#wanderingwrites

[wanderingcas]

did someone order destiel pining with a side of fries 

[wanderingcas]

C’mon Inn destiel, 3k words. a commission for @jensenackhles, who had the most AMAZING prompt of “what if Dean and Cas stayed at an inn that kept making them go into each other’s rooms?”

. . . . 

There is absolutely no way that Dean Winchester would ever stay at an inn. Much less a bed and breakfast. Breakfast should be a hearty plate of bacon and pancakes, not unsalted egg whites with freshly-picked garden vegetables piled on top of it. And especially not topped with garnish. 

Dean full-out shudders when the innkeeper (an older woman in her fifties with greying, tied-back hair) explains the meal to him. And he would have gotten the hell out of dodge right then and there, too, if Cas hadn’t elbowed him sharply in his side.

“That all sounds wonderful,” his ex-angel partner says with a forced smile. “What time are you serving it?” 

“Seven in the morning,” the innkeeper, Cherry, cheerily proclaims.

Dean grins at Cas’s horrified face. Serves Cas right for suggesting this inn of horrors in the first place. “Bright and early, huh?”

“Oh, yes,” Cherry says. “And don’t be surprised if you hear me down in the kitchen earlier than that—I wake up every morning at five, without fail.” She winks.

Dean is beginning to see why this inn has such an open vacancy in the first place, more than the fact that there’s cat wallpaper and decorations on every inch of the walls. 

“That’s…” Cas works his jaw and forces a smile. “That sounds wonderful.”

Cherry beams. “Now, which room would you like: Tabby cats or Maine Coons?” 

Dean resists an eye roll. “Whichever is fine.” 

“And I’ll take the opposite,” Cas adds.

“Oh, you won’t—be staying together?” Cherry asks. At the shake of their heads, her face twists into a frown. “Oh dear. This inn is really for couples only. I know it sounds strange but it’s really better if guests are staying in the same room.”

Cas looks down at their bags with a face that Dean knows well: he calls it Cas’s if I don’t get into a bed and sleep right now I’m going to lose it expression. Dean leans forward onto the welcome desk and gives Cherry his sweetest smile.

“Listen, my friend and I—we’ve had a long day,” Dean says, “and all the hotels in a thirty mile radius are booked up for some god-forsaken reason—” 

“The Big Ten Championships are in Columbus this year,” Cherry pipes in.

“Okay,” Dean says, teeth clenched in a smile. “So basically, ma’am, you’re the one who’s deciding if we’re sleeping in a car or a bed. Which one is it gonna be?”

Cherry looks between them. She sighs, and holds out two keys. “Second floor. The Maine Coon suite is right when you walk up the stairs and the Tabby suite is at the end of the hall.”

Dean’s shoulders sag in relief and he grabs the keys. “Great, thanks.” He yanks his duffel bag over his shoulder, along with Cas’s, ignoring his friend’s glare. 

“Just, before you go,” Cherry calls after them, tentatively. “If you notice anything—well, strange. Just call me down here in the front desk.” 

“Strange?” Dean repeats. 

“Yes. Anything unusual.” 

Dean narrows his eyes. “Whaddaya mean—”

“We will,” Cas says impatiently, pushing at Dean’s back. “Thank you.” 

“You think we should keep our eye out here?” Dean whispers to Castiel as they climb up the narrow staircase. “She seemed kinda freaked.” 

“I don’t care if a Wendigo comes out of the closet,” Castiel replies, wincing at each step of his injured leg. “I just want to sleep.”

“Fine, you big baby.” Dean deposits Cas’s bag in front of the Maine Coon room and turns the key in the lock. “You can take this one.” He opens the door, switches on the light, and looks in horror upon the Maine Coon wallpaper and framed photos of various Maine Coon cats. 

Cas he walks through the door, eyes wide. “Do you suppose this counts as something ‘strange’ to notify Cherry about?” 

Dean snorts. “Well, you gotta appreciate a woman who knows what she likes.” He picks up a Maine Coon plush toy from the dresser and grimaces.

“If I wasn’t injured, I’d be tempted to salt and burn this room,” Cas groans, lying on the bed with mud-stained clothes and shoes and all, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Cas,” Dean gasps, dramatically covering the stuffed animal’s ears, “they can hear you.” 

Cas narrows his eyes. “Dean, as much as I typically love your antics—right now, they are very irritating to me.” 

“Which means you want me to—”

“Leave, yes.” 

“Nice way to treat a guy who carried your bag all the way to your room.” Dean picks up his own bag, pointing to Cas’s leg wound. “I’ll be back to clean and dress that thing in the morning.” 

“Fine,” Cas sighs, already turning over and pushing his face into the pillow. 

After a moment of hesitation, Dean walks to the bed and pulls the quilt over Cas’s body. “You don’t want to catch a cold, idiot,” Dean explains to Cas’s questioning look as he tucks the blankets around Cas’s shoulders.

Cas rolls his eyes, but nonetheless says, softly, “Thank you, Dean,” as Dean shuts the door behind him.

. . . 

Dean wakes in the middle of the night with a raging urge to pee. He blames it on the Gatorade that he chugged at the gas station after the hunt. He lays in bed for a minute, considering his options, and deciding that peeing where he sleeps would not be in his best interests. 

Hauling his aching and bruised body out the bed, he scratches at his bare chest and stumbles to the door of the attached bathroom. He opens it, and—

Comes face to face with Maine Coon wallpaper. 

He blinks into the dark room. Cas is snoring loudly on the bed, limbs flailed across the bed and head tilted back. Dean looks back at his own room, through the door of what he thought was the bathroom, then back at the bedroom.

“I’m dreaming,” Dean says to himself. “Either that, Winchester, or you hit your head a little harder than you thought on that damn hunt.” 

He backs up, shuts the door, and goes to use the bathroom in the hallway.

*

Cas is running a fever when Dean checks on him the next morning. He peels the bandage away on Cas’s leg, and hisses at what he sees.

“Is it bad?” Cas asks, gritting his teeth in pain.

Dean examines the deep gash and the red splotchy skin around the edges of the cut, thinking about how to put it nicely. “Well, you’ll probably lose the leg.”

Wide-eyed, Cas grabs at his thigh. “What—”

“Nah, it’s just an infection. You’ll be fine.” 

Cas flops his head back onto the pillow. “Has anyone told you that you have the worst bedside manner?”

“Maybe Sam, once or twice; but he’s a natural-born complainer.” Dean starts winding a fresh bandage around Cas’s leg. “You’ll have to rest up for a few days, get your fever down. No way we’re traveling while you’re like this.” 

“That means we’ll have to eat—” Cas winces at the pressure of the bandage around his wound, “—inn breakfast.” 

“There’s worse things, Cas. Like, for instance, having to amputate your infected leg.” Dean ties the bandage tightly for emphasis and smiles sweetly at Cas’s glare.

. . . 

“Your friend won’t be joining you?” Cherry asks as Dean picks scones off one of the many plates scattered across the table.

“Uh, no. He’s feeling sick. Actually, I should be getting some food up to him, so I can’t really stick around.” Thankfully, Dean doesn’t say.

Cherry seems put out, but forces a smile anyway. “Oh, that’s fine!” She watches as Dean piles eggs on a plate (they’re scrambled with cheese, Cas’s favorite) and a few pieces of toast. “You didn’t notice anything strange last night, did you?” 

Dean frowns at the lack of bacon on the table, or meat at all for that matter. “Strange?” he asks distractedly. 

“Oh, it’s nothing, I just—I’m just wondering.” 

“Nope, nothing strange.” He balances a plate on one hand and two mugs of coffee clutched in the other, giving Cherry a nod. “Thanks for the breakfast.” 

He’s really focused on balancing the plates, so it could just be a matter of him not paying attention; but when he goes through the swinging door of the dining room, he only has to walk a few steps when he’s once again in the hallway, right in front of Cas’s bedroom door.

“Huh,” he says to the empty hallway. Making a point to investigate that later, he walks into Cas’s bedroom to give him his breakfast.

. . . 

It keeps happening so many times the rest of the day that Dean can’t even chalk it up to distraction, or a concussed head, anymore.

He walks through his bedroom door to the hallway after a phone call with Sam only to find himself in Cas’s bedroom again. Cas goes to bed early that night, and ends up back on the porch where him and Dean were sitting, trying to get some fresh air. Dean walks through his walk-in closet door only to find Cas in the shower, who’s yanking the shower curtain around his body to shield himself.

“Something’s very wrong with this inn,” Dean says, sitting on the bed next to a dripping wet Cas.

“I didn’t even get a chance to condition my hair,” replies Cas, petulantly.

“Dude, you could have finished your goddamn shower.”

“How could I finish, when you walked straight into the shower curtain, Dean? Would you really like me to have continued washing my hair while you were—” 

“Okay.” Dean holds up a hand. “Focus on the real problem here, Cas. This inn has something supernatural going on with it.” 

Cas frowns down at his bare feet. He wiggles his toes a bit, and Dean instructs himself not to find it adorable. “Does this inn seem malicious to you?”

“No. More like it’s fucking with us.” 

“Then there’s our answer.” Cas gives him a lopsided smile. “I hardly think a bed and breakfast that likes to play practical jokes is something worth fretting over, Dean. It’s just some harmless entity. I sensed plenty like it when I was an angel.” 

Dean crosses his arms. “Well, I don’t like it.”

“You don’t like it because you presume everything supernatural is going to be dangerous.” 

Dean opens his mouth to protest—closes it when he sees the smile in Cas’s eyes. “Fine,” he says. “But if it does anything to piss me off—”

“We’ll investigate it, yes, of course,” Cas says. “Can you please leave my room so I can continue showering?”

“No shower, only a bath,” Dean says, pointing to Cas’s injured leg as he stands. “I don’t wanna have to pick your ass off the floor when you slip and fall on that bum leg of yours.”

“Okay, mother,” Cas says with a roll of his eyes. Dean sniffs in annoyance as he turns the door handle and yanks open the door to walk into the hallway.

He meets Cas’s surprised eyes when he walks right back through the closet door of the bedroom. “Son of a bitch inn!” Dean barks.

. . . 

Cas’s fever spikes in the middle of the night. Dean only knows this because when he goes to the bathroom to get himself a drink of water from the sink, he ends up in Cas’s room instead.

“Not again,” he groans, beginning to turn around, when he hears Cas’s rough voice call his name.

“Cas? The hell are you doing up?” Dean whispers in the dark.

“My leg, there’s—” Cas hisses, his words cutting off, “a lot of pain.” 

Dean forces down the spike of worry in his gut. He flips on the bedroom light and walks to the bed, where Cas has burrowed himself deep into the blankets. Putting a hand on Cas’s sweaty forehead confirms his fear. “Okay, buddy, you’re burning up. I have Tylenol in my bag, just hang on.” 

Cas nods, wincing as he adjusts his leg on the bed. Dean turns before his eyes linger too long on Cas’s pale face. He walks through the door to the hallway… only to find himself back in Cas’s room via the closet.

Dean grinds out a curse and tries again. This time, he makes it to the hallway, but instead of walking through his room, he finds himself in the middle of Cas’s bathroom. He stalks out to the bedroom and ignores the amused look on Cas’s face.

“Look, you goddamn house, I’m trying to get him some freakin’ painkillers!” Dean yells up to the ceiling. “I’ll be right back, so don’t get your panties in a bunch. Jesus.” 

“I don’t think the inn has ears, Dean,” Cas says.

Dean points a finger menacingly. “Shut up and rest, and let me deal with this.” He shakes out his shoulders, takes a starting pose, and sprints through the door to the hallway before the house can realize what he’s doing. He continues running down the hall, like an idiot, to his bedroom. 

“At least it’s providing you a shortcut,” Cas says sleepily from the bed as Dean walks through his bathroom, Tylenol in hand.

“This inn is an asshole,” Dean replies. “Sit up.” Parking himself at the edge of Cas’s bed, he hands Cas two small Tylenol tabs and a plastic water bottle he found at the bottom of his bag.

Cas eyes him as he drinks the water, his throat a long column as he swallows the pills. “Don’t make that face.” 

“What face?”

“Your worried face. It makes me worried.” 

“So your leg got clawed to shreds by a ghoul, you have an infection, and you want me to not be worried? Is that what you’re sayin’?”

Cas leans against the headboard, arms crossed. His eyes are glassy from the fever, but they still retain a fire of defiance. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.” 

Dean gusts a frustrated sigh. “You’ve barely been human for a month, Cas. I don’t want you pushin’ it.” 

“Dean.” Cas lays a hand over Dean’s, and Dean represses a shudder. “I’ve been through worse.”

“Yeah. As an angel.” 

“Being human doesn’t make me any weaker.” 

Dean glares at their joined hands. “Yeah, whatever.” His thumb rubs over Cas’s knuckles distractedly. “You still can’t beat my ass at pool.” 

“That doesn’t require strength, Dean. Simply skill.”

“A-ha!” Dean points triumphantly at Cas. “Last time you lost, you broke a pool cue and said it was the stupidest game in human history and now you admit that you were wrong!” 

“Oh my god. I’m going to bed.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says as Cas rolls over, his back to him, “just say that again real quick. I’m gonna record you on my phone.”

“Dean, please. I could die of a fever tonight.”

Dean knows it’s a joke, but that annoying prick of worry pokes him again painfully in his chest. He stands and deposits the Tylenol bottle forcefully on the bedside table. “Take this in four hours, okay, drama queen? I’ll be back to check on you.” 

Cas peeks over his shoulder at Dean. “Fine.” 

They hold the gaze for a few heavy moments. The offer to stay with him is on the tip of Dean’s tongue. 

“Just go to sleep,” Dean blurts, turning quickly on his heel. He shuts off the light before he leaves the room, and opens the door. He takes a steadying breath, and forces himself not to succumb to the pull of wanting to get into bed with Cas, holding that feverish little idiot to his chest until he sleeps off the infection.

But Dean’s resisting Cas’s gravity for years—so he resists the pull, and walks through the door.

Only to end up inches away from Cas’s bed.

They stare at each other, again, by the light of the moon spilling through those gaudy pink curtains. Dean works his jaw, trying to figure out what to say.

Cas finally shakes his head, and pulls the blanket up from his body; an invitation. “Well, we may as well do what the inn says.” 

“Uh. Are you—”

“Dean,” Cas says. 

With a grumble, Dean obeys, tentatively sliding into bed with Cas next to him. He clears his throat awkwardly as he settles in next to Cas, carefully not touching him, pulling the fluffy comforter up to his chest. They both lay next to each other on their backs, staring up at the ceiling.

“I have a thought,” Cas says into the dark.

“Did that hurt?” Dean asks.

“Shut up. I’m serious.” Cas takes a deep breath. “I feel as if the ultimate motive of this inn is to bring us together.”

“Okay.” 

“So perhaps we should—I don’t know. Let it.” 

Dean swallows a rock in his throat, and his voice is husky when he replies, “Uh-huh.” 

Cas turns his head to the side to look at Dean over his pillow. “Do you understand?”

“Yeah, Cas, I’m not an idiot.”  

But Dean doesn’t move. The fear won’t let him. And Cas sighs with the exhaustion only an ex-angel would have, saying, “Dean. My leg hurts very much, and I would like to sleep. Can we please just—cut the bullshit, as you would say, and you just—hold me?”

“You really are a grumpy bastard,” Dean says. The words come out gruff because of his nerves. He rolls over to push his chest into Cas’s back. He wraps one arm around Cas’s waist, and slips another under Cas’s neck. Cas grips Dean’s arms, and finally relaxes against Dean’s chest. Dean feels like he can die happy.

“I still think this inn is an asshole,” Dean mutters into Cas’s hair.

“You can burn it in the morning,” Cas says, placatingly tapping Dean’s arm where it lays across his chest.

And Dean may be imagining it, but as they drift off to sleep with their breaths moving in tandem, the walls sound as if they’re settling into a contented sigh, the buzzing energy of the house wilting into a dull murmur.

There is no way that Dean Winchester would ever stay at an inn.

But if it means holding Cas in his arms as he sleeps—maybe he’d do it again.

[wanderingcas]

ao3. 

“Hey.” Sam tilts his chin in the direction over Dean’s shoulder. “2 o’clock.” 

Dean glances over his shoulder. Cas, who is sitting next to him in the booth, likewise cranes his head, albeit a little more obviously because the newly human ex-angel still has no sense of manners. 

He knows what Sam is gesturing to immediately: brunette, leggy, skirt on the northside of too short. He distinctly remembers the predatory face she made when he asked her back to his hotel room. 

“Didn’t you hook up with her last time we were in town?” Sam asks in a hushed voice.

Dean pokes a fork at his scrambled eggs. “Uh, yeah. I think so.” 

“Well, go talk to her!” 

“Why the hell would I do that?” 

Sam scoffs, giving him the Younger Sibling Incredulous Look. “Didn’t you say you liked her?” 

“You’re right, Sam. I did like her. So naturally, the next step is me getting down on one knee and saying I want to have her babies.” 

Cas scrunches his forehead. “I have two questions.” 

“Colloquialisms, Cas,” Dean says shortly. He stabs a sausage link and savagely chews it, pointing his fork in Sam’s direction. “I got a rule and you know that. I don’t double-dip. Comes with the job.” 

To Cas’s confused expression, Sam explains, “He means he never sleeps with someone twice, or he might catch feelings.” Cas continues to stare. Sam adds, “Fall in love.” 

“Why would that be bad?” Cas asks.

“Have you seen our profession?” Dean scoffs. “Ain’t for me, that whole thing. But sex is good,” he adds with an especially leering grin. 

Sam groans into his coffee. “You’re gross.” 

“Love is bad,” Cas says musingly. He takes a bite of his waffle drenched in syrup. “I think I understand.” 

“No, just—” Dean sighs. “Forget it. Maybe when you’re more human it’ll click.”

Cas looks at him curiously as he chews. Dean needs to look away. 

* * * 

“There’s too much of your mother in you,” John used to say. 

Too much empathy. 

Too much love. 

It’s what got her killed, after all. 

* * * 

“You know, you need to define it. Whatever it is.” 

There’s movement by the barn door that catches Dean’s eye; it’s only a flash of bird’s wings glinting in the dark. He makes a noncommittal sound and sinks further into his seat, the leather creaking. 

“Seriously, Dean,” Sam continues, “it’s not healthy. For either of you.” 

If that creepy farmer guy comes back, that’s their man, Dean decides. He’s never trusted anyone with a limp, anyway. 

“Dean.” 

“I heard ya,” Dean barks. “Are you going to focus on this case or not?” 

“We need to talk about this.” 

“See, that’s where you’re wrong. We don’t.” Dean squints in the dark, sees a hobbling figure approaching the barn, a familiar and stolen spell book in his hands. “Knew it was him.” 

“I just worry about you.” Sam loads and cocks a gun. “Both of you.” 

“It’s our business, Sam. Drop it.” Dean opens the Impala’s door, the hinges protesting. “You take his right, I’ll take the left.” 

* * * 

Kissing Cas is second nature now. It’s not like the awkward fumbling when they first slammed together, stuffing themselves into a supply closet so Sam wouldn’t find them, hands shaking and Dean’s ass being poked by a broom as Cas pressed desperately against him. 

Kissing him, in fact, is easy: Dean’s gotten used to the texture of Cas’s lips (soft but unyielding), the way that he can make Cas hitch a surprised breath (biting his lower lip with a soft graze of his teeth), the feeling of Cas’s warm hands pressing against Dean’s back. 

Even the sex has gotten easy.

But then there’s the after: where Cas sits on the edge of Dean’s bed, adjusting his tie against his open collar, frowning at the ground. The pause has become longer and longer, before he finally stands and leaves the room with a soft, “Goodnight, Dean.” 

And Dean’s eyes are beginning to linger on the closed door longer than they should.

* * * 

“What do you want to do as a human, Cas? Anything. Name one thing.” 

Cas looks up from his cereal, hair sticking up in impossible ways and squinting at Sam. “More sleep sounds amenable.” 

Sam’s laugh bounces across the kitchen’s tiles. “No, something fun that you couldn’t do as an angel. It’s time to get out and find something you like.” 

“Like eating crappy diner food,” Dean suggests across the table.

“Or starting a garden,” Sam adds. 

“Or eating crappy pizza.” 

“Or biking.” 

“Or setting the record for eating the biggest cheeseburger.”

Sam flicks a spoon at Dean’s arm. Dean leans back in his chair and grins.

Looking between them, Cas frowns. “I’m not sure what activities there are to do as a human.” 

Dean says, “No wrong choice.” He considers for a moment. “Well, except all of Sam’s suggestions.” 

Sam huffs a frustrated breath.

“Maybe biking?” Cas says, tentatively. “I’ve seen that activity before, and it looks enjoyable.” 

“We don’t have bikes, Cas,” Dean says.

“But we can rent some!” Sam says, pulling out his phone and waving it wildly. “Wichita has a bike sharing program now! You can go anywhere in the city!” 

“Oh, goody,” Dean says. 

The drive to Wichita is mind-numbing, teaching Cas how to even balance on a bike is time-consuming. But finally, after the hundred or so time of Dean lightly pushing Cas’s back to give him a pedaling start, Cas stays upright rather than collapsing to the ground. 

Dean feels stupid for being in a flannel and boots on a bicycle. Sam keeps reaching over and pinching Dean’s cheek while they’re riding. But then they get to a tall hill overlooking the city skyline, sun setting on the backdrop, and Cas turns around to smile all sweaty and bright-eyed at Dean, the happiest Dean’s seen him in well, ever, and Dean can’t suppress an answering smile. 

Looking back, maybe that’s the moment he knew. 

But maybe his heart rate was only fast from the exercise, and his lightheaded, dizzy feeling was him not having enough to eat or the heat getting to him.

Maybe.

* * * 

Dean didn’t intend to overhear it. Cas and the old guy they were interviewing was in the next room, and Dean was in the tiny corner kitchen. The old man’s house was dated, sure, but Dean didn’t expect the walls to be practically paper.

“You know what’s most important in the world, son?” asks the man’s fuzzy baritone.

Cas falters, says, “Uh… no. What’s most important?” 

“Love. That’s what.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. They weren’t going to get anything about the neighborhood poltergeist out of this guy. His brain obviously flew into the cuckoo’s nest a long time ago.

“Oh,” Cas replies. “I see.” 

“When you have something to hold onto that you love, or someone, then it makes life that much more worth it. If a dying old man like me can tell you anything, let it be that. You know what I’m saying?” 

Dean’s not sure why he’s holding his breath; especially not sure why his chest constricts to a painful pitch when Cas replies, softly, “I don’t have much experience with what you’re describing.” 

“Maybe you will one day,” the old man says.

Dean stares down at the countertop, chipped and broken at the edges. 

“Maybe,” Cas tonelessly replies. 

* * * 

He didn’t mean for it to happen.

It just kind of snuck up on him and happened. 

Over time, Cas’s smiles began chain-reacted a fuzzy feeling in his throat. Cas’s rarely-heard laugh made his skin feel like it was on fire. Cas’s hands simply skimming over Dean’s bare skin made him feel like every cell and molecule that made up Dean was reaching for Cas, begging for more. 

Even Cas’s eyes holding his made his stomach do flip-flops.

He didn’t mean for it to happen. 

He didn’t mean to break his own rule.

* * * 

“What is this?” Dean asks between kisses. It’s dark but he can imagine the stunned look on Cas’s face. 

Cas was never one to bullshit. He says, plainly, “I don’t know.” 

Dean threads his hand through Cas’s thick hair, tugs a little tighter so he’ll forget Dean’s moment of weakness. They fall back onto the bed. 

* * * 

“You’re a lot like Mom, you know,” Sam just comes out and says one day. Over reading a book, while sipping his coffee, like it’s no big deal.

Dean puts down his phone. Asks in a steady voice, “What?” 

“She didn’t want the job either. Wanted different things.” Sam pauses. “Like a family.” 

“Why the hell are you telling me this?” 

Sam looks at him with way too much meaning in his eyes. “You know why.” 

Too much of your mother in you. 

Dean pushes against the table to stand and leaves the room. 

* * * 

I love you. 

It’d be so easy to let it tumble out of him; to recklessly plunge headfirst off that cliff without knowing if anything would catch him. 

Instead he presses it soundlessly into Cas’s skin with his lips, his hands, his fingers—I love you, I love you. And I’m terrified.

He’s worried he’s being too loud when Cas looks at him with endlessly blue eyes, seeming to respond, I know. 

* * * 

There’s too much blood on the floor, and Cas’s eyes are too glassy. Dean tears out of his shirt, pressing it against Cas’s wound, but there’s not enough to hold it in, not enough to stop the very essence of Cas leaking out of him—

“It’s fine.” Cas’s voice is raspy. He holds Dean’s wrist in a weak fist. “Stop, Dean.” 

Dean presses the shirt harder against the wound. Cas’s eyes grab his and hold them there.

“You knew this would happen eventually.”

“No I didn’t,” Dean whispers. “I didn’t.” 

“It’s the profession, Dean. You said it yourself.” 

“No,” Dean says.

“Let me go.” 

Dean wakes up with a harsh gasp. It takes endless moments of harsh breathing against his pillow to get his heart rate to slow. 

He walks down the hall to the room where Cas sleeps. He puts a hand on the knob; hears Cas roll over on the bed inside, the bedsprings groaning. 

It’s unclear how long he stands there, forehead pressed against the cool wood of the door, counting Cas’s breaths. 

Cas isn’t in danger, Dean tells himself.

Not right now.

* * * 

He takes Cas to a lake, because he remembers Cas saying that he misses the ocean. It’s close enough. 

It’s a cold fall day, the nearby trees drooping with golden leaves, so it makes no sense to be at a beach. But Cas seems to love it. Dean opts to sit on the sand and watch Cas dip his bare toes into the gentle lapping water.

When Cas gets too cold they huddle under a blanket, shoulder to shoulder, and watch the sun sleepily dip in the horizon.

“What do you think is the most important thing in the world?” Cas asks. 

“Pie,” Dean automatically replies. “Maybe burgers.” 

“Be serious,” Cas demands.

Dean sighs, his breath dancing in front of him. The sun is nearly gone; they’ll have to drive back soon or Sam will have a hissy fit. He gets bitchy when Dean’s not there to make him dinner after his afternoon run.

“Dean.” Cas pokes a gentle finger into Dean’s side.

“Uh.” Dean blows into one of his hands to make it warmer. “People. Family. Love, I guess.” 

Cas nods. He squints into the dying sunlight. “Falling in love can be bad, though,” he says quietly, so soft that if Dean weren’t centimeters away, he’d miss it.

“Sometimes,” Dean agrees.

They stand, brushing the sand off their jeans, and walk back to the Impala. 

* * * 

That night, Dean drags out every moment: every kiss, every caress, every push and pull of his hips against Cas’s. 

Cas gasps, and Dean swallows the sound with his lips. Every nerve in him feels like a firecracker ready to burst. In all his life, he’s never been so focused one one human being, on one beautiful, devastating, terrifying ex-angel sprawled underneath him. 

Too much empathy.

Too much goddamn love.

When Cas leaves his bedroom, like he always does, Dean decides he needs to keep liquor in his room.

* * * 

“You don’t look like you’re getting a lot of sleep. Neither does Cas.”

Dean knows. Doesn’t need the reminder.

“Have you guys talked it out yet? Whatever is going on between you?” 

If they did, maybe there’d be more sleeping.

* * * 

So it goes, Vonnegut wrote. Dean remembers dissecting that line in high school English, reading way more analyses than what was required for the assignment. 

A nod to the existential. At death that inevitably comes. 

Dean wonders if it could apply to love, too.

“I’m going to stop coming to your room,” Cas says to Dean. 

Jesus Christ, Sam is sitting right there, Dean wants to say. Instead he stares, forkful of spaghetti halfway to his mouth.

“I’m gonna go… research,” Sam says, fumbling with his chair and vacating the kitchen. 

Cas and Dean stare at each other. 

“I’m going to stop coming to your room,” Cas says again.

“No, I—I heard you.” Dean puts down his fork. “I just. Why?” 

Cas laces his hands in front of him. “When we began our physical relationship, I thought it was of benefit to you. You seemed happier and more relaxed. However, the past few weeks have taken the opposite toll. You seem anxious and the circles under your eyes are a clear indication you’re not getting a good rest. So I think it’s best if we stop.” 

There’s a simmering in Dean’s gut. “You. You want to.” He clenches his fist against his knee. “You want to end this because I look tired?” 

“No. I want to end this because you look like someone died every time after we have sex.” 

“So fucking dramatic,” Dean scoffs. He stands and grabs his plate roughly off the table. “Well, if you wanna end it, fine by me. Just stop coming to my room.” 

“All right,” Dean hears Cas say behind him.

Dean stands at the sink for a moment. The simmering pitches to a full-blown boil. He throws the plate in the sink, ceramic shattering. He whirls around to see Cas, staring, wide-eyed. “Seriously, Cas? Seriously?” 

“Seriously what?” Cas volleys. 

“How can you act like it’s nothing? Over and over—Jesus.” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. “I should have known better, I really should have but I—every fucking time, it’s the same.” 

Cas stands. “I’m not acting like it’s nothing.” 

“Yes you goddamn are. Every night, you leave. Every morning, you act like nothing happened. Even now you’re just calmly ending the thing like it was a business transaction. Even as a human you’re as emotionless as a goddamn rock.” 

“That’s not fair,” Cas says, his face contorting. 

“Then tell me I’m wrong,” Dean shouts. “Tell me this all meant something to you.” 

Cas is still like stone, just staring, so Dean scoffs, “That’s what I thought,” and makes his quick exit. 

He’s halfway down the hallway when something grabs his shoulders, pushes him into the wall. Cas leans in close.

“You don’t understand,” he says. “You never did. I feel—I do feel.” 

Dean whispers, on the precipice of something he doesn’t want to name, “Then why did you leave every goddamn time?” 

Cas tilts his head. “Falling in love is bad,” he says. “I understand. Now that I’m more human, I understand.” 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Dean chokes out.

Too much of your mother in you.

“How did you mean it?” 

He can’t do this now. Not with Cas staring at him like this. Like he’s the singular most important person in the world. “I’m scared,” he says. “I could lose you.”

“I could lose you.” Cas holds Dean’s shoulders tight. “But I love you all the same.” 

Dean shakes his head. Says softly in the space between them, “That’s too much love.” 

“No such thing,” Cas insists, capturing Dean’s mouth with his, not letting him give anymore excuses. 

* * * 

They lie in Dean’s bed, simply holding each other. It’s warm. Dean likes the way that Cas is playing with his hair, likes the feeling of Cas’s breath on his cheek.

“What is this?” Dean asks. Afraid to, but does it anyway.

“Whatever you want it to be.” 

Dean frowns. Grabs Cas’s hand and winds his fingers tight around him. “Don’t leave tonight.” 

Cas presses a kiss into Dean’s hair. “I never will.” 

[wanderingcas]

It’s a rainy and crappy day.

The hunt itself, dragging on days longer than it should have, was a shade away from disaster when the vampire nest had more in the happy family than Sam and Dean previously thought. The Impala got a flat tire on the way back to the bunker. Dean had to hear Sam bitch about the humidity from Missouri to Illinois.

So when they pull into the garage, despite having spent the last week hunting, Dean is ready to kill something.

Then he walks into the bunker.

All the lamps are on in the war room, giving the room a soft, orange glow. Dean can hear a muffled tune coming from the record player in the library. The air is warm and thick with a distinct scent.

Sam stops in front of him, sniffing the air. “Is that pumpkin?”

Dean doesn’t respond. Instead he dumps his duffel into the ground and goes straight to the kitchen.

He’s exactly where Dean expected him to be: head bent over a cookbook (with a title proclaiming ‘Fall Favorites!’), flour splotching his bee apron (something Dean made fun of him for buying, but now something Dean’s second favorite outfit on him), the counter covered in pumpkin purée and cinnamon.

“Cas,” Dean says.

Cas looks over his shoulder, brow furrowed. “Dean.” He holds the cookbook aloft. “Can you explain what this author means by ‘folding in’ ingredients? I’m assuming it’s a mistake, since it’s impossible.”

Stifling a laugh, Dean walks to Cas and leans over his shoulder to look at the page. “Whatcha makin’?”

“Pumpkin pie,” Cas says, grumpily.

“Not apple?”

“No. Pumpkin is seasonal.”

“So is apple, dummy.”

Cas shrugs a shoulder. “I like pumpkin. And to paraphrase your philosophy: chef picks the recipe, consumer shuts his pie-hole.”

“Cake-hole,” Dean corrects. He can’t hold back his smile. “Damn it, I missed you.”

Cas’s face softens, and he says, “I’ve missed you too, Dean,” in that earnest way that never fails to knock the breath out of Dean’s lungs.

Dean takes the recipe book from Cas’s hands, tossing it onto the counter. He turns Cas on his heels and wraps his husband into his arms, uncaring of the flour all over him, and kisses him soundly.

“Making a pie, Cas?” Sam asks from the door.

“Not anymore,” Cas murmurs against Dean’s lips.

Dean laughs and lifts Cas up, depositing him on the counter, flour unsettling into the air. Cas brings his legs around Dean’s waist. Dean kisses him like his life depends on it. He can hear Sam sigh behind them and fast-retreating footsteps.

Cas pulls back and frames Dean’s face with his warm hands. “I’m happy that you’re my home,” he says.

Dean frowns. “You mean that I am home.”

“No.” Cas pushes his forehead against Dean’s, runs a hand across Dean’s neck, eliciting a shiver. “You’re my home, Dean. I’m home when I’m with you.”

Dean doesn’t trust himself to speak with his throat closing the way that it is, so he buries his face into Cas’s shoulder and breathes in his cinnamon spice scent.

It’s a rainy and crappy day, but in the bunker, warm in Cas’s arms, Dean really doesn’t mind anymore.

[wanderingcas]

chapter 22 

title: la hantise pairing: dean/cas tags: slow burn, mutual pining, bed sharing, supernatural elements posts every sunday

summary: 

Castiel’s mother dies, leaving him the family home that sits abandoned on the moody coast of Maine. He’s forced to return to the past ghosts of his trauma, as well as meeting the mysterious and nomadic Dean Winchester. Dean offers to help Castiel fix up the house so he can sell it, which quickly becomes problematic as Castiel begins to develop feelings for Dean; especially when details of Dean’s troubling past come to light.

chapter sneak peek: 

Dean stirs at the light touch. He blinks sleepily over his shoulder. Castiel freezes, his hand outstretched, and promptly wishes he were invisible. Dean catches his eyes, and is suddenly alert, his eyes wide.

They stare at each other for a long moment. Finally:

“You came back,” Dean says flatly.

Castiel draws himself up taller; he withdraws his hand. “I did.”

“Well.” Dean rises from the pillow. “Fuckin’ dandy.”

He unsteadily sits up on the bed—Castiel moves to help, but Dean’s glare stops him. Dean wraps the quilt around himself. His hair is sticking up in three different directions and his eyes are heavy with exhaustion.

Why did I ever leave this, Castiel thinks, a vice clenching his stomach.

read chapter 22 || patreon || ko-fi

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[wanderingcas]

a drabble based on this amazing art by @winchester-ofthe-lord, because i wanted to write something sappy about cas comforting dean, damn it

It’s the fifth night in a row that Castiel is woken up by it. 

“Don’t want to bother you,” Dean had said the morning of the third day, coffee in hand, eyes downcast. 

Castiel had stepped closer into his space, putting a loose hand around Dean’s arm, saying firmly. “You’re not a bother.”

They had only been officially together for a few weeks; had only decided sleeping together for the past seven days. 

The nightmares began shortly after.

Castiel wonders if it’s his presence that’s triggering them somehow. If sleeping comfortably next to a loved one is triggering Dean’s mind to think that it’ll all be pulled away from him, again, like it has been so many times before. 

Whatever it is, Castiel feels hopeless every time it happens. Doesn’t know what else to do but hang on to him. 

It’s the fifth night, and Dean awakes with a hoarse shout. This is different, Castiel notes, from the times before where Dean woke with simply a gasp. 

The shout turns into a choked out “Cas” and Dean quickly stands, the sheets tangling around his feet, his flailing arm knocking over the lamp on the bedside table. Castiel lurches forward, grabs Dean’s wrist, tries to pull him back to the mattress. 

“Dean, I’m here,” he says, over and over again in a desperate mantra. “Dean.” 

Finally Dean looks at him; finally the glazed look over his eyes melts away. He sits on the edge of the bed and puts his head in his hands. “Damn it, Cas.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry.” 

Castiel slides on the bed to where Dean sits, pressing his bare chest against Dean’s shoulder. A physical reminder of his presence. “Don’t ever apologize. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Dean grunts. He runs a hand down his face. “Just—” His voice hitches. “That was a bad one.” 

Castiel slides a hand up and down Dean’s bare arm. “I’m so sorry, Dean.” 

Dean remains silent, but Castiel can feel his arm shaking. “Do you want to talk about it?” Castiel asks softly. 

Dean shakes his head. His shoulders bow into themselves, and his whole body stiffens, trembles.

“I just… so many people,” Dean says. He puts a hand over his eyes. “So many fucking people, Cas. All dying.” 

“I know,” Castiel murmurs. He presses a kiss onto Dean’s shoulder.

“Can’t save any of them. Couldn’t even save you—”

“I’m here now.” 

“Yeah, but for how long?” Dean makes a sound in the back of his throat; he swipes at his face. “God damn it. I’ll go to the living room.” 

“Dean, no.” Castiel clutches Dean’s arm, doesn’t let him stand. “If you truly want to be alone, I’ll respect that. But don’t you dare leave because you think you’re a burden, or bothering me. Because neither of those things are true” 

The fact that Dean says nothing to this, just keeps a hand over his eyes and continues to shake all over, shows that whatever he dreamed, it really hit him hard. 

“Dean, come here,” Castiel says. He puts a hand against Dean’s chest, slowly pulls him back. He holds Dean against his chest, arms tight around him, gently kisses his neck. “You can be upset, Dean. It was just a bad dream. I’m here.” 

Dean stiffens in Castiel’s hold for a moment. He lets out a shuddering breath, and Castiel can feel the tension leave his body. In the next movement he’s twisting around, burying his face into Castiel’s neck, letting himself be held.

“I’m being a baby,” Dean murmurs into Castiel’s skin.

“No, you’re not.”

“I should be able to handle this.”

“No, you shouldn’t.” Castiel holds him tighter. He presses a kiss into Dean’s hair. “Do you remember that Star Trek episode you showed me last week?”

“Watch a lot of Star Trek,” Dean mumbles. He sounds like he’s drifting off to sleep again.

“It was when Captain Kirk got caught in the past. And he fell in love with that woman.” At Dean’s affirmative grunt, Castiel continues, “And he says that the three most romantic words in the English language are, ‘Let me help.’ Even more powerful than ‘I love you.’” 

Dean says, “And then Spock says it in the next episode to Jim. So in love.” 

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel says patiently. “But the point I’m trying to make is: I love and care about you. And I don’t want you facing your burdens alone. So… let me help.” 

Dean lays still in Castiel’s arms. He winds his arms around Castiel, clutches at Castiel’s shoulders where his wings used to be. “Okay, Cas,” he says in the space between them. He finds Castiel’s lips in the dark, kisses him gently. “Okay.”

For the first time the whole week, Dean sleeps through the rest of the night soundly.

[wanderingcas]

Chapter 21

title: la hantise pairing: dean/cas tags: slow burn, mutual pining, bed sharing, supernatural elements posts every sunday

chapter sneak peek: 

Loneliness has a rhythm to it.

It’s disjointed; like a faucet with an unpredictable drop, or a low-battery clock winding down. The days are either too long or too short; filled with too many unanswered calls or not enough. There’s either emotional detachment or too much to bear. The rhythm is an uneven dance, one that Castiel can’t seem to grab onto; but it has a rhythm all the same.

Castiel sits at the kitchen table in his small, mildew-smelling studio apartment, staring at the blinking cursor on his phone screen, and the words he just typed out.

There’s no easy way to explain this. 

He presses his thumb to the backspace button, and the cursor swallows the words whole as it flies backward. 

I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you. 

He frowns; deletes. The blank text space waits, mockingly.

I couldn’t have stayed. 

read chapter 21 || patreon || ko-fi

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[wanderingcas]

A teaser for my fic that I’m posting on Monday, because I’ve been writing a lot for NaNo and want to share some stuff! (if you like what you see, feel free to ask for a tag for when i post it!) 

“So, Cas.” Dean raps his knuckles on the tabletop impatiently. “You made your decision?”

“Yes.” Castiel brushes his hands of french fry grease and folds them in front of him. “I’ve decided I want to renovate the house. But I have terms.” 

Dean raises a hand. “Look, buddy, hand-to-heart, I won’t charge you for labor. Just a cut of the profits. And supplies, I think that—”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” Castiel inhales and rubs his fingers together. He really wants a cigarette. “There’s… things in the house. Things that may be confusing or… surprising.” 

An interest sparks in Dean’s eyes. He leans forward. “Like what?” 

“Like—” Castiel pauses when he sees the waitress walking back toward their table. He watches awkwardly as she deposits the mug of coffee on the table, his eyes flickering away when she glares at him before walking away. 

“Like what, Cas?” Dean prompts again. He tears two pink sugar packets at once and pours them into the black steaming liquid. 

“Like things that my family left behind. Or odd remnants of things.” 

“What, is it haunted or something?” Dean stirs his spoon in the coffee, metal tapping against the porcelain. 

“I have my suspicions.” 

Dean looks up and gapes. “What? Seriously?”

“I have no evidence. But it’s possible.” 

Slurping at his coffee, Dean asks over the rim, “Do you see ghosts? Things falling off the walls inexplicably?” 

Castiel rolls his eyes impatiently. “It’s not important. But this right here, this is my only condition: that you don’t talk about it.” 

“But a haunted house is cool,” Dean whines. “How can I not talk about it?”

“Whatever you see, or discover,” Castiel reiterates, “don’t ask about it. Just accept it and move on. All right?” 

Dean pushes out his lower lip in a pout before he takes a thoughtful sip of coffee. “Okay. But just one thing—before the conditions are set up and set in stone. Can I ask a question?” 

Castiel shifts in his seat uncomfortably. His hands tighten around each other. “Fine.”

“I was back in Ellen’s bar last night, after we met up at your house,” Dean says, “and I was talking to a guy about renovating your house. He was asking me what I was doing in town. And once I said it was your house I was renovating, and what your name was, he was practically blue in the face trying to convince me to not go anywhere near you again. He called you dangerous.” 

Castiel shifts uncomfortably. 

Crossing his arms, Dean stares Castiel down with serious green eyes “Now, I don’t scare easily. And he was kind of drunk off his ass, so I didn’t take him very seriously. But now that you’re mentioning this stuff, I gotta ask: is there any truth to what he was sayin’?” 

Castiel’s eyes travel over Dean’s shoulder, to the cash register where two of the waitresses are huddled together and talking in low tones, all the while glaring in Castiel’s direction. He focuses back on Dean. “People in this town don’t like me very much.”

“Gathered that. How come?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

Dean purses his lips. “Is it going to affect whether or not this renovation gets done?”

“I can’t foresee it doing so. As long as you stick to my conditions.” 

Castiel can feel his breath holding in his chest as Dean stares at him, considering. He finally feels his breath pass through his lungs again when Dean holds out a hand. 

“Okay. Deal.” 

Castiel takes Dean’s hand and shakes it. His hand is coarse and warm. 

“Now.” Dean drums his hands on the tabletop. “You gonna finish those fries?”

With a long-suffering sigh, Castiel pushes his plate in Dean’s direction.