In which I write an AU ficlet about Dean and Cas and karaoke.
Dean is drunk. Maybe he's a little too drunk - his vision is blurred around the edges and he can't quite control all his limbs - but that doesn't stop him from signaling Bobby for another bottle of cheap shitty beer.
He's drunk, and maudlin, which is a bad combination. He can't stop thinking Jo's gone, she's gone, and he's never going to see her again. He can't get the picture of her walking out his door with her bags and her choices and her dreams of something that Dean would never have been able to give her. He's happy for her, too, which is cruel - happy that she's going to be a detective, that she'll do something for her instead of her mom, even if means leaving him. He's happy for her, but that doesn't mean he can't be sad for himself.
"Hey handsome." He turns instinctively toward the hand on his bicep, the sugar-sweet voice. She's very pretty, this girl eyeing him with obvious lust. If Dean took her to bed, she'd rip off his clothes (she looks like she's already contemplating how best to do that) and maybe she'd sink to her knees and wrap her lips around him. If Dean took her to bed, he'd move over her and in her and she'd clutch at him as she moaned and shook through her orgasm.
But he can't bring himself to smile at her. His face muscles seem to have stopped listening to his brain, because he can't smile at her so his face remains impassive, while the smile fades from hers.
"Have it your way," she sneers, then flounces away with a disgusted shake of her head. He sighs, orders another beer.
"You plannin' on gettin' blackout drunk tonight?" Bobby asks, bringing it over. "Cause I gotta tell you, kid: you puke, you clean."
"I'm not gonna puke, Bobby. Just keep 'em coming." He waves his hand for another beer. There's a second where Bobby looks like he's going to refuse, but he pops the cap off another and plops it in front of Dean.
"Look, I know it hurts. Jo leaving 'nd all, but this ain't healthy."
Dean's retort is lost to the commotion up front, the sudden rise of a loud cheerful argument from a group of men by the karaoke stage, passing a microphone around like some weird game of Hot Potato.
"Dammit," Bobby curses, obviously rueing the day he let Ellen talk him into installing one in their bar. "Damn fools and their damn shitty singing."
The argument reaches its apex, ends in a whooping and hollering as a man stumbles onto the stage as if he's been pushed (and he probably has), the microphone clutched in his hand. Dean's breath catches in his throat. It's been five years since he saw Castiel - Cas - but he'd never forget that face, the lines of his body. He still remembers Cas' smile and his laugh, and his gut twists at the memory of Cas' smell.
Cas glances helplessly at his friends, as his face turns slightly pink. The bar quiets somewhat, as people turn their attention to him, as the opening chords of The Beatles' "Let It Be" begins to play. Dean raises his eyebrows and settles against the bar, trying to be casual.
When Cas starts to sing, his embarrassment melts away. His spine straightens, his body unfurls. He looks lost in the lyrics, like he's forgotten that he's actually in a crowded bar that smells like old liquor and sawdust. And his voice is perfectly suited for the song, perfectly suited for capturing an audience that's reluctant to turn its attention away from flirting and drinking and dancing. Dean's always loved his voice - it's like the warm drag of cigarette smoke warming him on a cold morning - and he hangs onto every note. By the end of the song, he's on the edge of his seat, leaning forward.
The bar explodes into applause. Cas looks surprised at first, then gratified, and he ducks his head as a shy smile blooms on his face. He mouths "thank you", bows awkwardly, and walks back to his group, all of whom clap him on the back.
"Guy can sing," Bobby comments, trying and failing to be nonchalant.
"Yep."
"He's handsome. Looks about your type." Dean's known Bobby practically his entire life and they have almost no secrets - except the one Dean keeps close to his chest all the time, the one about Cas.
"Why? You thinking of giving him your number? Cause I think Ellen'd have a problem with that."
"No dummy, but I think you should."
"Bobby..."
"You've been mopin' about Jo for months now, and I ain't seein' you waste away into a sad sack just cause your ex graduated and decided to move away. You need to get back on the horse."
"I think the horse has been shot in the face," Dean mutters.
"Excuse me? Three beers, please." Dean stills.
"Comin' right up," Bobby says, and gives Dean a beady look as he turns away. Cas notices and follows Bobby's gaze to Dean. He doesn't smile or wave, but his eyes narrow slightly as he focuses on Dean, his head tilting ever-so-slightly to the right.
"Hi," Dean says, pasting a cocky smirk on his face.
"Dean Winchester," he says, a strange note on his voice.
"How you been, Cas?" The name feels unfamiliar on his tongue, but Dean remembers a time when it -among other things- were familiar on his tongue...
"My name is Castiel."
"I know. Cas is easier to remember. Rolls right off the tongue."
"You were always like that," Cas sighs, "always some smart aleck-y remark."
"You look different," Dean says because Cas is dressed down for once, instead of the white button-downs and black ties he used to favor way back when. "It's a good look."
"I didn't know I was dressing for your approval but -"
"You don't have to be an ass," Dean interrupts, gritting his teeth. "I was trying to compliment you."
"I," Cas stops, grimaces, then sighs. "I know. Sorry. Thanks." There's an awkward pause (during which Dean wonders where the hell Bobby's disappeared off to), then Cas asks "How have you been since," he winces so hard it's almost audible. Dean laughs, a bitter note to it, and takes a swig from his rapidly warming beer.
"You mean, since you chose Crowley over me and," he bites back the rest of the sentence and begins again. "I have been good. You never answered my question."
"I'm well. We're just passing through town."
"Who's 'we'?"
"My band."
"So Crowley was able to help you after all." Dean doesn't want to admit that that hurts more than it should.
"Dean," Cas says, reaching out then stopping himself short.
"Look, it's fine. I get it. I was just some small-town detective who supported you. Crowley was actually able to help." He laughs again, no humor in his voice. He sees Bobby out of the corner of his eye, beers in hand, watching them.
"Dean. Please."
"No. No, really, I'm over it. You look like you're doing well. Guess you're on your way to a show or something. Good luck. Or break a leg, whatever." Dean stands and the stool clatters to the floor behind him. "I'm going. Bobby, I'll pay you back tomorrow."
"Wait," Cas says, reaching out again. Dean shrugs him off. As he rights the stool, one of Cas' bandmates comes up.
"You okay? Who's that?"
Dean tries to get out of earshot, but he's not quite far enough away because he hears Cas' response.
(In which it is becoming winter, and I am cold all the time and thinking about cozy Destiel actually makes me cozier too)
--
It's cold. Cas doesn't say anything, but Dean can tell that's what he's thinking.
"You okay?" he asks.
"I'm fine," Cas mumbles, but he starts to shiver just then, full-bodied involuntary shivers that rattle his teeth.
"Oh yeah, you're just fine," Dean says, rolling his eyes. Cas tries to reply, but his words are lost amidst the chattering.
"I...this..." He swallows hard, grits his teeth. Dean starts to chuckle and Cas glares at him in consternation.
"I told you to dress warmly."
"I th-th-thought this was w-warm," Cas manages, jamming his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders around his ears. It's pathetic is what it is; Cas' nose and ears are bright red from the cold, his cheeks wind-chapped. Despite his shaking like a leaf, he remains resolutely on the side of the road. Waiting with Dean.
"C'mere." Dean doesn't wait for Cas to comply, just loops his scarf around Cas' neck.
"I can't take this from you," Cas says, reaching up. Dean stops his hands. He steps closer (invading Cas' personal space rather than the other way around, for once), so close he can feel the puff of Cas' breath. He tightens the knot so the scarf rests securely against the angel's neck, doesn't let go.
"You're cold, Cas, nothing wrong with that."
"But..."
"If you get sick, I'm going to be the one who has to take care of you. And there's no way in hell I'm going to play nursemaid while you sniffle and whine about your nose being stuffed."
Cas smiles. He's still shivering, but less so than before. The pink on his cheeks - Dean thinks that's less from the cold wind and more from a blush but he doesn't say anything.
I've had a rough couple of days: sleepless nights, disturbing dreams, stupid anxieties and misunderstandings.
So I wrote some Halloween-type Destiel.
--
"Is it not a tradition of your culture to give out candy on this night?" Cas asks, in response to Dean's scowl. He has a 30 lb bag of candy in each of his arms.
Instead of listing all the things that are wrong with this picture, Dean says "There are so many things wrong with this picture, I don't know where to start." Sam snorts. Cas' eyebrows contract ever so slightly, and he sets the bags of candy carefully onto a chair. He approaches Dean in that disconcerting way of his, his chin tilted, face set in a stubborn expression.
"We are trying to remain inconspicuous in this neighborhood, Dean," he says, an air of authority creeping into his voice. "Tradition dictates that small children dress in costumes and ask strangers for candy. It is only fitting that we participate in this tradition."
"We are not here to play house," he growls, never one to back down from a fight. "We will turn off the lights so no snot-nosed brats get the wrong idea. An idea which apparently, you share."
"Dean," Sam says, "we're not doing anything tonight. We might as well..."
"Might as well, what, huh, Sammy?" Dean snaps. "Might as well invite random kids to ring our doorbell? Might as well tell the demons in the area 'Hey! Dress up as a kid in a bumblebee costume and you'll get close to the Winchester brothers and their angel pal!'" He shakes his head. "No! We are turning off the lights and staying in the basement until this godforsaken 'holiday' is over."
"It is customary to give candy on Halloween," Cas says, obviously refusing to listen.
"It..." Dean sighs with frustration, pushes a hand through his hair. "Cas, listen. They won't know we're home."
"The Impala is in the driveway."
"Then I'll move it," he says through gritted teeth. "They don't know we're home, they don't come near us. We lay some traps, salt the place, and stay. in. the. basement."
"Wouldn't it also be customary for the older children to throw eggs at our windows if we don't provide them with sweets?" Cas asks.
"And forks in our lawn," Sam adds, nodding.
"Those aren't our windows, that isn't our lawn," Dean splutters, gesturing toward the objects in question. "None of this is OURS, so none of it matters!" Cas narrows his eyes, tilts his head.
"Does that bother you?"
The question punches him in the gut, and the air whooshes out of his lungs. For a second, he's speechless, his mouth hanging open. Then he snaps his mouth shut shakes his head hard.
"Fine! Fine. Give out candy if you want. I'll be in my room."
He refuses to admit to himself that he's fleeing the room, the question, and the Look in Cas' eyes - even though that's exactly what he's doing.
--
"Dean." Cas' voice is muffled through the rotting wood. "You should come out now."
"Nope. I'm going to stay here in this bed that ain't mine and ignore the world. You included."
"You know the door won't keep me out." There's a pause, "But I will respect your wishes and leave you alone."
There's silence after that - broken up only by the cheerful sing-song of "trick or treat".
--
It's midnight, and Dean's starving. He opens the door, turns to walk down the hall and nearly trips over Cas who's sitting cross-legged in the middle of the hallway. He has a bowl of candy in his lap, is holding it firmly, almost protectively.
"Jesus!" Dean swears, stumbling back and reaching up to clutch his chest. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Are you still ignoring me?" Cas looks up at him, patient, waiting.
"Were you out here the whole time?"
"Yes."
"Didn't you want to hand out candy? Wasn't that what this was about in the first place?"
"I scare the children," Cas says, half rueful, half proud. "I made a pumpkin cry. Sam suggested I refill the candy bowl instead."
"Did you make the pumpkin cry on purpose?"
"No." Cas holds the bowl out. "Here. I saved these for you." It's an obvious diversion, but Dean doesn't even want to know what kind of a problem the angel could find with a kid dressed as a pumpkin so he accepts it.
"Thanks, man," Dean says, dropping down to sit beside the angel. He roots through the bowl - it's filled with all of his favorites - unwraps a chocolate bar and eats it in one bite.
"Look," he says after he's eaten a few more pieces, "it does bother me. Sometimes. Everyday's Halloween for us. Me and Sam, we grew up surrounded by this shit. So yeah, it bothers me that kids get to dress up like pumpkins and princesses and get free candy while we get our asses kicked trying to keep them safe."
"That was not my question, and you know it." Cas turns a piercing look at him.
"I never really had a home, Cas. We didn't do costumes and trick-or-treating. And I probably won't. Ever."
"Do you want to?"
"Nah," Dean scoffs. "Not really. I mean, I did it once, with Ben. Dressed the kid up, the whole nine yards. But all I could think was there was some monster out there, in the dark, just waiting. Or an angry spirit. Or..." he rubs his face with his hands, "an angel needing me to stop the Apocalypse. This is my life. I chose it."
"But occasionally you regret it."
"Occasionally," he allows. Cas stiffens, leans his head against the wall, closes his eyes. "But," he continues, "there are things about this life I don't regret."
"Like what?"
"My Baby, for starters." Cas snorts. "Working with Sam. Don't get me wrong, sometimes I want nothing more than to kick his ass - but I figure that's what little brothers are for." He lapses into thought. Cas still won't look at him.
"And, well," he says, quietly, "sitting here with you isn't so bad either." It's the closest he can come to putting into words how much he appreciates the angel - the way he waits for Dean in the dark, all night if he has to, the way he notices enough to pick out a bowl of Dean's favorite sweets. He reaches absently for the candy, ends up brushing his hand across Cas' thigh, lets it linger. Cas looks down at his hand, then slowly up at him. There's raw heat and fear and a thousand unspoken understood things in his gaze, and Dean shudders.
"I am going to kiss you," Cas says, his voice rough. Dean barely has time to process the words when he's got an armful of angel. He sucks in a breath through his nose, but his eyes close of their own accord. Cas tastes like caramel and chocolate and coconut, and it's a heady, heady thing. He sweeps his tongue along Dean's bottom lip and his lips curl up in a smile when Dean's mouth falls open, tangles his tongue with Dean's.
When they break apart to breathe, Dean asks "You been doing some practicing?" because there's no way an angel should be able to kiss so well. He's going for sarcasm, but the question comes out a little too honest. Cas shakes his head.
"No." He pauses, like he's deciding whether or not he should clarify. "But I am a fairly adept visual learner, and humans do a lot of kissing."
Cas kisses him again, and Dean groans, threading his hands through the short hairs at the nape of Cas' nape. There's a quiet thunk and the sound of rustling, and Dean suddenly finds his lap occupied, the candy bowl and its contents scattered across the floor, forgotten. The way Cas holds his face, the way their bodies are pressed together - he'd say he was going to hell for this, but he's probably done worse things than whatever this will lead to.
"Bed," Cas gasps, somehow managing to sound both commanding and wrecked. It's hot and filthy and Cas looks debauched - chest heaving, pupils blown, lips swollen. There's a split second when he thinks they should maybe talk about this, but Cas leans in to mouth at his pulse point and he thinks that maybe they can talk about this later.
--
"You had a good night, I take it," Sam says, when Dean walks into the kitchen the next morning. He's sitting at the kitchen table, reading a newspaper and eating a donut.
"Yep."
"Cas did too, I bet."
"I...guess you could say that," he agrees, thinking of the curve of Cas' spine, the sound of his voice in Dean's ear, his hands gripping Dean's upper arm tightly enough to bruise.
"Look," Sam says, bringing him back to the present, "good for you and all that jazz. Maybe the two of you can stop staring longingly at each other now that you're both..." he flushes slightly and waves a hand, "you know. But next time, remember that walls are thin and you two aren't the only ones in the house. Hearing that is high up on the list of things I don't ever need to hear."
Dean chuckles, as Cas walks into the room. He's dressed as usual: shirt buttoned, tie knotted, trench coat on. Except there's a dark bruise peeking just barely over the collar of his shirt, which is rumpled. He brushes past Dean, their shoulders bumping, and places something in front of Sam.
"What's - oh. Very funny," Sam says, holding up a package of earplugs. Dean bursts into laughter, and Sam glares balefully at him.
"Walls are thin," Cas says simply, a hint of a smirk on his face. "Those should help."
Let it be said, that Iām pretty far gone on the whole Supernatural thing.
(Originally posted to my personal blog - but I thought it might be relevant here too...)
ā
Iām in my basement room, reading a book when thereās a thunderous sound of running footsteps. Screams and snarling. Frenzied shouting. Multiple thuds and cursing. I turn off my lights, step into my closet and close the door, leaving it barely open so I can see through.
Suddenly, footsteps pound down the basement steps, and I hear my door being kicked in. I peek through; Sam and Dean Winchester are in my room, guns out and eyes vigilant. They nearly shoot me when they discover me.
āDo you have any idea how close I came to shooting you?ā Dean yells. Iām freaked out but furious and the yelling is just making things worse so I punch him. Sam snorts, and Dean looks at me, befuddled and almost a little hurt.
āWhatās going on?ā The brothers share a look like theyāre debating whether itās a good idea to tell me and I huff impatiently. āJust tell me. I promise I can keep up.ā
āShapeshifter alpha. Heās been going around, pretending to be the mailman delivering a package,ā Sam offers.
āOnly once the door opens, he forces his way inside and - ā Dean snarls and mimics gnawing on a bone.
āSo,ā I begin to say.
āI wouldnāt go upstairs if I were you.ā
They canāt leave me in my apartment because the alpha knows heās left someone, could be coming back to get me. They take me into the woods, where theyāre holed up in some abandoned shack, give me a gun loaded with silver bullets, a silver knife.
āSo what you want to do is,ā Dean starts to say - all manly man and patronizing ass - but I take the gun from him. I load it, click the safety, aim at a tree on the other end of the clearing and shoot. Hit it dead center in the middle of a knot, and he and Sam raise their eyebrows at me.
āMy cousin taught me how to shoot,ā I tell them, proud. āNever aimed at a moving target, but Iām handy enough with a gun.ā
We try to lure the alpha into the open, but it all goes wrong. Samās hurt badly - his leg nearly ripped off by the creature - and we realize itās not an alpha shapeshifter after all but something theyāve never seen before.
The creature comes after us, stalking us. Its breath blows over us, hot and heavy and smelling like death and tombs and darkness. My heart is beating so hard, it feels like my chest wonāt be able to withstand the pressure. Deanās dragging Sam in front of him as we back into a room with no windows and only one door. Samās leg leaves a trail of blood on the floor - when the creature walks into the room, it steps in the blood, leaves bloody prints on the rotting wood of the abandoned shack where weāve ended up.
Samās losing way too much blood - heās pale and glassy-eyed, about to fall unconscious - and Dean has no choice but to do his best to tie a tourniquet. He tosses the shotgun at me, and thereās a split-second where we look at each other. Heās trusting me with his life and his brotherās, and if I donāt do what needs to be done weāre all dead. He looks grim but like he knows I can do this. I swallow, nod, step in front of them and face down the monster.
It snarls, starts to run forward, and I shoot. It jerks slightly, but doesnāt stop, so I shoot again and again and again. It leaps at me, high in the air, and I shoot with my last round, closing my eyes. The monster lands with a thud at my feet, dead. I let out a shaky half-sob, half-laugh and collapse beside the boys. Sam pats me clumsily on my shoulder.
āWelcome to the club,ā he slurs, still bleary-eyed, still fighting to stay awake.
āYouāre a natural,ā Dean says, in a way thatās both impressed and sad. I grin at them both, shaky with adrenaline but fierce with triumph.
Okay, okay, so this reminds me of why I love Castiel: his curiosity and naivete combined with the sheer wisdom of his angelic being. He's earnest but he's also put the weight of heaven and hell and everything in between on his shoulders. He wants so badly to do the Right Thing, but sometimes the Right Thing is so hard (sometimes impossible). He gives up everything for one puny human who, at first, simply fascinates him, who wakes Feelings in him (not just romantic ones, though certainly those, but anger and confusion and amusement, feelings that he hadn't ever felt as an angel in heaven, feelings that are new and exhilarating in and of themselves), who defies expectations and destiny. He gives up everything for that puny human because he feels believes knows it's the Right Thing to do, even though it should go against his entire being.
I don't know where this picture is from - what the context is - but...maybe Dean's been thrown to the ground after a fight with some monster or creature or mysterious power and the wind's been knocked out of him and maybe he's unconscious. And Cas leans over him, to see if he's okay; he's worried, despite himself (he can't help worrying when Dean's concerned), so he shakes his shoulder and says his name. Maybe Dean doesn't respond right away and Cas' human vessel's heart (his heart) skips a beat, and his breath catches in his throat and he doesn't want to admit that it's from fear but it is.
Just when he's getting himself all worked up, Dean coughs, blinks, splutters. He looks up, sees Cas' face blocking out the sky, grins with a mouthful of blood and says something completely mundane like "Hey, Cas, what's up?" Like he hasn't just scared the ever living daylights out of him, like he isn't the most aggravating and stupid and useless and irreplaceable human being in the whole of eternity. And Cas can't decide if he wants to hit him or kiss him (or both), so he just sits back on his haunches and lets the tension bleed out of his shoulders as he wonders how how how how he let himself fall so far for so much.
Summary: Dean wakes up from a nap to find himself the victim of one of Gabriel's pranks. Again.
(spnbbverse is addictive and cozy and perfect, like snickerdoodles and a hot cup of tea. I don't even know.)
--
"It was on tv?Ā It was...it was on tv.Ā Bobby, what the hell are you doing with channels that would even think about playing that trash?!"
"I pay for cable, dumbo," Bobby answers, voice going a little high in the way it does when he's being defensive. "I don't get a say in what the channels play when. And may I remind you thatĀ you were the one who put them in front of the television in the first place?"
Dean opens his mouth to retort, but Sam chooses that moment to walk into the room.
"Dean!" he says, stopping dead in his tracks. "What...are you...Dean, are you GLITTERING?"
He's got Balthazar hanging off one arm and several bags of groceries hanging off the other. Cas trails him, heaving his trenchcoat (which is filthy, Dean makes a mental note to sneak it away from him and wash it sometime) behind him. Gabriel is nowhere to be seen.
"Like the vampire!" Balthazar says gleefully, letting himself drop to the floor. "He's like the sparkly vampire!"
"Do not," he growls at Sam, "say anything." Sam presses his lips together, and he turns a little red in the face from the effort, but he manages not to laugh, which is better than Bobby, who'd taken one look at Dean and burst into laughter so forcefully he actually fell to the floor.
"How did this happen?" Sam asks, when he's mostly got himself under control. He's trying for his let's-get-down-to-business face, but his lips keep twitching. Dean scowls, but Balthazar claps his hands.
"See? Doesn't he look exactly like the sparkly vampire when he does that?"
"Wha-?"
"The kids watched Twilight," Bobby supplies, helpfully. The movie title is nearly lost in fresh peals of laughter. Balthazar follows suit. Cas starts to giggle, but he catches Dean's eye and stops, putting both hands over his mouth to hide his amusement.
"I didn't know vampire sparkled."
"They don't, Sam," Dean snaps. "These so-called 'vampires'," he makes quotations with his fingers and Cas copies him, "are the product of a crazy's lady's deluded imagination. You know what real vampires look like. They're greasy and could use an orthodontist, not..." Dean gestures at himself, "this!"
"Let me guess, Gabe?"
"He wanted to go torment the cows again, Sam," Dean sighs, running a hand through his hair. A beam of sunlight streaming in from one of the windows catches on his hand, refracts into a thousand tiny rainbows all around the room. He winces.
"Pretty," Cas whispers, mostly to himself. He turns his wide-eyed gaze to the colored light on the walls. Bobby flees the room at this, laughing so hard he's howling. The sound reverberates through the house. Balthazar's quieted, as entranced by the colors as his brother.
"Not. A. Word." Dean warns, stabbing a finger at Sam, who shakes his head,Ā visibly bites down on the inside of his cheek.
"So...Gabe wanted to torment the cows again?" he prompts after a few minutes.
"Yeah, and you remember what happened the last time. I couldn't just LET him do that again. So I turned on the tv. Bobby needed my help tracking down a book and...I left them alone."
"You left them alone?"
"I know it was stupid, okay?!" He bristles defensively. "But they were busy arguing over the remote, and I left them alone for just a second. When I came back, they were all watching something pretty peacefully, so I left them to it."
"And you didn't think to check what they were watching? Remember what happened when they watched The Lion King? You spent three hours calming Cas down. I spent three days having to fend off the other two pretending to 'herd the wildebeest.' We agreed, for the sake of our sanity - " Sam's lecture is interrupted by the sound of pounding footsteps and a gleefully wicked little voice.
"Samsquatch!" Gabriel leaps, and Sam catches him with a muffled 'oof'. "D'you like it?" he asks. "I turned Dean into Edward Cullen!"
"Listen to me, you little punk," Dean says, looming over Gabriel, "you turn me right or so help me I will -"
"You will what, exactly?" Gabriel asks, smiling sweetly up at him. "You can't threaten yourself back to normal, Deannie-weenie."
"Deannie-weenie," Sam repeats, laughter shaking in ever syllable. "That's a new one." Dean turns a baleful gaze on him and he clears his throat, looks sternly at the little angel in his arms. "Gabriel, what did we tell you about using your powers?"
"You said that with great power comes great responsibility," Gabe recites, like a dutiful student. He ruins the effect by scowling and whining, "but being responsible is boooooring."
"Well, why can't you just 'be boring' this once and turn me normal?"
"I like you better like this," Gabe replies, the sweet smile returning. "You're pretty. Balthazar thinks so too, and Cas. Right, Cas?"
Cas looks up from the miniature rainbows on the wall, eyes a bit glazed over. He beams at Dean - one of those purely joyful smiles that come so few and far between for him; he's as serious as a child as he is as an adult. Dean's got a weak spot for those smiles - the angel's so serious so much of the time that his smiles seem especially sunny, especially bright. The kid levels one of those smiles at him and it's like all his stern resolve fades away (Sam always shakes his head at Dean, tells him he should never have kids because he'd be such a softie and the longer he's an angel parent, the less he finds he can argue the point).
"Don't you smile at me like that," he says, and Cas immediately schools his mouth into a stern line, but his eyes belie his humor.
"Aw, c'mon Dean. Dont you want Cassie to be happy?" Gabe coos, batting his eyes.
"Cas, seriously?" he asks, ignoring Gabe and squatting down to eye-level with his favorite - he knows he shouldn't have favorites but, well, he's given up trying not to and it's not like the others don't use it to their advantage anyway.
"I know better than to like something that makes you unhappy," Cas says, dignified. Dean's sigh of relief comes too soon because Cas continues, "but the light is mesmerizing."
"I'm glittery!" His voice absolutely does not shriek, it does not. Cas tilts his head and looks at him like he's the baby.
"Tell ya what, Deannie," Gabe pipes up, "what if I turn you normal at midnight?"
"After dinner," he counters, standing up and not quite believing that he's considering indulging any of these bastards.
"Before bedtime," Gabe answers and crosses his arms, a smug smile growing on his face. "Final offer."
Dean pushes a hand through his hair, and the movement sends rainbows criss-crossing all over the room. Cas 'oohs' quietly, obviously unable to help himself. Dean glances down at the kid, who's holding onto his pant leg with one hand while staring around him in wonderment.
"Fine, fine!" he says, crossing his arms. "Seriously, Gabe, I am going to kill you one of these days."
"Idle threats, Deanie-weenie," Gabe sing-songs, "idle threats." Sam finally breaks down laughing, tries to turn it into a hacking cough, and ends up burying his face in Gabriel's hair to hide it. Gabe just smirks, the smug little bastard.
So Dean resigns himself to a day as Edward Cullen. Every so often, Dean catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and becomes awash with new horror at the fact that he is glittering faintly but it's easy amusement for the kids who spend hours chasing the rainbows (Dean makes a mental note to get a bubble machine...all kids like bubbles and he's hoping he'll get the same effect without having to be a human prism).
Sam's lips twitch every so often, and he chuckles quietly to himself when he thinks Dean isn't looking. Dean just avoids Bobby for the rest of the day; he's humiliated enough without being reminded of his "glittery ass."
The worst part is when Sam orders a pizza, and Dean absentmindedly goes to answer the door. The sun's gone down for the most part, but it's still sending out a few feeble rays. The pizza boy, a scrawny pimple of a teenager, looks at him agape for a second, eyes wide, mouth open, and Dean remembers with a jolt that he's probably still sparkling.
"What're you lookin' at?" he asks, his good mood about the pizza evaporating.
"Nothing, nothing. Um, that'll be $39.50."
"Good. Here." Dean takes the stack of pizzas from him, slaps the money into the teen's hand. "Keep the change."
"All I'm gonna say is, Twilight? Really?" The teen shakes his head. "I mean, dress up all you want, man, I'm not here to judge, but...at least dress up as something cool."
"Yeah?" Dean steps forward, into the kid's space, uses his 'intimidation smile.' "Well, all I'm gonna say is, how about you get off my property before I kick your scrawny little ass, huh?"
Pizza boy jumps and scrambles backward, nearly tripping down the porch stairs in his haste.
"Wow, Dean, you really ought to be nicer," Balthazar quips, reaching up to take the bag of breadsticks from Dean. "He was just giving you some good Life Advice."
"Shut it, you," Dean says, kicking the angel lightly on the rear. Balthazar squawks in indignation, but settles just for shooting him a poisonous glare and vowing retribution. Dean rolls his eyes - it'll take a lot more than a pint-sized angel muttering at him to scare him now.
As they demolish the pizza, Dean bribes Gabe half-heartedly, and he's turned back to normal by the time they've finished their ice cream. He's so relieved, he lets the angels help him with the dishes. They love to help with the dishes, but more soap and suds ends up on each other - and the adult dishwasher - than on the actual dishes, not even Cas can resist the temptation to throw a handful or two every now and then. Eventually, though, the dishes are dried and put away, the angels bathed (it's definitely not as traumatic as the first time, and Dean and Sam have it down to an art by now).
"Dean?" Gabe asks, as Dean's tucking him into bed, grumbling good-naturedly about how he's a little bastard of an angel, isn't he?
"Yeah, what? You gonna turn me into a werewolf next or something?"
"You're a lot cooler than any sparkly vampire on tv." Gabe mumbles this really quickly, immediately rolls over so his back his to Dean, who can see the back of his ears and neck turning red. He smiles wryly. It's really not fair how hard it is to be or stay mad at whatever shenanigans the three angels get themselves into when they say things like this, when they climb onto Sam's shoulders to take a snooze from the vantage point, when they look up at Dean and smile and he remembers that they are, in fact, actual angels. So he chuckles at Gabriel and ruffles his hair.
Deanne Winchester's still stomping her way through my head - and all I can see when I close my eyes is a series of her and Castiel's "firsts." This (loosely) follows the Seasons 4 and 5 timeline.
--
The first time Deanne sees her, she's in Hell and she doesn't know who this angel is...she just appears, battle-worn and tired, a soldier and a good one. She takes a hold of Deanne's arm, who for the first time in forty years can't feel the agony of fire searing into her flesh. That grip on her arm, it's a relief, a comfort, and Deanne's only thought is that this angel's face was the face she'd seen in her dreams.
She wakes up in the ground, with a mouthful of dirt and no idea where she is.
--
The first time she comes face to face with the angel, she's freaked.
"Who are you?"
"I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition." And if she weren't so busy figuring out how to gank the whatever-it-is (while simultaneously wondering what in the hell is going on), Deanne would roll her eyes. Who talked like that anymore? Nerds, maybe - and the person in front of her certainly fits the bill - but who the fuck does this bitch think she is?
"I'm an angel of the Lord." Oh, well,Ā shit, Deanne thinks. Of course, she's an angel. The only things besides God she doesn't believe in, and now they're crawling up her ass too.
"What's the matter?" Castiel the Angel of the Lord asks, coming closer. "You don't think you deserve to be saved." And she looks at Deanne with pity? Sadness? Confusion, certainly, as if Deanne ought to be on her knees and thanking a God she doesn't believe exists. Confusion, as if Deanne doesn't make sense, as if she'd expected one reaction and got something completely different - and doesn't have the frame of reference to know what to do with it.
Deanne takes a deep breath to keep from screaming, to keep from punching this so-called angel of the Lord (because, really, she's done a lot of stupid things in the past but punching an angel - if she really were an angel - would probably be the stupidest thing she could do). She takes a deep breath and asks "why" because she remembers everything that happened in Hell and the last thing she wants is to be back on Earth with its cool breezes and delicious bacon cheeseburgers and its stars and smells and beauty, back with her brother and her precious Baby, when she's tainted and broken.
"Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you." And, see, Deanne's real good at reading between the lines. She hears in Castiel's voice a deep conviction that what she's done is right. Deanne hears faith - and that's just stupid because she's an abomination, she's just as bad as the demons she hunts. No sane being would put their belief - their faith - in her, which tells her that whoever's behind all this is either the opposite of sane or very, very desperate. Or both.
Castiel takes a long look at her, probing and searching, her expression inscrutable. God only knows what she's thinking (she just barely suppresses a snort at exactly how apt that particular phrase is for the mess she's in), but Deanne finds herself feeling oddly anxious. Like she hopes she measures up, even though she knows she probably doesn't.
She has to take a deep breath when Castiel disappears.
--
The first time she gets the tiniest inkling of just how truly fucked she is, Alastairās got Cas by the throat, whispering something in Latin. They'd meant for an angels vs. demons showdown, but Cas is limp as a ragdoll, staring up at Alastair, more helpless than Deanneās ever seen her and she hadn't meant for that to happen. Deanne doesnāt like Cas, not so much, not really, not yet (but Anna thinks Cas likes her, says "she has a weakness, she likes you" which is stupid, why would she? How could she?).
She doesnāt really like her but Alastairās got her by the throat andā¦Deanne moves. The pipeās in her hand before she realizes itās there, and she swings as hard as she can, which is pretty damn hard. Alastair jerks back and Cas falls to the ground, eyes wide. He sneers at Deanne about what she did in hell, and now Sam knows and everythingās gone wrong. Thereās no time to think but somehow one clear thought slices through the fear and guilt and panic and rage. One clear thought: āI never want to see the angel look like that again.ā
Anna retrieves her grace and disappears in a flash of light, burning Alastair to dust.
As Deanne snarls at Uriel, a not-quite-smirk blooms lightning-fast on Casā lips. They lock eyes for a moment, a shining moment where Cas seems to read that one thought and she doesnāt see her reaction before they blink out of existence.
She staggers, takes a deep breath, sighs. She runs a hand through her hair and thinks to herself that her life is way too fricking complicated.
--
(The first time Deanne calls the angel "Cas," it's mainly to annoy her. She calls her "Cas" as an up-yours to the angel, an 'I know you prefer to be called Castiel because that's what all your angel buddies call you, but I am human so Cas it is' thing. She calls her "Cas" just to see her face contract ever-so-minutely with irritation.)
There is no first time Deanne calls the angel "Cas" out of affection. It happens so gradually, she doesn't even know it's happening until Cas is just...Cas.Ā
--
The first time Deanne realizes exactly how deeply she's in over her head is the moment she sees the theoretical-future Cas, the one whose eyes are glassy and foggy with drugs. There are lots of things so completely wrong with this future, but she hates this Cas with a burning intensity she normally reserves for the things she hunts. Deanne hates the way she speaks - words slow and barely formed and given a gross new-agey hippie-dippie emphasis that takes advantage of desperation - she hates the way she moves - languid and loping and uncaring. This Cas is pathetic, stumbling over herself, having orgies when she should be figuring out how to stop the Apocalypse, and pitying herself.
But if Deanne's honest with herself, she mostly hates the way this Cas looks at her, smiles at her. It's like a sucker punch in her gut every time it happens because the Cas she knows (her Cas) looks at her with razor-sharp intensity that slices through her bravado, looks at her with curiosity and naivete. Her Cas doesn't smile easily, doesn't laugh easily, but when she does, it's like she can't help it. This Cas, this wrong future-version, gives smiles away like she has plenty to spare, but they're cheap and insincere or they're sharp and bitter at the edges.
Deanne bites her lip against the desire to shake some sense into her. It disturbs her down to her core to see the angel reduced to a charlatan who uses fancy nonsense words to lure desperate people into her bed. She could scream or punch something, but she comforts herself in knowing that this is a fake version, this version of Cas will never be. Small comfort...
When all is said and done, Zachariah brings her back to her time and gears up for some pretty grand torture when Cas brings her to the side of a dark empty stretch of highway.
"Pretty nice timing, Cas," Deanne says, rolling her neck, dread still deep in her belly and adrenaline making her head buzz.
"We had an appointment," she says, the smallest fragment of a smile playing at the corners of her lips. She's Cas, standing too straight, too stiff. She's Cas, and Deanne's nearly shaky with relief.
"Don't ever change." She knows Cas can't and won't and doesn't understand all of what she means by this, but she has to say it anyway. She has to say it. There's a flash of something like comprehension on Cas' face, a tacit acknowledgement of the sentiment behind the words. For a moment, she allows that fragment of a smile to grow before returning to business at hand.
Deanne squares her shoulders and calls Sam because she remembers how bleak the future looked, reflected in a pair of eyes dark with despair.
--
The first time they kiss, Deanne's only half-conscious, lying on the floor of an old shack, and Cas is leaning over her. She can see her lips moving, but there's a ringing in her ears so she can't hear what she's saying. Her vision's going spotty - she really needs to stop getting hit on the head - but she's trying to stay awake because...she can't really remember why.
Cas leans down, gripping the lapels of her jacket, her facial expression becoming urgent as she repeats herself. Her mouth moves wider and slower, like she's emphasizing what she's saying, like she's hoping Deanne's suddenly gained the ability to read lips.
"Can't...hear you," she says, and her tongue feels thick and clumsy in her mouth. Something important's going on, she had something really important to do...she tries to sit up but Cas pushes her back down with a scowl.
"Get off," she slurs, fighting against the angel, "got - d - som'n." Cas shakes her head, sharp, leans in until their noses are practically touching.
"NO," she mouths.
"But - " Deanne starts, but the rest of her protest gets lost in Cas' mouth. It lasts a moment and, in that moment, Deanne remembers with stark clarity how it felt when Cas touched her in Hell - the sudden ending of pain, the relief, the comfort. The kiss is like the first cool gulp of water down a parched throat, a shower after a dusty, sweaty day - it feels so good, it scares her.
It's over too quickly. Cas looks down at her and smiles wryly like she's confirmed something for herself, then disappears in the blink of an eye. Deanne huffs, lets her head thunk on the floor (a bad idea, given that she's probably suffering from a concussion or something), and closes her eyes.
"What the hell was that?"
--
The first time they hug goes like this: Cas looks like her world has fallen right out from under her feet. Her God, her Father (the God, the Father, if you subscribe to that, really) is MIA, and her faith is in shambles around her feet. Deanne can practically see it shattering off her.
"You son of a bitch," she snarls, looking at the sky (it's not the first time she's cursed, but it's the first time she's used them as a Curse, putting all the vehemence of her disillusionment behind the words) "I believed in..." She stops, flinches, and the silence is resounding. Deanne hears the ragged edge of her breathing and she knows all too well how Cas is feeling. She knows a thing or two about fathers who aren't only absent but disappointing, knows what it means to have so much faith in a person - or the idea of a person - and be let down so hard it's earth-shattering.
Deanne's long since come to grips with her father, with the complicated twisted messy relationship she has with him and his memory. She's used to the respect she has for the man warring with all the times she'd been hurt by him. She'd practically hero-worshipped her dad when she was a kid, tried to embody him - still does, honestly, as much as she tries to steer away from his mistakes. It's confusing and, for Cas who doesn't just hero-worship her Father but actually worship-worships him, this loss of faith has to be profound in its unpleasantness.
Cas drops the amulet, now a symbol of her disappointment,Ā back in Deanne's handĀ and walks away.
At night, after she's sure Sam's asleep, Deanne takes Baby out into the countryside, driven to the edge of a field and parked so she can lie on the hood and stare up at the stars. It's literally a version of heaven for her and she knows not because she's just been to heaven but because it's the only time and place where she feels like she can breathe easy, where it's just her and the stars and the big black night, alone with her thoughts.
She's not surprised when Cas shows up. She'd been waiting for it.
Cas' eyes are bloodshot, and she smells faintly of alcohol. Deanne raises her eyebrows but doesn't comment, just scoots over and pats the hood.
"Warmed it up just for you," she says. Cas stays still for a long moment, staring at the space next to Deanne, before allowing herself to collapse onto it. She stares up at the stars and sighs - there's millenia of longing in that sigh - but remains quiet.
They stare up at the stars in silence for a long, long time. Long enough for the sky to start lightening, for the birds to begin to wake. Cas sits up at the first sound of birdsong, buries her face in her hands, takes a shuddering breath that sounds as if it's been wrenched from her. Deanne purses her lips and slides off the car. She stands in front of Cas and waits until the angel looks at her.
"C'mere." Cas' eyebrows knit slightly, but she slides forward, rests her feet on the Impala's bumper. Deanne doesn't break eye contact and gives her plenty of time to object or push her away or even disappear as she wraps her arms around Cas and holds her tight, holds her close. She doesn't have anything to say that doesn't sound trite, so she tries to let the hug speak for her. Cas doesn't move, just sits and absorbs the contact.
Then Deanne feels Cas' arms go around her waist, hesitant in movement but honest in gesture, feels her fall into the hug, accept it and return it all at once.
"Thank you," Cas says, when they've broken apart.
Deanne tries to brush it off as nothing, but it's not nothing.
So the askspnbbverseĀ was too cute of an idea to pass up...and I got hit with a plotbunny with the always lovely (and encouraging) gingerhaole's snap-on bb!angel shirts.Ā Her post can be found hereĀ (really, I just wanted an excuse for fluff).
Disclaimers: I don't know if this follows the spnbbverse exactly, as I'm pretty new to the concept? (Oh, and I'm still working my way through Season 5, so I don't quiiite have a handle on Balthazar's "voice" yet. Forgive me if he's a little out of character.)
--
"You're a fucking baby, Cas," Dean says, because that's all he can think to say. "I mean, you're a fucking baby, with - with wings, what the hell?! And it's contagious?!"
Cas, Gabriel, and Balthazar are all sitting on Bobby's dusty old couch, watching Dean's reaction with varying levels of interest. Gabriel, who Lord help them all, still has some of his powers, isn't so much watching as he is angel-mojoing himself a pile of candy (son of a bitch, Dean thinks, that is the worst possible combination he can think of: a mischievous ass of an angel, reverted to toddler-dom, with angel powers on a sugar highā¦he's getting a headache just thinking about the trouble that would cause so he stops thinking about it). Balthazar's watching him, but more so because he's waving around a bottle of Bobby's liquor. Cas is quiet, serious, and Dean always figured he'd be a quiet, serious, nerdy kind of child but it's still a little unnerving seeing his angel intelligence on the face of a five-year-old.
"Magic," he grumbles. "I hate magic. Friggin' witches, man. Son of a bitch."
"Are you seriously cussing in front of toddlers?" Sam asks, "Angel toddlers, no less."
"What're they gonna do? Smite me?" Dean retorts, taking a long swig. Balthazar makes a longing noise, which he ignores. "Besides, hello, we've got bigger fish to fry. Cas is a fucking baby, Gabriel still has his powers, in case you missed that, Balthazar's going into withdrawal, and I find trying to wrap my head around this mess we're in is a lot more important than watching my language!"
"Yeah, but repeating yourself over and over isn't going to figure out what's happened and how to reverse it. And you'll only teach them how to curse, so not only will we have three angel toddlers on our hands, we'll have cursing angel toddlers."
"Look," Dean starts to say, when Bobby interrupts him.
"Will you two idjits stop fightin'?" he asks. "You're upsetting them." Dean and Sam both look down, and sure enough, the three winged children are now frowning at the two of them.
"Y'know, Bobby, somehow, I think they're more upset that they've reverted back to their diaper days than they are about us fighting."
"In any case, I ain't ever had to deal with a cryin' baby and I don't mean to start now," Bobby says, raising his eyebrows. "Don't even know why you brought 'em here."
"Uh, Bobby?" Sam says, "if you hadn't noticed, neither of us are particularly well-equipped to take care of one toddler -"
"And you think I am?"
"Much less three. And," Sam continues as if Bobby hadn't interrupted him, "we thought maybe you could figure out how we can, you know, change them back?"
"But didja have to bring them here?"
"They've got wings coming out their backs, for chrissakes, Bobby" Dean explodes. "It's not like we can waltz into the next motel and not have people notice that we have three children who seem to have sprouted wings!"
Cas hiccups at that moment, and all three men look down at him. His eyes go wide and watery, and Bobby swears quietly under his breath.
"Now look what you done."
"Uh, Dean?" Sam says, taking a step back. "He looks like he's about to cryā¦"
"Ya think?!" Dean's voice is a little too high to be dignified, but he's past the point of caring.
"Soā¦you wanna take care of it?" Sam asks, like Dean's missing the obvious answer.
"Me?!"
"Well, who else?"
"Uh, you for starters. Or - or Bobby."
"Dean, he likes you best," Sam says, using his 'powers of persuasion' voice. "Besides, remember the time with the shapeshifter baby? You're good at it."
"Well, what - " at that moment, Cas lip starts to tremble and he sniffs so pathetically that Dean scoops him up. "C'mon Cas," he says, bouncing him the way he's seen mothers do on tv, "you don't want to do that, do you? Cry, I mean, cause I'll make fun of you if you do. Hell, I'll make fun of you either way, but you'll only make it worse if you start wailing like a baby. Which you are, for now, I guess."
At that, Cas starts bawling. Sam sighs and Bobby rolls his eyes.
"Nice one, moron," he mutters.
"Oh, come on! So he's touchy about being a baby! You would be too! In fact, I'd bet my Impala that you wouldn't have gone half the time he did without throwing the biggest temper tantrum this side of the country's ever seen." That shuts Bobby up.
"Know how to get him to stop crying?" Bobby asks, eyes screwed up against Cas' howling. Gabriel and Balthazar both frown too, and Sam hurries to comfort them before they start crying too. His technique, which seems to be waving his hands in front of their faces, could use some work.
"Does it look like I know what I'm doing?" Dean asks. "Does it look like I'm gonna be winning any daddy-of-the-year awards anytime soon, huh? Come on!"
"Well, you have to do something. He looks like he's about to explode."
"Aw, come on, buddy," Dean coos - yes, coos, and he feels freaking foolish using that tone of voice so nobody better hold it against him - "you gotta stop crying, 'cause you're giving me a headache. We'll get you back to the way you were, Cas, I promise. But you gotta stop crying first. Please?"
Cas pulls himself under control with visible difficulty and looks at Dean, annoyance clear in his expression. 'I've been turned into a baby,' it says, 'and you can't even let me have the pleasure of a tantrum.' It's adorable, Dean thinks suddenly, all that righteous indignation on a pudgy little face. He chuckles, and Cas scowls.
"Sorry, Cas, sorry," Dean says, still chuckling helplessly. "It's just that you're so cute like this and - "
Suddenly, Cas starts twisting in his arms and reaching insistently out to Sam, who takes him, nonplussed. As he's being passed, one of his wings clips Dean hard across the face and he grunts in surprise. As he rubs his jaw - those wings may look soft and feathery, but they pack a punch - he catches the baby angel giving him a smug look.
"That was on purpose. You little - you hit me on purpose!"
"Dean, you can't scream at a toddler like that."
"He's not a toddler! He's a bitchy, nerdy little jackass in a toddler's body and if you think I'm going to treat him like he's anything but that, you can go screw yourself."
"You brought this on yourself, Dean," Gabriel pipes up, his mouth muffled as he chews on a stick of taffy. "You were the one who pissed off that witch."
"What, you guys can talk? Well, this just getting better and better, doesn't it?"
"Yes," Cas mumbles.
"So why weren't you saying anything before? When we were trying to figure out what the hell to do with you!"
"You didn't ask," Cas replies. "And I'm finding itā¦more difficult than usual toā¦form sentences." His eyebrows knit.
"Yeah, Cas was never the smartest one, was he?" Gabriel laughs, making a grotesque face when his brother scowls at him.
"I was hit with the full blast, Gabriel," he says with as much dignity as a slight lisp allows. "Whereas you and Balthazar were only hit with the aftershocks. It has nothing to do with our abilities."
"Then why do I still have my power? I think it's 'cause I'm stronger than you," Gabriel sing-songs. Dean thinks that he's been using this taunt for millenia, since they were actual children, that he uses it because it's so effective, never fails to get a rise out of his brother. He's proven right whenĀ Cas makes a low rumbling growl in the back of his throat and tries to lunge at Gabriel, thwarted by Sam tightening his grip on him.
"Look, Dean, why don't you take Cas and - I don't know, play with him or something. Bobby and I can take care of those two."
"We can?"
"Yes, Bobby. We can. Or - well - we have to." Sam raises his eyebrows at Dean, who sighs and approaches him.
"So," he says, looking Cas directly in the eye, "you gonna hit me in the face with your wings again or you gonna play nice?" Cas eyes him contemplatively, obviously weighing his options.
"Stop calling me a baby, and I might play nice," he says finally. He's obviously trying for an intimidating tone, but he's still taking shuddery breaths and the tracks on his face haven't dried yet. The color in his face hasn't gone back to normal yet either, and the whole tableau makes him, well, less than menacing. Dean has to suppress another laugh.
"You might play nice. Really. Cas, do you really think you're in the position to be threatening me?"
"Hey," Sam protests, as he gets a faceful of black feathers when Cas twists in his arms to grip Dean' by the collar of his jacket.
"Just stop calling me a baby," Cas growls, "and we'll be square."
"Fine, fine," he says, putting up his hands in surrender, "you got me. We good? Can I - can I take you now?"
"Okay." Cas lets himself be given to Dean, and he's trying to be dignified, but he's curled an arm around Dean's neck, is visibly fighting back a monstrous yawn. Angel consciences in toddler bodies, man, it's weird.
"I think it's naptime for someone," Dean says, then casts a glance at the other two. Balthazar's laid his head on the arm of Bobby's sofa, still staring at the bottle of scotch sitting abandoned on the table. Gabriel's head is drooping onto the pile of candy he's conjured for himself. "Make that all three someones."
"Well, what are we gonna do about clothes? You can't just have them inā¦are those your shirts?"
"It's not like Wal-Mart has a "kid angel" section," Sam says, rolling his eyes. "What do you think we should do, make them clothes?"
"Like you said, Wal-Mart doesn't have a kiddie angel section, so yeah," Bobby replies, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"I find myself unable to stay awake any longer," Cas announces to the room at large.
"Right. Guess I'll justā¦go andā¦tuck you in, then."
"Thank you." And Cas lays his head on Dean's shoulder, who raises his eyebrows.
"He's right, you two do have a special bond," Sam says. From the couch, BalthazarĀ mumbles sleepily, "Anyone with eyes can see that."
"Ain't that just precious," Bobby adds flatly, rolling his eyes. Dean ignores them all in favor of walking out of the room. He decides to put Cas in the smaller of Bobby's guest rooms - it smells musty from disuse, but the bed's clean enough. Tucking the little angel (if you'd told Dean he'd ever think words like that, he'd have punched you in the face and now look at him) into bed poses more of a challenge than he thought it would and he spends five minutes worrying about wings becoming tangled in the bedsheets and asphyxiation hazards before realizing he's just spent four more minutes worrying than he should have and just flings the blanket over Cas' sleeping form.
"Friggin' magic."
Downstairs, Sam and Bobby have taken refuge in the kitchen; Gabe's created a nest for himself in his candy pile and Balthazar's sprawled on the floor under the desk in the living room. The liquor bottle is now in front of Bobby, and it's a lot emptier than when Dean left it.
"Did you drink all that, Bobby?"
"No." Bobby sounds supremely unhappy about that. "Turns out Balthazar's still got a taste for alcohol."
"You mean, he drank all that?"
"Yep. Knocked him right out too."
"Crap, that can't be good for someone so smallā¦"
"Nope."
"So what do we do now, Bobby?" Sam asks. He's poring over an old book, with a teetering pile next to him.
"Find a way to reverse it, obviously."
"I'm not seeing anything that's going to help," Sam sighs, leaning back in the chair. "I mean, there can't be very much lore about angels getting in the way of witches' curses."
"Yeah, that and whatever magic they were using, it's gotta be really strong if it can affect angels," Dean adds. "Magic, man, seriously!"
"Maybe it'll wear off, like a cold."
"So, what? We just wait and see?"
"Well, I don't hear you comin' up with any plans."
"Damn it. So we got nothing besides 'wait it out'? You mean, we could be stuck with angel children for god-knows-how-long?!"
"Hey, we're not happy about it either, but it's the best we can do," Sam sighs, pushing back his hair. "We'll keep looking and, in the meantime, keep anyone else from finding out about this."
"Gimme that," Dean says, taking a deep swig from the liquor bottle. "We're gonna need a lot more than this if we want to survive longer than a few days without wanting to strangle them."
"I second that." Bobby takes the bottle from Dean, finishes it off, sighs. "Come on, you two've gotta help me round up all my liquor and get it out of reach. I refuse to deal with a hungover angel in a kid's body."
It takes them several hours to find all the bottles of scotch and tequila and whiskey ("Seriously, Bobby, what are you doing? Stocking for the Apocalypse?" "It was the Apocalypse, you moron. And yes, since you asked, I was."), and by the time they're done, Dean's ready to collapse into bed.
With Balthazar and Gabriel tucked into blankets on Bobby's couch, Sam takes the cot from the panic room and moves it into the living room, so he can keep an eye on the two during the night. Bobby goes into his, shutting and locking the door with the threat that if either of them wake him during the night to deal with angel business, he'll skin them alive.
It leaves Dean with the guest bedroom, where he'd put Cas earlier. He hesitates for just a second, before shifting the angel over and crawling in beside him.
"I want to go with Dean," Cas mumbles plaintively - a sleeptalker, who knew? - and curls into Dean's side, "he's better."
"Smart kid," Dean chuckles, patting him on the head.
"Yes, one monkey to go please."
Dean falls asleep to Cas' quiet talking. His last thought is that he's confident they'll figure it out.
--
But they don't. Not yet, anyway. It's two weeks before they even figure out a clue as to what kind of curse or hex or hoodoo's been done to the angels. Even then, they're uncertain if they're right and, if they are, how to break it.
That makes two weeks of wrangling an angel with a penchant for high-quality booze (Bobby spends a third of his time researching, a third grumbling about his house being overrun by angel children, and a third keeping Balthazar off the counters and away from the liquor), another angel with a knack for mischief (and, of course, this would be the angel who still had some of his mojo, the one who likes to use said mojo to give his brothers wedgies or stick gum to the ceilings), and yet another angel who tends toward being self-righteous and stubborn when cranky.
"If this is what parents have to deal with," Dean says on the night of the fifteenth day, covered in all sorts of crap he doesn't even want to think about, "then never let me have kids."
Sam looks up from the shirt he's engineering for the angels and snorts.
"Tell me about it. Look at me. I've become an angel seamstress." He'd figured out a design, something similar to a onesie, with a flap that snapped on around their wings, and it's a good idea. There's only so long the kids can run around in adult-sized t-shirts (and they've ruined too many to count).
Problem is, Dean's really no good with a needle and thread and Bobby refuses to have anything to do with sewing clothes, so the task falls to Sam who sighs resignedly and sets himself to the task. He does well, for the most part, aside from falling into loud cursing fits when he's pricked himself with the needle one too many times. There's a couple of holes in the wall from these episodes, but they've gotten fewer and farther in between so Dean thinks Sam's probably got the hang of things by now. Either that, or he's just stopped noticing the pain.
They've already got Gabe and Balthazar into their new shirts so Dean's just waiting for Cas'. The other boys had been very vocal about who got what first and it'd been easier to acquiesce to them (less of a headache for everyone), so Cas had been made to wait.
"You about finished with that?" he asks.
"I'm going as fast as I can, Dean," Sam says, taking a deep breath.
"Come on. I still gotta give Cas a bath, then take one myself - Gabriel sprayed melted taffy at me while I was wrestling him into the bathtub and Balthazar tried to get into Bobby's liquor cabinets again."
"So?"
"So! So he actually succeeded! Only this time, he fell as he was taking a swig and guess who was there to catch an armful of a smelly five-year-old and a faceful of cheap scotch?"
"Well, I've churned out two of these things in two days, which is pretty damn good, if you ask me."
"No one's asking you."
"So get off my back, okay?" Sam turns his attention back to the shirt and works in silence for five minutes while Dean stands over him, tapping his foot impatiently. The sooner he can give Cas a bath, the sooner he can take one himself, the sooner he can get to bed.
"There." Sam knots his last stitch, tests the seams, and hands the shirt to Dean.
"Thanks, Sammy," he says, and heads down into the "playroom" (Bobby's panic room, for obvious reasons), where Cas is sitting in the middle. He's surrounded by the toys they've bought from various yard sales around the state in the hopes that they'd distract the kids - they hadn't. Gabe and Balthazar mainly use the things to make a mess, though Cas is, sometimes, vaguely interested.
At the moment, Cas has a top-like toy in his hands and seems mesmerized by the spinning pictures on its side, a bunny hopping through a field. He has a half-smile on his face, his head slightly tilted as he scrutinizes it. The look in his eyes is one Dean's seen a million times before, in grown-up Cas, the one that says he wants to understand but doesn't quite. It's sometimes exasperating on the adult, but it's positively endearing on the child - and maybe that's because Cas, for all his angelic wisdom and power, is really quite childlike.
"Hi Dean," Cas says, not looking up from the toy.
"Hey kiddo," he answers. "You ready for your bath?"
"Not particularly. Bath time is," he stops the toy's rotation and looks up at Dean, "unpleasant. I find I don't enjoy it very much."
"Yeah, well, we gotta do a lot of things we don't enjoy very much."
"I know." Cas stands, follows Dean up the stairs, his little hand curling automatically into Dean's. Who knew that turning into a kid would make him so touchy-feely? He's really the easiest of the three angels, most of the time. He almost blew up the second floor of the house when he decided that he ought to have the right to sleep at the same time as the adults. Gabriel and Balthazar had put up token resistance but they'd fallen asleep quickly enough. Cas, on the other hand, had seemed determined to stay awake, to prove his point - but he was tired and his toddler temperament had warred with his angel sensibilities. Dean had ended up with a very cranky, very tired, very stubborn angel on his hands, and only managed to talk Cas down from an epic tantrum by promising to go to sleep himself.
Tonight, Cas seems extra-ready for bed. His eyes droop shut in the bathtub and, usually keen on seeming more adult than he really is, he'd allowed Dean to scrub behind his ears and wash his wings, towel him off.
"You okay?" Dean asks, setting Cas' plump body on the bathroom counter.
"It's tiresome, being a child," Cas says, lips turning slightly downward. "I don't know how human children stand being so helpless."
"Well, usually it's because they don't know any better." Dean pulls the shirt over Cas' head, helps him thread his arms through the sleeves, pulls his wings out the back. Cas yawns and nuzzles into Dean's shoulder as he snaps up the back of the shirt. "There ya go, all set."
"Thank you," the angel mumbles, his words blending together.
"Alright, alright, it's time to get you to bed." Dean scoops the little guy up and Cas' arms wind around his neck as he presses his face into Dean's neck. Because he can, he kisses the top of his head; Cas hums a little and snuggles closer.
"Can I sleep in your room tonight?"
"Didn't you all decide to take turns? Is tonight your turn?"
"No."
"Well..."
"Please?" Cas seems to have turned into a limpet, refuses to let go of Dean's neck, so Dean shrugs.
"Fine. But if either of your brothers does anything to me tomorrow, I'm telling them it's your fault."
"Fair."
Dean decides to lay down just for a second, let Cas fall asleep, then tuck him into bed so he can shower. He runs a hand along Cas' wings and hums a Metallica song to himself, and his eyes drift shut to the sound of the angel's soft snoring.
In the morning, Bobby'll storm into the room screaming about the Enochian symbols crayoned into his faded, yellowed wallpaper, the various sticky substances that seem to coat every surface of his house. He'll rant and rave about how he stepped on another Lego (didn't I ask you to get rid of those damn things last week?!), how this is the last straw, how he's going to turn these angels back to their normal selves if it's the last thing he does - then he's never going to look at another one of them so help him God. He'll storm out as suddenly as he came in, leaving behind a sleep-mussed Cas, blinking sleepily after him and Dean, who's trying to restart his heart after being woken so violently.
Gabriel will probably eat too much sugar (again) and one of two things will happen: he'll go into a sugar high that, coupled with his angel powers, makes all other kids' sugar highs look mild by comparison or he'll get a stomachache and be grumpy the rest of the day. Either way, he'll make everyone laugh while simultaneously making them want to strangle him.
Bobby will have to pull Balthazar away from the cabinets (again - the kid's really tenacious and really smart, his ways of getting up to that level become more and more elaborate as time goes by) and he'll grumble and complain but the two of them will settle down with some cards and play poker.
Sam will bury himself in research, resurfacing only to take stock of food supplies and determine that they need to go grocery shopping. He's the only one of them who doesn't live solely on cheeseburgers, pizza, or bad Chinese takeout, so he's in charge of the "cooking situation." If he wants to complain about ordering pizza three times in one week, then he can figure out what else to feed everyone in the house. He'll spend too much time making something that doesn't taste very good (he's not much of a cook for all his bellyaching), and he'll be defensive about it, ears slightly red, neck hot. Gabe will make a face and Balthazar will shudder, but everyone will eat whatever's on their plate - no seconds.
That's tomorrow.
Tonight, Dean dozes on his bed with a toddler fast-asleep on his chest, feathers tickling his nose. It's...nice, he thinks. He'd be surprised, except that he's too tired to be surprised by anything anymore. It's nice, even with the sticky things in his hair (he really hopes it's not gum because, if it is, he'll kill Gabriel, archangel or no archangel), even with Bobby yelling and Sam's constant long-suffering sighing, it's nice. Cas is a warm weight on his chest, and he hasn't stayed in one place for such a long time since he left Lisa and Ben. It's loud and chaotic...but it's never boring and it's just nice.
It'd be even nicer if they could figure out how to return everyone to normal, but for now, he supposes he can live with it. Heck, he supposes he even enjoys it.
āSam, you steal my Baby, you get slapped in the face. Thatās the new rule.ā
A friend requested some fem!Destiel, so I thought Iād fool around with Lady Dean and see how she turned out. Pretty much the same! Jensen Ackles has that weird marriage of being super duper masculine but also having the face of a Disney princess.
I donāt see Deanne being much different than Dean. Emotionally constipated, way too attached to her car, ready to die in a fire for her little sister, vigorously denying her feelings for Cas.Ā Filling the void with cheeseburgers and slutty guys and push-ups and weapons maintenance. Maybe more Joan Jett on her stereo.
She exudes cool, even just wearing a plain white t-shirt and faded jeans so worn at the knees theyāre threads away from having holes. Her dust-brown hairās cut short, like a boyās -ānone of that fairy-cut nonsense,ā sheād scoff, rolling her eyes (āyou mean, pixie,ā Sam would correct her, and sheād give him a flat, unimpressed look.)- and she wears her worn leather jacket like itās armor.
Deanne Winchesterās relationship with her father isā¦complicated. John Winchester is the best man she knows -and the worst- and she loves him and hates him in equal turns. Sheāll never forget the look of fear and grief and anger in his eyes when he shoved baby Sam into her arms and tells her to go. Sheād been half-asleep and wearing the plaid pajamas her mother had bought her - the ones she was only wearing because her racecar pjs were in the hamper - and her first instinct had been to freeze. She hadnāt yet been allowed to hold the baby without one or both of her parents hovering over her, ready to catch Sam if she dropped him (she never, ever would, sheād vowed solemnly, cross her heart and hope to die) so she knew this was serious and sheād clutched Sam to her chest and did as she was told instead. She was Samās Big Sister and it was her job to keep him safe when her parents couldnāt.
She's named after her maternal grandmother - Deanna - and she's okay with that Deanna's an okay name after all but after a year of the boys in her third grade class mocking the sound of her name Dee-ann-NUHHHH and calling her Diarrhea instead she starts insisting on being called Deanne pronounced like the boy's name and pretty soon nobody remembers her real name except Sam who likes to tease her by calling her Deanna she broke his nose once when she was drunk off her ass and he called her that he'd deserved it and she refused to apologize
Here is the naughty Destiel fic I wrote for gingerhaole. Well, I started it with the intentions of being naughty and ended up with ~feelings~.
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Deanne wakes on a soundless scream, the thud of blood pounding in her ears, her skin sticky with sweat and fear and adrenaline. She feels Cas wake and turns to her to apologize.
āDonāt,ā Cas says, her voice scratchy with sleep, before Deanne can even open her mouth.
āYou know, itās really creepy when you do that,ā she says instead, because itās the only thing she can think to say. She sits up, scrubs her face with her hands - angry that tears have formed in her eyes. Cas scoots closer, presses up against her back (Deanne realizes sheās shaking), rests her weight on one hand, runs the other through Deanneās hair, rests her cheek on Deanneās shoulder.
In the instant that Iron Man began to fall, Steve's mouth went dry. He can't die. It was a half-thought, floating unclaimed and unformed in his mind but screamed throughout his body - an instinctive certainty.
Iron Man fell and the noise of the battle, the dust and the heat and the sweat, it all seemed to fade away because there was room in Steve's body for one thing and one thing only: He cannot die.
In that moment, he isn't Captain America. He's just Steve, watching anxious and helpless as his lover falls through the chaos. The Hulk is busy with the alien bots that have swarmed over his massive green form. Thor is too high in the air. They're all too far away - and Iron Man smashes into the ground like a meteor, spraying chunks of concrete everywhere.
Steve takes off running, because he had loved and lost a lot of people, had said too many goodbyes in his long, long life. He had brushed his fingers over too many gravestones, laid too many flowers, shed too many tears. He didn't know if he could survive this one. Not this one.
Tony's too still, lying in the middle of the crater his suit had made, his helmet half gone. He's still and quiet in a way he never ever is, not even in sleep, and Steve's heart stutters to a stop. He's on his knees, Tony's head in his lap, before he's aware of what he's doing.
"Tony?" he whispers, because he can't bear the thought of having to say one more goodbye. He can't bear the thought of a quiet workshop and a Tony who isn't drinking more coffee than he should with motor oil in his hair and grease smudged on his face. He can't bear the thought of an empty bed and an even emptier heart.
So he leans over Tony and prays to the God his mother believed in, the God he's not so sure he believes in anymore. Prays and hopes and prays some more.
