Sam is missing, and the only person that Dean can think to run to—halfway across the country—is Castiel, a detective now employed by the Los Angeles Police Department. But Sam’s disappearance isn’t a result of him running off into the sunset, unlike Castiel thinks. Dean heads to Los Angeles on a hunch, hoping that Castiel can use his connections to find where Sam might be—only, the rot runs deep within the department, and what starts off as a garden variety break-in turns out to be something that if provoked, could get both Dean and Castiel killed, and end with Sam becoming the head of an organization neither of them knew existed.
But, how can Dean stop what feels inevitable before it even begins?
read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/iKAm6z8
by LoversAntiquities
While Dean and Sam are being thrown across the universe by a supposed trickster, Castiel ends up in a moment in Dean's past--and sees an entirely different side of Dean he never could have imagined.
Words: 2654, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English
Fandoms: Supernatural (TV 2005)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories: M/M
Characters: Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Winchester
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Additional Tags: Episode: s05e08 Changing Channels (Supernatural), Brothels, Stripper Dean Winchester, Time Travel, Preseries Dean Winchester - Freeform, Inspired by Fanart
read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/iKAm6z8
Hey everyone, it’s LoversAntiquities! It’s that time again! I’m participating in Vol. 2 of the Profound Zine! Preorders start in August, so be sure to check out their Tumblr and Twitter to stay informed.
Here’s a preview of what’s to come!
Rather than the pistol he keeps under his pillow, Dean finds a rock later that night, about the size of a half dollar and cold in his hand. Still exhausted from the drive home and limbs begging for rest, Dean sits up and pulls the rock free, flipping on the nightstand lamp. Squinting in the brightness, he admires the blue stone in his palm and turns it over, observing the streaks of brown or teal running through it. A good skipping stone, he thinks, if he ever wanted to toss it.
Someone—Castiel, he knows—wrapped a string of twine around it, along with a handwritten note. Aquamarine, it reads, the calligraphy artistic in a way he never figured Castiel for, for stress and fear.
For another minute, Dean rolls it over in his hand, the cool surface warming with his touch. Castiel left him a rock, under his pillow of all places; strange as it is, Dean removes the note and sets it on the nightstand, afterward placing the stone on top of it. Only for his own comfort, he reasons—feeling a gun under his head, he’s used to, but something smaller and easily lost if he looks the other way?
“Feel like a damn bird,” he says before shutting off the light. Can’t believe I’m being courted with rocks.
Sam is missing, and the only person that Dean can think to run to—halfway across the country—is Castiel, a detective now employed by the Los Angeles Police Department. But Sam's disappearance isn't a result of him running off into the sunset, unlike Castiel thinks. Dean heads to Los Angeles on a hunch, hoping that Castiel can use his connections to find where Sam might be—only, the rot runs deep within the department, and what starts off as a garden variety break-in turns out to be something that if provoked, could get both Dean and Castiel killed, and end with Sam becoming the head of an organization neither of them even knew existed.
But, how can Dean stop what feels inevitable before it even starts?
Keep reading for a sneak preview!
Looking at the wound, maybe Castiel was right—maybe he does need a hospital after all. Small caliber or not, Castiel bleeds like a faucet, and only after a good thirty minutes of continuous pressure and towels and numerous prayers to a god that may or may not exist, does Dean manage to stem the flow. After that—after that, he has no clue what to do.
“My—my old man got shot once,” Dean mentions after he returns from the motel parking lot, a first aid kit in hand. Castiel sits on the edge of his bed, shirtless, with blood staining the left half of his torso and down the leg of his slacks. Dean doesn’t look at him—tries hard to not look at him, but he can’t help but admire his build, the firmness of his core and biceps, his forearms. Two nickel-sized scars decorate his opposite shoulder, barely an inch between them and silvered from age. He aches to touch them, to see what they might feel like under the pad of his thumb.
Whether or not Castiel notices him staring, he doesn’t let it show. “How did it happen?”
Right, words. “He—someone was hunting on our land, once, least that’s what he said. I was a kid.” Dean sits on Castiel’s bad side and urges him to lift his legs onto the mattress and turn. With shaking hands, he pops open the kit in his lap, the contents half used, but still with enough gauze and bandages to make do for the time being. “Walked in, sat down at the table, wouldn't let my mom touch him. Said he could take care of it himself.” Blood drips; Dean dries the wound with a red-stained rag. “Almost lost his damn leg.”
Castiel hums, then sighs. “I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.” Dean takes a few packages of gauze and a small tub of petroleum jelly from the box, setting the box aside. “You gonna let me in on your charade, now?”
Castiel straightens up, tensing under Dean’s hand as Dean covers the wound in a thin sheen of wax. “You should’ve taken me to the hospital.”
“I told you, no.” Dean barely holds back from jamming the gauze onto Castiel’s shoulder out of spite. Hurting him won’t solve his problems, and probably won’t get him any answers any faster. “Whoever shot you could be at any hospital in the city, waiting to finish the job. And if you’re dead, who’m I gonna bitch at?”
Low, Castiel lets out a noise Dean could almost call a laugh. “You’ll hate me.”
“Not telling me’s gonna make me hate you more.” He tapes down the gauze with two Band-aids and, the rest of his tools in hand, crawls around Castiel, coming to sit in front of him. Visibly reluctant, Castiel shifts around, letting Dean have access to the exit wound marring his shoulder, red and swollen and slightly larger than the entry hole. Dabbing away the excess blood, he asks, “You sure it doesn’t hurt?”
“It does,” Castiel says, biting back a whine, “but I’ve been shot before.” He wrings his hands in his lap, his knuckles white and scarred.
“Still doesn’t mean it don’t hurt.” Dean looks down at their thighs and the darker black of Castiel’s slacks, now crusting with blood. Should’ve gotten him to take his pants off. “Spill, now.”
Keep reading on Ao3 after Monday March 17
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read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/MrZHleN
by LoversAntiquities
On Christmas Eve, 2002, Dean banishes a ghost in the backwoods of Iowa—and finds more than he bargained for in a stranger he's never once met. Or, so he thinks.
Words: 3539, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English
Fandoms: Supernatural (TV 2005)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories: M/M
Characters: Dean Winchester, Castiel (Supernatural)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Additional Tags: Alternate Canon, Pre-Canon, Stanford Era (Supernatural), Castiel Loves Dean's Soul, Reincarnation, Snow, Christmas Eve, Past Castiel/Others technically??
read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/MrZHleN
Dean dies. Then, an angel yanks him out of Hell on a technicality; Dean’s death is slated for years in the future, and someone took him ahead of time. Teaming up with Castiel might not be the smartest decision he’s ever made, but together, they must work to figure out who did this to him, and why.
Falling in love wasn’t part of the plan, though.
Link to fic | Link to art
Pairings: Dean/Castiel, background Sam/Rowena
Warnings: Canon-typical violence, mentioned past non-con
Tags: Post Season 1, (Emotional) Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Angels and Demons, Strangers to Lovers, Sharing a Bed, Casefic
Explicit | ~39k | Posting on April 14
Author: LoversAntiquities | Artist: Jayjayverse
Dean dies. Then, an angel yanks him out of Hell on a technicality; Dean’s death is slated for years in the future, and someone took him ahead of time. Teaming up with Castiel might not be the smartest decision he's ever made, but together, they must work to figure out who did this to him, and why.
Falling in love wasn't part of the plan, though.
Keep reading for a sneak preview!
Somewhere along the way, Dean lost track of the days.
At first, he began marking them on his cell wall, fingers covered in blood and sweat and God knows what else. After a while, they began to blur together, and most nights, he couldn't drag himself off the cold floor to keep a steady record. Most days, he can’t even read what he left behind, vision too clouded and hazy. Though, he supposes pain-induced blindness is a blessing—this way, he doesn’t have to see what they’re using to cut him open.
Lying in the corner, Dean closes his eyes and curls into himself, an arm over his face. Around him in the dozens and hundreds of other cells just like his own, he hears shouts and sobs, and worst of all, the pleas of mercy when two of their captors wander the halls to take someone to the room Dean has lovingly began to call Death Central. Some mornings, he’s right there along with them; others, he just lets it happen, because fighting back only makes it worse.
Shuddering, Dean tries not to think about it. Tries as hard as he can, until the headache threatens to knock him out and the ever-persistent ache drags him under. Tonight, his hairs stand on end, and his legs refuse to do anything other than lie there, toes still numb. Sure, they heal him after, but at what cost? The agony still remains, and the memories haunt him, leaving a horrible taste behind his teeth.
Even in sleep, he can’t escape.
Locks jangle from down the hall, in the direction of Death Central. Whoever they’re coming for, Dean tries not to look; they already finished with him for the day, but twice in twenty-four hours isn’t uncommon, especially if he runs his mouth. Today, Dean just laid there and took it. They like that, when no one talks back and the only noise Dean makes is screams loud enough to scare even him.
They shouldn't come for him—but someone does. Every single instinct tells him to hide, to scream and cower, but whoever breaks the lock to his cell isn’t interesting in throwing jabs or intentionally sharpening their blades next to his head. Still, Dean whines and tries to tuck his legs closer, in a vain effort to protect himself. No matter what he tries, they always have their way—resistance is futile, and all Dean can do is obey.
The second a hand touches his face—gentle, warm and not in the least bit threatening—Dean shrieks and slaps at the perpetrator. Said creature takes him by the wrist, not even trying to break it. “Dean Winchester,” they say in a voice Dean has never heard before, so unfamiliar that his gut clenches on instinct. Sometimes they bring in new carvers—those days are the ones where Dean wishes he didn't exist the most. “Are you alright?”
