Title: Thunder in The Library
Fandom: Supernatural
Paring: Destiel
Rating: Teen and up
Tags: Magical Castiel, Magical Dean, Magic is known, Curses, Cursed Dean Winchester, Magical Library, Fluff, tooth rotting fluff.
Summary: Castiel’s work as the Head Librarian of The Grand Library of Magic and Lost Artifacts has him away on a last minute trip for far longer than he anticipated. By the time he returns, there’s a certain book who’s less than pleased with his inability to keep his word.
Read on A03
No, no, no,” Cas mumbles, frustration settling like a lead weight in his stomach. All around him the Great Library sits quiet and still. Dust floats like slowly drifting snowflakes through the warmly slanted afternoon sunbeams, the calm drifts disturbed into swirling vortexes by his hurried shuffle across the polished marble.
The comfortable stillness is broken again by the low rumble of distant thunder. Cas puts on a burst of speed. It’s not dignified to run through the Great Library, it’s not dignified for the Librarian to run through the library, never mind anybody else.
But here he is, trotting with long strides down past Cirien Croin, Your Sea Serpent and You, Copper Cauldron Care, and Corporeal Dissonance Disorder: The Complete Guide to Finding Yourself after Astral-projection. Counting shelves, Cas curses the sweat trickling down his back, the pressure in the air growing thicker the closer he gets to his destination. His shirt clings uncomfortably to his skin.
“Clouds, clouds, clouds,” Cas mumbles to himself pulling on the bottom of his waist coat. Finding the correct shelf he rolls his shoulders back, runs his fingers through his hair a few times, and clears his throat.
“Dean,” Cas rumbles, displeasure clear in his tone. Two of the books shift along the shelf, trembling and jumping slightly. Cas’ frown depends. “Dean!” Cas snaps, and thunder rumbles around him.
“This is…” Cas huffs a breath, licking his lips and shifting angrily from one foot to the other. “Dean, come out. Now, please.”
Summary:There is a distance between memory and reality and it doesn’t always look as you’d expect it to. Sometimes it’s a tangible thing, a long stretch of deserted back roads. Pavement, patched and faded from years of weather and wear. Sometimes, it doesn’t have a look at all, but a sound. The whirr and buzz of an old Polaroid camera printing a photo.
There is a distance between then and now. Sometimes the distance is small, just the space of an exhale. Sometimes it’s fathomless, like the fall from heaven to earth.
Castiel is a man making his way across the chasm between divinity and humanity. A distance between who he was, and who he is now. Along the way he learns about himself, the family he finds, the memories he makes, and all of the moments he manages to capture in-between.
Link to art masterpost
“Nooooope,” Sam stiffens and turns on a dime, heading back to the Impala.
“Sam, what the hell?” Dean sighs, tossing his duffel bag back into the trunk with more force than is probably necessary. “I just want a fucking shower, man!”
To be fair, Dean is covered in some sort of slowly dripping green goop, his shirt plastered to his chest and the flannel he’s wearing is more or less in ribbons down his back. He’s pulled off the highway into the first town they found, then into the first parking lot of the first motel he saw from the road. It’s a severely run down little dive called The BigTop. Castiel is halfway out of the back seat when his eyes snap to what has caused Sam’s sudden one-eighty and Dean’s outburst.
Behind the dingy reception desk, standing under a flickering yellowed bulb is a seven and a half foot tall statue of a clown. It’s in disrepair. Its already creepy face–the paint half chipped off like at some point someone had tried to move it and instead dropped it on its head, cracking the veneer–is mangled and sinister looking, to say the least. The flickering light casts slithering shadows across its hollow eyes and eerily parted half curled mouth, make it seem like it's snarling. Like it’s peering directly into your soul and just waiting to suck it right out of your mouth.
Castiel shivers at the sight of it, and the longer he stares at the statue, the more uneasy he feels. He can understand Sam’s hesitancy. The half balding man hunched behind the reception desk, on the other hand, is more interested in the battered paperback in his hands than realizing the imminent threat of that statue looming over his shoulder obviously poses, as Sam Winchester clearly does.
The passenger side door slams closed as Sam slides resolutely back into his spot. Sam’s made his decision; they won't be staying here tonight. Castiel glances around at the bleak motel with its faded circus theme and spots at least two more equally forlorn statues scattered around the property. He’s more than pleased to slip back inside the Impala, grimacing as Dean catches his eye and silently implores him to take his side. When Castiel shrugs, Dean slams the trunk and stomps around the Impala, grumbling as he slips back behind the wheel.
“This shit fucking itches.” He complains as he throws the car into reverse. Sam’s shoulders visibly relax as they back out of the parking lot and onto the freeway. “If I get a rash…” Dean grumbles as Sam flicks on the radio. Castiel watches the interaction fondly, fatigue makes him weary, his head tipping to lean against the window.
The streetlights pass wetly over the Impala as Dean drives through the night, the sound of his voice singing along to the radio and the rumble of the car pulling at Castiel’s mind until he’s drifting. Now that Castiel’s fallen and the last remaining vestiges of his grace are fading to nothing, sleep is something he is learning to treasure.
There are lots of things, in fact, that he’s learning to treasure. Hot coffee in the morning, peanut butter and jelly on white bread before bed, buttered rye toast and runny eggs, cheeseburgers with bacon, pie––and cake, but he keeps that to himself. Sheets fresh out of the dryer, the smell of old books... orgasms. He hums a sigh rolling his forehead against the cold glass of the back window. He’s really learning to treasure orgasms. The heat, the rush, the sudden euphoric rise, and crash. He especially enjoys them in a nice hot shower or tucked between the sheets of his bed in the bunker, right before he falls asleep at night. There’s nothing like that loose-limbed feeling to pull him into a dreamless slumber. Dreamless nights are few and far in between, now that the nightmares of his past chase him whenever his mind starts to wander.
“Hey, sleeping beauty.” Dean rumbles, mirth in his tone. Castiel lurches as Dean yanks the door he’s leaning against open, his body sliding towards the ground before he can stop it. Dean's there, though, hand on Castiel's shoulder to keep him from tumbling to the cracked pavement.
“What are you doing?” Castiel asks, voice deep like thunder until he clears his throat. “Why would you do that?”
Dean smirks. “Found a place the princess deems acceptable.”
“Shove it, Dean” Sam’s voice calls from somewhere by the trunk.
Castiel nods and licks his lips, accepting Dean’s hand when he extends it to help Castiel out of the back seat. He takes a moment to stretch, flexing his fingers and arching his back until it pops and he sags back in on himself with a sigh. “Where are we?”
Dean tosses him his duffle. “‘Bout four hours outside of Tulsa.”
“You drove all night?” Castiel’s brows rise. “Why?”
They are standing in the parking lot of another motel. It’s always another motel, and if it’s not, its the backseat of the Impala. Now that there are three of them, that's not an option anymore, so they stick to motels. This motel appears, at least, to be without a theme, though it’s many decades out of date, which isn’t unusual for them.
Dean shrugs in response to Castiel’s question, the: ‘cause it’s what they do, they’re hunters', goes unsaid. They move around the country, drive all night, face one close call after another until the call is too close and they end up another John Doe in the paper mauled by a mountain lion or eaten by a bear. No one believes that werewolves or wendigos are real, anyway.
Castiel falls into step with Sam as the trio approach the reception desk. His eyes stray to the bulletin board as Dean flirts with the middle-aged woman behind the counter.
“What is a... swap... meet… ?” Castiel asks, his eyes drawn to a little orange flyer.
Sam slides up next to him and reads over the advert. “Huh. It's kind of like a yard sale, or... um...” he’s obviously struggling, his eyebrows furrowed, lips pinched. Castiel patiently waits for Sam to find a suitable analogy to make him understand.
“You know what? Why don’t we go check it out? I can take you down; it's a good place to pick up some cheap supplies. We could all use some new shirts…” He spares a glance at Dean, who obviously cleaned up a bit during the drive last night but still has dark green stains along the back of his jeans and behind his ears. “It will be a good experience.”
That is something Sam’s been saying a lot recently. It will be a good experience . Since Castiel fell, since he became the hollow shell of what he once was, Sam has been trying to fill the void with distraction. Dean, on the other hand, seems resolutely determined to ignore the fact that Castiel is different now. Though Dean always seems to be close by, hovering on the edges of Castiel's awareness. It would be endearing if it weren’t so annoying like he’s just waiting for Castiel to fuck up… again . Not that Castiel could blame him really, he’s been fucking up pretty badly for a long time now.
“Hey,” Sam says softly, his face morphing in concern. “We don’t have to go…”
Sometimes Castiel forgets that his face shows more emotion now that he's human. That whatever he’s thinking no longer has the buffer of his grace to soften it before it’s written into his expression. Now they are one and the same.
“I’m not going,” Dean says before Castiel can respond. He pushes the spare room key and the keys to the Impala into Sam’s chest. “You two lovebirds can do whatever you want. All I want is a nice hot shower and my four fucking hours.”
“Dean…” Sam hisses scolding his brother for what Castiel assumes is Dean’s apparent lack of concern for his feelings. He can’t help but roll his eyes. He might be (mostly) human now, but that doesn’t mean he needs Sam acting like he’s going to break from getting his feelings hurt. He’s not fucking fragile. Well, maybe his body is fragile now, but Dean’s ordinarily crass attitude is something he’s used to. It’s a constant, and sometimes it even makes him feel like he’s still his old useful self.
“Fine,” Castiel says, handing his bag off to Dean, who takes it without complaint.
“Bring back food.” Dean calls over his shoulder as he juggles the bags, “... and pie!”
It turns out that Cas loves the swap meet. He points at random everyday objects with a contained sort of speculative wonder. He spends over twenty minutes at a table full of snow globes and old tea sets. Once Sam’s able to drag Cas away from examining a blender made in the sixties he manages to get a few gently used Carharts from a hunter who’s arthritis is keeping him out of the cold. Sam encourages Cas to try on a pair of hiking boots, and they hit a gold mine at a table run by an elderly woman whose kids have long since moved away. Apparently, her sons went through a ‘hipster phase’ because they find a bunch of henleys, flannels, and a few pairs of jeans in both Dean and Cas size. Cas nabs a pair of running sneakers and Sam spends a few minutes looking through a stack of old musty books.
“Oh my, yes.” The elder woman says with a smile. “Jimmy loved that silly thing.”
Sam’s looks around in time to see Cas’s head snap up. “Jimmy?”
“Mmm, my son,” the woman hums softly, shuffling over to where Cas is standing. “It's an instant camera. A Polaroid.” Gently she takes the gray and black box from Cas’ hands and shows him how to use it, the rainbow neck strap hanging limply from its hinges. “Have you not seen one of these, deary?”
“No…” Cas replies, his voice a deep rumble that Sam recognizes by this point as him feeling emotional. Sam knows he’ll be getting Jimmy’s camera for Cas. Selecting one of the books from her table at random, Sam moves to stand next to Cas.
“Here, smile!” The woman says, lifting the camera to her eye and snapping a photo. The old device whirrs and whines as it prints. She deftly plucks the picture from the mouth of the camera and gives it a little shake. Cas takes the photo with both hands when she offers it over to him, his mouth parting in wonder as the image develops before his eyes. And like a child, his head snaps up to Sam’s, eyes shining with the silent question.
“How much?” Sam asks with a small indulgent smile as Cas’ head swings back to the old woman. Sam knows Cas is giving her the puppy dog look he’s been accidentally perfecting on Dean since he fell. The old woman smiles at Cas, the lines around her eyes deepening.
“You know what. Ten dollars and I’ll throw in the box of film I’ve got around here somewhere.” She shuffles off, shifting around a few boxes until she comes back with a small retro style suitcase, it’s got all sorts of stickers across the top and the name Jimmy in faded black print along the bottom right corner. “I hate to see it go, but I think…” she slides the case across the folding table “it’s going to a good home.”
“Indeed” Cas agrees, and he shares one of his rare gummy smiles with the elderly woman. Even Sam feels the warmth radiating from the fallen angel. It’s the little things, he thinks, the small experiences that make being human worth it .
On the way back to the motel, packages in hand, Cas sits in the front seat the camera carefully draped around his neck by the rainbow striped strap and clicks open the buttons on the little suitcase. Even Sam is surprised at how well this mysterious Jimmy ket his things organized. The instruction book is in there, along with what appears to be two dozen unopened boxes of film and a small red photo album explicitly designed to hold Polaroids. Inside is a photo of the elderly woman looking much younger smiling up at the camera, a son on either side of her. They seem happy. Sam watches Cas trace his fingers over the image before returning it to the front slot of the photo album. He flips the page and adds the photo of he and Sam smiling in the old church parking lot among the piles of stuff at the swap meet.
Cas picks up the instruction book humming as he reads it all the way up to the motel door. Sam unlocks it, juggling the bags from the swap meet and sees Dean passed out on one of the two queen beds. “Shh,” he hushes over his shoulder, stepping into the room with Cas on his heels.
He’s setting down all the packages, sorting out things to wash when the absence of movement draws his attention. Cas is standing just a few paces from the door, frozen like a statue, his lips parted slightly, eyes wide and focused on Dean.
His brother is sleeping belly down on the bed in just a t-shirt and a faded pair of boxer briefs. It’s a sight Sam’s seen a lot in their life of motel hopping. It must still be fairly new for Cas though, because he slowly lifts the camera to his face, hesitates for the breadth of a heartbeat, and snaps a photo. The sound of the camera working is loud in the quiet room, and Dean flinches, his whole body reacting. His hand snaps out from under his pillow; a gun pointed directly at Cas. Sam watches the former angel shift back slightly the camera dropping from in front of his face.
“Sonnova… Cas, what the hell man!” Dean snaps dropping his head back onto the pillow with a low groan. He takes stock of the situation half of his face still pressed into the pillow, and his one-eyed gaze falls with accusation on Sam. “Why did you buy him a fucking camera, Sam,” he says, arching a brow.
Sam shrugs, a smile spreading across his lips “I dunno, but I feel like it’s going to be a good investment.”
Title: Fantasy Football
Rating: Explicit
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Relationship: Sterek
Tags: College AU, Human AU, Quarterback Derek, Quidditch Chaser Stiles, pinning Derek, Artist Derek, Alive Hales, past Derek/Kate, side pairing Boyd/Erica, Rich Hales, Stiles plays Club Quidditch, Fluff, Smut,
Art: @benaya-trash
Updates: Every Friday, follow tumblr tag: SterekFF
Summary: Derek Hale, first-string quarterback for the U.C Berkeley football team is an All-American, red-blooded male, straight as an arrow. Well, at least, that’s what everyone around him believes. What they don't know is that he’s crushing hard on the school's Quidditch Club star player. When his coach forces him to recruit said Quidditch player, Derek’s life becomes a lot more complicated.
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“Hey, man,” Boyd calls as he strides up the bleachers towards where Derek’s sitting.
As casually as he dares, Derek closes the sketchpad he has balanced on his knees and drops his forearms over it, sandwiching it against his thighs. Boyd doesn’t know he draws and he’d like to keep it that way.
“What’s up, Boyd?” He asks, tugging the brim of his U.C. Berkeley baseball cap lower over his eyes.
“Not much,” Boyd says, as he flops down on the bleachers next to Derek. “What are you doing back here?” He sits forward and scans the crowd, his eyes skimming over the strangely dressed players on the field.
There are about twenty kids sprawled across the stands; some doing homework, a few just hanging out, one girl who’s smoking. Derek curls his lip every time the light breeze drags the smoke in his direction. There is also, however, a small group down in front carrying posters, banging on cowbells and singing songs. They’re all dressed in robes and scarves, despite it being late spring.
“What the hell is going on down there?” Boyd asks, his brows arched as the two teams move around each other.
“Uh, I have no idea...” Derek lies, tugging on the brim of his cap again. He knows exactly what’s going on here, and has for months.
He stumbled upon the university’s Quidditch Club two semesters ago but had only really started following its progress once Gryffindor got their new chaser. Derek’s eyes flick towards the players, finding number 24 easily and watching him streak down the field in the strange little hop-run all the players have to do, the long dark handle of his broom clutched snugly between his lean, muscular thighs. Derek presses his sketchbook down onto his lap, letting the bottom edge dig, almost painfully, into his crotch, successfully quelling his burdening arousal.
He and Boyd watch in silence for a while--well, Derek watches number 24, his fingers itching to reopen his sketchbook and get back to drawing the player. He isn’t exactly sure what Boyd is watching. Currently, Gryffindor is up by over thirty points, with number 24 sprinting down the field in an impressive display of agility to fake out the keeper and throw the quaffle in for another five. Derek resists doing the little fist bump and whispered woohoo he normally does when 24 scores.
“This is going to sound strange, but don’t you think 24 would make a good receiver?” Boyd asks, his sneaker tapping against the metal floor of the bleachers as he thinks.
Internally, Derek groans. He’d love to have 24 receiving for him. He’d love to have 24 laid out flushed and sweating, chest heaving, catching everything Derek could throw at him. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Derek draws a slow even breath before he responds, pushing the image of number 24’s flushed, smiling face out of his mind.
“I guess... I haven’t really been paying attention.”
“Maybe you should?” Boyd points his chin down at the field expectantly.
Derek clears his throat as 24 high fives a pretty brunette girl. His face is flushed, the dark spots of his moles standing out against the red blush that's layered over his normally pale skin. He’s sweating, and Derek can see the way his fluffy brown hair is darker at his temples and the nape of his neck. Derek swallows and almost chokes as his mouth floods with saliva, wanting to taste the chaser’s salted skin.
The game sets up again and the referee tosses the quaffle into the air. The moment the ball leaves the refs hands 24 is already leaping for it, his reflexes and timing impeccable, snatching it easily. Derek grits his teeth as the guy's thighs flex, well-defined muscles twitching in an effort to keep the broom snugly tucked into the vee of his thighs. He hits the ground and does a beautiful fake out; twirling, spinning around the other chaser and deftly dodging a squishball batted at him from one of the opposing beaters. 24 barrels down the field with long elegant strides and Derek has to drag his eyes away as his temperature rises from what is, quite frankly, an obscene display.
“Well?” Boyd pushes, his brows arched.
“I mean, I guess.”
“You know Liam is graduating right?”
“Of course I know. I have to know. I’m the quarterback.” Derek rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, but do you also know Coach is putting out feelers at local high schools to recruit a new receiver as it is, so….”
“So why not bring him someone with some talent instead of a freshman who has something to prove?” Derek fills in with a sigh.
“Yeah, well, think about it, the kid has some skills. And we need the talent.” Boyd smacks Derek on the shoulder as he gets up. “See you at practice.”
“Yeah man, see you.”
Derek sits in a daze as Boyd disappears back towards campus. He loses track of time and the score of the game, he’s so consumed with the idea of having to talk to number 24, let alone playing football with him. The whistle on the field blows harshly and Derek jumps, eyes lifting in time to watch the Gryffindor team swarm his boy, number 24 enveloped in bodies, shouting and cheering.
Absently, he flips open his sketchbook, sighing over the half-finished drawing of number 24 mid-sprint, face cracked into a smirk as he throws the quaffle. Derek snaps the book closed–just one of many half-finished sketches he’ll never get a chance to complete. Quietly, he slinks from the stands and slips off back towards the gym. It’s a hike from the forgotten, forlorn backfield the Quidditch Club plays on, but Derek needs the distraction. The back of his neck still burns with embarrassment at being caught out there by Boyd, but at least he didn’t catch on that Derek was there for number 24 more than he was for the game.
He trots up one of the sloping hills, sketchbook tucked under his arm. He’ll get an upper body workout in before football practice this afternoon, and maybe exhaustion will help keep his mind off number 24’s long legs and perky backside.
Yanking the helmet from his head, Derek snarls, “That's the third fucking interception today, Greenberg!” He turns his attention to Coach. “You’ve got to be kidding with this! Put him back at tight-end!”
“What do you want from me, Hale? He's the best we’ve got right now,” Finstock snaps back, slapping his clipboard down onto the bench. “You think I like this? You think I want Greenberg! GREENBERG, THREE LAPS FOR BEING, WELL… YOU!” Coach shouts and then runs his palm over his forehead and into his hair.
“Hale’s got someone,” Boyd offers and Derek's eyes go wide with panic before he can school his expression.
Flinstock turns narrowed eyes on Derek as the rest of the team comes off the field for water.
“No. I don’t,” Derek grits out around his clenched teeth. This cannot be happening.
“You do…?” Flinstock says, eyes wide for a moment. “Hale, I don’t care who it is, if they’re a better wide receiver than Greenberg I want them, yesterday!”
“Coach, I don't have anyone!” Derek says as firmly as he can manage but Boyd once again calls his bluff.
“Number 24, dude,” Boyd says like he’s being fucking helpful, like Derek didn’t immediately think of number 24. Like Derek isn’t constantly thinking of number fucking 24. “You know, from last week, that strange shit with the brooms.”
“Are you talking about Stilinski… from the Quidditch club?” Jackson says, his face pinched, streaks of sweat and dirt smeared over his temples.
“No.” Derek grunts.
“Yeah,” Boyd says at the same time. “Do you know him?”
Derek groans, dropping his head back and closing his eyes.
“I mean, I guess I do. We went to Beacon Hills together, he was on the lacrosse team. I heard he was ok until he hurt his shoulder.” Jackson lifts his water bottle and squeezes it a few inches from his mouth like the tool he is, instead of just drinking from it. “I was a starter before I transitioned to football, so I didn’t really pay attention to who was warming the bench or why,” he says dismissively.
Derek sees his window and jumps for it. “Bum shoulder? That sucks, guess I don’t have someone after all.” He grabs a towel and his water bottle ready to make his escape.
“Lacrosse and football use a completely different set of muscles, he might be open to playing for us,” Flinstock says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Talk to him, Hale. I don’t care what you have to do to get him out here, but I want to see him next practice. Put him through his paces.”
“Coach,” Derek grunts.
“Do it, Hale, anything it takes or I’m starting Jackson against UCLA.”
“‘Bout time,” Jacksons interjects, a smug grin on his face.
“You wouldn’t,” Derek snarls, tossing his towel down.
“I would, I will. We’re dead in the water without a receiver who can catch what you throw and you know Greenberg… GREENBERG, GET UP!” Flinstock charges out onto the field, shouting at Greenberg about his stamina. The poor kid’s on his knees tipped forward, his helmet to the turf, arms spread out to his sides. Derek can almost hear his wheezing from here. He looks like a stiff breeze could knock him over and sure enough, as coach gets to his side it only takes a small boot to his butt to have Greenberg flopping flat and starfishing out in the middle of the field.
“Don’t bother with Stilinski, Hale,” Jackson says, smirking around his water bottle. “Just forget about him, you know I was made for first string anyway. It's time you learned your place.”
“You fucking…”
“Derek.” Boyd slaps a hand on Derek's chest stopping him from engaging Jackson. “Don’t listen to Whittemore, he’s an idiot. Isaac and I will come down to the back field when you talk to this Stilinski kid. We’ll have your back.”
Having support is not what Derek is afraid of–if anything he’d prefer if Boyd and Isaac weren’t there to see him embarrass himself in front of number 24… Stilinski. Even just knowing his name sends butterflies swooping through Derek’s stomach.
“Fine, whatever,” Derek snarls, because fuck his life. He couldn’t just make it two more years watching 24–Stilinski–from the safety of the bleachers, could he? No, of course he couldn’t. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he curses under his breath, storming after the rest of his team towards the locker room.
“Okay!” Isaac says a while later as he flops down on the bench next to Derek. He’s got a towel wrapped around his hips and he smells like coconut shampoo. “I hear we’re going on a recon mission?”
“We are not going on a recon mission,” Derek states, tossing his jersey in the footwell of his locker with more force than necessary.
“But Boyd said…”
“I don’t fucking care what Boyd said. I’m the quarterback of this team, you guys listen to me.”
“Yeah, but we aren’t on the field right now so… what’s going on? Are we getting you a new receiver or what?”
“We are,” Boyd chimes in as he rounds the end of the lockers, pulling his shirt over his head. He’s already in his boxers, freshly cleaned from the showers, and if they weren’t such good friends Derek would take a moment to admire the thick muscles of his thighs. But they are, so he doesn’t, turning back to his locker and trying not to bang his head against the low shelf in frustration. “Just gotta figure out when they play next,” Boyd finishes, coming to stand on Derek’s other side.
“Tuesday,” Derek says without thinking, then grimaces, internally groaning.
“Ooookay….” Isaac stretches out the word and Derek sighs.
He’s got their whole season memorized, he knows the days they practice, who they’re playing and when their games are. Derek also knows that number 24, the brunette chaser (number 11), and one of their beaters, a blonde girl (number 69), had to petition the student council twice to keep their practice time on the backfield. Derek didn’t understand why the school was giving them such a hard time–that field’s crap anyway, and no-one uses it, not even the D3 soccer team.
“So, tomorrow then?” Isaac pushes, leaning back to catch Derek’s eye as he tries to hide his head in his locker again.
“Yeah, I guess. I saw a flyer earlier…. In, uh, the quad.” Derek scrambles to cover his blunder. Gryffindor plays Hufflepuff tomorrow and those are Derek's favorite games. Hufflepuff always has such good strategies, and their plays are complicated, but their stamina is low. Number 24–Stilinski–always runs circles around them.
“Riiight…” Isaac says, again, drawing out the word. Derek can feel him and Boyd exchanging looks behind his back.
“Right.” Derek grunts, grabbing his towel and stepping over the bench. “Guess we’re on for then.” He bites out, stomping off towards the showers.
He tries very hard for the rest of the day to no think about Stilinski.
A/n: this fic will update every Friday under the tag SterekFF, and my writing tag Hartless writes, you can also subscribe on A03
Title: Superconductor
Fandom: Supernatural
Paring: Destiel
Rating: Mature
Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Blood & Gore, friends to lovers, Superhero Dean, Guy-in-the-chair Cas, Fluff, Angst, falling in love, Hero Support Cas, Superhero Au, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, idiots in love, UST, Happy Ending.
Summary: In a world where Superheroes are known, Dean Winchester lives his life under the alias of Soter; defender of the weak, protector of the innocent. With his Support Tech, Helios remotely keeping tabs on him, Dean's got this superhero gig in the bag. Or at least he thinks he does. When a new threat appears on the horizon, and Dean's left weak and injured there's only one person who can come to his aid. But is a shut-in like Helios up for the task?
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(excerpt under the cut)
Dean wakes up to static in his headset, the earpiece buzzing and popping. He takes stock of his injuries as the words crackling over the line slowly register to his addled brain.
“Soter, come in.” The voice is panicked, barely contained hysteria. “Please, please,” the voice whispers, misery in each word. “I can’t find your signal, I can’t find it…. You’re not on my maps, you’re not anywhere, please... Dean ,”
“Hey,” Dean coughs, blood drips down his chin. “Don’t call me that.”
“Fuck, fuck.” Helios practically sobs over the line, “Thank fuck, where are you? Why aren’t you showing up on my system? I…can’t track you, I can barely hear you.” The sound of his fingers flying over what Dean always assumes is a few hundred keyboards fills the earpiece.
“I... I don’t know. I don’t know where I am. I got… captured. I… I’m not healing. None of my powers are… Everything's muted.”
The silence that follows Dean’s statement is shocking. The line crackles over dead air and Dean can just picture Helios staring, unseeing, at the bay of monitors and hacked surveillance camera feeds that make up the command center of his little setup. At least, that’s what Dean’s picturing, he’s never actually met the guy, after all. No, he’s only had that beautiful voice to fuel his often, rather conflicting fantasies about the man who’s always watching out for him.
“What do you mean you’re not healing?” The momentary silence vanishes as Helios picks up clattering against the keys with renewed fervor.
“I… I’m just not,” Dean groans and the world blurs, pain whites out his vision and a memory surges to the surface. Helios’ voice asking how he feels, promising to find him, fades away under the breath of something darker, something more sinister.
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I ask for some prompts to help me work on my flash fiction and @migglangelus @spnhell @saltnhalo gave me more than I knew what to do with. Please enjoy this Destiel Flash Fiction based off the words: Spark, Books, Warmth, Clouds and Key.
Summary: Castiel’s work as the Head Librarian of The Grand Library of Magic and Lost Artifacts has him away on a last minute trip for far longer than he anticipated. By the time he returns, there’s a certain book who’s less than pleased with his inability to keep his word.
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“No, no, no,” Cas mumbles, frustration settling like a lead weight in his stomach. All around him the Great Library sits quiet and still. Dust floats like slowly drifting snowflakes through the warmly slanted afternoon sunbeams, the calm drifts disturbed into swirling vortexes by his hurried shuffle across the polished marble.
The comfortable stillness is broken again by the low rumble of distant thunder. Cas puts on a burst of speed. It’s not dignified to run through the Great Library, it’s not dignified for the Librarian to run through the library, never mind anybody else.
But here he is, trotting with long strides down past Cirien Croin, Your Sea Serpent and You, Copper Cauldron Care, and Corporeal Dissonance Disorder: The Complete Guide to Finding Yourself after Astral-projection. Counting shelves, Cas curses the sweat trickling down his back, the pressure in the air growing thicker the closer he gets to his destination. His shirt clings uncomfortably to his skin.
“Clouds, clouds, clouds,” Cas mumbles to himself pulling on the bottom of his waist coat. Finding the correct shelf he rolls his shoulders back, runs his fingers through his hair a few times, and clears his throat.
“Dean,” Cas rumbles, displeasure clear in his tone. Two of the books shift along the shelf, trembling and jumping slightly. Cas’ frown depends. “Dean!” Cas snaps, and thunder rumbles around him.
“This is…” Cas huffs a breath, licking his lips and shifting angrily from one foot to the other. “Dean, come out. Now, please.”
In response, the books shutter across the shelf, tiny sparks of light erupting from the spine of the smaller green book, like the light at the end of a Fourth of July sparkler. Cas pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing roughly he growls, “Deaaann!”
Abruptly, the temperature drops and overhead, lightning crackles. Clouds roll in far too thick and too quickly for a quiet afternoon in The Library. They rapidly obscure the topmost shelves of the towering bookcases bracketing Cas’ front and back.
“Don’t you dare,” Cas warns, “Dean. Don’t you dare.”
As the last word leaves his mouth the clouds swell and dump cold, clean rainwater down over his head. Instantly Cas is soaked, and after a moment the absurdity gets to him and he tilts his head back, laughs bubbling from deep inside of him.
“My love,” he says softly, head tipped back so the rain falls softly over his face, slides down his cheeks, clumps his eyelashes together. He blinks up at the clouds, warmth suffusing his limbs, expanding in his chest, making his heart thump hard. Nothing around him is wet, there aren’t even puddles on the floor under his soaked loafers.
The book, with its bright green binding and gold inlaid font flops off the shelf and falls open on the floor. The pages blow back and forth rapidly, though there’s no wind to disturb anything else. Castiel kneels down, and the rain peters off to a gentle shower, the clouds overhead lighten from an angry grey to a pleasant soft fluffy white.
Cas strokes his fingers over the page and small excited sparks flash, popping with pent up energy. “Come, my sweet. I am sorry I’ve been gone so long. The annex in Amsterdam was infested with sprites, they were eating the pages right out of the books. You know how I feel about my books.”
Overhead thunder cracks and lightning scorches across the low hanging clouds. Cas’ hair stands on end and he frowns.
“How could you think that? Come out here right now.” Cas snaps his fingers, his magic surging down his arm, flowing out of him like a typhoon. Instantly the clouds melt away, his clothes dry, and his hair relaxes against his scalp. Adjusting his waistcoat Cas clears his throat. “Dean, please. I’ve missed you so.”
With a soft sigh, a swirling fog rises, wispy and light, iridescent and lovely, from the open pages. Slowly, it takes form and Cas smiles leaning back. Color bleeds into the soft white myst; bright green eyes with long dark lashes, and a freckled nose.
“There we go,” Cas coaxes, quietly standing. The myst follows him, growing taller and wider, more substantial until a man, solid as Cas is, steps from the pages and onto the floor. He grins cheekily, then bites his lip, shoving his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans and blushes, looking down.
“Hey. Cas,” he says quietly, his voice as low and deep as the thunder he called forth earlier.
“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, a smile curving his lips. “Quite the tantrum.”
Dean rolls his eyes and taps the toe of his boot against the marble floor. With a huff he bends and picks his book up, turns it over between his fingers before slipping it into his back pocket.
“Yeah, well, you were supposed to be back two weeks ago. And then I have to hear from Kevin that you’re back? Kevin! In records? Not only that but you got back two days ago?”
Cas hums softly, nodding along. Yes, he should have come to see Dean first but he had slightly more pressing matters to attend to. Matters that had kept him away far too long and simply could not wait. Plus, Cas has convinced himself that he could not show his face to Dean until he’d discovered the key to the mystery that had kept him away from his love. Luckily, Dean’s tantrum came just as the solution presented itself.
“I’m sorry,” Cas says softly, reaching out to cup Dean’s jaw. A static jolt jumps between the space of their skin, shocking Cas before he can even touch Dean. “Ow! Really, Dean?”
Dean turns away, sulking, his lips pursed. Cas sighs, a smile curling over his features.
“I’ve brought you something…”
“From outside?” Dean turns, his eyes sparkling with excitement.
“Of course, would you like to see it?”
The ploy only works for a second and then Dean’s eyes narrow, thunder rumbles and the air pressure in the room drops.
“Do you want to see what kept me?” Cas asks again, reaching into his pocket, “Or are you going to continue to pout?”
Since Dean befell the curse that locked him into the pages of his book, his power as an elemental sealed almost totally away, he’s yearned for a taste of the outside. Of the world and nature he was once so connected to. But more than that, he yearns for kin; for his kin.
“Yes, show me. But you’re not off the hook,” Dean warns, stepping into Cas’ space like he owns it, like he belongs there. And he does. A cautious childlike smile tilts his lips.
“Of course not, I wouldn't dream of it,” Cas indulges, pulling the chain from his pocket and letting the small amulet dangle from his fist.
“Wow,” Dean breathes lifting a hand to ghost his fingers over the burnished golden figure head. “What is it?” Wonder laces his words and Cas’ heart constricts.
“It’s an amulet.”
“No shit.”
“Let me clarify,” Cas says, reaching out and lifting Dean’s hand, turning it palm up. “It.. is possibly, more appropriately known as, The Samulet.”
Cas lays the amulet in Dean’s palm and the reaction is immediate. The small charm glows bright like starlight, filling the space with blinding white light. Cas shields his eyes as it takes over, whiting out his vision. When the glow fades, Dean's free hand is clutching tight to Cas’ bicep, he’s breathing in small stilted gasps, his eye wide and glassy with unshed tears.
“Sam…” he chokes out, his fingers slipping from Cas’ arm to reach for the towering man now standing beside them.
“D–Dean,” Sam chokes rushing forward to embrace his brother.
“How long? How many eons?” Dean mumbles into the curve of Sam’s shoulder and Cas feels his throat constrict. He shuffles back a step, ready to give them some long overdue privacy when Dean’s hand snaps out and grabs Cas, stilling him.
“Cas,” he breathes, and there is so much there in that one word, in his name. So much emotion held in that one syllable that Cas can only nod, swallowing roughly. “Thank you.”
And then Cas is wrapped up in Dean’s arms, his body cradled in warmth and strength. Dean presses a kiss to his lips, his eyes closed so tight, so trusting. Tipping his forehead against Cas’ he breathes, “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me until we break the curse and free you both.”
Dean pulls back and smiles, it's like the sunrise, bright and warm, with so much potential that it makes Cas’ breath catch.
“If anyone can do it, it’s you.” With a squeeze to Cas’ shoulder Dean turns back to his brother, slipping the amulet over his head and crossing it as it lands against his chest. “I have so much to tell you,” he says.
“Me too,” Sam chokes, tears slipping free from his eyes. “Me too.”
Title: Torque to Size Ratio
Rating: Teen
Pairing: Sterek
Summary: The summer heat makes Stiles sweat. Unfortunately not only does it make him sweat, his shitty ancient building seems to sweat. Or at least, none of the doors seem to sit in the frames correctly. Most importantly, his front door. The front door to the house that just might hate him, and at this moment, won’t let him inside to the pure and beautiful air conditioning that is just waiting on the other side. Luckily, his neighbor is there to help him, again.
Tags: sterek, flirting, awkward Derek, oblivious Stiles, alternate universe–human
Notes: This prompt was posted by @pantydean on a sterek server I’m on but I sadly only have a this screen shot as a reference. Thanks for the prompt Crypto because it was the perfect inspiration for @comedicdrama‘s BIRTHDAY FIC!
Happy Birthday to my lovely Dessert Prince
<3 I hope you like these dorks falling in love.
p.s thanks to @tobythewise for jumping in and beta-ing for me <3 ily
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“Mother fucking–shit–fuck.” Stiles, once again, runs his hands through his hair, pulling on the strands until his scalp tingles. With a frustrated growl, he kicks the base of the door and then hisses as pain shoots up his toes and into his ankle. “Mother fucker––”
“This is great.” Stiles stiffens at the voice, at that voice. Derek Hale’s voice, his frustrating, attractive neighbor. Frustrating, because the guy is perpetually grumpy, but also, like, super nice, and Stiles just doesn’t get how that even works. How does a person have constant R.B.F but still manage to be the most helpful? It’s really hard to get a read on Derek because of it. And attractive... because, well… Stiles isn’t blind and even if he was, he’s sure that he’d somehow instinctively know of Derek Hale’s Hotness™.
Slowly, Stiles turns around. Derek’s sprawled out along the stone front steps of his duplex like he’s posing for some kinda sexy summer heat photoshoot. He’s leaning back on his elbows, hips cocked forward, his long legs kicked out and crossed at the ankles. There’s a half-empty bottle of Jack sitting next to his wrist. And it’s in that moment that Stiles decides Derek should absolutely be wearing more, or significantly less than his sweat-stained white tank top and a pair of grease-stained, faded Levi’s. Boots… those scuffed work boots will be the death of Stiles.
“Being locked out together,” Derek clarifies when Stiles just stares at him.
“Yeah, great,” Stiles grumbles turning back to his door. “Except I’m not locked out.” To further illustrate his point he jerks his keys out of the lock. Well, he tries to anyway but just like the door, they’re stuck. Derek just shrugs, his long fingers stretching to grab the bottle next to him.
“Either way, we should hang out more.”
Stiles drops his forehead against the door groaning. He’d love to ‘hang out’ with Derek. He’d love to, just once, look competent and graceful in front of the guy. But that’s not his life, and Derek seems to show up every time Stiles is having a…. moment. Like now, like this moment where his shitty, ancient, prewar building is acting up, and just hates him! Scott doesn’t believe him, but Stiles is convinced the building is sentient and just… hates him! Scott’s never had trouble with the front door, he’s never tripped up the steps while holding three fresh, hot pizzas only to be caught by one, Derek Hale before he can drop the boxes. Those steps have it out for him, Stiles swears it. He’s never tripped up or down steps as much as he does with these.
Scotts doesn’t understand because the house loves him! He’s never gotten stuck half in half out of the ground floor window when the thing suddenly dropped on him. To be fair, Stiles probably shouldn’t have been going through the window to get to the laundry room but he was tired of fighting with the front door. And, just to make everything worse, of course, Derek-fucking-Hale shows up and rescues him. With his bulging biceps and wide palms, making the stupid stuck window slide up like its been freshly greased. Not like Stiles hadn’t been, valiantly, fighting with it for the last 20 minutes trying to buck it up off his spine, no, of course not. That’s the last time Stiles tries to use the window as a shortcut to the basement laundry room. Creepy dark stairs from then on out. Until they try to kill him too.
“You should kick it,” Derek says and Stiles rolls around on the front door, keeping his head connected to the ancient wood, he looks down his nose at Derek and Derek fucking smiles. It might be the first real smile Stiles has ever seen on the other man and he just doesn’t know how to feel about it.
Derek’s smile widens as he brings the bottle up to his lips and tilts his head back like he’s putting on a show, one clear, bright eye pinning Stiles back against the door as he drinks, slow, long drags of the whiskey. Stiles bites the inside of his cheek as Derek’s Adam’s apple bobs with each hearty swallow. He’s got no idea what's going on but he likes it, he likes this side of Derek.
“Go on.” Derek breathes, as he puts the bottle back down. “Kick it, you should. Yeah, try, try a kick.”
“A kick?” Stiles' brain clicks online, slow and buzzing. Sweat’s dripping down his back, thick summer air wraps around his skin like a blanket, his mouth is dry and he licks his lips watching Derek track the motion. “K–kick it?”
Sweat drips slowly down the tendons of Derek’s neck and he seems to shine in the fading early evening sun. “Yeah,” he shrugs and then points at the door with the bottle “Kick it,” he says before bringing it back to his lips.
Kick it,” Stiles grumbles pulling himself from the door. “Fucking kick it,” he repeats to himself. Yeah, he thinks. It’s time to show this fucking house who’s boss. Flattening his hands against the door for stability, Stiles rears forward, pulls his knee towards his chest and donkey kicks the shit out of the door, twisting his hip and really putting everything he has down into his leg. The vibration of his foot connecting with the sold weight of the door thrums back up his leg and chatters his teeth. But other then that, nothing happens.
“That… Wow.” Stiles looks up, jaw tensed to try and stop his teeth from clacking, at Derek who's now leaning forward, forearms braced on his bent knees. His head’s cocked to the side and his brows are raised in what could be surprise, amusement or… Stiles doesn't even know, now his knee hurts.
“Yeah…” Stiles is ready with a dismissal when Derek laughs and it’s beautiful and Stiles hates him a little for keeping that sounds caged up inside of himself for so long.
“That was, wow,” Derek smiles and stands, the bottle dangling dangerously from his fingertips. He skips down the last few steps at the front of his building and practically float/jogs across the small street. Again, Stiles hates him, just a little bit, for the beautiful flex of his neck muscles as he checks for traffic, the roll of his shoulders as he hops up Stiles’ front steps and comes to stand just a little too close for Stiles’ sanity. “That… wow. More torque than I expected.” Derek grins and Stiles flushes from his feet to his hairline. He can feel it, the burn of heat on his cheeks that has nothing to do with the weather.
“You’ve got, uh...” Derek’s eyes drag over Stiles body, slowly and he licks his lips before meeting Stiles eye again. This can’t be happening. “A surprising, uh, torque to size ratio.”
“Uh…” Stiles is never at a loss for words, but right now, with Derek looking him over, with Derek leaning in, his wide palm landing on the door over Stiles' shoulder, bringing their chests so close together that if Stiles breathes too deeply they’d touch. Well, he’s got nothing. Stiles Stilinski has nothing. Nothing to say except a very elegant: “...uh... Y–yep”
Derek makes a soft noise in his throat before tilting his head towards the door, his palm slides up the wood and it really takes every ounce of his very limited self-control for Stiles not to turn his face and lick the sweat out of the bend of Derek’s elbow.
“Here,” Derek says, almost absently handing the bottle to Stiles, his whole body changing focus to the door behind Stiles.
It’s really a beautiful thing, Stiles thinks, as he takes the bottle from Derek and–what the hell–takes a drink. How Derek gives something his entire focus and how Stiles would like to have that focus on him, just for a little while.
He sighs around the mouth of the bottle, letting the very, very stuck door take his weight. He’s suddenly tired. Whether it's the heat or Derek, or the stupid house, who totally hates him, Stiles has no idea, but he’s done. Closing his eyes he tilts his head back against the door, the bottle halfway up to his lips again when Derek grunts, the house shakes and a very, very manly squawk erupts from Stiles' mouth.
Bracing for an impact that never comes Stiles’ flailing limbs grapple for the first thing they can find. His free hand grips a thick, sweat-slick neck as strong arms wrap around his back, and before he can get too far, Derek is hauling him back to his feet, pulling Stiles into his space as he grins.
“Careful there,” he says and Stiles can smell the whiskey on his breath. “Should have warned you I guess.” Derek goes on, glancing over Stiles' shoulder at the now gaping doorway. He tugs a little making Stiles shuffle forward, his wide, scorchingly hot palms brace the small of Stiles back. This cannot be happening.
“Nah…” Stiles manages “...we–we’re good.”
“Are we?” Derek asks looking at Stiles out of the corner of his eye, one of those thick murderous brows arching in a way Stiles has never seen before. It sends butterflies swooping in his stomach.
This is happening.
“Yeah, we are so good.” Stiles grins at Derek, and hoping he’s reading the entire situation right, takes a swing of the Jack before passing it back. He slides his hand up Derek’s chest to join his other cupping the back of Derek’s neck. Derek licks his lips, brings the bottle to his lips and then places it on the wide cement banister.
“Got anything else you need me to manhandle for you?” Derek asks, his hand returning to Stiles’ back only to slip lower and dip into Stiles’ back pockets.
“You–you...and me?” Stiles tilts his head, this cannot be happening, this cannot be fucking happening. Not with Derek-Fucking-Hale.
“If... you want?” Derek says, and its soft, shy, cautious, and Stiles realizes that Derek is worried about Stiles rejecting him.
“Me?” Stiles need to clarify because he’s pretty sure he’s kept his huge, massive, crush on Derek a secret. At least he’s tried to.
“Yeah, since that time with the pizza boxes.” Derek blushes, blowing out a breath and looking away. He shrugs his shoulder, trying for nonchalance but Stiles sees the way his jaw tenses. “Been trying to work up the nerve to talk to you, but you know….”
“Uh?” Stiles is trying not to laugh, the reality of the situation hitting him full force. He’s not this lucky. The steamy hot guy across the street doesn’t like him, it’s never him, except this time it is. Derek seems to be getting more embarrassed and frustrated as he tries to explain.
“You’re always stuck in things! Or late for something, or rushing. I… I’m not good at just, doing this….stuff…. out of the blue.”
All at once it clicks. “You’re not actually locked out of your house are you?”
“No,” Derek bites his bottom lip, the hands he has stuffed in Stiles back pockets twitch. “You’re two hours late coming home! I got nervous and … it was only supposed to be like one drink, something to give me courage, make me stay out here till you got home, but…”
“My class ran late.” Stiles bites the inside of his cheek, cursing his TA responsibilities– not for the first time.
Derek clears his throat, nods, and to Stiles’ great horror starts to withdraw his hands from Stiles pockets.
“Right so…”
“You know,” Stiles grins, flinging an arm out, he grabs the bottle and gulps down the last few shots. “I think,” he says, wincing around the burn in his throat, “that the door to my bedroom….” Stiles steps backward through the front door, using the hold he has on Derek’s neck to tug him along. “Could use some man-handling...”
Derek’s smile returns full force. He steps in, pulling Stiles' hips against his own as they move out of the sweltering evening sun and into the confines of Stiles’, maybe not so haunted house.
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Tags: DeanCas Mixtape 2018, Growing Up, Guardian Angels, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, really canon divergent, Bad Parent John Winchester, Holidays, Protective Dean Winchester, Fix-It, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst and Feels, Happy Ending, Family Feels, Time Skips, Happy Winchesters (Supernatural), Snow Angels, Soul Bond, Angelic Grace Bonds (Supernatural), Angels, Canon-Typical Violence
Art: @delicious-irony
Special thanks to: @captainhaterade, @canadduh Rocksalt and Shore
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Summary: Dean knew his mom was dead wrong when she told him angels were watching over him. If they were would his life have turned out like this? Now, his moms just dead, his dads gone insane, the monster under his bed is real, and there are things much worse than that in the world.When a disembodied voice comes to him, Dean's already accepted his fate; when you live the life of a hunter you never live long. He was, however, hoping to live past thirteen. When this voice tells him he's got a destiny to fulfill, it all comes as a bit of a shock.It also might be the exact moment his fate changes, destiny be damned.
“Boy! Get back here!”
John’s voice cracks through the air, deep and snarling, chasing after Dean as he bolts from the back of the small cabin and into the dense wood. It’s a desolate thing, the cabin, barely holding together against the wind and drifting snow. It long ago fell to disrepair, forgotten out in the middle of the forest. Just some random place that John stumbled across and decided it was as good as anything to set up in for the night.
Not that this night should be special. No night with John is special, why should Christmas Eve be any different? After being on the road for three days straight, cooped up in the Impala with Sam and Dad driving further and further north; the air growing steadily colder until the thin mist turned into a blanketing, heavy snowfall. It’s too much and Dean is at his breaking point.
Dean really thought he’d be able to make it another year if he could have just one night as a normal family. But nothing is ever normal when your Dad disappears after some monster. Some creature. The whisper of a rumor of yellow eyes and fire and leaves left Dean alone, too young to fight, too small to disagree, too concerned about Sammy to ever really leave.
Dean thought if he could just have one night with them all together it would be okay. That everything he’s been through over the last few weeks, months, years… . It would be worth it.
All the days he went hungry so Sam could eat. All the nights sitting up fighting sleep, clutching his sawed-off, staring at the door waiting for Dad or death to come for him. Dean stupidly thought that they could just have one night like a normal family. Just a normal kid, with a normal Dad and a little brother, celebrating the holidays in a cozy cabin in the woods. Just once.
Summary: There's a bar hidden between the blurry lines of time and space and perception, and to those in the know, it's called Limbo. It's one of those places... a sliver cut between worlds, where dimensions and realities overlap. Where supernatural beings of all walks of life–or, in Castiel’s case, death–come to let their glamour fade and exist in their skin without prejudice. Whether that skin has horns, or claws, or fangs, in Limbo no one bothers to look twice.
He's been here for years, a staple behind the bar, mixing drinks, crafting a steady, even, uneventful life for himself. Everything on a schedule, everything predictable. It's how he keeps himself sane. It's how he keeps others safe. But that was over three weeks ago. Three weeks since everything went to hell and his carefully constructed life fractured down the middle. Three weeks, and now the only constant in his life is the Thirst.
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Chapter One under the cut
Three weeks, two days, sixteen hours, and twenty-three minutes.
.
.
.
The clock on his nightstand blinks, the numbers ever climbing. Three weeks, two days, sixteen hours, and twenty-four minutes since Cas last fed. His stomach twists, a hollow ache expanding in his gut. There is no rest for the wicked. Even as his resolve wears thin and his energy plummets, he pushes on. The next shipment should arrive soon. It has to.
Three weeks, four days, twelve hours, and forty-seven minutes since Cas last fed.
“New guy starts today,” Benny calls over the low thrum of the club’s music, dragging Cas from his spiraling, red-tinted thoughts. The steady, rhythmic beat from tonight's DJ is some kind of goth-electro shit that Cas will never understand, no matter how many centuries he lives.
He sniffs, rolling his shoulders to alleviate the stiffness, and lifts a crate of clean pint glasses, setting them out under the bar for the next rush. Limbo is one of those places, a space between worlds, where time and dimensions and realities overlap. Where supernatural beings of all walks of life or, in Castiel’s case, death come to let their glamour fade and, for a while, exist in their skin without prejudice. Whether that skin has horns, or claws, or fangs, in Limbo no one bothers to look twice.
Which is unfortunate for Castiel and his hypersensitive sense of smell, because where there are supernatural creatures, there are supernatural scents. On a good day, it’s an annoyance, something to tolerate as part of his job, but tonight it makes his head hurt. Pressure builds inside his sinuses and expands into a headache that throbs behind his eyes.
“Yah hear me, Cas?” Benny’s voice booms.
“Of course I hear you,” Cas grumbles under his breath, as if Benny doesn’t share his enhanced hearing. As if Benny doesn't know perfectly well that Cas can pick out the twin heartbeats of the strzyga across the club, let alone a shouted conversation a few feet away. Tossing aside the empty crate, Cas starts on the back bars inventory.
“Yeah? I guess it is weird when a boss expects his employee to answer his questions.”
Rolling his eyes, Cas looks up from his task. “You didn’t ask a question, Benny, you made a statement. I don’t understand why I need to care if another new being has been conned into working for this establishment.” Cas forces a harsh breath out of his nose, flighting a sneeze.
A skinwalker smoking a long blue and green cigarette strolls past. The fragrant purple smoke coils like a serpent in the already thickly scented air. If looks could kill, the one Cas gives the offending creature would render it dead. “We should ban smoking in the club,” he mutters.
“Listen, brother,” Benny says, clapping him on the shoulder and drawing Cas’ death glare away from the skinwalker. “I need you to care because you’re the one who’s going to be training him.”
“What? Benny, no!” Cas releases the bottle he’s holding and turns to face his boss. “You’ve got to be kidding me! I trained the last two hires. Make Meg or Garth do it.”
“Sorry man, you’re the most senior employee I’ve got, and because of that you’ve got perks.” Benny’s smile grows as Cas’ scowl deepens. “One of those perks is training the new guys.”
“Shouldn’t one of my perks be telling everyone else what they have to do?” Cas counters and Benny chuckles, shrugging one thick shoulder.
“Look, Cas,” he says slowly, leaning in like he has some dark secret to share. “I know you’re in a bit of a bind, with what’s been going on and all, but I need you.”
Benny is a good guy… at least for a vampire. He has honest eyes and he’s one of the closest things Cas has to a friend. And since Benny’s a vampire himself, he has the decency not to talk about the hiccup in Cas’ feeding schedule. No reason to agitate a festering wound.
“And, ‘cause you take your orders from me, and I take my orders from Gabe,” Benny continues, lifting a shoulder in an ‘I wish I could help you but my hands are tied’ kind of way. “Gabe wants you on the new guy. So that’s where you’re gonna be.” With a final pat on Cas’ shoulder, Benny abandons him.
“But, why me?!” Cas calls. When there is no reply, he stomps back to his abandoned inventory sheet. Every time he drops one of the bottles back into its spot, each subtle clink of glass on glass helps soothe his irritation. Eventually, his agitation fades, and he’s just growling a stream of half-hearted complaints under his breath.
“What was that, Clarence?” Meg’s husky voice drifts over the bar as she sets her tray down. As if his night couldn’t get any worse, now there’s Meg. Her smile spreads, and just as Cas is about to tell her to go straight back to whatever pit of hell she crawled out of, she says, “Almost six hundred and twenty years old and still... what was that last part?” She laughs, leaning farther over the counter, the pale rise of her full breasts dangerously close to spilling over the edge of her low cut top.
The crisp green edge of a bill pokes out from the left side of her shirt. As Cas watches, Meg’s long elegant fingers press into the soft flesh of her chest and slip in alongside her breast to retrieve the bill. Slowly she draws it out over the curve and up her collarbone to flutter next to the bend in her neck, pushing the slightly acrid scent of her vessel’s blood towards him.
Shifting on his feet, Cas feels the tell-tale tingle in his gums as his canine teeth lengthen. He doesn't commonly have a taste for demon blood, not since the last time he caved to his desire. Even animal blood is better than the taste demon blood leaves in his mouth. His eyes flick up from the soft curve of Meg’s throat and the throb of her pulse. A vicious smile curves her full lips, and Cas knows he let her taunt him too far. Hunger pricks like a needle at the back his brain.
“Been a while huh, tiger?” She mocks, leaning closer so Cas can hear the low whoosh of blood pumping through her veins.
Her bright hazel eyes lock on his, and Cas can tell by the blurring at the edges of his vision that his normally ice blue gaze is steadily turning a violent purple. Meg loves to push him, taunt him, tease him with the meal hidden under her skin. Only once had Meg pushed him so far, he snapped and let the feeding frenzy consume him. She had bites and bruises from the encounter for weeks. Not that she complained, boasted about their wild night if anything. Cas ended up regretting his decision even before the rumors started. He is a private person, not just because he’s a vampire, he’s just used to a more solitary life.
Cas pulls his lips back, baring his fangs in warning.
Meg purrs, her eyes flashing black.
“Don’t tease me, Clarence,” She flirts, before leaning away. She tosses her order pad onto the mahogany bar. “I need two Holy Waters, a Dead Man’s Blood, an Angels Tears, and a vodka tonic.”
Moving on autopilot, Cas makes the drinks as she rattles them off. “Does Gabe always put you on when I need to feed, or am I just that unfortunate?” He asks.
“Just lucky, I guess.” She shrugs, adding the twenty to her wad of cash before slipping the whole bundle back into her apron pocket. “When’s your next feeding scheduled?”
“It’s supposed to be tomorrow,” Cas responds automatically, setting the drinks on her tray. “Who the fuck orders a vodka tonic?”
Her shoulder lifts as she shrugs, sliding an elegant red-tipped nail around the rim of the glass in question. “You know, you could solve all your problems if you just fed like a normal vamp,” she says, popping the p, careful not to meet his eyes as she lifts her tray.
Cas stiffens. “You know I can’t do that.”
“Sure you can.” She clicks her tongue. “There are blood bars all over the city, where, for the right price, you can drink directly from the source.” She picks up her notepad and slips it into her apron. “You know those humans are paid really well for letting you parasites feed off them.”
“Meg…” Cas growls again “You are well aware that I am not permitted…”
“I know Clarence.” She winks. “You know, I’m always here if you change your mind.” Adjusting her serving tray, she saunters back into the depths of the club.
Cas watches her go and for a brief moment, he second guesses his decision to turn down her offer of a fresh feeding. Running his tongue over his teeth he finds his gums ache. The glands under his tongue are swollen, sore with need, and still, the scent headache pounds like a drum behind his eyes.
Cas shakes his head. Demon vessel blood always leaves the taste of sulfur in his mouth. Then again, there’s really nothing like a warm body writhing under him as he feeds. He misses hunting. It brings Cas back to his youth when he’d first turned; stalking and seducing his prey.
He blinks, shocked at where his mind had gone. He should not be reminiscing fondly about those days.
Cas tosses the shaker into the well sink, snarling.
“Amateurs, am I right?” The voice draws Cas from his dark thoughts. “The Fairy’s Folly would have been a way better choice than a vodka tonic.”
Cas looks up, scowling at the smiling young man who has taken Meg's place across the bar. He’s handsome, startlingly so. He seems to glow with a health and vitality rarely seen among the patrons of Limbo.
Roughly shaken from his thoughts as he is by the man’s sudden and startling appearance, Cas can’t help but stare. For the first time all night the air smells clean. Like before the plagues, like before he died and was turned. He smells fresh like the flower fields and rolling hills of a home lost to Castiel so many years ago. Memories surge like a tidal wave from the depths of Cas’ mind where they’d been locked away.
Taking stock of the man, eyes flicking over his broad straight-toothed smile, sharp jaw, and full pouty lips, green eyes that shimmer like the first dewy buds of spring. This man, who at least in Castiel’s opinion is far too beautiful to be real––in fact, likely an Incubi––rubs him the wrong way. Cas can’t shake the instant dislike that curls in his gut. This man is Castiel’s exact opposite; it oozes tantalizingly from his sun-kissed and freckled skin. Cas’ lip lifts slightly, flashing one pointed canine tooth but much to his distaste, the man’s green eyes darken as they drop to Cas’ mouth, and he licks his lips.
“D’Ansphiel.” Benny’s voice snaps them out of the staring contest they were having. Cas is quick to jump back into action, orders are coming in, and he doesn’t have the energy to be distracted by Mr. Spring Rain here.
“You must be Benny?” Spring Rain asks, his voice as deep as the ocean. Cas’ gums tingle, his ears burn and he tries to ignore the effect that voice has on him. He needs to feed, and this D’Ansphiel with his bright, clean scent and sun-kissed skin is not helping. "Please, call me Dean.”
“Dean. We're sure glad you could make it on such short notice.” Benny says, and Cas turns away from the pair. He doesn't want to train some brat, and he certainly doesn't have time to stand here and listen to Benny give this D’Ansphiel–‘Call me Dean’–the tour. The pair wanders off into the club, D’Ansphiel taking the clean, fresh air with him as he leaves.
