When Cas falls, he returns to Sam and Dean, a bus ticket in his hands.
He’s dirty, he’s disheveled, he smells.
When he knocks hard on the bunker’s metal gates, it bruises his knuckles, and the speckled patch of color doesn’t disappear. Dean answers the door and, as per usual, looks at him with eyes shining with withheld bitterness and draws in a singular deep breath.
“Can I please stay here?” Cas asks (begs).
Dean sighs and lets him in.
Only if you promise to never leave.
* * *
When Cas falls, Dean finds him standing in the middle of his room every single morning, a look of rapt concentration in his eyes. He clenches and unclenches his fist in a pattern, lips pressed tight before he lets go, tension released, shoulders slumping in defeat.
He tries to jump, swivel around, swing himself in a multitude of ways.
It is only on the fifth morning that Dean realizes Cas is trying to fly.
(I’m sorry, baby bird.)
* * *
When Cas falls, he reaches out to Dean in a haze of confusion, two fingers held together, ring and pinky fingers tucked neatly underneath his thumb. It’s a slow incline up Dean’s features; fingertips gently ghosting over lips and nose and eyes before it gently presses against the skin of his forehead.
Nothing happens.
Cas smiles bitterly.
* * *
I’m sorry, I’m sorry—he repeats, over and over again, like a child begging for forgiveness—I’m sorry—
“Cas, stop, it’s okay,” Dean urges as he brings himself to his knees, hands cradling Cas, who has stumbled onto the floor, curled up protectively against the wall.
“I’m sorry, I tried Dean,” Cas breathlessly sputters beneath his hands, “I tried, to heal—please—”
“Dammit, it’s okay,” Dean growls now, dipping down to meet Cas’ eyes, “I can bandage myself up just fine—”
“Please let me stay,”
Dean feels his foundations crumble beneath his feet.
I’m useless but—“Please let me stay,”
“Please,”
Dean chokes down his words.
He holds Cas tighter instead.
* * *
When Cas falls, it takes weeks to get him right again.
“So you’re okay now?” Dean asks slowly, his tone cautious, “No more mental breakdowns?”
“Yes.” Cas answers, chin tucked against his chest in sheepish embarrassment, “I apologize for the trouble.”
Dean waves his hand dismissively. “Forget about it.”
“Maybe it’s for the better.” Cas says thoughtfully, and Dean curiously looks up from his lunch.
“You think being human is good?” Dean repeats, as if no statement has ever been more wrong.
“Yes, because now—” I can grow old with you.
Dean looks at him expectantly. “What? Because now what?”
Cas smiles, shaking his head.
“Forget about it.”
#this is totally were!stiles being interrogated by the winchesters #and he is giving no answers and no fucks (via crusingthroughreality)
HEADCANON ACCEPTED.
I really would love to see that crossover, repeatedly, in every possible position. Even if it would end in tears because let’s be real, everything the Winchesters touch ends in tears. Poor little shits.
“Look kid,” Sam says. It’s the third time he’s tried the good cop routine and Dean can hear it wearing thin. “We know you had nothing to do with the murders. But we also know you’re not the only werewolf in town.”
The kid tips his head and sucks on his lips, the total absence of fucks glaringly obvious. Dean is both frustrated as hell and grudgingly impressed because, hell, they’ve dealt with demons less sassy than this.
Sam sighs, and Dean has to cough into his hand to keep from laughing because that particular brand of exasperation is usually reserved for him. “Just be straight with us.”
For some reason, that’s hilarious. It takes a second before Dean remembers the dude they’d seen the kid with before they’d picked him up. Big, serial killer looking guy, sporting leather and a possessive hand on kid-snark’s back. Oh man.
Dean snorts and gives Sam patented ‘what? it’s funny’ shoulders when it earns him a glare.
“Trust me, dude,” the kid says. “I’m being as straight with you as…well, I was gonna say humanly possible but…”
A flash of canines has Sam rolling his eyes and sue him, Dean sorta wants to high-five the kid. You know you’ve been hunting for too long when you start rooting for your mark.
“You’re driving a stolen car,” Sam says. “You’re carrying a fake ID. Every word out of your mouth so far has been bullshit-”
“Says the hunter posing as an FBI agent,” the kid says, tapping a nonchalant beat on his water bottle.
Sam pulls out bitch-face number eleven. “Is anything about you real?”
The kid grins and bobs his head. “My boobs.”
Dean laughs so hard he almost pulls something.
Control
Set in the Endverse! of Season 5. Hope you all like it. Angst ahead.
The first time it happened, Dean hadn’t meant to hurt Castiel, but there was just so much rage, so much pain built up that it found a way to escape. He’d spent the day trying to call for Michael until he was on his knees, but there was no answer, wouldn’t be one. That time had passed, and the angels had left Earth for good.
All except the one under his hands, in his bed, writhing around as if being under Dean was the y pinnacle of his existence It angered Dean, this fallen being was the only thing he was left with. Sammy was gone, he’d said yes to Lucifer a long time ago, and all Dean had left was an angel that was just discovering his humanity. And humanity was ending.
So there wasn’t a point where he consciously meant to hurt Castiel, but he did, in a manner, when he wrapped his fingers around Castiel’s throat. It felt so good to have some control, some anchor in this fucked up world. Heaven had destroyed him and his brother so many times for it’s own purposes, why shouldn’t he take advantage of the little piece left on Earth, abandoned by his brothers?
Hearing Castiel grunt slowly as his fingers tightened was satisfying in a way he couldn’t describe, and the knowledge that he could destroy this person, destroy this piece of the thing that had been the cause of so many of his troubles was a heady thing. So he tightened them further and thrust in harder, driving into Castiel roughly, pouring all of his anger and rage into the task. Reveling in the the way the angel’s eyes widened and then closed, the way his hands clenched in the sheets as he whimpered and submitted without question, Dean knew he had the control again, at least in this part of his life.
Only when Castiel’s face had turned red, and there was visible evidence of the pain he was being caused by the fingers digging into his throat, did Dean realize what he was doing and relent. He wouldn’t apologize, not for causing an angel pain, even if Castiel was the only one that had stayed by his side, but his touches immediately grew contrite, and soothing, his thrust turning slower and easier as he laid gentle kisses along the fallen angel’s shoulder and found his lips.
When they were done, Castiel didn’t question what had happened, simply rolled close and into his arms as if he’d understood everything, even if Dean hadn’t understood it himself. The hunter knew that Cas would wear an obscene collar of bruises the next day, and it scared him to think that he wanted to see them, the reminder that he still had just a little control in this god-forsaken shithole.
Don’t – ever! Don’t ever apologize for…us.
Don’t…don’t apologize for…who we were.
You made me…so happy Dean. We did our best…we gave it…our best try…and it was…really beautiful.
Twist and Shout has ruined me for fanfiction. Read it.
Fic: Ode to Rough Sex With an Angel (Destiel)
Length: 1900 words
Rating: M for mature, at least 16+
Summary: Set during s08e07(?), when Cas mentions the ‘D’ word, cogs start turning in Dean’s head. I had a craving for some proper smut, ok. Do they have Vaseline in the US?Dean closed his eyes and took a slow, painful breath.
“I’m dirty,” Cas sighed. Dean fixed his gaze on Cas’s drained face and agreed.
“Purgatory’ll do that to you.” Dean pondered the implications of the word for a moment. Though Cas had meant it literally, Dean had to admit that purgatory had offered a kind of animal purity. And that went for sex, too. He had been down there a year, and he was only human after all. The acquaintances he had made there were very short-lived, and all ended violently in the monster’s death, but Dean knew how to take advantage of a situation. He wasn’t proud of how he’d acted there, but he had to do what he had to do. Once he’d found Cas, he couldn’t think of sex. All he could think of was getting both of them out, which added even more clarity to his state of mind.
It had been pure. But Dean definitely wasn’t clean.
Now that he’d got himself onto the train of thought that stopped at Sex Station, Dean was aware that Little Dean wanted to follow Cas to the bathroom. Cas was dirty. The thought reverberated around Dean’s skull. The more he thought about it, the more he was getting turned on.
I’m dirty …
A tug and his shirt slides down and off his arms, and his hands are back on Dean again; fingers plucking gently at his skin, palms tracing the lines of his ribs, the curve of his waist, the long, broad slope his back makes, when Castiel is beneath him like this. His head is tipped against the wall, Dean between his legs. Dean, eyes pitched low, leans in to kiss his mouth; then dips his head to kiss his shoulder, to lick at the hollow of his collarbone, to nose at his stomach, trailing down.
Now that they occasionally have the time, Castiel is learning Dean’s penchant for drawing things out.
You don’t need me like I need you.
You leave me without a goodbye, without a second thought,
without caring how it makes me feel.
I beg and beg for you to come back until I’m blue in the face.
What do you do? Nothing.
I get it, Cas, I do.
You’re busy, you have things you gotta do, protect the tablet.
Those things, they’re more important than me.
I don’t know.
Maybe I’m selfish, maybe I’m wrong, maybe I let Naomi get into my head.
Maybe she made me doubt everything that I thought I knew,
maybe I’m scared you don’t care anymore.
I pray I’m wrong, because I don’t know what I’ll do if I’m right.
But it doesn’t matter, I don’t deserve you anyway.
I’m worthless.
So you want to participate in the first ever Dean/Benny week? Awesome!
GUIDELINES:
- The event is for one week: April 10th through midnight on the 16th. Post during this week!
- Anything goes - fics, art, gifsets, graphics, drabbles, meta. The Dean/Benny fandom is woefully absent in all aspects, so any contribution is appreciation! Just make sure you tag every contribution with #deanbenny week in the first five tags of your post so I can find it and reblog it.
- There’s no limit, contribute as many times as you want! I have some one word prompts (below) set up for each day to help give you an idea or provide inspiration - but it’s only a guide. If you want to do your own thing, that’s cool too.
PROMPTS:
- DAY ONE: pure
- DAY TWO: restraint
- DAY THREE: hunger
- DAY FOUR: domestic
- DAY FIVE: hurt
- DAY SIX: southern gentleman
- DAY SEVEN: au
That’s it! If you have any suggestions, questions or ideas, feel free to drop them in the ask box!
Number 23 calls him ‘Cas’, and the angel blade clatters to the ground from numb fingers. You have to kill that one yourself, and it takes three other angels to hold Castiel back.
Number 108 kisses him, hard and rough and possessive, and Castiel disappears. You find him two hours later, hiding in a corner of the warehouse and muttering quantum physics laws under his breath.
Number 332 kisses him, soft and gentle and pleading, and Castiel stabs him in the heart, hisses, “Not Dean.” You’ll accept it as a small victory.
Number 491 calls him ‘brother.’ Cas cuts him down with a sob and cries over his corpse for forty-seven minutes.
Number 665 lets Castiel sink the blade into his left lung with a sadistic smile, steps into the puncturing pressure and whispers into Castiel’s ear. ”You were always a weapon.” You have to call the other angels back to stop Castiel from sinking his blade into his own heart after that.
Number 804 grins around a mouthful of blood and chokes, “I never cared about you.”
Number 887 spits, “You don’t even have a soul.”
Number 901 snarls, “Angels aren’t capable of real love.”
Number 983 breaks him. He looks up at Cas with cold, beautiful green eyes and whispers, “I wish you’d left me in Hell.” After that, you’re almost certain that these are mercy killings, but it gets the job done.
Number 984 is cut down in a vicious and sloppy melee.
Number 987 cries out, but Castiel doesn’t bat an eyelash.
Number 993 doesn’t even see Castiel approach.
Number 998 begs, but Castiel moves with ruthless precision and speed.
Number 1000 is dead before he hits the ground.
Number 1002 crumples against the linoleum and you hit the lights. Castiel is now fully operational. He’s the deadliest weapon in Heaven’s arsenal, once again.