverent tone, "They're the prettiest blue I've ever seen. Like the ocean, when it's sunny and the light sparkles off of it just so. You ever been to the beach?"

Cas nods. "Once, when I was kid, with my family." His heart has started to pick up pace and his stomach is trying to twist itself into knots.

"That's good. Then you know what I'm talking about." There's a smile in Dean's voice. "You're kinda beautiful, actually."

Cas lets out a shuddering laugh and shakes his head in a negative. "Yeah, right. That's not true."

"Would I lie to you, Cas?"

Cas pauses and then shakes his head again. Dean's thumb sweeps over the corner of his eye as he says, "Look, did I tell you about your lips yet?" His fingers now start to travel southward until Cas can feel them tracing the seam of his mouth. "Well, they're pale pink and sorta on the thinner side but they still look very very kissable." The last part comes out in a hush and for a second Cas isn't even sure he heard it.

But he did hear it, which is why he can hear his heart thumping wildly now. He parts and licks his lips, accidentally flicking Dean's thumb in the process. There's a muffled kind of groan and suddenly Dean's voice is right in his ear. "Is this okay?" he asks, mimicking Cas' own words from earlier.

And Cas mimics Dean when he says, "Yeah."

His back is pressed against the side of the couch as Dean surges forward, his lips pressed wonderfully against Cas'. Cas pushes back in equal measure, his hands scrambling for purchase on Dean's arms, and then his shoulders, before finally deciding to trace nonsensical patterns on the back of his neck. His skin is soft under Cas' hands and there's simply too much to hear and smell and taste that Cas feels a little like he's drowning.

Minutes or hours or days later, they're still sitting on the couch, memorizing each other with fingers and lips even though the record player stopped long beforehand.

[youreyesarelikestarlightnow]

Artist!Cas (kinda not really)

Angel memories and human minds were never meant to mix.

That's one of the first things Cas realizes after his fall. There's an aching in his head, a crippling sort of pounding that never seems to stop. He simply knows too much, and it feels like a thousand millenniums' worth of knowledge is threatening to burst out of his skull. It heightens all his other senses to an acute kind of clarity, makes lights too bright and noises too loud. He feels like he's awash in a wave of oversensitivity, stumbling from one waking moment to the next, waiting for those blissful few hours of sleep and darkness.

When he finally finds Dean and Sam again, a few weeks after his fall, it eases a little. He starts to believe it was simply an adjustment, his body learning to compensate to its new reality, but a few days later it returns full force, almost worse than before.

He tries to hide it as best he can, but he knows that the brothers know. Dean will give him a look of worry as he passes a cup of coffee to him in the mornings, and Sam will give him a couple painkillers whenever it seems to get really bad. (It's always Sam though. Cas somehow knows Dean wouldn't give him medication if he asked, but he doesn't know why and isn't sure he wants to.) The pills never work like they should though and leave him still wanting for relief.

And then, miraculously, he finds his cure.

He follows a strange instinct in a desperate attempt to ignore the thumping in his brain. His hand moves on its own, messily scrawling out lines and arcs and shadows across the paper below him.

And just like that, the pain is gone.

Cas opens his eyes in shock at its sudden absence. There's a happy emptiness in his head, and it feels far too good to be true. But it isn't. The ache is well and truly gone, at least for the time being. He looks down at his hands and is even more surprised to find what lies on the table.

It's the crude sketch of an old eternal Tuesday, a man who died in a bathtub flying his kite over the trees in a park. It's messy, the graphite smearing across the page and the details little more than scribbles, but Cas looks down at the familiar scene and understands.

The next few days pass in a blur of pencil marks and gray-stained fingers. Cas finds empty notebooks and loose sheets of paper around the bunker and fills up them all up with sketches of wings and heaven and angels. He doodles constellations onto napkins during breakfast and then fills in the rest of the galaxy during dinner. Dean and Sam give him strange looks across the table, but they can tell he's getting better, and so they don't ask. 

Eventually, the drawing isn't enough. When the headaches threaten to come back, Cas starts write instead. Half-scrawled out poetry fills in the margins of the drawings that are now scattered across his room. Practically illegible verses and broken rhymes, he's not even sure he understands them when he goes back to read them.

The words are different than the pictures. The sketches are of angelic battles that once rang like thunder, the creation of history and the universe, the celebrations and hymns he sung with his brothers and sisters. But the words are of a different subject. They're all about the earth and family and a righteous man with green eyes.

And then he discovers paint.

On a whim he buys a pack of cheap brushes, a few tubes of acrylics, and a couple small canvases the next time it's his turn to make a supply run. He secrets them away back to his bedroom and opens everything later that night. He's not too sure what he's doing, really, but he dips a brush into dark green paint and starts to break up the white canvas with bold lines of color and shapes. When he's done, he falls into bed with paint stains still on his skin and sleeps soundly through the night.

And well into morning. He wakes up to Dean standing over him, an amused smiles on his face. "Rise 'n shine, Sleeping Beauty."

"I don't understand that reference," Cas says blearily, propping himself up on an elbow and yawning hugely. He glances over to the clock on his nightstand and the numbers 11:34 blink back at him.

He sits up more fully in surprise, and Dean laughs at him as he gets a sudden case of head rush. "You sure conked out last night," Dean says, passing him a cup of hot coffee. "What time did you go to bed?"

Cas shrugs and takes a sip from the mug, letting out a muffled moan as the bittersweet beverage flows into his mouth. "Late," he answers.

Dean hums and nods. He's wandered over to Cas' desk and is staring at the mess of sketches and paint wordlessly, and Cas suddenly feels very very self-conscious. He coughs awkwardly and pads over to the desk as Dean idly sifts through the pages and then picks up the canvas Cas was working on the night before. It's a swirl of strange abstract forms in greens and bright yellows, the red around the edges bleeding in.

"What is this?" Dean asks softly.

Cas licks his lips and mumbles into his cup, "Your soul."

"What?"

Cas looks up and meets Dean's eyes evenly. "Your soul," he says, a little louder, "as it looked when I pulled you out of hell."

Dean stares at him in disbelief, eyes flicking down and over his pajama clad form. Cas stares back and takes another sip of coffee.

"You have paint in your hair," Dean says suddenly. He reaches over and pulls at a fleck of dried paint, and Cas leans into the touch.

That night, they deem Cas' colorfully stained sheets as unfit for sleeping, and Cas ends up falling asleep curled around Dean, still smelling faintly of acrylics and graphite.

[youreyesarelikestarlightnow]

Um. Another first kiss fic?

It happens in the early morning.

Dean is opening the bunker door, about to make a quick trip out to grab one of Sam’s books from the Impala, when a small huddle of torn clothes falls across the doorstep and Dean nearly trips over it.

Except it's not just a bundle of clothes. It's Cas.

Dean stands there in shock, still halfway out the door. They stare at each other in silence until Sam comes by to ask why Dean is standing in the doorway. That’s when he sees Cas sitting on their stoop and lets out a shout, and there's a mess of exclamations as Cas is pulled into the bunker. Questions are asked, hugs are given, but everything happens in a weird hum of noise for Dean. He keeps staring at Cas in disbelief.

It's Sam who ushers Cas into the shower, teaches him how to adjust the knobs for warm water and gives him a clean towel and a cheap razor. He tasks Dean with preparing some sort of breakfast while he goes to procure of set of clothes for Cas.

(Dean knows that Sam invades his room and raids his closet, but for once he doesn't even try to stop him.)

Cooking is simple though, and Dean is grateful for that. It's easy to crack eggs into a pan and put bread in the toaster. He even throws on a couple pieces of bacon and listens to the sound of sizzling pork and oil. He focuses on not burning toast or overcooking the eggs, and ignores his feelings with practiced ease.

Of course, he can't ignore them forever. Thirty minutes later Cas pads out of the shower room, clean and fresh shaven in one of Dean's worn out shirts and an old pair of sweatpants. Sam's disappeared, muttering about washing sheets, and it's just Dean and Cas standing in the kitchen over a plate of fresh breakfast.

Cas gingerly sits at the table, hugging an arm around his middle as Dean sets down the plate and a fork and a knife in front of him. He picks up his fork and starts eating tentatively, using only his left hand. His right arm remains stiffly by his side.

Dean knows an injury when he sees one. He knows hidden ones even better.

"You alright, man?" he asks, taking the seat next to Cas. It's the first time either of them has spoken to each other since Cas arrived.

Cas stops trying to spear scrambled eggs onto his fork for a minute. "I'm fine, Dean." He pulls his right arm closer to his body and rounds out his shoulders, which makes him look smaller and frailer than before.

"You sure?"

"Yes, Dean."

Dean reaches out under the guise of offering a comforting pat on Cas' shoulder and makes sure to lightly jostle his arm a tiny bit. Cas hisses under his breath and pulls away, and then bites his lip nervously.

"Really, Cas?" Dean asks, raising an eyebrow.

Cas glances away guiltily, unable to meet Dean’s eyes. "It's nothing," he mutters as he goes back to stabbing his plate.

Dean sighs in annoyance and gets up. He thinks about saying something, spitting out some of those bitter words about how Cas never wants to let him help and how it always ends badly and it always hurts to think that Cas doesn't trust him enough, but in the end he just goes to the bathroom and finds the medical kit and pulls out a roll of gauze.

When Dean gets back Cas has pushed the plate of food away, most of it still untouched. Dean sits down again and wordlessly pulls Cas' arm toward him, ignoring the way Cas winces and lets out a muffled whimper of pain. He moves it around slowly, taking note of Cas' reactions and finally diagnosing a sprained elbow. Unrolling a length of gauze he begins wrapping it tightly, tucking the end in order to keep it in place.

He meets Cas' eyes when he's done and finds that they've gotten too close again, their faces mere inches apart from each other. Cas is now holding his elbow, fingering the wrapping, and he reminds Dean far too much of a pitiful bird with a broken wing. 

Dean means to pull away, but something propels him forward and he's cupping Cas' face gently and leaning forward. Cas' arms are awkwardly trapped between them but they meet in the middle anyway, with a soft press of lips on lips and a sigh.

They lean their foreheads against each other, until Sam comes barreling in to tell Cas about his room and thus ruining the moment entirely.

(Strangely enough, however, Cas doesn't end up using his room too often. It has nothing to do with how he stumbles out of Dean's room every morning, of course.)

[youreyesarelikestarlightnow]

Some stupid room painting fic. :)

Cas wanders away at some point in the middle of the hardware store during their supply run.

Dean's the one who has to track him down, pushing the cart up and down all of the aisles until he finds Cas standing in front of a wall of paint chips, a look of deep concentration on his face. The greeting dies on Dean's lips for a second as he watches Cas compare two shades of blue. Cas puts the darker of the two back on the shelf and holds on to the lighter one in his hand, simply staring at it and turning it over slowly.

"Thinking of painting something?" Dean asks.

Dean thinks of the way Cas had deliberated between the two colors. "You sure?"

Cas hesitates and licks his lips. "It's kind of--I was considering--The walls? In my room," he says, the last part coming out in a rush. Dean doesn't miss how he stutters slightly over the word "my."

Dean shrugs. "It's your room, Cas,” he reminds him. “You can do whatever you want." He reaches over and picks up the paint chip Cas had selected earlier. "This one, right?"

Cas nods and Dean totally ignores the small, grateful smile he receives. He takes the paint chip over to one of the store employees, who puts two huge buckets of paint in his cart and then directs them toward the brushes and paint trays. The two of them meet back up with Sam at the checkout line, and Sam gives Dean a look but doesn't ask about the painting supplies as they're placed on the conveyer belt. Cas keeps on grinning happily on the ride back to the bunker, beaming at Dean as he takes his purchases back to his room.

Their week gets interrupted by a quick local haunting and it isn't until the following weekend that they actually get around to painting. Sam's gone out to the library to find some obscure book on angels miraculously not hidden in the bunker's archives, and Kevin's holed up in his room working with Charlie on Skype as they talk about setting up some fancy surveillance system for tracking monsters.

Cas approaches Dean that morning, silently holding up a roller brush as Dean washes the plates from breakfast. He smiles hopefully, and it isn't too long until Dean is following Cas back to his room.

They push what little furniture Cas has towards the center of the room and cover the floor with some plastic tarp they found in one of the bunker's closets. They also pull in a few kitchen chairs, since neither of them can be as annoyingly tall like some people. A can of paint is opened and mixed, filling the whole room with a vaguely chemical fresh scent. They each fill a tray and wordlessly take opposing walls.

They start by creating a border of paint around the edges of the walls in order to avoid getting paint on the floor or the ceiling and the work, though tedious, is soothing. Dean never got to do this, never had a room he was allowed to paint to his liking, nor has he ever found he particularly wanted to even now. But later, when they exchange brushes for rollers, he finds it strangely satisfying to fill in the walls with pale blue paint.

They talk a little while they work, mainly about recent cases and possible leads, about the fallen angels but not about Cas and his situation, because it's so much easier that way. Secretly, Dean can't help but hope a little because Cas is painting his room and if that isn't a sign of someone planning to stay, he doesn't know what is.

The first coat gets finished and the two of them sit down on the floor for a water break. It’s warm out and the smell of paint is pervasive even with the door wide open. Dean looks around at the walls and finds he likes the color more than he thought he would. It reminds him of the sky, and it occurs to him that that's probably why Cas picked it out in the first place. It suits him.

They're just sitting there, talking and taking swigs of water, and then Cas is reaching over, muttering something about paint on Dean's face and suddenly something shifts and by the next minute someone's pressed against the floor and paint-stained hands are wound into hair and there's a whisper of "finally," lingering in the air.

Cas' room doesn't get finished that day, and if he wakes up in Dean's bed the next day (and the next, and the next) well, they can always blame it on those toxic paint fumes.

[kazchester]

First Breath After a Coma, Deanna/Castiel

Deanna dreams about Hell, about heat and fear and fire, about pain and agony. She wakes up breathing hard, drenched in sweat, sheets soaked around her. It’s hard to fall asleep after that, heart racing and stomach churning, so she watches infomercials on silent into the small hours of the morning and hopes Sam doesn’t notice.

Sometimes she wakes up with the sheets tangled around her legs for other reasons. Wakes up sweaty and breathless, her hand between her thighs, the sound of Castiel’s voice—his true voice or his human one, she’s never sure once she opens her eyes—echoing in her head. She dreams about Castiel, about light in the darkness, burning and bright, and a grip on her shoulder that leaves her bones aching, his handprint etched on her skin...

[youreyesarelikestarlightnow]

There are a whole slew of days Dean doesn't think he'll ever be able to forget. Most of them are pretty awful: the day mom died, the night Sam left, when dad died. He remembers the days his friends died: Ash, Ellen, Jo, Rufus, Bobby, all of them. He hopes that after so many he'd eventually stop remembering, but he can't, no matter how hard he tries or how much alcohol he consumes.

Not all of them are bad though. He has a small handful of days that are good, the ones he secretly holds close to heart, though he'd never call it that.  

Like the day he met Cas.

He remembers that night in the barn, surrounded by hundreds of warding symbols. He remembers the wind roaring in his ears and the lights popping as the doors swung open and in walked a trench coated man with two enormous shadowy wings protruding from his back.

Castiel, former dickhead angel of the Lord who fell from heaven and ended up in the bunker, and later Dean's bed, and later his heart.

(Not that he ever admits that aloud except in the dead of night, when he breathes an "I love you," into the skin on Cas' shoulder like a prayer. And Cas may not be an angel anymore, but he always hears it and turns to whisper out his amen, his soft "I love you too.")