#him and only himk..

[wam-my]

do I kin elias fucking bouchard

[hekate1308]

Home Base

Part of my Season 12 Destiel AU. Enjoy!

To say his life has significantly improved, Dean things waking up next to Cas one morning, would be an understatement.

He smiles and snuggles closer to his boyfriend – no harm in morning cuddles – when he suddenly realizes things feel... off.

Not bad. Just... off.

And as soon as he raises his head, he knows why.

This is not the cheap motel room they went to sleep in.

The furniture is way too expensive, it’s light and airy, and is that a freaking lake he can see outside?

He sits up abruptly, causing Cas to grumble in protest.

“Cas – wake up!”

His lover shoots up from the bed, blinking at the unfamiliar surroundings.

“This is not our room” he states.

Dean nods as he calls Sam.

Despite everything, he smiles when he hears his brother sleepily grumble “Dean?” The little nerd likes to sleep in these days, too.

Sam immediately becomes more aware.

“What – where are we?”

“So I take it you’re not at the motel anymore either.”

“No, I – is that a lake?”

“My thoughts exactly” Dean breathes.

“We seem to be in the same house” Cas says, having stepped up to him to listen to their conversation.

That’s something, at least.

“Alright Sammy, best we try and find each other.”

“My duffle bag’s here” Sam tells him.

“Ours are too” Cas points out.

They’re not without weapons then. Good.

They arm themselves with guns and silver knives before exiting the room they found themselves in.

Dean almost takes a step back in surprise when the door next to theirs opens and Sam comes out, looking as good as he did yesterday.

“Gotta say, if this is some evil scheme, it’s starting off really nicely.”

“We do not appear to have been drugged” Cas muses. “So whatever brought us here, they must be strong.”

He nods.

Their best way to search this place quickly – how huge is it, anyway? The corridors go on forever – is to split up, despite his ingrained instincts not to let his little brother or anyone else he loves out of his isght.

“Be careful” he instructs them both, pressing a quick kiss on Cas’ lips and clasping Sam’s shoulder before ducking into the next corridors.

Stairs. Taht’s something, at least.

He makes his way downstairs.

And this, right there? It’s a freaking entrance hall with marble.

It all looks nice enough, he supposes. Expensive. Like someone wanted to show off and be comfortable at the same time.

He hears movement in a room to his right and makes his way there, weapon ready.

What he didn’t expect was Crowley sitting in another huge room next to a pool table, leafing through a book while sipping his usual glass of Craig.

“Crowley?”

He looks up.

“Squirell. How do you like the new home base?”

“Home base? Where are we?”

“Massachusetts.”

“Why?”

Crowley shrugs.

“As good a place as any.”

“So and this is...”

“Like I said – new home base. You let me deal with the more psychopathic of the British invasion army, and it was certainly a lot of fun” Dean probably shouldn’t enjoy hearing that as much as he does, but Ketch has done nothing to incite his sympathy or pity in any way, shape or form, and he can’t bring himself to worry much about it “but it also means their little club is up in arms, so I thought you might want to have safe quarters.”

“So you... built us a mansion.”

“There was a dilapidated structure that might once have been a house. I only added to it.”

Dean takes out his phone and sends Sam and Cas texts to join them.

They both arrive quickly, Cas a bit quicker than his brother.

“Aw, Cassie, don’t worry, your toy boy is as safe as ever.”

He shoots him a somewhat disgruntled look that’s still not without a certain fondness – that’s how crazy their life has gotten, and Dean wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Have you seen the library yet?” Crowely asks Dean just as Sam stumbles in.

“Nah. Good stuff?”

“Remember when you powered down the wards of the bunker so I could get in while we were dealing with Amara?”

He does. And he also remembers not putting them up again because – well because even back then, he and Crowley were barely enemies.

“Yeah.”

“Thanks for that. I made sure to get anything the Men of Letters could use.”

“Thank you” he says honestly.

“I also made sure you had your beloved “memory foam” in case you felt like complaining about your back again – and your personal effects are in boxes in the dining room.”

Oh. He hasn’t thought about the things he used to decorate his room with in months. Sounds nice, though; Cas can get some stuff of his own, too –

Sam clears his throat.

“Do you have your own room?”

It occurs to Dean that he just thought of that as a given. Crowley hates Hell, and now that Lucifer has been dealt with, he has even less of a reason to hang out there, apart from short visits to make sure the demons are still behaving.

But for Sam to ask – that’s actually a pretty big step, now that he thinks about it.

Cas’ hand slips into his.

“As a matter of fact, yes. Now, in case you have – “

“Good.”

It’s the first time he’s seen Crowley speechless since Cain literally took his voice away.

They spent the rest of the day exploring their new home. Give it to Crowley, he really thought of everything, and it’s all brand new, nothing outdated like in the bunker.

There’s even a garage for his baby – next to the dungeon because, well, it’s Crowley. Nice he even included that in the first place considering their history with it.

As Dean and Cas soon find out, the water pressure in the showers is fantastic.

Plus, Crowley hasn’t just filled the library with the lore of their ancestors, but several works they love – at first glance, Dean sees the complete works of Vonnegut and Asimov. Jackpot.

And, okay, maybe Jane Austen is there too. Damn demon knows him too well.

And that kitchen.

“We’re going to have pancakes every day from now on” he announces, looking over the new equipment.

“Dean” Sam interjects.

“Alright, you can get some omelette with spinach. Figure I can do that if I try.”

His brother shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

“Where’s Cas anyway?” he asks. “Did he need some rest after your...”

“Shower?” Dean prompts with a grin.

“Yes. That.”

But once again, there’s no fire nor true annoyance behind Sam’s words, as there might have been, once not too long ago.

As Dean walks back to his and Cas’ room – funny, back when he only allowed himself to dream of them in half-slumbers shortly before waking up at dawn, he often pictured them in his room in the bunker – Crowley appears in front of him.  

Naturally, we are still too important to walk.

“I wasn’t sure if I should put these in your boxes as well” he says, holding out a few pictures.

Dean knows them. The ones he left behind the day he turned his back on the bunker and their legacy, preferring to make his own path.

Their own path.

After reconsidering the pictures, he takes those of him and Sam.

“That’s all I need”.

Crowley understands and vanishes with the rest.

Idly, Dean wonders what Mary is thinking now, in the empty bunker. She might not have noticed their absence much, but the knowledge and weapons the Men of Letters collected is valuable.

He’s not worried about them investigating the theft. Crowley certainly left no traces.

He expects to find Cas napping, but instead he’s –

He’s painting their walls.

There is already a whole forest stretching itself towards the lake, green leaves shining, sun kissing small flowers underneath –

“Cas” he breathes.

He knew Cas likes to draw, of course. Ever since Cas fell, he’s liked to have something to do with his fingers (in moments when they aren’t... otherwise occupied, that is) and it was Dean who bought himk his first notebook. Things only spiralled from there.

Cas has sketched almost everyone they knew at this point and once made him sit completely still for a whole evening because “I need to find the right shade of green for your eyes in that angle.”

“Dean!” he stands up so quickly Dean cringes in sympathy for his spine.

“I – this – I wanted to surprise you.” He fiddles his fingers in the late afternoon light coming in from the windows, his arms covered in paint, and Dean has never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

“Do you like it?”

“Like it? I freaking love it, man.”

He draws Cas into a deep kiss.

“Wait – You’ll get dirty – “

“You’ll have to clean me up, then” he whispers huskily.

“Why so much green?” he asks later, much later. He thinks it will be time for dinner soon, but he can’t be sure.

Cas is tracing patterns up and down his chest and he’s way too comfortable to move and find out.

“You know why.”

“Yeah” he says, blushing, “but why so little blue? Come on, this is our room...”

“You haven’t seen it, then?”

Dean frowns and looks at the forest again.

And he sees.

There’s blue everywhere, stronger and lighter shade mixed in with the green, until it becomes impossible to say which is which.

The message is pretty clear.

He attempts to pull Cas even closer. At the moment, he couldn’t care less about the Men of Letters.

When they enter the kitchen at eight pm, Crowley exclaims, “A miracle! We might get dinner after all.”

“You don’t need to it” Cas reminds him while Dean tells Sam, “You could have started dinner.”

“Your cooking is much better than mine” Sam says. “Always has been.”

Dean remembers another occasion, when Sam was surprised he even knew what a kitchen was, but dismisses the thought.

They have both changed a lot since then.

“Alright”.

Crowley has stocked the fridge full to the brim.

“What do you – “

“Burgers” Cas says immediately.

“Alright then, burgers with salad it is.”

Crowley groans.

“You like Dean’s burgers” Cas reminds him.

Crowley grumbles something that sounds like “Doesn’t mean I have to eat them every day” but still digs in once dinner is done.

“So you’re saying it’s shielded like the bunker too?” Dean asks while they’re eating.

“No one will be able to tell where you are calling from while you’re here.”

Sam’s text alert rings out.

Dean’s surprised this didn’t happen earlier.

“What does she want?”

“Are you behind this?” Sam reads out loud.

“Tell her it’s the demon she despises so much” Crowley says. “I’m sure Mummy would love to hear that.”

“I don’t answer her texts anymore. She knows that.”

Sam puts his phone away.

“She’ll have to find another way if she wants to keep manipulating me.”

He’s never called it that, before.

Dean, he knows now, actually suspected pretty early on something was wrong, only that he didn’tb want to admit it to himself.

At least now they’re all on the same page.

Mary sends another text.

Only this time, when Sam reads it, he blanches.

Then, with a blank expression on his face, he throws his phone against the wall.

“Sammy?”

“That wall is brand new, you know” Crowley remarks mildly, but his hand has tensed around his glass.

“I’ll need a new phone” his brother says. “And we’ll have to tell our friends.”

“Yeah, of course. Sam, are you okay?”

“Yes. Mo – Mary just said something about – you, that’s all.”

“What did she say?”

“I don’t want to repeat it” is all Sam says.

“Good” Crowley comments.

Dean swallows. Knowing that Mary accused him of something – that she probably sounded like John – and that Sam would react this way – it has to have been bad –

And then Cas draws him close and kisses his forehead.

He relaxes.

He has Cas, he has his family, he has a new home.

Everything else can wait until tomorrow.

[limpfisted]

Is that it, maybe….? Wyll wonders. Is he provoking Astarion as he calls upon Mizora’s might to try to Eldritch blast Astarion twelve feet away. (He misses every shot, but perhaps that was what he wanted.) The ink drip of goo mist on his fingers on his left hand makes him tighten his grip on the sword in his right. A devil is always sweaty, a devil is always feverish, a devil is always too-warm and damp around the scales in unmentionable places, a devil wants to touch and burn and eat—just as much as any vampire.

“Is that all you think of, spawn? To eat and bed? What of living? What of life? No wonder you are so hungry, no wonder you flirt so much. Their blood and sex is the only thing that fills you. Save, perhaps, the rats.”

“Don’t worry. Despite your diet, despite your breath, we are all ever-so charmed by you. Maybe I’ll even spare you so Tav can pick up your wounded pieces and stitch you back together.”

Is there a part of Wyll that wanted to bed Astarion Tav? The way they smiled at him. Asked him to dance. Didn’t shudder at his horns. The way they still thought he was worthy and decent and handsome.

Astarion could never understand that. He may be a monster—but he will never feel so ugly and unworthy of love.

Debauchery, yeah? Astarion is fast—but Wyll already has his sword drawn. Wyll is a fairy tale Prince! Wyll is a knight in shining armor! Wyll is the Blade, the hunter, and if he could tears into Astarion’s neck with his own fangs and feast right now—he would without hesitation. A little violent, hm, Prince Charming. The need to eat and consume what one wants—to contract a soul, to nibble on it open-mouthed like a goat with oblong, dead eyes and lazy eyelids. Wyll calls upon Mizora’s might and his blade is rebrandished an ornate, shining gold for a gilded knight, dripping with his own charisma, his too-innocent naiveté that makes him so likable.

And, the sad thing is, to others… he really is quite likable. (They like it when he kills, if he kills the right things.)

Astarion gets a good nick into his stomach, and as barrels crash behind them in his blast’s wake, Wyll does not dodge it. Instead he twists and attempts to twist and kick him from the side to force himk quick away—so he has a better vantage point to strike against Astarion’s shoulder—like bapping a dog with a newspaper for chewing on your favorite slippers.

Oh, the dreams he slips into for Tav. The light in the darkness. Astarion…? Well, he’s made his choice between the two with the white glint of his teeth.

He hopes, he hopes, he prays to the Triad, that Astarion will also choose violence. There is nothing more fun than a proper hunt.

Let’s chew each other up and get to see who swallows.

Wyll's eye widens, there's a twitch to the way he smiles back, a hot chuckle of breath escaping parted lips.

He's right, but he's wrong. Because he didn't do it to make Mizora proud. (Right? Right? Right.) He did it to protect people. He slayed monsters. He did everything for all the right reasons. You can see, can't you? As plain as the new horns pierced through his fucking skull, aching, aching, aching. This is what happens when you disobey 'Mummy.' And if Wyll is being honest---it's only one of the worst things she's ever done to him. In a lot of ways, she did it kindly.

Does Astarion think Wyll never struggled? Does he think Wyll thinks he wanted to eat rats? Wyll cannot blame him, he supposes, for thinking him cruel and stupid. (EXCEPT that he does. How dare you.)

Wyll will never understand two hundred years of slavery and torture. Not until it happens to him, when he dies. At least he chose it. It's not like Astarion begged or pleaded to be a monster. Astarion could never understand the lengths Wyll went through to make that deal. Not for his Father's approval---but to make sure his Father, and all of Baldur's Gate was safe. He would have begged for that contract if he had to. He didn't, and that's why he was so easily fooled.

It was not the cultists who took his eye in the battle. But Mizora. He watched it happen to him, as if in a nightmare. A part of him is glad he'll never see from that eye again. When she branded the socket---he knew it would always be cursed.

Mizora is not his mom. His mother was kind. She could be mean. But Mizora was evil.

"Pretty, petty insults. I thought you would be more creative with that sharp mouth. Mummy said it better. Mummy said it faster. Mummy said it without salivating like a gnoll looking at a piece of meat. Draw your daggers. No more talking nonsense, spawn. Let's touch blades."