Dean/Cas fic: and your sacred stars won't be guiding you (nsfw, 3.8K)
and your sacred stars won’t be guiding you: deancas, 3.8K, nsfw, michael dean, angel dreams
"What if — what if you had your sword?"
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"Dean, no."
Dean has to push the words out. "I am your sword." He thinks of Stull — the blood in his mouth, the blistering Kansas sun, the dry grass rustling under his knees. Sam saying It's okay, Dean. It's gonna be okay. I've got him. Sam going to Hell, losing his soul, his mind. "Your perfect vessel. With me, you'd be stronger than you've ever been."
Michael almost smiles. "Oh, I know what you are."
"If we work together, can we beat Lucifer?"
"Dean," Cas says.
Dean's gut twists. "Can we?"
Blood drips from Michael's ear. "We'd have a chance."
Cas says, "Dean," again and steps closer. Anger snarls his voice. "You can't."
"Lucifer has Sam," Dean says, turning. "He has Jack. I don't have a choice!" The look on Cas' face slides between Dean's ribs like a knife. He tells Michael, "If we do this, it's a one-time deal. I'm in charge. You're the engine, but I'm behind the wheel. Understand?"
Cas fists his hand in Dean's sleeve. "Dean, no."
Michael says, "Alright," and blots at the blood on his face with his sleeve. "If that's how you want to play, I'm game."
A rough, furious noise catches in Cas' throat. He tugs Dean's sleeve again. Dean grabs him by the front of his coat and shuffles them back toward the map table.
"Cas, look. I —"
"Dean, do not do this."
"He'll kill them," Dean says, digging his fingers into Cas' arm. He can't tell which one of them is shaking harder. "He'll kill them, and then he'll come back here and kill us." Death's voice rasps in the back of his mind: and your sacred stars won't be guiding you . "He'll rip the whole fucking world apart."
Cas snarls out another noise. He snags his hand in Dean's collar and yanks him in for a kiss.
It feels like a fight, all anger and heat, his tongue shoving into Dean's mouth, his teeth catching against Dean's lower lip. Dean's wanted this too long; he can't help the noise he makes, can't stop himself from tugging Cas closer and pushing a hand into his hair.
Behind them, Michael hums something under his breath. It takes Dean a second to recognize it: Bob Seger's "Lucifer."
He says, "I gotta go," because they don't have time. They've never had enough time.
Cas skims his fingers down Dean's throat. "You'll die."
"No, I won't."
"Dean."
Dean closes his eyes. His heart is ticking like a bomb. "If I do, you — meet me on my road. I'll find us a beer and bacon happy hour upstairs.
rest in pieces: deancas, 22k, nsfw, in which there is a ghost apocalypse
“Goddamned ghosts,” Dean snaps, stabbing his shovel into the dirt. “Goddamned Heaven.”
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Dean is barely on his second cup of coffee when Sam walks into the kitchen and shoves their tablet in his face.
"Lexington, Kentucky." Sam braces his hip on the counter and dodges Dean's attempts to wave him away. "The Moreland House is crawling with ghosts."
"Bummer."
Sam jabs the tablet into Dean's arm a couple of times. "Like... a lot of ghosts."
It's too early for this shit, but Dean takes the tablet and scans what turns out to be an article in the Lexington Herald-Leader. Blandly, it tells him that James Wesley Moreland built the Moreland House in 1814. It was restored in 1955 and now operates as a museum. It offers guided tours four days a week. Many visitors have reported seeing Moreland's ghost wandering the halls.
"So, this dude's family home gets flipped into a boring museum and now he's haunting it?" Dean snorts into his coffee. "Yeah, that's super original."
"Dean –"
"C'mon. They're charging... what –? Ten bucks a head? Fifteen?" Dean sets the tablet on the counter and reaches for the Pop-Tart waiting for him in the toaster. "They gotta get people through the door somehow."
Huffing, Sam says, "You didn't read page two. Stories about Moreland have been around since he died in 1849, but he's always been alone."
"And now he's got a friend?"
"Five friends."
"What?" Dean sputters. Pop-Tart crumbs spill down the front of his shirt. "You – six spooks? In the same house?"
"Uh-huh."
They just got back from a hunt that dragged on for two weeks and left Dean more than a little bruised. He's tired and sore. His plans for the day included drinking beer, marathoning Iron Chef, napping, and maybe jacking off. But – six. Six God damn ghosts.
He heaves out a sigh and says, "Yeah, alright. We'll head out in about an hour."
anew; deancas, reunions, ~300 words. originally posted on twitter.
The car Cas steals breaks down northeast of Tucumcari, not far from the New Mexico state line. The sun is relentless. He's been gone long enough for Sam and Dean to get new phones. He sheds his coat and walks toward Texas.
He can sense them in a way - he can sense Dean, at least. when he first woke in that field, he was overcome by a deep thrum of longing. He walks. heat shimmers up ahead. the sun sets fire to the horizon.
Night falls, and a slow wind pushes across the sand. Cas walks. Restless, his wings ache. The sun is rising again as he approaches Dalhart. He steals another car in the parking lot of a truck stop. He breathes in grease and dust as he twists the wires under the dash.
He calls Dean's number again, but a dull, computerized voice says it's no longer in service. Longing hums under his skin. He drives toward Kansas, east and east and east, following the tug beneath his ribs like a beacon. He drive east until the feeling pulls him off the highway and into Enid, Oklahoma. There, longing ebbs around him like the tide.
He catches threads of a prayer, something muttered out of habit, not belief — <i>I miss you, man. I wish — I wish.</i> He crissrosses the town, searching around the edges, and all the shadowed, hollow places the Winchesters call home.
He finds the Impala parked at the third motel he checks. Dean is standing at the open trunk, and Cas feels — he feels - he —
He expects Dean to yell, to pull a knife, a gun, to throw holy water in his face. But Dean stares. His hands shake. His voice dips around Cas' name.
Cas says, "Hello, Dean," and smiles. He reaches out and touches Dean's face.
we are nowhere (and it’s now); 3.2K, another 13x01 coda, dean drinks a lot but it ends well
Driving back to the bunker takes three days.
Dean would rather do it in two, but Sam starts bitching right as they're crossing into Idaho. It's a long drive, they're pretty roughed up — blah blah blah. Dean pushes it another fifty miles. After that, he figures his options are pulling over or punching Sam in the mouth.
They stop for the night in Boise and Cheyenne. They run into another angel ambush at a Gas & Sip in North Platte, but the kid does... something that drops all four of them like bricks. Something that gives him a migraine and a nosebleed that drips like a leaky faucet.
"There's probably a learning curve," Sam says, holding a shop rag to the kid's face.
Three fucking days. In that time, Dean learns that the kid likes orange soda, turkey jerky, and the soggy chicken salad sandwiches that KwikMarts sell shrinkwrapped and cut into triangles. He doesn't like bananas, but he likes banana candy. He likes banana candy so much that yellow Starburst wrappers end up all over the Impala's back seat.
Dean wants to feed him an angel blade, but he knows it won't do any good.
nothing else matters; 1.2k, coda for 13x01, dean is a sad bean
[AO3]
"We lost everything," Dean snarls. His pulse is thundering underneath his jaw. "And now you're gonna bring him back. You're gonna bring back Cas, you're gonna bring back Mom, you're gonna bring 'em all back – all of 'em. Even Crowley.
"'Cause after everything you've done... you owe us, you sonofabitch. So you get your ass down here, and you make this right. Right here. Right now."
Dean sucks in a breath. He pauses for a second, but nothing happens – no thunderbolt, no flash of light, no voice in the distance. Swallowing hard, he glances at the sky, then turns and looks out across the lake. The water is pale blue and rippling softly. Dean sucks in another breath, and another. The stench from the restaurant's dumpster crowds into his nose - rotting food and grease.
He slams his fist into the smiling pirate cut-out on the wall, again and again and again – until his knuckles split open and the wood splinters and snaps in half. He hurls the pieces over his shoulder and chokes down a thick, desperate noise. He wants – fuck. Fuck.
"Please."
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"God's not listening," Dean says. "He doesn't give a damn."
Before Sam can say anything, Dean slams the trunk closed and turns away.
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The porch steps creak under Sam's feet. He asks, "You want me to do it?" in a quiet, careful voice.
"No," Dean says, shaking his head. A shot of Jim Beam is burning the back of his throat. "I, uh. I gotta – I gotta do this myself."
Sam just looks at him for a second. Then he nods and touches Jack's arm. "Come on. Lets go take care of your mom."
The porch creaks again as they file inside. The front door sticks, and Dean yanks on it it get it closed. He watches Sam lead Jack up the stairs, then turns and heads into what passes for the dump's dining room. It smells musty, and a heavy layer of dust is covering the floor. Jack's nursery is the only room Cas and Kelly really bothered with.
Cas is laid out on a table cut from the same pines growing up in gnarled clumps around the lake. He pauses beside it, grabbing the back of a chair as the bourbon lurches in his gut. His throat feels like its closing up. He flexes his hand a few times before pulling back the sheet.
Dean's never thought the dead looks peaceful. Maybe because of the job – he's seen too many vampires with blood pumping from their severed necks, too many shapeshifters with a silver knife planted in their chests. He's seen too many victims – people torn open by werewolves or drained dry by vetalas or chewed up by ghouls. He's seen enough ghosts to know dying doesn't mean getting to rest.
Cas is all deep shadows and sharp angles. His skin is graying. His eyes are closed. There's a bluish hint to the mouth Dean was too much of a coward to kiss.
Dean pulls the sheet back over Cas' face and paces the length of the table. Outside, the afternoon sun is inching toward the horizon, dust motes are twisting in the light streaming in through the dirty windows. There's another sheet in the Impala's trunk, but Dean knows if he goes back out there he'll crawl back inside his flask and stay there. He grabs the curtain rod off the wall and tugs one of the flimsy panels free. It's gritty and stiff with sun-rot and age, but it tears easily enough.
Dean's hands are shaking. He closes his eyes for a moment, then grits his teeth and fumbles the cloth around Cas' feet.
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"You say thank you."
Dean tried to thank Cas once – back in the early days, back when Cas was still just another feathered dick punching Heaven's clock full-time. They had been arguing about something – about Sam or Lilith or the Seals, about the Apocalypse – it's been so long now that Dean doesn't really remember. Cas had been different then, windswept and impatient, crackling with purpose and raw power and righteous wrath. Dean had tossed it out there to douse the flames a little, but Cas had dismissed it with half a shrug and one of his usual party lines about God's will.
Dean never tried again, but he – fuck. He should've. Not just for yanking him out of the Pit, but for everything else that came after. Cas stuck by them, even with Heaven breathing down his neck. He helped them, and he fought with them. He saved their asses more times than Dean can count. He was a friend – Dean's best friend. And he – he – fuck.
He could've been something else. Dean spent so long living for his dad and for Sam and for the fucking job that he never really learned how to live for himself. Instead, he learned how to settle, filling the gaps with whatever could make him happy for a couple hours at a time – a greasy cheeseburger, a good bottle of scotch, the women he met in dark, smoky bars. A few guys who had rough laughs and slow, dark smiles. But Cas had changed that. Knowing Cas – loving him – had made Dean want something for himself for the first time since his dad put a gun into his hand.
He knew what Cas was really saying at Ishim's place. Making that Zepp tape had been his way of telling Cas he felt the same way, but he – Christ. He should've been braver. He should've opened his mouth.
Castiel? He's dead. All the way dead. Because of you.
He should've pulled Cas away from that portal. He should've – he should've – he –
"You say goodbye."
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They leave North Cove just before sunrise. Sheriff Barker promised to keep the fuzz out of their hair as long as they needed, but Dean isn't interested in sticking around. He wants to put the lake house in his rearview mirror. He wants to get Satan's kid back to the bunker before anything else goes to shit.
They grab breakfast at a Fuel & Go on the edge of town, then head east on Highway 105 as it hugs the rocky, Washington coast through the Shoal Water Reservation and past a flyspeck called Dexter-by-the-Sea. Sam sips his coffee; Jack licks donut sugar off his fingers and watches the Pacific Ocean churn against the shore. The sun is a fiery smear along the horizon, and it glares at Dean through the Impala's windshield until they hit Highway 6 and hook southeast toward I-5.
Dean flips the radio on. The first station he finds is boring stock market talk; the second is one of those morning zoo deals. About two minutes in, the shouting and sound effects have him grinding his teeth. He snatches a tape out of the glove compartment – Metallica – and feeds it into the Impala's cassette player.
Never opened myself this way. Life is ours, we live it our way. All these words I don't just say. And nothing else matters.
Just over the Oregon line, Sam clears his throat and asks, "You, uh – are you going to be okay?"
"No," Dean admits. Whatever bluster he had left went up in smoke on Cas' pyre. "No, Sammy. I'm not."
dean/cas fic: he is a feather in the wind (3.3k, sfw)
he is a feather in the wind; 3.3K, sfw, cas is in the void and then he comes back, spoilers for the $44 s13 promo
Darkness. Stillness. Castiel has been here before — briefly, but more than once. As Dean would say, this isn't his first rodeo.
The Empty isn't a place so much as an idea. Castiel isn't really in it; his grace — the light and intent that was his being — has already returned to the stardust and firmament his father used to shape all his creations. But Castiel spent too long walking on earth and among humans and wearing a human form. The tranquility he experienced here before has been shattered by a restlessness that seems to prickle at the skin he no longer has. He feels as if he's trapped in a lightless room. As if he's been buried alive.
Love: A Retrospective - 41k, deancas, nsfw, season13/future fic, they finally work out their shit.
Many, many, many, many moons ago, Anna asked for a canonverse story where Dean and Cas have been doing it the whole time. Well, this is it. It only took me about three years.
Pretending Cas is just his friend has been the only thing keeping Dean's head on straight for years. He never realized how much doing that depended on him making himself scarce in the morning ─ not until Cas came back and moved into the bunker.
