people in fanfiction are so good at identifying v specific smells. I literally struggle to identify vanilla when I’m sniffing a candle labelled “VANILLA” how are these kids getting woodsmoke, rain, mint, and a whiff of byronic despair from a fuckin tshirt
Once I read a fic where they were like “he tasted like” and I’m expecting the typical formula (1 cooking ingredient + 1 natural phenomenon + “something uniquely [character name]”) but instead they said “he tasted like mouth” and it was one of the greatest fic moments of my life
They’re in the garage of the bunker, trailing out of the Impala, when it happens for the first time.
In all honestly, Dean shouldn’t be so aware of it. The touch is casual – everyday. Something that might happen when you pass a little too closely with a stranger on the street. Except it isn’t everyday (Dean can count on one hand the number of times someone has touched him in the last month) and it isn’t a stranger.
It’s Cas; it’s Castiel’s hand floating up to trail fingers along the middle of his back. Dean shouldn’t be so aware of it and he shouldn’t react like he does – which is a full-body shudder and a hitch in his breathing. He stops in the middle of a step, so that Sam behind him has to come up short.
His brother passes him an odd look, no doubt wondering if there was some lingering injury from the showdown they had with the wraith. Dean just passes him a Winchesters-patented “all good” smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. As Sam heads into the bunker, so does Cas. Dean watches the angel go, watches the flicker of his trench coat. His eyes track the curl of fingers from under the coat’s cuffs.
Later, Dean wishes it were further into spring, wishes he hadn’t been wearing his leather jacket, so the press of Castiel’s hand could have been closer to his body.
It starts happening regularly, is the thing. Cas’s shoulder against Dean’s chest as they maneuver through one of the bunker’s smaller storage rooms, Cas’s hand cupping Dean’s elbow to catch his attention, Cas standing so close as he reads the laptop over Dean’s head that Dean can feel the heat of him, smell that just-sideways-of-human smell Cas gives off – like metal melting and the milk from dandelions.
And then.
In the kitchen, beers open but untouched, Sam long-since asleep. Cas’s knee is against one of Dean’s but it has been since they sat down, almost an hour ago. They’ve been meandering through a conversation on the “future.” On what that could even mean for them, for Dean, and Sam. Dean can feel his heart beating in the swell of his knee, at the point where it connects with Castiel’s.
At least, until Cas’s hand comes up to fit over Dean’s cheek. The heel of his wrist is against Dean’s mouth and his fingertips are just brushing Dean’s hair and he lets out a truly mortifying, breathy noise at the touch. Like his chest has given out. His shoulders curl in a little and his eyes shut and without meaning to really he presses into the angel’s worn palm.
“You keep…doing that,” Dean roughs out after a moment.
“I’m sorry,” Cas says in that way, where he apologizes for the thing he’s doing, but doesn’t stop doing it. “You’ve been praying for it.”
Dean’s eyes flash open at that and he looks to Cas with a stricken expression. “No, I haven’t.” Still, he doesn’t pull away.
“You have,” Castiel insists. For all the panic through Dean’s system, Cas is calm. “Prayer doesn’t have to be words. This is more…intention.” His face does shift then and there’s an ancient sort of pain around his eyes. “I can feel…your longing.”
Thirteen years ago Dean would have rocked back on his heels and jeered out something about chick-flick moments but Dean is coming around forty and he’s tired and he hasn’t been touched in – well, he lost count. And this is Cas.
He swallows. Closes his eyes. Tilts his head. Murmurs into Cas’s hand, “What’m I longing for now?”
And Cas was telling the truth. He must be able to sense intention with crystal clarity because the next thing Dean feels is the warm press of Castiel’s lips on his own.
They stopped at a park on the way back to Dean’s apartment. Baby’s trunk was full of gifts, evidence of a successful Christmas shopping trip, and so it was with satisfaction that Dean leaned against the hood of the car and pulled out his burger from the takeout bag.
Cas was similarly content, and they enjoyed each other’s company in silence for a few minutes as they began their meal. At a nearby jungle gym, children threw snowballs at each other from the little flakes of ice they’d been able to scrape together. Dean tried not to watch them too closely - you could never be too careful - but Cas observed them with a furrowed brow.
Apropos of nothing, he said, “How do parents handle the Santa situation?”
Dean wiped his mouth with a napkin. “What do you mean?”
“When would one begin telling a child about Santa? And how does one deal with the inevitable fallout when they realize he isn’t real?”
Dean’s stomach turned a little bit. “You thinkin’ about kids all of a sudden?”
“Not sure,” Cas said, examining his burger and plucking out a piece of onion with his fingers.
Another silence descended. Dean frowned at his meal, his appetite lost.
Meanwhile, Cas plucked out another onion slice. “I don’t think I believed in Santa,” he said eventually. “But I knew about him. I wish I could remember who first told me the tale.”
“I learned about him when I was in middle school,” Dean admitted. “The first time I stayed at one school for more than a few months. Pretty sure by then I was too old to believe.”
Cas lifted his eyes to the playground again. “No doubt at least a few of these children believe in Santa.” He sucked some stray ketchup off his thumb, and Dean had to look away.
“Good for them,” he said. “They should enjoy being kids.”
“In a few years, maybe even this year, their parents are going to have to admit to their lies.”
“It’s harmless,” Dean replied, waving away Cas’s curious stare. “It’s good for ‘em. Teaches ‘em to question things, question motives. Gets ‘em ready for the adult world of backstabbing and lies.”
Cas smiled at him. It was wide and affectionate. “I thought you said they should enjoy being kids?”
Dean bit down on a reflexive smile. “It’s one little thing, alright? Santa’s like - 1% of the kid experience. They’ve got the other 99% to think about - cooler, more important shit.”
“Like what?”
“Like the shit they do on the daily, y’know? If they can con their parents into letting them have candy for breakfast. Or sneaking down at midnight to have some ice cream. Or building a pillow fort. Or stickers. Or farts.”
“Farts?”
“Kids like farts.”
“No one likes farts.”
“You don’t know kids then.”
Cas conceded with a tilt of his head. “You’re right. Maybe they do enjoy farts.”
Ten years ago, Dean would never have dreamed of being at home on New Year’s Eve. But now? He couldn’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be.
Taking in the sight in front of him, he wouldn’t change a thing.
The TV was playing quietly with the sounds of the DVD menu repeating itself. He could feel the warm weight of a small body relaxed against him.
Looking down he could see the blond wisps of hair on his daughter’s head. The three-year-old had been determined to stay awake until midnight like everyone else but it seemed she’d been defeated by the sleep monster (which surprised absolutely no one).
Dean reached out a careful hand, making sure not to jostle Emma in her slumber, to grab her Frozen blanket from her lap and wrap it around her shoulders.
Another hand reached across to help secure the wrapping. Dean allowed the comforting hand to brush against his and looked up to meet his husband’s eye.
“So much for her wanting to stay awake like a big girl.” Blue eyes lit up with a chuckle.
Dean snorted. “Yeah. Guess she must have crashed out after the second load of candy and Tangled.”
“Though, to be fair,” Castiel said, eying the clock on the wall above the fireplace, “it’s only fifteen minutes until midnight, so she was close.”
“Hm,” Dean agreed. “She’ll have to try for a new record next year.”
Castiel chuckled, a small smile gracing his features. Dean let himself get lost in it for a moment.
Dean and Sam hunting together: well that’s the show isn’t it? saving people hunting things etc etc. brotherly moments that make you either go awww or want to throw them off a cliff. practically reading each other’s minds on hunts bc they’ve been doing it for so long. terrible communication any other time
Dean and Cas hunting together: hunter husbands. standing 1.5 inches away from each other at all times. constant bickering constant eye sex constant rifling through each other’s pockets oh god they’re so fucking married
Sam and Eileen hunting together: extremely sweet together. heart eyes while discussing lore and/or tactics. pretending not to be worried about each other because they each really want to respect the other person’s independence and hunting skills
Cas and Eileen hunting together: murder besties. taking turns beating the shit out of villains while the other person nods approvingly. roasting their boyfriends during stakeouts. mutual agreement not to tell dean and sam how many people they’ve blackmailed
Dean and Eileen hunting together: sky-high levels of competence. kicking ass left right and center. off-the-charts wittiness. spn would only be 1 season long if it was about these two because they would immediately solve every apocalypse in the most practical way possible and then spend the rest of the season getting drunk together at dive bars.
Sam and Cas hunting together: terrible, terrible idea. the case may get solved but fifty new problems will be created. maximum chaos minimum planning. all ancient curses and alternate dimensions are fair game. cosmic regime changes ARE on the table. 90% chance that one of them ends up in a coma.
college au! this ran away from me and ended up 2.2k whoops :’) i hope you like it! (also note i have no idea how motors work i am not an engineer)
There’s an open textbook on his bed, but Dean is ignoring it; instead, he’s scrolling aimlessly through Instagram. He doesn’t really understand Instagram, but Charlie had looked so shocked and dismayed when she found out he didn’t have one that he’d given in. He doesn’t post much—doesn’t have much to post, really, besides his car and LARPing with Charlie—but it sure is a good distraction from his physics work. He sighs and flops down on his back as he taps through stories. It’s a Friday night, so there’s all the usual parties, and clubbing videos, and group dinner shots. He frowns as he taps through Charlie’s story of a few of their friends playing D&D—he’d be there, too, if it weren’t for his exam. His physics final, on Monday, that he should be studying for. Instead of being on Instagram.
Dean is about to close the app and begrudgingly turn his attention back to his notes when he clicks onto one last story.
HELP NEEDED ASAP, it says, white against a black background, in all caps. Someone who is good at engineering. Or building. Or even just welding things. I’ll pay you, it continues, and then in pizza and beer. Please, in smaller font, directly below.
Dean pauses. He likes beer. And pizza. And building things. He could help out this—who posted this, anyway? It’s a name he doesn’t recognize. casanova.k. He taps on the profile picture. His eyes go wide.
Oh.
That guy. That guy from the hipster art party Charlie had dragged him to earlier in the semester, when she was still dating that art girl, and he’d ended up in a dark room thick with smoke, blurry with alcohol, talking to a guy about three levels of cool higher than him about…something he can’t remember. He just remembers hastily exchanging Instagrams as Charlie dragged him out of the party, ranting about her soon-to-be-ex.
And now he needs help.
Dean looks at his textbook. He looks back at the guy’s—Cas?—Instagram. He takes a deep breath and pulls up a message.
i like beer, pizza, and welding things
It’s smoother than usual, and Dean is proud of himself for about 2 seconds before he panics and ruins it: i’m an engineer, i mean. not just a rando with a thing for power tools, haha.
There’s an achingly long pause before Cas likes both messages.
This is how Dean Winchester ends up standing in the University’s metalwork studio, with 24 hours left until his final exam, staring at a multi-eyed, multi-winged, metal…thing.
It’s due next week, Cas had said. I know it’s last minute. The only studio space I could get was Sunday.
And Dean had said yes, like a fool, because he can never say no to boys in eyeliner with pretty eyes.
Now, staring up at the sculpture, Dean lets out a low whistle. Cas, next to him, groans and drags one hand down his face. “I know. It’s—this is why I need help, alright? I think I can still salvage it if I just—”
Dean, who has taken a few steps forward to admire the intricacies, looks up sharply. “What?”
Cas frowns back. “What?”
Dean shakes his head. “No, I mean—I’m not an art guy, but this metalwork is great, man.” He traces one of the welded seams. “You, uh. Obviously have good hands,” he continues, and then winces. Great compliment.
There’s a soft huff and Dean looks up to see Cas watching him, bemused. “My good hands,” he emphasizes it, and part of Dean wishes he could melt like solder. “Make me a good artist. They do not make me good at making things move.”
Dean blinks at him. “Excuse me?” Move?
Cas frowns again, but it’s more out of worry than confusion. His arms are crossed, and Dean tries very hard not to focus on the black ink swirling down his forearm. “I sent you the plans yesterday.” Now he’s chewing on his lip ring, too, and Dean rips his attention back to the steel structure to stop himself from focusing on that, either. He tries to think about these plans. He remembers getting the text, opening them……and immediately disregarding them in lieu of getting as much studying done as possible. Internally, he groans.
Externally, he nods, pretends to know exactly what these “plans” are. “Sure, yeah,” he covers, and hopes it’s convincing.
The metal…thing, because Dean still isn’t sure exactly what it is, has a cluster of wings in the middle—6, to be exact, and they’re poking up around 3 large rings. He reaches out for one of the rings, right between two of its welded eyes, and gives it an experimental push. It creaks, and sways, and Dean winces when he hears Cas suck in a breath behind him. “Sorry”, he mutters, but when he turns back around Cas is frowning at the art piece and not at him.
Dean is expecting to hear either it’s alright or, more likely, never touch my art again, but Cas just hums and steps up until he’s standing next to Dean. “What do you think this is?”
It’s the closest they’ve been since he arrived, and Dean takes a moment to observe the other student from this distance. He’s wearing black boots, black jeans. A t-shirt with a band on it that Dean has never heard of. His nails are black but the rings he’s wearing are silver, and so is the cross hanging around his neck. His hair looks like he either spent an hour on it or no time at all, and his eyes—like at that party, the one neither of them has mentioned yet—are rimmed in black. Dean, in his sneakers and second-hand jeans and faded Batman shirt, has never felt less cool.
“It’s an angel,” Cas continues, and Dean isn’t sure if he’s given up on waiting for a response or if he’d never expected one in the first place. “A biblical one. You know, the ‘be not afraid,’ kind.” He lowers his voice for the angel impression, which Dean didn’t think was possible. He doesn’t know what to do with the realization that it is.
“Don’t think this is what my mom meant when she used to say angels were watching over me,” Dean tries for a joke, and it’s half-hearted, but to his relief Cas chuckles anyway.
“Yes, well. The church preaches them as significantly more…cuddly.” Cas frowns. “It makes praying to them easier to sell.”
The cross around his neck is starting to get confusing.
“And these—these are gonna move,” Dean hazards a guess, reaching out to touch one of the rings again. “All of them?”
“They’re electrons,” Cas nods, which Dean supposes is an answer. “They should all circle the wings together, like the classic atom diagram. But I can’t—” Cas reaches out for the ring this time, hand landing directly above Dean’s. He pushes it, and it sways. Obviously frustrated, he pulls back. “I need it to be motorized, to look right. And I have the motor but don’t know how…to do it.”
And, well. That, Dean understands. He smiles and, in a burst of confidence, claps Cas on the shoulder. Cas looks up at him, startled, but his expression morphs into a soft smile at the look on Dean’s face.
“Let’s get her moving, then.”
He tries not to think about the time slipping away as Cas hauls out the motor, or when he hands Dean tools. He does not stare too long at Cas’ biceps when he’s screwing something in, or when they have to do last-minute welding. They get it hooked up, and it whirs to life, and Dean does not think about how late it is when Cas gives him a hug in his excitement, or when he promises to follow up on his beer and pizza promise at his apartment.
It’s there, back in Cas’ apartment, sitting on his living room floor, both a beer or two in, when Cas finally mentions it.
“You’re the one who gave me that idea, you know.”
Dean stops mid-chew and blinks at him. “Whg—” he swallows his bite of pizza and tries again. “What?”
Cas shrugs and doesn’t make eye contact. He picks at the beer label. “At the party we met at. The one we aren’t talking about, for some reason.”
Dean wants Cas’ ugly, blue, cigarette-smelling shag carpet to swallow him whole.
“You told me you don’t ‘get’ art,” he sets the beer bottle down to do air quotes, and Dean’s shame deepens. “Because you only ‘get’ science. And I told you they were the same thing. And you told me to prove it.”
Suddenly, it clicks, and Dean risks making eye contact. Cas catches his gaze and holds it steady, and he’s calm—not upset, Dean registers, which is a relief. “The atom,” he blurts out, and Cas grins. “Yeah.”
“Art and science.”
“Yeah.”
Dean is sitting up straighter now. “But, the angel—”
Cas sighs and pushes himself up from where he’d been leaning against the couch. He turns until he’s fully facing Dean. “Divinity,” he raises one hand, “and the core building blocks of humanity,” he raises the other. “Art,” he gestures with the first hand, “and science.” With the second.
Dean stares at him. “Are you calling art divine?”
“Art is an expression of divinity,” Cas shrugs. “Science is an explanation for it. But it’s—you know. The same thing.”
Dean wonders how he can say that so casually, so nonchalantly. He wonders what would happen if he crossed the pizza-box distance and kissed him.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts instead, and Cas raises his eyebrows. “The party, I didn’t think—I didn’t think you remembered.”
“I assumed you didn’t,” Cas counters. “But you did. You do. Why didn’t you text me?”
It’s exactly what he expected to hear and it still catches him off guard. “Um—” Dean stammers, trying to think of a good excuse. Cas is just watching him—not staring at, watching—brows furrowed.
With a heavy sigh, Dean settles on the truth. “Come on, man. Look at me,” he scoffs and stares down at his jeans, the already worn knees even worse after the day spent kneeling on concrete. “I’m an engineering dork who plays D&D on Fridays and you’re—” he waves vaguely in Cas’ direction. “You know.”
The frown has deepened. “I don’t.”
“Cool.” It sounds so juvenile to say it out loud.
Now, Cas looks taken aback. “Dean. We met at a party where I voluntarily listened to you talk about string theory for an hour and a half.”
Dean doesn’t know if that’s a compliment or not. He buries any possible blush with a swig of beer. “String theory’s cool,” he grumbles into the bottle.
“Yes.” Cas agrees. “And so are you. Although—” he pauses and tilts his head. “I could have sworn you were in physics, based on how much you talk—”
Dean is so caught up in Cas Novak calling him cool that it takes his brain a second to process the word “physics,” but when he does he nearly spits beer all over the ugly carpet. “Shit,” he swears, already starting to scramble up.
“What?” Cas is following him, frowning.
“Physics final. In—” he checks his watch, “—16 hours. I gotta—” he still has time to water down the beer, study, and get at least 7 hours of sleep before—
“…Why did you just spend all day helping me if you have a final tomorrow?” Dean pauses from where he’s trying to find his other shoe to glance back at Cas, who looks so genuinely baffled it shoots a warmness into Dean’s heart.
“You needed help,” Dean shrugs, finally locating the missing sneaker and pulling it on. “Good luck with the angel, though, okay? If it gives you any running issues, feel free to—”
He’s pulling on his jacket when he feels a touch on his arm and realizes that, sometime in the past 20 seconds, Cas has crossed the room to him. “Dean,”
Dean pauses, and Cas…looks nervous.
“I like D&D,” he offers, and Dean stares at him.
“What.”
Cas levels his gaze. “There is nothing more punk than dragons,” he replies, incredibly seriously.
Dean’s brain short-circuits.
Maybe it’s the adrenaline from the exam panic, maybe it’s the 1.5 beers, maybe it’s Cas’ hand still warm on his arm, maybe he’s still caught up in Cas calling him cool and maybe his brain takes an extra second to load his self-consciousness on its reboot, but—he leans down and kisses him.
Cas makes a small noise but kisses him back almost immediately—but then he’s pulling back nearly as quickly, and he gently pushes Dean back by the shoulders when he tries to follow. Not far enough away to be a rejection, just…enough. “You have an exam in the morning,” he says this like an apology, and the warmth in Dean’s chest grows. “Text me after?”
Dean nods, then pauses, realizes what Cas just said, and nods again. “Yeah, I—yeah, I will.”
“There’s not enough alcohol here for you to pretend to forget this time,” he teases, but he’s smiling.
Dean flushes anyway. “I’m sorry.”
Cas shakes his head and pushes him a bit. “Apologize tomorrow. Go.”
“Okay.” Dean doesn’t move.
“Okay,” Cas replies.
“Okay,” Dean says, and leans down to kiss him again, a quick one, because he thinks maybe he can.
“Okay,” Cas repeats, but his tone is fond. “Go.”
“Okay,” Dean repeats back. But this time, he does.
The next day, after he aces his physics final, he doesn’t pretend to forget.
world without end. 15x20 coda/fix-it. deancas, 4.7k. (ao3)
“You know,” Cas says, a little breathy as Dean presses a kiss to his throat, loosens his tie, “I could just—”
“I know,” Dean says, walking Cas backwards over the threshold, kicking the door shut behind them. He finally pulls Cas’ tie free, tosses it to the floor. Could slide Cas’ coat and suit jacket off all at once, but does them separately instead, draws it out as he sucks at Cas’ bottom lip. “I don’t want the shortcut.”
Cas huffs a little laugh. “You’re going to keep surprising me forever, aren’t you?”
dailybridgerton
origamiaround
prguitarman
gummygunk
areudirty
stormborns
