“Dean, sit down.” Cas orders from where he’s standing at the kitchen stove, spatula in hand. He wields in the same way Dean does when he’s lecturing someone and cooking at the same time and Dean thinks both ruefully and in amusement about all the habits he unintentionally passed along to Cas. “I am perfectly capable—”
“Just let me check.” Dean insists, going to stand from the barstool he is perched on at the counter. “You’ve never made soup before.”
“Dean,” Cas says and this time there’s a clear warning in his voice. It’s deep and rumbly and probably the voice that Cas used to guide armies when he was an angel and instill fear into those who dared stand against him. To Dean, it’s completely harmless, and he stands up anyways and crosses to stand right behind Cas, peering over his shoulder.
Cas huffs a dramatic sigh to match his dramatic eye roll as Dean nestles his chin onto Cas’s shoulder and stares down into the pot. It’s quiet for a long moment before Dean nods a little, pressing a kiss to the side of Cas’s neck. “Looks good.”
“I have been alive for millennia,” Cas insists with frustration. “I think I can make some chicken noodle soup.”
“First,” Dean says, raising a finger to tick off his point. “When you were an angel for those millennia,” He drops his voice with a grin to mimic Cas’s and earns a half-hearted elbow to the ribs. “You didn’t eat. So none of those years count. Second,” he ticks off another finger, “Even if they did count, you’re not an angel anymore, so none of your angel experience counts. And you don’t have mojo to fix burned soup.”
“I would hardly have wasted my grace on burned soup.” Cas argues as he places the spatula back into the soup and begins stirring.
Dean allows himself to be dislodged, but he doesn’t return to his seat at the counter. “You consider feeding me unburned soup a waste?”
Cas doesn’t even bother to give him a verbal response, instead sending a withering glare over his shoulder to make his point. Dean grins at him, wide and full of genuine joy. It lasts all of about two seconds before he’s suddenly sneezing, reaching for the box of tissues that Cas had kept within a foot radius of him at all times for the last two days. He wipes at his nose miserably, reminded how raw it is from how much he’s been blowing it, and then he sulks back to his seat.
Once he’s seated comfortably at the counter again, Dean crosses his arms and pillows his head on top of them, making sure he can still keep Cas in his line of sight. Cas glances over his shoulder occasionally, watching as Dean settles in.
After a minute of silence, Cas asks quietly, “Are you feeling any better at all?”
“A little,” Dean answers, but now he sounds stuffy and the dubious look Cas sends him indicates that he hears it as well. “I’m just fucking sick of this.”
Cas takes one last glance into the pot before carefully stowing the spatula on the spoon rest that Dean had insisted they get for the kitchen as soon as they had made the bunker their permanent home. Once he’s set the spatula down, he crosses the room easily, one hand coming to rest between Dean’s shoulder blades and moving in small, soothing circles. Cas has always been warm and it feels good to Dean’s aching back and sore muscles. Cas’s other hand threads gently into Dean’s hair, brushing it away from his face and scratching gently at his scalp. It’s all Dean can do not to groan aloud and melt into a complete puddle underneath the stool.
“I’m sorry you don’t feel well,” Cas says for what has to be the millionth time, though it has never lost even an ounce of its sincerity. “Just give yourself a couple more days to recover and then you’ll be back to normal.”
“You said a few days a few days ago.” Dean mumbles, but his eyes have slipped closed and there’s not any actual bite to his words.
Ever since he’d gotten sick, everything had been stupidly difficult. But in this moment, feeling Cas so close to him, smelling the soup that Cas was making just for him— well this is the best Dean has felt in a few days. He had fought it at first, insistent that he knew how to make chicken noodle soup and was perfectly capable of making it for himself. Cas had sat him down and told him with absolutely no room for argument that Dean took care of everyone else and now it was his turn to be taken care of. Any rebuttal Dean wanted to make to that died on his tongue somewhere between the stormy warning that was in Cas’s eyes and the coughing fit that had taken the words right out of his mouth.
And so he had relented, although it had taken a few days to get around to the soup because Dean hadn’t felt up to eating much at first. He’d spent most of his time curled up in bed, head pillowed on Cas’s lap, warning him repeatedly that he was going to get sick, too, if he stayed around Dean. Reminding him that he was human now, and human ailments were something he had to worry about. But Cas had insisted on staying and Dean really hadn’t tried that hard to push him away because he liked the comfort and the company.
And if he ended up making soup for Cas next week because Cas inevitably got sick— if he ended up rubbing circles into Cas’s back while gently brushing his messy hair off his fevered forehead, well, that was a trade Dean was willing to make. He could be taken care of if he needed to be, but only if it was by Cas.
Did I mention that I’m doing a daily 1000 word Destiel Drabble for fun? Because I am! You can find it on ao3 ofc, or else I’ll be posting them here! Each one is based on a random word that I’m prompted with every day. Here’s day one!
1/1/:25: choke
The lights in the kitchen of the bunker are bright in the middle of the night, as Dean props his hip against the counter and nestles a cup of warm coffee between his cold hands. He should be asleep— story of his goddamn life. He should be a lot of things, really, but he finds that this is one of those nights where the thoughts won’t let him go, where the sleep won’t come.
He had crept out of bed as quietly as he could, trying his hardest not to disturb Cas as he’d crawled out from under their covers and opened the door as slowly as he possibly could. It had taken Cas some time to adjust to sleeping again now that he was human, and on the rare nights that he didn’t have nightmares, Dean would never risk disturbing him. He would fight heaven, hell, and god himself again if that’s what it took to protect Cas’s rest. He would start and then stop another goddamn apocalypse if he had to.
Dean almost smiles to himself, leaning against the kitchen counter at the thought.
Cas, of course, would be furious if Dean went off and did something like that for him. Cas would be furious if Dean so much as lost five minutes of sleep for him. He was more selfless than anyone Dean had ever met and it came both from that holy sort of unconditional love and crippling self-deprecation and a lack of belief in himself— honestly Cas’s low opinion of himself damn near rivaled the way Dean thought about himself and wasn’t that a hell of a combination?
Dean is just taking another sip of his coffee when there’s movement down the hall. In the past, he would’ve jumped, would’ve reached for the handle of a gun that he kept tucked into his pants, even his pajamas. In the past, he would have already assessed his surroundings for anything unusual— or anything he could use as a weapon if his gun somehow failed. But this isn’t the past. This is a world where he has taken that bastard Chuck off the board, a world where the future is well and truly his. And those aren’t just any footsteps, those are Cas’s footsteps, and Dean would recognize them anywhere.
He’s lost them too many goddamn times to mistake the sound of them or to take them for granted.
Sure enough, a moment later there’s an impossible mess of dark hair and squinty blue eyes popping around the door frame to stare at him. “Dean?”
“Sorry, sunshine.” Dean can’t stop the grin from splitting his lips even if he tried— but he doesn’t try. Doesn’t even want to try. He likes the way it feels on his face, even if the genuine joy associated with it is still a foreign concept to him. “Did I wake you?”
“No,” Cas answers as he fully enters the kitchen, rubbing at one eye. He then adds, “Yes.”
“Well,” Dean takes a hand off of his coffee as Cas approaches, fighting the urge to reach out and drag Cas to him when he’s still several steps away. “That makes a lot of sense.”
Cas sighs as he finishes approaching Dean, nestling himself into the space created when Dean opens his arms. He’s still warm from their bed, soft and cozy as he presses his face into Dean’s neck and tucks his head gently under Dean’s chin. “You didn’t wake me when you left.” Cas explains after a moment, “But the feeling of you not in the bed woke me.”
Dean allows his arm to settle around Cas’s back as he pulls him a step closer, pressing his cheek into the top of Cas’s head, “Cas—”
“Are you alright?” Cas asks. He asks it quietly into the collar of the t-shirt that Dean wears to bed. He asks it quietly into the open air of the kitchen. There’s no demand for an answer, no expectation. There’s just quiet, unwavering, honest support coming from the only person who has ever loved Dean for all that he is.
In the past, just the thought of answering this question would’ve made Dean feel like he was going to choke, regardless of what the answer would’ve been. In the past, Dean would’ve found himself scrambling for anything that would allow him to dodge addressing the question, anything that would distract Cas from the thought all together so there was no chance for them to loop back around to it.
But this isn’t the past. Dean is safe now, and he’s learning to face all the shit from his past that made him this way. Dean is learning to put words to the things he feels, teaching himself to be open, and honest, to believe that it’s okay for him to think and feel certain ways and that there’s no divine punishment— not even a mundane punishment like a fist to the jaw— waiting to strike him down the moment he dares to even consider breathing life into those feelings.
“Yeah,” Dean answers, and it’s the honest truth. He smiles into the crown of Cas’s head as he presses a kiss there. “Yeah, I’m fine, Cas. Just couldn’t sleep.”
Cas pulls away just enough to be able to glance up and meet Dean’s gaze directly and Dean doesn’t shy away from it. Not that he ever has, really. But he doesn’t feel the need to try and build walls in the minuscule space between them, doesn’t feel the need to try and guard himself from whatever Cas might find in his eyes. Instead he simply looks, and he adores, and he allows himself to feel safe and content in this moment.
“Well,” Cas says after a moment, and there’s a smile on the edge of his lips as well. One that looks suspiciously fond in the early morning kitchen light. “You better figure that out, because I’m tired and I’m not going back to sleep without you.”
Pspspspspsps! Got some sweet sweet Destiel content for you guyssssss!
Read it on Ao3
Just a cute little sick fic! Past and present (future? 🤔) and established Destiel! (Yall she doesn’t do this often go give her some love so she will do it again!) :)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Perdition Chapter 3: ''Tis the Season for Sucking and Fucking (Prologue part 2)'
Two Years Later…
Dean's never much been one for Christmas, but he always made the effort for Sammy growing up so it would feel weird not to celebrate it now. Still, as he rifles through his clothes looking for something appropriately festive to wear, it is pretty clear holiday joy does not factor into his wardrobe decisions.
“Dean we're going to be late, what is taking you so long?”
Oh holy mother of sin.
Turning around to address his mate from his position kneeling on the closet floor, Dean swallows thickly when his eyes travel up the full length of Cas' body. Apparently his boyfriend didn't have the same problem finding an outfit he is. The Alpha is wearing dark chinos that hug his thighs – and probably his ass too – scintillatingly, a grey blazer over a dusky forest green waistcoat, red tie and black silk shirt.
“Urm...” Yeahhh... that's about all Dean's brain has to offer to this conversation, it's taking most of his processing power just to remember to breathe
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Perdition Chapter 1 & 2: '…I see the stars (Prologue part 1)'
So it begins Ladles and Jellyspoons, welcome to the beginning of the TTLG sequel!
We start off a little angsty here but don't worry, the second part of this chapter is positively fluffy. Now, these first two instalments are somewhat of a prologue, answering questions you may have and setting up the rest of our story.
Oh B T Dubs, thank Lady_bubble for getting this today. Originally parts 1 and 2 of this prologue were scheduled to come out together on December 25th, however, she nudged me into separating them 😉. Her actual words were, and I quote: 'You wouldn't hesitate if it was a cliffhanger…..'
So without further ado folks, have at it 😎
'Picking through the boxes without bothering to really look at what he is stuffing where in the closet and drawer space Cas had cleared for him before the attack, he stills when he reaches inside his duffle from Looking Glass and pulls out one of his boyfriend's navy shirts. It is lightly blood-stained, missing all buttons except for the top two.
The shirt Cas was wearing after the hearing at Looking Glass with Naomi, Crowley, Mick, et al. A small smile tugs at Dean's lips as he examines it, remembers how hot Cas looked wearing it that day, all cool sophistication and dick throbbing suave. Running his thumb along the little nubs of cotton thread that once held the buttons, he recalls the way his Alpha tore it open to expose himself, show off his lean muscular torso for Dean's inspection. Fuck but Cas is beautiful, all lithe deceptive power and unerring bone structure, how the Alpha could ever think he needs to prove himself worthy of his Omega is a mystery.'
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