hii, I saw your requests were open and was wondering if you could write for Castiel with a reader that loves taxidermy? and collects dead bugs, feathers and bones that she finds and she also buys taxidermized bugs in little portraits? also she loves going hiking to forests because she always finds more things to add to the collection. if you don't want to write this it's okay, thank youu
(and sorry if my English is a bit bad)
this sounds too interesting HOW could i resist
what others walk past ~ castiel x f!reader ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
word count ~ 1.3k
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ tags ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
castiel x f!reader, fluff, established relationship, soft cas, domestic fluff, taxidermy, bug collecting, bone collecting, hiking, no angst
You’re crouched at the base of an old oak, carefully brushing dirt away from something pale half-buried in the leaf litter, when Castiel’s shadow falls over you.
“Another bone?” he asks, voice quiet so he doesn’t startle whatever small thing might still be nearby.
You glance up and smile. “Rib. Probably a rabbit. Look at the curve.” You hold it out on your open palm so he can see. It’s clean already from weather and time, smooth under your thumb. Castiel leans in, blue eyes serious as he studies it the way he studies everything you bring him: like it matters.
“It is elegant,” he decides after a moment. “May I carry it for you?”
You pass it over and he tucks it carefully into the inside pocket of his coat like it’s something precious instead of a scavenged rib. That never stops being weirdly sweet. Most people would make a face or joke about you being a little morbid. Castiel just makes space in his pockets and keeps walking beside you through the trees.
The forest is cool and green today, the kind of late afternoon light that turns everything gold at the edges. You love these hikes for the quiet and the finds: shed feathers, empty cicada shells, the occasional delicate skull or beetle wing left behind. Your apartment already has shelves of them, little glass frames of taxidermy beetles and moths you bought online, jars of cleaned bones, shadow boxes of feathers sorted by color. Castiel has never once looked at any of it like it was strange. The first time he saw the wall of framed bugs he stood in front of it for a full three minutes, head tilted, and then said, “You preserve what the world discards. That is… kind.”
You’ve been a little gone on him ever since.
A few yards on you spot a flash of iridescent green in the moss and drop to your knees again. “Oh, come on. Look at this.” It’s a dead ground beetle, still mostly intact, the elytra shining like tiny oil spills. You ease it onto a leaf so nothing gets crushed. Castiel crouches beside you without being asked, coat pooling around him.
“Will you frame this one?” he asks.
“If I can clean it up without losing the legs. Sometimes they fall apart on me.” You glance at him. “You don’t have to pretend this is normal, you know. Most people think the bug wall is creepy.”
Castiel’s brow furrows the way it does when he’s trying to understand human judgment. “It is not creepy. It is careful. You notice what others walk past.” He reaches out and very gently touches the edge of the leaf with one finger. “I like that you keep them.”
Your ears go warm. You busy yourself wrapping the beetle in a bit of tissue from your pack so it doesn’t get damaged on the walk back. Castiel takes the tissue packet from you once it’s secure and adds it to the same pocket as the rib. His pockets must be getting crowded. He doesn’t seem to mind.
The rest of the hike is slow and easy. You point out a hawk feather caught in a bush; he climbs up without complaint to get it for you. You find a smooth vertebra near a stream; he rinses the mud off in the water and hands it back still dripping. Every time you stop he stops with you, patient in that quiet angel way, like he has nowhere else to be and nowhere he’d rather be. By the time the trail spits you back out near the gravel parking area your pack is heavier with small treasures and Castiel’s coat looks slightly misshapen from all the things he’s carrying for you.
In the car he empties his pockets onto the center console with careful hands: the rabbit rib, the beetle in tissue, the hawk feather, two snail shells you almost forgot about, a bit of shed snakeskin. You sort through them while he drives, already planning which shelf or frame each one might belong to.
“You’re quiet,” you say after a while.
“I am thinking.” He keeps his eyes on the road. “About how many small lives leave pieces behind, and how few people want to keep them. You do. I find that… compelling.”
You smile at the side of his face. “That’s a very Castiel way of saying you don’t think I’m weird.”
“I do not think you are weird.” He says it simply, like it’s fact. “I think you see the world more completely than most.”
At home you spread everything out on the kitchen table under the good light. Castiel shrugs out of his coat and hangs it neatly, then comes to stand at your shoulder while you work. The beetle needs the most attention. You set out your small tools: soft brushes, tweezers, a bit of alcohol for cleaning, the tiny pins. Castiel watches the whole process like it’s a ritual. When one fragile leg threatens to detach he makes a soft concerned sound, and you laugh under your breath.
“It’s okay. I’ve got it.”
“You are very steady,” he observes.
“Years of practice. And a lot of ruined specimens before I got the hang of it.” You glance up at him. “You can help if you want. Hold the lightbox steady while I set the pins?”
He does, large hands careful on the edges of the small frame you’ll eventually close around the beetle. His presence is warm at your back, solid and quiet. Every so often his sleeve brushes your arm and neither of you moves away. When the beetle is finally posed the way you want, iridescent green catching the light, you let out a satisfied breath.
“There. He’s perfect.”
Castiel leans closer to look. “He looks as if he could fly again.”
“That’s the idea. Like he’s only resting.”
You leave the frame open so the preservative can finish its work and move on to the feather and the bone. Castiel stays. He hands you the right brush when you reach for it without being asked. He listens while you talk about the different kinds of feathers and what the wear patterns mean. When you hold up the rabbit rib and explain how you’ll wire it into a small articulated piece later, he nods like it’s the most sensible plan in the world.
Eventually you both end up on the couch, the day’s finds sorted into trays on the coffee table. You’re leaning against his side, socked feet tucked under you, and his arm has found its way around your shoulders like it belongs there. The apartment smells faintly of the alcohol you used for cleaning and the forest still clinging to your clothes. Outside the light is going blue with evening.
“Thank you for coming with me today,” you say.
Castiel’s thumb moves in a slow arc against your upper arm. “I enjoy it. Watching you find things. Watching you decide they are worth keeping.” He pauses, then adds more softly, “I like being the one who carries them home for you.”
You tip your head against his shoulder. “You’re very good at it.”
“I have had practice.” There’s the tiniest hint of humor in his voice. “You find a remarkable number of things.”
“Is that a complaint?”
“No.” He presses a brief kiss to the top of your head, gentle and sure. “It is an observation. And a reason to keep going with you.”
You smile into the fabric of his shirt. On the table the new beetle gleams under the lamp, and the rabbit rib waits for its turn, and the hawk feather is already beautiful just as it is. Castiel’s arm stays around you. The forest is quiet outside, and for now so is everything else that doesn’t matter.
Tomorrow you’ll go looking again. He’ll be right there beside you, pockets ready.
❤︎
