“We should quit,” Dean says one day, a mostly-decapitated ghoul on the ground between them and apropos of absolutely nothing.
“Quit?” Cas asks. He’s not looking at Dean, instead focusing intently on the narsty grey ghoul guts skewered on his angel blade.
“Yeah. Quit.”
Cas still doesn’t look up at him, his mouth forming a rather adorable pout as he attempts to shake the stringy brain matter off the blade. “We just solved the case, Dean. What would we be quitting?”
Dean throws his eyes skyward. He should’ve known this wouldn’t be that easy. “No, I mean quit. Retire.”
That finally seems to get Cas’ attention. Slowly, he brings his head up, blinking wide, blue eyes, and nobody has the right to look that fucking cute with viscera in their hair. “You want to retire?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, swallowing. “Stop spending our time chopping up creepy-crawlies and be real people. We could get a house.”
Cas is looking at him like he’s lost his mind. “You want to retire. And get a house.”
The dead ghoul smells like fresh, ripe ass. Dean probably could’ve picked a better spot for a sweeping romantic gesture. Or at least started with a coffee date, before jumping balls-deep into domesticity. “I mean, if you want. Or we can stay in the bunker. But I – I wanted. . .” The words are sort of barfing their way out of him now. “It’d maybe be nice. To have a place that’s ours. Y’know, now that you’re human again.”
Cas levels him with a squint so severe he might as well be closing his damn eyes. “The bunker is ours,” Cas says, slowly and patiently, like he’s talking to a four-year-old.
Son of a bitch. “No, not you-me-Sam ours,” Dean says. He casts his eyes around the cemetery for help, or willpower, or sanity, maybe, but all he finds is the slowly-rotting monster at his feet.
It has nothing helpful to contribute.
“I mean you-me ours.” Dean swallows, and looks back up.
“You want to stop hunting,” Cas says.
“Yeah.”
“And buy a house.”
“Yeah.”
Cas drops his chin, like he’s trying to nod but forgot the second step. “With me.”
It’s like pulling friggin’ teeth. “Yes.”
There’s a long, long silence as Cas just stares at him. Then, just as Dean’s about to suggest they move this radically life-altering conversation to somewhere with fewer corpses, Cas asks, “Until when?”
Of all the things Dean had been expecting Cas to say, that doesn’t even crack the top hundred. “What d’you mean until when? I dunno, until we die, I guess?” Cas’ eyebrows shoot up, and Dean rolls his eyes. “And I mean, like, normal die. From, y’know. . . chronic oldness. Or well, probably fuckin’ cirrhosis of the liver, in my case,” he says, grimacing.
Now Cas looks completely lost. “But. . . what if –” He cuts himself off, eyes finally leaving Dean’s face to dart around awkwardly. “You might want a family some day, Dean,” he says quietly.
“Oh my god.” Dean can’t take it anymore, and starts marching towards him “You’re a friggin’ idiot,” he says, then grabs Cas’ face and plants a kiss on his lips.
It’s. . . it’s pretty gross, actually. They’re both covered in sweat and grave dirt and there’s definitely some blood happening. Dean tries not to think too hard about whose it is as he pulls away and opens his eyes.
Cas is back to looking at Dean like he’s a few fries short of a Happy Meal.
“That’ll get better,” Dean blurts. “Next time.”
Cas’ eyes widen a little. “Next time?” he asks, voice so rough it’s making Dean stupid. Stupider.
“Yeah. When we’re cleaned up. And not, y’know, all gross.” Dean drops his hands awkwardly.
There’s another stretch of silence and staring, then Cas nods once. “Okay.”
And he turns on his heel and starts off towards the car.
“Wait, what?” Dean asks, still rooted in place. “Was that an ‘okay’?”
“Yes, Dean.”
“Well, great!” That’s more than great, that’s fucking fantastic, but Cas is already halfway across the cemetery by now, not looking back. “Why the hell aren’t we celebrating, here? Where are you going?”
“We’re going back to the motel,” Cas calls over his shoulder. “To get cleaned up.”
Dean and Cas have been good friends ever since Charlie introduced them. Best friends, even. So what if more feelings might lurk beneath the surface — it’s not like either would ever act on them and risk the good thing they already have.
But a few brief nights together during a shared heat/rut cycle threaten to jeopardize that delicate balance. Especially when they each find out life changing news shortly afterwards.
Keep reading for a sneak preview!
“You got any New Year’s resolutions you gonna make?”
His breath clung to the air. He could feel the cold in his gums, and he briefly considered going back inside. Braving the cold was worth getting Cas to himself, so he stayed put.
“The usual,” Cas said. “Run at least one marathon this year. Maybe two if I stay healthy.”
“Pssh, Cas, you’re doing it wrong. Your resolution’s not supposed to be something you’re gonna do anyway. It’s supposed to be something ridiculous that you can brag about for a few weeks before you lose interest.”
“So what’s yours?”
“Gonna learn how to paint.”
“Twenty-two, twenty-one, twenty!”
Between the alcohol and the beautiful cityscape before them, peppered with snowflakes and all aglow for New Year’s, Dean was feeling a little reckless.
“You mind if I kiss you?” Dean asked as he looked down at Cas’ lips. Chapped as always, but so damn tempting… “Y’know. For uh… for New Year’s. When the ball drops.”
Cas swallowed and Dean watched his adam’s apple bob. He wanted to sink his teeth into the meat of Cas’ neck and claim him right then and there. Not the first time he’s had that thought about his best friend, but it was especially hard to ignore the temptation right now. He knew he should’ve stopped after that third beer…
“Okay.”
“Ten, nine, eight…”
“Yeah?” Dean perked up, unable to hide his excitement.
“It’s tradition, isn’t it? Wouldn’t want to break with tradition.”
“Nope, we sure wouldn’t.”
“Especially not with my inadequate New Year’s Resolution.”
“Yeah, you should probably try to cover your bases, just in case.”
“Three, two, one…”
The apartment erupted into cheers and a cacophony of party poppers and noise makers. Dean barely heard it, his heart was beating too loudly. Cas leaned in a little and Dean forgot all about the chill. His world was nothing but blue eyes and the soft brush of lips…
They broke apart shortly after. He’d never felt drunker in his life, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t just the alcohol at this point. Oh no no no, it was something way more powerful than that.
He’d done it. After all these years, he’d kissed Cas.
The last thing he clearly remembered from that night was leaning in for another taste…
Breathe, Breathe in the Air - 13x06 coda, T, 800 words, fluff and angst
Dean doesn’t bother waiting for the shower to get hot, he just steps into the spray. He stands with his head bowed, as the cool water sluices layer upon layer of grave dirt down the drain.
The water turns warm, then hot, and he rests his forehead on the smooth tile and waits for the tension to leave his shoulders.
It doesn’t.
He pulls in a long, deep breath, and waits for his head to clear, for oxygen to fill his lungs.
It doesn’t.
He leans away from the wall and grabs his shampoo.
Dean’s been holding his breath for two whole days. At first it was a buoy, but now it’s asphyxiation.
Jack flapped off (for their own good – typical; kid’s more like Cas every day), Sam started pacing the war room and dragging his hands through his hair, and Cas. . .
Cas had reached down and pulled Dean up off the ground, and there was lightning in the air the instant their fingers touched. Their eyes had caught and held and for one tiny, electrifying second Dean was breathing again.
Cas felt it – he had to have felt it – but there’s no time for it. There’s never time for it. The moment had ended and they’re off again, pulling out laptops to scan for freak storms or mysterious accidents or reports of teenagers with glowing eyes.
The water’s too hot now, and it’s turning Dean’s skin pink. Rinsing the last suds from his hair, he reaches out blindly to crank the dial back down. Maybe cold is what he needs right now.
No. He knows what he needs right now.
He turns the dial all the way off and grabs his towel.
They’ve got work to do. There’s everything with Jack now because of course there is; there’s always something. There’s always going to be something. Because that’s who they are.
They don’t get quiet, peaceful moments. Not unless they make them for themselves.
Dean slips into sweatpants and a clean t-shirt and heads back to the war room. Sam is sitting at the table, his laptop open and his face buried in his hands.
He looks up at the sound of Dean’s padding footsteps. “Nothing yet.”
Dean nods. “Cas?”
Sam inclines his head toward the hall. “His room.”
Nodding again, Dean turns back the way he came.
He knocks once, gently, on Cas’ door, then pushes it open.
Cas is sitting on the side of his bed, feet planted firm on the ground. He’s leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees with his fingers at his temples. His eyes are closed, but they flicker open when Dean shuts the door behind himself.
“Dean, I’m trying to find him. I thought maybe I’d be able to hear him with angel radio, but I’m not having any luck so far.” His eyes flutter closed again, his brow furrowing in concentration.
Dean doesn’t answer, merely moves up to the edge of the bed. Shaking, light-headed, he drops to his knees, leans in close, and kisses him.
It’s the moment you finally breach the surface, after you’ve been underwater so long your whole chest is burning. Cas is like oxygen.
He makes a startled sound and moves his hands from his temples, but Dean quickly replaces them with his own, the tips of his fingers edging into Cas’ hair.
Cas breaks away on a small gasp. “What are you doing?”
“I’m kissing you,” Dean says quietly, then inches back in and draws their mouths together again. He needs to breathe.
“W-why?” Cas asks, panting, like he needs air too.
Dean leans in again but doesn’t kiss him. Instead he just breathes, lets the warm air mingle in the tiny space between their mouths. “Because you died, and I almost went after you, Cas.” As Dean speaks, their lips catch. “I couldn’t do it. I damn near died without you.”
“Dean.” Cas’ voice is broken and he’s gasping. His hands finally settle on Dean’s cheeks, and his thumbs wipe through tears Dean didn’t notice had fallen.
Ignoring them, Dean closes the distance again. Cas kisses back this time, softly and so, so gently.
Pulling away on a shaky sob, Dean draws one thumb over the well of Cas’ lip. “Because you were dead. Because you could die again tomorrow, or I could. Because this is the first moment since you’ve been back that I can breathe, Cas.”
Cas nods, pulling Dean in close. “There’s still so much – I mean, Jack, and Lucifer –”
“Later,” Dean whispers, hands dropping to the lapels of Cas’ coat. “All that’s for later. Right now, it’s just us.”
“Alright,” Cas whispers back, air ghosting across Dean’s lips. “Just us.”
Notebooks - 1.5k, 13x05 coda, angst, MCD (But there’s a happy ending. Just trust me.)
"Dean. Every notebook, on this particular shelf, tells a version of how you die."
But which one's right?
#18
Jack, the nephilim, power beyond anything the Earth has ever seen, has both Winchesters suspended in mid-air. Rings of glowing, golden energy ripple out from his raised hand. They match his eyes.
The Devil is behind him, whispering.
“All they ever wanted was to use you, Jack. Both of them. They never cared about you. They feared you. They could never understand.”
Jack is uncertain, shaking. His eyes dart away.
His hold is tight, and Sam struggles to speak. “Don’t trust him, Jack! He’s lying to you – that’s what he does. He’s the one who wants to use you, not us.”
“Jack, listen to me,” Dean tries, voice straining with effort. “Your mom didn’t want this. Cas doesn’t want this. You’ve got people who care about you, people who –”
“These boys don’t know how to care for anyone but themselves,” Lucifer hisses. “Think of what they’ve done to you. Think of what they’ve put you through. I’ve never harmed you, Jack. I would never harm you.”
Jack only looks more torn. It’s no longer just him that’s shaking, it’s the very ground beneath his feet. The towering trees, every blade of grass – it all trembles, violently, on the verge of implosion. Jack’s eyes widen in fear. Fear of himself, of what he can do.
Then, as ever, the fatal Winchester mistake: Dean takes advantage of Jack’s distraction, fighting against the iron grip of power to reach for the holy oil.
“NO,” Jack cries, his hand moving once in a knee-jerk twitch.
Dean Winchester’s neck snaps.
#94
“I’m tellin’ ya, Cas, it’s a terrible sandwich.”
“Sam likes it.”
The old, black car is cruising down a long stretch of blacktop. The sky is a spotty canvas of pearl-grey and cerulean, the sun dipping in and out as the winds blow.
“Yeah well, that’s Sam for you. Peanut butter and banana, though? What the hell has he been teaching you? I mean, I know you’re rockin’ the real, human taste buds again, but there’s no need to punish yourself.”
“I’m not!” Castiel says, chin jutting forward, defiant. “I happen to like peanut butter. And I’ve discovered that I like bananas, too.”
“Yeah, I know you do,” Dean says back, with a suggestive wiggle to his eyebrows.
Castiel rolls his eyes, but his cheeks go a little pink.
Dean’s tint as well, and he looks back out the front window, clearing his throat. “So, um, anyway,” he starts, voice much quieter. “Sam was gonna head out this afternoon, said something about checking out this museum event thing in Wichita.”
“Um, yes, he mentioned,” Castiel says, also staring through the windshield with rather undue concentration.
“Yeah, well, uh. . . we’ve.” Dean swallows visibly. “He – he was gonna grab a motel, stay over. Guess. . . we’ve got the bunker to ourselves tonight.”
Castiel nods, slowly. “I suppose so.”
Dean’s breathing seems shallow, his shoulders rising and falling rapidly, but his eyes are bright. “Yeah. That’s. . . yeah.” A slow grin crinkles the corners of his eyes.
Finally turning in his seat, Castiel answers with a smile of his own. It fades after a moment. “When are we going to tell him?” he asks quietly.
“Soon,” Dean says quickly, swallowing again. “I want to. But, y’know. . .”
“Yeah. I know.”
“Besides,” Dean says, turning sideways as the cheeky grin returns to his face. “The sneakin’ around thing’s kinda fun, right?”
Castiel rolls his eyes again, but nods. “Yes, it is, actually.” His smile is wide, his eyes are warm.
They’re so caught up in staring at one another, neither of them notice the F-150 barreling towards the intersection.
It broadsides them at 71 miles per hour.
Castiel wakes up in a hospital bed two and a half weeks later.
Dean Winchester was pronounced D.O.A.
#177
The three men stand shoulder-to-shoulder on a black hilltop, the grass crispy, burnt away, curling.
“What we wanted, right?” Sam says softly, gaze tracing the horizon, fire reflected in his eyes.
Dean nods. “Yep. Blaze of glory.”
“It does seem very. . . us,” Castiel agrees. He’s almost smiling. Almost.
Bright red lightning spikes, mere feet away, but none of them flinch.
The air is smoky-grey, and the sky itself is cracked with yellow-orange fissures – hundreds of them, thousands, more. A million different worlds, all on the brink of collapse.
Sam shakes his head, but he smiles. “And it’ll work, right?”
“Yes. It’ll work.” Castiel says firmly.
“Alright, then.” Keeping his eyes forward, Dean reaches out with his left hand and grasps his brother’s shoulder. His other hand sneaks out blindly to his right until it finds Castiel’s. Their fingers weave together. “See ya on the other side, fellas.”
Dean Winchester squeezes Castiel’s hand, tight, before the spell takes effect and he ceases to be.
#233
The wendigo creeps silently through the tangled underbrush, unseen by both brothers. Dean holds the flare gun up, at the ready, but his grip is laxer than it should be. His knuckles have grown knobby with arthritis.
“Sam,” he hisses into the darkness, squinting through the cheap, drugstore glasses that Castiel had insisted he start wearing.
Sam is, in fact, more than fifty feet to the north, and his good ear is turned away.
So he doesn’t hear the light, barely-there rustle of the wendigo, as it takes its final, leaping strides towards Dean.
Sam does hear its shriek though, mingled with Dean’s scream of pain.
He’s already almost gone by the time Sam reaches him. Blood bubbles from his lips and practically floods from the tears in his chest.
“Dean, Dean, no, hang on, hang on, I’ll get you help,” Sam babbles.
“S’okay, Sammy,” Dean chokes. “Jus’ too slow. Gettin’ too slow now.”
“Shut up. You’re gonna be fine, Dean.”
With the last of his failing strength, Dean reaches out a hand, fisting it in Sam’s jacket. “C-Cas. Sammy, you gotta tell ‘im. You gotta. . . Cas.” His voice trails off, his eyes starting to drift closed.
“Damn it, Dean, stay with me. And Cas knows, man. He knows.” Tears start to drip down Sam’s cheeks. “God, you idiots. Everybody knows.”
“No –” A wracking cough sends Dean’s body seizing. “No, Sam, promise. Promise you’ll –”
Sam shakes his head, almost blind now by his tears. “I’ll tell him. I promise, Dean, I promise.”
“S-Sammy. . .”
Dean Winchester dies a hunter’s death, at age fifty-nine.
#302
Castiel has hidden the car keys again.
“Hey, Cas? Did you check the table in the hall?”
“Twice, Dean,” Castiel says, infinitely patient, as always.
But today he’s sad as well.
“Damnit, I probably left them on the nightstand again,” Dean grumbles, and turns a rueful eye up the staircase. “Man, why the hell didn’t we get a bungalow? All these damn stairs.”
He grips one hand on the stair railing and pulls his cane level with his hip, but Castiel stops him with a gentle hand to the shoulder. “You’re not supposed to be driving anymore anyway, Dean,” he chastises with a fond smile. He’s let his vessel age, but his eyes are as clear and bright as they’d ever been.
“I wanna go get a burger, Cas.”
Castiel shakes his head. “You’re not supposed to be eating burgers anymore, either.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but turns around. “Well damnit, Cas, what the hell am I allowed to do now?”
Smiling softly, Castiel answers by leaning in and brushing their lips together. Dean hums a little, so Castiel brings his worn and weathered hands up to rasp through the prickly, grey stubble on Dean’s cheeks.
“Damn, Cas,” Dean murmurs, leaning away. “Unless you got a bottle of those magic blue pills hiding somewhere, I think at least one of us is gonna be disappointed, here.”
“Never,” Castiel says, eyes holding Dean’s with a ferocity rarely seen nowadays. “Just sit with me?”
The day is misty and grey, but in a quiet, peaceful kind of way. The two of them sit on the battered living room couch all afternoon, arms intertwined and a blanket draped over their knees.
Hours later, as the sky starts to darken, Dean stands, planning to start on dinner.
But he only makes it halfway up, then his hand flies to his chest, and he collapses back down.
He gasps, face contorting in pain, and Castiel’s eyes fill with tears.
“I’ll be right there, Dean,” he says, turning on the sofa and bringing his hands up once again to cup Dean’s face. He draws his thumbs across Dean’s cheeks until his eyes open. “You won’t be alone, I’ll be there with you. I’m right behind you, I swear it, Dean.”
Dean’s gasping, his heart thudding out of rhythm, but he meets Castiel’s gaze and he nods.
There’s no fear in his eyes.
Dean Winchester dies of a heart attack, and Castiel follows right after him.
//
Billie slides one delicately manicured hand along the cover of the book.
There are hundreds of notebooks, hundreds of ways Dean Winchester’s story ends.
Hundreds of choices, important choices, that only he can make. And everything depends on him.
Time was, Billie couldn’t imagine betting on a Winchester.
But she closes her eyes and peers through the Veil. She sees a dark alleyway, lit by a neon cross and the yellowy bulb of a pay phone. She sees Dean, walking on shaky feet, straight into Castiel’s waiting arms.
For @convallariini, who bribed me with emoji coffee from halfway around the world.
The war room is quiet. Sam’s turned in for the night, but Dean and Cas are still awake, sharing the silence over a few beers.
Well, Dean’s doing the drinking. Cas is just sitting, his hands folded in his lap, but he seems content.
“What was it like?”
Cas looks over, brow furrowed in question. “What?”
Dean inclines his head, and Cas follows his gaze up to the clock high on the wall. It’s just turned past midnight. “I mean, we’re going on nine years now, and you’ve never talked about it. So, getting me out – what was it like?”
Cas looks at him a moment before shrugging. “It was a mission.”
“Yeah,” Dean says. “And?”
“It was extremely violent.”
“Go figure.”
Cas throws him a look. “We fought. Demons mostly, but other things too. I don’t know for how long; time in Hell is more… abstract than it is here.”
“Yeah, I remember,” Dean says. They lapse back into silence, Cas’ face now turned thoughtful. Eventually, Dean speaks up again. “Why you?”
“My garrison was the best equipped. We had the requisite military experience.”
“No, not your garrison.” Dean shakes his head. “Why you?”
Cas shrugs again. “I got there first.”
Dean huffs a disbelieving laugh. “What, just random chance? That’s it?”
“That’s not enough?”
That pulls Dean up short for a moment. “I don’t know, I guess just… after everything, everything that’s happened since, I figured there would’ve been more to it. Some cosmic plan or something.”
Cas tilts up the corner of his mouth. “When have we ever been ones for cosmic plans?”
“Alright, good point.” Dean chuckles slightly. “Just with you and me… it’s hard to chalk us up to random chance.”
Cas turns to look at him fully, his chair squeaking loudly in the quiet room. “I don’t. I think of it as free will.”
Dean nods, a slow smile inching across his face. “Free will. Yeah, alright, I can get behind that.”
Cas smiles back, his eyes soft. Dean holds his gaze a long moment, then he stands and moves over, his knees bumping into Cas’ chair. Then he leans down and kisses him gently. Cas smiles into the kiss, then reaches up to trace his fingers along Dean’s jaw.
Castiel has died and been brought back to life more times than he can remember, but for the first time, coming back to the bunker feels like coming home.
Sam and Dean turn in early, both clearly exhausted. Castiel assures them he’ll still be here in the morning, and he means it. Still, he doesn’t blame Dean for the doubt that flickers across his face.
It’s hours later, when Castiel is idly walking the hallways, that he hears Dean cry out, muted and feeble. Castiel moves quickly down the hall and doesn’t bother knocking, just pushes open the door. Light from the hallway spills into the darkness and falls across Dean on the bed. He’s still asleep, but very obviously in the midst of a nightmare, his feet kicking fitfully at the sheets.
“Dean,” Castiel tries softly, taking a few steps into the room. Drawing closer, he can see the tension on Dean’s face, and the sweat that’s broken out across his brow. “Dean. Wake up.”
But Dean doesn’t wake, he only whimpers, and Castiel can see tears start to leak out of his eyes.
Castiel moves right up to him, bending down and shaking his arm gently. “Dean, it’s just a dream.” When Dean still doesn’t respond, Castiel grips his shoulder instead and sits on the edge of the bed. Then there’s a loud clatter of glass, and Castiel looks down to find a large pile of beer bottles by his feet.
It’s then that Dean finally wakes, gasping and jerking upright. Castiel pulls his hand away as Dean’s arms start flailing out in panic. His t-shirt is soaked in sweat and sticking to his skin.
“It’s alright, you’re okay,” Castiel says quickly. “It’s just me.”
“Cas, you –” Dean gasps.
“I’m sorry, you – it looked like you were having a nightmare, I was trying to wake you.”
Dean stares at him, his chest heaving and his eyes glassy and wild.
“Are you,” Castiel says, starting to feel a little uncomfortable. Perhaps he shouldn’t have intruded. “Are you alright?”
Dean takes a few more breaths, then one hand shoots out to yank at the lapel of Castiel’s coat. Castiel is tugged forward, then Dean lets go only to wrap both arms around Castiel’s back and bury his face in his shoulder.
Castiel hesitates only a moment before he’s bringing his arms up as well, pulling Dean in tight. Dean exhales heavily, his breath hot against Castiel’s neck.
It takes a while for Dean’s breathing to even out, but when it does, Castiel loosens his grip and tries to move away. But Dean only holds him tighter, hands fisting the back of his coat.
“Nope,” he mumbles. “This is happening.”
Castiel smiles, and then on instinct, and without really planning to, he tilts his head and presses a kiss into Dean’s hair, just above his ear.
It was apparently the wrong thing to do, because Dean freezes, going totally rigid in Castiel’s arms.
This time when Castiel pulls away, Dean lets him. “I’m sorry,” he says, as Dean looks at him with wide eyes. “That was, um, awkward.”
Dean’s breathing hard again, and Castiel thinks he should probably leave. He starts to shift away, but then Dean reaches out with both hands, cupping his face and pulling him in and Castiel is fairly certain he’s the one dreaming this time because Dean is kissing him.
It takes a few seconds of shocked disbelief, but then Castiel is kissing him back, bringing his hands up to Dean’s shoulders. It’s desperate and a little needy, and Castiel can feel the wetness of Dean’s tears on his cheeks, but it’s the two of them, finally, together – years of want and need narrowed down to one perfectly imperfect moment.
Then Dean starts to talk, gasping harshly against Castiel’s lips between kisses. “Cas, Cas, god you were dead. You were dead again –”
Castiel cuts him off, pushing his tongue into Dean’s mouth and moving hands up into his hair – anything to prove that it’s over, that Castiel’s alright; he’s here and he’s not leaving again.
Dean half whimpers, half moans, then he pushes forward and takes control. He’s demanding, taking, but Castiel is more than willing to give. He’s taking just as much.
After a while Dean’s hands drop down and start to push the coat and suit jacket off Castiel’s shoulders. Castiel helps him drag it off, then Dean’s shaking hands start to tug at the knot of his tie. “It gets harder every time, Cas,” he says, and he’s crying again. “Why does it only ever get harder?”
“I’m sorry,” Castiel whispers, because he is, and because it’s all he can say. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
Dean shakes his head. “Don’t,” he chokes out. “Don’t –”
But that’s all he gets out before he drops his head and buries it at Castiel’s collar. His hands curl into the starched white fabric of the dress shirt and he’s sobbing, his whole body trembling violently.
Tears are soaking through Castiel’s shirt, Dean is sniffling and shaking, and Castiel just holds him, stroking a slow hand down his back and resting his chin on the top of Dean’s head.
They sit in the darkness for a long while. Eventually Dean stops crying and leans up, then grimaces at the wet marks on Castiel’s chest. “Sorry,” he says quietly, reaching out his fingers to try and wipe it away.
Castiel smiles softly and shakes his head. He brings his thumb up to Dean’s face and rubs it through the tear tracks on his cheeks, then leans in to press a kiss there, just below Dean’s eye. Dean lets out a shaky breath, but Castiel moves over and does the same to the other eye, then dips his head and kisses him on the lips again. It’s briefer, gentler, and it tastes like salt.
“Will you stay?” Dean asks, after they break apart.
“Of course,” Castiel says. He kicks off his shoes and after a moment of consideration, pulls his loosened tie over his head as well. Dean moves over and throws back the covers, and Castiel sinks down beside him.
Dean wraps arms around his waist and pulls him in tight, forehead pressing into his neck. Castiel pulls the blankets up over them both, then brings his own hands around to continue tracing gentle circles on Dean’s back.
“And Cas,” Dean says, voice a little muffled. “Will you. . . stay?”
Castiel tips his head down and kisses Dean’s forehead. “Yes.”
Fuck Marry Kill: Castiel, Luke Skywalker, Geordi La Forge
Ahhh, so you wish to see me suffer. I get it.
Okay.
Fuck Cas. Because. . . yeah, that’s a fine piece of angel. And boy looks hot when he’s smitey. Also I couldn’t marry him because then he couldn’t marry Dean. And I can’t kill him because then Dean would kill me.
Marry Geordi, because he’s very smart and a definite sweetie and has a real good smile. And then I’d be bfs with Data, so, bonus.
Which means I’d have to kill Luke. But he is my son so I can’t exactly marry or fuck him. Plus, killing Luke just means he comes back as a Force ghost, so he’s not really gone.
There. Lawyer’d.
Come play askbox games with me it’s fun I promise.
