#just carries a photo of cas in his wallet

[lonelycowgirls]

Remember, remember...

Stella adored the 'ber' months. Warm lattes, flavoured with sweet syrups within her favourite mug cozies; chilly walks spotting each of the colours covering the trees lining their road; cuddling up to the cats with Planet Earth III on the telly, before tucking into crusty bread rolls filled with leftover meat from the Sunday roast while watching Strictly. These were the best months, and Harry was home to see them again.

Standing in their dimly lit hallway, she threw her fluffy scarf around her neck, jumping slightly when she felt warm hands run around her hips to slide around her waist.

"Come on, we've got half an hour before the prices on the gates go from affordable to fucking extortionate."

"Last time I checked, you were a multi-millionaire."

"Doesn't mean I'm looking to fork out on only ten minutes of fireworks while I freeze my balls off." He punctuated with a kiss to her cheek. The sound of cats screeching pierced her ears from down the hallway in the living room. Delilah must have been 'playfighting' again. Harry removed his arms to pluck his wooly hat from the tip of the banister, Stella grabbed the keys and they were out the door.

Grabbing her hand, Harry pulled Stella onto the bustling pavement of families heading in the direction of the local park near the heath. Little children skipping down the road carrying flashing swords and wands. Babies stuffed into padded suits, strapped to dads' chests, their legs flopping with each step their fathers took. Stella quickly shot a text over to Gemma to let them know they were on their way, while Harry stopped to take a photo with a couple of fans.

"Ah, thank you so much. I really appreciate that." He said, smiling while scratching the back of his neck - always so bashful in these scenarios.

"No seriously, you're her favourite artist." The older blonde woman said, beside her daughter who was beaming from ear to ear. Harry touched a hand to his chest and bowed slightly in thanks.

"Thank you. Did you make it to any shows?"

"Only, like, every one at Wembley and one of the Cardiff ones." The younger girl laughed nervously, in disbelief that she was speaking to the man of her dreams. Stella caught Harry's eye and smiled with a nod. She knew Harry's heart would swell with gratitude, but he'd feel guilty that he'd never be able to thank this girl for all the money and time she'd spent on him - indirectly supporting the amazing life he lived. The girl asked him for a hug, before they parted ways. Harry flung his arm around Stella again and brought her in close.

"You hear that? I'm her favourite artist. She went to five shows!" He squeezed her neck tightly before kissing the top of her head. She giggled, rolling her eyes fondly. Linking their fingers on her shoulder, she glanced up at him as they walked.

"She was really nice. You probably made her whole night." Despite still walking in step, Harry managed to lean down and capture her lips in a quick peck, smiling down at her before having to look where they were going again.

As they headed towards the gates, where two older men were stood donned in high-vis jackets, Harry slowed down to slip his hand into his back pocket, fishing out his wallet. Stella's phone vibrated and she looked to see a text from Gemma.

Gem: We're just by the candy floss stand when you get in xx

Harry paid their entry fee and slopped through the muddy grass that had been dug up by so much footfall, while Stella had her bag checked.

"Aw, babe look at that puppy." He pointed towards a small black labrador that was playing - or more trying to play - with a much older looking bloodhound. Stella cooed and took a quick video on her phone to add to her Instagram Stories. The interaction ended up with Harry having his picture taken with the puppy and its owners that Stella knew would be all over the internet by the end of the night.

Wandering the grounds a little more, Stella kept a beady eye out for Gemma and Michal. "They said they'd be by the candy floss... wherever that is." She said, stopping to get her phone out again to call her.

"There they are!" Harry said, taking off to tackle Michal around the waist, simultaneously ruffling his sisters hair.

"Took you two bloody long enough!" Gemma said, scowling at her (not so little) brother and readjusting her new fringe, while side-hugging Stella.

"Harry got stopped a few times, s'cool though." Stella said, smiling slightly. She'd gotten used to Harry's lifestyle by now, but it still made her a feel bad for getting irritated.

"We're just gonna pop to get us some hot chocolates, my treat." Harry said, turning to head to the van with Michal.

"Alright, H. Thanks." Gemma said, turning back to Stella, both of their faces illuminated thanks to the glowing sign of the candy floss stand. "So, how's things now?" She gave Stella a knowing look.

"It's alright, we're settling a bit more now. He's really trying to not... piss me off." The two women laughed, Gemma nodding along, knowing exactly what she meant. "Think it's just how it is with us at the moment, feels like we're at a bit of a crossroads I'm not gonna lie."

"Well, if you ever need anyone to talk to you know where I am." Stella nodded. They spoke some more about Anne and her new children's book, then spoke about Dolly's first curated shoot with Vogue, then the boys were back.

"I got you marshmallows, Stell, that alright? Didn't know if you wanted them or not."

"Course it is, thank you." She looked up at Harry and fiddled with his fingers to connect their hands through his gloves again. His eyes lingered on Stella, thankful to have not fucked up this time - even though it may be the tiniest thing.

The four of them headed over to the crowded bonfire area, Stella lifting to her tiptoes to actually feel the warmth on her cheeks.

"Did you see Planet Earth last week?"

"Aw yeah, those poor seals nearly had me in tears!" Stella commented, taking the lid from her cup to blow on the liquid inside.

"Me too, honestly it's the best thing on telly at the moment. It's absolutely heartbreaking sometimes. Really makes you think though, in terms of climate change and all."

"God yeah, we're fucking everything up." Cocking her head in her partners direction as he sipped on his own drink. "Harry's on about getting solar panels for our place."

Gemma nodded, "sounds like a good shout, mate. I know someone who-" She was cut off by a sudden enormous bang. She heard the distinct 'fuck me!' from Harry a few feet away. Everyone's heads flew up towards the sky, now painted with pink and gold sparkles. Stella laughed at Harry's sister's startle as well as her own, nudging her side before feeling a strong arm loop around her neck again.

Harry stood behind her, leaning his head back to empty the dregs of his drink into his throat - Stella not having even started to sip hers, almost as if he'd always been immune to the heat that she was so sensitive to.

The familiar 'ooh's' and 'aah's' sounded off around them, as well as a few screaming cries of young children. Stella admired the gorgeous clear sky and the explosions of colour above her, smiling with the warmth of her man behind her. He swayed them both slightly as they both watched the display, she glanced up at him, seeing the twinkling lights reflect in his eyes and feeling butterflies swarm her belly.

He looked down back at her, a look of awe still on his face from the glittering show before them, before it morphed into an enquiring smirk.

"Love you." Stella mouthed, smiling contentedly. The smirk grew, him leaning down to kiss her lips tenderly, once, twice, murmuring a 'love you' against her lips, before moving up to peck her forehead. She licked her lips, the taste of him topped with sweet notes of chocolate. Bumping her hips back into him, she giggled when he tightened his hold around her neck and pushed forward, playfully teasing her for what would inevitably come when they got back home.

They'd leave the gates of the park and head back down the road, their joined hands swinging between them. They'd walk up the steps of their home and she'd fumble with the lock, as usual, eventually shoving it open frustratedly, knocking the autumn wreath that adorned it. Once inside, she'd toe off her ankle boots and peel off her layers, him following suit. Trotting to the kitchen with Delilah weaving between her legs, flicking the kettle on before being caught by Harry and subsequently lifted onto the counter.

His lips upon her neck and her hands underneath his thick woolen jumper, she'd have a familiar thought as his tongue peeked out against her skin, warming her from the inside out; yeah, Stella adored the 'ber' months.

~~~

Another short one, hope you enjoy and I hope all my British pals had a fabulous bonfire night/weekend!

Check out the rest of the pieces from this universe here.

Nel xo

[stratiotis-nth]

Dean’s lost his wallet. He’s freaking the fuck out. It’s not because he’s gotta worry about his credit cards getting stolen—technically, he stole them first—or the shitty savings cards he stuffed in there since he’s got ten more back home. No, Dean’s freaking out because right in the middle of a heated debate with Cas over noodle shapes, the intercom comes on and an totally oblivious lady’s voice says to the entire freaking store—“Would Dean Winchester come to the front desk please? Figure he might want his wallet and photo of his cute husband back.”

To be fair, the old lady was clearly one of those sweethearts who dote on customers and find anyone of a younger generation to be absolutely adorable and not dealing with delicate issues such as the photo of Cas Dean’s been hiding in his wallet for years.

So naturally, in the midst of total mortification, Dean forgets all about bowtie and elbow noodles and avoids Cas at all costs as he makes a beeline for the front desk, perplexed angel at his heels. His ears are burning, his face is burning, Dean feels like the entire store his watching him as he speed walks as fast as he can without full on sprinting.

“Dean—“ Cas hisses, but because he now thinks he’s in an action movie, Dean makes a wild turn into another lane to skitter out of Cas’ view for a moment. It’s enough time for him to pretend he didn’t hear.

The old lady is smiling when Dean reaches the front desk, Cas following and standing too too close right behind him. Her eyes dart from Dean’s bright red flush to Cas, sparkling in fond amusement.

“Was gonna ask you to describe your hubby in the photo to make sure it’s you, hon.” She chuckles in a Southern drawl. “No need to when he’s right behind yah, hm?”

“There is no one behind—?”Cas began, but Dean cut him out with a strangled sort of noise. The lady chuckles again.

“Here’s your wallet, honey. You two have a good day now.”

“Thanks.” Dean wheezes, stuffing his wallet in his pocket like he could bury the last five minutes six feet under.

Neither of them talk about it until they’re in the car.

“What did that lady mean by the husband in your wallet?”

Dean gulps, eyes fixed on the road as if that would save him embarrassment. It doesn’t.

“It ain’t some random smuck, if that’s what you’re asking.” He grunts. “S’just a photo of you I threw in there.”

Cas was silent for a moment.

“Ah.” He murmurs a moment later. “She assumed we were—“

“Yeah.”

“Why did you put it in there?”

“What?”

“You usually keep photos of your family in your nightstand. Why didn’t you put the one of me there too?”

Dean knew how Cas was looking at this. That because he separated Cas’ photo from the ones of him, Sam, Bobby, and Mom, that it didn’t equate him to family. That Dean didn’t see Cas as family like he did the others. And that just couldn’t slide for him.

“‘Cause I wanted to.” He mumbles, ears burning again. “Got a habit of carryin’ a piece of you ‘round when your gone. Your coat, your ashes, your bloody handprint…” he gulps against a sudden lump in his throat. “Guess I’m waiting for you to leave me again. Or somethin’.” He trails off into silence, avoiding the heavy gaze on him.

“I’m not leaving.” Cas says after a long moment. “Never again, unless you ask it of me.”

“I ain’t gonna do that.”

“Then I’m not going anywhere. There’s no need to carry of piece of me around when I will always be right here.”

Dean swallows again.

“Do you believe me?”

And, just how Cas continuously put his faith in Dean, Dean decides it was time to put his faith in Cas.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Dean still keeps the photo in his wallet, not because he thinks Cas will leave him, but because seeing his angel’s face every time he goes for his stolen credit card or shitty savings coupons makes him smile.

[hells-plaid-angel]

I love the idea of Dean inadvertently flirting with Cas. It gets to a point where Dean starts doing mundane things, without thinking them through. They aren’t his traditional, obvious way of flirting like he does with women in bars but anyone who knows him would look at what Dean’s doing and recognise it as being romantic. Imagine a culmination of little things, like Dean giving Cas a mixtape. 

Dean makes a copy of Baby’s keys for Cas, just in case. Never mind the dude’s an angel who can go where ever he wants in the blink of an eye or can power the car on a wing and a prayer if it came to it. Cas should have a set of keys. The Impala’s the closest thing to a home he’s ever had and Cas not having the keys to it would feel wrong. 

If they eat out, Dean pays for Cas’ meals, because he’s just a weird little dude in a trench coat, who doesn’t know the first thing about tipping. Dean isn’t even sure if Cas has money and if he does he’s scared to ask where it came from. So even though Cas doesn’t eat, Dean will order him a meal and pay for it. 

Dean goes into Cas’ room one day and realises how sparse it looks. So he marches his ass down to the hardware store, gets some timber and builds the guy some shelves which he fills with little things they’ve collected over the years. There’s a few framed photos, some road trip knick-knacks, and a few books from the bunker’s library that Dean’s seen Cas flicking through. He also realises Cas doesn’t have any clothes of his own besides the suit and trench coat. While he’s at it he throws in some of his old comfy clothes for Cas to wear around the bunker, because Cas should have a room that makes him feel at home and soft clothes that makes his vessel feel snug instead of pinched and pressed.  

One day they’re in the bunker’s kitchen, unpacking the stuff they brought from the grocery store.  Sam’s back from his morning jog and making his breakfast. Dean carried most of the bags himself, despite Cas being able to benchpress a truck because he’s proud and kind of wants Cas to think of him as strong. 

Cas is wearing one of Dean’s band tees. He empties his pockets over the kitchen bench. There was Dean’s wallet which he’d given to Cas so he could pay for their stuff while he loaded the car. There’s also the Impala’s spare set of keys, attached to some hokey Kansas key chain Cas liked from the sales wrack. Dean hands over something Cas brought from the store that he wanted to put in his room. 

Sam watches this all go down. Once he’s gotten his brother alone he asks Dean when he and Cas got their shit together and admitted they liked each other because Dean is obviously in love. Sam knows his brother and he understands that when he loves someone, really loves someone it’s not about what he says, it’s about what he does. He can call anyone hot but he wouldn’t carve out a space in his home for them if he wasn’t head over heels in love with them. Dean blue screens for two to five business days  before admitting, very quietly to himself and definitely not to Sam, he’s probably a little bit in love with Cas. 

[inacatastrophicmind]

Some sort of 15x15 coda, but set in the past, because I wanted to write about Cas having a photo wearing a cowboy hat

“C’mon let’s take a photo,” Dean said with a big grin. He patted Castiel’s forearm, looking so damn excited about his little idea.

“Why?” Castiel asked, squinting his eyes.

“Because we look awesome.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. He always knew that Dean really loved cowboys, after all, a lot of the movies they watched together were about cowboys, but Cas wasn’t expecting Dean to be so enthusiastic about Castiel wearing some sort of cowboy hat.

“Dean, I look ridiculous,” Castiel replied.

“No you don’t,” Dean said. “The hat looked ridiculous with the red band, but that’s gone and now you look great.”

Castiel simply stared at him, noticing the slight blush that appeared on Dean’s cheeks.

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean said after clearing his throat. “We barely take any photos, and it’s a good day to remember.” Suddenly, his voice started to sound shy, but there was some hidden pain in it that Castiel could notice. “You’re back and we’ve got cowboy hats. It’d be nice to remember this.”

They looked at each other. Castiel found himself wanting to ask Dean so many questions. It looked like his death had hurt him in ways Castiel had never imagined. But Castiel suppressed his questions, knowing that Dean always spoke more with gestures than with words.

“Fine,” Castiel said in a defeated sigh.

Dean grinned so wide and happily that Castiel’s heart skipped a beat and he found himself smiling as well.

“Awesome,” Dean said as he grabbed his phone.

Maybe Castiel didn’t understand Dean’s passion for cowboys, but he loved seeing Dean happy.

 ***

 Months after that day, just after Castiel had escaped Asmodeus’ prison, Dean had asked Cas to follow him to his bedroom because he wanted to give him something.

“Here,” Dean said after opening a drawer.

Castiel took the offered items; they were photos of the day they wore cowboy hats. There were three different shoots, but there were two copies for each photograph.

“I got them a while ago,” Dean began to explain, looking nervous as he rubbed the back of his neck. He tried to look casual, but he was failing. “I made a couple of copies for each. I’ve got a few for me, just in case I lost some, and I made those copies in case you wanted them.”

Castiel stared at Dean for a while, noticing the flush on his face and the nervousness in his eyes. He looked exactly like when he gave Castiel the mixtape. It told Castiel that the gesture meant more than Dean was letting on.

He looked at the photos. Castiel still believed that he looked ridiculous in that stupid hat, but he and Dean looked happy. And he had to admit Dean looked so damn good.

Looking at those photos, remembering how happy Dean was and how glad Castiel was to be back to him, made his heart beat harder, filling itself with joy. He understood why Dean had wanted to immortalize that moment.

“Can I really keep these?” Castiel asked, meeting Dean’s green eyes.

Dean’s body immediately relaxed, and he made a soft smile. “Of course, Cas. They’re yours.”

Castiel mirrored Dean’s smile. “Thank you, Dean.”

Immediately, he grabbed his wallet and saved the photos there. That gesture made Dean let out a shaky breath.

“No problem, Cas,” Dean said after a beat.

Castiel grinned. He was happy about being able to carry a part of him and Dean everywhere he went. He wondered if Dean had also kept one of those photos in his wallet.

He didn’t know, but a part of him was sure that Dean did actually carry a photo of the two of them in his wallet.

[helianthus21]

so uhm i have a need to know more about cas getting that pic of dean and carrying it around with him in his wallet heli pls 🥺😭

okay so i’ve thought about this all night and-

when Dean vaguely explains to him why he carries pictures of his loved ones around with him in his wallet (to compensate for the fact that he can’t put up pictures on his desk bc he has no desk job), Cas discards his Captain Holt opinion of “if you love someone you remember what they look like” and really thinks about it. Inevitably, the thought of Dean having a picture of him in his wallet strikes him, and he likes the thought really really much but he can‘t just offer one to Dean bc that would be presumptuous and he doesn’t think his picture has earned its place in Dean’s wallet.

So he follows this train of thought further along and comes to the conclusion that himself having a picture of Dean in his wallet is a very appealing prospect (even tho he could never forget what Dean looks like, think of the freedom of staring at Dean’s face without Dean being there to tell him off for it!) and to achieve it he just has to submit to the mortifying ordeal of asking for it and that’s somehow easier bc that’s not pushing something on Dean that may be unwelcome and the worst thing Dean can say is “don’t make it weird, Cas” or sth and Cas can deal with that.

Now Dean is kinda panicking bc he needs to find the perfect picture for Cas’ wallet and with each one he looks at, he overthinks the message it could send, like what face should he make into the camera? What should he wEAR on the photo?? It’s stressful, so in the end he just thrusts his fake FBI badge photo, that one with Sam and Dean leaning against the impala and, as a joke, a toddler photo of him at Cas and tells him to pick one. But Cas just. takes all of them.

He bought a wallet just for this occasion bc he doesn’t technically use one for his money bc everyone knows he just crumples his dollar bills into the depths of his coat pockets. But from now on he uses a wallet, and every time he has to bring it out he stares lovingly at the pictures, strokes a thumb over photo!Dean’s tiny cheeks and shows them to every uninterested cashier he meets.

[laora-inn]

Supernatural - Does Dean keep Cas’s photo in 12x02? A bit on Mary’s significance

Hi, guys. 

Currently writing a meta about Destiel and pies, I re-watched 12x02 and noticed something UNUSUAL at the end of episode. Now I can remember this was also bothering me while watching for the first time but I’d just filtered it. The 25th frame effect you know. 

Strange thing, I didn’t analyze it and didn’t even read meta about it. I checked out and found this amazing post written by @charlie-minion. I’m totally agree with it, but also want to speculate about something more.

Now let me clarify :)

12x02 is an episode where Mary, Dean and Cas save Sam from Toni (BMoL). Mary tries to find her place in the bunker, with her new family, and Sam brings her John’s journal to read. Mary opens it, looks at John’s photo where he is a soldier (we saw this photo in journal in 1x09) and then discovers another one. This:

We saw this photo before. When? In 5x04! In the End!Universe, when Cas was a human and a junkie. This photo was important to the plot. When Dean came to Bobby’s house in the End!Universe he found this picture in a secret place, saw the camp title on it, saw Cas and Bobby in it and went there. I took some screen-caps from 5x04 to prove my point:

We never knew what Dean’d done with this photo after. It wasn’t important, to tell the truth. 

And now Mary discovers it in John’s journal. 

At first you can say it’s a mistake of the crew. John is a soldier in his solo picture, then there are some pictures where his brothers-in-arms could be, with him included. If there is some picture where soldiers are, the crew may just take it for the scene. 

But then Mary reaction comes. She shakes her head a little and returns this photo to the diary. She can’t recognize anyone from this picture - besides Cas, I suppose. She even doesn’t know Bobby this far. And there is no John in the picture - despite of the fact it’s his journal! 

But we know. We know them both, Bobby and Cas. So it can’t be a mistake also because of our familiarity with the characters. 

@charlie-minion​ writes “I don’t think the photo was a huge element of the plot, but it did help the audience have a visual reminder of a time when the world had collapsed and Bobby Singer was fighting angels”, and I’m totally agree with that - by the end of the season we’ll see another parallel universe, not End!verse, but also with Bobby fighting angels and Apocalypse world. And yep, in 5x04 “Cas was fighting with the humans, not against them. Whereas Castiel in the alternate universe was fighting with the angels. Interesting to think that the big difference between one world and the other was the existence of Dean Winchester”. 

So the crew’s perspective why they chose this photo to show us is clear. But why the hell did they put it in John’s journal?!

We know Dean was the only one who could bring it from the 2014 End!verse. Was it him who put the picture in this journal? And why? 

I don’t think Dean’s shared his experience in End!verse with anyone. It was his part of a story, his point of view, too personal to tell anyone, even Sam or Cas. I suppose maybe he brought this photo to remember events he didn’t want to happen and to make everything not to end like that. But again - why did he put this photo in the journal? 

At first it was like lore collection to the Winchesters, but then they moved to the bunker and used to find information in different books. John’s journal became just one of them. So it was more his personal belonging then, a memory of him, just like photos of Mary with Dean or young Sam and Dean with Bobby. 

We know John’s Impala and old jacket became Dean’s once a time. Can we suggest that after 1x01 it’s Dean who also keeps John’s journal? 

I think we can. Trivia:

1x02 - Sam takes Dean aside and asks for John's journal. Dean pulls it out of his jacket. 

4x03 - Dean has the journal with him when Cas sends him back to 1973. Before that he slept - though he had his jacket with him. The journal was in it.

5x03 - Dean studies the Journal while waiting for Cas. That time Dean and Sam were separated for a while, and that was Dean who had the journal. 

8x08 - Cas looks through John’s journal and says to Dean: “Your father... beautiful handwriting”. Before that he looked through Dean’s personal belongings - toothpaste, toothbrush. There is no real need for Cas to read the journal - Dean was reading it just when Cas was handling his things. I suppose that Cas’s examining it the same way he’s examining other Dean’s belongings. ‘Cause of personal space lack between two of them.

9x12 - The last time John’s journal was seen before 12x02. Dean is separated from Sam again and takes it IN THE BAR with him. When Crowley asks for it, Dean pulls the journal out of his jacket.

Sam also reads journal from time to time, but it’s Dean who carries it with him everywhere in his jacket - like his wallet. I think Sam is still asking for the journal. I suggest he asked Dean for it before giving it to Mary in 12x02. 

From 1x01 to 12x02 the journal was Dean’s. 

And if that’s true, then this photo from the End!verse wasn’t supposed to be seen by anyone except Dean himself. Sam’ll definitely ask about it if he’s noticed, and, in my opinion, Dean still doesn’t want to answer questions connected with this picture.

In 8x14 Dean decorates his own room with the photo of him and Mary. He pulls it out of his wallet. We can see other family photos later in his room, framed or not - in 10x03, 10x22, 11x22, and mostly they are hidden. In Dean’s notebook, in different boxes. In 11x11 we saw Sam has his own box with pictures either. Before that he told about family photos with Eileen. 

So, the photos are hidden, but they are all in the same place for each of Sam and Dean. In fact they have different pictures, and in 11x11 we didn’t see any photo of John in Sam’s box. 

Maybe, that’s because Sam didn’t admire John the way Dean did. Of course, he loved him, but in 14x13 Sam would be the one who’d be against John’s appearance in the bunker. On the other hand, Dean’d be blissful... until he’d discover John’s presence'd make Cas stranger to him. Yep. 

Well, Cas was never so important to Sam than he is to Dean. That’s canon. 

And maybe that’s the reason Dean actually has 2 places for photos to keep. One of them is some place in his room - the box, the notebook. The other is John’s journal, with 2 photos - of young John and...  

The photo that has Cas in. Not Dean’s Cas, but the Cas who was definitely closer to HIS Dean than Dean’s Cas is to him. In the End!verse Dean and Cas basically had only each other.

I’ve read a meta where was mentioned that after Cas’s death in 12x23 Dean had no his photos. Well, he had. In 13x02 Sam and Dean used John’s journal again, so Mary returned it by that time - if only Dean hadn’t pulled the End!verse photo out of it earlier. 

He kept this picture since 5x04, just like he kept Cas’s trench coat in season 7, and Sam had no clue about it. It’s not his business, it’s not HIS RELATIONSHIP. Impala belongs to Dean, John’s journal belongs to Dean. End!verse photo with Cas belongs to Dean, and he keeps it with him in John’s journal like he kept Mary’s photo in his wallet. Ahem. 

Crucial to say, Sam, Dean, Bobby, Mary and John are the only people in family photos. No Charlie, no Kevin, no Garth. Maybe because of digital era? 

And here we have a photo with Cas, and Dean keeps it for himself. Until Mary comes. 

Maybe, Mary assumes that all the men in this picture are hunters. Maybe, she doesn’t even recognize Cas - she is in a difficult state. I don’t think this photo helps her to recognize Bobby later - it has no text “Bobby” on it, so the source for her recognizing him should be different. Well, Sam and Dean both have photos with Bobby, even framed. Maybe she just asked about Bobby when she saw him in another picture. 

In 12x02 while Mary is looking at End!verse photo Dean is also looking through his family pictures. I think that’s no coincidence there is no John in them.

Dean’s looking through the first part of his family photos, which he possibly could share with Sam. The second part, more personal, now in Mary’s hands with John’s journal that we know was Dean’s by this time.   

From 12x02 Mary metaphorically becomes a keeper of Dean’s secrets.

In 12x03 Mary also had a conversation with Cas. That was the time I thought they could be a nice couple because of dynamics. However they have no COUPLE dynamics - there is always Dean whom they’re both having in their minds, though in absolutely different ways. Mary as her grown child, Cas as his equal. 

From the first meeting, when Mary saw Cas hugging her son, for seasons 12-15 dynamics between them is significant to the main plot. But not because of its romantic (or parenting whatever) tone. It’s rather... understanding? Appreciation? Gratitude?

What does the text give to us is that Mary is significant to DeanCas relationship progressing. 

[boilinghunter]

Is he your angel too?

AO3 | 1.5k

At first, Dean -- this alternate Dean, HunterCorps, Trust Fund D. -- didn't really digest what had happened to him. Neither he or his brother really felt the weight of what they had escaped. Too caught up in the excitement that they had actually managed to escape into a different universe, too numb to feel the shock of something so horrible.

Some weeks after living in this new universe, it really, finally hit them. Everyone they knew, everything they knew was gone.

Sure, being told that their universe was destroyed by God was one thing, but understanding such a concept was another hurdle.

It started small. They had no money. No cards and such worked here. HunterCorps' resources couldn't bail them out this time, and John was long gone. Bobby of this universe had died some time ago, and the Bobby that was still here was a whole other can of worms. Traveling in this forsaken world where so many different decisions shaped their environment only served to highlight how out of place they were.

It wasn't too long before the Winchesters of this world heard back from their alternative selves, asking for help, for they had nothing else and no place to go. It was Sam and Cas that ended up convincing Dean to let them in for a time until they could get the two back on their feet and adjusted.

D. -- our trust fund alternative Dean -- sits at the dining table across from our normal Dean, contemplating. He had many questions to ask, but understood that Dean wasn't the patient kind. But he has to ask, he has to ask because every time he sees the angel pass by in the Bunker, making it apparent that they all lived together, something in him churns and broils, and he can't stand the feeling.

Eventually, Dean notices, looking up from his laptop when D. wouldn't stop flipping a bottle cap against the table. His skin crawls at seeing this distorted reflection of himself stare.

"What's wrong?" Dean asks bluntly, eyes darting over the man's face and the cap in his hands.

D. fumbles with the cap. "... A lot," He admits, suddenly not wanting to look at him. He can't tell if it's because the pain of loss was still prevalent, or if because he was embarrassed.

"Apparently," Dean replies, rubbing his face. He pauses for a moment, deciding, then closes his laptop to give the man his attention. "Alright, let's just do this. Talk to me."

D. backpedals. "You know what, it's probably not a big deal--"

"Buddy, I've been through literal Hell and back, I've seen shit you wouldn't even believe, but not my whole universe dying," Dean says, shaking his head. "Regardless of whatever... of however the hell Dad raised you, we're still the same guy, and I know for damn sure things only get worse for us when we don't talk. So, talk."

Funny enough, the bluntness of how this Dean spoke reminded him of his father. Meeting his eyes now, D. could draw even more parallels; this Dean is filled with scars, his skin different and coarse, hands calloused, crow's feet etched deeper into his face than his own, and his eyes -- those eyes carried the weight of the world, a burden he previously only saw in his father's eyes and those of veteran hunters on their last legs. Of soldiers, even. Life on this world did not treat him well, and it was no longer fascinating to be in a different universe.

But still, this Dean had many other good things in exchange, so he has to ask --

"... You guys said your dad died in this world, right?"

The question catches Dean off guard for a second, but he seems to shake it off. "Yeah, a while ago. He wasn't as goody two shoe perfect like yours if that's where this is going."

"So I've gathered. But, no, not my point, I just..." D. leans in, his voice a bit quiet when he finds the guts again to speak, as if imparting some great secret. "If he's not around, does that mean you got to be with... you know?"

D. makes a gesture Dean doesn't quite understand. He furrows his brows, holding a confused hand out. "... you know?"

D. grimaces slightly, drumming his fingers and pointing his head towards the hallway. "You know? Him?"

Dean doesn't want to answer. He feels something in him flip as his mind puts together the question, but he decides to pretend he doesn't understand. He's misinterpreting this, perhaps, and maybe this question is just--

"With Castiel." D. finally clarifies, and when Dean looks back up at him, there's almost a desperate expression on his face.

Immediately, Dean finds himself defensive. He chokes out a dismissive laugh, waving him off. "What? What are you -- Buddy, I don't know what kind of--"

"He lives with you, I noticed," D. continues, resting back into his chair. "You all have this... family. Sammy's here, Castiel's alive -- you guys even have a son --" He lets out a sigh, shaking his head. "I had to hide this stuff from my dad. But you..."

Dean's heart stops for a moment, registering the words spoken. D. had been talking about his life in his universe, sure, but never anything personal, always just the broad strokes of their successes and accomplishments, things that made Dean feel more disconnected and able to think of the other man as just a stranger, and not some weird version of himself. Considering how different things were, he didn't even stop to wonder if Castiel had been in this other life, and what he must have been like --

"... Me?" Dean looks around, as if expecting someone to walk in on the conversation. He brings his voice to a hush. "No, I don't know, I mean -- you, ah, you... were with him?"

D. quietly reaches into his pocket, fishing out a black leather wallet with presumptuous sigils embroidered into it. He pops it open, sliding out a small photo that had been tucked away safely in it and sets it down for Dean to see.

His chest flares upon seeing it.

It's a relatively old photo, D. in a nice tux, a bright smile on his face and blurred confetti falling over him, and his arm looped around another. Dean gently pulls the photo closer with a finger, eyes trailing over the other man in a matching tux, unmistakably that of Castiel, planting a kiss on D.'s cheek. The photo radiates a pure joy Dean would only dream of, and he doesn't expect the effect it has on him, eyes stinging as the feeling of longing he'd always buried swung back full force.

"In secret," D. says, his voice strained. "Bobby, Sam, Ellen -- they were witness to our, ah..."

"Wedding..."

D. nods, cracking a sad smile. "Dad would kill me if he found out. It's been the worst secret I've had to keep. And I just... keep thinking about him. We already used his grace to help open this rift, and he didn't even..."

Dean can only stare. D. and his brother had come alone, but he remembers the comments he made about them all going together. Those two were likely the only survivors to make it, and D. was just lucky to be numb enough not to feel the loss immediately. Dean remembers the pain that haunted him when he couldn’t bring Cas out of Purgatory -- he doesn’t even want to imagine what his other self must be feeling.

"But he's alive here," D. manages to continue, searching for that silver lining. "He's... not as happy as mine, but he's here. And he's with you. I can take solace in that."

Even in this alternate universe, Dean loved that angel. Even in this other world he found love in the same man -- same angel. To say Dean didn't love Castiel, well, he knows he's been lying to himself, but it was always easier to repress it and focus on their work and end times and hunting and anything to keep his mind off these feelings that had been gnawing on him for so many years.

But this other Dean had everything, even Cas despite hiding it. He felt guilty, suddenly, that this Dean, who had everything, envied him.

Dean snaps out of his train of thought when he recognizes the body language change in the other man, watching as D. rebuilt walls around his ego and puts on a smile that says 'I'm okay'. Some things were still universal. "Well, sorry to bug you, guess I was just too curious. I uh, hope I didn’t make you feel weird, I realize I don’t know what... you guys are like here.”

“No, it’s okay, I think I just wasn’t, well,” He laughs a bit, scratching his neck. “Expecting that. I mean, it’s not a bad thing, I guess I just kind of...”

D. raises his hands his hands. “If I made you uncomfortable--”

“No. I think I just... wish I had that too.”

[ayankun]

coffee shop au bitches (working title)

here, have this rough draft of the first half of part 1.  consider it proof of concept.  (the concept is Destiel Coffee Shop AU, but actually good) (”good;” YMMV)

9.3k words; Cas is human like everyone else so to compensate I made him socially anxious af; there’s a brief unpleasantness wherein someone in customer service gets harassed so watch out for that I guess; Cas is also carrying a lot of baggage (literally and metaphorically) and it’s vague for now but a little wearisome so GLHF I promise when it’s done-done they all get the kind of happy endings they deserved from the show

The town of Lebanon, Kansas sprang up without warning, its tree-lined streets shockingly claustrophobic after the three hours of patchwork browns and greens streaming by the smudgy window, the rolling plains uninterrupted to the very ends of the earth until the blank blue September sky finally picked up where the horizon left off.

Castiel felt his eyes strain, forced to reel in his thousand-yard stare, as he squinted at the blur of tidy little houses perched along Lebanon's brief outskirts.  He blinked away from the window and pushed himself to his feet, sidling carefully into the aisle to pull his duffle down from the overhead rack.  In short order, the bus turned onto the tidy little Americana main street and rolled up to a tidy little bus stop, and, reaching back into his seat to retrieve his briefcase, he squinted out at this, too.  

The screech of well-worn brakes, the brace against the final lurch of inertia, the hiss and clack of the doors at the front and back folding open; with no more pomp and circumstance than that, Castiel's journey reached its end.  Clutching the handle of his briefcase and slinging the straps of his duffle over one shoulder, he edged down the aisle and nodded his thanks to the driver on his way down the steps.  Finally, Castiel planted his sensible shoes on the cracked sidewalk, looked carefully up and down the stretch of unremarkable, middle-of-nowhere civilization, and wondered what the hell he thought he was doing here.

The bus shrieked and rumbled back into the non-existent late afternoon traffic, a thick gout of black exhaust signaling its farewell, leaving Castiel behind before he had a chance to change his mind.  He watched its departure absently for half a moment, road-weary and numb.  Then he hiked his duffle a little more snug against his back, turned around, and began an unhurried stroll the shady two and a half blocks back to the motel on the south side of town.

---

"Been expecting you," the woman behind the counter said the second Castiel pulled open the glass door to the motel office.

He paused, looked over his shoulder, saw no one among the growing shadows of the motel's empty parking lot, no one except a trucker hopping out of his cab parked at the gas 'n sip on the opposite corner.  Castiel watched him jog across the street towards the Biggerson's, the lights of its enormous, highway-facing sign flickering on in welcome, and turned back to shoulder his way inside.  "I did reserve a room over the phone," Castiel said, approaching the counter, "And I was told that a few . . . personal items would be held for me at the front desk?"

The woman, Billie, according to her name tag, responded with a nod, less in answer to his question and more in the way one does when one is not surprised by what they've just heard.  She pulled the keyboard to the old desktop computer closer to herself with one hand, and held the other out, palm up, to Castiel.  "ID and credit card."

Setting his briefcase down on the floor, Castiel dug inside his overcoat's interior pocket for his wallet.  By rote he thumbed out the military ID to give her, but at the last second his heart gave a sharp little twist and he drew it back.  Her lips twitched, nonplussed, but she waited patiently until he handed her his driver's licence instead.  She studied the picture on it for a second, mouthed the name, and carefully considered the face on the photo compared to the face on the man in front of her.  He shifted his feet nervously, thinking he should have just given her the first one, if only to avoid looking any more disreputable than he already did.  

Evidently their hangdog looks matched to her satisfaction, though, and she snapped the plastic down onto the counter, shifted her attention to the computer to check him in.

"Room's yours for the week," she read off the screen as he retrieved his licence and put the credit card down in its place.  She slid it over to herself without looking, only glancing down to read the numbers, obsidian black fingernails clacking proficiently over the ten-key peripheral plugged into the side of the keyboard.  "Checkout's at eleven on the 25th."

When she slid the card back over to him, Castiel palmed it off the counter, put it back into the wallet behind his IDs (driver's license on top), tucked the wallet back into his overcoat.  "Um.  I'm not exactly sure yet -- I may need to extend my stay."  Absently, he wondered why he sounded like he was apologizing for it.

Billie looked up from the computer screen at him, neutral.  "Whatever you need.  We can do you by the week, month, whatever.  Got your card on file, so you just let me know when I should stop charging it."

Castiel tried a smile he didn't feel, thinking as he did so that he probably shouldn't have bothered with one, what with how it seemed to crumple his face in unnatural ways.  "I will let you know, thank you."

She pulled a blank key card from a drawer and ran it through the machine to code it for his room.  "Here you go," she said, slapping it onto the counter with another plasticky snap, "Room 401."

"Thank you," he said again, taking the key card and putting it into his coat's front pocket. She held up a hand to keep him from running straight off to the room, a slightly unnecessary gesture, since he had no intention to do so.  Not without the banker's box that she was now pulling out from under the counter.

It was sealed with tamper-evident tape, noticeably intact as she spun it 180 degrees so he could also see his name and a brief description of the contents inked with a tidy hand in the space provided on the lid.  Billie pushed the box toward him and then tapped a nail over one of the items on the contents list.  "She's parked out front."

Castiel peered down at the item she had indicated.  "Keys," it said, rather cryptically, in that unfamiliar, efficient script.  He nodded.  "Thank you."

He bent to pick up the handle of his briefcase, letting the duffle fall farther across his back as he did so in order to free up space under his arm for the banker's box.  It worked, albeit inelegantly, and he felt a little foolish as he fumbled the box off the counter and turned to go.  He felt even worse when Billie said to his back:  "I'm sorry for your loss."

No part of him wanted to say "thank you" again, so he just paused long enough to indicate that he had heard her, and then went out through the glass door and back into the shadowed parking lot without saying a damn thing.

---

Room 401 opened into a concise sort of entryway that pointed him toward a small kitchenette lit primarily by the glare of the Biggerson's sign falling in through the window.  The space featured a round table with peeling laminate, two plastic-and-stainless-steel chairs, a sink and a microwave and a loudly humming fridge.  It was downright lavish compared to the accommodations Castiel had shifted between for the better part of his life.

The banker's box went onto the table, to be ignored until the time came Castiel felt ready to pry inside.

He shrugged his duffle off onto the end of the bed, the briefcase going onto the floor at its foot.  Successfully offloaded, Castiel turned and sat beside the duffle with his hands in his lap, looking at the boxy little TV set sitting on top of a banged up little dresser; at the dusty looking armchair shoved back in the corner to his right, under a dusty looking lamp; at the dim alcove immediately to the right of the TV, keeping discreet the bathroom sink and mirror and the door to the toilet and shower.

He didn't know what to do now.

Twisting to look at the digital clock on the bedside table, he marked the time with no real interest.  Just after 6:30.  Not enough daylight left to try and find his way around town, too early to sleep.  Not that he really felt compelled to do either of those things.  Not that he felt compelled to do anything.

But he had to do something, though, didn't he?  He had to keep moving forward, in whatever small way he could manage.  He had to.

With a long sigh that seemed almost to empty him completely, Castiel got to his feet.  He pulled his overcoat off, went to the alcove closet to hang it up, stopped at the sink to splash some water on his face.  He took a moment to appreciate his appearance -- mournful and aggressively unkempt after two solid days on the road -- before stepping out of the alcove to retrieve the briefcase.  He opened it on the bed and slipped the laptop out, digging around for the charger, and brought both to the dresser, setting the laptop to one side and plugging it into the outlet he found by tracing the TV's power cord.

He stood there, hunched a little over the open laptop, waiting for it to wake from its hibernating state.  He could check his email, at least, or scroll through the news he'd missed while in the air and in taxis and in the air again and in buses that sailed too quickly through isolated islands of 4G signal that lit up only a single bar before going dark again.

His desktop loaded, the wallpaper a heavily-filtered photo he'd pulled from who-knew-where:  just an expanse of faded teal, adorned only by a single, old-fashioned kite, bold and bright with primary colors, pinned there on the sky by an unseen breeze for all eternity.  He had set it a long time ago and never changed it; the image was a small comfort, though for what reason, he couldn't tell.  It wasn't his memory.

The fleeting sense of well-being provided by the tranquil wallpaper faded as quickly as it had come.  The only Wi-Fi network in range was named "Big D's iPhone" and it was locked.  Castiel refreshed the network scan a few times, hoping to see something that looked like it was related to the motel, but nothing else appeared.  He fished his phone out of his pocket for a second opinion, but it, too, displayed just the one fishy looking hotspot and very little 4G, even though he swung it around like an idiot, dowsing the room for a signal, watching the littlest bar wink at him no matter which out-of-the-way corner he took it to.

He even found himself squeezing between the table and the window, pushing the curtain aside as if the radio waves were having trouble making it through the few millimeters of dusty fabric.  He knew better, but it couldn't hurt.  In the Biggerson's lot, catty corner to the motel, a sleek black muscle car came to life with an animal growl, and he watched it prowl out onto the street and streak out towards the highway, taking Big D's iPhone with it.

---

It wasn't Billie manning the motel office when Castiel made his way back inside.  He didn't know why this should surprise him, but the fact that his expectations had been subverted in such a minor way somehow made him stutter his step as he entered.

The woman lounging in the office chair with her boots on the counter didn't wear a nametag.  She did look up from her magazine -- Knives Illustrated -- but only for a second, just a cool, cursory glance to let him know that she knew he was there and also that she wasn't too bothered by it.

"Howdy there, Clarence," she drawled.

Castiel didn't look over his shoulder, this time, but he did falter to a premature stop halfway to the counter, searching the vast middle distance as he tried to quickly figure out if he had enough information to parse the greeting.  He didn't.

"My name is Castiel," he informed her cautiously, eyes lifting to meet hers over the cover of her magazine.

She turned a page.  "Knew it was something hokey like that."

"Yes, well . . . hello," he said, brow furrowing.  She turned another page and he pulled his hand down over his rough five o'clock shadow, a token from his time on the road.  He probably should have cleaned up before leaving the room, but here he was.  He stepped forward, "Excuse me--"

"You're excused," she sing-songed at him.  The magazine dropped just enough to reveal her razor-sharp grin; it was not too dissimilar to the image on the front cover.

"--I was wondering if you knew where I might find a decent Wi-Fi signal in town."  He arrived at the counter as he was speaking, and placed both his hands palms down on its surface.  When she didn't stop looking at him, he picked his hands back up and dropped them to his sides.

She went back to the magazine.  "Depends.  Business or pleasure?"

"Alright," Castiel said, defeated, hands clenching irritably at nothing, "I apologize for having bothered you.  Enjoy your evening."

He turned his back on her, and wasn't going to stop even when he heard the magazine slap closed and her boots clump to the floor, but still that's exactly what he ended up doing as she called, "Hold up, C."

It was the impromptu nickname more than anything, since hearing it inspired him to send a pinched look of consternation back in her direction, where she was now leaning towards him with her forearms planted on the counter, her straight dark hair falling over one shoulder.  "I was only having a little fun," she told him once she was sure she had secured his attention, "We don't get fresh meat like you too often around these parts, and a girl's got needs.  How could I resist?"

"That is a very forward way to speak to a customer," Castiel intoned, the dip of his head turning judgemental.  He'd seen looks like that before; his skin crawled when they were for him.  His hands balled up and flapped open again, trying to shake it off.  "Good night."

"Best bet's the Roadhouse," she told him just as he reached out to push open the door.  Again, he paused, against his better judgement, and she took that as her cue to continue, "Just head on up Main Street, you can't miss it.  If you hit the prairie, you've gone too far."

Castiel ducked his head, hiding the twitch of a small, rueful smile at the joke that slipped its way in at the last second.  "Thanks," he said, more to the half-opened door than to anyone else.

"You watch yourself out there, fresh meat," she hollered a parting warning as the door swung shut behind him, "The freaks come out at night."

---

Castiel walked back to his room to get his overcoat, taking in the rosy hues of twilight that striated the western sky dead ahead of him, chewing over the likelihood that the insouciant woman meant what she'd said.  He couldn't imagine that a small town like this would be terribly dangerous after dark, but, then again --

Stopping at the door to 401, he carefully prodded his better judgement into at least considering taking the car -- he looked at it from the corner of his eye, trying not to dwell too long on the idea that its previous owner would have left indelible personal traces behind -- and, sure enough, he wasn't ready to go digging.  Not in the box, and certainly not in the car.

Castiel gently shook out the fist he had made, swept his eyes over the brilliance of the western sky, and decided he was in the right kind of mood for a walk.

He unlocked his door, entered the room to grab his overcoat, stuffed the laptop back into the briefcase, exited again, pointed himself towards Main Street without giving the car another thought.

---

Turned out she was right about one thing, the Roadhouse was impossible to miss.

From the way the neon sign lit up the rustic wood siding of the cowboy-chic exterior, he half worried the establishment was a bar of some sort.  The windows were dark, the shades drawn down against the setting sun, so he only could only make a guess based on what the exterior looked like.  Hesitating on the sidewalk under a street lamp, Castiel squinted up at it and waged a minor civil war with himself as to whether it would be worth it to go in and find out.

He slowly turned around on the spot, in his little pool of light, casting up and down the nearly deserted street for some kind of sign that would help him choose one way or the other.  Small town Kansas didn't seem to have much going for it, in the way of nightlife; from what he could tell, the storefronts looked exclusively like the little mom-and-pops one would expect from the heartland -- the highway-adjacent Biggerson's the evident exception -- and all of these were either closed or closing.

He completed his inspection, coming face to face once again with the Roadhouse.  On the one hand, it purportedly had Wi-Fi, his current mission being to locate the same.  On the other hand, it looked like a bar, and he didn't want to walk in there with his out-of-towner face, with his uncool overcoat and his briefcase, and specifically avoid ordering alcohol.

He was just coming around to the idea that he could very well survive off the grid for a night when a pair of headlights attached to a shadow came roaring down from the north end of the street at him, the car banking into a smooth, undoubtedly illegal U-turn in the middle of the block, slinking confidently into the open space directly under Castiel's street lamp.  The engine cut off, then the lights, and then a man was ducking out of the driver's side, slamming the door shut behind him.

Castiel was stuck.  He hadn't counted on this particular type of social awkwardness, caught loitering on the street without anything to say for himself.  He averted his eyes, expecting the man to pass him by and go on with his business, but to his increasing embarrassment and frustration, the guy stepped up onto the sidewalk and shoved his keys into a pocket of his green canvas jacket and definitely didn't continue on his way.

"Coming or going?" he asked.  The voice was something of a deep growl, but the tone was friendly enough.  

Castiel looked up to be polite, or, at least, to be less weird.  "I don't know," he found himself saying.  Any chance to possibly come across as a reasonable human being was thoroughly smashed, he thought.  He couldn't talk his way out of this one, even if he tried.  Especially if he tried.  "I've only just arrived," he added.

The guy looked him up and down, not in a lecherous way, or even in a macho, sizing up the competition way; just an unguarded appraisal of his bus-rumpled appearance, the suspicious looking briefcase, the disconcerting way he was caught standing in the dark looking at the door of a place without going in.  The inspection was over in a second, and concluded with a good-natured nod and an open-handed wave that clearly said, "yeah, I figured out that much on my own."

"Well, we don't bite," the guy said aloud, slapping Castiel hard on the shoulder, making him rock from the impact and almost exactly undermining the sentiment.  He immediately turned and stepped up to the Roadhouse's door, hauling it open and beckoning back at Castiel to get his ass inside.  "C'mon, at this rate they'll be closed before you make up your mind."

If Castiel had been looking for some kind of sign, this was clearly providence's way of sending him one.

Even so, he realized he had started moving forward to accept the invitation without consciously meaning to, and, well, he had a lifetime of conditioning to thank for that.  Castiel, ever the good little soldier, taking orders at face value, instead of thinking for himself.  He frowned a little on the inside -- remembering to briefly tug a smile of thanks on the outside -- until the wave of warm, coffee-scented air hit him in the face along with the unavoidable understanding that the Roadhouse was not, in fact, a bar.

The relief of this revelation was powerful enough to enable him to put his weird little hangups back inside the box where they belonged, his outside smile going soft and honest around the edges, and he ducked his head sheepishly at the guy, who had followed him in.  Automatically angling himself towards the register, as one did one when one entered a coffee shop, he said, "I was informed there was Wi-Fi here.  Just not what 'here' was.  'The Roadhouse' sounds -- I thought perhaps it was a bar."

His honesty caught himself off-guard, uncertain as to where the need to explain himself to this stranger came from, exactly.  It was probably because he had already demonstrated the kind of small town friendliness that made Castiel feel like it would be read as rude if he didn't attempt a bit of smalltalk in return.  The guy looked like a nice enough sort of person to meet halfway; about Castiel's age, a little younger, perhaps; kind of a non-threatening good-ol'-boy with his ripped jeans, plaid flannel, and his not-quite-scruffy-not-quite-clean-cut style.  Castiel thought that maybe he could survive being social for a minute or two, with someone like this.

Instantly, this thought hit a bump in the road, as his new friend twisted a funny look at him.  "Got something against bars?"

Castiel dropped his eyes and tried to ignore his obvious misstep while he drifted into the back of the line, behind a towering mountain of a man in a black leather jacket.  Castiel wasn't short, by any stretch of the imagination, but the two men hemming him in were both taller still.  He thought about his answer to the question, flicking rapidly through the options, but wasn't able to pick one that was both simple and truthful before the guy abruptly leaned in.  This startled Castiel, who instinctively shifted away a half step, shoulder bumping up against the glass that separated him from a shiny brass espresso machine.

The guy didn't notice his discomfort, having breached Castiel's personal space to say in a stage whisper:  "If it's rough company you're worried about, nothin' to be afraid of, around here.  The real seedy joints are across town.  Ain't that right, Tiny?"

At this last, he straightened up and raised his voice some, directing the question straight past Castiel.

Castiel turned his head to see the huge leather jacket man fixing the tall canvas jacket man with a full-bodied glare.  He also, at this time, took in the man's shaved head and appreciated the twisting serpent logo coiled on the back of the jacket.  He shifted even closer to the espresso machine, clearing the space between the two men as best he could.

But "Tiny" didn't otherwise react, just turned back and stepped up to the register, boots heavy on the wooden floor.

"Wi-Fi's pretty decent here, yeah," Castiel's companion went on.  Castiel looked back to him, surprised to see him relaxed and indifferent, like he hadn't just specifically tried to antagonize a 400-pound member of a biker gang after dark.  "And the lattes are alright.  Fair warning:  your choices are pretty much either that or black coffee, those're the only things the kid can't mess up too bad."

Off the guy's nod over Castiel's shoulder, he obediently turned and saw the referenced kid -- in actuality, a young, sandy-haired man of about seventeen or eighteen -- working the espresso machine on the other side of the glass.  The milk frother hissed demonstratively for a moment, the kid's face pinched in comically serious concentration on the task, but when he shoved the arm back into the off position, he looked up to see who was watching him and broke out into one of the purest smiles Castiel had ever seen.

"Hello!" the kid said, sunnily, like Castiel was his closest friend and not a literal stranger gawking at him like a zoo animal.  The hand that had been operating the machine was summarily raised in greeting, palm forward, fingers wide.  He radiated a positively angelic energy that instantly made Castiel feel at ease, despite the anxiety of the last several minutes, somehow even despite the soul-crushing weight he'd brought with him to town.

"Hello . . . Jack," Castiel replied, after realizing he could make out the kid's name tag pinned to his apron.  Pinned to their apron, rather, as he belatedly noted the "they/them" pronoun declaration stuck on underneath the name with white label tape.  He smiled, the desire to return just a small portion of the hospitality he'd received so far rising ferociously inside him, one of the strongest emotions he'd had the pleasure of feeling in recent memory.  "I've been informed I should try one of your lattes."

He nodded at the stainless steel carafe of foamed milk in the kid's hand, and they looked down at it as if they'd forgotten it was there.  "Oh!  Yes, I suppose you should."  They poured the milk into a waiting paper cup of espresso, face contorting back into that look of supreme concentration for only as long as it took to pour, smiling back up at Castiel the second the task was done.  "I'm still learning how to make everything, but I'm getting better at the basics."

"Yeah, you are," the guy behind Castiel said, in that manner of speaking that was as aggressive as it was supportive.  Jack grinned shyly, ducking their head at the praise, and shuffled the drink off to the pick-up counter on the other side of the register.

Castiel looked back over to see the guy grinning after the kid, and a thought hit him.  "Are you their . . . parent?" he asked, tripping and catching himself on Jack's pronoun only slightly, a very jarring rush of panic hitting him in time to swerve around using the word "father," just in case gender-nonconformity ran in the family.

The . . . person met Castiel's eye and then looked away, shrugging a little.  "Oh me?  Nah.  I mean.  Sorta.  We're kind of just, looking after them, I guess you could say."

The use of the first-person plural pronoun seemed like something Castiel would pry into next, were he the prying sort.  Instead, he very, very briefly wondered what the average household looked like in Lebanon, Kansas, these days, or if he'd just stumbled into the exception on accident.

A hand was extended his way, along with a name.  "Dean," Castiel was told as he accepted the handshake, "He/him, in case you were wondering."

Castiel let out an inward sigh of relief, and the guy winked before adding:  "Aquarius.  Stones, not Beatles.  Star Wars and Star Trek, but not the garbage that came out after the nineties."  Dean let Castiel's hand go with a chewed-on smile and something of a self-deprecating eyebrow wag.  "That's basically all the important stuff you have to know about me up front."

"Castiel," he returned, "And . . . I am also a man."

Dean snorted a short little breath at that, eyes bright.  He rubbed his chin, scratching through the close-trimmed stubble.  "Castiel, huh?"

Castiel pressed his lips together and took a moment to take stock of the state of his shoes, squaring himself for the inevitable question about his uncommon name, but for once it didn't come.  Dean didn't have the chance to ask it.  When Castiel glanced up, Dean was looking over Castiel's shoulder in the direction of the register, all traces of his friendly disposition replaced by a cold scowl.

As one did, Castiel, too, turned to follow Dean's gaze, searching out the source of his sudden displeasure.  For a second he assumed it had something to do with Jack, maybe getting into some difficult situation with a customer, but at a glance he saw that he only had it half right.  Instead of Jack, it was the young woman behind the register, who pulled her wrist out of Tiny's pawlike grasp as Castiel watched.

Castiel's throat closed up, his second-hand anxiety over the situation momentarily flooring him.  Embarrassed, he looked away, out over the sparsely populated cafe, everyone he saw slowly doing the same:  turning back to their screens and their friends, pretending nothing had happened.

Everyone but Dean, Castiel saw as he finally looked back up at him.  Dean was still watching Tiny closely, his brow drawn down and his mouth set in a firm line.  He flicked his eyes down to Castiel when he caught him looking, and did a stuttered double take when he realized he had accidentally leveled that glare at him.

Dean relaxed his expression into something more neutral, obviously seeing the stress on Castiel's face; while Dean was clearly angered by Tiny's overreach, Castiel couldn't help but project a grim ache that he didn't want to name.  Dean's head tilted, as if he was slowly cottoning on to the depth of Castiel's discomfort the longer he looked at him, and Castiel saw his jaw clench the moment before they both looked sharply back over at the register, hearing the woman's voice rise, frustrated and disgusted, over the country twang of the canned music pumping through the coffee shop's speakers.

"You kiss your mama with that mouth?"  The young woman had taken a full step back into the space behind the counter, dodging out of the way of Tiny's reach.  Castiel could see fire in her eyes, and barely registered Jack standing nervously on her other side.

Tiny laughed, a rolling chuckle that filled Castiel's gut with acid.  The huge man leaned up against the counter, shoving a shoulder as far as it would go into the open space next to the register, and curled his hand around the far edge of the counter.  "Why, you jealous?  How 'bout you pucker up, sweetcheeks, let me show you what you're missing."

In an instant, the nerves and disgust flushed out of Castiel's system, and in its place a white-hot righteous anger swirled up.  His hands twitched, settling for fists, and he took a lurching step forward, his briefcase swinging roughly into his leg, the emotion spilling out of him in a growl of "Hey, asshole--"

"Yeah, alright--" Dean growled at the same time, taking the same step forward, bringing him even with Castiel, the two men suddenly a solid wall staring daggers into Tiny's back.

"Stay out of this, Dean," the young woman said, fierce.  The tone in her voice caused Jack to flinch, snatching back the reassuring hand they'd been tentatively reaching her way.

Tiny heaved himself off the counter, turning to face them slowly, deliberately, letting them appreciate his size and giving them ample time to reconsider the hill they might be about to die on.  Castiel's chin went up, eyes narrowed.  At his side, Dean sniffed and thumbed his nose, aggressively nonchalant.

A devil-may-care smile on his face, Dean put one arm wide.  "No can do, Jo.  There's a quick way to handle huge, steaming piles of human garbage like our friend Tiny here," he said, making stabbing motions with his hand at the man in question, "and I'd hate to see you lose your job over a broken jaw."

Castiel glanced sharply up at Dean, trying to gauge the realistic chances of an all-out brawl going down right here between the novelty mugs and the last of the day's homemade baked goods.  Lebanon, Kansas was quickly proving to be something other than the sleepy, middle of nowhere hamlet he had assumed it would be.  

In fairness, though, he had been warned that the freaks came out at night.

Dean didn't exactly look ready for a fight, though, loose-limbed and calm, fixing Tiny with a cocky grin that was daring the biker to make the first move.  Castiel forced his own shoulders down, his fist to relax around the handle of the briefcase he was gripping like a weapon.  He cut his eyes over to Tiny, who was equally not rising to the bait, just sneering at them for what he was reading as biteless bark.

"Like to see you try, pretty boy," Tiny said, digging in his heels.

Castiel frowned, seeing that the situation had ground into a stalemate before it had even started, two immovable objects sizing each other up, both content with the fact that the one who either struck first or walked away first would make himself the de facto loser of the conflict, one way or another.  Even so, Castiel strongly felt that neither of these two would be the type to walk away.  He raised a hand, palm out, and tried to press some sense into the moment before one of them exhausted their patience and decided to throw a match onto this powderkeg.

"No one has to try anything," he warned, making sure Dean knew he was included in the list of people encouraged to stand down, "Let's all conduct ourselves as civilized people.  Please, just leave the young woman alone, let her do her job in peace."

Tiny peered down at him and made it clear it wasn't about to back off just because a stranger in a rumpled trenchcoat asked him to play nice.

Dean, meanwhile, licked his bottom lip and looked like he might actually be considering his options.  He nodded, ducking his head as though coming to an overdue realization.

"See, I know Tiny's mom," Dean said, raising his eyebrows at Castiel.  

Castiel dropped his own right back at him, a suspicious squint pinching his face as he felt in his gut that the situation was about to spin off the axle in some unforeseen way, despite his best efforts to prevent that exact outcome.

Dean went on, unperturbed, sliding one hand into his pocket as he half turned away from Tiny, like he was just carrying on their friendly chat from before, like they didn't have a behemoth of an audience listening in.  "And I know she would be appalled -- shocked, even -- if she found out what her son was up to when she ain't looking.  Sweet old Martha, she's been in hospice for what, six weeks?  Seven?"  

He swiveled suddenly and jabbed his free hand at Tiny--  "Please, correct me if I'm wrong--"  Back to Castiel, he tapped his own chest twice to demonstrate-- "The ol' ticker's just not what it used to be, or so I hear.  Can't imagine what a bit of bad news might do to her delicate constitution."

As he said this last part, Dean's arm fell, and with it his cheery facade.  He rolled his head Tiny's direction, offering him one of the coldest, meanest looks Castiel had ever seen on a person.

All seven feet of Tiny was now quivering with a quiet kind of rage, his boiled egg of a head going pink as he struggled to hold it in, to not lose the game of chicken he and Dean were playing.  "You're not gonna tell my Ma nothing, you hear me?"

Dean exploded forward a half step, a finger viciously stabbing the air in the vicinity of Tiny's face.  "You stop being a dick, and I'll have nothing to tell," he roared.

"Dean!" Jo shouted over the top of him, slamming her hands down on the counter.

Everyone in the coffee shop flinched.  Castiel felt himself hang his head, feeling the sting as if he himself had been scolded.  But he'd made himself a part of it, stepped in and got involved, hadn't been able to prevent escalation.  He looked out of the corner of his eye at Jo, thinking that maybe he should apologize, but she was just glaring at Dean with hard eyes and a furious shake of her head.

"Out," she ordered.

Dean ignored the way she obviously meant him, and swung an open grin Tiny's way, canines and tongue showing.  "You heard the little lady."

Jo grit her teeth.  "Both of you, out.  We don't need your kind of trouble here."

Something about what she'd said or how she said it got Dean's attention.  He dropped his arms to his sides with a slap of canvas on canvas, twisting her way with a schoolboy pout pulling down his face.  "C'mon, Jo.  You know I didn't mean it.  You know me.  I would never--"

"Save it," she cut him off.  "Jack's shift ends in twenty-five minutes.  Go wait in the car."

There was a second where Dean gaped, fish out of water, at the order, but the cool, commanding look that came with it forcibly shut his mouth with an audible click and he reared back, bumping into Castiel slightly.  "Alrighty, then," he huffed, stomping the wrong way through the line and on towards the door without looking back.  

Castiel watched his boots retreat over the polished wood of the floor, heard the bang of the door being slammed open with more force than absolutely necessary, then tilted his head to catch Jo giving Tiny the same icy treatment.

"What are you waiting for, then, an invitation?  Go on, get.  And if you try something like that again, trust me, I won't bother with your Ma.  I'll go get mine."  She smiled, sweet and sharp, leaned forward over the counter, right into Tiny's personal space, to make sure her point wasn't missed.  "And we can see how many bones she can break before the Sheriff hauls her off your dead body."

An ominous kind of tension straightened Castiel's shoulders, surprised at Jo's candid threat, doubtful that hers would work where Dean's had failed.  After a moment, though, Tiny heaved his bulk away from the counter, gave Castiel a dirty look, and similarly made his inglorious retreat into the night.

Castiel wondered what was going to happen now between the two men, whether they were going to carry on in the street or just back off to lick their wounds until their next meeting.  He hoped Dean had sense enough to actually get in the car, at least.

"Next!"

Distracted from the errant thought of the well-being of a near stranger, Castiel turned to see Jo smiling at him from behind the register, the picture of award-winning customer service, and nothing like the stone-cold demon who had seconds ago threatened to have her mother bludgeon a customer to death.  He stepped up to place his order, thoroughly cowed.

"I apologize for the scene, for my part in it," he told her quietly as he leaned to one side to set the briefcase on the floor at his feet, reaching for his wallet.  "You clearly didn't need us to butt in, but still, I hope you're alright."

She waved his apology away, shaking her head.  "Nothing to be sorry for, it's fine.  Small town like this, hard for some folk to avoid bumping into the folk they shouldn't be bumping into.  It happens, you handle it, you move on.  What can I get started for you tonight?"

Castiel offered her a small smile, feeling it press a little tight around his eyes, his misplaced guilt swirling harder at her need to project such a tough exterior.  It was unfortunate and unfair that the world demanded the thickest skins from some people more than others, and his heart ached in a vague, nameless way, wishing there was something he could do to alleviate the need for someone so young to have constructed such a defensive worldview.

Off her expectant look, he willed himself to remember what he ought to be doing in the here and now.  He gave the menu board on the back wall a cursory review, not really consuming its contents in any meaningful way, until he looked down and caught Jack's eye from where the eager barista floated at a respectful distance between Jo and the espresso machine.

Castiel smiled, this time with notable ease as he remembered Dean's earlier suggestion.  "A small latte, please.  It came highly recommended."

"You got it," Jo nodded, punching the order into the register and pulling a cup from the stack.  "Your name?"  She looked up at him, reaching into a mug with a missing handle to fish out a Sharpie.

"Uh, Castiel," he supplied, and spelled it for her benefit, just in case.

"Castiel," she repeated, as most did when confronted with his name for the first time, trying it out for themselves, "That's got kind of a Biblical ring to it, doesn't it?  Don't tell me you're some kind of guardian angel?"  

"Hardly," Castiel murmured, dropping his gaze to focus on pulling the correct currency out of his wallet.

Jo passed the cup with his name on it to Jack, who immediately took it to the espresso machine and got to work, that same serious look of concentration commandeering their entire face for the duration.

"Anything else for you today?" she asked.  

It was one of those scripted niceties that Castiel truly appreciated about by-the-book social interactions.  A perfect sequitur that spared him the effort of trying to come up with one on his own.  "Do you have a password for the Wi-Fi?"

She nodded, slipping a business card sized piece of paper from a loose stack next to the register, and handed it over in trade for the cash he gave her in return.  As she punched open the till and dug around for his change, he glanced down at the code.  It read "N@turomDem0nto," which, as far as Wi-Fi passwords went, was certainly one.

The till banged shut with a ring, Jo handing him back his change.  Seeing his bemused look as he inspected the hotspot info, she explained, "Sorry, I know it's a little out there.  Our IT guy, Ash, he's a bit of a supernatural freak."

"I see," Castiel said agreeably, though he felt fairly certain that there was some additional piece of trivia he was missing to be able to recognize the significance of the unintelligible string of letters and numbers.  He put the paper into his pocket, dumped the loose change from his palm into the tip jar, and retrieved his briefcase.  "Thank you."

Jo's eyebrows came down, not unkindly, as her lips pursed in baffled amusement.  "No problem," she laughed, shaking her head at him.  "Jack'll have your drink out in a minute."  She waved him in the direction of the pickup counter, and Castiel went gratefully on his way, looking forward to the upcoming stretch of time where he didn't have to make small talk, or try to avoid physical altercations, or accidentally say "thank you" after tipping.

The remaining patrons of the Roadhouse appeared to have cleared out since he had last looked, but whether this was due to the late hour or the recent potential for violence, he couldn't be sure.  Castiel thought about Dean waiting for Jack out in that beast of a car; thought about Tiny (or men like him) lurking out on the streets.  

He pulled out his phone, noting the time as he thumbed to the Wi-Fi settings.  Again, the hotspot listing was sparse, just the one named after the Roadhouse -- finally, full bars -- and, to his muted surprise, "Big D's iPhone."

He was still looking curiously at the cafe's curtained windows, in the direction where he knew that sleek black muscle car with the animal growl was parked under a street lamp, when a bright voice chimed behind him:  "Here you go!"

Sliding his phone back into his pocket, Castiel turned to face Jack, finding a bloom of warmth filling the hollow of his chest to see them sliding his latte over with an exceedingly proud look on their face, certain of a job well done.  Right on the drink's tail, Castiel was surprised to see a small plate with a piece of apple pie being pushed his way as well.

He held up his hand to stop or question the freebie, thinking he hadn't done anything today to have earned getting rewarded with pie, but Jo popped up at Jack's side and gave him one of those looks he already recognized as meaning he wouldn't be allowed to decline.  His bottom lip pursed, he reached out and obediently pulled the plate the rest of the way over with one finger.

"At closing time, we either have trash all the leftover perishables or give 'em away," Jo explained.  She nodded down at the plate with something of a wicked grin, "Normally I'd be packing this up for Jack to take home for Dean, but here's hoping I can teach him something by revoking his pie privileges for one night."

Castiel's eyes went wide, and his hand flew off the rim of the plate as though it had burned him.  Before he could figure out a way to articulate how uncomfortable it made him to know he was stealing someone's pie, Jack laughed and shook their head.

"No, it's okay, really.  Sam's always saying Dean needs to watch what he eats.  So, you're helping!"  They chirped this last bit with a scrunch of the eyes and a jerky shrug of their shoulders.  Jo backed the assertion, a tilt of her head and a jag of her brow to say Castiel really didn't have the room to argue with either of them on this.

"Ah," Castiel said, eyeing the pie like it was a plate full of gold, feeling completely unworthy, "If that's the case. . ."

He looked up, met Jo's and then Jack's eyes, and told them solemnly, "I appreciate it."

Jack's endearing smile crinkled onto their face again, and Jo patted them on the arm.

"Hey, we're all set here," she said to Jack, "Why don't you clock out a little early, okay?  I won't tell my mom."

Castiel kept his small smile to himself, busied himself shifting his briefcase to his other hand as Jack eagerly tripped off to head out for the night.  Still, he lingered a little at the pickup counter, not missing the guarded way Jo eyed the front door, which gave nothing away as to what kind of trouble might still be skulking in the night on the other side.

She caught him noticing, which was fine, because his thoughts were running along similar tracks.  It gave him the cue to share his own.  "Um," he started, glancing away, "Would it be a problem if I stayed until closing?  There's, uh, no Wi-Fi at the motel."

When he looked back over at her, shy, she was giving him a soft eye roll with her mouth screwed up to one side to hide some kind of smile.  She chewed on the inside of her cheek a moment, then looked heavenward with a good-natured sigh.

"You know, for a guy who swears he's not a guardian angel--"

Behind her, Jack, who had traded their apron for a colorful windbreaker, swung through the half-door at the far end of the counter, on the other side of the espresso machine, and called out a chipper, "Good night, Jo!  Good night, sir, hope you enjoy your drink!"

Oh.  Castiel hastily lifted the paper cup, Jo waving her own goodbye as Jack trotted across the shop floor towards the exit.  He took a sip of the latte, cringing a little to discover that it was still far too hot to drink without caution; even so, he smiled at Jack and gestured with the cup.  "It's very good, thank you."

He was treated to another of those full-face, joyous smiles, and then Jack was out the door and Castiel was left alone with Jo, his scalding latte, and his unearned pie.  He thumbed the lip of the plastic to-go lid, only half-certain she had approved of him sticking around now that she was on her own behind the counter.  For all she knew, he could be just as rotten as any of them, just biding his time until--

"Please help yourself to our Wi-Fi for as long as you'd like," Jo told him, fixing him with a kind, if ever-so-slightly bemused, look.  

He nodded his thanks, and, using the bottom of his drink, shifted the pie plate over to the edge of the counter where he caught it in the fingers of the hand already tucked under the handle of the briefcase, maxing out his awkwardness in doing so.  Jo was biting her lip, watching the juggling act unfold before her, but she didn't otherwise comment.  With a short smile of parting, Castiel fled -- cautiously -- to a small table at one of the shaded windows, far from Jo and close to the door.

As he went, the sound of a car engine, startling in both how loud and how familiar it seemed to him, rumbled up through the coffee shop's backdrop of picked guitars and singing fiddles.  By the time Castiel took a seat, it had already roared off into the distance.  He was glad its driver seemed not to have run into any further trouble, after all.

Drink settled, pie settled, Castiel himself settled, he set the briefcase on the floor beside him and clicked it open just enough to drag the laptop out from the pocket. He slid it onto the table between his other items, determined to connect to the Wi-Fi and check his email, to do the one thing he had ventured out to do, even if only to say he had.

As suspected, he now saw no trace of "Big D's iPhone" nearby, and carefully punched in the access code to the Roadhouse's network.  The computer connected without fanfare.  Dutifully, he clicked on his email app and watched the logo splash pop up over the muted periwinkle of his desktop wallpaper.

While the program loaded up, he reached out and pulled the pie over and dug a chunk out of it with the fork that had been so kindly provided.  The first bite reminded him that he hadn't eaten since Kansas City, and his focus narrowed to the singular task of slicing and chewing until there was nothing left but crumbs stuck to the cinnamon-sugary tracks his fork made as it scraped over the plate's inexplicable cowboy boot pattern.

Returning the plate and fork to the table with a sigh, Castiel took up his latte, now sufficiently cooled, and sipped this while flicking his fingers over the laptop's trackpad, disinterestedly scrolling through his inbox.  The loss of a few of his taste buds notwithstanding, he found he was able to appreciate the quality of Jack's handiwork, and he felt retroactively absolved for the preemptive high marks he'd given.

He stopped scrolling.  Not that he'd been paying attention to the task anyway, but thinking about the young person's ineffable good cheer and the mercurial temper of their guardian had him staring at the curtain as if he could see straight through it, into the street and the night, imagining the shine of the street lamp off the hood of that dangerous-looking car.

He drank the rest of his latte while absorbed in the expanse of his mind's eye, the limitless vistas of the day's bus ride peppered with half-remembered moments of the evening so far,  impressions of the short stretch of Main Street Lebanon he'd traversed, the faces of strangers blending one into the next into the next.  There was one face in particular that he kept circling back to, though, and one moment that was sharper than the rest.

Standing under that street lamp, waiting.  Waiting for--

"Sorry to interrupt," Jo said, tentative, seeming to materialize at Castiel's table.

He whipped his head away from the window -- had he really just been staring blankly at the curtain this whole time?  What must she think -- and pushed back his chair to try to get with the program.  "Sorry -- you've probably been waiting--"

She laughed and held up her hands, and he slowed his frantic sweeping of his belongings from the table.  "Whoa, there.  I was just gonna give you a five-minute heads up, is all.  Didn't mean to spook you."

Castiel perched the briefcase he had snagged from the floor onto his vacated chair, and gently slid the laptop back inside.  "I'm fine," he said, snapping the clasp closed, "please don't let me hold you up."

"No worries," she told him, and when he darted his eyes over to her, she was giving him that slightly amused, slightly puzzled look she'd been giving him since he walked in.  She cleared his plate and cup from the table and made off with them.  He picked up his briefcase and pushed in the chair, standing purposelessly there at its side.

She looked back over her shoulder at him, seeing him not leaving.  "Five minutes," she said again, "and then I'm going to let you walk me to my car, okay?  You seem sweet, and I just can't help feeling like you'll have an aneurysm or something if I walk out there alone."

"Sorry," Castiel repeated.  He frowned, suddenly very invested in the stitching on his briefcase handle.  "I've overstepped again."

Jo pushed open the swinging half-door of the counter and regarded him from across the coffee shop floor.  "I'll let it slide, this once.  Just don't make a habit of it," she told him with mock-gravitas, fighting back a telling smile before disappearing into the back.

It was a joke, he could tell, something to dispel the awkward energy Castiel had fomented up around himself.  It worked, just a little, and he took a deep breath and let it out in a quiet sigh at himself.  Anyway, he could promise her that, and easily.  He didn't know exactly how long he'd end up spending in Lebanon, Kansas, but it wasn't like he was planning on sticking around forever.

He shuffled his feet, waiting on Jo's return, and willed himself to imagine opening that sealed box.  Digging out the keys to the wide, boxy, gold-colored Lincoln Continental.  Climbing into the driver's seat and watching this speck of a town vanish in the rearview mirror.

He wondered what tape would be playing in the deck, or maybe what radio station it was still set to.  What the scent of the air freshener hung over the mirror was, and whether the built-in ashtrays needed to be emptied.  What he might find forgotten under the seats.

All at once, a full-body shudder rolled over him, overwhelmed by all these questions with answers he couldn't yet face.  

"Ready?"

He looked up as Jo crossed to the door and flicked the bank of switches to shut off the overhead lights, leaving them both shadows lit faintly by the glow of the displays on the equipment behind the counter.

Ready?  Not in the slightest.

"After you," he murmured, reaching out to push the door open.

---

Castiel showered with military efficiency, the rushing water just about drowning out his empty thoughts.

He changed into his sleepwear mechanically, put himself into the bed, and flicked on the television because there was nothing else left to do.  The day was finally catching up to him, and his body ached as it reluctantly gave itself over to the support of the mattress.  His bones felt heavy, his eyes raw.  He flipped channels without comprehending anything he saw on the tiny screen.

Maybe it was the jangle of espresso in his veins, or maybe it was his internal clock's confusion regarding what time zone he'd ended up in, or maybe it was his white-knuckled refusal to find out what his subconscious had in store for him, but it was several long, dull, droning hours of late-night soaps and infomercials before Castiel finally let go and allowed himself to sleep.

[shochmonster]

84 Questions

original: https://fuckyeahsurveys.tumblr.com/post/61049002526/84-questions

Put your music player of choice on shuffle and list the first 10 songs Guns of Brixton - The Clash Holiday in Cambodia - Dead Kennedys  Chainsaw - Nick Jonas California - Joni Mitchell Make It Wit Chu - Queens of the Stone Age This Woman’s Work - Kate Bush The Bad Thing - Arctic Monkeys Between the Bars - Eliot Smith Drown - The Smashing Pumpkins Different People - No Doubt

If you could spend a week anywhere in the world, where would it be and why? Would you take anyone with you? I’d take @duoloopo to the UK. I’d like to see places other than London.

What is your preferred writing implement? (eg. Blue pen, pencil, green pen)  I use my iPad stylus the most, but I have this heavy mechanical pencil I really like for drawing. 

Favourite month and why? October. I just love the fall vibe. 

Do you have connections to any celebrities (even minor)? List them. I went to undergraduate school with Rebecca Sugar. We used to ride the bus between NYC and DC together on holidays. 

Name 3 items you could pick up from where you are. Can of seltzer, pencil case, stack of bills

What brand logo is closest to you currently? REAL Skateboards

Do you ever play board games or other non-computer games? Got any favourites? I love Small World and Munchkin. 

A musical artist you love that isn’t well known Laura Stevenson and the Cans

A musical artist you love that is well known Red Hot Chili Peppers

What is your desktop background currently? Thomas Barrow on the beach in the Season 4 Christmas Special

Last person you talked to, and through what you talked to them @duomaxwell02 with my face :O 

First colour name you can think of that isn’t in the rainbow White

What timekeeping devices are in the room you are currently in? Two wall clocks, though one is very old and doesn’t wind anymore. I also have a clock @duoloopo ‘s dad made for me. It’s on the piano. 

What kind of headphones do you use? JBL Bluetooth, noise canceling 

What musical artists have you seen perform live? Foo Fighters (3x), Incubus (3x), Red Hot Chili Peppers, Smashing Pumpkins, Beastie Boys, Audioslave, Justin Timberlake, Troy Sivan, Arctic Monkeys, The Rolling Stones, Eric Clapton, Queen (but with Roger Daughtry, not Freddy... for obvious reasons.). Probably a whole bunch of others I’m blanking on. 

Does virginity matter to you? Not really. 

What gaming consoles do you or your family own? PS4, PS2, PS1, XBox 360, N64, Gamecube, Wii, NES, SNES, various Gameboys, Nintendo DS, PSP

What pets do you have? What are their names? Two cats, Hemingway and Renji

What’s the best job you’ve ever had? I like freelance art gigs the best. As for ‘normal people jobs’, I once was a sign painter for Whole Foods. That was pretty fun, minus the work drama. 

What’s the worst job you’ve ever had? Food service. 

What magazines do you read, if any? I’ll pick up Time once in a while

Inspiration behind your URL? My classic original URL was LinkWorshiper and had been since AIM first existed. I picked it because Zelda was the first fandom I ever joined. Now I’ve changed all my handles (except on AO3) to reflect my actual name, as my literary agent thinks it’s more professional. 

Inspiration behind your blog title? Mean Girls. I always chuckle imagining Thomas and Jimmy as some Edwardian version of the Plastics. 

Favourite item of clothing? My Downton livery waistcoat. And the stiff bosomed shirt and collars I have to go with it. 

Are you friends with any exes? Nah. By the time I felt comfortable enough to possibly try, I also didn’t care enough to. 

Name at least one book you loved as a child. His Dark Materials (the trilogy by Philip Pullman). I still love them and am jazzed that he’s writing more these days. 

What’s your native language? If that language has distinct regional variations, which variation? (eg. AU English, US English) US English, mostly a northeastern dialect/accent

What email service do you use? Gmail

Is there anything hanging on the walls of the room you are currently in? So much stuff. I have a mood board full of Downtons stuff over my desk, various DA posters and memorabilia, plus some artwork I’ve done, and some of my JC Leyendecker collection. The aforementioned wall clocks, a San Francisco cable car bell, Sailor Moon and a few other little knickknacks, like my hamsa. To name a few lol. 

What’s your favourite number, and why? 212 because it’s Manhattan’s area code and also because it used to be the notation for one of my favorite ships in an old fandom. 

Earliest moment in your life you can remember? Sitting under the table and looking at my grandma, who was wearing a Cruella Deville dress she’d knit herself. Like, it had the actual Disney character on it. Pretty cool to a little guy, I guess!

What did you have for dinner yesterday? Quesadilla 

How often do you brush your teeth? Whenever they feel gross

What’s your favourite candy/chocolate? Lately, I’ve been into Junior Mints. 

Have you had other blogs on Tumblr? Do you have any other blogs currently? This blog used to have my old handle, linkworshiper. I did a small Whole Foods blog when I worked with them, but it never went anywhere. 

If you were suddenly really hungry, what would you choose to eat? Sushi

What fandoms would you consider yourself a part of? Downton Abbey, though lately I’ve been crazy busy and not as active as I once was. Casually still poking at old fandoms like Zelda and Gundam Wing to name a few. 

If you could study anything, what would it be? More art education can’t hurt. Maybe some formal history education. 

Do you use anything on your lips? (eg. Chapstick, gloss, balm, lipstick) Chapstick 

How would you describe your sense of humour? Seinfeld 

What things annoy you more than anything else? Mouth noises

What kind of position are you in at the moment? Sitting

Do you wear much jewellery? Nope

Who is the leader of your country, currently? Any other levels of government with leaders? (State, region, province, county, district, municipality, etc) Three supposedly equal branches of government, currently being run into the ground by a clown 

Last 3 blogs on your dashboard, not including any of your own @halcyondaze @mab1905 @lavender-hued-melancholy

What do you carry your money in? I try to never carry cash, but I carry a small wallet 

Do you enjoy driving? Why or why not? I like it but sometimes it feels like a chore, especially during a commute. @duoloopo thinks I’m a shit driver so she tries to drive whenever she can, which has pluses and minuses. 

Longest drive you have ever been on? Savannah GA to San Francisco, CA in a UHaul

Furthest away from home you have ever been? Germany 

How many times have you moved house? God, I don’t even know. More than ten. 

What is on the floor of the room you’re currently in, not including furniture? Cat toys, unused canvases

How many devices do you own which can access the internet? Phone, computer, iPad, various game consoles 

Is there is anything that is guaranteed to always make you happy? Thomas and Jimmy <3 <3 

Is there anything that always makes you sad? Thinking too hard about being a failure

What programs do you currently have open? I just rebooted, so only Chrome, Spotify and Photoshop

What do you associate the colour red with? This line in the Kate Bush Song Blue Symphony, which goes, ‘I associate love with red, the color of my heart when she’s dead.’ 

Last strong smell you can remember smelling? The Greek food I ordered in for dinner

Last healthy thing you ate? Roasted veggies

Do you drink tea or coffee, and how much per day? I prefer tea, and I drink coffee for energy, though sometimes I think it just makes me crash harder. 

What do you associate the colour blue with? The sky

How long is the closest ruler you can find? 12 inches

What colour pants/skirt/etc are you currently wearing? Dark blue

When was the last time you drank water? About a minute ago

How often do you clear your browser history? Rarely

Do you believe nude photos can be artistic, rather than erotic? Yes

Ever written fanfiction for anything? Oh God, yes. You can still find it under Link Worshiper on AO3, though some of my ‘classics’ have been removed since I turned them into original manuscripts 

Last formal event you attended My cousin’s wedding

If you had to move your birthday to another date, which one would you choose and why? Maybe inch my birth year up just by two so that I’d stop being called a damn millennial. At my age, I really just don’t relate to the generation even though technicalities make me a part of it. 

Would you prefer to be at a beach or in the countryside? Beach

Roughly how many people live in your town? 52,000

Do you know anyone with the same birthday as you? Leonard Nimoy :D 

Favourite place to shop? Can be a certain store or a place where there are multiple stores I haven’t really gone shopping since the pandemic. Right now, it feels like the only place to buy anything is Amazon XD

Do you have a smartphone? What kind? If you don’t, do you want one? Samsung. It’s not a Galaxy but is a new model and a fraction of the price. 

What is your least favourite colour, and why? I don’t think I dislike any colors honestly. 

How do you spell grey/gray? Grey. I’ve got too many British online associates to ever go back. 

Go to your dashboard and describe the image shown in the radar section (below the “Find blogs” link) It’s Umbrella Academy fanart of Klaus. He’s in black and white with this hands over his eyes and the background is red. It’s very graphic. 

What difference is there between how many followers you have, and the number of blogs you follow? 736

How many posts do you have? 8,859

How many posts have you liked? I can’t find the stat D: 

Do you post mainly reblogs, or your own content? Mainly reblogs but I pepper in my own content when I can. Lately, I haven’t had time to do as much fanart though, and I kind of feel like it’s not worth bothering to post my original stuff. Nobody follows my blog for that. 

Do you track any tags? No. 

What time is it currently? 7:33 PM CMT

Is there anything you should be doing right now? Waking up @duoloopo. TIME TO JUMP ON THE BED. 

tagging, if they feel like it: @abbys-little-whippersnapper​ @bumblebarrow​ @irrationalgame​ @downtoncat​ @mab1905​ @duoloopo​

and everyone who I’ve forgotten

[notyetneedcoffee]

Not Exactly a Classic Dame (3)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OFC (platonic friendship between Steve x OFC)

Warnings: Language, otherwise none this Chapter, but later

  Bucky Master List / Main Master List

CHAPTER 3  

“Hey, I brought you something.” Steve handed Bucky a stack of books as he walked into the apartment. “These are really good.” 

“Thanks.” Bucky shut the door behind him. “You want some coffee or anything before we go.” 

“No, I’m good.” Steve looked around at the now furnished room. It still lacked personal touches and decoration, but he liked what was there. He sat on the sofa, running his hand along the armrest. “This is nice.” 

“Yeah. It’s comfortable.” Bucky sat down to tie his running shoes.  

“Cas said she had a really great time when you took her for a ride.” Steve watched his friend. 

Bucky didn’t answer, didn’t even look up. 

“She likes your company, but it looks to me like you’re avoiding her.” 

No response. 

“So,” Steve crossed his arms and stared at the back of his best friend’s head. “Does she rub you the wrong way or are you just being a jerk?” 

Bucky whipped around, scowling. “Listen, if your girl. . .” 

“MY girl?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky shot to his feet, anger instantly flaring to the surface. “I’m trying to be respectful, okay? She’s -” He stopped himself. What? A flirt? Sweet? Sexy as hell? He finally growled, “Yours.” 

Bucky’s eye grew wide in confusion when Steve burst out laughing.  

“Oh, Buck.” He shook he head, still chuckling at the incredulous look on the other man’s face. “We’re not an item. Never have been. Cas is a sweetheart, and I adore her, but we’re not a couple.” 

A wave of confusion hit Bucky in the gut, making him even more angry. “But the way you two carry on? What the fuck? I’ve seen her hug and kiss on you. Eat off your plate without asking. There’s a picture of the two of you at some fancy shin-dig in your office. Steve, you gave her something you drew! What the else was I supposed to think?” 

“Okay, yeah.” Steve stood to face him. “We’re close and, I’ll admit, pretty affectionate. But it’s just gotten to be natural. Honestly, Buck, it’s completely innocent. We’re just close friends.” 

Not knowing what to say, Bucky just stared at the floor in front of Steve’s feet. He wasn’t about to apologize for barking. Steve laughed at him. The few interactions between himself and Cassidy came back in rapid fire memories. Sure, it made him feel good. Made him feel like sweeping her up in his arms and tasting those red lips. What if she was just, as Steve put it, being affectionate? He had no desire to be the fool. When he was younger, he may not have cared. He wasn’t the same man anymore. 

The silence stretched out and Steve watched the emotions play out on his friend’s face. He looked stoic, but the clench of his jaw, the small change in his eyes as he stared into nothing, gave him away. 

“I knew you would like her the minute I met her.” Steve sighed. “Even before I knew you were still alive.  I would sit there thinking, ‘Bucky would just be smitten with her’.” 

“You should’ve said something.”   

“I should have said something.” Steve agreed. “I didn’t think.” 

“She probably thinks I’m a jerk now.”  

“You are a jerk.” 

“Shut up, punk.” 

Steve grabbed Bucky by the shoulder, giving him a shake. “Come on. Let’s go for a run. After, maybe we’ll see if Cas is up for lunch.” 

“You sure you don’t what to go to the gym instead?” Bucky smirked. “Give me the chance to beat your ass for a while?” 

o o o o o  

Cassidy stood at her work station, bare foot and swaying in place to the soulful jazz music crooning from her speakers. Her mood danced on the edge of melancholy today. She indulged in an extra cappuccino and splurged on a chocolate pastry. Despite wearing her favorite outfit and doing her hair in her favorite style, she just didn’t feel herself. 

“Hey Cas, how ya doing?’ Steve’s voice came from the door.  

She didn’t turn away from the screen. Answering, voice flat. “Peachy.” 

“That didn’t sound convincing.” Bucky scoffed.  

Cas turned around somewhat surprised. “It’s about as good as it gets at the moment. Sorry.” 

“Would lunch in town help?” Steve smiled.  

“Maybe play hooky for a while.” Bucky added. 

She looked between the two, relenting to their grins. “Okay. Okay, fine. Give me a minute to send a couple emails. But I’m taking my car in case I want to bail on you two goofs. I don’t know how much I testosterone I can take.” 

As Cassidy drove a two-seat sports coupe, this left the guys in a quandary. Bucky decided to just follow on his bike and Steve rode in her car. They settled on a pool hall that served good barbecue not too far away. The establishment knew most of the Avengers so they wouldn’t be gawked at.  

Steve insisted on ordering, so Cas and Bucky picked one of the many empty tables. He rested his elbows on the table and leaned over the top toward her, aware they had a brief moment alone. “I feel like I should apologize.” 

Cas mirrored his pose, finding herself drawn in by his expressive blue eyes. “Oh?” 

“I’ve been a bit of a jerk, even if I had good intentions.” He nodded.  

“Suddenly giving me the cold shoulder has good intentions?”  

Bucky sighed. Of course she would call him on his bullshit without hesitation. He shot a sideways glance at Steve who was putting his wallet away and waiting for the pitcher of beer. “You’ll laugh at me.” 

“Try me.” 

“I was staying away because I thought you and Steve were together.” He said quietly, leaving how much he liked her implied.  

“He didn’t set you straight?” Her back went stiff. 

“Today he did.” 

She blew a little angry huff out her nose. When Steve sat down next to her with a pitcher of beer and a stack of glasses, she turned on him. “You can be a real asshole.” 

“What?!” 

“You are the first one to wave the great big ‘we’re just friends’ flag anytime anyone looks at the two of us even remotely sideways.” Cas poked him in the chest. 

“Well, I don’t want people to get the wrong idea.” Steve admitted sheepishly. 

“And yet you hung your best friend out to dry, you moron.” She poked him again, scowling. “Just go ahead a wait until things get all dramatic and awkward before you say anything.” Poke. “To who?” Poke. “Oh yeah, your best friend. Because that make perfect sense.” She threw her hands in the air. “Way to make everyone feel comfortable, Steve.” 

Bucky knew she was laying it on thick on purpose, being a little melodramatic to make a point. She looked adorable. He chewed his lip to hide his smile. Steve pouted, making it even funnier. “Give him a break, Doll. You’re going to make him cry.” 

Steve’s head fell to the side with a ‘really?’ look. Cas giggled.  

“Okay.” She began to pour the beers. “Here’s to clearing the air.” 

Happily, they clinked glasses and drank. By the time the assortment of ribs and brisket arrived, they were all feeling better and lively stories of how Cassidy helped Steve adjust to ‘modern times’ had Bucky laughing. He too had a lot to learn, but Cas took immense joy in the easily shocked Captain. 

“You should have seen him when I took him with me to get my tattoo finished.” Cas smiled into her beer glass.  

Bucky cocked an eyebrow at Steve. “You’ve been to a tattoo parlor before.” 

Steve looked horrified. “Buck, they do piercings. Everywhere. On private parts. Men and women.” 

“Huh?” 

“Not just their ears and lips and noses.” Steve refilled his glass, trying to keep from blushing as he recalled the graphic photo album Cas showed him. “They get their nipples and parts ‘down there’ pierced too.” 

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, trying to imagine. He turned to Cas, “Do you-” 

“Oh, hell no. I don’t go in for piercings.” She shook her head. “I’ve got plenty of ink, though. Every tattoo I have is for a reason, they’re are personal.” 

Cas showed him the inside of her right bicep. There a little black tattoo said 'stay strong'. “This one I got after my mom died of cancer. It’s in her handwriting. There’s a breaching whale on my right leg. I got it after a rough recovery when I was in my early twenties. Then there’s this,” She lifted the left sleeve of her blouse. The thick arrangement of old-fashioned flowers reminded Bucky of the ones on cards he’d see in the old days. Violets, pink peonies, red roses, blue irises, sat among detailed green leaves.  

“It goes all the way up my arm and part way down my back.” She lightly ran her fingers over the skin. “I know its dense, but it covers all the scars.” 

Bucky went from quietly studying the details, to staring at her blank face. His mouth opened, but the question didn’t emerge. The glassiness of her eyes stalling him. Steve’s hand covered the fingers of Cassidy’s hand. Her eye shifted to his hand and she blinked. 

Steve’s frown deepened. He squeezed her fingers. “It’s okay. We don’t have to-” 

Cas shook her head and rocked it all the way through her shoulders, like a small mimic of a dog shaking off water. “No. Nope. It’s okay.” She looked a Bucky and chewed her lower lip for a second. “When the invasion hit New York, I was there for a software conference. The building was hit and a big section collapsed. On all of us. Most died. It took twenty-six hours to dig me out. I was pinned. My arm was broken in four places. Collar bone crushed. I had to have my shoulder complete rebuilt. My back was a mess of imbedded concrete. But,” She finished half her beer in one go. “It could have been worse.” 

Bucky nodded slowly. Their eyes locked and he wished he knew the words to convey his understanding, his admiration. He wished he could tell her he understood her pain. Somehow, she must have seen something because he watched life light up her eyes again, just a little. A small smile touched his lips, “Well the tattoo is beautiful.” 

“Thanks.”  

“What do you say we shoot some pool?” Steve got up and kissed the side of her head. “I’ll go set up.” 

“You okay?” Bucky replaced Steve’s hand over hers.  

“Yeah,” She turned her palm over and entwined her fingers with his. “Most of the time it just hangs out in the back of my brain, you know? Sometimes it rears up its ugly head.” 

“A smell or sound.” He looked at her tiny hand in his own and nodded. “It doesn’t even make sense sometimes.” 

She glanced at Steve, who was bent over the digital juke box in the corner. Cas didn’t know if he was purposely giving them a moment or not, but she felt thankful either way. “It wasn’t even the pain, or injuries, or surgeries. It was being trapped. It was being completely utterly powerless. I screamed and screamed, and nothing. My world literally fell in around me. My world became fear and silence and darkness. . .  and it was like I suddenly ceased to exist.” 

Holy shit, he wanted to hold her. 

“I am so in awe of your strength. I cannot imagine how strong you are to survive what you have.” Cas whispered, staring at his thumb rubbing over her fingers. 

Bucky’s eye snapped up, but she stared at their hands. “You’re pretty damn strong too, you know.” 

A sideways smile slid across her face. “I fake it well.” 

“You’ll have to teach me that, sometime.” Bucky returned the look. 

Tony Bennett began playing across the speakers just as a loud crack echoed through the bar. Steve leaned across the table, lining up another shot. Another ball dropped into the side pocket. 

“Which of you are taking solids? If you actually get a turn.” 

 TAGS

@angelus320, @babyloutattoo89, @blacklightguidesnic, @buckyharms107th, @buckysloved, @daaeleira,@dinosthatrawr, @elizabethporch, @fanficfluffer, @i-fear-neither-death-nor-pain, @jksymons, @josie605, @karla-silva, @littlemonsterseatkittens, @mama-bop, @mawietobacky, @mom---nicole, @mps427, @ohtheangst, @rorynne, @runlikeclockwork, @siliverin, @something, @veryangelslimecash

(If you want to be added or removed or if anything has changed, please message me! Thanks!)

[mittensmorgul]

This Must Be The Place

timestamp for  Lifetime Piling Up, 7 years later, but works as a standalone.

(2440 words, T, all the fluffs)

Read it on AO3

It’s the sort of day that leaves Cas desperate for some reminder that life isn’t all trauma and tragedy. He’s finished his shift at the hospital, where one of his patients lived and the other didn’t. It’s the reality of his life as a trauma surgeon, and he’s long ago accepted the fact he’s not God, that he can’t save everyone. It doesn’t stop him from trying.

He’s too worn out from five hours of surgery and a heart-wrenching talk with a man’s grieving family members to bother changing his clothes. Cas ditches his pristine white lab coat and slams the door of his locker. There was something he could do to turn the day around. Something impulsive, but something he’d also been planning for a long time; saving it up for the perfect moment.

Something life-affirming.

Cas pulls on his coat, the lapel catching on the hospital identification clipped to the pocket of his scrub shirt, and walks purposefully out the emergency room door. He waves to Alex the charge nurse at the desk and to a few other people who notice him leaving, but after the day he’s had nobody tries to hold him up when he looks so determined to leave. He’s grateful for that small mercy.

It’s raining as he pulls his car out of the parking garage and drives on autopilot. He sees the shop every day on his way to work and every night as he drives back home. Tonight he lucks out. There’s an empty parking spot right in front of the door, like it was meant to be. He pulls in without a second thought and shuts the engine off. He sits there for a minute, his head resting back against the seat as he basks in the welcoming glow of the blue and yellow neon sign in the window, the light streaked and shattered through the raindrops rolling down his windshield. It’s raining even harder now, and Cas just smiles to himself. It feels right. Everything feels right for once that day.

He pats down his pockets to be sure he has everything-- phone, keys, wallet-- and then readies himself for a mad sprint across the sidewalk through sheets of rain to the shelter of the shop’s awning. The familiar neon-lit window looks so different up close than it does when he’s driving past. The glowing Winchester Tattoo logo is clearly visible from the road, but the dozens of drawings that frame the sign and almost completely obscure the view into the shop from the sidewalk are another story entirely. On closer examination, each of them is easily worth a thousand words.

Cas thinks to himself that if the weather were being more cooperative he could spend hours giving every last drawing the attention it deserves. Then again, he also knows he’d only be delaying the inevitable. He’d talked himself into this months ago, and then waited so long for this moment. He wasn’t about to talk himself out of it now. This was definitely what he wanted, so why would the thought of actually going through with it fill him with dread?

He’s a surgeon, dammit. He has no trouble helping others deal with physical pain, but this is something potentially far more terrifying than that. This would be forever.

Cas closes his eyes, heaves in a fortifying lungful of cold, humid air and then opens the door. He’s greeted with a warm, inviting roil of heat and light and sound. The tinkling of a dozen tiny bells hanging above the door provides an uncanny counterpoint to Led Zeppelin playing on the stereo, several quiet conversations and the intermittent buzzing of a tattoo gun. It’s the strangest combination of things to inspire a feeling of ease and contentment, but as he looks around the warmly lit shop and acknowledges its occupants Cas can’t help feeling an inviting sense of home .

The man behind the front counter hunches over a sketch as a customer describes the artwork he’s commissioning, pointing out a detail that the artist erases and then redraws to the customer’s satisfaction. The artist sets his pencil down and continues to study his work, standing up straight and clasping his hands behind his back as he arches into a stretch. The sleeves of his incongruous white lab coat ride up revealing strong arms covered in vibrant tattoos, heaven and hell, light and darkness, somehow both perfectly at home together as if he carried a piece of each extreme in either hand. Cas can’t help the quiet laugh at the sight, how similar the coat is to the one he’d left at the hospital, and yet how startlingly different this one appears in context draped over the shoulders of this beautiful man who looks more like a punk rocker with his faded Metallica t-shirt and ink-stained fingers than a medical professional.

Where his coat is embroidered Dr. Castiel Novak above the pocket, the artist has chosen to create his own name tag in a swirling riot of color. The name Dean is written in a bold script across a hand-drawn banner surrounded by bird wings and wildflowers. Cas wonders what his colleagues would think if he showed up at the hospital with a similar badge, and laughs a bit louder.

He finally garners a glance from Dean, who gives him a little nod and a wink to let him know he’ll be with him shortly. Cas nods back and then distracts himself by observing the shop’s other occupants. One artist, a young blonde woman, is entirely focused on her work while the man in her chair whimpers through the pain of a shoulder tattoo. Another older artist meticulously sets up her station for one of the customers waiting on the sofa off to Cas’s left. The three girls look barely old enough to be getting tattooed at all, yet they eagerly flip through the photo albums labeled with each of the artist’s names-- Claire, Jody, Donna, and of course Dean-- commenting on the pictures as they wonder in equal measure at how good they look and how much each one must’ve hurt. He’s entirely bemused by the girls when he hears Dean finishing up with his client.

“So if you’re good with that, I can fit you in next Tuesday at four,” Dean says to the man, who nods and hands over fifty bucks as a deposit.

“Sounds good to me,” the man says. “Been wanting to get that done for years.”

Dean puts the money in the cash drawer and prints out a receipt that doubles as an appointment reminder while Cas sidles up to get a closer look at the artwork. It’s two birds in flight, circling around each other, that he recognizes as arctic terns. Cas glances up at the man, who catches him looking but only smiles back at him.

“For me and my wife,” he says. “Arctic terns mate for life, but they’ve got the longest migration of any birds in the world. Their entire lives are one endless road trip together. Well, in a manner of speaking.” The man laughs.

Cas glances at Dean to see him smiling curiously at him, as if he’s waiting to see what Cas has to say on the subject-- of tattoos or arctic terns or gruff old men deciding that’s how they want to commemorate the love of their life.

“Congratulations on finally going through with the tattoo, and for having someone you cherish to share your life with. It’s a beautiful piece.”

Dean’s smile brightens for a moment at Cas’s reply, his green eyes filling with a captivating mirth.

“So,” Dean says, leaning in and making a show of reading the identification badge still clipped to Cas’s shirt, “Dr. Novak, what brings a classy, upstanding doctor like you into my humble little den of iniquity tonight? Just getting out of the rain for a minute, or are you thinking about getting a tattoo?”

The customer belts out a startling laugh, but Cas pays him no mind.

“I noticed you’re still open, and I’ve had an idea for a tattoo for a while now. Would you prefer I schedule an appointment, or are you free right now?”

Dean looks him up and down and grins. “For you? I think I can spare a couplea minutes. What are you thinking?”

The girls on the sofa giggle at the unfolding drama, whispering to each other behind their hands. Mr. Arctic Terns says what the girls are either too polite or too shy to say aloud.

“Ooh, are you sure about that? You’re a doctor, you must know it hurts, and how painful the laser is for folks who regret their ink later.”

Cas smiles mildly at the man and slides off his coat, laying it on the counter beside Dean’s sketchpad. “Yes, I’m fully aware.” He continues stripping off his scrub top, the ID badge clinking against the glass countertop as he sets it down as well, leaving him in a heather grey long-sleeved henley that clings to the defined muscles of his shoulders, back and arms. Dean raises an eyebrow but doesn’t otherwise object to the strip tease.

The other customer nods seriously as Dean folds his arms across his chest and bites his lip to keep from laughing aloud. Cas appreciates it, as well as the mischievous glint in Dean’s eyes.

“I’m just saying, medicine doesn’t seem like a profession that looks kindly on tattoos.” He turns to Dean. “No offense to your profession, but I ain’t never seen a doctor with ink.”

Cas just sighs and casts a wistful look at Dean, who shrugs and waits to see what he’ll do next. Jody’s finished setting up her station but she stands back beside Claire, whose tattoo gun has gone quiet as they both watch and wait to see what will happen next. Even the three giggling girls are practically holding their breath at this unusual series of events. Cas barely even registers their presence as he reaches down and tugs up the hem of his henley, then whips it over his head.

“I dare say you’ve seen at least one tattooed surgeon,” Cas says, never taking his eyes from Dean and only peripherally registering the little gasps from the three girls at the unveiling. Not only is Cas a physical work of art himself, his skin is all but covered in glorious illustration.

“Well then,” Arctic Tern Guy says, scratching his head and then moving toward the door with a little chuckle. “Guess you learn something new every day. I’ll see you Tuesday, Dean,” he says, and then the bells tinkle and a gust of cold wind sends a shiver across Cas’s exposed back before the door shuts again behind him.

Cas’s shoulders settle again like a bird folding his wings, which is the visual illusion he gives with the broad set of wings tattooed across his shoulder blades and down his arms past his elbows. Above the wings and up to the base of his neck is an expanse of outer space, the black punctuated by bright stars and a glowing pink and purple depiction of the Heart Nebula, the greenish streak of a comet piercing it like an arrow. Below his wings blooms a garden of vines and wildflowers populated by a dozen or more frolicking bees. Heavens and Earth.

Through the entire show, Dean and Cas just smile at each other until Dean finally cracks. “Guess you told him, sunshine.”

Cas just shrugs and-- to the three girls’ dismay-- begins dressing again. “It always disappoints me when people assume that the appearance of someone’s skin has any bearing on their competence or their professionalism.”

“You’re a regular crusader,” Dean adds, also looking a little disappointed that Cas put his shirt back on. “So did you just stop in to fight social injustice?”

Cas steps up close to the counter, reaching into the back pocket of his dark blue scrub pants and shaking his head. “No, I really am interested in another tattoo, and I believe you’re the only person I’d trust with it.”

Dean’s smile returns. “Well I hope I’m worthy of that kinda faith.”

Cas nods, slowly edging his way around the end of the counter until he’s practically toe to toe with Dean. “You’ve proven that to me over and over again, every day for the last seven years. I hope I’m worthy in return.” He drops down onto one knee and holds out his hand, a simple gold ring in his outstretched palm. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I don’t ever want to imagine a day without you in it. I love you, Dean. Will you marry me?”

Dean stares down at him for a second, and that terror that had held Cas back from asking sooner begins to creep up inside him. The pain of a tattoo needle’s got absolutely nothing on this. But Dean blinks and then pulls Cas to his feet, grabbing him up in a tight hug and planting an awkwardly sloppy and slightly frantic kiss on him as Dean tells him yes over and over again.

“Hot damn,” Claire’s client says and the rest of the shop erupts in a chorus of delighted awws.

Relief and joy flood through Cas, washing away his entirely baseless fear and making room for the certainty that Dean will always be his. Jody and Claire offer them fond congratulations, as do the three girls, before Jody brings one of them back to her station and she and Claire both get back to work.

“That was unexpected,” Dean says the minute everyone’s attention moves on from them, and admiring the way the ring looks on his hand before pulling Cas in for another kiss. “How long you been planning that one?”

Cas shrugs. “A long time. Years, maybe. On some level, probably since the first time I walked into your shop.”

Dean nods, too overcome to even tease him. He clears his throat and leans against the counter, pulling Cas close. “So did you really have another tattoo in mind? Or was that just an excuse to come see me at work?”

“I gave you a ring, and I was hoping you’d be willing to give me one too.”

It’s a ring he’ll never be able to remove, and one he’d never want to. When Dean’s finished inking it into his skin, he removes his gold band and teaches Cas how to give his very first tattoo. It’s the sort of day that’s marked indelibly in their skin, and all the way down to their souls.

(thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it and haven’t read Lifetime Piling Up, here’s a link to the whole series: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559668)

[amirosebooks]

Destiel / SPN Fics by Amirosebooks

This is crossposted to my Pillowfort page (same username as here) where you can actually see the links to the fics. Or you can find them on my AO3 page (also the same username). I’m not abandoning my Tumblr yet, but I will start sharing more things over on Pillowfort and will, eventually, likely migrate there entirely.

❤ Ami

A Chance G · 1,800 Words Getting together · Valentine’s Day fic · Fluff

For the DeanCas Writing Challenge September 2018. Prompt "I would be lucky to even have a chance with you.”

❤ The Rewatch T · 2,100 Words Bi!Dean  · John Winchester’s A+ Parenting  · Homophobia  · Background Femslash  · Charlie Bradbury Lives · Angst & Fluff

Based on the prompt "H-How long have you been standing there?"

Dean's is having a shitty day, a shitty week even. He ran into one of his exes unexpectedly and needs some time to himself to decompress. He retires to The Dean Cave to rewatch one of his favorite movies, hoping it will distract him from his memories. (It doesn't.)

They Were Going To Die Here T · 2,000 Words Kidnapped Dean & Cas · Love Confessions · Whump

Based on the prompt: "I told you not to fall in love with me."

Dean and Cas were captured weeks ago and are starting to lose hope of making it out alive. Somehow I'm not convinced Dean would be having a blaze of glory conversation with Cas in that situation with him instead of Sam.

Goop G · 2,000 Words Team Free Will · Destiel if you squint a lot · Goo · Comedy

Written for the Seasons fan fiction anthology. This story is from the Summer section which was intended to cover themes like: freedom, laughter, fun; sunshine, hot days; swimming, sunburns; slow, lazy, relaxed; contentment; flourishing growth, childhood; no regrets or second thoughts; unreality; disconnected from the darkness of “real life”; the prime of life; Fourth of July, Stanford, vacation from school.

I opted for writing a quick story celebrating a happy, ridiculous Team Free Will at its finest on a hunt sort of moment. I've been told by my main beta that the subject matter (witch guts) is sort of gross so keep that in mind.

The Orb T · 1,300 Words Team Free Will · Sammy Knows · Lovecraftian Monsters · Goo · Comedy

From the prompt: "You're lucky you're cute."

Cas brings a strange souvenir back from a hunt.

Band T-Shirts T · 2,500 Words Team Free Will · Domestic Fluff and Crack · Post Season 13 · Cas Gets A New Wardrobe · Agent Beyoncé References

From this prompt: There's a sort of standard fanon idea that when Cas becomes human, he borrows Dean's clothes for a while, and then eventually the brothers take him to Good Will or wherever for his own clothes.

I want to see that shopping trip. Basically just an excuse for fun shenanigans in a thrift store. I was thinking very new relationship for Dean and Cas, early days. Bonus points if Sam and Dean have some kind of game they've been playing in thrift stores across the country since they were kids, and if Cas comes up with some super goofy outfits. :D

❤ Forgetting Your Blues M · 3,500 Words Temporary Canonical Character Death · Post Season 12 · Fluff and Angst · Getting Together · Fix-It Fic · Openly Bisexual Dean Winchester

Dean Jones doesn't know his real name. He woke up on a public park bench a few months back with an empty wallet and a driver's license listing the name Dean Jones with his picture. The name doesn't feel right on his tongue, but he doesn't remember what part is wrong. The cop who found him in the park got Dean a job in a local diner. The diner feels comfortable to Dean. He understands the rhythm of the place, the ebb and flow of the people and food, even if he's clearly never carried a tray of hot plates in his life. He settles into his new life. He makes new friends. He takes beautiful women and men and people to his bed for comfort on long nights. He has nightmares about blood covering his hands. Who is he? Why has no one come looking for him? What has he done? Why did he fall apart when he saw a guy wearing a tan trenchcoat?

Letters To Ghosts Not Rated · 2,400 Words Temporary Canonical Character Death · Post Season 12 · The Mixtape · Season 13 Coda · Angst With A Happy Ending · Grieving Dean

All Dean wanted was a cup of coffee. What he got instead was a whole bunch of feelings and a raincheck he might never get to cash in.

❤ Humanity’s Angels E · 93,000 Words Case Fic · Canon Divergent Season 12 Fic · Bi!Dean · John Winchester’s A+ Parenting · Team Everyone Switches · Past Rape/Non-Con · BiPhobia · Canon-Typical Violence · Side Original Characters OT3 · Background Saileen · Jealous!Dean

To get their minds off of Kelly Kline, Lucifer, and the BMOL, Dean and Sam take a case in Northern Arizona where a rogue angel was seen flashing his wings at a film festival and ranting about blasphemy. They quickly realize that there might be more to this case than they’d initially thought. The angel fits all the characteristics of being a ghost—EMF readings, see-through body, air chilling ability, and all. A local man is found with his eyes burned out like he was the victim of a smiting keeps them in town after salting and burning the angel’s buried vessel in hopes of dispelling his ghost. Between all of this, Dean is finding it hard to keep his feelings for Cas under wraps. Especially when everywhere he looks and everyone he talks to reminds him of how much energy he’s spent hiding his sexuality from his family over the years. Will watching the ghost angel’s grieving best friend mourn the loss of the angel he’d loved spur Dean into confessing his own feelings before it’s too late? Will an angel from Cas's past be able to succeed where Ishim failed? Who the hell has Sam been texting? Will someone please tell Mary what the hell is going on with her sons? Will any of Team Free Will learn to use their damn words?

❤ Hands On Me E · 2,300 Words Bi!Dean · Masturbation · Car Sex · Voyeurism

Dean just finished working a case by himself and was on his way to meet Sam and Eileen a few states away when he pulled over for the night. All Dean wanted was to grab a few hours of sleep in Baby before he had to leave again. His wandering mind had other plans.

This Feeling I Can’t Change G · 2,400 Words Hurt/Comfort · Pining · Season 9 · Graceless Cas · Canon Typical Not Getting Together Moments

Set during season 9 with graceless!Cas and hurt!Dean. An almost first kiss, some pining and feelings.

Cobbled Together Lifetime G · 1,500 Words Angst · Bittersweet · Winchester Family Feels

Mary finds a photo album in the bunker that documents her sons's lives in pictures.

The Mantra G · 3,100 Words 12x12 Coda · Hurt/Comfort · Fluff and Angst · First Kiss · Platonic Bed Sharing and Cuddling

Following the events of 12.12, Dean wakes up from a nightmare shouting Cas's name. Which works out well, since Cas can't sleep or relax either after everything that went on. Dean introduces Cas to some of the healthier coping mechanisms he knows.

[crossroadsdiner]

Your Character’s Inventory

Inventory: In a roleplaying game, inventory refers to the collection of items your character is currently carrying.

Rules:

List the things your Muse carries in their pockets in their everyday life. Repost, don’t reblog.

Optional:

Briefly explain their significance.

Elise

Large floral purse: Too big to fit in pockets so she has to carry it everywhere when she leaves the diner. Usually in a satchel bag.

Tarot cards: The Linestrider Tarot deck. These fit in her purse.

Keys: to the diner and her olive green Volkswagen Kombi van.

Phone: in a wooden phone case engraved with Yggdrasil.

Cas

Multi-tool: Including wire cutters, knife, saw, wrench, file, pliers, firestarter, and screw driver.

Hunting knife: strapped to his ankle if he’s leaving the house/diner

Wallet: worn brown leather. From a stall in Guadeloupe.

Phone: in a wooden case engraved with a sun. Got the case at the same time Elise got hers.

Orange-gold sandstone pendent: cut in an elongated trapezium. Front features a sun set in gold foil. Back has Cas’ official title as knight of the realm.

Celia Rae

River stones: Flat stones she’s picked up and put in her pocket

Crocheted Flower Purse: Cards don’t fit properly.

Phone: Clear case with a photo of Elise, Cas and Rowan slipped in the back.

Beeswax tinted lip balm: She made it herself!

Sweets: Like your grandmother used to give you.

Rowan

Cigarette case: Silver with a clip on either side. One side holds cigarettes while the other acts as a wallet holding his cards and any notes he has.

Car keys: His Ford Falcon XB GT is his baby and like hell he’s leaving those behind where someone else might touch them.

Pen knife, butterfly knife or bladed multi-tool: He always has at least one or two knives in his pocket. They just come in handy.

Flask: Usually holding cheap whiskey. The type usually named Midnight Hobo or something. Easily mistaken as brake fluid or gasoline.

Lighter: Gold plated, engraved with a rose. Stolen from his grandmother.

Phone: Shattered screen despite screen protector. 

Leather cord bracelet: made by Phaedra when ten years old.

Confirmation rosary beads: Red glass and pearl beads on a silver chain. A gift from his mother for his confirmation. Phaedra had a matching one.

[inacatastrophicmind]

Some sort of 15x04 coda

It’s too damn quiet in the bunker. Dean should be used to coming back to the bunker and find it quiet. But in the last two years, most of the times there was someone there. But not anymore. He and Sam are alone and the bunker is too silent.

He and Sam descend the stairs in complete silence. Their footsteps are the only thing that breaks the quietness of the bunker. Dean looks at the war room and then at the library, hoping to find Cas there, hoping that he decided to come back. But he isn’t there.

Sam mumbles something about going to bed and Dean nods. He looks around again, still hoping for a miracle, but Castiel is definitely not there.

He takes the long way to his bedroom, just to see if Cas in his bedroom, but it’s empty. Dean looks at the dark room and sighs. Then, he finally makes it to his own room.

He drops his duffel bag onto the floor and he lets himself fall onto the mattress, feeling tired. His body doesn’t ache; the hunt didn’t hurt his body at all and the drive back home wasn’t that long, but he is mentally exhausted.

Dean fishes for his wallet in his pocket, and when he has it in his hands, he picks the photo he always carries with himself; the one he always keeps hidden.

It’s a photo of Cas. Dean can’t remember where they were exactly, but he remembers they were hunting a ghoul and that it was autumn. Like in most of the photos Dean has of Cas, the angel isn’t looking at the camera. Dean always took photos of Cas when Cas wasn’t looking at him. He didn’t know how to ask for a photo; Cas would have wanted to know why, and Dean couldn’t give him an honest answer.

Because you look beautiful in this light. Because you’re smiling at something and I love it when you smile like that. Because I want a reminder of your face when we’re apart.

Those are things Dean isn’t supposed to say.

Dean keeps all the photos in his phone album. But he decided to get a physical copy of one of them, because he wanted it in his wallet. And because he likes staring at photos and touching them, feeling the wrinkled paper under his fingers.

He has been thinking about calling Cas since he left. Dean regrets what he said. He was so angry, so pissed, and he directed all of it to Cas, hurting him. And worst of all, he didn’t apologize nor he didn’t go after Cas.

Cas told him that it was time for him to move on, and Dean just let him go, as if Cas didn’t mean a thing for him, as if he were sure that Cas would reconsider and come back.

Part of Dean still thinks that Cas will eventually come back, but he knows he won’t. Why would he? Cas is now done with him, and Dean can’t blame him.

But Dean misses him so much.

He should call him or text him, but he isn’t sure if Cas will answer. He’s afraid of finding out.

He doesn’t know what to do.

He will do what he always does; bury himself in the job, alcohol and junk food. It will ease the pain and turn it into a soft and bearable buzz.

But it won’t change the fact that Cas won’t come back.

Dean wants to believe, but his faith walked away from him a week ago.

[thatbluegibson]

CH 11

“Hold the pin straight,” Liz called from underneath the sidecar. 

Dave did as he was told, peering down at her through the mounting bracket. “This isn’t going to fall on you, is it?” he asked, watching her loosen the last bolt. Her dark hair fanned around her as she wrenched on the bike.

“The legs are down, dummy,” Liz teased. She finished removing the last bolt and looked up at Dave. “K, pull the pin.”

He pulled the lynch pin away from the bracket and winced as the side car lurched down towards Liz’s face. The heavy metal barrel dropped a half an inch before it’s steel legs steadied it. Dave let out a long breath and a wide smile spread across Liz’s face before she burst into giggles.

“Get up, fucker,” Dave laughed, pulling himself off the concrete.

Liz slid out from under the side car and hopped up. She pulled her leather jacket out of side car and slipped it on while Dave started his bike. She jumped at the roar from the Harley Deuce, spinning around towards the bike with wide eyes. Dave threw his head back in laughter, but Liz couldn’t hear him over the rumble of his bike echoing off the parking garage walls. She quickly hopped onto her Ural, now free of its side car and fired it up. She nodded at Dave when she was ready and they took off down the garage ramp.

They rode easily through the city, avoiding traffic due to the early hour. Dave led her onto the 101 headed north and eventually onto I5. Liz felt her mood improve the further they rode from LA. The cool air felt amazing against her skin and the sunrise was turning the sky to the east a vivid pink as they passed Glendale and Griffith Park before exiting the freeway in San Fernando. Dave pulled into a tiny parking lot next to an equally tiny mid-century style building.

“Sorry about the distance. This is the best time of day to ride and I get carried away,” Dave admitted, taking his helmet off.

“I don’t mind at all,” Liz said as they walked towards the building. “Feels good to finally get miles on that bike.”

Bells hanging from the door handle jingled as Dave pushed it open for Liz, causing the old men sitting at the bar to look up, but immediately return to their coffee and newspapers.

“This is the only place to get breakfast in Southern Ca-,” Dave explained, but was interrupted by a shrieking noise from the kitchen. A short older woman burst from behind a double hinged door and ran down the tiled walkway behind the counter towards them. Liz took a few steps backwards out of her way as the woman crashed into Dave, wrapping her arms around his waist. He staggered a bit and handed his helmet to Liz once he regained his balance. The woman was excitedly speaking in mixed English, but was holding Dave so tightly that his shirt muffled her words. Liz held back a laugh as he tried to untangle himself from the woman.

“Hi Gloria, I know-,” he tried to interject, but she was too excited.

“And now a-nother Grammy, David?” she cried. “What else is there left for you, young man? You work too hard, too much, so much that you can’t stay marri-“ she suddenly stopped when she noticed Liz and looked up at Dave. She slowly released him and stepped back, pushing her hair into place and adjusting her crisp white apron. Turning to face Liz, she crossed her arms and slowly inspected every inch of the girl Dave had with him. Liz felt her face getting hot under Gloria’s intense stare. “And who is this?” she asked sharply, never taking her eyes of Liz.

Dave stepped around Gloria and next to Liz, putting his arm around her shoulders. “Gloria, this is Liz. She’s a friend.” He over enunciated the last word to drive his point home.

Gloria stared for a moment more before her face broke into a wide smile. “Your spot is open, David!” she said, happily throwing her hands in the air and returned to the bar.

Dave sat a stunned Liz at the counter and took the seat next to her.

“Come here often?” Liz teased once he had settled.

Dave laughed, “You could say that.” He pulled a laminated menu from behind the counter and handed it to her.

She looked it over before deciding on an omelet and slid the menu over for Dave to look at, but he immediately put it back behind the counter.

“Same thing every time, huh?” she asked, thinking of her dad who did the same at his own favorite joint.

Dave shrugged, looking a little guilty.

“My dad-,” Liz paused a moment wondering if she should even bring her parents up, “is the same way. Eggs over easy, two strips of bacon, toast and three pancakes. Every time.” She watched as Dave’s eyes widened a bit and immediately regretting bringing it up.

“Your dad has excellent taste in breakfast foods,” Dave finally replied as Gloria returned with two cups of black coffee.

“What to eat?” she asked Liz, leaning on the counter in front of her.

Liz gave her simple order and turned to Dave expecting him to order as well, but Gloria just smiled and disappeared into the back. “Are you not eating?” Liz asked, confused.

“Same thing, every time,” he replied, picking up his coffee.

They sat quietly drinking their coffee for a moment before Liz spoke up. “So do you live around here? Or do you make the epic journey just for the same breakfast, every time?”

Dave set his cup down and shifted so he was facing her. “Just up on that hill,” he pointed out the large window behind her to a swath of large homes covering a desert hillside.

“And you longingly stare out your window at this place, waiting for the open sign to light up?” she laughed and took a sip of her coffee.

“No, I have a telescope and an alarm clock. It’s much more scientific that way,” he shot back. “We have a studio right around the corner. I come here to write in peace most of the time,” he added looking down at his hands.

Liz glanced around the restaurant at the red vinyl booths wondering which songs he had written there when Gloria appeared from the back with plates stacked all the way up her arms, gracefully setting them down on the counter in front of them. She turned to grab the pot of black coffee and as she refilled their mugs she gasped, “Oh linda, I’m sorry! I didn’t bring you any sugar!”

Liz shook her head. “Black coffee is best,” she said with a smile.

Gloria’s eyes darted to Dave. “Tu alma gemela,” she mumbled before refilling the other coffees at the counter.

Liz didn’t realize how hungry she was until she saw all the food set out in front of her. “Thank you for bringing me here,” she said as she picked up her fork. “I would have been stuck with shitty Starbucks and a bagel if it weren’t for-“ Liz stopped short when she looked at Dave’s plate.

Eggs over easy, two strips of bacon, toast and three pancakes. “It’s a really common breakfast combination,” Dave offered, sheepishly poking the eggs with his fork.

“You are such a dad,” Liz giggled, turning to her own plate.

They chatted a little while they ate, Dave recalling how nervous he was when he first met Paul. “I thought I was going to throw up when he shook my hand,” he laughed.

Liz smiled and spotted some framed newspaper articles on the wall beside Dave. Rocker Donates to Save Local Boy the top one read in a thick, bold headline. Just below was a color photo of a younger Dave with short hair and a goofy grin, his arms around Gloria and a small boy about six. Liz slowly lowered her fork and stood up to get a closer look while Dave sat in uncomfortable silence as she read the article. When she finished she slowly turned around to face him. “How’s he doing now?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper.

Dave shrugged. “He’s in college, doing fine,” he muttered and took another bite of his food.

Liz kept her eyes on him as she walked back to her seat, staring at him long enough that he set his fork back down and turned to her with a frustrated sigh.

“Look, they give me far too much money for fucking around with a drum kit. You know how much I get a month just in Nirvana royalties?” Liz took a breath to answer, but Dave went on. “Too. Fucking. Much. No one needs that kind of money. What am I going to do? Build a massive safe like Scrooge McDuck? You can’t swim in coins, Liz. That’s just physics.” He spun back around and snatched his coffee from the counter.

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” she said laughed quietly. “When I got that first Disney check, I paid off my student loans, bought the things I’ve always wanted, I secured my kid’s future, maybe not in that order, but I still had money left over. Why should we get to keep all the money when there are people that need it more than us?”

Dave nodded and held his hand out in agreement while finishing his coffee.

“Definitely explains your warm welcome here, though,” she added.

Dave laughed into his cup. “She’s my second mom,” he nodded his head towards Gloria, who was at the other end of the counter taking orders. “She tutors my daughters, too.” He nodded when Liz looked surprised. “Algebra, Geometry, Spanish and… uh…” he snapped his fingers trying to remember when Gloria walked by with an arm full of dirty plates.

“Trigonometry,” she mumbled, kicking the door to the kitchen open.

Dave snapped his fingers again and pointed at the flapping door. “That’s it! I’m clearly the high school drop out here.”

Liz smiled and shook her head, setting her empty coffee cup on the counter.

“Ready?” he asked and reached for their helmets.

“Yup,” Liz reached into her jacket pocket for her wallet when Dave snatched it out of her hands. “Hey!”

She swung for it, but Dave leaned too far out of the way. He opened the ball clasp and looked inside, laughing a little and pulling her ID from it’s pocket.

“Look at this picture!” he giggled as Liz tried one more time to grab it out of his hands. “You were blonde?”

“In my twenties. I just keep renewing my license by mail so I don’t have an updated picture,” Liz shrugged.

“Wait,” Dave flipped the card over a couple times in confusion. “Your name isn’t Liz?”

“Uh… no? Well, kinda” she laughed. “Stage name turned legal name thanks to the ‘No Duplicate Names’ SAG rule. Believe me, my mother is heartbroken over it.”

“So what’s your real name?” Dave asked, looking closer at the ID. “This just says Official Name Change To, then Elizabeth N Colbert. N…,” he said thoughtfully, “Is it Nancy?”

Liz laughed and made a face, “No, that’s actually my mom’s name.”

“C’mon,” Dave feigned a whine and looked back in the wallet.

“Nope!” Liz grinned and folded her hands in her lap.

Dave pouted a bit while slipping her ID back into its windowed pocket. He noticed all the other cards she had stuffed in her wallet and shot her a side smile. “I bet you didn’t change everything,” he teased.

Liz’s mind raced for a moment, trying to think of what she might have with her real name. “You can look!” she offered and smugly settled back with her arms crossed.

Dave began pulling out each of her cards and reading them before sliding them back in their pockets. Bank cards, health insurance, car insurance, coffee cards, studio access cards, laminate passes, elementary school volunteer badge… everything said Liz Colbert.

“God damnit,” Dave whispered, now pawing through back pockets and zipper pouches.

“I told you!” Liz laughed and stood up, reaching over his shoulder to pull a $100 bill from the wallet.

“Are you trying to get me killed?” Dave whispered harshly, snatching the bill out of her hand and stuffed it back in her wallet just as Gloria stepped up to the counter.

“So soon?” Gloria asked, gathering their plates.

“We’re on the bikes so we should try and beat the traffic,” he said, calmly pulling a $100 out of his own wallet and setting it on the counter. He smiled at Liz, who was glaring at him for paying.

Gloria looked between Dave and Liz for a moment. “You make that pretty girl ride on the back of that death machine?”

“I have my own death machine,” Liz replied cheerfully.

“Oh no,” she heard Dave whisper and hang his head.

Gloria narrowed her eyes at Liz and set the plates back down. “You’ll ruin your ovaries parading around on one of those… those… those… crotch rockets!” she scolded. Liz stifled a laugh, but nodded earnestly. “And you’re a young woman,” Gloria went on, “Several more years before you dry up and let me tell you, this boy,” she pointed a sharp, red fingernail at Dave, “needs a boy. He’s got three sweet little girls, but-“

Dave spun around in his chair and stood up. “Okay bye, Gloria!” he said loudly. He quickly grabbed their helmets and grabbed Liz’s hand, pulling her towards the door, but Gloria wasn’t missing a beat. She followed them on the other side of the counter, still scolding over the tops of the other customer’s heads.

“… he’s a good man and needs more babies! Just look at your hips!” she cried causing all the men sitting at the counter to turn and look at Liz’s ass. “Perfect birthing hips. They wouldn’t dare threaten a cesarean with hips like that!”

Dave desperately tried to speak over her to keep their humiliation at a low, “Right. Yes, Gloria. Okay. See you later!”

The last thing Liz heard when the door closed behind them was the best position to conceive a boy in. Dave walked as fast as he could towards the bikes, waving at Liz to hurry up, but as soon as Liz reached the bikes, she burst out laughing so hard that she had to lean on her bike to steady herself. Dave looked at her in surprise, he was sure she would be humiliated by Gloria’s little tirade. Finally Liz was able to take a breath.

“Can I just say,” she giggled, “that I’ve had two boys; one via c-section and that is not how they were conceived.”

Dave smiled and shook his head at her contagious laugh before handing her helmet over. “Hurry up before she comes out to finish her argument.”

[nerdylittleshit]

The Great Meta Scavenger Hunt - Round 7: The SECOND Most Important Object In The Universe

*insertsmarttitlehere*

The challenge:

Over the years we’ve seen many different items - weapons, jewellery, clothing, photos, whatever brand of hair product Dean uses - which have a huge significance to the Supernatural universe, around which the story seems to revolve or have played a key part in changing the course of a storyline… It hardly seems fair that Baby gets all the attention just because she’s shiny.

After the Impala, what object is the second most important out there in the supernatural universe? Explain in detail why your choice deserves the title.

 (x)

So, I made a list:

 (all images by courtesy of homeofthenutty)

The Men of Letters Bunker

Baby of course is the Winchester’s home. That is why she is so important, but also why her story is so sad. Because after all a car shouldn’t be a home, no matter how much you romanticise it. If Baby is the symbol for the Kripke era, then the bunker becomes the symbol for the Carver era. If Kripke glorified Sam and Dean’s unbreakable bond, then it was up to Carver to show us how unhealthy their relationship can be and finally give two grown men their own rooms and a place they can return to. A place where Dean can be nesting, where they can bring in their extended family, a home. Apart from that an underground bunker full of lore and magical artefacts, warded against almost everything, is kinda super cool. I wonder if they got that ping pong table yet.

Mystical powers: 9/10 (full of cool stuff, can’t be tracked, magical wi-fi)

Personal significance: 9/10

Total: 18/20

The Samulet

The single most important jewellery in the world (until Dean and Cas get married).  Started as an object of personal significance (representing the brotherly bond between Sam and Dean), became then an object of great mystical power (glows in the presence of God) and later a symbol of trust, faith and betrayal (Dean trusted Cas with his amulet, Cas lost his faith after he couldn’t find God with it and Dean felt betrayed by Sam after the events of 5x16 which led him to throw it away). In a way it lost its personal value to Dean, as he tells Sam in 10x05 he no longer needs a symbol to remind him how he feels about his brother. Its mystical powers became 200 times more after Chuck used it in 11x20 to tell Sam and Dean that God is in da house (and revealed that he had turned it off the whole time). After Chuck’s departure to spend some quality time with his sister though it has lost its meaning to the story again.

Mystical powers: 10/10 (except when it’s turned off)

Personal significance: 6/10

Total: 16/20

Weapons

The Colt

Or the gun that was too good to be true. You could say the deus ex machina of weapons. So of course the show needed to find some limitations to the gun that could kill everything. First we only had five bullets left, but after we find out how to make new ones (thanks Ruby) the Colt was stolen and traded. With the devil on the loose the Colt made a comeback, only to have it revealed that the Colt can kill everything except five things and apparently archangels are one of them.

As cool as the concept sounded the show needed to find new ways why the Colt wasn’t the solution to everything, and ultimately got rid of it in season 5 .*

(*Which kinda reminds me of a certain angel, who was simply to powerful, so the show needed to find ways why he couldn’t help the Winchesters every time by either depowering him or giving him stupid quests. Just saying.)

Mystical powers: 8/10

Personal significance: 4/10 (it killed Yellow Eyes after all)

Total: 12/20

Ruby’s knife

Again, sounded way cooler on paper. In hindsight it feels like the show needed to introduce a quicker way to get rid of demons than using exorcisms every time, after they became a much bigger part of the story in season 3. It leads of course to the moral dilemma that they always kill the human possessed as well, and hardly use exorcism anymore (except if it is the mother of your potential son). One of Sam’s reason to justify his demon blood drinking in season 4 was to further develop his ability to exorcise demons with his mind, and therefore save the human. Of course it was the beginning to his path to the dark side, so we got back to the knife. At least it looks pretty.

Mystical powers: 6/10 (hey, it can only kill demons, not almost everything)

Personal significance: 1/10 (it is Sam’s daily reminder of Ruby)

Total: 7/20

Angel blades

As we learned in 12x10 every angel has apparently their own blade and angels can tell them apart. It is also the very thing that marked Asa Fox as legit, according to Dean. The only weapon that can kill angels too (unless you are an archangel or God/God’s sister and can simply make them explode). We still haven’t figured out where exactly angels hide these things or if they materialize out of thin air each time they need one. Perfect weapon for a twirl and to show off.

Mystical powers: 7/10

Personal significance: 10/10 (if you are an angel)

Total: 17/20

Dean’s gun

Or the most beautiful gun I have ever seen. In dire need of a backstory: where did he got it from? Does it have a personal value to him? Or does he just like the way it looks? (Also, Lady Toni appears to have a similar gun, as spotted in 11x23.)

Mystical Powers: 0/10

Personal significance: 5/10 (Basically, we just don’t know)

Total: 5/20

Honourable mentions: the grenade launcher

Cas’s trenchcoat

Symbol of Cas’s angelhood (the few times he didn’t wear it he was almost always human). Symbol of Cas’s otherness (angels have a thing for suits in general, it is the coat that sets Cas apart). Symbol of Destiel – season 7. Symbol of Cas accidently cosplaying Constantine. You got it.

Mystical powers: 4/10 (I bet there is some angel magic woven into it, because the thing seems to repair/clean itself)

Personal Significance: 10/10

Total: 14/20

Honourable mentions: Sam’s purple dog shirt, Dean’s leather jacket (version 1), all that plaid

Cas’s pimpmobile

After losing his wings it allows Cas to still travel. It is also one of the few things that truly belong to Cas alone (the coat was technically Jimmy’s). And no matter what Sam says, it is not crappy.

Mystical powers: 0/10

Personal significance: 10/10

Total: 10/20

Honourable mentions: Mary’s sweet ride in 12x06

John’s journal

These days it is only brought back when deceased family members show up (Henry, Mary) and the Winchesters don’t have the heart to tell them what a horrible father John was. But it used to be the Winchesters number one source of research, even though I’m sure there was a better way to get all the (more accurate) information on the internet even back in 2005. The reason Sam almost got killed by vetalas back in 7x11.

Mystical powers: 0/10

Personal significance: 7/10

Total: 7/20

Photo of young Dean with Mary

Or the photo Dean seemed to carry around for decades before finally taking it out of his wallet and placing it on his nightstand in 8x14, symbolizing that Dean sees the bunker as his home. The same photo prevented Dean from killing Sam in 10x23. Apparently Dean made a bigger version of it and framed it, as seen in 11x22, where Amara holds up, realizing what Dean needs the most is his mother, and thus returns her to him by the end of 11x23. Hold by Dean in 12x02 as he tries to reconcile the image he had of his mother and the real person who just returned to his life. Seen by Mary herself in 12x09, helping her making the decision to help Alicia and Max with their hunt, as this is the legacy of her son. Bringer of many feels.

Mystical powers: 0/10

Personal significance: 10/10

Total: 10/20

Hellhound glasses

As cool as it is to be able to see hellhounds I only added them here because Sam and Dean looked super hot in them. Nuff said.

Mystical powers: 7/10

Personal significance: 0/10

Total: 7/20

Various typewriters

Marks you as the author of the story. Subtle way of showrunners to insert themselves in the show. Sometimes used to hide angel blades and as clever Fringe references.

Mystical powers: 0/10 (Winchesters have a tendency to not act according to the script)

Personal significance: 2/10

Total: 2/20

(Bonus: the non-existent bunker sofa. The moment they get it will be the object to make Destiel canon. Or say I have heard.

Mystical powers: 10/10

Personal significance: 10/10

Total: 20/20)

Ranking

1.       The MoL bunker 18/20

2.       Angel blades 17/20

3.       The Samulet 16/20

4.       Cas’s trencoat 14/20

5.       The Colt 12/20

6.       Cas’s pimpmobile 10/20

6.       Photo of Dean & Mary 10/20

7.       Hellhound glasses 7/20

7.       John’s journal 7/20

7.       Ruby’s knife 7/20

8.       Dean’s gun 5/20

9.       Various typewriters 2/20