#pitcher!cas

[imnotleavinherewithoutyou]

of course i'm writing this instead of like, the stuff i'm supposed to be writing??

ahem.

——

Dean is throwing a bullpen session when the news breaks that Castiel Novak has signed with the Dodgers. He wouldn't have heard about it, except that Garth trotted into the room bubbling with enthusiasm.

"I didn't realize you were such a big fan of him," Dean says when Garth pauses for breath.

"His numbers speak for themselves," Garth says.

Dean settles back in, winds up, and spins a curveball in there for a strike. He flashes a satisfied grin at Garth before saying, "I don't spend much time looking at the numbers."

"Two MVPs," Garth counters.

"Yeah, that's impressive," Dean allows.

"D'you think it'd be too weird if I asked for an autograph when he gets here?" Garth asks.

Dean shrugs. "He's probably used to it."

From what he's heard, Castiel isn't exactly a Chatty Cathy, though that could be because he doesn't speak English. He's always got an interpreter on hand, despite having been in the States six years already. You'd think the guy would've picked up some English by now.

Probably a cold fish.

Meanwhile, Garth says, "Yeah, you're right."

"If you're embarrassed, you could always say it's for a nephew or something," Dean suggests.

"Nah, I couldn't lie to him," Garth says, scandalized.

Dean huffs a laugh at that. "All right, do what you want. Now skedaddle and quit distracting me."

"Yeah, okay. Catch you later, alligator!"

——

The thing is, not many players catch Dean's eye anymore.

He's been in the league for a decade and a half, and he's seen everything. Strange-ass batting stances that somehow still work. A switch pitcher. A sidewinder who dipped so far down on his delivery that his knuckles nearly scraped the fucking mound.

But he's never seen a two-way player like Castiel Novak.

Granted, teams haven't ever really let pitchers hit every day. Hell, it wasn't even possible in the NL until they changed the rules and adopted the DH.

That's why the Dodgers never had a chance at signing Castiel when he was first coming over to the States.

Not that Dean had been paying any attention at the time. He'd been skeptical like most other players, a little curious to see whether this experiment would work out.

But then Castiel had seemed pretty average in his first season—a pretty good batter but an average-ass pitcher—and then he'd gotten sidelined from pitching by an injury, and Dean had put the fabled two-way-player out of mind.

In the last three years, though, Castiel has forced his way to the top of the conversation in baseball, everyone talking about what a unicorn he is for being able to pitch and hit at elite levels, and that amount of praise, of overexposure, has always rubbed Dean the wrong way. Sure, Castiel won MVP two of the three years—and came in second the year he didn't win it—but still. It's a lot of talk, and Dean hasn't really even watched him play.

Mostly, he's just been catching the occasional dumb New Balance commercials, which—he can't really judge, he's done some dumb ads himself because the money was stupid good, but hey, he's never claimed he wasn't hypocritical.

When Castiel first enters the locker room for spring training, everyone's already there. Such a diva move, arriving fashionably late. All eyes turn his way, and he surveys the room, looking almost bored.

"Hello," the man at his elbow says, half a step behind him. Needlessly, he adds, "This is Castiel. Nice to meet you all."

The accent throws Dean off for a second, because he's never heard someone from Enoch speak with a British accent.

Castiel starts moving toward a locker in the corner of the room that has been set aside for him, his new jersey hanging up in front of it, and his interpreter follows him, nodding at the team members that they pass.

Dean's well across the room from Castiel's locker, so he's free to catch Benny's eye after they've passed him by and raise his eyebrows. Benny only grins, tilting his head toward the exit.

Dean finishes doing up his cleats and jogs off toward the tunnel, meeting Benny there.

As they head toward the dugout, Dean says, "Taller than I'd imagined," and Benny chuckles.

——

Castiel is pretty.

Dean hadn't really absorbed that from the TV ads or game footage, more concerned with his windup or his batting stance than his face. And that first glimpse of him had been from across the locker room, so it's not like Dean could've seen how fucking blue his eyes are. Or how his jaw looks so sharp you could cut yourself on it.

It's fucking distracting is what it is, so Dean keeps his distance. He's getting older now, needs to stay sharp and focused to avoid all the fucking speculation about how he might be washed up.

Every mph he loses on his fastball feels like another nail in his coffin, and he really cannot afford distractions.

But whenever Castiel passes through his line of sight, he can't resist the temptation to look, to keep looking. Castiel never looks back—at least, Dean's never caught his eye.

The only time it seems Castiel looks at Dean is when Dean is on the mound. Castiel leans on the fence in the dugout, and even though Dean can't see the blue of his eyes from this far out, he's sure that Castiel's eyes are on him.

Dean's first five outings are good. He gets four wins, one no-decision, doesn't give up more than two earned runs each outing. His strikeout numbers are a little low to start the year, but he's pretty sure he can get them back up to normal by the All Star break.

But his sixth start is an absolute dud. The opposing team is seeing his fastball too well, and for whatever reason, he can't get his curveball in there for a strike.

Bobby pulls him after one out in the fifth, having given up five runs, four earned. Garth enters the game with the bases loaded and manages to strike out the next two batters, and when he comes into the dugout, Dean claps him on the back in thanks.

Dean is filled with dread as he sits down for the postgame press conference, where reporters are gonna ask him stupid-ass roundabout questions that don't outright say he should retire but obviously imply he's past his prime.

"So, what happened out there?" a man from the LA Times asks.

Dean shrugs, tries his best not to sound defensive when he says, "Sometimes you just don't have your stuff."

"What wasn't working today?" LA Times persists.

"Weren't you watching the game?"

The deep voice coming from Dean's left startles him, but there are audible gasps from the gaggle of reporters, and Dean turns, sees Castiel approaching.

Castiel takes the vacant seat at Dean's left and leans over, bending the mic toward him. "You should know he didn't have his curveball today, or is it not your occupation to know the game of baseball?" he continues, eyes blazing.

So he speaks English after all.

Dean stares, because he can’t not. Because this is the closest he’s ever been to Castiel Novak, and his clenched jaw looks even sharper in profile, his nose proud, the corner of his mouth that Dean can see curved down in an expectant frown.

LA Times flounders, says, "Well, I was leading up to—I wanted to know if he's worried at all. See, if his best pitch isn't landing—“

"So much doubt," Castiel interrupts. "Where were all these concerns when I gave up four runs to the A's two days ago?"

Then Castiel's interpreter—Balthazar—is there, grabbing Castiel by the elbow, hissing something inaudible in his ear.

Castiel rolls his eyes, clears his throat, grabs the mic again. "My apologies."

Balthazar leans in, says, “No further questions,” and straightens.

Castiel gets to his feet and looks at Dean, and his cerulean eyes are surprisingly warm. He seems startled to find Dean looking back, and his gaze darts away quickly.

Then they’re out of the room, and a different reporter, this one from the Athletic, pipes up, “So uh, did you know Castiel could speak English?”

“Think Balthazar just put the kibosh on any questions about Castiel,” Dean says.

The Athletic looks disappointed but says, “It’s clear you struggled in the first, but you really settled in for the next three innings. What helped you regain focus?”

The rest of the ordeal goes smoother, everyone on their best behavior after Castiel’s interruption, and Dean has just gotten home when his phone rings.

“Dude. Dude! How could you not tell me that Castiel is your friend? No, how could you not say that he can speak English?”

“We’re not friends, Garth.”

“Bullshit,” Garth says immediately. “He was totally out there to protect you. He never does press if he doesn’t have to. And I think he just outed that he speaks English to do it.”

It’s hard to deny those points, but they aren’t friends.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Dean says. “We’ve never spoken. I’ve only said hi to him, and it was through Balthazar, as usual.”

Garth harrumphs. “I don’t believe you.”

Before Dean can protest, Garth hangs up.

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, annoyed, before heading to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of whiskey.

He probably should talk to Castiel tomorrow, express some gratitude for his intervention. Dean’s a big boy and can handle himself, but it was unexpectedly nice to have someone stick up for him like that.

——

The next day, Dean waits until the game is about to start before entering the locker room. Predictably, Castiel is one of the few remaining players—he usually cuts it pretty close, has been almost late to several games already.

For once, Balthazar isn’t hovering over Castiel, and Dean heads straight for him, in no mood to beat around the bush.

“Got an off day tomorrow,” Dean says to the back of Castiel’s head.

It takes a moment for Castiel to turn around, face neutral. “Yes,” he says evenly.

“Got any plans?”

“No,” Castiel says.

Dean nods. “Then you’re free to grab a coffee with me?”

“Yes,” Castiel accepts immediately.

“Damn it, Castiel,” says Balthazar from behind Dean, and Castiel’s eye roll is even better when Dean can see it straight-on rather than in profile. “You’re going to put me out of a job.”

Castiel responds in Enochian, and Balthazar barks out a short word that by tone Dean figures is a curse word.

“Give me your phone,” Castiel says to Dean, hand held out, and Dean tugs it out of his pocket, hands it over.

Balthazar lets out an irritated huff and hovers impatiently while Castiel types his number into Dean’s phone.

Dean accepts his phone back, doing his best to ignore the tingle he gets when their fingers brush on the handover, and says, “I’ll text you.”

With a wry twist to his lips, Castiel says, “That’s the idea.”

Then he heads for the dugout, Balthazar trailing behind him, complaining in Enochian.

Dean looks down at his phone and snorts when he sees that Castiel has entered “Unicorn” for his name.

And Dean had thought he didn’t have a sense of humor.

[clairity-org]

William-Adolphe Bouguereau, The Broken Pitcher, 1891, Oil on canvas, 11/23/22 #legionofhonor #artmuseum by Sharon Mollerus

[greenllamas]

The Sangria Collection (7 items) | greenllamas

The Sangria Collection consists of 7 new items to dress your sims up in for a perfect dinner at dusk, ready to enjoy the last of the summer with a pitcher of red sangria nectar.

This collection includes:

2 Hairs

2 Tops

2 Bottoms

1 Fullbody

Shoes featured are by @sentate. The boots are from the downtown collection.

notes:

All items have LODs, shadows, spec, and bumps + custom thumbnails so you should be able to find everything in the same place as the rest of my stuff in CAS.

All items are tagged as feminine

For more details on how many swatches each item has + the names visit the item index linked below.

If there are any issues with the items PLEASE let me know and I will try to get them fixed asap!

🔗DOWNLOAD (free)  | Item Index | instagram

[destieliscanon5nov]

Deancas baseball au unfolding at full speed in front of my eyes

[snailspng]

Random PNGs, part 194.

(1. Wedgwood majolica nautilus shell pitcher (c. 1870), 2. Octagon book with case (?), 3. Italian dish from ca. 1520, 4. Narcisse costume design by Léon Bakst (1911), 5. “Crown of Thorns” hand-blown glass by Michael Hussar, 6. Early 1900s French theatre or opera costume tunic, 7. Rainbow Laguna Agate, 8. (?), 9. Victorian enamel snake pendant.)

[lionofchaeronea]

A New Pitcher Plant from the Limestone Mountains of Sarawak, Borneo (Nepenthes northiana), Marianne North, ca. 1876

[stusbunker]

Spotless: Patetico

Chapter Thirty Eight

Featuring: Dean Winchester/Reader

Other characters:

Word Count: ~2700

Warnings, etc: Flashbacks are in italics. They've had a long road to get to this moment. Talk of shared grief, vomit, Lisa, Dean being a pushover as a landlord, the aftermath of breaking Cas' nose, and the end of the slowest of burns. xoxo Stu

Much love to @lastactiontricia for patting my head and lying enough to inflate my ego.

Series Masterlist

April 2005

Dean did not want to be walking through the Roadhouse doors, but the heavy oak swung wide all the same. It was his first time back since the funeral. Hell, it had been nearly a year since he had been home at all, and even longer since he had been to see Ellen. 

But when she called and told him she needed him here this year, he cut a deal with his manager and got his ass back to Nebraska.

It was like walking into a time capsule. Everything was the same. It even smelled the same, wood polish met with beer stale cigar smoke. But there was no Jo there to greet him with her brusk appraisal and her hidden playfulness. She was gone and the pit inside his stomach reopened in the blink of an eye.

“You good?” Sam murmured, the sound making Dean realize he had stopped walking, eyes still scanning the bar for someone who wasn’t there.

“Yeah, gonna hit the head— find us a seat will ya?”

Sam’s face told him he didn’t buy it, but Dean didn’t wait around for pity. He disappeared into the dark hallway that led to the bathrooms, which was another mistake. Because even there he had memories of Jo.

It was like the guilt had finally caught up with him, making him rush into a stall and wretch into the toilet. Stomach acid and grief burned his insides, leaving him more hollowed out than relieved.

But this wasn’t about him. It was about being there for Ellen. And so he spit out what he could and got himself cleaned up at the sinks before Sam came looking for him. By the time Dean made it back to the front of house, Ellen had found Sam. All five and a half feet of her had latched onto the overgrown mop and was squeezing him for all he was worth.

“Hey, Ellen,” Dean said, voice still rough from throwing up. But he, at least, had the sense to shove a stick of gum into his mouth in the meantime.

“Come here, you too,” Ellen insisted, practically shoving Sam out of the way as she brought Dean down to her level. “It’s so good to have you home.”

“Yeah. Sorry—.” Dean swallowed, unable to find words big enough for what he was feeling.

Ellen held on tighter. “None of that. Today is for celebrating. Not feeling sorry for ourselves, you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She pulled back, but kept him in her grasp, her dark eyes searched his face for everything he couldn’t say. Or wouldn’t admit. She sighed, but let him go in the end.

“Okay, Garth will be here any minute to get things set up, but if you two want to make yourselves useful, start by hauling the long tables out of the storeroom after the bathrooms.”

“Sounds good.” Sam nodded.

“How many?” Dean asked.

Ellen smiled sadly, just one side of her face showing any emotion. “All of them.”

Dean didn’t even notice as the bar started to fill up, he was too busy with the manual labor to press the flesh. He was also hesitant to update anybody from his hometown on his music career which was hanging on by a thread at any given moment. He was in no mood for small talk, no matter how earnest the initiator.

“I’m gonna get something to drink, want anything?” Sam asked as they locked the legs of the last table into place.

“Just grab a pitcher of whatevers on tap.” Dean wiped his forehead off with the back of his forearm and looked around for a booth to hide in. But there were people everywhere now and he really didn’t know what to do with himself. It was the funeral all over again, people looking at him with worry or pity, even suspicion.

He needed out.

With no sense of direction or health code ordinances, Dean rounded the bar and headed into the kitchen. Ellen wasn’t at the grill, she had outsourced the meal preparations to a local caterer. The blur of their yellow polo uniforms was all Dean saw as he searched for an escape.

He stepped out the employee exit and almost ran right into you. Pacing and smoking up a storm in the damp spring air, Dean almost didn't recognize you. He had only really met you the one time. Besides that you had still been in the hospital for the funeral. 

“Sorry!”

“It’s fine. Just getting some air.”

“Yeah, me too.” You held up your cigarette ruefully. 

Dean surprised you both and laughed at your twisted joke. 

“Can I bum one? It’ll give me an excuse to be out here.”

You handed over your pack with the lighter inside. He took one and lit it, then handed the bundle back. It was quiet and it took a couple minutes for either of you to disrupt it.

“She’d rip us both a new one if she knew what we were doing.” You didn’t have to specify who you meant, Dean knew. 

He nodded, blowing smoke rings and watching them float up to the sky.

“She was always so easy to piss off.”

You sighed. “For real.”

“I miss that.”

“Yeah.”

Dean didn’t say another word, you finished your square and left him out there on his own. A long look and regretful nod was the only thing you shared for some time.

February 2010

“Look, I mean we definitely had some fun. But— there’s no way the kid is mine. I always wrap it up, okay?” 

Dean felt like he was going insane. You had barely gotten into the swing of things as Phantom Traveler’s publicist and then Lisa came crawling out of the woodwork with a baby and an open palm.

“Condoms aren't 100 percent effective. But we will continue with a firm line of denial until you’re proven innocent.”

Dean felt your doubt loud and clear. “Wow, gee thanks.”

“Don’t be like that, it is my job to prepare for anything.”

Dean held your gaze. You were wearing your hair just above your shoulders now, a professional bob if he ever saw one. He thought you were overcompensating or at least trying too hard to be taken seriously. It was rock n roll, no one should take themselves that seriously.

“Okay, Trouble, we will just have to wait and see who's right in the end.”

“Please, don't call me that.”

“Nuh-uh, I think Ellen was right. You're trouble and people should be warned about you up front.”

You rolled your eyes. “Real mature.”

Dean smacked his lips and batted his eyelashes at you. “I think I’m adorable.”

“You’re a real beauty queen alright. Anything else you need from us? Or can I take this idjit back to rehearsal?” Bobby cut the banter off before Dean could really get under your skin.

“He’s all yours,” you said knowingly.

Dean wanted to have the last word, but sometimes the words wouldn’t come out when he needed them most. Instead he watched you gather your messenger bag and your phone before heading outside to find yourself a ride. He almost didn’t believe it when Sam told him you still wouldn’t drive. But after a few months, and probably a third of your income spent on transportation, Dean knew you’d made your peace with it.

Maybe he shouldn’t be such a dick so often.

September 2013

Dean handed you the keys.

“Rent’s due first of the month?” you asked.

“Whenever, honestly, I’m not that much of a stickler and what’s Sam’s is mine.”

You both didn’t mention that Dean and Charlie had been monitoring Sam’s spending closer than Ebenezer Scrooge since he got out of rehab.

“Anything else I should know?” you asked, clearly nervous to have the responsibility of a whole house on your own.

“Uh, Malcolm and Tamara next door are great, think they introduced themselves when we first backed the truck in.” Dean tried to think. “Garbage schedule is still on the fridge. And, yeah, don’t burn the place down.”

“I’ll do my best.” You held up your hand in the scout’s pledge.

“Is there anything else you need help setting up? I don’t have to meet up with Benny until like seven for the Dodgers game.”

“Nah, get out of here. I’m good.”

Just then Sam laid on the horn from the driveway.

“Guess that’s my cue.” You walked him to the backdoor and watched him go.

“Thanks again!”

Dean held his hand up over his head in a wave without looking back. He then flipped Sam off for sitting in the driver’s seat and being such an impatient infant. And then crawled into his baby.

“Everything good?”

“Yeah, just making sure she had everything.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “She can call if she has any questions, man.”

Dean shrugged and reached along the bench seat to watch as he backed up. He felt Sam’s eyes on him for another mile and a half. He ignored his brother and tried to downplay how he was nervous leaving you alone. 

It was a safe neighborhood. You’d be fine.

Dean just needed to get over himself.

May 2017

Dean found his way back to his hotel room sometime after four in the morning. His knuckles were still raw from their run in with Cas’ face and all he wanted to do was pass out and forget any of it even happened. The alcohol and absinthe in his system had started to dwindle and he needed a soft landing before the hangover crept in.

Instead, he found you waiting for him on the couch of his suite. Shoes off and tucked under a blanket, you were half asleep watching some 80s B movie on cable.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?”

“Waiting for your sorry ass.”

“K. Well, I’m going to bed.”

The television turned off behind him, leaving the room in looming silence.

“The tour’s over, Dean.”

He turned to look at you like you were crazy. You kind of were. “It’s just one show! We can reschedule.”

You shook your head and crossed your arms over your chest. “No. Cas left. Everyone decided it’s for the best.”

Dean inhaled and rubbed his barely scabbed-over knuckles. “It’s my fucking band. They don’t get to make a decision like that.”

“Tough.”

Dean let that hit. It didn’t make sense, so he latched onto the next thing he could. Lashing out with his tongue instead of his fists, “why’d they send you to be the messenger?”

“They didn’t. They’re planning on bum rushing you in the morning. I thought you’d appreciate the head’s up.” You eyed him and dropped your arms. “I guess I was wrong. See you later, Dean.”

He chewed over a few choice words, but in the end he let you leave, too ashamed and disgusted with himself to even spread the misery. 

Why’d you always know what was best for him when he didn’t even know himself?!

Now (March 2018):

Of all the cruel and condescending things Dean thought about himself over the years, he didn't actually believe he was an idiot. But that was the only explanation he had currently that made sense. There you stood curled in on yourself outside a no name truck stop on the way to Albuquerque, sniffling with your headphones hanging around your neck, asking him if ‘Pushing Through’ was your song.

“Whose else would it be?!” Dean said and instantly regretted it. That knee-jerk response just reiterated his idiocy. Because now you were full out crying.

 “Shhhhh, okay? I’m sorry. I thought you knew----.” Dean crowded into your space, brushing the hair out of your face as he cupped your opposite elbow, trying to soothe you as best he could. “Don’t be mad. I don’t have to keep singing it. We can change the setlist if you want.”

You shook your head and inhaled wetly.

“Uhhh— shit, no, I’m not mad. I’m— I don’t even know.” Then you looked up at him and Dean felt his heart thundering in his ears. “Do you— do you know what it sounds like? Like it sounds like a love song. And I just have to know. Okay? Tell me.”

Dean licked his lips, breaking the line of questioning pouring out of your eyes. The tears were going to do him in. He wasn’t strong enough for that anymore.

“Yeah, uh–” He cleared his throat. “I figured that’s what it was when I was finishing the bridge.”

You sniffed, but seemed to be calming down now you had a clear objective. “Which was when?”

Dean scratched his jaw and dropped back on his heels, dipped his chin, and let his hands slip onto your waist. He went for it.

“You know when we recorded Trouble. Ask me the real question.”

You blinked up at him with that little furrow in your brow that told him you were annoyed more than confused. He had messed with your momentum, but he really hoped you’d hold on and you’d jump together.

You picked at something on his shirt, a button or a button hole, but you didn’t meet his eye.

Dean leaned forward and kissed the spot between your eyes that had him so distracted. “It’s okay.”

“Did ya mean it?” You looked up at him from under your lashes, with a glare like you were daring him to lie.

He ducked his head down lower, making you look. “Every line.”

You honest-to-god stomped your foot and Dean would have laughed if he wasn’t frozen by your sudden movement. “Are you kidding me?! You cannot like-like me. I am a me. You are you!”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Hey, Trouble?”

“What?”

“It’s just you and me. No paps, no band, no Bela.”

“No Jo.”

Dean sucked in a breath through his teeth, “yep.”

“Dean, you can’t be serious.”

Dean didn’t answer, he just looked at you, his right hand went up without his better judgement and cradled your jaw. “Is this alright?”

“What? Oh– yeah, it’s, uh, yeah.”

“Good. I’m going to kiss you now.”

“Dean.”

“Please?”

You rolled your eyes and huffed. “If you must.”

Dean smirked, but then his lips were too busy making yours move. You tasted like lip gloss and then something faintly sweet, maybe soda. It wasn’t until you opened up for him that he felt you really relax. Balancing with a warm hand against his chest you leaned into the kiss, testing his tongue with yours.

Dean hummed and eased out of the kiss, opening his eyes and slowly brushing your nose with his until you looked back at him.

“Was that so bad?”

“Hmmm, I think we could do better.”

Dean’s face almost split open with joy. “Is that so?”

“Yeah.”

Then you were kissing him, lips soft yet urgent, tongue seeking him out. Dean held you close and tried to keep up.

You pulled back and looked at him like you always did, both fond and annoyed. “I can’t believe you. What are we gonna do now?!”

“Anything you want.”

And he meant it. It didn’t matter that they had a show the next day or that the band was probably waiting for you. Whatever you wanted, it would be yours. You already had his heart and you finally knew it. All that was left was to make you happy and keep you that way.

“Sit with me on the bus? I have some questions.”

Dean knew it wasn’t going to be that easy, but at least you couldn’t get too angry with everybody else within earshot.

“‘Course.”

You grinned up at him and left a peck on his lips. 

“Okay, let me finish my pitstop and clean some of the snot off my face.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “You’re fine, but I’ll wait for you back at the bus.”

“Deal.” You nodded and bit your lips, like you were trying not to smile. 

So, Dean winked at you as you walked away, which made you walk into the door a kind stranger was holding open for you. He couldn’t take you anywhere.

“Sorry. That’s on him.” He heard you mutter and then watched as you disappeared inside the convenience store.

Tagging:

@deans-spinster-witch

@mrswhozeewhatsis

@cosicas-cuquis

@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like

@suckitands33

@ladysparkles78

@deans-baby-momma

@stoneyggirl2

@sassy-pelican

@leigh70

@globetrotter28

@winharry

@lastactiontricia

@rockhoochie

@brightlilith

@coldhearted93

@djs8891

@beautiful-places-blog

@n-o-p-e-never

@spxideyver

@tldix

[dontlikeconflict]

Short idea for a Demon Dean oneshot that I'll never finish, from when Demon Dean is tied up at the bunker waiting for Sam and Cas to cure him

"c'mon Cas.... what? you dont like me like this?" Dean taunts, bound to the chair as Cas stands before him, knowing he shouldn't have come down here, but not being able to help himself

Cas' silence is taken by Dean as sign to continue "I'm willing you know, already all tied up in a pretty package" he flexes his hands, making the rope pull at his skin as he smirks up at Cas with an expression that Dean never used before he became like this "we both know you want too... I've always noticed how you look at me, how you follow me" he lets his tongue dart across his bottom lip and Cas cant help the way his eyes fall to the motion "go on Angel, you can do whatever you want to me, if you and Sammy are so dead set on curing me then this could be your only chance"

The words rang true in Castiel's mind. He tried to keep a blank expression, but this was still Dean. He couldn't stop from showing his desire, his longing, and the dreadful way it mixed with the horror he felt at the distortion of Dean Winchesters soul. He finally spoke up, needing to refute what he was saying, to deny it all, like a Winchester would. "Dean, you're my friend, I consider you family but right now you are not yourself"

the words are said with truth and conviction but are still met with a harsh laugh "Friends don't act this way Cas, friends dont wait until they think their friend is asleep so they can sneak into the bathroom and touch themselves thinking about said friend"

Cas flushed, he couldn't deny it had happened a few times. The closer acquainted with humanity Cas became, the more various human acts began to interest him. He didn't masturbate frequently, but when he did it was always to lingering thoughts of Dean, ones that he couldn't get out of his head without doing something about it.

This version of Dean laughed before making his voice deeper, but also making it come out in a soft and breathy tone "Oh Dean, oh wow" he mocked, desperately wanting a reaction out of the angel. He didn't get one, so he changed his tactics, allowing his voice to take on a perfectly casual tone as he asked "so in these fantasies, are you the pitcher or the catcher? because let me tell you, I've thought of it both ways but mostly I think I like the idea of you bending me over and having your angelic way with me, huh Cas? What do you think"

"I think that this isn't you, Dean." he couldn't keep the strain from his voice

"oh Cas, I'm different but this is all me. All American, apple pie eating, Dean Winchester" The grin on his face turned to a smaller smirk "You know I thought about all this stuff before I went all...." he allowed his eyes to flash pure black, knowing how it would unnerve Castiel "you could say I had a few of my own sneaky trips to the bathroom, the only difference is that before I was too chicken shit to say anything about it. To do anything about it" as he spoke those last words he allowed his eyes to slowly scan over Cas' body "but now, well, I think seeing an angel beg for me would make me feel great"

[deancas-stabfest]

STABFEST 3: RETURN OF THE STAB

Hello lovely stabbers!

September 1st is upon us again, and with it comes A NEW ROUND OF STABFEST.

Some things are the same as previous years:

Each work must contain a STAB between either Dean and Cas (a la Lazarus Rising) or between two or more female SPN characters.

There will be a claims process to match up pitchers and catchers--but we're not limited to fic first like a regular bang or art first like a reverse bang. You can do either, or both!

Some things are different:

We're no longer limited to just fic or art! You can create any kind of fanwork your heart desires--as long as it can be displayed online. (Apologies to the perfume hobbyists. You are valid <3)

Fanworks which consist of multiple chapters or sections are now permitted to spread out posting! The posting period is still just 7 days long, so you can't keep the audience on tenterhooks forever, but it does give you some breathing room.

There is a NEW STICKER: Om Nom Nom! You get this sticker if your fanwork includes BITING. (The biting doesn't count as a stab. We just like it.) There may be a second sticker making its debut... but that depends on who loses the battle of wills between the mods.

We hope we get plenty of returning stabbers, and we're also happy to welcome any FRESH MEAT new people! Whether you're new to the fandom, new to the concept of bangs, or a crusty old veteran who just didn't have time for us before--come on in, and spread the word!

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[jadeseadragon]

Allie Alvis @book_historia

Handpainted pattern book for ceramic plates and pitchers from Thomas Dimmock and Son, ca. 1857.

[hildegardavon]

Siren

Pitcher (olpe) with Siren, Greek Archaic Period, ca.590/580 BC, ceramic, Black Figure, diameter 19.5 cm

Museum of Fine Arts, Boston Inv. 01.8051

[friendswithclay]

“Pitcher decorated with ibexes”

Iran

ca. 800–600 BCE

[metmuseum]

Pitcher decorated with ibexes. ca. 800–600 BCE. Credit line: Gift of Ernest Erickson Foundation, 1988 https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/327358

[heaven-s-black-box]

Inadequate- Okumura x male!Reader

Return to File

Recovery date: December 20th, 2024

Description: S I'm the simp of Koushuu, unfortunately I deleted my blog, but I noticed that requests are open again. Can I ask for some comfort after having a paranoid breakdown about being insufficient as a pitcher with Koushuu and a male S/O? It may be just HC since the fics are more complicated :'v RI repeat, I hope I'm not being picky.

Notes: CW descriptive panic attack and lots of stuttering Recovered in conjunction with an anonymous researcher, we thank them for their contributions. So, Koushuu might be a bit OOC? We've seen him comfort Asada, so i kind of tried to base it around that? Also, funny you should send this ask because this happened to me fairly recently so... ya, based on personal experience.

Word count: 883

Back to directory

Something was wrong today, Okumura could feel it. Y/n wasn’t speaking up in class as much today, and when he did speak it was usually short answers. When he went on, sometimes his voice would break or turn into a whine, but it wasn’t constant. At lunch he’d gotten into a heated debate with Seto over the book they were reading for class, he’d seemed normal then, but when Okumura had approached him on the way to practice his voice had been croaky. Sometimes Y/n’s eyes would go glassy too, like he was about to cry, and his breathing would become choppy.

It came to a head when Kawamkami came by his room that night.

“Nori!” Miyuki greeted, “Want me to catch for you?”

“Sure, but first, can I talk to Okumura for a second?”

He looked up from his notebook to find Kawamaki still standing in the doorway. The upperclassman motioned for him to come outside, and he followed hesitantly.

Once the door was closed, Nori spoke again.

“Could you… go check on Y/n?”

“Is something wrong?”

“He’s crying, and… possibly having a panic attack. I figured since you two are close you might be able to help.”

Okumura nodded. “I will, thank you for telling me.”

“Ya, no problem. Here,” Nori handed over his room key, “so you can get in. I’ll hang out here so you can give it back.”

“Hm.”

The catcher jogged off towards Y/n’s room. It was quiet, but as he approached the door he could hear faint sobbing and hyperventilating.

As carefully as possible, he opened the door. It creaked, and Y/n curled in on himself to muffle the sounds. He was also clearly trying to calm his breath, which only resulted in fits of sharp inhales punctuated by the occasional snort. The lump on his bed was shaking heavily, so much so that the bed rattled against the wall with every sharp breath.

“Y/n?”

Okumura closed the door, returning the room to darkness.

“O-Oku-mura?” Y/n rolled onto his back, letting the catcher clearly see how each breath shook him.

“Nori-senpai came to get me-”

A soft whine cut him off before Y/n began gasping for breath again, letting out uneven sobs.

He kicked off his shoes and sat next to Y/n, finally being close enough to see his tear streaked cheeks in the dark room.

“Come here,” he whispered, helping Y/n sit up and pulling him into a hug. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know why I’m here,” Y/n sobbed. Okumura waited for him to continue after another fit of choked inhales. “I ca-can’t d-do any-anything.”

“That’s not true.”

“I know that.”

Y/n hiccuped again and pulled away from Okumura. The catcher let him go, knowing he was probably feeling a little claustrophobic.

“It just-” Another fit of sharp inhales and snorts as he tries to catch his breath. Okumura began to gently rub his back. “It’s just so- so effortl-less t-to the o-other-s. I me-mean… go-god I sou-sound li-like a-a di-ick.”

Y/n ran a hand down his face, then pushed his hair back. He was covered in sweat.

Okumura reached for the water bottle on the ground next to his bed and handed it over.

“Catch your breath.”

Carefully, Y/n took a few sips of water. His hands were shaking still but his breathing was more even and there were less hiccups.

“When I-I’m in the bullpen, next to Sawa-mura-se-enpai and Furuya-se-enpai, I feel so out o-of place. And I just… I started wondering why I was here and then Nori-senpai was here and-” Y/n’s breathing sped up again and he stumbled over another sob. It shook his body enough that he spilt water on himself, so Okumura took the bottle and put the cap back on. “I feel like such an ass,” he wailed.

“Hey,” Okumura grabbed Y/n’s hand, “this is hard, but you’re doing great. I love catching for you, and I’m not just saying that as your boyfriend. Yui says catching for you is fun too. You won’t be the best right away, not everyone is a freak who can carry four tires at the crack of dawn.” That made Y/n laugh. “You just need to get used to this. One step at a time, right?”

“One- One step at a- time.” Y/n leaned his forehead against Okumura’s shoulder and took a deep breath, letting it out in short bursts between hiccups. “Can I have more water?”

Okumura handed it over wordlessly.

He’d never really understood it, his mother had tried to explain that Y/n didn’t realize the effort he put in even though Okumura recognized he tried harder than most. When that effort wasn’t enough, Y/n felt like he wasn’t trying hard enough and didn’t feel like he could try any harder. His hard effort made things feel natural, and so being asked for effort felt daunting.

He still didn’t understand, but he didn’t have to know what to say. He’s always hated liars, and so he’ll tell him the truth. Hopefully, that’ll be enough.

“Thank you,” Y/n said softly.

“All I said was the truth.”

“Ya… but, still. Thanks for being here with me.”

[golby-moon]

not exactly someone who listens to a lot of music but I entered the @destielbeatlesminibang anyway and oh no this was created based off the song "Anna (Go to Him)". and yeah idk why I did these weird outlines instead of my usual thick black ones either

okay so a major theme in this fic is a card game called Munchkin which I've never heard of before this fic. I've been told it's unpopular and it's funny that Dean and Cas are so serious about it because it's such a dumb game and what better to reflect that than a banner featuring a game night for messy teenagers? admittedly I may have gone overboard on the pizza grease and may or may not have forgotten to put more places for names and credits uh

fun fact but the cards are all actual Munchkin cards that I found pictures of online. some of the cards like the Friendship Potion one are symbolic for the fic, some reflect the show itself (Pitcher of Cheap Beer because Winchesters, Duck Holiday because it reminded me of destiel cowboys in that one episode and also because Dean definitely has that card pack), and others are just there because they're silly (like the Horse Radish). also fun fact but the box the title is on is a card holder box thing I saw on Google, not just some random box yay

I don't think I've ever drawn people dancing before (pretty sure I would've remembered suffering through drawing those hands ghfjfjfjfu) but I just had to give it a try for this one, featuring Dean and Cas being all awkward but loving to reflect their new relationship and also Charlie and Anna hanging out in the background there. also rest assured Cas' tie is indeed backwards, it's just a little hard to see here

I have Charlie with shorter hair to distinguish her from Anna and I learned over the course of this bang that people don't wear socks with high heels usually?? I thought it'd be like extra padding because those look painful???? anyway Charlie doesn't care about normal though so she's wearing Harry Potter flavored socks and Anna's in more traditional uh nylons I think they're called which meant I had to draw bare feet but I think it came out okay at least. also fun to push myself to draw new things for bangs which is kinda why I started doing them in the first place so yeah. anyway

the fic this is made for is called "Anna, Go to Him" by @butterflyslinky for the destiel beatles minibang

(06/27/24)

[naked-covered-in-bees]

Sweet Things

They’re in a diner outside Des Moines and Dean is feeling good, still high on morning sex and an easy job putting ghosts to rests with no fatalities or injuries and the diner coffee is good and across the table Cas is pouring enough pancake syrup over his French toast to put the place out of business.

Dean laughs, husky and easy. It’s a new laugh he’s discovered since Cas came back from the Empty somewhere between human and angel.

“Easy,” Dean rasps, nudging Cas’s ankle under the table.

“I like sweet things,” Cas says and in the early morning light his cerulean eyes glimmer. Angelic. “I suppose I have to learn a little more self-control.” He pats his chest under which Dean knows there is a bit of softness there that wasn’t around before. But he likes that. 

Love handles. He likes sinking his fingers into Cas’s hips when he pushes him against a motel wall.

“Must be why you like me so much.” Dean winks at him, smiling as he chews and swallows his bacon.

Cas regards him with a wry expression and doesn’t say a word as Sam returns to the bathroom and slides in next to him. 

Sam grabs for the pitcher of syrup and frowns when nothing comes out over his pancakes and sausage. 

He frowns at Cas.

“Seriously dude?”

“Cas has a sweet tooth,” Dean says knowingly.

“Oh, does he?” Sam gestures at the server behind the counter with the empty syrup pitcher. The server nods. “I couldn’t tell. He just has candy stashed all over the bunker and he puts like three spoonfuls of sugar on his cereal and he put chocolate syrup on his apple pie. His pie, Dean. That didn’t bother you?”

“It was a disgusting blasphemy,” Dean says. He leans on his hand and under the table the toe of his boot journeys up Cas’s leg. “But it was kind of cute.”

“I miss when you guys were miserable and pining.”

“I have been limiting myself,” Cas points out. “I am aware of the harm a large amount of sugar can do. I will not be putting chocolate syrup on my pie again. Although, it was an interesting experiment. I will, however, continue my romantic relationship with Dean.”

Cas looks at Sam and Dean, grinning, chuckling to himself as if he’s said something infinitely witty.

Dean covers his mouth, amused and enamored.

“Because…” Cas gestures at Dean with a forkful of French toast, blinking in the face of Sam’s confusion. “Because Dean is sweet.”

He says this just as the server appears with a fresh pitcher of pancake syrup.

That’s all it takes. Dean turns crimson, covering his face with his palm.

Cas shoves French toast in his mouth, hardly chewing before swallowing. “Sometimes he calls me sugar lips or sweet cheeks, but I believe those endearments are truer to him than myself.”

“Cas, man…” Dean murmurs. He can’t even decide if he’s pleased or mortified. But he’s definitely stupid in love. “You gotta stop.”

“Yes, please,” Sam muttered.

“But now,” Cas says smugly to Dean, “you’re blushing. Noticeably. And it’s very attractive.”

Dean can’t help it. The smile on his face busts out from the fingers he clamps over his mouth as he makes eyes at Cas.

“Most people wouldn’t call me sweet,” he mumbles.

“Really?” Cas raises a wary brow. “I think you’re adorable.”

“Okay, well I have been saying that for years.” He grabs the full syrup pitcher from the long suffering Sam. “Have some more syrup, Cas honey.”

“This is why we all have to retire,” Sam says under his breath.