#this is both funnier And feels more like a choice grace & twitch would make Together

[capn-twitchery]

time to send grace and his bat child off on a really fun vacation to grace's favourite spot<3

[waitingtobelit]

Title: This Is Halloween

Characters/Pairings: Dean Winchester/Castiel, Sam Winchester, Jack Kline

Rating: R for less explicit/more implied sexual content.

Summary:  Dean laughs, knocking against Cas’ shoulder in the process. “That’s the beauty of these movies, man,” he says, smiling through a face full of chocolate. “Watching people make poor life choices and not having to be responsible for any of it.”

Or: Dean and Cas stay in on Halloween. 1787 words.

Notes: Look, I'm still in pain from 15x03 so here's some shameless fluff set in an AU of season 13, based on 14x04, "Mint Condition." Rated R for vaguely sexual content.Any errors/mistakes are entirely my own, and any and all feedback is always appreciated!

Disclaimer: I don’t anything regarding Supernatural or any of its characters. This was written purely for recreational purposes, and no profit is being made from this. I also don’t own "This Is Halloween” from The Nightmare Before Christmas, some of the lyrics being part of the source of inspiration for this particular story.

You can also find this piece at AO3 here:�� https://archiveofourown.org/works/20407789/chapters/50711036

"In this town we call home Everyone hail to the pumpkin song In this town, don't we love it now? Everybody's waiting for the next surprise." -"This Is Halloween" from Nightmare Before Christmas

---

Halloween tends to be fairly quiet for them, all things considered. With exceptions, of course, but, overall, October 31st tends to be a night that the Winchesters can lay low and recharge. Which is good this year, because Dean could use the distraction from the Apocalypse World and thinking too much on how he lost his mom. Again.

Sam is currently educating Jack about the wonders of the holiday; hell, Dean can’t remember if Sam said he would at least try showing the kid what trick or treating is. Regardless, Sam and Jack are out for the night, leaving Cas in the bunker library (or so he was last Dean heard from him) and Dean alone in his room, sprawled out across his bed, arms and chin resting on a pillow next to a big old pile of candy he stockpiled earlier this morning, a partially empty bottle of whiskey, and a marathon on Shocker of all his favorites; currently, Hell Hazers 2: The Reckoning is playing, and Dean has to smile, recalling his and Sam’s adventure on that particular set all of those years ago. (He’s sometimes tempted to make fake business cards and/or ids with ‘one hell of a PA!’ embossed on them but he never actually follows through. Still something to think about, though.)

He’s enjoying the cheese of it all with a handful of Snickers and a gulp of whiskey a little more expensive than he usually indulges in (self-care, he’ll tell Sam later, when he inevitably bitches about the cost of it and the fact that Dean shared none of it with him), when a knock echoes at the door, followed by Cas walking in.

“Hello Dean,” the angel says, tilting his head as he observes Dean from his position by the door. Dean turns, and, God, he’s never been so relieved to be able to lay eyes on Cas in his life. Perhaps it’s just the whiskey talking (that, or his long-buried feelings finally clawing their way to the surface), but Cas seems to especially glow in the mixed lighting of the lamp and the television, leaning against the doorframe. (And he hasn’t drunk that much tonight; he’s still on his first glass, his traitorous inner voice tells him. That voice which, unfortunately, sounds too much like Sammy with a knowing smirk on his face.)

“Hey, Cas, what’s up?” Dean asks, the gory happenings on the television echoing behind him. He remains sprawled as ever across his bed, and perhaps he’s only imagining it but Cas’ gaze seems to travel from his head to his toes. Goosebumps and warmth swirl with the whiskey running through his system, and he shifts a little on the bed.

“What are you watching?” Cas asks, directing his attention towards the television with a frown, his nose wrinkling, and goddamn if Dean’s heart doesn’t flutter just at the sight of it. He grins, and he tells himself the heat rushing to his face is from the alcohol, despite the fact that it takes a whole hell of a lot more than one glass of whiskey to get him anywhere even close to drunk, let alone buzzed.

“Horror marathon,” he says simply. “All day and all night. We don’t have a case, so seems like a good way to kill time, given what day it is.”

Cas’ frown seems to deepen, and he tilts his head once again. “I don’t understand. Isn’t your life already a horror movie? Several horror movies,” he amends fairly quickly.

Dean laughs, tossing his head back again, and he feels Cas’ gaze linger on his exposed throat. He stuffs a 3 Musketeers bar in his mouth to keep from thinking too much.

“Yeah, that’s what Sam always says,” he answers with a shrug, swallowing the chocolate. “But I’ve always enjoyed these kinds of movies; they’re easy enough to check out to, you know?”

Cas says nothing for a few minutes, standing still and observing in that same quiet, dignified manner as when he and Dean first met all of those years ago. Nearly a decade ago, actually, which is strange to think about. (Although not nearly as strange as the fact that Dean can, in fact, trace all of those deeply rooted and deeply covered feelings back nearly as long.)

Dean’s glance falls to the candy next to him, face still warm, as he begins to feel the weight of every piece of chocolate eaten and every unspoken word in the lingering silence.

He’s about to make a smartass reply when Cas is suddenly next to him, gesturing towards the television.

“Would you mind if I joined you?” He asks, a small smile on his face, a face framed by soft stubble and blue eyes. Dean swallows again, despite the fact that he has no food in his mouth.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he says, moving the candy and whiskey out of the way, and shifting slightly right himself, to make room for Cas. He picks up his bravado again, as if he simply dropped it in that staring contest he just had with the angel. “You could use with a good horror education.”

“Thank you,” Cas says simply, nodding his head. He moves to sit on the bed, but Dean shakes his head, patting the mattress with insistence. If they’re going to do this, they’re going to do this right, damn it.

“Nah, come on Cas,” he says, grinning like his old self, before he watched Cas die, again. “If we’re having a slumber party, we’re doing this right.”

“A slumber party? I don’t understand,” Cas says, but the corners of his mouth are twitching upwards as he speaks, and Dean’s whole countenance brightens in response.

“You will,” he insists, as Cas finally maneuvers his bulky, trench coat wearing self next to Dean.

Someone dies on screen, bloody and entirely over the top, killed for having sex by some demon or ghost they summoned from hell. But Dean barely registers this fact as the warmth from Cas’ presence seeps like cigarette smoke throughout the room, and their shoulders brush together. Cas even grabs a piece of chocolate, a Hershey’s bar, despite the fact that Dean knows he can’t taste it.

“Alright, Dean,” Cas says, turning to face Dean with a smile. “Teach me everything.”

And teach him, Dean does, as they make their way through the rest of the Hell Hazers movie and move on to stand alone horror films, going off on various tangents about the manner of deaths and the art of particular actors in each scene, Cas listening intently, as he always does. Dean thinks it’s somewhere halfway through The Shining that their hands meet somewhere above the mountain of candy, curling into one another; it’s the beginning of The Amityville Horror that Dean winds up squeezing Cas’ hand, and Cas squeezes back.

As Nightmare on Elm Street plays, several characters having died bloody already, Cas makes his first observation that isn’t a question. “Some of these people are just asking to die,” he says, and it’s made a thousand times funnier by the deep, gravelly tone of his voice. “I mean, honestly. Who goes off alone in a dark house without even something to use as a weapon?”

Dean laughs, knocking against Cas’ shoulder in the process. “That’s the beauty of these movies, man,” he says, smiling through a face full of chocolate. “Watching people make poor life choices and not having to be responsible for any of it.”

Cas is staring at him again, his blue eyes piercing into Dean like a pair of angel blades. He feels his breath catching in his throat as Cas brings up a hand to wipe away the chocolate smeared against the corner of his lips; he nearly chokes on that same breath when Cas brings that hand against his own mouth, licking it clean while his damn blue eyes remain on Dean, whose gaze keeps flickering between the pink of his lips, the stubble of his chin, and the way Cas’ eyes seem to glow even without the aid of grace.

He doesn’t think, he just moves; Dean has their mouths pressed together in a matter of seconds, and Cas has his hand in Dean’s shirt just as quickly as they both moan and push and pull, their lips slipping and sliding together, tongues entering the fray moments later. The sensation of kissing Cas hits Dean like a shot of whiskey; it shoots throughout his system and nearly knocks him off of the bed, years of repressed want finally breaking through the surface of his skin like lightning. And Dean can taste that same want in the way Cas kisses him back, like a man starved finally stumbling upon a feast; he lets out a moan that would put every single one of his previous slutty moments to shame; a moan like a character in a horror movie about to have sex before they die violently.

Dean is the one who tries to flip them, to press Cas into the mattress. But it’s Cas who actually gets the upper hand, with a knowing, cocky smirk that sends all the heat rising between them directly to Dean’s lower belly. When they part so that Dean breathe, he’s panting heavily for air, glancing up at those blue eyes and what he thinks might be the shadows of Castiel’s wings. Shivers run through him, spiking in the way his hips and stomach shoot upwards and his knees spread open to accompany Cas’ body with his own, a beggar’s prayer.

Cas is still smirking when he leans down, mouth pressed directly against Dean’s ear. His hands move to gather both of Dean’s together, pressing them above his head and into the pillows like rope. Dean keeps trying to catch his breath and failing; his mouth keeps trying to form words and failing.

“If we’re going to do this,” Cas says, all Angel of the Lord as he lowers his body to press right up against Dean, “we’re going to do it right.” He rolls his hips sharply downwards, and Dean writhes, Cas’ name unfurling on his tongue like a candy bar wrapper.

The rest of the night passes in a flurry of limbs, mouths, bodies, and extremely creative (and inappropriate) uses of Halloween candy.

On the television screen, a man dies, sucked into and chewed up by his own bed.

Elsewhere in the bunker, Sam and Jack arrive home just in time to discover that the bunker’s walls, even with all of their warding, really aren’t as soundproof as they seem, and Sam grabs himself a whiskey as he sits down to try and explain the birds and the bees to Jack.