#spn ficlet

[casdeans-pie]

Dean asks Cas to teach him Enochian.

So Cas teaches him Enochian.

They sit together in the bunker - chairs next to each other, elbow to elbow, books spread out around them, and Dean learns the language of the Angels from his own.

Dean makes quips about Cas being his teacher, and offhandedly asks what he can possibly do to get extra credit.... Cas looks at him with complete and utter incomprehension while Dean has an internal meltdown at how that came out without meaning it to.

Dean's actually very focused when he has a goal - so he studies and he reads and he's genuinely a good student. He practices his pronunciation (which Cas has said 'is fine' but said it with the expression of someone in pain, so he knows it sucks) while he's cooking or in the shower, and Sam remarks more than once how Dean could have gone to college.

Dean still gets frustrated when he can't remember a certain word too many times, or can't wrap his head around a specific turn of phrase, but he also kind of loves it when he says something and Cas smiles with amusement at what he's said. It dawns on him that he's the one speaking strangely in Cas's language now, instead of the other way around.

The first time Dean speaks in almost fluent conversational Enochian he is so proud and pleased but Cas looks like hes going to throw up, and Dean thinks he must have got something wrong again. He doesn't know that Cas is having to physically hold himself back from immediately exiting his vessel and shattering every window in Lebanon with the force of his joy.

#Im so sad I want to read this as a fic does it already exist?? link meeee #destiel #destiel ficlet #deancas #flustered!cas my beloved #pie's projects #spn ficlet #destiel headcanon #destiel fanfiction

[hauntedpearl]

it's 0:03 on the 24th of january, 2003 and dean is 24 years old. he's lonely and scared and his dad hasn't seen him in person in over nine months. he doesn't really know what to do. he wanders the continent waiting for his father to text him the details of a hunt (john doesn't even bother calling anymore) and when he does, dean goes. he finds something to put his fist through. finds somewhere to kill his liver. finds someone to keep him warm at night. it's all very tideous and empty and he doesn't know how long he's supposed to sustain himself like this.

dean's 24, and his dad doesn't call on his birthday. his brother doesn't either. there was a time when sam would pretend to be asleep, but he'd really be hiding under the covers with candy he bought with change he'd pilfered (badly) from dean's pockets, waiting for the clock to strike midnight so he could "surprise" dean. but that was when dean was 8, 10, 12. dean's 24 now, and his brother doesn't give a shit.

the world feels like it's moving fast when you're 24. you think you've seen all you can already, think you've met everyone you're ever going to meet. wherever you are, whatever you're doing, it feels like that's all there is. forever.

dean's 24, and he's shit faced in a podunk town somewhere in middle america with six bucks to his name and a colt under his jacket.

it's a bleak fucking forever, and he isn't sure what he's supposed to do about it. there's that feeling in his chest like some sonofabitch has its claws stuck in there. he can't breathe. he can't think. he's scared, kind of, but he doesn't even know what he's scared of.

it's a shitty fucking feeling.

dean's 24, and he really, really just wants his mom. his family. he wants a degree, and he wants to see the proud smile on mary's face — lined, it would be lined, because dean's 24 now — when she hangs it up in the foyer. he wants —

well. whatever. it doesn't matter. dean's 24. and alone. and he thinks that's all he's ever going to be.

but dean's only 24, and there's a lot he doesn't know.

~

it's 00:03 on the 24th of january, 2023 and dean winchester is 44 years old.

he's putting on a show of being annoyed at being woken up at midnight, grumbling and grouching, but really, he's preening under all the attention.

his house — and he has a house — is a mess. he's been corralled onto the couch by jody's girls who crowd around him as he waits for the birthday cake — or pie, he isn't sure yet — to arrive. they joke over his head like he there isn't six feet and change of person between them, and it makes him want to smile.

dean's 44, and his life is slow, and quiet. there's a ring on his left hand and no gun under his pillow. the only time he wields a knife these days is when he's cooking for his family. his hair is more salt than it is pepper, and his knees hurt when he bends them. he's got glasses and hearing aids and he's traded in his heeled boots for orthopedic shoes.

all this is not forever, not really, but he likes whatever it is. there's this feeling in his chest, like maybe an angel's pressed a palm to it and is blessing him. like sunshine. or a good meal. or the sound of his family being dorky in the room over. he's happy, is the thing. he's so damn happy.

dean's 44. he's got an angel for a husband and a band of almost-kids he loves so much he doesn't know what to do with it. his mother's here, too. his mother's here. her face is lined— just like his, because dean's 44 now — and when she smiles, it feels like the world is sighing. like it'll be okay.

it's a good feeling.

it's the 24th of january, 2023, and it is a birthday pie. there's a candle that he blows, and the noise following that is loud enough that he almost worries about the neighbours.

"happy birthday, dean!" they all say — mother, brother, son, husband, and the girls. his family.

cas— his cas, who's here, he's here—holds dean's face in his hands, kisses his forehead.

"i love you," he says. "you, too. always," dean replies.

dean's 44, and his life is good. it's more than good. there's so much he doesn't know, but he's not too worried about all that, because he's not alone.

life happens. they'll deal.

#doe's writing #HERE HAVE A SMALL SOFT LIL FICLET I WROTE JUST NOW #I'm sorry i didn't plan a proper fic but you know #dean is HAPPY!!!! #THAT'S SLL YOU NEED TO KNOW!!! #dean is so happy!!! <33333 #spn ficlet #dean's 44th birthday! #deansbirthdaybash

[naughtystiel]

Dean stared at the man in front of him who was waving his hands around, yelling some gibberish that he couldn’t understand. Clearly, the stranger was annoyed, no, that was an understatement. He was fuming, kicking a tyre of a car that was parked near Dean’s Chevy Impala. As he unlocked the door to his Baby, he felt a familiar breeze and a whooshing sound behind him.

“Heya, Cas.” he said without turning back, but instead of getting in the car, he rested his arms on the roof and drummed his fingers.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel greeted and tilted his head, following Dean’s gaze that was focused on the man in front of them.

“Yanno, not that it’s any of my business, but I kinda wish I knew what he was saying.”

Castiel stepped closer to him and Dean could feel the press of his body against his own. Almost as if he tried to mirror Dean, he leaned his elbows on the roof, resting his chin on his palm. “You could have just asked, Dean.”

READ THE REST HERE

#spn crack #slavicnatural #spn #spn ficlet #spn fic #supernatural #supernatural ficlet #supernatural fic #destiel #deancas #vince writes #vin.txt #vmart

[mrcowboydeanwinchester]

Today has been surprisingly kind to him.

Is what he would have thought on his birthday maybe this time twenty years ago. Through an onslaught of worn and fraying days spent decidedly alone, his birthday meant a call from Bobby, an excuse to stay somewhere nicer for the night, a chance to talk his way into some free drinks.

The world was a little kinder, just for a day.

Now, today has been kind to him, but tomorrow will be equally so. And the next tomorrow, and the next, and the next.

He woke up with one arm wrapped around Cas, warm and close and safe, just as he did yesterday and just as he will tomorrow. He swatted his family away from his cooking in the kitchen, pie-patterned apron wrapped around his soft middle, just as he did yesterday and just as he will tomorrow. He kissed Cas and hugged Sam and ruffled Jack’s hair, just as he did yesterday and just as he will tomorrow, and today was just a day like any other except they were all wearing cowboy party hats and singing happy birthday out of key.

He feels a bit like he’s unlocked the afterword, the soft ‘happily ever after’ every show and book seems to feature these days. Now, he’s in the years between the last sentence of the last chapter and the first of the epilogue; the gooey golden time where the narrative loosens.

Like he has all the time in the world.

44.

Older than he expected, and yet further from death than he’s ever been before.

And time is being kind to him.

#i wrote most of this last year but i've edited it and actually. now i'm very very emotional again #dean winchester #deansbirthdaybash #spn ficlet #spn fic #ola writes #ola originals

[gentlemancowboy]

A little ficlet for @sketchbookdean on his birthday, with a very loose interpretation of the prompt “hands” ♡

Dean picked up on it a while ago, how Cas only healed him through touch. Or maybe more importantly, how he didn’t with anyone else.

Dean thought to ask Cas about it the first time it happened—after he’d come to the initial realization—but the werewolf they’d been hunting had thrown him around a little too much, and he was so lightheaded and dizzy that when Cas rushed over and placed a comforting hand on his arm, he forgot to mention it.

The time after that was just a paper cut—truly the smallest injury he’s ever sustained—but Cas insisted on healing it and didn’t wait for Dean to respond as he gently grasped his ring finger. Sam had been sitting across the library from them, head buried in a book, but Dean thought it best to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t want to embarrass Cas.

The third time—Dean can’t even remember how he’d been injured—but he remembers everything after. He remembers how Cas grabbed his face in his hands and asked him if he was alright. He remembers saying something about his head hurting, or maybe it was his back or his chest. Doesn’t matter. It had probably been a little bit of everything. He remembers looking into Cas’s eyes, and seeing a look of concern mixed with something else—something yet unspoken—that made Dean’s heart skip a beat. He remembers Cas continuing to cradle his face as Grace began to spread through his body. He remembers leaning into Cas’s touch, feeling the pressure of his palms and fingertips, rough yet warm against his cheeks. He remembers his heart beating so rapidly, he thought it might burst from his chest. And he remembers how after he’d been healed—when he felt Cas’s hands slowly slip away—he remembers being left with a feeling of profound emptiness, and a sudden, overwhelming urge to walk into oncoming traffic, just so Cas could heal him again.

Dean decided it wasn’t worth mentioning after that.

#happy birthday Elliot! hope you have a great rest of your day #elliots26dude #spn #destiel #spn ficlet #destiel ficlet #my writing #emeraldcas #spxcekya #anztag #deancaskiss #usermoogs #casblackfeathers

[rouge-and-riddles]

Jupernatural Week Day 3: Sustenance (Food, Warmth, Understanding)

@jupernaturalweek

Miriam Campbell is an awful cook. Always has been.

When she marries, she decides to learn. She becomes the all-american housewife that her mother and cousins used to make fun of at Shabbos dinner. She cooks pot roasts and casseroles, bakes chocolate chip cookies.

When her son is born, she still can't figure out a decent apple pie to save her own ass. So when she buys one from the store, and it quickly becomes his favourite, she decides not to learn. Let the grocery store deal with the difference between beans and specialty pie weights.

Mary Winchester dies. She bleeds. She burns. It is slow. It is agonizing. It is in her mind, her own damn fault.

More than three decades later, she is awake. She feels the air on her face, it's cold and she's only in her nightgown.

Dean Winchester, her son who is not her son (her son is four, this is a different creature entirely) can cook. She watches him in the bunker kitchen, he makes casseroles and pot roasts, but also noodle kugel and brisket. Makes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (always jelly, never jam) for Castiel.

He feeds his family. Makes them whole. Dean gives the people who love him a sign that he loves them too.

When he finally works up the courage to present his new apple pie recipe at family dinner, he grins with that silly little smile, just a dash too devil-may-care, it keeps people from taking him too seriously.

The family seems to have accepted her among them, her sons that are not her sons, Dean's angel (partner??), their child too, with his sweet smile and pretty eyes.

Miriam Campbell takes a bite of her son's pie, and the lump in her throat finally starts to dissolve.

#jupernatural #jupernatural week #mary winchester #supernatural #spn #spn ficlet #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #jack kline #destiel

[zacharyleigh316]

A Friend to Bee

Suptober Prompt: Day 7 - Black Cat | A Friend to Bee | 2.8K | Teen and Up | Read on Ao3 (or below cut)

Dean befriends a neighborhood cat, and, against all odds, it might just bring luck his way...

“Achoo!”

As if on cue, the second Dean stepped over the threshold to his home, he sneezed, groaning at the way his eyes watered as a result. He quickly hung up his coat on the rack, and tossed his keys in the dish on the stand by the door, before fleeing into the kitchen, only to sneeze again. It was only a matter of time, Dean surmised, before his eyes burned, and he’d need to stubbornly fight the urge to rub them, as was his daily routine as of late—that, and popping allergy pills like candy. Pills of which he was currently out of, and thus doomed to suffer, slowly succumbing to his allergies.

Dean took his phone out and shot his brother a text, before setting out to put some leftover chicken and rice in a bowl. And, summoned by the prospect of food, the source of all of Dean’s current health problems—and well-being—jumped up onto the counter, signaled by another sneeze.

“You’re lucky you’re so friggin cute.” He muttered, putting the bowl down in front of the fur ball that could, quite possibly, be the death of him—if he couldn’t somehow find a way to manage his cat allergy.

It hadn’t been that long since they first encountered each other, Dean and his hairy, four-legged visitor—be it a miraculous act of fate or what have you—but it sure felt like forever, seeing as Dean hadn’t had a moment’s peace since.

Two weeks ago, on Dean’s way back home, he encountered the most unusual pair of blue eyes, that, upon further inspection, belonged to an even more unusually mannered black cat, perched perfectly poised atop the front steps to his home. He recalled how the eyes seemed to glow then, a trick of the lights Dean’s sure, but they drew him in nevertheless. Since then the cat has, beyond any feasible reason Dean could see, stuck around. Enough so that yes, he’s even begun to feed and water the damn thing—despite said allergy.

The little rascal didn’t seem too pressed to leave any time soon, and you could say that he even, perhaps, got used to having it around—not that he’d tell anyone that. He wasn’t sure who exactly owned his new friend, just that it had to be someone in the neighborhood, but sincerely hoped they wouldn’t mind how often he spoiled the guy’s pet.

Dean’s phone buzzed from where he left it on the countertop, and pulled himself from his reverie, reading the reply from his brother. 

<< hey sammy, were you able to pick me up some more of those allergy meds?

>> Yeah, they should be in the bathroom.

And then, a few seconds later, came another.

>> You know, you never told me why you needed them?

<< nunya

>> What?

<< sorry, let me rephrase that

<< nunya business

<< Wow, really mature Dean. I didn’t have to get them for you, but it sounded urgent, so I did.

<< The least you could do is tell me why. Or even how you ran out of the other bottle so quickly.

Dean sighed and looked over to the cat, who was now pinning him with its starling azure gaze, apparently finding him more interesting than finishing off the bowl of food.

“I dunno, what do you think? Should I tell Sam?” He asked, not really understanding why he thought the cat would answer, but directing the question toward it anyway.

Predictably, it just sat there and blinked at him.

Dean sighed again, deciding to just bite the bullet and tell his brother.

<< I maybe sorta got a cat?

>> You WHAT?!

>> Dean, you’re allergic to cats

<< uh yeah, Sammy, that’s why I needed the allergy meds duh

Dean let out a groan and pressed his forehead to the cool countertop, as his phone began to ring, Sam’s caller ID posted across the screen. He let it ring a few times before picking up.

“Heya brother-o-mine, shouldn’t you be working?”

“I’m on lunch break right now actually, Dean,” Sam whispered harshly into the receiver, straight to business as always, “what’s this about you getting a cat?”

“Well, it’s not technically mine. It just showed up one day, and won’t leave.”

“And you didn’t think to call authorities?”

“Authorities?” Dean snorted. “What am I going to do, Sam, get it arrested?” 

Dean could hear the eye roll through the phone. “I mean animal control, Dean. Or maybe even a vet?”

“Course I thought about doing that…”

“You can’t just steal a cat, it could belong to somebody. It could have a microchip or something. Maybe its owner is looking for it.” Sam sighed, and now it was Dean’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Dude, I’m not stupid, okay? ‘Sides, I didn’t steal it. It just showed up, and never left. I mean, the little guy comes and goes, but it always comes back and ends up staying for a few hours, before disappearing again.” He shrugged, despite his brother being unable to see it.

As if knowing it was being talked about, it padded over to Dean, and head butted the palm of his hand. Dean smiled, and ran his hand down the creature’s back, before letting out another sneeze.

“Ugh.”

“Yeah, sounds like a real healthy arrangement you’ve got there, Dean. Why do you even let it inside?” 

“That’s the strange thing, Sammy. I didn’t. It showed up on my doorstep, but I just let it be, and went inside. Don’t ask me how, but the damn thing is smart or something, and lets itself in. And out.”

“Uh-huh…” Sam trailed off, sounding skeptical.

Dean wouldn’t believe it either if he hadn’t witnessed it time and time again.

“I’m serious. I know it sounds crazy, but the cat is a friggin weirdo. I’ve tried to keep it out, but it always finds a way. Hence why now I just…let it do its thing.”

“Okay, well, even if what you’re saying is true, Dean, this isn’t sustainable. You need to find its owner, and tell them about their cat.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Now I’m serious, Dean. You can’t just keep going through allergy meds just because the cat likes to loiter.”

“Sure thing, whatever you say, mom. Don’t get your panties all in a twist, Samantha. I’ll take care of it.”

“I mean it, Dean.”

“And I promise, I’ll take care of it. Now get back to work, slacker. Don’t spend all of your lunch break talking to your big brother.” 

“Alright. Talk to you later. Love you, jerk.”

“You too. Love you, bitch.”

They hung up, and Dean put his phone back down onto the counter, turning his attention back toward the adorable, furry interloper, who was still staring unblinkingly at him.

“That was my baby brother, Sammy. He’s this big shot lawyer, and, don’t tell him this, but I’m a pretty proud big brother.” 

The cat meowed and tilted its head to the side, earning an amused chuckle from Dean.

“Can’t have his head grow bigger than it already is, y’know? Don’t know what’s in the water these days, but the kid’s huge, and I mean humongous.” He joked, shaking his head fondly.

“Anyway, Sam’s right. Not that I don’t enjoy the company, but you should probably get back to your owner, yeah? Got one of those, don’t you?”

Again the cat meowed, but Dean was, unfortunately, sorely lacking in the knowledge department for ‘how to translate cat language’. He watched as it went back to finish the food he’d set out, and chuckled, albeit a bit bitterly. 

“Yeah, I’d be bored of me too.” 

Letting the cat go about its business Dean pulled away from the kitchen island and sauntered into the bathroom. He figured that, in the meantime—or at least until he located the cat’s owner—it’d be wise to take some meds while it was here. Dean was rather fond of breathing, thank you very much. And the, however temporary, relief of itchiness was an additional perk. 

It was some time later that afternoon, Dean sat on the couch with the fur ball curled in his lap, when his phone buzzed with a text message. He leaned over to put his half finished beer down on the coffee table, and exchanged it for the phone, reading the text from Sam.

>> Have you tried following the cat when it leaves? Maybe you can do that.

Dean hummed thoughtfully, and looked down at the cat. He hadn’t tried that, no, but it wasn’t a bad idea actually. He’d have to try that next, though, if anybody in the neighborhood caught him following some dude’s cat to said dude’s house, he didn’t want to know what they would think of him. He’d rather sooner admit to being an avid fan of chick flicks than deal with the repercussions of being labeled a friggin creepy weirdo.

“What do you say to me taking you home this time?” He asked, raising a brow at the little shit still snoozing in his lap, who had the audacity to peel open one of its eyes, before opening the other and leveling Dean with a look that was oddly reminiscent of one of Sam’s bitch faces. 

Dean opened his mouth, a smart ass remark on the tip of his tongue, when the cat leaped off his lap and quietly padded over to the door, in lieu of responding, or well, as it’s response since it was an animal, and it couldn’t actually talk back—unless you counted the, albeit perfectly timed, meows it gave Dean sometimes.

With a groan, as his thirty-something almost forty-something body protested, he hefted himself off the couch and, against his better judgment, he followed the damn thing out his front door.

Thankfully his four legged guide was waiting for him, and even stopped every so often on the way to wherever the fuck, looking back to check if Dean was still behind, following. He couldn’t believe he was actually doing this, and that it was actually working. It certainly didn’t ease his anxiety, especially since he was completely in the dark as to where he was even being lead—to his death maybe—but of all panned out, maybe he’d bake his brother a pie or some shit. He’d see how he felt about it later.

Though Dean didn’t have to wait long to find out what his imminent death looked like, because after a ten minute or so walk down the street, the cat made its way up some steps to a rather unassuming house, much like his own—and everyone else’s in the neighborhood. This one was painted a pretty blue, nothing like the eyes of his new friend, but a softer, grayer shade.

On the door, as Dean approached, hung a gorgeous, decorative autumn wreath, with the words “Blessed Bee”—no that was not a typo, and to which Dean assumed was a pun referring to the little plastic bees dispersed within. Though, with an additional quick, cursory glance towards the house, the owner’s aesthetic was growing increasingly apparent, if not for the garden beds of flowers attached to each window sill, and the immaculately groomed bushes (hah) lining the front. 

Even the grass was a lively color, a rich, vibrant green, and neatly trimmed to boot. Dean couldn’t help the whispered, “Damn,” that slipped out in awe. This guy had some serious gardening chops, that Dean couldn’t help but be a little envious of. The only plant he could remember growing was a little succulent he nicked from the local supermarket for him and Sam when they were little, and he couldn’t tell you what became of it. 

The cat meowed, once again with the intention of pulling Dean from his reverie, and he, with a final resolve, reached up and knocked on the door. Though, nothing could have ever prepared him for what happened next.

The front door swung open, revealing possibly the hottest guy Dean has ever seen, looking all soft and—albeit artfully—rumpled, in a sweater and jeans, and holy fuck this dude’s eyes. If he thought the cat’s eye were an unusual shade of blue, they were nothing compared to this man’s, and if Dean didn’t say anything and just stood there frozen, gaping like a fish, being spotted and labeled as a creepy weirdo were the least of his worries.

“Uh…” he said, rather intelligently.

The man didn’t seem to mind, however, and just smiled, reaching down to pick up his cat, who was winding between his legs.

“You must be Bee’s new friend.”

Dean blinked, taking a moment to realize that, son of a bitch, the hot dude just spoke to him, and then another to realize that that is what he sounded like. Deep and gravelly, and god friggin’ dammit Dean was fucked. Truly and utterly fucked.

“Um…what?” 

Wow, nice going Dean, he mentally scolded himself.

As far as first impressions went, this was probably as worst as it could get. He’d spoken a total of three words to this strange (sexy) man, and they only seemed to feed the narrative of what a fool he was. He could flirt with women with the ease of driving his baby, no problem. But put a pretty guy, let alone a pretty guy with gorgeous blue eyes, in front of him and he was rendered speechless, dumber than a sack of potatoes, and probably as useful as one too. He was not good at this.

The man chuckled, and gestured to the cat in his arms, before giving who Dean knew now as Bee chin scritches. 

“My cat. She’s been telling me all about you.” 

“Oh, uh, all good things I hope?”

The man smiled again, and Dean felt his knees grow weak, like they could buckle at any moment, and he’d just melt into a puddle on this guy’s front steps.

“Hm, yes, I must thank you for taking good care of her. She likes it there very much.”

“Haha well, I’m glad? But, uh, about that…” Dean swallowed against the lump in his throat, and reached up to rub the back of his neck. 

“I’m actually allergic to cats.” 

“Oh.” 

Dean inwardly cursed as the man frowned, and furrowed his brows in concern. He looked down at Bee then, and gave her a disapproving stare.

“You didn’t tell me that.” He shook his head, and put her down, ushering her into the house. “Go on, shoo. We’ll discuss this later.”

They both watched her disappear around the corner, before the man turned back to Dean, now looking apologetic.

“My apologies, I didn’t realize you were allergic. Had I known, I wouldn’t have encouraged Bee to visit so often.”

“Don’t worry about it man, I just, uh, thought you should know, I guess? But really, ‘s’no big deal. I actually enjoyed the company.”

The guy smiled softly, and hummed. “That’s good then. I’m glad. She enjoyed the company too.”

“I’m Dean, by the way.”

“Castiel.” 

Dean nodded, feeling his cheeks heat the longer they stood there, just staring at one other. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and cursed himself again for his eternal awkwardness. 

“R-right, well…” he trailed off, not wanting to say goodbye just yet.

“Maybe next time you could come over too? If you, um, if you want. Bee knows where it is.”

Castiel beamed, and damn, if that wasn’t easily on Dean’s ever increasing list of favorite things about him.

“I’d like that very much, Dean.”

“Yeah? Awesome.” Dean grinned back, and then even wider when Castiel ducked his head bashfully.

Dean liked him so much already, it was wild. Even more wild that a black cat was beginning to be the luckiest thing that ever happened to him.

“See ya later, Cas?”

“Yes. And I’ll try to whip up something to help those allergies, if you’d like?”

“I have no idea what that means, but sure why not?” He shrugged with an easy smile, and started to back away, his eyes never leaving Cas’.

“Don’t worry, it’s not of import.” Cas dismissed with a wave of his hand. 

“Until we meet again, Dean.”

“Bye Cas.”

They waved their goodbyes, and Dean finally turned around to make his way back, but only after he may—or may not—have stumbled, earning another, rather amused, chuckle from Cas from behind him.

Dean laughed awkwardly, brushing off his totally-not-a-stumble, you know, as a man does, and raised his hand in one more final parting gesture, before hurrying off back home to bake that pie.

#supernatural #destiel #supernatural fic #destiel ficlet #dean winchester #castiel #deancas #sam winchester #ficlet #spn ficlet #alternate universe #spn au #witch castiel #suptober23 #suptober day 7 #black cat #the cat is cas' familiar #meet cute #getting together #first meeting #fluff #dean winchester's cat allergy #my work

[xx-blueboy-xx]

Day Three: Inspired | Suptobber 2023

CW: None!

Words: 997

The pencil scratched over the page, and Sam tilted his head at it - his brows creased and he groaned, grabbing his eraser and scrubbing it across the page with a vengeance. Nothing looked right. What was worse? He had a sketch-phase due tomorrow and he has nothing. He knows that he could just put some bullshit on the page and turn it in and when the final looked utterly different? Well, he could just make the excuse he changed ideas. But that isn;t how Sam Winchester does anything. He is an all or nothing kind guy. Sometimes his own integrity bothers him. But when you leave your hyper masculine and toxic family to go to an art school in California? You have to want to be better. To prove yourself. 

He sighs deeply and he presses his head to the back of the wall behind him. He is sitting inside of the library, one of his favorite places on campus to work. Not only is it always quiet, but the librarians love him and allow him to be here for hours. Even when sometimes it is technically ‘closed’. He also gets special access to study rooms should he want them. Being the ‘teacher’s pet’ pays well and he still doesn’t understand why his fellow students will dig at him for it. He looks around, deciding to begin watching people. 

Afterall, Sma has discovered there is no easier way to find a muse - than by simply looking at those around you. Especially on a college campus, where so many people from all kinds of walks of life could be passing by. The library was particularly dead this time of day, considering it was a late-friday night. His fellow students all loved to go to parties, that just wasn’t his scene. He chewed on the end of his pencil as he looked around, desperately searching for anyone. That’s when he saw him. Sam had to stop himself from gasping out in awe. Standing across the way was one of the most beautiful man he has ever seen, and he isn’t even sure why. Afterall, he wasn’t all that near what most people would call attractive, and by that, Sam means he wasn’t a Hollywood hunk. Yet, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. 

He was standing across the way, in front of the massive stained glass window that depicted an archangel of some kind in the rainbow glass. Oddly enough, he was practically posed in the same way as the saint behind him, completely covering the human parts - but instead of holding a lily a large lollipop was in his hand. The large-golden wings that spread from the image behind him almost looked as if they were his, spreading from his back. His golden-colored hair helped to make the illusion almost seamless. His eyes as moonlight and the bright lights of the library illuminated him made them look as if they were glowing. The whiskey color refracting the light in a million shades of orange and gold. 

There were distinct smile lines in his features, and he looked to be at least in his early thirties. He was wearing a strangely fancy outfit for a college campus, and Sam had to wonder who he was. Why he was here? He was wearing a loose, black-buttondown that had the collar unbuttoned, and it was tucked into pin-striped pants, a deep green color. His shoes were shining. 

Sam’s hand was moving before he could even realize it as he despret;ly began to sketch. It was messy and not his best work, but he recognized that the moment the man stepped away - there would be no hope in capturing this image again. He was already committing to memory the colors of his eyes and the wings. He looked up from his paper, and back at the man several times. Who oddly enough was just standing there, chewing on his lollipop. Which made his nose scrunch up. Who the hell bites into a lollipop? It seemed he was casually leaning against the glass, looking off at the bookshelf that was in front of him. 

Sam swallowed, as minutes began to pass by and the man hadn’t moved an inch, which he was grateful for: but it started to worry him. Then, as the last pencil stroke of his imperfect sketch (it looked better than expected whoever) went across the page, golden eyes fixated on him. It was matched with a wide-knowing grin. 

His face flushed red. 

Oh. He realized with pure embarrassment coursing through his body, the man had clearly known he was being watched. He had posed for Sam. The blonde didn’t approach him; he simply wiggled his fingers at him, before stuffing his hands into his pockets. He pulled something out. There had to be at least ten feet between them, but yet, the chocolate he tossed landed perfectly in the art student’s lap. Sam fumbled, feeling the flush in his features simply deepen. He nearly dropped the chocolate as he picked it up and out of his lap, he turned it over. Mind whirling. 

He looked up, only to realize the man was gone. Which was a bit of a shock, because he hadn’t seen nor heard him walk away. Sam was usually hyper aware of his surroundings. The second thing that shocked him was that the stained glass window he realized was depicting something entirely different. There was no archangel in it, but flowers and trees. A landscape. 

He recognized slowly that it had never been an archangel. 

A chill went down his spine and he swallowed. He glances down at his sketchbook staring at the angel he had drawn. He traced his fingers delicately over the dark-gray lines that made up the six-massive wings. Golden. Just like his eyes. 

Sam stumbled up and he stuffed everything into his bag, tossing it over his shoulder. 

The next day, he would chalk everything up to his lack of sleep. 

#suptober23 #spn ficlet #sam winchester #sabriel ficlet #sabriel #sam x gabriel #art-student sam #au #supernatrual ficlet #supernatrual #gabriel spn #fluff #|| this one is kinda late but shhhhhhh

[dykeydean]

The thing about birthdays is that they’re never all they’re cracked up to be.

Sure, when you’re a kid, you get so excited. You dream about the presents, and the cake, and the attention, and you’ll be just a little bit older. You’ll be grown up. Maybe you’ll be taller, maybe dad will love you a little more.

Dean learned to stop dreaming about all that about the day he turned 5.

By the time he hit 17, he wasn’t expecting much. Maybe a slap on the back, if he was lucky. Maybe Dad would give him a beer and call it a night.

But he’s never been very lucky.

The thing about turning 17 is that you’re so lonely. Most kids, they’re right on the cusp of adulthood, and it’s a little scary and a little exciting all wrapped up in one. They’re thinking about college and driving and girls and moving out.

None of that is in the cards for Dean. He’s been an adult for years, now. 

His dad decides he’s a man by giving him a solo hunt.

And it’s fine. Really, it’s easy shit. But he gets in the car alone, and he gets in the motel alone, and he interviews witnesses alone, and he burns the bones alone. And maybe if he was a normal kid he’d be happy about the freedom, you know- his parents getting off his case for once, something like that.

But Dean gets in the backseat of the car, curled up with his Dad’s leather jacket (still too big for him) and he’s alone. There’s no one to talk to about this, really. No Mom to go complain to, and Sam’s getting bigger, but he’s still a kid. The sky is empty. He locks the car doors, and he might as well be on a whole other planet, population one.

#this isnt even good im just sad rn. xo #my writing #dean winchester #spn ficlet #ezra posts

[ghost-go-roasty-mctoasty]

I cant stop thinking about the bmol experimenting with Sam and thanks to @trials-era-sam confirming our hc with Sam's addiction (thank you Jared!!) i just had to write this-

"Names Sam. All we need are names." Toni repeats, tapping her pen against her stupid little notebook.

Even if Sam wanted to, he can't give her want she wants. He doesn't really know that many hunters to begin with, let alone all the hunters in the whole of the united states. Who does she think he is?

She sighs dramatically and puts both her pen and book down on the old table next to her, uncrossing her legs and standing up, taking a few steps closer to Sam.

"Fine." She muttered, "we'll just move onto the next phase, since you're choosing to be difficult."

She starts fishing around in her blazer pocket, in search for something, and Sam can tell she found what she was looking for when a small smile pulls against her lips and she slowly withdraws her hand out, holding what looks to be a small vial?

Sam tilts his head to try and get a better look at it. Is it another drug to induce hallucinations? A truth serum? Who knows what they've invented over across the Atlantic.

Toni scoffs at the confusion displayed on Sam's face, and holds out the vial for him to see, holding it up triumphantly as if she won a race or something.

The first thing he notices is how red it is. He stares for a few more seconds until he realizes, and he can practically feel all the air leaving his lungs.

They've been keeping tabs on him for a good 12 years, they know pretty much everything about him. He doesn't know why this didn't occur to him sooner.

"No." He practically hisses at her, his mind flooding with the pain of detox already. Although he doubts he will ever make it out of here, and hes kind of already given up trying to escape. Whats the point? Dean is dead, Cas will be fine without him. Lucifer is out there roaming free, theres nothing for him anymore.

He's completely content with these british people keeping him here.

But eventually he'll have to detox, he always does.

He can feel his heart starting to pick up pace.

The first detox was bad enough, but he can start to feel the panic raising at the thought of having to live through that now, what horrors would haunt him in his...less than stable state.

He doesn't know what he'd do if he has to see Lucifer or the cage again.

What atrocities would his mind conjure up this time?

He finds his mind rushing back to all the less than pleasant experiences in his life. How it felt to have an archangel inside of him. He thinks that’s why he didn’t realize Gadreel was in him for so long. In comparison to the searing pain of the literal devil in his body, some run of the mill angel was like a tick. Hardly worth his attention.

Toni clearing her throat snapped him out of his thoughts. He looked up at her again, and couldn't hide the fact that his hands were shaking.

"Sam," she began "you have made less than ideal choices in your life." A pointed glance towards him. "But, that doesn't mean you still can't be utilised. We as men of letters firmly believe in sufficiency, and your way of...terminating demons is much faster than any excorsim that we have on hand. Don't you think?"

Sam thinks that his heart is going to give out with how fast it is pumping. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears. The year of shame and regret with Ruby and all his mistakes crashing down on him.

"Please." He pleads, looking up at this awful woman through his wet hair. "You don't know what you're doing." He tries to reason with her, but with that glint in her eye, he knows shes not listening to a word he's saying.

"Cmon now Sammy, you can't tell me that you don't miss it." She exclaims, a soft undertone to her voice, as if shes trying to be understanding towards him. Sam scoffs.

And hangs his head in defeat.

They've burnt him, shot him, cut him up and probably broken a few ribs if his pain is any indication. He has no doubt that they will hesitate to do this to him too.

Hes just glad Dean won't be here to watch him turn into a monster again.

Everything Dean told him during that year comes rushing back as he clamps his mouth shut tight. He knows that this will happen to him with or without his consent, but he won't let it happen without a fight.

After all, she isn't Lucifer, he doesn't have to lay down and let her do whatever she wants to him. Hes allowed to fight back. And for Deans sake, he will try.

Toni notices Sams jaw muscles working, and sighs like a disapproving mother whose toddler just won't listen to her.

She roughly grabs Sams face and lifts his head up, making him look up at her.

And although his face is rock hard with determination, pure fear is flashing in his eyes.

He doesn't want to go back to that. To that feeling of desperately needing more and more.

Hes fought so hard against his addiction for so long now. Why is this happening? Chuck must think his life is a joke to do this to him.

But, he keeps his mouth closed tight as Toni tuts and pinches his nose closed, staring down at him patiently.

He hopes he's strong enough to let himself pass out before his mouth inevitably opens to let in air. At least then he could say he tried. But he knows the human body, he knows that when survival insticts kick in, he won't be able to fight it.

But he closes his eyes and tries to stay calm as toni pinches his nose tighter and grows more annoyed.

He starts to count.

Hes gotten to fifty seconds when his lungs really start to hurt.

67. His head has started to spin.

89. His teeth hurt from how hard he's clenching them.

92. He can feel the presence of the vial hanging above him like a carrot on a string. Patiently waiting for his mouth to open like they both know it will.

107. There are spots dancing behind his eyelids. He knows his body will betray him soon.

He lets out a silent prayer at second 115. Begging for someone to help him.

He wonders if Lucifer can hear him.

121. He gasps.

Before he can even suck in some precious air, the vial is being shoved in his mouth, and the metallic taste of blood on his tounge is the only thing his senses can focus on.

Its okay. Dont panic. He just has to spit it out like he did before. No biggie.

He ignores the way his body yearns for it. To swallow it. He ignores how his muscles are remembering how powerful they used to feel. He ignores how his throat is trying to gulp it down, actively working against the only rational part of Sam's brain.

The smell is overwhelming. The taste practically irresistible.

He doesnt have to swallow it. He doesn't have to let her win. He doesn't.

He goes to spit it out. Toni sees. She acts quicker than Sam can even realise.

She's pinching his nose again and roughly keeping her other hand over his mouth. Making sure that he can't possibly spit it out and cutting off all access to air.

Meaning he'll need to swallow it to be able to gasp for air.

He looks up at her with tears in his eyes. His head starting to spin again from lack of oxygen. He shakes his head softly, once again begging her not to do this to him, even though he knows this grovelling will get him nowhere.

She looks down at him with no emotion in her eyes. Even the smile on her face has faded. She just seems a bit bothered now. As if Sams resistance is just a small inconvenience to her.

He'll have to swallow soon. She knows it. They both know it.

Eventually Sam finds his throat working against him and swallowing down the sweet sweet blood.

As it goes down, he gasps out and Toni removes her hand. A satisfied smile on her face.

Sam, on the other hand though, couldn't be more disgusted with himself.

He would start crying if there was any liquid left in his body. He can already feel it. Feel the power thruming through his veins. He can feel his body yearning for more already, protesting that it wasnt enough.

He starts to shake. Silently sob. He cannot believe that this is happening to him again. That he has to go through this again, and all for what? Because some british people want to study him to see how he works and then do who knows what with him?

He starts sweating. Even that tiny amount enough to bring back a pretty severe addiction.

Toni sits back down looking smug. "How do you feel, Sam?"

He glares at her, although how effective it is with his shaking chin and dried tear streaks on his cheeks, he doesn't know.

"Alright." Toni nods at him and starts to make her way back up the stairs.

Sam starts to freak out, but refuses to show it. Not at least until she leaves the basement.

Theyre leaving him here. For how long? Are they going to make him go through detox now? Study his symptoms? Wait for him to start begging them for some more? Maybe, if Sams lucky enough, it wont be that bad, since it was only one small vial.

But he can already feel it. The way his head feels like it's getting squashed between two rocks, the way his stomach is rolling like he's about to vomit, the way his limbs are shaking quite violently.

Sam is never lucky. And this is going to hit him hard.

He hopes it doesnt get so bad that he starts begging for more blood. He'd never forgive himself if he fell that far.

He wishes Dean were still alive.

#alrighty #so #this was fun! #i missed writing <3 #lemme know if you want a continuation when dean finds sam ill write it if this gets one like #sam winchester #supernatural #spn fic #spn ficlet #supernatural fic #calliope hit me #bmol #toni #sam angst #angst #its 2am i didnt proofread this sorry #demon blood addict sam #holy sjit i did not realise how long this was #damn

[casdeans-pie]

That trope when two people are sneaking around somewhere and nearly get caught so one of them drags the other into a passionate kiss and they escape notice.......

That. but it's season 6 painfully-pining-for-each-other Castiel and Dean.

They're sneaking around a building for a hunt when they both realise that they're about to get caught and there's nowhere to go.

Cas quickly turns around and slams Dean against a wall and suddenly they're kissing.

They're kissing and kissing and Dean is making noises into Cas's mouth and he's pulling him in as close as he can and Cas is pressing against him as close as he can and Dean's hands are diving deep into Cas's hair and the kissing just keeps going faster and deeper and hotter and they're pressed so close together and

Cas pulls back slightly and they're both panting (even though angels don't breathe) and Dean blinks a few times like he's coming out of a dream (even though Cas never stops in his dreams) and he says softly, What. the fuck. was that????

Cas looks wrecked. His hair is a mess and his blue eyes are glowing and he stares at Dean while he tries to catch his breath (even though angels don't breathe) and Dean stares back (even though Dean's eyes keep flicking back to Cas's mouth) and Cas eventually rumbles, I had to touch your skin to make you invisible with me.

Dean licks his lips and takes a deep breath through his nose but neither of them have moved and they're still pressed against the wall and they're still pressed against each other and Cas is still only inches from his face

And yeah the monsters must have gone. so it obviously worked. but

Dean swallows hard. He searches Cas's face and he thinks and he hopes and he already knows what he wants the answer to be when he asks, Why didn't you just touch my forehead? Or uh- hold my hand?? Fly us away???

And Cas just stares. and stares and stares. He brings his fingers up to touch Dean's lips gently. so so gently. and Dean can't help it when he parts them slightly and he sighs and

Cas disappears to the sound of wingbeats

Dean throws his hands up and yells, OH, C'MON!

#Dean 5 seconds after Cas made out with him: but does he LIKE like me??? #destiel #destiel ficlet #i love it when theyre mutually pining idiots #deancas #castiel's angel powers #spn ficlet #castiel #dean winchester #pie's projects #destiel headcanon

[hauntedpearl]

woven out of the silence

for @justcastiel's 2k celebration. just cooked up a little something, very vaguely incorporated faith into it. Elliot, you are such an incredibly talented wonder of a person and I hope you enjoy this!! <33 (sorry for writing the same little story in fifty different ways but whatever this was kinda fun!)

This is how it happens—

He builds you a house. He builds you a deck. A pier. 

He tells you he wants you to be free. 

Stretch your wings, he says. Feel the breeze, Cas. 

He turns the house into a home. Fills it with things. Says, Our Place. 

Says, Our Kitchen Table. 

Says, Our Garden. Our Lake. Our Porch Swing. 

Ours, Ours, Ours.

You bring him rocks from the lakeshore, and he takes them.

Careful, you tell him. They're old.

He puts them in a jar. Sets it on a shelf. 

Touches it with a smile when he passes by. 

You bring him a flower, and he puts it in your hair. Rests his fingers there. 

Says, Looks good on you. 

Says, Looks good. 

He prays to you, still. 

Sometimes at his bedside, arms crossed over the mattress. 

His knees creak when he straightens, and your grace reaches for him.

It wants to hold him. It wants to soothe his aches. It wants an excuse to brush against his soul. 

After all, it is a part of you. 

You worry. 

There is nothing you can give him. 

You worry. 

He has given you everything. 

You worry. 

Where is his happiness, in this home that is yours? 

You worry. You worry. You worry. 

This is how it happens— 

"I don't know that you will be happy" you say to him. "Here. With me." 

"What the hell are you talking about?" 

He isn't as quick to anger as he used to be. Still, a frown marrs his features. He sounds—puzzled.

"I have nothing to give to you," you say. "I am not what you've wished for." 

And you would know. You've seen his wishes wrapped in wishes. 

You've seen him. 

He is still frowning when he says, "I don't care about all that. I just — I need you." 

You do not doubt him, but you ache for him, all the same. 

You care about him. 

You love him. 

That is all it has ever been. 

You love him. 

"You've given me everything you have," you say. 

See reason, you plead wordlessly. Want something. 

"You gave me this life." 

He lowers himself to his knees at your feet. Spreads his arms. 

"You stitched up my soul" 

He is kneeling — in supplication. In plea. In prayer.

He is kneeling, and you cannot bear it. 

He folds his hands around yours. Holds them to his heart. 

He doesn't owe you for this. 

Does he know? 

He does not owe you. 

"I am no God," you tell him.

I will not take, not like this, you think. Not from you. 

When he laughs, it sounds almost bright.

When he laughs, you want to flinch. 

"No," and he is smiling. "I love you." 

This is how it happens— 

You have a beating heart, and it thunders in your chest. 

I love you.

Your grace surges in your veins, heats your skin. 

I love you. 

There, the echo of revelation. 

I love you. 

This is how it happens— 

Your not-quite-human knees buckle.

You see — You see Him.

You're looking into the face of the divine. 

And It is soft skin, wrinkled. Lined. Dotted with freckles. 

You're looking into the face of the divine. 

And It is smiling, still.

He tugs you closer. 

Your knees scratch against this altar of wood and nail. 

"I brought you back to me," he says. 

"I built you a home," he says. 

"I keep your gifts," he says. 

"How could you not know?" 

His eyes, searching. Shining. Shifting. 

Emerald, Jade, Peridot. 

Summer green & gold. 

His love looks a lot like his guilt. 

It looks a lot like his fear. 

How could you have known?

Men build temples for the Gods they fear. 

They only ever seem to build tombs for their lovers.

How could you have known?

This is how it happens —

With you on your knees. 

With him on his. 

Fallen, falling. 

His fingers in the bowl of your fists, holding tight. 

"This is our life," he says.

Our Place. Our Kitchen Table

Our Garden. Our Lake. Our Porch Swing

Ours. Ours. Ours.

"And I want it. All of it." 

His lips on your knuckles, soft. Your gasp, softer, still. 

A never-tilting world, on its side.  

Your grace bends towards him, the stalk of a flower in search of her sun.

Your wings curve around him, the shield to his sword.

You want this, too. Every bit of it. 

Does he know? 

He must. He must. 

This is how it happens —

"Dean," his name melting sugar on your tongue. 

Dean — your charge, once. Your friend, always.

Your— Your Dean. 

He loves you.

He loves you.

Tugs you closer, still. 

Says, "I mean it. For— for as long as you'll have me." 

And you love him. 

You love him.

That's all it's ever been. 

What else is there to say, then, for you? 

He holds his faith close to his chest. 

It beats a rhythm against the backs of your palms. 

He holds it there for you. Because of you. 

Your Dean. 

Haloed in the falling light. 

Smiling, still. 

Happy. 

This is how it happens—

His mouth against yours, sweeter than his name.

His pulse a-flutter under your palm.

"Yeah?" he says, the syllable pressed into your skin. 

"Yes," you say. 

You love him. 

"Yes."

Mutuals I would literally die for who helped me w this stupid thing: @casgape @meatmensch @subbynesnej @millicentmarva THANK YOU ILY MWAH!!! and @chapeldean thank you sooo much for putting up with my whining yesterday <333333

Taglist:

@suckeggsinhell @castielsupernatural @vegancas @deancaskiss @cyncity2000 @lookforanewangle @belagirlrights @xdeansangelx @destieldisaster @jacobglaser @heartcastiel @sleepycas @thebaffledking @cassiterite @angelsdean @pajamadean @capellacas @castiellesbian @oddityofstars @sing-little-bird @milfmommymary @quicksilver-castiel @one-more-offbeat-anthem @laurelcas @twoheadedcas @butterscotchdean @naturallyathief @aturnoftheearth

#justcastiel2k #doe's writing #deancas ficlet #destiel ficlet #idk how to write poems but if i knew this would be one so like i guess this is a proem? whatever that means #usermoogs #spn ficlet #CONGRATULATIONS ELLIOT YOU DESERVE ALL THIS LOVE AND MORE MWAH <33333333 #feathersforcas

[naughtystiel]

Golden light bathed their surroundings, vivid green leaves of a tree that they were sitting on looked like tiny pieces of stained glass against the sun. On the other side of the tree, on a thick branch was Dean, his eyes sparkling with joy when he glanced at Castiel. Small shadows danced on his features like a kaleidoscope, so mesmerising it was hard to look away.

Castiel’s fingers fumbled with the hem of a tee that he once had stolen from his best friend, so long ago the material started to wear thin in some spots. It was battered, but it was his favourite piece of clothing he owned. As he chewed on his bottom lip, pleasant breeze tousled his dark curls that gained a few lighter strands from the time spent out in the summer sun. The wind carried Dean’s quiet humming, one of songs that they used to listen to on an old walkman. Sometimes they sat on a hill and stared at the night sky, sharing a set of earphones, accompanied by music from a mix tape they had created together.

The branch creaked underneath him as he shuffled in his spot, trying to change his position. His best friend gave him a curious look, his face pressed against dark bark as he wrapped his arms around the tree, “What are you doing?”

Clumsily, Castiel hung his legs over and swung back, his arms now swaying slightly, the tips of his fingers brushing long grass underneath him. In result, the gravity pulled his tee down, covering the blush that spread over his cheeks, “Hanging.” He mumbled and Dean barked out a laugh, “Yeah, I can see that now. Don’t stay upside down too long or all the blood will rush to your head.”

Suddenly, Dean jumped off the tree and walked up to Castiel. A brush of fingers on his torso made Castiel shiver, but all Dean did was lift the tee up to expose his friend’s face, and grinned, “It’s already working, buddy. Your face matches the shade of fuschias in my mom’s garden.”

In lack of any good comeback, Castiel stuck out his tongue like a child and tried to swing himself enough to be able to reach the branch again. His fingers slipped on the crumbly bark before he could get a good grip, but instead of the hard landing that he embraced himself for, was met with a pair of strong arms. For a second, relieved about being saved from possible bruises or fractures, he laughed. Then, it occurred to him that he was, in fact, still upside down and his rear end was shoved right in Dean’s face. Squirming in the tight grip, he tried to wiggle his way out, but instead made his friend lose balance and they tumbled down to the ground. Once more, embarrassed, Castiel crawled away from Dean who was laughing so much his whole body was shaking, “Are you okay?”

Dean nodded and swatted a blade of grass away that kept tickling his nose before pushing his hair back, “Yup, all good. Let’s go!” Before Castiel knew it, his legs were carrying him after Dean, who held his wrist while running towards bikes that they had left nearby. As they cycled on a path that divided two endless fields, wildflowers scattered all over them, they tried to let go of the handlebars, spreading their arms wide open. Any negative thoughts fled from Castiel’s head and got replaced with the carefree feeling, with pure joy of just existing in the moment. Sweet scent of flowers followed them and Castiel took a few deep breaths that filled his lungs with the smell of contentment. The feeling travelled through his whole body, seeping through his bones right to the core. In this moment, nothing else mattered.

An uneven sandy patch made his front wheel swivel and without his palms on the handlebars, the bike turned right into the tall grass that cushioned his fall. Before he could get up, Dean’s hand was already waiting for him, reaching out to be grabbed. So, with a grateful smile, Castiel accepted and got pulled up, “Dude, you gotta stop falling.” His friend teased, but Castiel’s heart quickened its pace. Combined with the previous rush of adrenaline, it was basically hammering against his chest.

“I can’t.” he blurted out, but before Dean could question him about his strange answer he grabbed the bike and jumped on, pedalling as fast as he could, “We’re racing to the lake!” he called out behind his shoulder, a mischievous smile on his face.

“You’re cheating! Stop distracting me then!” Dean yelled back, quickly mounting his own cranky bike. It was hard not to laugh around him and it was one of the reasons why Castiel was glad that he could call Dean his best friend. In fact, his only friend, but spending time with Dean made him feel like he wasn’t lacking anything and judging by how Dean acted around him, he felt exactly the same. Some would say that they acted like kids, and perhaps they were, a pair of kids with scraped knees trapped in bodies of people who had already lived for over twenty five years. Selfishly, he hoped that it would stay like this for many more years to come.

The path they followed turned right, but there was a shortcut through a field with short green grass that Castiel decided to take. Soon, he let the gravity do its thing and the bike accelerated on its own, speeding down a hill. A sound, close to a howl of joy, erupted from his chest when he lifted his legs up, tightly holding onto the handlebars, so he wouldn’t fall.

Again.

Dean’s own laughter could be heard just behind him, so Castiel knew his friend was catching up with him. All too soon, the lake appeared in front of him and when he pulled onto the brakes, they didn’t work. Panicked, he tried to stop the bike, repeatedly pulling onto the brakes, but it did nothing against the speed he had gained cycling down the hill. Then, accepting his fate, he held tight and let himself go down with his ship. At first, the cold water was like a shock to his body that was warm from being exposed to the sun, but soon enough it became pleasant. His head resurfaced from beneath the lake, his wet curls sticking to his forehead. Heavy drops of water dripped down his face and eyelashes, making his vision slightly blurry. To his surprise, he found himself not being injured, apart from a small scrape to his elbow.

“What the hell happened?” Dean laughed, jumping right onto Castiel that was attempting to fish his bike out of the lake. When he managed to push Dean off, uncontrollable laughter echoing around them, Castiel swung his arms so they made contact with the surface, and splashed his best friend right in the face. After a short splashing war, they were both breathless, with huge grins on their faces, “Peace?” Castiel panted, reaching his hand out to Dean, who nodded and shook it. Together, they got the bike out to the small wild beach and rested it next to Dean’s. Once that was done, they took off their tees, leaving only shorts on, and hung them on a bush to dry.

The sky started to turn dark blue with a layer of orange hues dividing it from the trees on the horizon. The atmosphere shifted alongside with the changes in their surroundings, from energised to more sedated.

Castiel had known Dean for so long, that they were able to communicate without the need to use words. With a small nod, they started gathering twigs and small branches that later got placed in a pile on the sand. Back in the water, they found some bigger stones and used them to surround the wood. Dean reached into his pocket, the wet shorts still clinging to his body, and pulled out a lighter, “Here goes nothing.”

At first, there was no flame, but after shaking it a few times an orangey glow appeared. Their gaze locked and Castiel wondered if his eyes were mirroring the happiness that he could see in Dean’s. Using some dry leaves, they set the bonfire aflame and sat down, their legs crossed. The gap between them was small, but immediately Dean scooted even closer, so their knees brushed.

The warm glow danced on their features and the cracking sound of wood slowly being burned by the fire created a comfortable bubble that they occupied. They sat there, enjoying the private smiles and glances in between songs that they sang, warmth spreading within Castiel that wasn’t caused by the bonfire in front of them. With Dean, he felt content, whole. There wasn’t anything that he would change about their friendship.

Perhaps, apart from one.

His fingers itched to entwine with Dean’s, he wanted to rest his head on his friend’s chest and listen to the steady and comforting heartbeat. Finding out what Dean’s lips tasted of was a mystery that he wanted to solve, so so badly. But he restrained himself, for years.

The songs died out as time passed, the sky darkening with every minute until stars started to appear and lazily blink over their heads. Castiel got up, wiping off any sand that stuck to his shorts, and checked on their tees that were now dry. When he turned to pass Dean his, his friend was right in front of him, an unreadable expression on his face. Something shifted in Castiel’s stomach, concern and worry replacing the carefree feeling, “What’s wrong?”

Dean reached out for his tee, but his fingers lingered on Castiel’s, “Nothing, I just…” he trailed off and shook his head, finally grabbing the piece of clothing and pulling it over his head.

“Dean, we’re best friends. You know you can tell me anything.”

The man visibly hesitated and chewed on his bottom lip, averting his gaze away, before taking a deep breath and locking his gaze back with Castiel’s, “That’s the thing. What did you mean when you said that you couldn’t stop falling earlier? Do you ever wanna be-”

“Yes.” Castiel blurted out, cutting off Dean’s question. He could be wrong, maybe Dean didn’t intend on finishing it with more, but God, he hoped he was right, because otherwise he would fall apart. Now, that the possibility was so close, he would do anything to launch himself onto it and hold tight.

A pair of soft lips connected with his and Castiel’s heart rate quickened once more. The kiss was slow, tender and they poured every unspoken feeling that accumulated throughout the years of their friendship into it. Now, it could bloom into something more. But maybe, it was always there, slowly creeping up until it quietly settled down and waited to be discovered.

When they parted, their foreheads rested against each other. Without any more hesitation, their fingers entwined with a soft brush, “This is love. Right?” Castiel smiled and Dean nodded, “Yeah and there’s so much more on my tongue so take a bite and let it linger.”

#destiel #destiel ficlet #destiel fic #deancas #deancas fic #dean winchester #castiel #spn #spn ficlet #spn fic #supernatural #supernatural ficlet #supernatural fic #vin.txt #vince writes #vmart #drabble.txt

[mrcowboydeanwinchester]

mold is the god of the kitchen wall

destiel fic - 1198 words - rating: G - divorce arc - read on ao3

It’s then that Cas realizes Dean didn’t pass him a beer like he usually does. It’s more than a courtesy between the two of them, and they both know it; beer is all atoms and alcohol in such meager qualities for Cas that it’s laughable. But it’s a ritual. It’s a sign of something shared, and something mutual. Dean takes a deep sip from his bottle and Cas feels the cold desert of his hands laid flat against the table.

A Cas POV deep dive into his and Dean’s kitchen conversation from 15x08.

thanks to @faithdeans for the lovely beta!!

Adam and Michael are fighting with themselves in the other room. Cas can hear them through the wall, back and forth, in the same monotone voice. He can’t work out what they’re saying to each other, though. He’s not sure he cares enough to anyway.

Dean walks in to the kitchen, and Cas’ back stiffens: automatically, like it’s innate, like the languid animal Dean usually draws out of him has turned to protective instincts with hackles raised. Dean saunters forward towards the fridge and twists open a beer with a sharp jerk of his thumb. He’s wearing the face he makes when he doesn’t want anyone to think he has feelings about what’s happening. For all Dean calls Cas oblivious, for all Cas fails to see in other places, that’s one thing that Dean gets wrong. Cas can read Dean like a book. 

Dean speaks. “Maybe you went too far,” he says, as he settles against the counter. 

He sounds, Cas thinks, rather ironically, like a school teacher chastising a child. The ‘maybe’ is simply there to be polite. Those are the only kind of words they exchange these days: Cas lives life between a rock and a hard place, between silence and bites of criticism. 

He rolls his shoulders, burying the desire to kick back against Dean. It’s easier, all in all, to agree. 

He repeats Dean’s empty word. “Maybe.”

It’s then that Cas realizes Dean didn’t pass him a beer like he usually does. It’s more than a courtesy between the two of them, and they both know it; beer is all atoms and alcohol in such meager qualities for Cas that it’s laughable. But it’s a ritual. It’s a sign of something shared, and something mutual. Dean takes a deep sip from his bottle and Cas feels the cold desert of his hands laid flat against the table.

“I mean, he’s been in lockdown for quite a while now, you know. Maybe you just went too fast.” Dean pauses, taking a deep breath.

Cas wonders if that’s the end of this conversation. There’s something in the air, in the way that Dean’s fingernail digs restlessly under the label of the bottle, which tells him there’s something else he wants to say. What’s a confession between two friends?

Dean ducks his head, the way he does when he feels like a conversation is over. Then he rears it again, and speaks like it’s a different topic. “What’s he doing now?”

But it’s the same topic. Dean is still talking about Michael. Yet all the foot-scuffing eyes-flickering fidgeting falls back as if it was never there, like Dean is trying to unspeak entirely innocent sentences. 

The thing about reading Dean like a book is that sometimes, the pages are blank and he drops words randomly in a context which only makes sense to him in ink almost too pale to read. Maybe, then, Dean is more like the demon tablet. And Cas is the one drifting slowly closer to insanity, deciphering each coded phrase as they fall into his hands. 

So he has the vague idea that perhaps, Dean was speaking in metaphor. That he wasn’t really talking about Michael. 

Maybe you just went too fast.

Cas replies to the question Dean asked to end the pause stretching out between them like no man’s land. “No idea. He was very distraught.”

“Yeah, but what exactly did he say?” Dean doesn’t ask it nicely, but he doesn’t ask much nicely these days. He’s simply here on business. Here to fix the problem that needs fixing.

And Cas is here because… Well, because Dean needs him. 

If Cas went slower, would Dean want him again then?

“‘Leave. Get out. I want you dead’,” Cas recites. There’s an apathy in him, he realizes, as the words leave his mouth entirely hollow but not at all brittle. When you haven’t got the heart to care, there’s nothing to break. He’s heard those words many times before anyway, from brothers. From friends. 

“We didn’t bond,” Cas finishes, and he wants Dean to laugh at his words so badly. He aches for it. Apathy for all else but this; he abandoned his nest to put all his eggs in Dean’s basket. 

He keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead on the wall. It’s brown, peeling, there’s mold making its way lazily and inevitably along it. He waits for the huff of laughter from Dean, for proof of his victory. It doesn’t come. Not even reluctantly, when one time, it would have come, and gladly. What is all this space between them? Cas keeps staring, and thinks, mold is the god of the kitchen wall. 

Then he wonders, what does that make him.

Dean tilts his head back and swallows, not even beer, just probably more words. His hair glints hazel in the stainless steel green light of the kitchen. Cas gets the sudden and staggering desire to put his chin on his palm, rest himself against the table as he gazes lawlessly up at Dean, and say, I miss you.

You’re standing next to me in the same room but I’m stranded. And I miss you.

What a display of letting go of all self control that would be! What ecstasy to live in truth! What a moment when Dean would turn towards him and say thank god, you don’t know how much I missed you too, I’m sorry, I want you, please stay! 

It’s four words away but it’s impossible; instead, Cas furls his arms further around himself like his body is his desire and if he just gets a hold on himself, tighter, he can keep it all at bay. But still the animal heart of him wobbles over, showing its stomach in the desperate need to feel the warmth of something, anything, underground. 

Maybe Cas didn’t put his eggs in Dean’s basket. Maybe he buried them.

“Where’s Sam?” he asks, changing the topic with a bow of his head, just like Dean did. Look, Dean, he wants to say, if he can’t say anything else. I can speak in codes too. How much do you understand me?

Dean doesn’t miss a beat with the answer, like in all the minutes this sparse conversion has spanned, he’s never thought of anything other than the case at hand. “Eileen hit a snag with a case, so. He won’t be gone long.”

But Cas knows: Dean lies. Every thought he had and didn’t say was a thought he took out back and shot. Cas wishes he could see how many thoughts laying in the cemetery of Dean’s throat tasted like him. What was it Dean had once said - about when humans want something, and badly?

Maybe you just went too fast.

When the rumbling earthquake of Michael’s fury starts, it’s mainly a relief, as it means unity. No more of two old strangers standing, stranded, in a molding kitchen. Michael is something shared, something mutual. When they’ve lost all else, at least they haven't lost this ritual: the eye contact, the thumping of feet on concrete, his hand on the door and Dean pressing in close, behind him. 

Even underground, his body is warm. 

#i'm so so proud of this one #it's the one i wrote at like 12am last night but it came out really well i think #hellers this is my gift from me to you. enjoy <3 #ALSO CASGIRLIES HIIIII #as a dean girl this was so fun to write as cas pov hehe #castiel #dean winchester #destiel #spn fic #spn ficlet #s15 #divorce arc #deancas #destiel fic #ola writes

[nayeliq1]

June 7th, prompt: Stars

The stars were beautiful tonight. Dots of light in a pitch-black sky, no clouds to hide them.

Their fingers were entwined. Remnants of warmth in a tranquil night, no fear to divide them.

Cas had helped create some of those stars, remembered their constellations like the back of his hand.

He turned his head to the side to look at Dean, looking up at his stars.

Dean had a peaceful smile on his face, the silver glow of worlds far away reflected in his eyes. The gentle breeze moved his hair, his bare shoulders relaxed against the hood of his car. Cas' eyes were drawn to the array of freckles scattered there.

Cas had created those too, had arranged them carefully, mimicking the stars he knew so well.

"Hey."

Dean's head had turned, smiling at him.

"Hello, Dean."

"What're you thinking about?"

Stars. Freckles. Beauty. You.

"How much I love you."

And he leaned in, pressing his lips to the starry sky on Dean's shoulder.

For @starcrosseddeancas Dramy Drabbles

#drabble #dreamydrabble #castiel drabble #destiel drabble #spn ficlet #destiel #castiel #dean winchester #destiel fluff #they're happy and healthy and having a date night yall #love the headcanon of cas hiding star constellations in the design when he made dean's freckles #dean's freckles #star freckles #drabble prompt: stars #drabble challenge #my writing

[rouge-and-riddles]

Jupernatural Week Day 2: Community (Interfaith, Intercultural, Intersectional)

@jupernaturalweek

Inspired by this post: https://www.tumblr.com/minthoneycas/680363650268250112/hard-agree-that-dean-makes-a-killer-brisket-tell?source=share

Cas and Dean are still fighting about the fucking latkes. Cas is insisting that they make the beet, turnip, and carrot latkes more traditional to the diaspora, while Dean is firing back with the flawless argument that those are "G-ddamn disgusting, Cas." and "They'd have made 'em with potatoes if they'd had 'em."

Sam meanwhile, doesn't give a shit. He's never quite understood why Dean cares so much about these little cultural things. Their Mom didn't pass these things on to them, never intended for Judaism to be a part of their lives at all.

And yet, Dean still insists on the potato latkes, and bullies him for trying to make challah gluten-free. His brother doesn't keep kosher, but refuses to have any chametz in the bunker over Passover, pawning it all off on Charlie, who is only too happy to spend the week making brownies and (slightly burnt) cookies.

The shouting from the kitchen has stopped, which can only mean that the pair of them are otherwise occupied. He'd say to get a room, but to be fair, the kitchen is a room.

He sighs, and goes back to texting Eileen about how he'd prefer sufganiyot anyway.

#jupernatural week #jupernatural #supernatural #spn #destiel #sam winchester #dean winchester #sam POV #eileen leahy (mentioned) #saileen #spn ficlet #castiel #deancas