#he's too young to make GOOD bread but its bread nonetheless ! goddamn it !

[depresseddepot]

I have yet to make sourdough bread that meets my standards for bread BUT I love my sourdough starter like a son

[cosmiicfairy]

Needlepoint

The first and probs not the last reaper76 fic i’ve actually written. I’ve been itching to do SEP era stuff lately so to counter my dumbass depression I started writing.

Also read on AO3

“Gabe?” He doesn’t sound entirely there, his voice is distant, eyes unfocused, in the way only heavy narcotics ( or, in this instance, DNA altering drugs that 90% of the program was certain were illegal ) seemed capable of doing. Pupils blown, but his sight is far off, and he makes no motion of recognizing the hand resting atop his on the bed.

“I’m here.”

This is a bad one.

Most of them are, actually; the serums were all experimental, tested on young soldiers like rats, for lack of any other real option. The world was on the brink of devastation from the omnic crisis, and the United States military was running out of options. The whole world was running out of options. The solution? A straight-from-a-comic-book experiment, in which young soldiers – such as Johnathon “Jack” Morrison, or Gabriel Reyes – were injected twice weekly with what most believed to be radioactive goop, then tested to see how said goop changed them. Each injection was brutal, though some carried it better than others ( Jack, Gabriel had realized, was one of those people ), and most were left for days with a lingering sick from the doses.

Of the millions who had joined the military at the beginning of the omnic crisis two years earlier, 40 had been chosen for what was known then as the “Special Program”, where soldiers with potential were to be trained rigorously to battle the oncoming torrent of machines. For all its wealth and power, the United States had kept the omnic threat from their shores, but it wouldn’t last forever, every soldier knew it, every family knew it – it was a matter of time. But details of the program had been kept classified, even to Gabriel Reyes, who was on the fast track to officer.

“Bet it’s a bunch of bullshit, and we’re the suicide team.” The scrappy blonde beside Gabriel had whispered to him, arms folded across his chest with something Gabriel had thought to be an unearned arrogance. Nevertheless, his lip twitched up at the comment. If that turned out to be true, Gabriel couldn’t even say he would be surprised – the world was giving up hope that anything would stop the God Codes, and the United States wasn’t above buying itself time.

Illegal injections of experimental drugs, however, did surprise him, surprised most, in fact. Less surprising, though, were the twenty or so who immediately opted out ( Gabriel didn’t know what became of them, but they were led through a chamber off in the corner, and from what he had heard, were never seen again. Rumors, but chilling, nonetheless ). Half the group gone, but Gabriel stayed, and the spunky blonde at his left did, too; in total 13 men, and 7 women were left standing.

Gabriel learned a week in that “Spunky Blonde” – as he had affectionately named him – was actually named Jack Morrison. He learned another week later, that Jack Morrison was born and raised on a farm in Indiana.

“Bloomin’ton, to be exact,” he had told Gabriel in the locker room, the sweet southern tang surprising, given that Indiana was, technically, north of anywhere Jack should have picked up the accent. He learned week three, that Jack had exaggerated it ( and week 3.5, learned he had only exaggerated it a little ).

He learned that Jack’s family owned a farm, that he had two younger sisters, that the men in his family were military men ( but that wasn’t why Jack had joined, apparently ), and he learned, though by accident, that Jack Morrison was, in fact, straight as a circle.

The first injection that came during week three was the mildest, and only one or two of the recruits had even experienced any symptoms. Jack, however, was one of them, as had been the soldier a year or so older than Gabriel whose dick was stuffed into the farm boy’s mouth in the locker room. The few who had experienced symptoms at all from the first injection had all reported the same thing, enhanced libido, and Gabriel wasn’t sure whether to laugh or run when he saw it.

He told that story now, holding Jack’s hand while they both fought off the wave of sick washing through their veins. Jack had never been the type to complain about his symptoms, had taken them all with headstrong confidence, in a way that Gabriel, himself, hadn’t quite been able to do ( more than once he had succumb to the aches, the nausea, the high fevers, but Jack made strides to fight it with that same arrogance he’d had the day they met ). But the blonde looked like he was a half-step from death’s door; eyes sunken, skin paler than normal ( jack was white bread, but this was to an extreme ), and Gabriel had had to stop a nose bleed once or twice. Three people had already died from the injections, boys whose families would likely never know the truth of what was happening – most of the program was convinced most of the military didn’t even know the truth, that this was nothing if not illegal.

Four months in, though, Jack looked ready to go next. The soldiers had stopped going to the infirmary after the first month of injections, knowing there was nothing that could be done to make any of this easier, nothing that could be done to even prevent the death associated with it. All that could be done, was to sit by their side, and pray to any god that might listen that they survive the night.

“I was honest to god surprised how well you deep throated him.” Gabriel laughed, and it earned a squeeze to his hand from Jack, and a soft chuckle. That was enough. He had moved to sit on the bed beside Jack by then, back leaned against the wall, and Jack’s head on his shoulder. “That how you got through high school? Sucking everyone’s dick?”

“You took Anderson’s up your ass pretty well, I heard,” came a snappy reply, and it earned a sharp laugh from Gabriel. He was cracking jokes, that was a good sign. That rumor wasn’t true, and Jack knew that, but it made them both laugh, and it made the silence that followed something akin to torture. Jack was still holding his hand, his eyes were still open, unfocused, but open, and despite the raggedness ( something that had prompted Gabriel to urge Jack desperately to go to the infirmary for, to no avail ) of the way he breathed, Jack was still breathing.

Gabriel hadn’t officially come clean about it, but he liked Jack a lot, and he knew that Jack knew, which made it all the more awkward, but then again, Jack hadn’t told Gabriel how he felt, either, but they both knew it. An unspoken love, but it was there, and it could be felt in the way Jack held Gabriel’s hand, and in the way Gabriel tried desperately not to think about what might happen in the night ( he could feel Jack’s fever on the skin of his shoulder, and it was harder to try to think of anything else ).

He didn’t know what time he had fallen asleep ( it was after 3 am, he remembers wiping up another nosebleed that had stained Jack’s shirt in his sleep ), but when he awoke, startled, it was well into the afternoon, and after a minute of disorientation, he realized the space beside him was empty. Panic is what set in first, shooting from the mattress as he looked around the room frantically, calling for Jack with rising anxiety.

“Jesus, relax,” came the groggy reply from Gabriel’s private bathroom ( a benefit of his position prior to joining the program ). Jack had ditched his shirt into Gabriel’s laundry bag from the blood, but his sweats still hung low on his hips. Gabriel let out a breath he’d been holding, fingers pushing through the short crop of curls on the top of his head, relieved as he relaxed back onto the edge of the bed. Jack looked like hell, dark circles under his eyes, face still pale, but he had a certain glow that only came with blowing chunks until you felt better.

“Don’t scare me like that you asshole,” Gabriel barked back without any real annoyance, palms pressing to his eyes as he rubbed the sleep from them. “What time is it?”

“Almost 2:30, woke up like 45 minutes ago and I literally just stopped throwing up.” Jack moved to take a seat beside Gabriel on the bed, lying back to stare up at the ceiling. A moment of silence, and Jack couldn’t help but snort to himself, cerulean blues trailing to look at Gabriel. “You were worried about me.”

For a moment, Gabriel stared at him, dumbfounded by the statement. Worried didn’t quite sum up the degree to which Gabriel had panicked – not only minutes earlier, but through the night. This goddamn, gay as the day was long, blonde-haired blue-eyed farm boy from Indiana was his best friend, he loved him, and the idea of losing Jack hadn’t just worried him, it had scared the ever living piss out of Gabriel, and it still made his heart clench painfully. But after a moment, he let himself lie back, too, feeling Jack’s eyes on him, though his own stayed trailed on the ceiling.

“Yeah. Yeah I was.”

Notes:

[amwritingmeta]

Season Thirteen: Candlelight Pt.1

Please read the A/N lest you be confused about the timeline. xx

Previous Snippets:

1. Resurrection (13x04)

Dean’s eyes went to the clock on the kitchen wall, checking to make sure that time hadn’t actually stopped, since it was moving so damn slow. It hadn’t stopped. Last time he’d checked it was two minutes past seven; now the clock showed five minutes past seven. It felt like those three minutes were mocking him, the hands of the clock giving him the proverbial finger and he glared at it, but told himself it was time to ignore the tick-tock of what seemed an eternity and focus on setting the table.

So he did.

He brought over the cutlery, one knife ending up a little askew and, as he corrected it, he almost knocked one of the wine glasses over, grabbing it and balancing it, growing tentative with the coolness of the glass actually against his palm, thinking - again - that maybe the wine was pushing the informality of this setup into something… formal. Something forming. Something that had already formed for him. He let go of the glass, straightening his back, trying to keep his hands from shaking.

It’s fine, he kept thinking. It’s fine, you’ve done this before, and every time it’s been fine.

He ignored the tinge of impatience in his chest at the truth of that last thought, because every time had been fine. Every time he’d cooked Cas dinner had been the same, and every time he seemed set on proving to himself that he was a goddamn coward.

Drawing a slow breath, forcing himself to focus, he eyed the table setting. He’d kept it simple, as every other time. Actually, it was downright nondescript, with plates, cutlery… those glasses… and yes, there happened to be a bunch of wildflowers in a jug, but Cas had picked those himself. All Dean had done was move the jug from the counter to the table, and he could always blame the new placement on Sam. If Cas even noticed. He probably wouldn’t notice. But maybe the flowers should go back on the counter. No, they were staying where they were and enough of this damned indecisiveness already.

But something was missing.

“The wine,” he realised, gnashing his teeth in annoyance.

Fuck.

The red wine he’d gotten was still in the Impala. And the Impala was with Cas because Cas had asked to borrow it. So, now he’d have to text Cas and ask him to bring the wine in from the car, or it would seem weird if Cas had seen the wine in the passenger seat and Dean didn’t ask him to bring it in. If Dean just snuck out and got the wine after Cas had come in and then acted like it was no big deal - that would be weird. And the fact that he hadn’t just texted Cas and told him to bring it in would make the bottle of wine seem exactly like what he didn’t want it to seem like: a big frigging deal. Even to Cas it would. Or maybe not. No, actually, it probably would. Cas had been different lately…

Dean’s hands began to shake again at the memory of Cas lingering in his doorway the other night with that look in his eyes that made Dean feel as though Cas’ hand was branding its print into his shoulder again, no matter the fact that Cas was a wingless, Earthbound human. No matter that. Not that it didn’t matter…

Dean had almost leaned forward, had almost reached out for the tie around Cas’ neck.

The tie was new. And green.

Fuckfuckfuck.

Dean brought out his cell, clearing his head with some effort as he sent Cas a short text, asking him to bring the wine in, and was he almost back? The reply came within moments: two minutes. Dean couldn’t keep the smile off at the perfunctory message. To the point, as always.

Did Cas even like wine? It really was the only noticeable thing that was different this time around, the one thing that veered away from the nondescript, that maybe made it into something more than just sharing some food and talking about stuff. Well, the bottle and possibly the candle. If he was actually going to follow through on this urge and put a candle on the table. Maybe it was a bit of an overkill. He just couldn’t get this plan out of his head, that he’d turn the generator off and then they’d have to have some light source and it wouldn’t seem so forced. It wouldn’t be him turning off the kitchen lights to set some kind of mood. It would be a blackout. Candles were needed during a blackout. They were a goddamn standard issue during a blackout.

His fingers were trembling. He was hot all over.

Fucking fucking fuck.

“Oh, is it Thursday already?” Sam said, walking into the kitchen, eyes roving the table and the pots and pans filled with simmering food on the stove top, eyebrows rising. “That week went by quick.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean asked.

“Nothing. Just - well, you’ve gotten into this habit: every Thursday you make Cas dinner,” Sam replied, grabbing an apple and biting into it with too much gusto for Dean’s taste. “Smells good,” Sam added through his mouthful of fruit. “What’s cooking?”

Because of the fact that his brother was being a douche, Dean resisted the urge to ask him to taste everything, suppressing the immediate craving for reassurance that he’d done a good job with the meat and the sauce, because he knew this was what Sam was expecting. They’d gone through variations of this routine for the past five weeks now. That was why Sam was standing there, looking smug, because Dean was keenly aware of how Sam must know exactly how raw Dean was feeling about this whole dinner situation, and why there had never even been a question of whether Sam would be joining them. And now Dean was beginning to quietly seethe at his brother for continuing to be such a dick about it.

Feigning a casual attitude, he ignored Sam and busied himself with cutting up some bread, putting it in a bread basket, Sam eyeing him with interest, eyebrows still raised.

“What?” Dean finally asked.

“Nothing,” Sam shook his head. “Are you going to eat all of that? Because there’s that leftover cheese from the other night and… might as well…”

Dean handed him what was left of the baguette and Sam nodded his thanks with a smile. Dean brought the breadbasket to the table, feeling his brother’s eyes still on him, and before Dean could think twice about it he grabbed those silly wineglasses off the table. Red wine went well with cheese, after all, and Cas would be none the wiser.

Coward.

He paused, steadying himself, turning to Sam, who was frowning at him wonderingly.

“Lamb,” Dean said. “It’s a lamb stew, with - if you must know - a mint sauce. Okay?”

Sam smiled then, with another nod, leaving the kitchen as Dean put the two glasses on the kitchen counter, staring at them with something akin to despair. What the hell was he doing? Everything was good; for the moment everything was stabile. Jack was to the wind, but they’d find him. He was exploring. He was too young not to be curious and he wasn’t as messed up as when he was newborn. It’d be okay, Dean knew it would. It’d taken him awhile, but he could see it now, that the kid was good. Deep, deep down in an almost undiscovered corner good, but good nonetheless. Even so, they did need to track Jack down. So why couldn’t Dean focus on that? And why couldn’t he control this sensation of lifting off the ground the moment Cas walked in the room? It was such a natural high he’d gotten completely addicted to it and with every time they were separated the anticipation for Cas’ return grew into something almost unbearable.

Dean swallowed, closing his eyes, willing himself to calm.

It’s fine.

“You know,” Sam said, walking back in the room and Dean turned to him as he continued: “I wasn’t going to, but… man, you can’t keep doing this. Repeating the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.” Dean raised his eyebrows, but Sam didn’t even pause at the expression. “Cas is the most literal guy we know. Okay, he’s the only literal guy we know. My point being - he won’t get the subtext. You’re gonna have to spell it out for him.”

Sam was holding both hands out, the halved baguette still in one of them, looking as though he was brokering peace, nothing but earnestness on his face as he wasn’t picking a fight or wanting to start an argument, just stating the plain truth. When he left again it was with a meaningful and almost reproachful look.

Dean watched him go while his heart beat was becoming something painful and erratic and nervous, pounding out that plain truth, spreading it to every cell of his body. Of course, he’d been aware of this truth, because Cas being Cas meant that gestures were never going to be enough. They’d never been enough. All the times he’d attempted piercing through Cas’ nonplussed expression over the years, all he’d managed to get for it was that soft frown and a tilt of the head. So, now, right now, here - he was going to have to make a move.

It’s fine.

No. It was anything but fucking fine.

Dean glared at the wine glasses for another moment, then made up his mind and grabbed them, about to bring them back to the table when he was stopped in his tracks by the appearance of Cas in the doorway. His heart leaped, and then it settled, a calm spreading, because Cas was back again and he hadn’t disappeared or gone away or been killed or taken and locked up.

The violence behind that chain of conclusions made Dean, for one split second, wonder if it wouldn’t be better to stop hunting.

They could find a quiet, secluded place off a lake, spend their time watching the bees collecting honey or the flowers turning their faces to the sun or whatever the hell else Cas might want to do. Fish every afternoon for their dinner. Build a fire by the water.

But in the following blink the images of that possible life were gone.

“Hey,” Cas said, putting a grocery bag and the bottle of wine on the counter before sliding the trench coat off and hanging it on one of the pegs by the door, his suit jacket following close behind - he barely seemed to notice Dean’s eyes following him around the room. “So I went and talked with Trinny Abernathy. She doesn’t know anything useful, but she has kittens. Is Sam allergic to cats?” Cas asked, having started to unpack the groceries, putting them away in the cupboards without a pause.

Finally his eyes met Dean’s and Dean blinked, trying to focus on what Cas had just said, rather than the shape of his strong back, and how his shoulder blades moved underneath the fabric of the shirt he was wearing.

“Sorry, what?” Dean said, Cas eyeing him for another moment with a slight frown.

“We could get a cat,” Cas shrugged. “It might be good for Jack to have a pet. When he comes back. Something to be responsible for. A living thing that will feel affection for him without any so called ‘strings’ attached.”

Dean couldn’t keep the smile off, realising he was still just standing there like a proper asshat, holding the two wineglasses. He walked up to the table, placing either glass gingerly where they’d been before, considering how Cas would never even think twice about them being anything more than a couple of glasses, when to Dean they were some sort of declaration of this informally formed mess in his heart.

I’d build fires with you for the rest of my life.

He blinked the thought out of his head.

Make a move. Simple enough. Only nothing was simple. Nothing had ever been simple. The only simple thing was this feeling in his chest and how it had settled there without any hesitation. There had never been any question that it belonged there. All the hesitation and questioning had come from his head; his head had been what had always complicating things - unnecessarily.

He looked over at Cas, watching him for another prolonged moment before asking, as breezily as he could manage:

“You like wine?”

“Oh,” Cas said, eyes going to the wine bottle before meeting Dean’s. “I don’t know,” he replied, a small smile on his mouth that made Dean’s knees grow weak.

“Wanna find out?” Dean asked, returning the smile.

“Sure,” Cas said.

“Alright then,” Dean smirked, walking up to him with a soft thrill in his chest, grabbing the bottle, unable not to linger for a moment, shoulder almost touching Cas’ shoulder, his scent filling Dean’s nostrils and making him force himself away, to the drawer with the bottle opener.

His hands were steady now and they performed the task quickly, but pouring the wine he felt his mouth begin to grow dry with sudden, useless longing, thinking of tasting trace wine on Cas’ tongue, thinking of stubble rasping against his cheek, thinking of loosening that tie…

“This smells nice,” Cas’ voice brought him out of his mounting desire, back into the moment, with a slap of reality.

“Good,” Dean said, immediately annoyed with himself for avoiding eye contact, but starting to not trust himself.

He didn’t want to screw this up, he didn’t want to act rashly, he wanted it to feel right, he needed it to be the right thing to do and kissing Cas out of the blue wasn’t, acting on impulse wasn’t, he had to think logically, he had to act on invitation, if he could manage to get one.

Or you could just tell him how you feel about him.

But that thought sent a wave of such burning heat through him that he had to disregard it. And there should’ve been a goddamn candle on the table, shouldn’t there? Something  more visual to facilitate what he was trying to do here. How do you seduce someone who doesn’t understand the finer points of seduction?

Fuck.

He grabbed the glasses again, bringing one over to Cas, who was closing the fridge door, his task of putting the groceries in their designated place now done, and he accepted the glass with another smile, this one of thanks. He held the glass, pausing as a questioning expression of what to do next widened his blue eyes until Dean thought he was going to lose his goddamn mind if he didn’t break the moment, and so he took the lead in social etiquette, clinked his glass against Cas’ and said:

“Cheers.”

Which sounded every bit as forced as he was feeling, wanting it not to be weird and making it all the weirder. But Cas’ smile returned, this time it was wider and warmer and Dean knew that if he could only spend at least a few minutes a day making sure Cas was wearing it, then everything else would pale, would fade away into something distant and unimportant, and he’d be able to face anything.

And if he could’ve told Cas that; if he could put into words exactly how Cas made him feel then maybe… But he just couldn’t. He couldn’t figure out how to. It was too damn big.

What he could do was return the smile, and something glittered itself into Cas’ eyes that made Dean momentarily lose his ability to breathe, stuck grinning like an idiot.

Then Cas’ smile faltered as he frowned and said:

“Is something burning?”

That broke the moment alright.

“Damnit!” Dean exclaimed, rushing up to the stove, spilling half his wine as he practically chucked the glass onto the counter and began the damage control of their dinner.

“Is it… okay?” Cas wondered, suddenly leaning against Dean’s arm to get a better look at the now lidless pans and Dean felt his eyes catch on Cas’ temple, a few inches away from his nose, before he nudged him away with his elbow saying:

“Yes, it’s okay, it’s fine. Go… over there. And drink your wine.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas said, heading back over to the counter where he’d left his glass, Dean’s eyes on his back until Cas turned around, the movement reminding Dean that there was dinner to salvage. “Do I just drink it?” Cas asked in reference to the wine, and Dean couldn’t keep from snorting out a soft laugh, looking over at him, hoping there wasn’t quite as much affection on his face as what was moving pleasantly through his chest.

“Yeah,” he replied. “It’s a drink. You drink it.”

“But wine…” Cas said thoughtfully. “It’s not just a drink. I watched a YouTube video about wine tasting. And a movie,” Cas added, Dean frowning at him.

“What movie?”

“‘Halfways’.”

Dean went to grab the plates off the table, unable to suppress another wide smile, but Cas didn’t catch the joke, merely smiled back.

“It was a good movie,” Cas stated.

“Yeah, it is a good movie,” Dean agreed, beginning to plate the food. “‘Sideways’,” he added the correct title for it, Cas glancing sideways with a contemplative frown, which made Dean laugh out loud and suddenly Cas was smirking.

Dean got caught in that expression, a soft frown furrowing his brow, Cas completely unaware as he shed the smirk, taking his first sip of the wine, which distracted Dean into focusing back on the plates, adding the sauce, surreptitiously glancing at Cas, who was tasting the wine, keeping it in his mouth before swallowing.

“Not too bad,” Cas said and there was something, Dean could have sworn, there was something different about him lately.

“How’d you know ‘not too bad’?” Dean asked, unable to keep a teasing note out of his tone, bringing the plates over to the table as Cas moved over to take a seat, answering matter-of-factly:

“I didn’t spit it out.”

That made Dean laugh again, Cas smiling broadly, catching Dean’s eyes with his for a moment before he moved his gaze to the food, eyeing it up expectantly, placing the glass by his plate after another mouthful of its contents, mh-ing his approval as Dean took the seat opposite him.

Dean’s eyes lingered on Cas’ face while his mouth still wore a trace smile, enjoying this undercurrent of contentment that made him feel so tense and so at ease all at once.

It had been like this for a while now, though: the tense easement of being near this man. It had been like this before the angel’s untimely death. It had been like this for years. He had been in love with Cas for years. He just didn’t know - he couldn’t tell - had never been able to tell what he meant to Cas, and it hadn’t gotten any easier over the past six months, because there had been an understandable adjustment period for Cas to come to terms with his new reality. For all of them to come to terms, even Dean himself, though he hadn’t quite been able to contemplate the full scope of it at the time. And immortality to mortality was a scope too full to properly contemplate even now, if he was honest.

And if he was even more honest, he knew they shouldn’t be sitting here having dinner, because with everything that was going on somewhere beyond the walls of this place, and with all the research and planning in need of still being done within the walls of this place, they should be snacking on crisps and drinking beer with the rest of the Castoff Crew. But he didn’t care. Because, honestly, all he wanted to do was sit opposite Cas at this table. And the reason was simple enough: it was seven o’clock on a Thursday, and this was what they did at seven o’clock on Thursdays now.

“You know, all I want to do…” he found himself saying out loud, cutting himself short as Cas’ eyes met his. “…is say…” Making it worse. Backtrack. Now. “…that we… that this…” Fuck sake. “…yeah, you know, just… kinda glad you’re alive.”

Hell. This was hell. Right here was hell on Earth.

“Glad?” Cas asked, that sudden glitter in his blue eyes again and Dean’s mouth was drying and his fingers were trembling around the stem of the wineglass and he swallowed with effort, having to glance away, avoiding eye contact again and growing furious with himself for being such a weak, miserable coward.

“Well, yeah, I said kinda,” he tried to joke it away, feeling every word like gravel in his mouth and he took a hurried, deep gulp of wine that made him choke, sending him coughing for his life.

Cas was quietly observing him and once the coughing fit had calmed, once Dean had pulled a hand over his mouth and regained some kind of equilibrium, he found that he could not read the expression on Cas’ face. It was remarkable, almost enticingly so, to realise that however long he’d known this face, however well he’d grown to know every groove of it, those eyes could still startle him with their unfathomable, unreachable maturity.

A thousand years in those eyes. A thousand times a thousand years.

“Alright,” Cas now said, “which type of ‘kinda’?”

The question was followed by a slight head tilt, a familiar gesture that suddenly bordered on intimate, and though Cas was wearing - what Dean had dubbed - his ‘angel face’, which meant he could still look as cooly expressionless as ever, now there was that glitter.

Dean frowned slowly.

Was Cas teasing him?

That’s when the lights suddenly flickered out and the room went pitch black.