#~b-non

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

No time for fashion, we have a stat bonus to collect.

[gynii]

@hey-omi got me into aftg last semester and i made this for them as part of an art trade last month! so now yall get to see it :)

[charliemwrites]

Omegas are the best for the military. Everyone knows that, it’s just common sense.

Omegas are notoriously level-headed and calm, protective without the tendency towards aggression and territorial possessiveness that characterizes their Alpha counterparts. They’re cooperative and adaptable, with heightened senses that at one evolutionary time kept them safe from rabid Alphas.

Now, it’s best suited to sniffing out potential threats, communicating sub-vocally, and noticing the smallest changes in their environment. The military finds them much more economical for combat, special ops, and even espionage compared to Alphas, who are pheromone sensitive, hard-headed, and generally indelicate.

That said, they’re not without their uses. Alphas tend to be lean, fast, and vicious. That aggression makes them both sword and shield in a fight, filing their sense of pain and fatigue down to almost nothing until the threat is neutralized.

Still, having a full-time Alpha in a squad isn’t a necessity except in special circumstances.

Per usual, Task Force 141 is special circumstances.

Four specialist Omegas with a metric ton of trauma per team member has the unfortunate consequence of hormonal imbalance. One thing feeds into another, a heat is put on hold for a mission because they can’t spare the manpower - it stacks and stacks and stacks until sleep is scarce and their usually well-maintained instincts are bursting at the seams. Compound that with the near loss of one of their team members…

The new Alpha is already there when the team returns from their latest assignment.

Laswell is waiting on the tarmac and an operative in black gear is standing a polite distance (plus one step more) from her elbow. Well within peripheral, but deferent. Their hands are clasped behind their back, shoulders straight but loose.

As TF141 approaches, Price expects the Alpha pheromones to waft his way any moment. It’s normal, expected even. A new environment, meeting strange Omegas, Alphas usually burn through their neutralizers quickly. Perhaps a vestigial instinct to carve a space for themselves in the world. Not necessarily their fault, but it happens.

Price is surprised that he smells nothing from the Alpha at all. Just the scents of detergent and soap, clean and standard. A quick glance at Simon confirms their most-sensitive nose doesn’t detect anything either.

Laswell introduces them, an Alpha that she’s personally worked with before and can verify is solid both on and off the field.

The Alpha’s muzzle is heavy duty but long-wear design. Hard-case and rigid instead of the more popular soft and flexible ones. Cushioned but firm at the bridge of the nose, chin, and corners of the jaw. Buckled tight at the back of the head, steel grid pattern across the front.

Price doesn’t arch his eyebrows at it but it’s a near thing.

They duck their head in greeting when Laswell introduces them as Saint, eyes flicking up briefly to each team member, eye-shine reflecting green in the bright runway lights.

Soap whistles, impressed.

“Yer a big ‘un, tha’s fer damn sure. Didnae ken they make ‘em like ye,” he drawls. Ghost cuffs him upside the head, reminding him to behave.

Saint blinks and doesn’t say anything. Curious.

“Let’s do proper introductions inside,” Price decides.

It goes much the same way in the 141’s den as it did out on the tarmac. Saint stands quiet and still while the Omegas take their turns.

There’s no scent to familiarize themselves with, so it’s mostly offering theirs to the Alpha. Except Saint doesn’t duck down to the neck Gaz offers. Instead, they pluck up his hand and bring his wrist to their muzzle. Inhale so quietly that only the swell of their chest indicates that they’re breathing him in.

They chuff softly, hold so loose that Gaz’s hand nearly drops from theirs. It’s approval, it can’t be anything else, but it sounds so… detached.

Still, Gaz chuffs in return, and makes way for the others. Saint does the same to Soap and by the time Simon steps up, he’s already tugging his sleeve up and his glove down.

Simon, to his own surprise, receives the same polite huff as the two sergeants. Most Alphas have found his direct scent to be unpleasant - too sharp and savory, bordering on Alpha. But Saint doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

When it’s finally Price’s turn, the only difference is that Saint swipes their own wrist along his. Scent claim. Not marking the 141 as theirs, but rather Saint as belonging with them.

Laswell, suspiciously amused, takes her leave soon after.

The 141 has an Alpha. A permanent one.

Living with an Alpha would have been a learning curve on its own. Living with SAINT is something else entirely.

For one, they apply clinical-strength neutralizer religiously. They have spares stashed everywhere. In their go-bag, their combat gear, the den, the lockers - even one in Price’s office. It’s better than the ones with fragrance, but if not for their ever-present muzzle, no one would be able to tell that they’re an Alpha.

And speaking of the muzzle.

It goes beyond common courtesy and public conduct. Even in the den, they keep the thing tightly pressed to their face, and don’t remove it for anything. They eat in their room and drink through straws when necessary.

When Price tells them that the team wouldn’t mind if they used a bite guard in the den, they just chuff softly and brush a hand along his shoulder. The muzzle stayed.

It’s not to say they don’t seem comfortable. Day by day, little signs of trust and ease seep into their Alpha’s mannerisms if they know where to look for it. A brush of skin here, a sub-vocal purr there. Spending hours upon hours in the den, available for any of the Omegas to sit with or cuddle or chat to. As much as teammate as an Alpha in the traditional sense.

It doesn’t take Soap and Gaz long at all to start hanging all over them, but Saint takes it with all the patience of their namesake. Price finds Soap lounging in their lap most times that they’re sitting, or leaning hard into their side while they watch recruits.

The muzzle is a no-touch zone, but they don’t get even growl the first time Soap discovers that. They just redirect him with a quiet click of their tongue, and let him nuzzle in when he apologizes.

Gaz is hardly any better, scent marking Saint like some bad Alpha stereotype. Poor thing goes around smelling overwhelmingly of bergamot and honey sometimes, but they never mind, never stop him from pressing his face to their chest or their back or even into their hands. Rubbing his face over any bit of skin or fabric available, even their jugular, despite the vulnerability of such a spot.

Still, Saint is aloof.

They’re perfectly responsive to their Omegas, head tilting at the slightest vocalization, quick to offer physical comfort when asked. They hardly ever seek it out for themself though, and show none of the near-obsessive behaviors associated with even the most mild of Alphas on the spectrum.

“I dinnae think Alpha likes us,” Soap whines one evening.

Saint is eating in their room, leaving the Omegas to a cuddle pile while they wait for their return.

He’s been lamenting it for a while now, repressing the rejected pang in his gut any time Saint doesn’t vocalize back, or reach for them first.

They work out in the Alpha-Only gym on base and do their laundry in the designated Alpha wash. Neither of those are regulations, it’s a choice they make. And it hurts a bit.

Saint is sweet, but their politeness goes past the point of old-fashioned.

“Course they do,” Simon grunts, dismissive. “They probably like us too much.”

“How do you reckon?” Gaz asks.

“Alpha didn’ go t’ eat ‘til we were all fed,” he replies, shrugging.

And it’s true. Saint doesn’t collect a scrap of nutrition until every one of their Omegas has had something to eat. Even Price, stubborn and work-focused as he can be, is gently urged to eat before Saint fills their own belly.

It doesn’t stop there.

Saint is always the last one on or off a transport, and quick to notice if any of them are injured. They’re always present around large groups of other Alphas, especially recruits.

The sheer amount of time they spend available is unusual, preferring the den to rest in their off hours - even sleeping there on occasion.

Then Gaz’s heat is due. A week out and he’s already feeling it descending - it’s been well over six months since his last one. His skin feels itchy, his senses on overdrive. Thirsty and hungry and generally feeling restless beneath the skin.

“Alpha,” he calls.

Saint’s eyes are on him instantly, one-sided conversation with some other, non-Pack Omega forgotten. Gaz purrs, pleased.

“I want something of yours.”

They tilt their head, a silent question.

“A shirt or something,” he specifies.

And something in their gaze flickers. Gaz isn’t sure what it means, but it definitely looks positive.

Saint brings him something better - a blanket. It’s intimate; it’s perfect. It smells incredible, if… oddly faded. From his most reserved Pack member, it means the world.

Gaz balls himself up with it in the nest he assembles over the next day and a half, until he wakes up one morning with the knowledge that his heat will l well and truly have taken hold before midday.

He puts in his notice and calls his Pack.

Saint is the last to enter his barrack, a huge bag of supplies in their arms. Not just for Gaz, but for the rest of them. No one will be leaving unless duty calls.

And it’s perfect. The best heat Gaz has ever had. Surrounded by Pack and protected by his Alpha, who stays on watch while Price and Ghost and Soap fuck him through the dregs of preheat and well into Heat proper.

Half of him purrs at his Alpha’s dedication to protecting them, to providing for them. The other half protests the Alpha’s attention being anywhere but on him.

“Alpha,” he calls. And when that only earns him Saint’s eyes and not his affection, he barks, sharper, “Alpha.”

They come to him instantly, settled in between his legs, smooth their thumbs along the glands at the base of his neck. He curls into them trilling and chirping and needing more than just social acceptability right now.

And finally, finally, a low rumble sounds through his Alpha’s chest. It’s deep and rich, hits the subharmonics in a way that has all the Omegas going still and quiet. Their voice purrs out a moment later, practically vibrating their skulls.

“Easy, Omega.”

Gaz bares his neck, whispering, “Saint.”

They lean in, breathing loud and deep, warm hands soothing an ache in his lower back. “I’m here, Kyle.”

They fuck well into sundown, Kyle so wound up that he can’t bear to be parted from Saint to even let them breathe. Any space between them is whined or growled or bitten out of existence, the ever-indulgent Alpha soothing their Omega with their body, with the newly discovered vocalizations that he just can’t get enough of.

Ghost and Price have to feed and hydrate him between rounds, working together to manage his clingy limbs and careless (but sharp) teeth. In the meantime, Soap helps to do the same for Saint, who is far more cooperative.

“How’re you still goin’?” Soap wonders, amazed, slipping bites of granola between the bars of their muzzle. Saint is sitting upright with Gaz collected against their chest, sweaty but already breathing evenly again.

Saint licks a bit of chocolate off their lip and meets his eyes easy as anything, serene for how blown out their pupils are.

“I’m your Alpha. I go until you need me to stop.”

Which just sets them all off, each taking (needing) a turn with their Alpha.

By then, their neutralizer has begun to wear off, friction and sweat and fabric thinning the chemical deodorant to nothing. The scent is intoxicating, unlike anything any of them have ever smelled before. It’s overwhelmingly Alpha, overwhelmingly good. Even Ghost and Price, rare to bend the knee to anyone, find themselves weak for that scent.

No wonder Saint keeps it on lock, it’s practically a weapon in itself, not demanding submission but expecting it. A foregone conclusion. In a social setting it would be a brutal domination, rude wouldn’t even be the right word for it.

Saint isn’t just an Alpha, they’re on the extreme end of the spectrum.

The kind that comes with counseling and desensitizing therapies. Etiquette schools and specialized doctors.

The kind of Alpha that can not only manage four chaotic Omegas, but give them what they need.

With types like Saint, Alpha isn’t just a designation, it’s a title. And the 141 is proud that it’s theirs.

[hooter-n-company]

A silly little comic I threw together for @belliesandburps's birthday. Starring his characters Umbrak (big hooded fella who resembles a certain heavy metal band's mascot) and Claudius (the nerdy bird getting gulped). The lil' dork will be fine, he likes being in there for the

✨Science✨

and absolutely no other reason whatsoever lol

Umbrak is just being his grouchy self, but at least he gets a free meal. XD

[demisexualifyingeddiediaz]

Imagine you are a normal 118 A Shift member. Everyone's called to a lab. Suddenly, Cap and his favorites are down in like. the basement with that poor B Shift kid. And then an explosion happens. And they're all stuck there. Except Buck, who is going insane. And it's the same set of people who always end up in the situations that for some reason only they and none of the rest of the shift get into. But suddenly Captain Nash's wife is there and schemeing with Buck. But you're not important so you're just... hanging out near decon? While your top paramedics have a collapsed lung and Ebola's Cousin? And Cap does surgery? How does this keep happening. That poor, poor B Shift kid. He's about to be a terrorist

[fedoraspooky]

dusting off the ol' running Mabel meme after all these years because i am Tired

[tatretot]

hellooo danandphilgames buddies!! happy belated 10 year (more like 5 but shhh) anniversary :-)

[lanternlit]

happy pride month for the entire queer community but especially my fellow aroallos! my aromantic pan/poly/omni/bisexuals, aromantic lesbians and gays, aromantic heterosexuals (you belong here), aromantic polyamorous and kinky peers (you belong here, annual havu reminder that in this house we acknowledge that kink belongs at pride)!

[xx-r0t-dot-com-xx]

bonded like stray cats who cannot be adopted separately

[suntails]

knight of dreams

[eff-exor]

if this is blurry to you it means you’re in love w me

[snipdoodle]

I think your cat is cool! How are they feeling about pride month?

Thank you! :D

The cat is loving every second of pride month.

[charliemwrites]

Soap’s Alpha is a goddamn menace.

Anyone who says otherwise just doesn’t actually know Saint, or is Gaz. (The bloody traitor.)

It’s not that Soap doesn’t like Saint. He does. What’s not to like?

The alpha is a walking wet dream, the kind a pubescent Johnny used to fantasize about. (Still does, really, he’s just got a face - and body, bloody hell that body - to focus on now.) Big and powerful, dominance and restraint from head to toe. Looks damn good in their muzzle too, like something forbidden, pearly fangs locked up out of reach. And their scent - if someone could bottle it up, they’d make millions. (Retirement project, maybe, Soap’s good with chemistry.)

It’s just that they’re so damn respectful. Too respectful, in Johnny’s opinion.

Teenage Johnny didn’t realize that an alpha so… well, Alpha, would have such Victorian sensibilities. Saint is practically old-fashioned, keeping their scent contained and a ribbon of space between themselves and others. Always waiting for an omega to make the first move, even their own omegas.

If Soap pushes, Saint goes. If he demands, Saint provides. They’ll let him scent them and mark them and generally pass the point of even modern social manners just to receive a slow blink, a soft chuff, the barest curve of those lips - scarred from when their fangs grew in, too big for a pup’s mouth. It’s driving Soap off his heid.

It’s not that Soap is attracted to the kind of alpha that would throw their scent around or flash fang when he obnoxiously shoves his nose against their throat. He’s rolled his eyes at his share of knot-heads all over the spectrum for thinking submission is their god-given right. Put just as many on their stomachs or scruffed them limp when they tried (and failed) to press the issue.

It’s just that… well, Soap loves hard. He loves intensely. Some (Ghost, also a traitor) might even say desperately.

And maybe it’s got something to do with how low-spectrum omega he is. Maybe it’s a few too many taunts and jeers from his childhood into adolescence, about how he’s barely an omega anyway, so he’d be lucky with an alpha that can tolerate him. Maybe it’s a relationship (or two) before the 141, with alphas that got frustrated when he could only pretend at submission.

Maybe he just needs Saint to show that they love him just as much as he loves them. That it’s not just mutual, but matched. That he’s not tolerated, but beloved - intense and forward and non-traditional as he is.

And maybe he’s not asking (“communicating”) that because he doesn’t want to have to ask.

“Fuck around ‘n you’ll find out, Johnny,” Simon warns when Soap makes hypotheticals aloud.

“Tha’s what I’m hopin’ fer, ya dafty.”

Simon grunts, but even through the mask, Johnny can see the skepticism. He might have a point - alphas like Saint, far-spectrum Alphas, are categorically Not To Be Fucked With. That’s designation 101. The farther along the spectrum one way or another, the stronger the instincts, the more mindful everyone else needs to be of provoking them. Especially Alphas, territorial and aggressive as they can be.

But Saint’s proven time and time again that those extra counseling sessions and the spooky etiquette school haven’t gone to waste. They could do with a little… provoking.

Now, Johnny’s a veteran provoker. Knows which buttons to push and how for the reactions he wants. Doing it to Saint almost seems unsporting, honestly. The poor thing is just so sweet. But, well, Johnny’s on a mission.

Soap groans, practically draping himself along Gaz’s shoulders.

“I dinnae ken what t’do, nothin’s workin’!”

“Here’s an idea: stop while you’re ahead.”

Soap growls and shoves at him, Gaz flashes fang back, but his scent is mellow and easy - not that Soap needs it to know it’s all show.

“I’m serious, Gaz. I’ve tried everythin’!” he complains.

And he has. Crawling all over Saint (more than usual). Scenting them at every opportunity. “Forgetting” his own scent neutralizers or conveniently applying too little to last the day. Even scraped his teeth across their throat once. And what has he gotten in response? Slow blinks, quiet chuffs. A nuzzle or two in response, Saint’s eyes smiling even if their mouth stays soft and mostly neutral.

“I am too,” Gaz replies, rolling his eyes. “Play stupid games, win stupid prizes, bruv.”

Soap casts a forlorn glance at their Alpha.

Saint’s halfway across the field with Ghost, Price, and the captain of the squad they’re working with for joint task force training. Hands clasped behind their back, boots planted shoulder-width apart. Every bit the imposing alpha lieutenant despite never speaking a word, even with a deterrent half step of space between them and the omegas.

“I dinnae think it would be a stupid prize if they acted like a normal Alpha. Just once, ya ken?”

“They’re not a normal alpha, Soap. They like us just fine, you know that, right?”

Soap grunts something that could pass for agreement. Gaz opens his mouth to say something else - likely more entreaties to leave their poor Alpha be - but two of the other team’s sergeants approaches. (It’s fine, he’ll have plenty of opportunity to complain after dinner, when Saint retreats to their own room to eat - and to a bigger audience too.)

“A little sparring practice while we wait for orders?” one asks.

Behind him, the other sergeant of their squad is staring. Has been since Price introduced the 141.

Unlike them, Task Force Alpha hosts three alphas - the captain herself, who’s mid-spectrum, and the two sergeants, both low-spectrum. It’s an unusual unit, but so is the 141.

Soap and Gaz exchange looks, then glance at their officers. Johnny’s a little startled to find Saint already watching - still relaxed, but observing from a distance.

Oh? Did that catch his Alpha’s attention?

Johnny turns back to the alpha sergeants, grin a little feral.

“Aye, show us what ya got.”

The problem with getting what he wants, Johnny discovers, is that he gets it in spades.

The “sparring practice” is doomed right from the first flash of alpha teeth before they’ve even begun, and rapidly spirals downward from there.

The other problem is that Johnny getting what he wants doesn’t preclude Gaz and Simon from also being right.

Unfamiliar alpha pheromones thick in Johnny’s nose, his pack out of his direct sight, and one wrong move. The other sergeant twists his wrist too hard, too far, and the yelp is out of Johnny’s throat before he can stop it.

A thunderous bark cracks across the field, message unmistakable - Stop.

The alpha pinning Johnny freezes. Unfortunately, that leaves Johnny in the same uncomfortable position that made him cry out in the first place. Every instinct in his body tells him not to move either, but the radiating ache in his wrist wins out. He shifts, tries to wriggle out, but the alpha’s grip is like iron - whether from fear or caught prey is unclear.

It doesn’t matter though. Because in the next instant, the alpha’s weight is gone entirely.

There’s barely even a scuffle. Just a rolling growl like shifting tectonic plates and then the alpha sergeant is pinned face down with a big hand scruffing him tight.

It’s Saint, crouched over Johnny’s (former) opponent, expression wiped smooth except for the snarl showing those big fangs - even still hidden behind a muzzle.

This is why, Johnny thinks, stomach flipping. If the muzzle wasn’t there, Saint’s teeth would be clamped down already.

They sink lower, knee against the other alpha’s back, slow and deliberate. Close enough that the smaller alpha bites off a whimper. A clear display of power and dominance that nearly has Johnny keening.

As if hearing his thoughts - or the subvocals he’s being less successful about suppressing - Saint’s implacable gaze darts to his. Their pupils are blown out, eyes stormcloud dark.

“Johnny.”

There’s no stopping the soft, purely Omega noise that slips out. Saint’s chest expands, breathing in whatever scent Johnny is giving off.

“Okay?” they ask, flicking a look at Johnny’s wrist.

“M’okay, Alpha.”

Saint turns their attention to Price, Simon, and the alpha captain - only just now finished crossing the distance Saint did seemingly in an instant.

“Stand down, lieutenant,” the alpha captain barks. It’s weak, though, they can all hear that her subvocals aren’t in it with her, instinct shying from the stronger alpha. (Her normal voice doesn’t sound all that strong for that matter, either.)

Another warning growl ripples through the air. This time, the alpha beneath Saint can’t stop his whimper - and neither can Johnny. (Though he’s likely whimpering for a much different reason.) The captain’s mouth shuts with an audible click.

A safe distance from her, Simon and Price visibly lock their knees to stay standing.

Saint tilts their head to meet the alpha captain’s glare, steady and unrelenting. Awareness crackles down Johnny’s spine - alphas locking gazes, and the dangers of them doing so.

“I-I didn’t know he was your omega,” the alpha sergeant blurts.

Saint doesn’t look away. “You know now.”

“Yes, alpha.”

Johnny’s heart trips over itself to beat double time. His face feels hot.

Silence stretches for one, two, three breaths…

“He knows now,” the alpha captain says quietly. Her eyes drop to her sergeant. “Let him up, alpha.”

Saint doesn’t linger to make a point. The sit back, forearms resting on their knees, giving the sergeant room to scramble up and away. And Johnny finds, quite suddenly, that Saint’s focused on him again.

“Let’s pick this up another day,” Price gruffs in the silence, dredging his voice up from the depths.

“I’ll contact you for details,” the alpha captain says, steel returning to her voice.

Task Force Alpha shuffles away in thick silence. With the outsiders gone, some ease returns. The intense energy around Saint melts away, leaving the mellow alpha the 141 is used to behind.

“That was bloody brilliant,” Gaz blurts in the silence, absolutely smitten.

Saint snorts, shakes their head, and stands.

Mouth dry and still right where he ended, Johnny glances at Simon. The look in his eyes says “I told you so.”

Johnny doesn’t pout; but he does take the hand that Saint offers him with a purr.

“Johnny.”

A shiver raises down his spine and pools low in his gut - just like it does every time he hears Saint’s voice. Still, he tries to save face, whirling to fix his alpha with a winning smile.

“Aye, alpha?” he churrs - or starts to, but comes up short.

Because Saint isn’t wearing their muzzle.

“W-what’s the occasion?” he tries to recover.

Saint tilts their head, watching. Observing.

It’s just the two of them in the den right now. Price is in his office, smoothing over the afternoon’s events via phone call, and Simon and Gaz went into town for food.

It feels electrifyingly intimate. Because his Alpha is looming right there in joggers and a tight t-shirt and no muzzle, all that intensity focused solely on Johnny.

“Well… at least c’mere then, eh?”

And Saint fucking prowls across the den. But they don’t stop at the edge of the couch where Johnny’s reclining. They continue onto the cushions. First a knee, making the cushion dip sharply with their weight. Then planting a hand by Johnny’s head on the back of the couch, practically climbing over him.

It hits Johnny then. Saint’s scent, still diluted by a low-level neutralizer, but still theirs and still intense. And he doesn’t know why, knows better than to lead a predator, but Johnny scoots back, trying to maintain the sliver of space between them. Overwhelmed.

But for once, Saint doesn’t pull away or politely deescalate. They pursue until Johnny’s stopped by the arm of the couch against his shoulders and Saint’s hovering over them.

“That pup didn’t know you’re mine,” the rumble finally. “Do you?”

“‘Course,” Johnny answers instantly.

They meet his eyes, and Johnny realizes they’ve caught on to his efforts. Maybe knew from the start.

Embarrassed heat sears his cheeks, ears, and neck.

“‘M sorry,” he whispers, the words like ash in his mouth.

Saint shakes their head but it’s not a rejection. They tilt their head, rub their cheek firm but gentle against his. They’re… they’re scenting him.

Johnny reciprocates enthusiastically and earns a pleased purr that vibrates all the insecurities right out of his skull.

“Mine,” Saint churrs. “Omega.”

“Aye, Alpha.”

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Happy Year of the Dragon!

[noxemma]

First comes love a kid(napping), then comes a marriage ... Yeah, they're definitely doing things in the wrong order, but maybe, if they're lucky, they can figure out how to reverse their way into something real.

Parts 1&2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 |

———

Okay, not sure how much I actually like this part or not but I’m kind of over fighting it (bc I have ideas for the next part) so hopefully it’s good for y’all

——— Even with Dean insisting they stick as close to the messy truth as possible, it's almost too easy to fabricate their fictional relationship. They decide that Dean had been waiting at the corner for Sam when he'd seen Jack looking very confused and offered to give him directions. Cas had stumbled upon them as Jack was leaning into the open door to see the map Dean has pulled up, but mistook Dean for a would-be kidnapper. After yanking Jack away, Cas had given Dean a scathing tongue-lashing only to be corrected by Jack and Sam, who'd been asking Cas a question after class. At the defense of both his son and trusted student, Cas had realized his mistake and apologized to Dean. Then, feeling bad for assuming the worst of Dean, Cas had offered to buy him dinner and Dean has accepted. Given the chance to start over, Dean and Cas hit things off. They'd been dating for over a year before Dean had proposed to both Jack and Cas over his famous homemade burgers and pie just a few days before coming to the wedding.

It's a good story. So good that Dean half wants to believe it himself. And the craziest part is that it just might work. Cas doesn't have social media at all, and Dean only uses his to post pictures of the cars he's restored or currently working on. No one would question why Jack hadn't mentioned Dean because no one, aside from Cas' brother Gabriel, had ever met or interacted with Jack. And they'd agreed to tell Gabriel that they'd been keeping the relationship on the down low because Sam was Cas' student. Gabriel apparently lived for juicy gossip so that tidbit plus the knowledge that their engagement was a ruse to make Cas’ parents lay off the custody concerns would probably keep him off their backs, at least according to Cas.

"Okay, I think we've got the backstory down pat," Dean says, pasting on a mask of a smile as he faces the last elephant in the room. "Now, the only thing we have to go over is, um, believable details." "What do you mean?" Cas asks, head tilting adorably again.

"Well, uh. Like ..." Dean tries to think of something that won't be nearly as embarrassing or suggestive as what he's thinking, "Oh, okay. Well, I saw you have some tattoos. I do too. I have an anti-possession sigil here on my chest, I have Baby's grill on the back of my shoulder, a whole mess of less meaningful stuff on my arm, except for the baseball cap. That one is for Bobby. Oh, and the Superman and Batman one's in there are for me and Sam. Long story that involves pretending we were superheroes, broken arms, and taking Sam to the ER on the handlebars of my bike. And I want to get more." Cas' eyes trail across his clothed chest like he can see the ink underneath and heat suffuses Dean's cheeks.

Fuck! I really need my body to stop doing this every time he looks at me for more than five consecutive seconds. Although maybe people will actually believe we're in love if he keeps making me blush so easily, Dean thinks.

"Hmmm, I think I understand what you mean," Cas hums, not helping Dean's blush go away at all, "There are certain things that people who have been intimate with each other would know, such as the placement and meaning of tattoos."

"Yeah," Dean manages to choke out, because, Jesus, Cas was really staring at him, and he was about one minute from squirming in his seat like a horny teenager under the attention. "Something like that."

"I have some lines of Enochian across my ribs. It's an ancient, dead language that some scholars have hypothesized was the language of angels," Dean shoots Cas a grateful look for explaining right away so he doesn't feel stupid for having to ask. "The only other tattoos I have are a pair of wings that start at between my shoulder blades and spread down the back of each arm. I admit that I have been considering getting another one or two, but finding the time is challenging. I'd love to see yours at some point, if you don't mind of course."

"Fuck no, I don't mind!" Dean blurts a little too eagerly and he forces himself to take a breath before continuing, "And, if you're willing, I'd love to see yours too. Those wings sound amazing." "Of course. I'm very proud of them," Cas replies with a little nod, fingers fiddling with holes in the cuffs of his hoodie.

Silence settles between them for a few seconds as the sounds of Ramblin' Man fade, replaced briefly by a hum marking the end of the cassette. Dean hits the eject button but doesn't replace it. "I probably should have asked this sooner, and I know you agreed to this, but I would never want to assume-" "Just spit it out, Cas. Contrary to what my brother might think, I'm actually pretty damn hard to offend," Dean teases, trying to ease the obvious anxious cloud beginning to coalesce in the passenger seat. "You are interested in men, right? And single? I mean I was just thinking that, well, we'll have to act like we're in love, like we're engaged, which will probably require at the very least hand holding and- What exactly about that is so funny?" Dean can't help it. It's nearing one in the morning and he's too tired from driving almost six hours straight with only piss breaks to keep from cracking up at the hilarity that is Cas asking his relationship status and sexual orientation this far in. "You are, man," Dean wheezes, wiping tears from his eyes as he manages to regain control of himself. "We've already thought up a whole backstory and driven several hundred miles and now you're asking me if I even like dick? You have to admit it pretty damn funny." Cas’ face is serious and unmoving when Dean sneaks a peek at him, but then he hears the softest snort and he cracks up all over again, laughing so hard his stomach aches when Cas finally does join in. "So? Are you? 'Into dick'?" Cas asks after they're both mostly recovered, though his use of air quotes almost sets Dean off again.

"Yeah. Though I’m not strictly into sick. I'm bi. Although, I've never been in a serious relationship with a guy before so this will all still be kind of new to me."

"If it makes you feel better, neither have I," Cas admits. Instinct has Dean opening his mouth to make some joke about how someone as gorgeous as Cas had to have people lining up around the block to date him but the streetlights whizzing by illuminate a faraway look in Cas' eyes, a type of longing Dean could never put a name to but knows intimately. "We'll figure it out together," he offers instead, daring to reach his hand out to give Cas' a squeeze. "I'm sure we will," Cas murmurs and Dean can hear the slight smile as he flips his hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing back. "Hmm. I suppose we should talk about PDA. I'm just along for the ride here, so whatever you want to do, I'm down for," Dean offers, probably a touch to enthusiastically but he bats the worry away, focusing instead on the heat of Cas' palm against his. Cas seems to ponder his statement, absently starting to rub his thumb across Dean's wrist and up the side of his thumb as he thinks. Dean damn near melts at the touch. It's so gentle and sweet and weirdly intimate and those are things he hasn't had in a long while.

He hadn't had much time to date on the road, plus John would probably have killed him if he'd found him fooling around with another guy, and then he'd been busy trying to raise Sam. He'd been content with one-night stands and a little fun every now and again, but now he wanted more. He just didn't know how to find it or worse, how to ask for it.

Maybe that's why I want to do this so bad, why I suggested being fiancés in the first place. Maybe this is as close as I'll get to the real thing.

"Hmm. I didn't really think about public displays of affection. My family has never been big on them; Gabriel of course is the exception as he is for many things. Plus, as I mentioned earlier, they are extremely religious and, no matter how much I disagree with them, I don't really want to antagonize them by throwing my queerness in their faces." "Noted. Do not make out sloppily in front of the parents no matter how funny it would be."

"Dean!" Cas lets out an exasperated sigh and Dean just knows he's rolling his eyes. "Sorry. Jokes aside, you want minimal PDA. Is like, hugging and holding hands, okay?" Dean asks because he has to know. He prays that Cas says yes, that he will have an excuse to touch and be touched like this again. "Yes, that's fine. And I'm sure that we'll have to kiss at some point to really sell the fake relationship to Gabriel ..." Cas trails off. His free hand comes up to his face and his fingertips ghost over his lips.

Is he thinking about kissing me? Dean wonders, his heart picking up pace as he definitely thinks about Cas and how his full lips might feel. "I'm sure I would survive having to kiss you," Dean whispers. He means for it to come out as a joke, something to jolt them both out of the weird tension that has begun building and winding between them, skittering back and forth across their connected hands.

But it doesn't come out sounding like a joke at all. At least not to Dean's ears. No, to Dean it sounds exactly like what it is: a lie.

Dean is saved from however Cas was going to respond to that by the thwak thwak thwak of Baby's wheels hitting the rumble strip and he jerks his gaze and the wheel away from Cas' profil back towards the center of the road. "Are you okay, Dean?" Cas blurts, concern clear and genuine. "Yeah, yeah. Uh, sorry about that. I gotta put in another tape so I don't fall asleep or start hallucinating sheep on the road or something,” Dean spews.

The rest of the drive is relatively silent, though, to Dean’s utter shock, it's not uncomfortable. Probably because Cas keeps his hand in Dean's but he's not going to question it, not when he's fighting to keep his eyes open.

It's near three in the morning when Cas finally gives the last direction and they pull up to the fanciest hotel Dean has ever seen.

He drops Cas off to get checked in while he hunts down a parking spot in the hotel garage.

It isn’t until opens the back to get their luggage that he realizes his mistake.

He’s so used to traveling light with Sam that he forgot just how much luggage there could be.

He pulls out Cas' rolling bag, determined that it should come in. He also grabs Cas' wedding gift, just because the large wrapped box would probably draw the wrong kind of attention and he didn't want to risk it no matter how much security the swanky hotel had.

Tucking the box under one arm and gripping Cas' bag with his hand left him with one free hand to choose between Cas' briefcase, his duffle, the suits, or the boxes of their fancy shoes that Cas had also purchased at Kendricks. Dean sighs, knowing there is really only one choice, and fumbles with his free hand to wrestle out the small bag that has his toiletries. He shoves it in his pants pocket before gently sliding out the suits, folding them gently over his arm so they wrinkle as little as possible and then reaching in to clutch Cas' briefcase in his fingers. He's pretty sure he looks like some kind of urban scarecrow as he makes his way out of the parking garage and into the hotel, but he tries not to let it bother him.

The hotel is so big and confusing that he gets lost a few times before being pointed in the right direction by a tattoo shop that's just closing down for the night.

"Gotta love Vegas. This is the real city that never sleeps," he mutters blearily before perking up when he finally spots Cas standing by a counter. Cas is fuming when Dean comes to a stop next to him, whisper-shouting into his phone before slamming it on the counter and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Wha's wrong, Cas?" "My idiot brother, is what's wrong," Cas groans. Dean must look super pathetic as he blinks stupidly at Cas because he takes pity on him and elaborates. "He didn't think I was actually bringing a plus one, so he only booked me for a single room."

"O-" Dean yawns so wide that he thinks he hears his jaw pop, "Kay. So, what's the problem?"

"There's only one bed, Dean," Cas splutters

“Cas, babe. That's not a bad thing." "It's not?" Cas asks and Dean doesn't see the pink that begins to emerge the other man’s face as he fails to stifle another yawn. "No, if anything it'll, it'll just solidify our story." "Oh, right. Our story."

Dean frowns at the way Cas' shoulders droop but he doesn't have enough brain cells to process the conundrum of Cas being upset at having to share a bed, then upset that they're only sharing the bed to further the plot of their fake relationship. Dean blinks again and when he opens his eyes Cas is standing in front of a door, wedding present now under one of his arms as the other swipes the plastic card to admit them into the suite.

The room is huge compared to the dinky motels he and Sam grew up in. Dean hangs the suits up in the closet before really taking the time to admire the space.

"Damn. This place is nice," Dean says to no one in particular.

"It should be for what Gabriel is paying for it," Cas mutters, hefting his bag onto a chair and digging through it for something.

Dean leaves him to it, turning to snag the remote off a desk and turn on the giant TV positioned perfectly in front of the bed. He flips through channels until he hits on Forensic Files. It was stupid that the grainy show gave him comfort in an area he felt so out of place in. Every dingy hotel or moral that has a TV got Forensic Files and too many sleepless nights with it being the only thing to keep him company as he watched over Sam and waited for their Dad to wander back from the bar had made it feel like home. Dean allows himself to flop stomach first onto the mattress, not even trying to hold back the moan that escapes at its plushness. Cas says something too him and he grunts in affirmation, but he has no clue what Cas said, too busy enjoying the deep cushion of the mattress and being lulled to sleep by the rerun on the screen.

He almost thinks it's a dream when a new noise causes him to turn his head and he sees Cas exit the bathroom, dark hair spilling droplets of water down his bare chest, flannel pants slung low on his hips giving Dean a perfect view. His eyes glide greedily over the lines of inked writing placed just across the lower left side of his ribs, which naturally draws Dean's attention to sharp hip bones and the hint of a happy trail.

All his blood rushes south and Dean drops his face into the mattress, thankful that it can hide his hard on

"Dean?" Cas whispers. "'m awake, just restin' m'eyes," Dean mumbles through the comforter. "Oh, well, I'm done in the bathroom if you need to use it." Dean makes an ambiguous noise, strategically waiting until he hears Cas move toward the head of the bed before he rolls off and makes as fast a beeline for the bathroom as he can without being suspicious.

Once he's safe inside with the door locked, Dean contemplates his options. Which is to say, he can walk back out with a boner, or he can take a cold shower because he sure as hell isn't jacking off with Cas on the bed just beyond the door.

He sighs and turns the shower on to cold. He shucks his clothes quickly and forces himself under the frigid spray before he can chicken out, cussing and shivering the whole time.

He turns the spray to warm once he's flaccid again and he is finally able to appreciate the luxury of the rain shower head.

Dean's so relaxed by the time he finally turns off the water that it isn't until he's stepping onto the tiled bathroom floor and wrapping a towel around his waist that he realizes his predicament.

"Son of a bitch!" "Dean? Is everything okay?" Cas calls with sleepy concern, the sound getting loud enough that Dean knows he must be waiting just on the other side of the door for Deans reply. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm- Well ... no. I uh. Well, we had so many bags and things and I figured your stuff and the suits were more important and-" Dean cuts his babbling off and forces himself to get to the point. "I left my bag in the car, and I don't have anything to change into."

There is silence for a moment and Dean's stomach clenches. Then Dean hears Cas going deeper into the room before returning again. The door opens and his hand appears holding a bundle of fabric.

"Cas, what-?"

"I'm a bit of an anxious packer so I always have a spare set of everything. These should do for tonight and we can get your bag in the morning. And before you argue, we're already sharing a bed so what's sharing clothes. Just think of it as getting into character for being fake fiancés."

Dean can't really argue against that so he accepts the clothing and gently shuts the door.

It turns out that Cas had handed him some grey sweats and a pair of neon orange boxer briefs. He tries not to think about Cas wearing them as he pulls them on but fails miserably and he's half hard by the time he yanks on the sweats. They're a little short and a little snug but way better than having to pull on his dirty clothes or sleep in the towel, no matter how plush it is. He fishes the toiletry bag out of his discarded jeans and brushes his teeth longer and more forcefully than normal as he tries to will his dick to stand down metaphorically and literally. Finally, he's as ready as he can be and he slips out of the bathroom into dimly lit room. Turns out Dean didn't need to worry at all because Cas is passed out on the left side of the bed. He must have nodded off waiting for Dean because he's sitting against the headboard with his head flopped onto his shoulder, a small trickle of drool crusting as it dried on his chin. He looks so adorable and it reminds Dean of when Sam would fall asleep studying. Only Dean's heart didn't do an entire acrobatics routine at the sight of a drooling Sam.

"Cas, sweetheart," Dean breathes, "Can we get you under the blankets?" Cas groans and mutters something unintelligible without opening his eyes or moving an inch. Dean chuckles and starts pulling the blanket out, managing to get him tucked under the sheets and comforter in a few minutes. Once he's under the blanket Cas shimmies himself down to snuggle into the pillows. Dean takes one more moment to admire him before he turns out the side light and slides in on his own side.

His eyes feel like they’re holding the world but he manages a brief, mostly coherent text to Sam.

Dean: Made it to hotel ok. How as Jack?

Sam likes his message and it's all Dean can do to keep his eyes open until the blinking dots turn into text.

Sam: Jack and I are great. He really is a good kid, super smart and kind. Dean: Course he is. Well call and chek in in the AM

Dean doesn't wait for Sam's reply, just slips the phone back onto the nightstand and waits for his usual struggle to fall asleep, bracing himself for it to be worse because he's in a new place on top of sleeping in the same bed as someone.

He wouldn't necessarily label himself as an insomniac, he just happens to usually only get between four and six hours of sleep. Probably shoulda warned Cas about that. Should ask him if he's a morning or night person. And if he's a heavy sleeper or if the TV will wake him up. Should ask him if he likes coffee or... Dean falls asleep making a list of all the things he wants to know about Cas.

---

Something wakes Dean, but he can't pinpoint exactly what it is and then he forgets to look for it because the pillow in his arms is warm, and soft and smells like heaven.

Dean keeps his eyes closed as he wiggles closer to the pillow, breathing in deeply in hopes of drowning in the clean yet somehow spicy smell.

Then the pillow moves, pressing back closer into his chest and Dean realizes that somehow in the night he'd ended up spooning Cas.

And now he was stuck. Frozen with one of his arms bent beneath his head while the other was draped across Cas' torso, fingers brushing just above his belly button, his nose ghosting the inked ridge of Cas' shoulder, and his hips and cock flush against the curve of Cas' ass. Dean slams his eyes shut again as if not seeing will somehow magically take his erection away or keep Cas from waking up to find that Dean had turned into a handsy creep during the night.

Fuck. Okay, don't panic, let’s start by just slowly scooch-

"Holy shit balls, he’s real!"

Dean cracks his eyes a sliver and searches for the source of the voice. He sees a man shorter than Cas with shoulder length dirty blonde hair, holding a phone above him and, presumably, snapping pictures of him doing his best impression of an octopus.

"Honest to god, I was eighty seven percent sure that Cas had made you up,” the voice appears to mutter to itself. “Okay, one for evidence, one for the baby book, and one for blackmail.” Dean is about to open his mouth and tell this weirdo to get lost or get wrecked when he feels Cas move, rearranging the tiniest bit so he can maneuver his head up to pin the man with what Dean assumes is a death glare by how the guy freezes in place. "Gabriel, I swear, if you wake him,” Cas growls. The sound is so deep and vicious and protective that Dean can feel the reverberations of it in his own chest.

“Castiel, is that any way to talk to your favorite brother?” Gabriel replies, though his voice is softer. “I was coming to pre game brunch but it looks like you actually slept for once. Should I be worried you’re dying?”

“No,” Cas hisses, irritated voice barely above a whisper. “I just sleep better with Dean. Now, get out before I make you!”

“And how do you plan on doing that my dear, baby brother? You going to sic your beefcake here on me?”

“Worse. I will revoke all fun uncle privileges and I will move into a shitty apartment where Jack will be miserable and you’ll have to sleep on the couch when you visit.”

Gabriel gasps like he’s really been scandalized, and Dean can hear his footsteps retreating.

“The photos Gabriel, I want them-”

Dean is sure that Cas meant to say he wanted them deleted or gone but Gabriel interrupts before Cas can finish the command.

“No problemo, boss. Done! Cute pics of a tatted hunk wrapped around you signed, sealed, and delivered to your phone. Don’t be late for brunch! If you leave me alone too long unsupervised I may just lose my senses and murder a few of our relatives and then you’ll have to bail me out of jail.”

“Get. Out,” Cas snarls and Dean hears something soft hit the wall in Gabriel’s general direction before the door clicks open then shut.

“Dude, your brother is weird,” Dean whispers before he does something selfish like pretend he’s still asleep and continue to subject Cas to his morning wood. He pulls away from Cas but stops when Cas’ hand clamps around the one Dean had slung around his waist.

“Wait, please don’t- You don’t have to-,” Cas starts before giving up and releasing Dean’s hand. “I’m sorry Gabriel woke you. I get the feeling that, like me, you don’t sleep much.”

“Borderline-insomniacs of a feather?” Dean quips to cover the way he immediately halts the retreat he never wanted to initiate.

Dean can’t breathe when he feels Cas laugh, still close enough that the sound echoes across his body as well, warm and tingly and so alive.

“Is- Are you- Do you mind this?” Cas asks, voice quiet and unsure and nothing like the confident growl it had been earlier.

“Do I mind? Cas, I should probably be asking you that since it wasn’t your dick jabbing into my backside this morning. I’m sorry for that by the way, but that should have been a pretty clear indication that I didn’t mind at all and maybe even enjoyed cuddling a little too much.”

“There’s really nothing to apologize for, Dean; it’s a natural response. But responding naturally to stimuli is not the same thing as wanting or enjoying it, so I just wanted to make sure.”

Dean didn’t know how to respond to that and the implication he could clearly read in between Cas’ words. Rage boiled in his veins at the idea that someone might have touched Cas, or worse, without his consent and he nearly drew blood with how tightly he was biting down on his lip.

“I didn’t mind, by the way, so please don’t think that you, that you somehow took advantage of me or something. I wasn’t lying when I told Gabriel I slept better with you here. This is probably the first time in over a month I’ve gotten over five consecutive hours of sleep,” Cas confesses.

“Five? What time is it?”

“It’s around …” Cas checks his phone on the nightstand, “Nine-thirty.”

“Damn. That’s almost unheard of for me. Sam would probably ask if I’m dying too,” Dean admits.

They go silent, content to let each other steal a few more selfish moments in bed. Finally though, Cas let’s out a groan and rolls away from Dean, huffing something about stupid brunches under his breath.

Dean doesn’t have time to be devastated by the loss because Cas immediately sits up and stretched his arms, unintentionally giving Dean a glorious and unobstructed view of the magnificent wings decorating his shoulders and arms.

He can’t help himself, reaching out and lightly stroking one of the photorealistic feathers, awe and wonder possessing him to caress and admire.

Cas back muscle ripples beneath the touch and he turns his head slowly to look over his shoulder. His eyes latch onto Dean’s fingers, still just brushing his skin as if Cas is some holy figure he shouldn’t be daring to touch, tracing the trail of his arm all the way up to his face.

Blue eyes ensnare Dean and he wouldn’t be able to look away even if he wanted to. Something taut and coiled begins to warm between them, getting so hot it scorches the air from Dean’s lungs and strips him of all rational thought.

He’s just about to lean forward and do something reckless like place a kiss on one of those magnificent feathers while maintaining direct eye contact when Cas’ phone starts ringing, startling them both away to their respective edges of the bed.

———

@colorlessjay @destielfangirl24

[traumagenic-positivity]

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