Hello, I love your work except I’ve never read it bc I’m scared of spoilers ( I’m at season 4) , but I saw that you write about supernatural and I’m currently watching that show. I was wondering if you could write something without spoilers for me. I would love if it were destiel and maybe a soulmate au.
Dean Winchester x Castiel
Summary: The name of someone soulmate gets written on the inside of their wrist with time. Dean and Castiel had their time and now after three days of avoiding each other, they finally talk about it.
Warnings: talks about trauma and hell/Dean's PTSD/talks about death
Dean Winchester had spent his entire life looking at other people's wrists and feeling nothing but a dull, familiar ache.
Everyone had them—the marks. Names written in handwriting that wasn't your own, appearing sometime in your twenties if you were lucky, your thirties if you weren't. Your soulmate's name, in their handwriting. Sam had gotten his mark at twenty-three, though he never talked about who it belonged to anymore. Not since Jessica.
Dean's wrists had stayed blank through twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six. He'd almost convinced himself he didn't have a soulmate at all. Maybe people like him—people who lived this life—didn't get that kind of grace.
Then he came back from Hell, and everything hurt too much to notice his wrists.
It happened on a Thursday.
They were in Bobby's study, researching another half-baked scheme to stop the apocalypse. Sam was elbow-deep in a stack of leather-bound books that smelled like mildew and aged paper. Bobby was on the phone with another hunter, his voice gruff and impatient. And Castiel was standing near the window, staring out at the salvage yard like he could see something the rest of them couldn't.
Dean rolled up his sleeves, reaching for another book, and that's when he saw it.
Black ink against his skin, elegant and strange: Castiel
His heart stopped. Actually stopped. He stared at the letters, at the way they curved and peaked in a handwriting he'd never seen from the angel—had never seen Cas write anything at all, actually. But somehow he knew. He knew.
"Dean?" Sam's voice cut through the ringing in his ears. "You okay?"
Dean yanked his sleeve down so fast he nearly tore the fabric. "Fine. I'm fine."
Across the room, Castiel turned from the window, his head tilted in that bird-like way he had. Those blue eyes fixed on Dean with an intensity that made his skin prickle. "You're distressed. Your heart rate has increased significantly."
"Yeah, well, apocalypse'll do that." Dean grabbed a random book and pretended to read it upside down.
He couldn't look at Cas. If he looked at Cas right now, he'd—what? What the hell was he supposed to do with this information?
Sam was staring at him now, that concerned little brother look on his face. "Dude, seriously, what's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. Can we just focus on stopping Satan, please?"
Bobby hung up the phone and squinted at Dean over his desk. "Boy, you look like you've seen a ghost. And considering our line of work, that's saying something."
"I'm fine." Dean stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "I need some air."
He was out the door before anyone could stop him, his heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape. Outside, the salvage yard stretched out in all directions, a graveyard of rusted metal and shattered glass glinting in the afternoon sun.
Dean leaned against the Impala, trying to catch his breath. He pulled up his sleeve again, just to make sure he hadn't imagined it.
Nope. Still there. Castiel, written in that strange, precise handwriting.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered.
Dean managed to avoid Castiel for almost three days.
Not easy when the angel could appear anywhere at any time, but Dean had spent a lifetime running from things that scared him. He knew how to make himself scarce. He took long drives. He volunteered for supply runs. He suddenly developed a passionate interest in helping Bobby organize the salvage yard, which made the old hunter look at him like he'd grown a second head.
"You feeling alright?" Bobby asked on the second day, watching Dean sort through a pile of hubcaps with unnecessary concentration.
"Uh-huh. This have anything to do with you jumping three feet every time Castiel shows up?"
Dean's hands stilled. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Boy, I've known you since you were yay-high. You ain't subtle." Bobby spat into the dirt. "Whatever's going on, you might want to deal with it sooner rather than later. We got bigger fish to fry than whatever's got your panties in a twist."
Dean wanted to argue, but Bobby had already stumped back toward the house, leaving him alone with the hubcaps and his thoughts.
The thing was, Dean had never wanted a soulmate. The idea of it—of someone being cosmically tied to you, whether you liked it or not—had always felt like a cage. He'd watched his parents, seen how his dad had fallen apart after Mary died. That kind of connection was dangerous. It made you vulnerable.
And now, apparently, his soulmate was an angel of the Lord who'd already bled for him, already sacrificed everything. Who looked at Dean like he was something worth saving.
That was the part that really scared him.
On the third night, he was cleaning weapons in the Impala's trunk when he heard the rustle of wings behind him.
"You've been avoiding me."
Dean's hand tightened on the gun he was holding. He didn't turn around. "Been busy."
"You're cleaning your gun for the fourth time today."
"It's therapeutic." Dean finally looked over his shoulder. Cas stood there in his rumpled trench coat, looking confused and—unless Dean was imagining it—hurt. The angel's tie was crooked, and there was a smudge of something on his collar. He looked almost human in the fading light.
"Have I done something to offend you?"
"No. God, no." Dean set down the gun and wiped his hands on his jeans. "It's not you, Cas. It's just—" He stopped. How could he explain this?
Castiel stepped closer, his blue eyes searching Dean's face. "You've been different since Thursday. If I've—"
"When did you get yours?" The words came out before Dean could stop them.
Dean pushed up his sleeve, showing his wrist. Showing the name written there in handwriting he recognized now—he'd seen it once on a sigil Cas had drawn, quick and efficient. "This. When did you get your mark?"
The angel's eyes widened. For a long moment, he just stared at Dean's wrist, at his own name written there. Something flickered across his face—surprise, wonder, and something else Dean couldn't quite name.
Then, slowly, Castiel reached up and unbuttoned his shirt cuff, rolling up his sleeve with careful, deliberate movements.
There on his wrist, in Dean's cramped, half-illegible scrawl: Dean
"I've had it since I raised you from perdition," Castiel said quietly. "I didn't understand what it was at first. Jimmy Novak didn't have a mark—his soulmate was his wife. But this appeared on the vessel when I first touched your soul." He looked up at Dean, his expression impossibly earnest. "I've been waiting for you to mention yours."
Dean felt like the ground had disappeared beneath his feet. "You knew?"
"I suspected. Your reaction on Thursday confirmed it." Cas stepped even closer, close enough that Dean could see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes, could smell the ozone-and-rain scent that always clung to him. "I understand if this is... unwelcome. You didn't choose this. Neither of us did."
"That's not—" Dean ran a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself, with the universe, with everything. "Cas, do you even want this? A soulmate? You're an angel. You got stuck with some human's mark just because you pulled me out of the pit. That's not fair to you."
Something shifted in Castiel's expression. He looked almost amused. "Dean, I rebelled against Heaven for you. I've made choices that have cost me everything—my brothers, my home, my place in the garrison. But they were my choices. No one forced me to care about you. The mark only confirmed what I already knew."
Dean's breath caught. "What you already knew?"
Castiel reached out, his fingers hovering just above Dean's wrist where his name was written. His touch was warm when it finally made contact, thumb brushing over the letters. "That you are the one thing in all of creation I would choose. Mark or no mark."
The salvage yard was quiet except for the sound of Dean's heartbeat in his ears. He looked down at their wrists, at the names that matched, at proof of something he'd never let himself want.
"I'm not good at this," Dean said finally, his voice rough. "I don't know how to—I've never been someone's... I don't know what you're expecting here, Cas."
"Neither do I." A small smile crossed Cas's face, soft and genuine. "I've never had a soulmate before. I'm not even entirely certain what it means for an angel. But we'll figure it out together."
Dean laughed, a shaky sound that came out more desperate than he intended. "You say that like it's simple."
"Isn't it?" Castiel's hand moved from Dean's wrist to his hand, fingers intertwining with his own. "I care about you. You care about me. The mark simply acknowledges what already exists between us."
"And what exists between us?" Dean asked, even though he was pretty sure he knew the answer. He just needed to hear Cas say it.
Castiel's gaze never wavered. "Everything."
The word hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. Dean's throat felt tight. He'd spent so long running from this—from connection, from vulnerability, from the possibility that someone might actually want him, scars and all.
"I'm a mess, Cas. I'm broken. Hell broke me, and I don't—I'm not sure all the pieces are still there."
"I've seen your soul, Dean Winchester." Castiel's voice was fierce now, protective. "I raised you from perdition. I know exactly what you are—every crack, every scar, every beautiful, stubborn piece of you. And I would choose you anyway. I did choose you."
Dean felt something crack open in his chest, something he'd been keeping locked away for a long time. "Why?"
"Because you're you." Cas said it like it was the simplest truth in the world. "Because you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders and still find ways to be kind. Because you make me want to understand what it means to be human. Because when I was losing my faith in my father, you gave me something else to have faith in."
"That's a lot of pressure, man."
"You asked." But Castiel was smiling, that small, private smile he seemed to save just for Dean.
Dean looked at their joined hands, at the names on their wrists touching. "For what it's worth, if I could've chosen anyone, it would've been you anyway. Even before the mark. Maybe especially before the mark."
Castiel's smile widened, brighter than any star. "Then we're very fortunate the universe agrees."
They stood there in the gathering darkness, hands clasped between them, two names written in ink that would never fade. In the distance, a rusted car caught the moonlight. The wind whispered through the salvage yard, carrying the smell of motor oil and summer grass.
"So what now?" Dean asked.
"Now we do what we've always done. We fight. We save the world. We figure things out as we go." Castiel squeezed his hand. "The only difference is that now we stop pretending this doesn't matter."
"I was never really good at pretending," Dean admitted.
"I know. You're terrible at it."
Dean laughed, a real laugh this time, and something in him finally relaxed. "You gonna stick around tonight? Bobby's got a spare room. We could, I don't know, watch a movie or something. Talk. Whatever people do with their—" He couldn't quite bring himself to say it.
"Soulmates?" Castiel supplied helpfully.
"I would like that very much."
They walked back toward the house together, still holding hands. Through the window, Dean could see Sam and Bobby in the kitchen, probably arguing about some obscure piece of lore. Normal. Mundane. The kind of moment Dean had learned not to take for granted.
At the door, Castiel paused. "Dean?"
"Thank you. For not running."
Dean thought about the last three days, about all the times he'd almost bolted. "I tried. But you know me—I always come back to the important stuff eventually."
"I do know you." Castiel's eyes were impossibly soft in the porch light. "Better than I know anything else in this world."
And for the first time in a long time, Dean felt like something in his life had gone inexplicably, impossibly right.
Later, after the movie Sam had insisted they watch (some horror film that Dean spent most of mocking), after Bobby had gone to bed with a knowing look and a muttered "about damn time," Dean and Castiel sat on the porch steps together.
The night was clear, stars scattered across the sky like salt spilled on dark cloth. Cas was staring up at them with an expression Dean couldn't quite read—longing, maybe, or nostalgia.
"Do you miss it?" Dean asked quietly. "Heaven?"
"Sometimes. I miss my brothers. I miss the certainty." Castiel looked at him. "But I don't regret my choices. Even if I could go back, I wouldn't."
"Because of a mark on your wrist?"
"Because of you." Cas said it simply, like it was a fact of nature. "The mark is just proof."
Dean bumped their shoulders together. "You're getting sappy on me, angel."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the stars wheel overhead. Dean thought about destiny and choice, about marks that appeared without permission and decisions that changed everything.
Castiel's hand found his again in the darkness, fingers slotting together like they'd been made to fit. "I'm glad it's you too."
And in that moment, with the stars bearing witness and their names written on each other's skin, Dean finally understood what all those other people had been talking about when they looked at their marks with wonder.
It wasn't about destiny or fate or cosmic forces beyond their control.
It was about recognition. About finding someone who saw you completely and chose you anyway. About the terrifying, exhilarating freedom of being known.
Dean squeezed Cas's hand and let himself smile.
Yeah. He could work with this.
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