Tagged by: gallifrey-has-fallen
Rule 1: Always post the rules. Rule 2: Answer the questions the person who tagged you wrote. Rule 3: Tag 11 people and link them to the post. Rule 4: Actually tell them you tagged them
My Questions:
Prized Possession? Probably my Marauders Map because it was £30 and it's the Marauders Map so it's awesome!
BROTP? Hmm... I'm not sure... Probably Charlie & Dean (Supernatural) or Scott & Stiles (Teen Wolf)
Favourite character of all time? Oh god, that's hard... I love Dean but I love Castiel but I love Stiles and Derek and ugh... I love all of them.
Favourite mythological creature? Hmm... a Dragon because they're huge and colourful and they breathe fire and obviously because of Smaug!
Ever written a story? Short or long enough to be a novel? Yes! I have actually! I wrote one about Slenderman that was really short! I quite liked it to be honest :P
Xbox or PS3? I don't play either but if I did it would be Xbox because my brother has one
Favourite celebrity? oh no, this is the 'favourite character' question all over again! I love Dylan O'Brien... and Benedict Cumberbatch... and... AND EVERYONE OKAY!?
Embarrassing story you’re willing to share? When I was like 7-8 y/o I went to school in a dress after I forgot to put underwear on... That was a pretty bad day.
Do you collect anything? I used to collect hats but I gave up. So no, I don't really collect anything.
Favourite book series? Harry Potter, without a doubt.
Anything interesting about yourself? I can probably eat ketchup with anything, I'll eat it off a spoon.
Your Questions
Favourite ship?
Favourite song?
Any hobbies?
What the strangest thing you eat/drink?
What do you hate doing?
Favourite animal?
Do you like school or not?
Are you superstitious?
Any phobias?
Favourite game (computer game, board game, anything)
pumpkinschester replied to your post “While its not true that Misha linked his last tweets to that article...”
yeah, i thought he might have referred to that fiasco. maybe he's just nice. or maybe he knows something other people involved don't. or both.
It's all speculation, of course, and instinct would push us to want to see the best in him, I think. idk, I've always felt Misha seems a bit invested in the idea of representing a m/m relationship- he humors it more, that's obvious, but he also seems to have some serious notions about the pairing because he's chosen, more than once, to disclose some honest opinions about the topic. Which is kinda good, I guess. It might not mean anything, but what's going on in fandom right now is that the people in charge aren't owning up to their shit. They know what they're doing and that's what pisses me off- because it's not just the fucking writing. It's everything. It's a whole team of people working on this show, using filming tricks, using lighting tricks, using music, and then, after all that, using lines and basic romance tv/film tropes to play at something they know the audience likes. That's marketing and they know numbers, they know that last season was a huge recovery from season 7 was partly due to their exploring and nodding at the Dean/Cas dynamic.
I guess the only thing I feel like complaining about is that, that this team knows how to milk something when it conveniences them, but when they're called out on reverting it or becoming problematic (god knows some of them really don't know how to fucking apologize for how problematic the show is) it's a shitstorm. Which it shouldn't be. Because I don't want to be tugged around. Making things fucking clear. If you have no plans to make a ship canon, then do something to fix the issues at hand- give us queer representation, give us healthy relationships, give us something convincingly platonic between the characters in question. Don't lead people on and give them hope and then laugh it off because, haha, queerness doesn't fit this narrative how silly of you! Haha, what's this pairing you're talking about why are you getting upset about a story that doesn't exist?
I don't know. I'm complaining. I just get this vibe that by the time the show is over, we're going to get this really annoying comments like "oh, we knew it was romantic but we didn't see the space for it", "oh, it was definitely more than friends between Dean and Castiel but we didn't want to push anything", "oh, yeah, they were right but they were in the minority and we didn't want to change the tone of the show"
And then there's people like Misha, who get withdrawn at conventions and frown and tell people not to get their hopes up about the gender of his love interest. There's people like him who go on interviews and feel okay about talking about kissing and a canon romance and who tell fans, time and time again, they're not just seeing things.
Because we aren't. But that doesn't mean we're gonna get what we want.
"Yeah, okay, so... clearly we have to stop having sex."
Castiel looks up from the coffee machine, bewildered. "What? Why?"
They're standing in the break room at the kitchenette, which is mercifully empty besides themselves, and Dean sighs. "Cas, I can see you in your office from my desk. And I like what I see. What I see turns me on. And I can’t focus on shit when I’m turned on." At Cas’s smirk, he rolls his eyes and adds, "Stop looking so smug."
Confusion vanished, Cas has settled now for irritatingly amused. Dean’s beginning to regret starting this conversation here, but if they’re not at work then they’re having sex, and it’s even harder to talk when your pants are round your ankles.
Which is why they need to call this whole thing off. If Dean knows he can’t have it, then he can stop wanting it and move on. Find someone else. Hell, he’s pretty sure half the firm would be willing, and if that makes him a ‘gross manwhore’ (Sam’s words) then so be it. It’s not a big deal. In fact, there’s Marty, down on twelve, who even looks a bit like Cas. If you squint. And are drunk. And also blind.
Cas hums thoughtfully as he stirs his coffee. “May I propose a counter-suggestion?”
“If you must.”
He leans back against the kitchen unit and Dean tries not to notice the way his white dress shirt pulls over his chest. Then Cas says, “I appreciate your point, but my solution is that we have more sex, not less,” and Dean chokes a little.
“Are you kidding me?”
Still looking infuriatingly serene, Cas pushes away from the worktop and walks back to his office. Dean follows him, trying to look inconspicuous when a few of their colleagues glance their way. A couple even pause and say hello to Cas. Clearly none of them know how much of an asshole he is. Dean knows. Dean hates him.
Dean also wants to hear more about this counter-suggestion.
“Did you not hear what I said?” he asks pointedly, once they’re safely ensconced in Castiel’s office (which, annoyingly, is perpendicular to his own corner office and as such affords him a glimpse of Cas through the glass front walls every time he’s sitting at his desk).
“Of course. You said that you were sexually frustrated,” Castiel states blandly. “And unless I’m not much mistaken, the cure to such an ailment is having sex. Not the removal of it.”
And what d’ya know, the dude is actually making sense. “Huh.”
Cas’s smile now is triumphant, a man who knows he’s won. “Of course, if you’d like, we can always go back to my apartment tonight and… theorise. See if we can find a different answer to our quandary.”
Theorise? Well, they’ve never called it that before. Dean grins. “Is that what you want, Cas?”
Maybe it’s not such a bad idea. There’s nothing to say they can’t still be professional. Hell, Dean’s been on top of his game the last six months. The tension with Cas, both in and out of court, riles him up. It gets his blood pumping, energises him. And anyways, why have Marty-on-twelve when he can have the real thing?
“I’ll meet you by your car at six,” Cas says nonchalantly, but he’s smirking as he sits behind his desk and pulls his laptop towards him. “Oh, and Dean? Would you mind shifting that potted plant a little to the right on your way out? It’s blocking my view.”
Dean’s frown cracks into a smile when he moves the plant, sees his own desk, and realises that Cas has been perving on him, too, the fucker.
Charlie is waiting for him in his office when he walks in, sitting on one of his plush leather couches with her boots on the coffee table as she flips through a magazine. “So?” she asks when he walks in. “Did you call it off?”
He swats her feet back to the floor and nods tightly. “Yeah, yeah. All sorted. Very amicable, we both handled it like men. No biggie.”
But Charlie looks at him with narrowed eyes, then sighs her Dean Winchester, you’re an idiot sigh. “You’re seeing him tonight, aren’t you?”
“Yep, parking garage at six.”
--
The day doesn’t stop dragging; in fact, Dean’s pretty sure time actually slows down. He meets Sam for lunch at their favourite diner, and listens for an hour as he goes on and on about Jess, some biologist he met while investigating a case of lake pollution (real interesting stuff, environmental law) and how she asked him for drinks on Saturday and “what should I wear, Dean? I don’t know where she plans on taking us and I don’t want to be too informal, or the other way round”, and doesn’t feel guilty at all about teasing his brother for being a huge girl.
There’s actually a little part of him that’s jealous of Sam, and he dwells on it for the rest of the afternoon. Only a little part, for obvious reasons like Sam is a nerd and Dean is awesome, but it niggles at him. Because his brother has met this Jess chick and he’s positively glowing. Of course, what Dean and Castiel have is very different, but still. Sometimes Dean would like to actually be able to answer the question, “But why won’t you let me set you up with her, Dean?”
It’s stupid, he knows, because he and Cas have never said they’re exclusive. How can they be when they’re hardly even a thing to begin with? But it’s easy with Cas. It’s simple. There’s no awkward getting to know each other stage because they’re already past it. Well, they know each other’s bodies, anyway. And Dean knows that Cas is a neat-freak, and that he’s got a map of the world covered in stickers marking the spots he wants to visit in the back of his closet (he wasn’t snooping, it was an accident, okay?), and that he is allergic to cats but has always wanted a dog, and that he doesn’t have any family left, and that he’s a freak who talks to the pigeons on the sidewalk and has never learnt to drive so rides a damn pushbike everywhere.
Dean has learned these things about Cas, and Cas probably learned a few things about Dean, but that doesn’t mean that they know each other. And Dean certainly isn’t going to introduce his little brother to a fuck-buddy.
Eventually, he’s pointedly ending a phone call with a client, shooing Charlie home (girl works too damn hard), packing his briefcase, and stepping into the elevator. When he walks through the basement parking garage, footsteps echoing off the concrete, Castiel is already leaning against the Impala’s hood.
Tsking him, Dean says, “Oi. Get your ass off my car before you scratch her.” Cas rolls his eyes but does as he’s told. He instead reaches for his bicycle, all folded up (yes, folded, into some weird metal square with a wheel that comes off and everything) and passes it to Dean to put in the trunk, like they’ve done a hundred times before. And Dean points out, “Y’know, it’s a miracle anyone ever takes you seriously when they see you arrive on this fucked up excuse for a bike,” like he’s done a hundred times before.
“Cycling is much better for your health—and the environment—than driving a gas-guzzler like this,” Cas rebukes as he sits in the shotgun seat, the car creaking underneath him.
“Heathen!” Scowling, Dean pats the dashboard lovingly and mutters, “Ignore him, Baby. He knows nothing.”
Cas snorts rudely.
They go back to his place. Dean doesn’t like Castiel’s apartment much. Yeah, it’s large with more rooms than he needs and top-of-the-range appliances. But it’s cold. As immaculate as a show home but without the warm smell of cookies. There are no personal touches anywhere, no photos or framed certificates. Nothing, other than a child’s map in the back of a closet and a hideous piece of art in the bathroom that Dean suspects came with the place.
But the bed. Oh, he likes the bed a lot. The sheets are far nicer than his own; these are proper Egyptian cotton. The mattress is memory foam, he thinks, and the pillows are definitely proper down, goose or duck or some shit. They’re heavy and they crinkle slightly, but oh god it’s like resting on clouds.
What he also likes about the bad is the other man in it, currently licking and nipping his way along Dean’s clavicle. “Christ, Cas…” he groans brokenly, fingers clenching in that mess of dark hair.
Cas is a firecracker in bed. At first Dean thought it was the heady adrenaline of their first encounter, of that newness, but now he knows otherwise. The guy’s stamina is off the charts, and man does he have moves. And Dean’s always prided himself on being a good lay, so between the two of them the sex is fan-fucking-tastic.
“I meant it,” Dean gasps, pulling lightly to bring Cas’s mouth level with his own, “when I said we should stop doing this.”
“I know,” Cas murmurs, the vibrations tickling Dean’s jaw. One of his hands curls around Dean’s rock hard dick, fisting it loosely—there, but not there enough and Dean’s tempted to cry out except he doesn’t want to give Cas the satisfaction.
“And I still don’t like you,” he grits out, because this is really only confirming that.
“I know,” Cas chuckles, plunging his tongue ferociously into Dean’s mouth.
They don’t talk after that. Dean always loses his head during sex, especially sex with Cas, and for a while it’s all he can do to cling onto his sanity while Cas rocks their hips together, finding that perfect rhythm, that smooth-rough friction of salty skin.
Cas comes first, into the space between their burning bodies, kissing Dean fiercely to muffle his cry. It’s enough to tip Dean over the edge, too, and he arches up with a soft whimper that he won’t admit to later.
Ten minutes. That’s how long they always allow themselves for a recovery time, and Dean tries really hard not to slip into a sated doze. It would be so easy, in this bed with Cas still mostly draped over him, sticky and warm and puffing quiet breaths against Dean’s chest.
“Hey,” Dean asks suddenly, “Why’d you leave Crowley and Alastair?”
He feels Cas tense. “They wanted me to do things that were… Let’s just say, I began to doubt their moral integrity and I certainly refused to be their hammer.”
Intrigued, because this is one of Singer Harvelle’s major rival firms they’re talking about, Dean asks, “Things that were what?”
But Cas rolls away from him, back to his side of the bed, and he can almost see the walls go up behind his pupil-blown eyes. “I am not at liberty to say, as you well know.”
And yeah, okay, maybe he’s contractually obliged to keep his mouth shut, but that doesn’t stop him being an asshole. Rolling his eyes, Dean eases himself into a sitting position and swings his legs to the floor. “I guess that’s my cue to leave.”
He slips on his slacks and buttons his shirt wrongly, because his fingers are still trembling slightly, before following the rest of the clothes trail to find his socks, jacket and shoes. When he’s about to leave, wordlessly as always, there’s a quiet “Dean,” from behind him.
In the doorway to the bedroom, Cas looks troubled. He pauses for a moment, clearly deliberating about something, then strides across the room in nothing but a pair of boxers and kisses Dean soundly on the lips, his palms warm against Dean’s cheeks.
Which is pretty weird, to be honest. They don’t do goodbyes, let alone goodbye kisses. In fact, this is the first time Castiel has ever kissed him without trying to initiate sex.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” he says gruffly, and Dean nods dumbly. Cas reaches behind him and opens the front door, running a thumb across Dean’s cheekbone before withdrawing his hand.
And, like… Dean’s not really sure what to make of that.
