#just etch some enochian onto it and it's all good

[katymacsupernatural]

Seven Deadly Sins

Dean Winchester x Reader

1250 Words

Written For: @heavenandhellbingo, @teamfreewillbingo, @spnkinkbingo

Squares Filled: 7 Deadly Sins (HH), Enochian Box (TFW), Orgy(Kink)

Summary: An Enochian box is delivered into your hands, taunting you. Opening it, you bring the seven deadly sins into the bunker, and they are there to keep you occupied anyway they know how. 

Warnings: Slight angst, dub non-con, 18+, smut, nothing graphic, hints at upcoming things...

It sat there, taunting you. It had been there for days now, sitting on the map table, driving you absolutely crazy. A simple box, no more than eight inches wide, covered in Enochian writing. Both Sam and Dean had insisted you leave it alone, but you weren’t sure how much longer you could ignore it.

The box had been shipped to you almost a week ago. Your name had been written on the shipping box, your PO Box number as well. Written in big block letters, it had no return address. Of course, you were concerned, calling both Sam and Dean into the room.

With guns ready, they watched as you cut through the tape, pulling out the simple wooden box. You peered at the red symbols painted all over the wood, and the latch on the front. “What do you think it is?” You had asked, reaching for the latch, the box pulling you in.

“Don’t!” Both Sam and Dean had called out, stopping you. “We don’t know who sent it, or what it contains. Let’s wait for Cas.”

You had done as you were told, leaving the box on the table. But that had been days ago, and you were going crazy with curiosity. The box called to you, even at night when you were sleeping beside Dean. Most of the nights you found yourself standing in front of the box, staring down at it, mesmerized.

Today was the seventh day, and you had no idea when Cas was going to be back. Sam and Dean had gone on a supply run, leaving you all alone in the bunker. All alone with the box that pulled you to it.

Almost in a daze, you reached down, running your fingers along the etched wood, feeling the power coursing inside the box. Pleading with you to open it, to play with whatever awaited you inside. The latch was smooth and cold under your fingers as you slowly lifted it. Your movements weren’t your own as you pushed the lid open, gasping as thick grey smoke swirled up and around you, enveloping you in it’s heady, exotic fragrance.

“Thank you,” the smoke purred, a blend of different voices. Some feminine, some full of promise while others oozed evil. They wrapped around you, their hands everywhere as they promised you everything you ever wanted.

The box was pushed to the side as you were laid down on the map table. The smoke swirled and broke apart, turning into seven different bodies. Men and women filled the room, staring down at you in interest. You made no move to climb off the table, your body heavy and languid. “We’ve been waiting for you,” a woman spoke up, stepping forward and running the back of her hand down your cheek. “Why did you wait so long to open the box?”

“It was warded and I knew I shouldn’t,” you answered. “Who are you?”

“I’m Pride,” she purred, her amber eyes staring headily down at you. “Those are the other sins. There are seven of us to be exact.”

“The seven deadly sins,” you whispered, your eyes widening as they all came to stand around you. Their energy crackled through the air, their eyes literally glowing.

“Yep,” Pride gloated. “There’s me, and envy, gluttony, greed, lust, sloth, and wrath. We’ve been inside that box way too long, and we…,”

“Move!” A man, shorter in stature with arresting greyish blue eyes and strong shoulders pushed pride out of the way. “You can’t hog her all to yourself!”

“Who sent you?” You asked, still frozen in your spot as he came to stand between your legs, licking his lips as he stared down at you.

“Does it matter?” Asked another man who came to stand beside you. “We’re here, and we’re going to have some fun.”

“Envy, gluttony, behave yourselves,” Pride insisted. “There’s only one of her and seven of us.”

“What are you going to do?” You asked, but with the way they were looking at you, you had an idea. And you had no energy to move.

They all circled around the table, their hands brushing against your skin, teasing you. You could hear their voices, some speaking out loud, others echoing in your head. “Why me?” You asked, arching your back as a hand slipped under your shirt.

“Chuck wanted you distracted,” a woman answered, her name fluttering through your mind. Greed. “He wanted you to forget all about Sam and Dean.”

“Dean,” your voice was just a whisper, his name nothing more than that. Your mind was completely occupied by the seven people surrounding you.

Without even realizing it, your clothes had vanished, leaving you completely bare to these people. However, you made no move to cover yourself, watching as a tall, milk chocolate skinned woman climbed onto the table, stalking toward you like a panther. Her name floated to the top of your mind. Lust. Her hair was cut short to her head you noticed before she captured your lips. It wasn’t slow and sweet, it was like she was trying to swallow you whole.

While she plundered your mouth, envy had settled between your legs, running his hands up your thighs, his hands harsh against your sensitive skin. Pride had her hand on your breast, roughly tugging at the nipple, watching with glee as your eyes rolled back in your head.

It was all too much and not enough at the same time. You could see one man, a beard on his face, sitting in a chair, leisurely running his hand up and down his impressive length. The others had their hands, or mouth all over your skin.

Their voices all echoed through your mind. Words of pleasure, promises of driving you wild. They talked about being free, and how you would be theirs. Forever.

You cried out, needing more, but overwhelmed at the same time. Lust laughed against your mouth, her tongue running against your lips while Pride’s mouth tugged on your nipple.

“What the hell is going on?” A man’s voice called out, full of concern and anger. Looking past Lust, you could see him standing there, a gun cocked in his hand.

“You aren’t supposed to be here,” a short, plump, red-headed woman exclaimed, walking over as if he wasn’t holding a gun. Pressing her finger against his chest, she glanced behind him to the other man as well.

“Dean, she must have opened the box,” he exclaimed.

“Yeah, she did,” the redhead answered. Somehow, you knew it was Wrath. “She’s ours now. And you should have been trapped by Chuck.”

The gun slowly slipped out of Dean’s hand, his eyes round when he heard your cry of ecstasy. You knew you had to be a sight, naked, laid out on the table with four bodies wrapped around yours. But you didn’t care. It felt so good.

“I guess we’ll have to take care of you ourselves,” Wrath purred, pulling on Dean until his lips met hers in a heated kiss. For a moment of clarity, you knew this was wrong. That you needed to get away from the seven deadly sins. But with someone’s mouth hot on your neck, another at the juncture of your thighs, you were lost. And from the looks of it, so were Dean and Sam.

Dean/Jensen Tags: @acortez82​ @acreativelydifferentlove​ @adoptdontshoppets​ @a-girl-who-loves-disney​ @akshi8278​  @bebravekeeponfighting  @bi-danvers0​ @brindz30​ @burningcoffeetimetravel​ @cap-just-said-language​ @colette2537​   @deansgirl215​  @flamencodiva​ @hamiltrash1411​ @its-not-a-tulpa​ @jerkbitchidjitassbutt​ @just-another-winchester​ @karouwinchester​ @keikoraventeller​  @krys198478​ @librarygeekery​ @magssteenkamp​ @misspygmypie​ @mlovesstories​ @mrsambroserollinsacklesmgk​  @mrspeacem1nusone​ @nothinbuttrouble2​ @ria132love​ @ruprecht0420​     @sortaathief​ @superseejay721517​ @squirrelnotsam​ @team-free-will-you-idjiot​ @thing-you-do-with-that-thing​ @torn-and-frayed​ @tricksterdean​ @wonderfulworldofwinchester​ @woodworthti666​

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[deansawthetvglow]

The ficlet: Welcome Home, 2.2k, post s14.

The prompt: Yo! Congrats for the 3000! I was thinking a cute ficlet of Dean finding Cas' sketch book and it's all cute drawings of Dean with little sentences or notes by Cas. Stuff like a drawing of deans sleepy waking up face and Cas' note saying "this is my 2nd favorite Dean face". for @idkmanjustgo

It’s been a week since Dean and Sam have seen Cas.

They’re stuck in the bunker, and Cas is out hunting God.

“We should be out there with him, Sammy.” Dean grumbles.

“I know Dean, but Cas can help locate him faster. Once he does, we can go help with the fight.”

Dean rolls his eyes at his brother. “How can you be so okay with Cas leaving at a time like this?”

It’s been a week since Chuck snapped his fingers and the aftermath is immense. The sky is constantly dark, black smoke blocking out the sun as demons search for available vessels to trash. Ghosts roam the earth, tied to nothing but the stench of hell. Dead men shuffle through the streets, rotting and hungry.

Cas shouldn’t be out there alone.

That’s when Dean’s phone rings and he lunges to grab it from the countertop next to the stove.

“Cas?”

“Dean. I have been...unsuccessful...in my search. I know that you would prefer me to stay away from the bunker at this time, but I’m,” an exerted grunt crackles through the phone, “quite injured and could use a place to rest.”

Dean kicks himself. It’s the end of the fucking world so of course, he had just told Cas he’s no longer welcome. “You’re dead to me.” How fucking stupid.

Dean sighs, trying not to give away how much Cas is not dead to him at all. In fact, he’s pretty much all he’s been fixating on for the entire past week and now he’s worried sick at the prospect of Cas being so injured he needs time to heal.

“Course, Cas. You, uh, you’re always welcome here.”

“I estimate my drive will be around 12 hours, considering all the chaos on the roads.”

“Sure. See you soon.”

“Goodbye, Dean.”

Dean hangs up and presses the phone to counter, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in.

“So, Cas is coming back?” Sam says over his book from the kitchen table.

Dean just nods and leaves the room.

He knows there’s not much he can do to help Cas, he knows that they are more fractured than they’ve been before. There’s no fiery anger or sorrow, there’s nothing to hold onto. Instead, it feels like a faux indifference, one overcompensating for true emotions and is eating away at them both.

Neither wants to show weakness. Neither wants to feel the full weight of their situation. Neither wants to admit the opposite of their indifference.

But Dean decides, fuck it, it really is the end of the world this time and he needs to make sure Castiel feels welcome in the family again.

It’s a small step, and it won’t erase the words he’s already said, but it’s in this moment that he decides to prepare Cas’ room for his arrival.

He reaches door 15 and hesitates. Castiel deserves his own god damn permanent room, not some guest room that’s only available when it’s convenient for them.

Dean decides to move Cas to room 12, just down the hall from his own. Maybe he’ll regret it but c’est la fuckin vie.

When he finally enters the guest room to collect Cas’ things, he doesn’t find much.

It’s a sterile room, lonely almost. He grabs the little photo leaned up against the lamp, the one they took back with Bobby and Jo and Ellen all those years back, a few spare buttons and some weird Enochian book with a few goats etched in gold on the front.

He turns to leave when he notices the corner of a piece of paper peeking out from under the bed.

When Dean leans down to grab it, he realizes, it’s not just a piece. It’s a whole notebook.

The pages are sturdy and lightly creme tinted and the cover is white, simple, smooth, blank.

He knows he shouldn’t, but once he reaches room 12 and sets the knickknacks he found down on the desk, he sits on the edge of the bed and opens the journal.

What he sees first makes him gasp.

It’s a hand on a shoulder from a high perspective. There are terrible faces screaming, warped, muddled together in the background, but there is a light, replicated by the contrast from perfect charcoal shading, that blinds in the foreground.

The bottom corner reads “Dean Winchester is Saved”

Dean’s mind flashes back to his first moment seeing the scar from Castiel. His stomach lurches.

Dean never expected Castiel to be an artist, but now, seeing the magnificence of something so simple, his heart yearns to turn the page. He knows there’s something wrong about looking through someone else’s notes, but he can’t help it.

He does.

This page is eyes. His eyes.

Angry eyes. Soft eyes. Closed eyes with long lashes. Crying eyes. Eyes with pupils so dilated, Dean can see love. A few of the eyes are framed by expressive brows, some sketches reach down to the tops of freckled cheekbones.

He breathes deeply and closes his own eyes, letting his finger softly run down the page, not enough to smudge it, but just enough to feel the intensity at which these were drawn.

He opens his eyes.

Turns the page.

This page is noses. All the same one. Freckles spattered meticulously over them. Some are side profiles, others, straight on. Some flared, some scrunched. Dean never thought a nose could be a muse, and yet...

Another page flipped means he reaches lips. Dean lifts a finger to his own to trace the shape. These are his lips. They are drawn lightly open, smiling, pressed together, shouting.

One depiction has his lips locked with another’s. His lips dominate the image so he can’t pick out who’s they are. He wonders if he’s kissed that set of lips before. He wonders if they are Castiel’s, but quickly shakes the thought from his head.

Another page turned and he’s not sure how to feel.

It’s his entire profile, perfected. Mimicked sunlight hits his face and his eyes gleam in the light. His face is sharp and determined, but his eyes fool no one.

This one is labeled, “Dean running us through a case. It’s morning, the sun rises and warms us through a dirty motel window. I don’t remember the case. I was too busy looking at him.”

The next page is him sleeping. He wishes he felt weird about it, wishes he hated that Cas had drawn him like this, messy hair and parted lips and cheek squished into a soft pillow, but he can’t help but feel warm and soft and flattered.

The accompanying note does nothing to settle the butterflies in his stomach.

“Dean didn’t sleep well last night, he doesn’t usually. He sleeps angry. But we returned from a case in Illinois last night and he needed true rest. I snuck in and gave him a dream. Here is his face when he’s dreaming of picnics with a woman he saw on a billboard for shampoo yesterday.”

He keeps turning pages, settles back into the pillows on the bed and lets his feet swing up. He flips and gazes for a long while.

There are countless images of bees drawn on the sides of pages, one page is an entire hive of them, honeycomb patterning in the back.

There are a few drawings of Sam and Jack here and there as well. Sam looks so happy in one of the sketches that Dean’s heart nearly bursts. He hasn’t seen Sam that happy since...ever...and seeing it, well, maybe it should make him sad, but he can’t bring himself to care. It’s perfect and it makes Dean think it’d be possible to see that exact expression on his brother’s face sometime.

Sometime soon, he hopes.

There’s one page in a cartoon style that depicts Jack as a superhero, a whole costume design and everything. “Angel Man” written messily at the top.

Dean snorts into the silence, Cas, you are such a huge dork.

Finally, he reaches one of the last pages, and he shuts the book abruptly. He squeezes his eyes and holds the book between two hands against his chest. He looks up at the concrete ceiling and tries to calm himself by counting air bubbles in the harsh grey above.

He can’t resist it though.

Tentatively, he opens the book again, to the place his thumb subconsciously kept for him.

It’s not just lips this time.

It’s their faces, the entirety of each, down to the shoulders. Dean is pressed up against the line of a wall and Castiel’s thumb is resting on his cheek as the rest of his hand disappears by the nape of his neck.

Dean’s hand is hidden by Cas’ face but he can see his fingers buried and tugging lightly at black hair. Castiel’s face is so sincere, like every emotion he has ever felt as an angel— anguish, doubt, fear, devotion, loyalty, love(?)—is committed to one kiss. Dean’s face is less complex, it’s accepting and relaxed and wanting.

Dean isn’t sure how Cas depicted such emotions on the page, maybe used some angel mojo or something, but all he knows is he can feel the kiss. The weight of it. The importance.

Most of all, he feels the want.

He wishes he didn’t. He wishes Cas hadn’t gotten his face so painfully right, but he had. Everything that he had built up in his chest was screaming to be let out.

Holding those feelings down had been worse than locking down Michael— perhaps that’s why he had been so good at keeping the archangel in captivity for so long.

Dean lets his eyes roam the page once more before noticing the tiny phrase written in the lower right corner, “A dream.”

His heart flutters and he gingerly closes the book this time. He sits up and sets it on the bedside table.

Running a hand through his hair, Dean lets the silence overtake him.

He wants nothing more than to feel turmoil about this. He wants to feel angry or betrayed or confused. But he doesn’t.

All he can feel, book set aside, silence settling, is peace.

With that, he finally stands. He turns down the sheets and fluffs the pillows. Adds another, extra-soft blanket from the bottom drawer of the cabinet to make it feel even more like home. Then, impulsively, he tears one of the last empty pages from the angel’s sketchbook and scribbles onto it, setting it gently on the pillow.

When he’s finished, he slips out of the room, leaving the door ajar.

—

Cas got home exactly when he thought he would.

When evening rolled around, he was pulling in to the bunker garage and walking in to greet Sam and Dean in the kitchen.

When he did, he was limping, eyes heavy and tired.

Sam was first to rise and greet him by supporting him and helping him hobble forward.

“Is there anything I need to check out for you? Are you okay?”

His voice is scratchy, but it comes out okay, “Just need rest. Thank you, Sam.”

Dean stayed silent, staring at Cas and Sam slink through the kitchen to the hallway. He sipped the whiskey in his hand for a moment before standing and following the two.

When Sam nearly let go of Cas to open the door of room 15 for him Dean let out a “Nope. 12.”

Sam looked over his shoulder at Dean leaning against the wall and half glared.

“Little help here?”

Dean moved forward and passed the two before pushing open the door to room 12 and letting them walk past.

Sam gently lowered Cas to sit on the bed. Cas smiled as he saw all of his things neatly resting on his nightstand. Finally, he turned and picked up the note on his pillow.

Welcome Home.

He read it, and Dean watched as the angel’s cheeks turned pink as he felt the familiar material of the paper under his fingers.

Cas first looked to Sam, but Sam shook his head, already knowing the question on Castiel’s mind.

“Then...who?”

Dean broke a bit at the utter confusion on Castiel’s face. How could he have said something so hurtful that Cas couldn’t even comprehend a “welcome home” coming from him?

Dean let his eyes flick over to Sam, who in turn nodded towards Cas with a soft smile. With that, Sam turned and left the room.

Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah, welcome home, Cas.” And washed down the rasp with a swig of his whiskey.

Cas just looked up at Dean with a mix of fear and wonder in his eyes.

“Thank you, Dean, this means,” he brought the note close to his chest and let his eyes close, “so much.”

Dean couldn’t stop his feet from moving him to sit beside Cas. But he didn’t really mind.

He placed a hand on Cas’s shoulder and let the wave of blue that hit him when Cas’ eyes were trained to his own wash over him.

Dean quirked his lips into a half smile.

Cas’ eyes, usually so set, flicked to his hands. “I assume you’ve seen my sketches.”

With that, Dean slid his hand off of Cas’ shoulder and brought it to rub his chin.

“Yeah, listen, I am so s-“

But before he could finish Castiel rushed out a “Please don’t be angry.”

Dean’s stomach twisted with guilt.

“Cas, no.”

Castiel was squeezing his eyes shut, the note in his hand now crumpled from the pressure of his fist.

“Cas, hey,” Dean breathed out again. His heart rate quickened as he reached out his index finger and placed it under the angel’s chin, moving to guide his face towards him, “look at me.”

Now facing Dean, Castiel opened his eyes and saw something he never expected. Something he never drew for fear of not having the privilege of seeing it in real life.

He saw Dean longing for him.

Like a low roll of thunder in the distance, “Dean.”

And then Dean was leading Castiel’s chin forward and bringing his lips to meet his own.

The touch was feather light at first, hesitant, but then he was pushing closer when Castiel didn’t pull away.

Their lips were slotted perfectly together.

Heaven and Hell. Angel and Man. Dean and Castiel.

When their lips finally parted, Dean refused to let Castiel away completely. He set his forehead gently against Cas’ and looked into the blur of perfect blue. Tears were leaking from the angel’s eyes, and Dean furrowed his brow in concern as he wiped one away with the pad of his thumb.

There were no words, but Dean understood. He knew what his angel was feeling. He had seen it before in charcoal.

That night, Dean didn’t sleep in his own room, and Castiel rested, drawing the details of an arm draped over his torso and a face pressed against his chest and legs intertwined with his.

Home.

[thewriterwithnoplan]

The Huntress From Hell (Part 10)

Summary: Luci Samael Morningstar daughter of Lucifer and the angel Azrael . Marked as the heiress of hell, Luci might be in a smidge of trouble when she falls into an alternate universe. Here demons run rampant and angels aren’t so high and mighty. With monsters lurking around every corner she needs to turn tail and get the hell out of there. If only. Pairing: Supernatural x OC x Lucifer (Fox) Word Count: 1131 Warnings: None.

It had been months since Sam or Dean had contact with Luci. They hadn't been surprised though after what had happened. Not that they were sure what happened. Castiel had merely told them that Uriel was gone and he'd left Luci to return the body to heaven. The boys had gone back to the warehouse in search of her, only to find a burnt out husk that had to have been Alastair.

Luci wasn't one to turn tail and run but she was by no means stupid. If Alastair was indeed a reliable source then Lucifer was not one to be messed with. Being his daughter from another universe gave her some form of immunity. Lucifer wasn't a problem to Luci personally. Her real problem was ensuring the Winchesters didn't get killed or try to kill Luci for her being the Heiress of hell.  

So she'd decided that simply disappearing was her best option. Making allies wherever the hell she could. Readying for the on coming apocalypse. If the heavenly host decided that Luci was as much a threat as Lucifer was then she feared they'd go for the Winchesters to get to her. And if this universes Lucifer decided that Luci was no daughter of his then the same could ensue.

The Huntress had cast aside the Winchesters and the life if only for the moment. Until the world stopped needing the heiress of hell. Luci had traveled the country to track down any demon that'd made it topside. She was slowly amassing herself a small army of humans and demons who owed her countless favours.

Different state, town and city each day. She was sure no one could have followed her. For a month she was left alone to her favours. Until of course some demon had to ruin her streak. And by some demon she meant a hoard of them. They'd knocked her out after losing half their party. Dragged her kicking and screaming to a lavish mansion and thrown her to the feet of a suited demon upon an ornate throne.

"Well, well, well," The man chuckled, swirling his crystal glass of scotch. "If it isn't the underdog who's been ruining my business."

Luci stood, blood dripping from her split lip and gleaming in her hair from where she'd collided with a wall. The lead demon chuckled at her boldness as she had taken out Nightbane and whirled upon the demon that had knocked her out. Then she'd stepped out of the devils trap painted on the floor and spat at the lead demons polished shoes.

"I assume we haven't met?" He held up a second glass of alcohol, which despite herself she'd taken because her grandfather knew it'd been a while since she'd had decent scotch. "I'm Crowley, King of hell."

And then she'd spat the scotch onto his shoes. She grinned like an idiot, "Yeah no. I'm not saying squat to a fraud. Bring me Lucifer or at least his next of kin."

"Hate to break it to you sweet heart," Crowley growled. "But Lucifer us currently in the cage and has no next of kin. I assure you, I'm his successor."

Luci had preceded to choke on her scotch, then on air and her own tongue for good measure. No next of kin. Alastair had certainly forgotten a thing or two. What the hell was wrong with this universe? There were vampires, werewolves, twisted demons, dick Angels and every other manner of creature. What this universe didn't have was an Heiress. There was no Luci of this universe.

Holy hell. Luci couldn't fathom what Lucifer, her father, had turned into. She'd invented demons. No wonder these ones were different. How had she not noticed that this world was not just different because there were creatures of the dark but she- Here she didn't exist. No wonder hell was so warped, not just a place of the damned but full of things that wanted souls there. Holy hell. So Luci had spilt her guts, told the king of hell who she was.

"Luci Samael Morningstar, Heiress of hell." She inclined her head to Crowley. "Daughter of Lucifer himself- In another universe of course."

"As pretty as you are darling," The king swirled the liquid in his glass before downing it all. "I'm going to need some proof for obvious reasons."

Expecting nothing less Luci unbuttoned the top of her shirt. It looked simply like a tattoo to anyone who didn't understand celestial customs. A five pointed star in the centre of a circle - a pentagram - with enochian runes etched around it. An insigne as the heavenly host called it though they were rare.

"Bearer of a heart with wings and horns," Crowley translated with an impressed look. "It's a powerful mark. I assume you're from the Beta universe?"

Pushing her shirt back up Luci furrowed at the word, "The what now?"

"You know," He waved his hands about. "The universe before this one. The test run before god decided he wanted to throw in monsters- You never wondered where god went when he disappeared? He's visiting this universe."

"Huh," Luci chewed on the inside of her cheek stowing the information for later. "And you'd know this how?"

"I'm the king of hell, it was in the handbook!" He scoffed. "There's one rule God made to hell, we have to play a recording in all of the cells. Whispers of the light, the demons call it."

Another gem of information, Luci realised. God had created another universe where she wasn't even created but he by no means had forgotten her. Whispers of the light. She was willing to bet her soul that it meant her. Good. She thought. Good that this universe hadn't been allowed to corrupt itself completely. Good that god had ensured the damned souls in the pit had some hope.

She by no means liked the idea of her grandfather hopping between universes, having disposable children. Luci was angered that he'd created this place where evil thrived, where she didn't even exist. But she was interested and curious too. A universe where everything was different, what was right is wrong and wrong was right. It was different. And for a being who'd spent millennia in the same world- Different was good.

So Luci stood before the king of hell and gave a deadly grin, "You have no right to the throne of hell-"

"You-" Crowley began to interrupt before she waved her hand in a silencing motion.

"That's why you need some like me to back you," Crowley blinked then gave a delighted grin to match the heiress'. "In return for a favour of course."

There was a pause, a heartbeat, a moment, a minute-

"I like you. We've got ourselves a deal."

[hnrywinchester]

Fare Thee Well- - Chapter 1

Summary: She hasn’t seen Gabriel in nine years, then a phone call changes everything.

Pairing: Gabriel x OFC (bear with me lol)

Series Warnings: ANGST, smut, swearing, character deaths, follows canon.

Beta’d by: @theuniverseisasleep

Words: 4.1k

Masterlist

Another sunny day, another dingy motel, dirt caked so heavily onto the window that light could barely filter through. It smelled like a basement, musty and humid, and this hadn’t even been the worst one this month. Life was glamorous as always.

This was set to be a quick salt and burn, and she sat there thanking her rarely seen lucky stars as she watched a mouse run squeaking across the bathroom floor. Lovely. She was getting too old for this shit, but it was time for food and a solid  three hours before some good old-fashioned grave raiding tonight. The drive had been long, the interviews with vics monotonous, and she was finally back in Kentucky, time to get- her thoughts were abruptly cut short by her phone vibrating in the pocket of her worn black leather jacket.

“Yeah?” She answered, annoyed, throwing her duffel down onto the motel bed and rolling her eyes at the cloud of dust that floated off the bedspread.

“Liv?” a deep, somber voice sounded and she stopped dead in her tracks, a pit forming her stomach. Sam Winchester. This was bad.

“Sam fucking Winchester. Hi,” she answered, trying to keep her voice cool. It had been almost a decade since she’d heard his voice.

“Hey, uh, look I know that this, this is, just, this...”

“What? Spit it out.” Panic started to overcome her, a stuttering Winchester never led to good news.

“We need you. We have, uh, we have Gabriel, and he’s, he’s in rough shape.”

“Gabriel...”

That pit that had formed in her stomach lurched, jumping all the way up into her throat, this was not happening.

“Yeah, turns out he’s been held prisoner in hell for, God knows how long and.. and he’s wrecked. We’re honestly not sure if he’s even still in there. But if anyone can pull him out, well, we thought it’d be you...”

“What do you mean... not sure he’s still in there? What’s wrong with him?”

“We uh, everything? Liv, it’s bad.”

Her heart was pounding. Held prisoner in hell... wrecked... not even still in there... all the horrible things she’d said, thought, they came running back into her head. Nine years of cursing his existence punched her right in the gut. She was lightheaded and dizzy, the world was spinning around her.

Nine years. It’d been nine years since she’d last seen him. After Lucifer had “killed” him, he’d come shortly after, telling her he loved her, that once everything settled down he’d be back but he needed to lay low. And she hadn’t seen him since.

The hotel room was pitch dark, wind howling through the cracked window pulling droplets of rain into the already damp room. She sat at the table, unable to distinguish the rain from tears on her face. It had been hours, days, honestly she wasn’t sure, all she knew was he was gone. The Winchesters didn’t dare face her. They knew. They knew both her wrath, and her love for the angel, and she’d given them a fair taste of what would happen if she saw them again.

Thunder cracked, but she didn’t flinch. Lightning seared across the black sky, but she didn’t blink. With every flash all she could see was his body splayed on the ground, his massive wings burning across the land.

“Liv?”

Hallucinations were setting in. Great. The icing on top of the shit cake.

“Sweetheart,” she heard him say, her memory was doing him great justice, it was perfect, “I’m uh, I’m not dead. You can stop being comatose over there.”

The world stopped. All she could hear, feel, even see, was her heart pounding in her chest, the blood rushing through her veins. It took a moment, but she finally turned her head to the source of the sound, half expecting to see Lucifer, but it was him, hands held out presenting himself with that cocky little smirk on his face. But his eyes bore his fear.

“How do I know it’s you?” She croaked, voice weak and cracking.

“Well, your birthday is September 4th, favorite food are those disgusting, weird, not chicken but you think they are no matter how many times I tell you they’re not, things from that gas station in Kentucky, and is that a mirror in your pocket? Cause I can definitely see myself in your pants.”

Her chest finally unconstricted, air rushed into her lungs like she was taking her first breath, and the wail that followed gave the storm a run for its money. She leapt from the chair, the force of her movement sending it crashing into the wall, and threw herself into his waiting arms. Sobs wracked her body as she buried her face into his neck, his scent filling her senses, arid and warm, arms gripping her tightly.

“Sssshh, it’s ok,” he cooed, planting his lips firmly on her head, burying his nose in her hair, “if I didn’t know better I’d swear you loved me or something.”

“Don’t get crazy now,” she laughed through her tears, the sound thick and heavy.

“I have to go,” he confessed, dropping his eyes sadly.

“What?”

“I need to hide out until this whole, apocalypse circus is done. Until Lucifer is gone.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No can do. Let’s just say I don’t have the, classiest of friends. Go help those two gigantors stuff my big bro back into time out, and I’ll be home. I promise.”

She’d stared at him, her grip tightening on his collar, a poor attempt at holding him there, but he broke her heart with a simple chaste kiss.

“I love you, you know?” were the last words she’d heard him speak before the echo of his wings ricocheted off the walls.  The silence that followed was deafening.

He had never come home.

“I’m,” she began, petrified of what now lay ahead of her, “I’ll be there in 12.”

Ten hours later she pulled up to the address Sam had given her, confused at the abandoned industrial building before her, panic creeping in slowly. The grimy brick building towering from the rocky uneven ground looked more like where she’d be hunting something, not going for a family reunion. She saw a door surrounded by a circle of bricks down a flight of metal railed stone stairs and she pulled her gun out before cautiously approaching it and knocking slowly three times.

“Olivia, hello,” a deep, gravelly voice greeted as he swung the door open.

Castiel. She’d missed the awkward trench coat angel. He’d checked in on her periodically over the years, helping her here and there.

“Cas,” she sighed in relief, putting her gun back into the waistband of her jeans.

His eyes were filled with sorrow as they followed her as she entered the bunker, knowing how broken she still truly was. The sight behind the door was not what she was expecting, grand and bright, metal stairs leading to a room with old computer systems lining the walls. Any other day she would be in awe, but she wasn’t here for a tour.

“Hey!” Sam greeted, jogging into view as Cas led her down the staircase, a hand pressed gently between her shoulders.

“Hey... Dean here?”

“Uh, long story... he’s in another dimension. An alternate universe. Trying to rescue Lucifer’s son and our mom.”

She stared at him blankly, “Your dead mom?”

“Like I said, long story... how are you?”

“I’ve been better.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Sorry about this, I know, that we didn’t exactly end things too well.”

“That’s, yeah.. sorry.”

“Oh no worries, I understand. So he’s, uh, Gabriel is this way.”

As Sam led her through the building, she tried to steal glances at all it had to offer. A library, lots of old useless electronics, although she thought maybe Sam had had a little fun tinkering with it all if he’d ever gotten a chance. They reached a hall lined with doors and Sam stopped at one labeled ‘32’, his hand freezing as it grabbed the knob.

“How bad is it?” She asked, her voice ridden with fear.

“It’s bad. I’m not gonna sugar coat it, it’s really bad. I’m, I’m sorry.”

She nodded, feeling tears pricking at her eyes, her face growing hot.

“He’s, he isn’t Gabriel anymore...” Sam finished, his voice barely above a whisper.

He opened the door slowly. At first appearances the room looked empty unoccupied, black Enochian symbols etched on every available inch the room. Confused, she looked back at Sam. He motioned toward the dresser in the corner, and she saw a small figure huddled into a ball beside it. It didn’t even look human.

“Oh my god,” when the realization hit her she ran over, the bloody matted hair, the filthy clothes, his head hung low, forehead against his bent knees. Her hands came to his forearms and he jumped, panicked, terrified, pushing himself deeper into the dark corner. His eyes were wide, petrified, sunken into his head, his face blood stained and marred, tiny holes, appearing like stitch wounds surrounded his mouth.

“Gabriel,” she quietly sobbed, “it’s me.”

His eyes didn’t change. They were completely dead. What once was filled with golden flashes of life and mischief, sat cold and dull, staring aimlessly into the floor.

“I’m, I’m not going to hurt you,” she whispered, “Gabriel.”

His tight, pained grimace softened slightly, and the tiniest hint of recognition fell onto his face before he buried his face back into the crook of his elbow. She sat down in front of him, lost on what to do. How could this happen to an Archangel?

“Liv,” she heard Sam whisper from the door, she looked to him and he beckoned her over.

“All we know, is that Asmodeus was extracting his grace, and using it on himself. We have a little bit of it here and we’re trying to give it to him, as a pick me up.”

“What’s an Asmodeus?”

“He’s the current king of hell, youngest son of hell.”

“So Azazel’s little brother... how poetic. And he was, extracting.. Gabriel’s grace? How?”

“Honestly we’re not sure. He came like this, except his mouth had been sewn shut. With a vial of his grace that Ketch stole.”

“So for nine years, he’s been in Hell, being virtually fed on by some pissant demon? Am I following along correctly?”

“Yeah, well we don’t know how long but, awhile it seems. He’d take what he could, let Gabriel recharge, then take it again, bled dry, basically. And this uh, this Asmodeus, when we met him he could shape shift, like Gabriel can, so, I guess it was all part of his rise to power.”

She nodded. Shapeshifting. That explained Gabriel’s fear when he saw her. Something told her he’d seen her, or at least her form, at some point in the last 9 years.

“What can I do Sam?” She whispered, exasperated, desperate.

“We hoped you’d know,” he replied, hope fading from his voice.

She took a deep breath and walked back over to Gabriel, sitting down in front of him at a safe distance.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered just loud enough to hear, “Gabriel, I’m so sorry.”

She couldn’t help the tears that fell. For him, for the things she said about him, felt about him. She’d cursed him, hated him, and all this time she should have been looking for him. The guilt had settled in. She hadn’t believed in him or trusted him, all she had done was written him off as a liar and let him rot in the pit to be mutilated and tortured.

His eyes never lifted, just stared into the dark corner of the room, unmoving, not even blinking.

“You remember, that one time, when we flew out to that island, out by Belize. I made you sit through the airplane ride,” she started retelling, a small smile turning up the corner of her mouth, “and we were sitting in the ocean, at sunset, because we were cheesy, and...”

Yeah, he remembered. He remembered that day very well. That memory was one of the only things he still had.

He walked out of the tiny little beach house, drinks in hand, out towards the ocean. The sun slowly dipped closer and closer toward the vast, open blue and one tiny figure sat in the sand, the light illuminating her skin. She was practically glowing. Her hair fell in messy, salt tousled waves down her bare back and around her shoulders, and he swore that this one had been made by Dad’s hands himself, perfect and beautiful, strong and soft and free.

When he reached her, she didn’t budge. Her eyes were closed, her skin soaking in the last of the sun’s warmth. He didn’t think she even knew he was there. So he marveled a little more. Searing this image into his brain, because in 1000 years he wanted to recall it, to remember every single detail, down to the placement of each grain of sand scattered across her chest, every tiny freckle that danced along her nose and cheeks, her eyelashes and the way they brushed her brow. Every imperfection was important. He knelt down quietly, gently laying his lips to the top of her shoulder in a light kiss, tasting the ocean salt on her skin.

“I love you, you know,” He whispered into her hair before parting the falling veil with his nose, finding the side of her neck with his mouth.

“I know,” she responded, her eyes remaining closed but her smiling growing.

“Do you?”

She reached behind her, grabbing his hand and bringing his arm around her waist, locking her fingers with his against her stomach as she leaned her body back into his chest, her head resting back across his shoulder.

“Yes,” she answered, turning her head and gently kissing his jaw.

Her certainty, faith, and trust in him shocked him. She had no hesitation in answering him. The swelling in his chest was consuming him. There was no explanation for any of this, the dejected little brother, the runaway, dads little last ditch, got-nothing-left creation had finally found peace. In the arms of a human, this human, he’d finally found a home.

“I kinda wanna stay here forever,” she giggled, nose scrunching up before rolling herself forward and standing up, pulling him up with her. “Come on,” she smiled, mischief in her eyes.

He obeyed, letting her lead him to the waters edge, the waves lapping at their toes. She peered up at him, he looked so serious, troubled almost.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, keeping his hand in hers while she turned to face him, other hand coming up to rest on his cheek.

She studied his face, perfect, sharp and angled, his amber eyes looking at her with an adoration she swore was beyond a human’s capability.

“I kinda want to stay here forever too, except my forever, actually IS forever,” he confessed, leaning into her hand. If there was ever a time to be weak, this seemed like it.

He’d always kept a brave face on around her, not because she expected it, but because his burdens were his own to bear. The burden of one day being left behind, the burden of knowing she was going to die one day. And his life, his existence, whatever it was, would be over, but he’d still be here.

She leaned up and pressed a simple, sincere kiss on his lips, “I’ll love you even when I’m in, wherever I’m headed,” she assured, pushing that one swoop of hair away from his eyes, “Heaven isn’t too far.”

No, it wasn’t. It was right here.

“Gabe?” He heard her whisper again, her voice still the sweetest sound that would ever exist, pulling him from his oh so familiar dream world, eyes finally moving to look at her.

This was no ruse, no trick. She was right in front of him, saying his name, was the nightmare was finally over? Slowly his hand pulled away from his body, reaching for her, stretching to the one thing that could pull him free.

She smiled as she gently laced her fingers with his, noticing the absence of his warmth she’d remembered on cold, lonely nights. Gently she pulled him from the floor, to the bed. His body reforming into a small knot, eyes hollow but with the tiniest glimmer of light shining through.

“Hey,” Sam Winchester greeted softly as he came into the room, Castiel on his heels, “well at least he’s not in the corner anymore.”

“Hasn’t said a word,” she replied, combing her fingers over the blood matted curls behind his ears.

That little motion had always been his greatest weakness. She didn’t know the power it had over him. Sure, she probably had gathered he enjoyed it, but it was more than that. It was pure affection, something Gabriel had never quite been acquainted with… until her. He remembered the feeling of her lips on his, the way her body fit perfectly into his arms, and those magical little fingers running through his hair. It made him weak and strong at the same time.

Unable to understand the conversation of the three people surrounding him, the world was hazy and sounds were muffled, he concentrated on the gentle scratches against his scalp and the warmth radiating off of the woman sitting at his side.

“What are you doing?” She questioned, as Castiel approached, pushing the sleeves of his coat up his wrists and laying his hands on the archangels head, a fierce protectiveness rising in her chest.

“I must reiterate, it's not possible for an angel to heal an archangel. I'm just trying to jolt his mind into thinking straight. Even then, Liv, Sam... Gabriel... it's, it's possible that he's lost.”

She shook her head, no he’d come back. He had to. She needed him. She always had and she always would.

“Gabriel, please,” she begged, leaning her forehead against his temple, uncaring of the bloody, filthy mess he was.

Sam watched the scene unfold before him. He thought for a moment that privacy was best, but he needed to be there if Gabriel broke back through.

“Gabriel,” she cried, unable to keep her resolve, to keep her strength up.

Seeing him like this broke something deep inside of her. Bloody, battered, still and cold as stone he sat, and she clung to him, pushing every ounce of everything she had to bringing him back.

“I know, I know that it’s hard. I know that you’re scared. I’m not going to hurt you, Sam isn’t going to hurt you. But you’re scaring me. I’ve lived, all these years, thinking you were gone, but here you are, and I, I need you. I’ve always needed you, I always will. I know you think you’re worthless, and broken, and weak, but you’re not. You are everything. I’m living and breathing right now because you existed. I need you, Gabriel. I love you. Even after all these years, I love you still. Please don’t, don’t leave me like this. Let me help you. Just please, come back to me, please Gabe.”

Her tears were falling and sobs wracked her body. Sam wanted to go to her, but she’d wrapped herself tightly around the angel, and he finally saw a glimmer of the depth of what they had. He watched as she cried into his cheek, forehead pressed firmly to his temple still, her tears leaving streaks in the blood dried on his face. She cradled his head gently with a hand wrapped around to his other cheek, her other arm between them, gripping his lifeless hand.

They had loved each other, really loved. And they still did.

The scene before him jolted memories of the times he’d lost Dean, and Jess, how helpless and lost he’d been. He’d never seen her like this. Olivia had always been a pillar of strength. Her reputation in the hunters’ world rivaled that of Sam and his brother; she’d taken out entire nests of vampires, packs of werewolves, single handedly. She was cunning and ruthless, but every hero had their kryptonite.

“Liv, can I, speak with you outside,” Cas asked softly, placing a hand on her shoulder.

She nodded, kissing Gabriel’s cheek before standing, keeping her eyes locked on him until she’d turned the corner.

“Are you all right?” Castiel inquired, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

“I’m fine,” she answered, coldly.

“I know you’re not fine.”

“Then why are you bothering to even ask?”

Castiel hung his head and she felt a pang of guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “for everything. I, I told Sam not to call you..”

“NOT to call me?” She interjected, her voice raising in anger, “not to call me. Why the fuck would you think to not call me?!”

“This is, a lot-“

“He’s DYING Cas! That’s what this is!”

“I know.”

“So fuck you for even considering not calling me here.”

“Liv...”

“What?!”

“I’m trying. You aren’t the only one who loves him.”

Sam stood alone in the room, Gabriel still huddled into a ball on the bed. The angel had always been small, but somehow he’d made himself even smaller. The day had taken a major emotional toll on the younger Winchester. Dean leaving (with Ketch of all people) to apocalypse world, Gabriel, Liv, and no matter how many times he turned the situation over in his head, he couldn’t find a single solution to one problem. He was helpless. It was back to the drawing board.

“Gabriel, you have to dig yourself out of this hole. Look, I know you think it's safer inside. No more torture. No more pain. No more expectations. I've been there. You were nothing like your family. You sure as hell weren't like your dad. Me either. And just like you, I got out. Or I-I thought I got out. But then... then my family needed me. And this is my life. No matter how many times I tried to fight it, this is what I was put here to do. This is where I make the world a better place. Jack, your nephew, needs you. Liv needs you. The world needs you. We need you. Gabriel, I need you. So, please, help us.”

Again, he got no response. This was hopeless. He needed a new plan, and that wasn’t going to come easy.

“Hey,” Liv greeted, standing beside the much taller hunter, her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, “so, what’s the plan? I’m sure you needed him for something and that clearly isn’t panning out.”

He heard the accusatory tone to her voice, “uh, I don’t know. Wait for Dean to get back, see what he’s been able to do over in Apocalypse World.”

“Yeah, I guess I’m gonna need an update on all that.”

“You’re, you’re gonna help?”

“Well I’m not leaving him. And he’s with you. And I’m betting that you don’t let me take him, so… logical choice.”

“This is the safest place for him.”

“Yeah. Quite the bomb shelter you have here.”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

She felt the corner of her lips twitch into a small smile. She’d always liked Sam. Dean, on the other hand, they were far too alike, fire fighting fire.

“Hungry? I’ll go and grab you some food. We have a kitchen,” he added with a smile and a bragging tone.  

“A kitchen? Fuck, what’s that? You know how to use it?” She asked, her smile growing bigger, and for the first time in awhile, it felt genuine.

“Well enough, yeah. I make a mean egg white omelet.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Sam laughed, “Well, I’ll go get you a burger then.”

She gave him an approving nod as he turned towards the door, stopping and wrapping an arm lazily around her.

“We’re gonna figure this out. All of it. Gabriel too,” he promised, “we’ll get him back.”

“Thanks Sam,” she murmured, grabbing his forearm, her eyes staying locked on the figure in front of her.

Once Sam had left, she walked back over to the bed, sitting back beside the angel, shoulder gently leaning against his.

“Come on Gabe, you’re stronger than this. You’re more fucking stubborn than this, that’s for sure,” she reasoned to no one, “you promised...”

You promised you’d come back.

“I know.”

Every nerve in her body whirred to life, her heart jumped into overdrive at the sound of that voice. It was soft and hoarse. In that moment, she finally understood the phrase, ‘music to my ears’, because there was nothing in this world, or any other, that she would have wanted to hear more.

“Gabriel?” She turned slowly, whispering his name as her eyes locked with his, his gaze soft as he finally truly saw her.

“Hi sweetheart.”

Tears fell onto her cheeks as his grace surged through him, his eyes blazing blue.

[found--family]

14.12 coda - where there’s a will

@spnonewordbingo 

square:  BURN 

rating:  teen  |  3.5k  |  also on ao3 (theheartchoice) 

tags:  light angst, internally negative!dean, hurt/comfort, hugging, canon-compliant Dean/Cas 

summary:  TWF 2.0 destroy the Ma'lak box and Dean takes comfort while he still can. 

Who knew the bunker even had a furnace? Well, Sam did, apparently. 

When the refugees had arrived from the other universe, he’d explored certain corridors and sections of the bunker he hadn’t been near since first cataloguing the entire place for a revised map - years ago, now.

Turns out, with that many people, even in a space as big as the bunker, things were heating up to near uncomfortable levels. So. Solution? Turn down whatever magic-powered thermostat kept the place from freezing over come winter, just a little.

Dean was vaguely aware of it, but it wasn't pertinent information, most days - or any day, really. So it had settled somewhere in the recesses of his mind, along with lesser pasta sauce recipes and the best technique for french-braiding short hair (because it’s not like Sam would actually ever let him put his know-how into practice).

But after the ‘miracle’ of Donatello, when they returned home - together, determined to find a better way - that’s when the existent of the furnace shuffled to the forefront of Dean's mind.

Since he'd made Sam and Cas a promise not to go it alone, anymore (at least for now), he allowed them to help him break down the Ma’lak box. It was an interesting exercise, as Cas briefly demonstrated how neither his Angelic strength nor his Angelic powers could render the box back to scrap metal.

Billie had been bang-on with those sigils. Dean was just somewhat surprised that his own craftsmanship had held up along with the intricate magic.

The box was untested, after all. Dean’d be lying if he said he didn’t have doubts (aside from all the inherent fears of this plan) of locking himself up to get tossed down to the briny deep, to take a not-so-deep sleep with only a pissed-off Archangel as company for all eternity without knowing for certain whether or not this little metalwork project would work.

But proof of such seemed beyond his reach. It’s not like it was in the old days, where there was an Angel lurking around every corner; Archangels even less so. And their near-extinction aside, Dean would put good money on any one of them trying to kill him before wanting to do him a favour.

Not that he can actually die, though.

Maybe if they’d known his plan they might have helped. But there still remains no Angel he ever trusted more than Cas - nor ever could. 

Their own misguided good intentions might well have overcome any desire for vengeance (because that’s what Angels have become: bottled up chaotic emotions often funnelled toward Dean - if not Cas - like a freakin’ cosmic twister of the lord). Any Angel who was willing to 'help' him might've turned on him, as Angels often do, trying to free Michael in order to save Heaven, or so they would think.

Michael doesn't want to save anyone, or anything. He has zero interest in playing Savior; he wants nothing more than to watch the world burn - and to force Dean into a front-row seat of the show.

To avoid taking that risk, Dean would’ve gone through with his plan alone - Ma’lak box untested - and just hoped that his own two hands and Donna’s outdated power tools, along with the belief that Billie wasn’t one for cutting corners, was enough to get the job done.

It doesn’t matter much now, of course, since his plan has been put on hold - for the time being. But he told both Sam and Cas, plain as day: if the time comes and it’s the only play left on the board, then he’ll take it. No holds barred.

He’s scared as hell about it but he’ll do what needs to be done. Just like he always has.

Still. Dean knows holding onto the Ma’lak box is a morale-killer. He doesn't want to drag his family down to the depths with him before his time is up. And now that he knows that it works the next one won’t be constructed from rusty sheet metal. He’ll go all-out with top quality materials, just in case.

Better safe than sorry.

But this one needs to go. They all need this. Breaking down this box is akin to breaking down the lies and deception Dean hadn’t meant to force upon them.

They wanted to know, and now they do. Mom’s interference aside, Dean really doesn’t know if he could’ve kept it a secret, reasons be damned. He felt the need to, but Sammy’s always been the smart one. He knows Dean better than anyone (in certain ways), so if he hadn’t have caved then odds are Sam would’ve figured it out on his own.

Sam would’ve told Cas, again - because he feels they both deserve to know, despite Dean’s own wishes - and he would’ve been right to do so. Just because Dean couldn’t bring himself to tell Cas doesn’t mean he doesn’t have the right to know, too. He has every right. He’s family.

As for right now, what matters is them working together to find a Plan C. And if when they don’t find one, well..

..they’ll meet that bridge over troubled water when they come to it. When they come back to Plan B - B for Bridge, for Box, for being Batshit crazy to follow Billie’s plan to the Bottom of the ocean.

But needs must.

Maybe it won’t be so bad - saying a proper goodbye. It’ll hurt, no question. But it’ll probably hurt a lot more not to. A little closure can’t be a bad thing - it might even help him find some semblance of peace before he takes that final plunge.

Dean scratches out the sigils on the main panels as the three of them begin dismantling the box. Four, if you count Jack - though he’s still processing the information, and his anger - which surprised the hell outta Dean, gotta say - is hindering any chance of him being safe in handling power tools.

He’s pretty much standing there with a scowl and a distant look in his eye, throwing out questions and counterpoints - most of which Sam and Cas field, thankfully, since they already know the answers. Dean focuses on breaking down the welding and larger metal components having made a temporary workspace of the boiler room, while they try to ease Jack’s mind.

Dean refuses Cas’ attempts to use his powers to carve up the de-powered metal, insisting they do it the old-fashioned way, just in case. Jack watches over Sam’s shoulder as he reads through the books Dean pilfered from the library, cobbling together an Enochian charm with Cas’ help to bolster the flames of the furnace enough to destroy any ounce of magic left in the metal of the disassembled Ma’lak box.

Cas chants the words, Dean supporting this particular Angelic assistance, and the flames shift: bright gold at the base, reminding him of Holy Fire - if not for the almost blood-red tips licking at the irons insides of the furnace.

They each take turns feeding the metal pieces into the powered-up flames, until Dean is holding the last piece: the main sigil, the 'lock' that would have secured Michael’s watery coffin.

It’s not the first time he’s destroyed a safeguard against Evil, but this time he can find comfort in knowing it’s not a one-time deal, not a ‘do and be doomed’, kind of thing. Because he can make another magical box. He can etch another magical lock.

The markings of the ancient language spark in the flames when Dean lays in the final piece. As if the fire itself is sentient, it glows brighter the moment he does - bright enough to blind, causing them all to flinch and shield their eyes, even Cas - before the golden light is swallowed up in a bloody shadow, enveloping the confines of the chamber.

The shadow darkens to pitch black, gold sparking through it like fireworks on a clouded night - before snuffing out. The dark smoke clearing to reveal an empty chamber: flames out; all metal reduced to an iridescent ash.

And.. that’s it.

It’s done.

One less distraction for the coming days, weeks.. months? Who knows how long, really. There’s only so much Dean can do to keep Michael at bay, and considering how they’ve already explored every other option― if he’s being honest, which, End Times being nigh and all he probably should, he doesn’t see another way out of it.

He can see the bridge up ahead, knows they’ll come to it probably sooner rather than later, and he’s willing to throw himself over the edge to keep the world turning, to keep the ground from crumbling underneath his family and countless innocent lives.

It’s not like it’s anything new, this course of action - it’s an old favourite; the default for when the world is about to go to hell - often literally. Self-sacrifice for the Greater Good has always seemed worth it - but only when Dean is the one giving whatever he can to right the wrong that’s threatening to fuck up the world.

But, that’s okay. It sucks, but someone’s gotta do it and it’s what Dean excels at. Despite all his fuckups and failings over the years, if there’s a legacy he leaves behind it’s this: Fightin' the Good Fight.

Because even when he can’t say what needs to be said, he can at least do what needs to be done.

He can show those he cares about most just how much they mean to him.

Although.. It didn’t always work out so well. More often than not, he’d screwed things up worse than they already were - inviting some new Big Bad to replace the old one.

He tells himself this time is different. There’s no deal with a Devil, no trading of circumstance to lead things from bad to worse, not really. This one isn’t gonna come back to bite them in the ass - because this is The End. He’s taking Michael out of play by taking himself off the board.

Dean can see all the unplayed moves ahead them, and every course of action leads to the same inevitable end. He knows when he’s beat, but it’s not checkmate. The Ma’lak box is his resignation to a fate he can no longer change. And if he can’t kill the King, then he’ll lay down his sword and drag that bastard to the bottom of everything where he can’t hurt anyone ever again.

Dean tagging along for the ride seems a small price to pay, compared to that win.

But this - THIS, holding out hope for something he knows won’t come..? He can’t play that game, can’t toy with his sanity and whatever remains of his irrevocably scarred soul for that. But he’s not doing this for himself.

He’s doing it for them, for his family. Because they need this. They need to search for a way to save him, need one last scrounge for a win before the final bow-out.

So, Dean will hold out. Long as he can.

But it’s not about hope - not for him. He’s doing this for the same reason he built that damn box in the first place - the same reason he’s always made the Sacrifice Play.

On the surface it’s for Humanity, for the innocents, for Free Will, and for the world in general. But he won’t lie; he’s a selfish man, and it’s far more personal than all that.

He’s just glad this time saving one (ie. The World) means saving the other, too (ie. His Family).

There’s no trade-off.

It’s win-win.

Speaking of family..

Sam ushers Jack out of the boiler room after all is done, because he knows Dean - better than Dean usually cares to admit, let alone appreciate, but right now he’s silently grateful - because he knows there are things still left to say, things that need to be said.  

Dean’s already said his piece, scrap by scrap, to Sammy. But earlier in the hospital his conversation with Cas had been cut short, and the ride home was a mix of stilted questions, theories and more questions - about Billie and her notebooks, about the box and Michael, about Donatello’s once-again soulless self and Dean’s own state of being - most of which was met with curt replies smothered in uneasy silence.

They may have cleared the air before they hit the road, but that doesn't mean there's nothing left to say, that there are no more emotion-fuelled dialogues left to stagger through. And for the most part they had settled on a common ground of thought, perhaps due to exhaustion - both emotional and physical - preventing them from arguing further.

But, everything considered, they couldn’t just do away with the burden weighing on all of them through willalone. They were still forced to deal with the brutal reality of one homocidal Archangel locked up in the trunk of Dean’s mind.

Once they’d reached the bunker, there had been no hesitation.

Sam went straight for the trailer, setting his own plan in motion right away: to tear apart the Ma’lak box and burn it to cinder in the basement’s furnace. Cas was already helping him remove the restraints before Dean could comprehend what exactly was happening.

From their talk in the car he knew Sam wanted to destroy the box. He didn’t want it to be some safety net for Dean to fall back on. For the future, Dean had begrudgingly agreed. But for tonight, and for the difficult days ahead, Sam didn’t want its mere existence dragging down their efforts, like it was all for naught, a weight at the backs of their minds - as if Dean didn’t have enough weighing on his already.

Sam was afraid, he said so. Said he didn’t want Dean sneaking off in the middle of the night with his makeshift coffin in-tow and a map to the coast spread beside him.

Dean understood, really he did. He just didn’t think the demolition needed to happen right freakin’ now―

―But then Sam was already calling for Jack, and Cas was fetching a dolly from the workshop corner of the garage.

Fine. Might as well get it over with.

And now it’s done.

All that’s left is Dean and Cas alone in the relative quiet and thick-walled privacy of the boiler room. All it took was Dean speaking Cas’ name - once, and soft - for him to stay behind.

Not wanting to draw the awkward pre-conversation moment out any longer, as soon as Sam and Jack’s receding footsteps disappeared and he deemed them out of earshot, Dean spoke up.

“Sam said the same thing.”

Cas had waited patiently for him to speak first, but where before there was a disharmony of dread and anticipation in his features, now there was confusion. Can’t blame him.

“About.. saying ‘goodbye’, you know.” Though, maybe Cas doesn’t know. “You gotta understand, man―it’s not that I didn’t wanna see you, tell you―” The thought chokes his words off, just a bit, just enough that he has to stop and clear his throat before going on. “..I couldn’t. I couldn’t just call you up sayin’: hey, got a sec-? I’m about to throw myself into the ocean for all eternity, just thought I’d let you know―” He has to catch himself again, catch his breaking voice, more vulnerability sneaking through than he cares to let out.

By the time he readies himself again, strength wavering, Cas has stepped closer, edging in on his personal space. But it's not suffocating. It's a comfort. One Dean has been more and more thankful for over the years. He's just failed to show―to tell Cas, how much.

He knows he should probably keep his distance, like always, but.. is there really any point to that, anymore?..

“I told Sam, that he was the only one who could talk me out of it―which is exactly why I didn’t tell him," and he can already hear his voice wobble again, but he pushes through. "And ���cos I don’t do good with Goodbyes, Cas, I―” damn tears, stupid choked-up voice, “―I couldn’t say Goodbye to you, okay―? Not again―I could not go through that, again.”

Dean can’t look at him anymore―has to blink away the hot tears blurring his vision. He only peeks back up as Cas sucks in a breath, lets it out quick. Dean's own lungs inflate his chest with a stuttered breath; Cas is right there. He’s well inside Dean’s space bubble, closer than ever and yet still so far away , eyes soft with concern, a sad smile twitching his lips.

“..I don’t think I could say Goodbye to you, either. Not forever.”

It’s almost enough.

To hear Cas say that ―it’s almost enough to fight back the rush of painful memories, to escape the knowing that it will happen again , soon enough. Not in the same way, but it will feel just as permanent.

Cas’ hand finds Dean’s shoulder, fits so perfectly there. Always has. The weight of his touch and the grounding of his words, his voice, help Dean to focus on something beyond Michael’s barricaded presence in his head.

And.. honestly?

If the time they have left together is shorter than it ought to be, if Goodbye is painful but inevitable, then whatever ache might settle in his soul once he’s under the weight of an entire ocean, far away from everyone he loves with nothing but his own mind for escape against the lonesome years, then maybe, maybe .. seeking a little comfort beforehand isn’t quite the risk Dean thought.

Because the secret is out. Cas knows what things may come to - and Cas doesn’t want to say Goodbye , either. But he will. If there is no other way, and if that’s what Dean needs, he will.

So, what’s the harm in leaning on his best friend a little, for just a little while? What’s the harm in letting Cas know this isn’t easy at all on Dean, that he could really use some help, someone to help keep him from crumbling when he needs to stand stronger than he ever has?

It's a rough feat, alone - may be damn near impossible.

If he has to take that final step off the bridge alone, then he damn sure doesn’t want to make the walk down there alone.

And Cas gets it―he gets Dean―because now Dean is leaning forward without expressly meaning to but not wanting to pull back, and Cas is opening his arms to embrace him.

Dean has to sift through muddled memories to find the last time he shared a hug with Cas.. The realisation that it’s been a while doesn’t sit well with him.

He holds on tight. Holds Cas with everything he's got left.

Seconds drift into minutes.

Dean hugs Cas as long as he needs to, and in return allows himself to be held. Because maybe, just maybe, Cas needs this as much as he does. For once, without all the angst and desperation of a last-chance confession almost, they can just let themselves be close to each other.

It’s comfort for comfort’s sake a doomed man's grasp, with no enemy bearing down on them the enemy is in him to hurry things along his time is running out.

The world isn’t ending not yet. Not tonight. They’re alive for now and safe not really and together more distance between them than ever.

It won't be forever, it never is. But right here, right now, this is enough.

It's the most he'll ever have.

Cas holds on tighter.

Michael breathes inside his mind.

Dean focuses on Cas’ breath instead: in his ear, not his head. He focuses on the heartbeat beating back into his own chest, filling every off-beat of his own with a steady, thump.. thump..

He ignores the arrhythmic pounding of fists on his mental door, screwdriver shaking in its place.

It's okay. He'll replace the screwdriver with a magical lock fashioned by Death herself. It'll be okay.

Dean buries his nose in Cas’ collar, breathes deep, steady―heady―exhales, slow as he can.. He feels a contrasting mix of weakness and revitalisation flood through him. His knees ache to bend, to let his body fold under the weight of everything. His heart, though, beats a little louder, trying to pump more blood around his body, keep him standing.

Cas holds him steady, lets him lean as his legs feel weak. His heart doesn't have to struggle alone.

He can do this. With help, he can do what needs to be done.

And if Dean pretends that his face buried in Cas’ neck in search of comfort and strength is the only reason his lips press against his collar?..

..well.

This is closer than he's ever been.

It's close enough.

It's just enough.

Cas keeps holding on.

Dean lets him. 

[collectionofdestiel]

Silver Ring

“Dean?” A small voice called out through the darkness. There was no sound thrown back at him, no echo or reply. All that clouded his vision and thoughts were silence. An impending silence that caged his heart and froze his fingertips.

“Please, Dean, come back.” The words he were speaking weren’t coming from his mouth, his lips werent moving. But it was his voice, his voice laced in a distant memory. For the first time since Castiel had laid his eyes on Dean Winchester, he was numb.

“Dean, we can work this out. Don’t walk out that door.” Again his voice crackled through the darkness in heartbroken static. He didnt know where he was, how he had gotten here, but he did know that he was dying.

“Please.” This time his voice was softer, more crackled and weak. Like the last word spoken from a soul that was giving up.

“Dean.” Castiel closed his eyes, or tried to only to be met with the same darkness surrounding him.

For a split second he thought he saw a spark of green, felt the comfort of a familiar heartbeat, before he heard his savior whisper, “Cas”, and then even the darkness faded away.

~

“Mornin’.” Dean spoke leisurely as he strolled into the kitchen of the bunker. The mask he had perfected over a lifetime of misery fit perfectly across his aging features. “We gotta hunt?”

Sam didnt move. He didn’t set down his paper or even pretend to acknowledge his brother. Instead he sipped at his coffee and kept his eyes low.

Shrugging, Dean poured himself a cup of breakfast and took a seat across from his younger brother. The lack of sleep and trace of tears were clouding his vision and making pretending everything was okay almost impossible for him. But he bit it back. He bit back all the longing and heartbreak and guilt and misery. Just like he always has.

“I’m thinking about taking a trip to see Jody and the kiddos.” Roughness lined his voice as Dean eyed his brother carefully. “Get outta the bunker and get some fresh air.”

“Don’t.” Sam’s voice was dangerously low, catching Dean offguard. “Don’t sit there and talk to me like it’s another day. You know what you did.”

“Sammy-”

Sam slammed his mug onto the table, coffee spraying as the glass shattered. “Dont, Dean!”

Both brothers stared at each other, neither quite knowing where this was going. For a long couple minutes they both seemed to communicate the disaster that was filling the air of the bunker.

Finally Dean broke. “I had to do it.”

Shaking his head, Sam chuckled darkly. “No, asshole, you didn’t.”

“It’s over! It should have never started!” All the rage and sadness finally broke through the surface of Dean’s facade. Shooting up from his chair Dean paced the kitchen with his face in his hands. “He doesnt love me, Sam! Hell, i mean, maybe before there was a shot that he did but you know what he’s been doing! Disappearing all the time! Barely speaking to me let alone touching me! For fuck’s sake what was a i supposed to do? Let him end it! Wait around like some… like some lovestruck puppy that got kicked in the face?”

Taking a deep breath, Sam stood from his seat. He didnt speak until Dean caught his eyes. “He wasnt cheating on you. And he sure as hell didn’t fall out of love with you.”

“Then what, huh?” Voice cracking, Dean felt the tears start to surface, felt the bile build in the back of his throat. “Then why wasn’t he loving me?”

“He bought a ring.” Sam didn’t want to say it, to let the secret he was entrusted with slip, but he couldn’t stand to see this unfold. He knew that the two of them were stubborn and shitty at showing how much they truly cared. “He was nervous, had doubts, was trying to work up the nerve to ask you.”

“What?” Dean’s chest started to inflate until he thought he would burst. Looking into his brother’s eyes he saw only the truth. “He bought a ring?”

Nodding, Sam peered down at his destroyed mug. “Couple months ago.”

Staring at nothing in particular, Dean traced back when his boyfriend had started to grow distant. He started to analyze every exchange they had. “Fuck.” The word left his lips in a breath. “Fuck!” His feet carried him before his mind quite caught up.

Sam shook his head and started for the paper towels. He prayed it wasn’t too late.

~

The darkness subsided as the hours passed. Upon opening his eyes he was greeted with the ceiling of a motel room. Not any ceiling, but the ceiling he saw after the first night he made love to Dean. It was stained, beat down, and almost ironically ruined.

Breathing came back to him a while after that. Stale air, oxygen he didn’t want to inhale. Of all the movies and pop culture references of heartbreak he had learned over the years, Cas wasn’t prepared for this. He wasn’t prepared for the way his whole world was suddenly meaningless. As if he had jumped off of life and was standing still somewhere outside of time.

Maybe someday he would get up. Maybe someday he wouldn’t open his eyes and forget that Dean Winchester would never be sleeping on the pillow beside him. Maybe… but not today.

Today he planned on simply existing. Even that seemed like a chore but it was the bare minimum he could accomplish. Maybe he would go back to heaven, maybe he would walk the earth. The more maybes he conjured up the more tears ate at his eyes.

What was that one saying? “There are plenty of ways to die, but only love can kill you and keep you alive to feel it”? Was that how it went? Castiel thought it was just in this moment. He felt dead, he felt as though his life stopped, and yet he was still blinking away the hell that the hole in his heart left for him.

~

“CAS?!” Dean’s raw voice pierced through the chilled evening. It had been weeks since he walked out on his angel, weeks since he had been searching and clawing at hints to find him and bring him home.

“Cas! Please, sweetheart!” The tears had dried up a while ago, only leaving him with empty sobs. Defeat was starting to rip at his heart.

His mouth couldn’t stand to open anymore. Dropping to his knees, Dean succumbed to the darkness.

~

Castiel was walking about the motel room now, picking things up before dropping them. There was no weight to anything anymore. For a while it seemed that life had lost its dimensions.

Then it came. Something he hadn’t heard in so long he almost forgot to listen for it. A prayer.

“Please, Cas, I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I need you. I was stupid and fucking wrong and, shit, I can’t believe that I did this. I didn’t know… about the ring. I thought that you were separating from me because you didn’t want me anymore.” Even in Dean’s head his voice was hoarse. “I mean, you’re a perfect angel, always have been and always will be, and i know that I need to work on my self confidence but when you started to get distant I freaked out. I freaked out because the thought of you breaking up with me… it destroyed every good thing I had built for myself. I’m sorry, Cas. Please. Please come home.”

Castiel’s eyes widened as the prayer dissolved. The ring was warm from its place in his breast pocket. Still there, after all this time. Taking a deep breath, Castiel closed his eyes and pictured the only home he had ever had.

~

The sound of fluttering wings only made Dean pinch his eyes tighter shut. From his position curled under a mountain of blankets in his bed, he had been going crazy over the idea of Cas coming back to him. For hours he has heard that sound and looked up onto to see nothing. As if his mind wanted to torture him.

The stillness in the room only made breathing under the blankets more unbearable. But he didn’t plan on moving. He would continue his search for his angel later. Maybe they just needed some time. Dean kept repeating that line, over and over until it hurt his head. He couldn’t believe that it was over. Not yet. Not until he scoured the earth.

“I bought the silver band.” Cas’ rough voice made Dean tense up completely. “They kept trying to push gold on me. They kept repeating that that was what a wedding band should look like for a man. I didn’t tell them then that I wasnt buying a ring for just a man. I was buying a ring for a hero, a hunter, my Dean. I bought the silver because it suited you. I had sigils etched around the inside, all of which are enochian. Their meaning is that I, alone, will always watch over you. I, alone, will be there through all the horrors and joys and never leave your side.

“It didn’t occur to me when I had those etched that I would go back on that promise before I even gifted you the ring.” The bed dipped as Castiel let a sigh slip. “I should have stayed. I should have made you listen to me when you left. But I thought that I had failed you. I didn’t know that you were so upset about my distance, I didn’t even quite realize I was so distant. I had planning to do, people to contact. I traveled to Heaven and asked Bobby his permission to marry you. I called Jody and Garth. I was so busy planning, taking all the steps to ask you to be mine, that I lost track of us.”

Dean tried to sit up, but the confession brought back the tears he thought were all gone. Instead he sucked in his sobs and grimaced at the waves of hurt and relief barreling through him.

“If you do not want to be my husband, I will understand. I would never force your hand on such a matter.” The weight lifted from the bed, followed by careful footsteps. They stopped on the side of the bed Dean was curled on. “Dean?”

With as much strength as he could muster, Dean peeked out from the blankets to meet the bloodshot eyes of his angel. There was no preparing him for how much he had missed that sight. Staring at each other, Castiel lifted a plain black box between them.

“Dean Winchester, will you marry me?”

Opening his mouth to reply, he found that it was too sore to speak. Instead, Dean lunged from his haven into the arms of his angel. His sobs answered the question as his head nodded repeatedly.

Castiel smiled, feeling the weight of life back in his arms.

[crispychrissy]

Shrink - Chapter 3

Summary:  When patients of a psychiatrist that caters exclusively to hunters start going crazy and dying, Sam and Dean Winchester investigate what might be causing these bizarre episodes. Pairing: None yet Word Count: 1252 Warnings: None, unless Sleepy!Dean counts. A/N: My first fanfic! This is going to be a series, probably over 30 chapters total. Any feedback is appreciated, I am a newbie!

“I hear you, man.” Dean grumbled, eyes still closed, his body wrapped up in blankets on his bed. Switching the cell phone from his right to left hand, he tilted his head to look at the alarm clock resting on the nightstand next to his bed, blinking rapidly until he could make out the numbers – 8:14am. 

Flinging off the covers and sitting up in his bed, he rubbed his eyes and let out a long yawn; he had just gone to bed four hours ago. “Hang on a second,” he said as grunted and propelled himself out of bed, pausing a moment to stretch his arms and legs before he shuffled over across the room to the sink. 

“Like 3 weeks ago, me and Sam were knee deep in vamp corpses, but ever since then it’s been quiet.” Dean looked at himself in the mirror, scratching at the longer-than-usual stubble on his chin. “Too quiet, if you ask me.” “Yeah, bro. It’s like someone slipped a roofie into the water supply for the entire country and it only affects monsters,” a voice replied on the other end of the phone. Raising an inquisitive eyebrow at his phone, Dean grabbed his electric razor that was sitting on the side of the sink. “I…guess you could think of it like that, Rick.” Dean replied. He glanced at his razor, then back at the stubble on his face. Dean smiled, and set his razor back down. “Sam has his eyes glued to his laptop as usual, so if anyone drops in your neck of the woods, we’ll give you a call.” “Thanks, man. Tell Sam I said whatup.” Rick cheerfully replied. Dean rolled his eyes and hit the “end call” button on his phone, throwing it gently back onto his bed. Still only in his boxers and a t-shirt, he slipped his robe off the hook next to his door and slid it on. He snatched his phone off his bed, sliding it into the robe pocket, walked over to the door, and opened it slightly before stopping and side stepping over to put on the slippers that were on the floor in front of his dresser. 

The bunker is climate controlled, but the floors are still concrete and get very cold, especially in late fall. Swinging the door open, Dean stepped through it and walked down the hallway, headed to the kitchen. As he rounded the corner a few steps away from the kitchen, Dean was greeted by the familiar savory smell of fresh coffee brewing. Breathing in deeply and smiling, Dean continued down the hallway and took a sharp turn into the kitchen. Practically leaping down the small set of steps that lead down from the doorway, he bounded over to the coffee maker on the right side of the room. Pulling the glass coffee pot from the brewer, he grabbed a ceramic coffee cup, twirling it around with his finger before setting it on the counter and pouring the coffee. “Well good morning to you, too.” Sam said, looking up at Dean from behind his laptop at the table in the kitchen. “Shhhh. Not before my coffee.” Dean replied in a whisper. He raised the cup to his lips and blew before taking a sip. “Ooohh, man. That’s good,” he said to himself before taking several more sips. Sam smiled and shook his head. “Do you two need some time alone? I can leave if yo-“ “Shut up.” Dean replied, cutting him off. He turned around and leaned back against the counter, facing Sam. “Anything?” Dean said, gesturing to Sam’s laptop. “Nothing. I’ve been up for two hours searching and there’s nothing. I had two other hunters reach out asking if we have anything for them.” Sam replied while picking up and checking his phone. “Make that three hunters. Heather just texted me.” “Yeah,” Dean said, taking a sip of his coffee. “Rick woke me up asking if we knew of any jobs near him because he’s coming up dry as well.” “Doesn’t this seem odd to you?” Sam asked, leaning back in his chair, running his fingers through his hair. “Unless all monsters were somehow eradicated out of the US a few weeks ago…” “Hey, I’m enjoying the break. I haven’t worn pants in six days.” Dean said, taking another sip from his coffee. “You heard from Cas?” “Yeah, he’s on his way to Sioux Falls to visit Claire. Apparently the Grigori sword she stole-“ “Commandeered.” Dean interrupted, smiling. Sam sighed, “‘Commandeered’” he said, doing air quotes with his fingers. “-has some Enochian spell work etched into it that the angels want to study and research. The sword is hidden from the angels due to that spell work, or so they assume, and it’s peaked their interest.” Dean scoffed and shrugged. “I guess the angels are bored, too.” “Yeah, I guess so.” Sam replied, his voice drifting off as he went back to typing and clicking on his laptop. “I left you some eggs and made some bacon, by the way.” He said, not moving his eyes from the laptop. Dean perked up, looking over at the counter in front of the stove, eyes darting left and right before he located the plate of eggs and bacon. He rushed over and grabbed the plate and a fork off the counter before quickly returning to the table and sitting down opposite Sam. He scooped up a big heap of eggs and was about to put it into his mouth when he looked up at Sam, who was currently staring at him with raised eyebrows and a half smirk on his face. “What did you do to these?” Dean said, setting the fork back down. “Nothing!” Sam replied, somewhat offended Dean would think he sabotaged his food. “Mmm-hmm.” Dean replied, narrowing his eyes at Sam. Right as Dean took a cautious bite of the eggs on his plate, Sam’s computer emitted three dings. “Finally.” Sam said with a smile, rubbing his hands together before rapidly typing. “I think we got a case.” “Where abouts?” Dean mumbled, chewing away. “Glenpool, Oklahoma…a small town just south of Tulsa. Guy went crazy and stabbed a liquor store clerk to death before being shot by police. Security footage shows the guy collapsing on the floor before he sat up and started rocking back and forth.” Sam clicked twice and kept reading. “The clerk came over to him and the guy just freaked out, choking and stabbing him. Apparently the whole attack was so brutal, they didn’t include it in the report they posted, nor are they releasing the name until they can notify next of kin. It also says the guy was smiling when he lunged at them with a knife.” Sam said, scrolling through the rest of the police report. “It could be nothing…just a run-of-the-mill guy who snapped…” “Is it ever nothing, Sammy? I’ll get dressed.” Dean said, quickly heaving the remaining heaps of eggs into his mouth before grabbing his cup of coffee and getting up from the table. After Dean passed through the doorway and on his way down the hall, Sam yelled “And shave your face, dude! You look like a homeless person,” hearing his voice echo down the hallway. “A very handsome, badass, homeless person!” Dean yelled back, smiling. Sam shook his head and rolled his eyes as he stood up from the table and lifted his laptop, balancing it on his arm as he walked out of the kitchen.