#Cas had a one night stand and bolted

[avoxrising]

The Feral One • Chapter 6

Finnick Odair x Reader

Series Masterlist Link

I love writing pissed off Johanna dialogue!

Content warnings - death (it’s the hunger games)

As much as he wants to chase after you, he can’t. Katniss would kill you and he can’t abandon the plan, not until he can pass off babysitting duty to Johanna.

You spent the evening wandering the jungle, unnerved by every little noise you heard. After you left, you circled back the way you had originally come, hoping the others would carry on in the other direction.

Your arm was still bleeding but you didn’t care. It’s not like any sponsors were lining up to send you stuff. You’ll have to kill a career and steal their supplies using the only weapon you have, the arrow that landed in your arm.

A few hours after dark, the faces of the fallen appear in the sky. None of your allies are on the list so you don’t really care. It’s not like you knew these people.

You opt to go deeper into the jungle, opposite of where Finnick must be. This whole place is starting to look the same, though, and it’s hard to get your bearings.

Hours later, a gong rings twelve times. You don’t have time to ask yourself what it means as the hairs on your body stand up and a large blast of electricity shoots down mere yards away from you.

Lightning.

You have to move. Now. Your ears hurt and panic rises in your throat. They’re here to kill you. You’re gonna die.

Running, you collide with someone, another tribute. They don’t even have time to scream before your arrow is through their neck and their cannon is sounding. Move. Now.

You run until you can’t anymore, scared that something is chasing you. The game makers must have caused the lightning to force you and the other tribute closer together.

There were other canons throughout the night, but you paid no attention to them. You sat under a tree, hugging your knees, trying to ignore the burning in your dry throat and the pain in your arm. Of course Katniss had to shoot your dominant arm.

When the day is bright enough to illuminate your section of the jungle, you decide to head back towards where the lightning was. If another tribute was over there then there may be some food or water close by. Maybe they even had sponsors.

The sun is high in the sky by the time you make it back to where the fight occurred. There’s no trace of it but you know the spot. Your hair stands on edge again and you panic, knowing exactly what this means. The lightning strikes and you bolt, running from whoever must be near.

They’re going to kill you. You’re dead. You need to run faster.

You run downhill, towards what you think is the lake. Despite not being allowed in the ocean for the past five years, you’re probably still the second best swimmer in the arena behind Finnick. If you could lure whoever is chasing you into the water then you could drown them.

Your legs barely make it to the beach, completely drained from your lack of sleep and sustenance. Whoever was following you must have realized your plan and stopped. Maybe nobody followed you at all.

As you make your way out of the jungle and towards the water, you pause, spotting a large group of people a ways down the beach. It’s Finnick and his alliance. Maybe they would give you food, or shoot you. Honestly, who knows?

They spot you approaching and Katniss aims another arrow at you. You’re still clutching the one she shot you with in your hand, ready to stab anyone who comes near.

“Y/N!” Finnick exclaims as he runs over to you. “I was so worried.”

You look over at the group and back at him, silently asking if they’re ok with you being there. He sighs, realizing that Katniss probably isn’t ok with you being there but he needs you with him anyways. He can’t lose you.

“Have you eaten?” he asks. You shake your head no. “We have food and water. Oh! And some first aid stuff for your arm. Katniss is sorry by the way.”

“Skin?” you ask him. Noticing the scabs on his body and the cuts on his face.

“We got caught in some poisonous fog last night and ended up in a fight with some monkeys this morning,” he explains. “I’m alright. Nobody in our group has died except Blight. He hit the force field last night and they couldn’t revive him.”

You hum in response, catching a whiff of the fish Finnick must have caught for the group to eat. He notices your hunger and gently guides you to sit on the edge of the group close to Johanna and far away from Katniss.

“Glad you could join us feisty!” Johanna chuckles as you sit near her. You give her a shrug as if to say that you’re currently indifferent to your existence. She gets the memo.

“Nuts and Volts,” she states. “Have you met fiesty?”

The man and woman look up at the group.

“Yes,” Beetee replies. “I believe we briefly met Y/N at her victory tour celebration in the capital but it’s been many years. It is nice to see you again Y/N, although I wish it was under better circumstances.”

“You guys aren’t letting her stay with us, right?” Katniss asks and you tense up. They need her for their plan. You’re disposable.

“Back off firebird,” Johanna barks. “She’s sticking with us.”

“She tried to kill me!” Katniss exclaims.

“Because you touched her,” Johanna shouts. You flinch at the volume. “Rule numéro uno is don’t touch fiesty. Plus I thought you were a good fighter, Katnip. You mean to tell me you couldn’t win a fight against her? She hasn’t been outside in over five years. She’s practically harmless!”

“Let’s settle down,” Finnick states, noticing you becoming tense due to the yelling. “Here’s your fish Y/N. I’m gonna go grab you some water.” You smile at him in thanks and begin to eat the fish. The smile fades when you notice Katniss watching you eat like a hawk, so you turn around and sit with your back towards her while you eat.

You need to convince her of Johanna’s words. You’re harmless.

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#hunger games #finnick odair #hunger games fic #the hunger games #finnick odair x reader #finnick imagine #finnick x reader #hunger games x reader #hunger games fluff #hunger games angst #the hunger games fanfiction #catching fire #the feral one

[kerryweaverlesbian]

I wrote another soppy angsty romantic destiel fic 😇 read it here on ao3 or below:

Cas wakes, as he often does when he sleeps, on his side with Dean wrapped around him. It's the early hours of morning, although the room is lit just as it was last night; the lamp on Cas’s side of Dean's bed stays on overnight. Neither of them enjoy being plunged into darkness. 

Dean's arm hangs heavily over his bare chest, his nose is pushed up into Cas’s hair, and Dean's knees have caught one of Cas’s thighs between them. It's warm, not just from their body heat and the comforter, but from the inside. He's never felt more at home than in Dean's arms. 

On Cas shifting forward a little, Dean shuffles forward and nuzzles his nose into the back of his neck. Cas stills, then grips Dean's wrist, overcome. A certain self-knowledge has been uncovered in his head, like a delightful worm found under a lifted rock. He didn't mean to wake him, but Dean grumbles into his skin, "Cas." 

"Go back to sleep," Cas tells him, but when Dean's arm shifts it crosses over the left side of his chest. 

"Your heart's beating like crazy. What's up?" Dean's voice is still slurred with sleep, pressed up as close to unconsciousness as he is to Castiel. 

"I just realised something," Cas says, bumping his thumb across the back of Dean's knuckles slowly which makes Dean half-hum contentedly. "I love you." 

The fact blankets them further, soft but undeniable. Dean inhales and exhales deeply twice, and then says, breathy, "Oh." 

"It's a surprise?" 

"No," Dean says, pressing his forehead to the base of Cas’s skull. Then: 

"Can you stop?" 

"No." The first comes out annoyed - how can Dean doubt him, even now? - but when Dean's arm tightens around him, Cas gentles, "No, Dean. I can't. I've tried." 

He has. Early on, sent to Heaven for disapline over and over for perceived slights against the Host he could barely understand. When Dean was the only thing standing between Cas and angelic redemption. When Dean has been callous, and bitter, and cruel. He's tried. Dean is too lovable for it to ever stick. 

"I'm afraid I will love you for the whole of my life." 

"Don't," Dean pleads, and it's not clear whether he means don't love me or don't tell me. Either way, Cas is going to let him down. 

"I love you," Cas repeats, firmly, "I have loved you. I will love you. That's all." 

"That's all," Dean echos, with a little huffed laugh. His voice is shaking, "Just, 'I love you, that's all'. What the hell, man?" 

"It's a new thought, I don't have a speech prepared." 

"You didn't know before? Seriously? When you - when we ripped up the rule book? You didn't know?" 

"I had my suspicions," Cas admits, and he goes willingly when Dean pulls at his shoulder so that Cas is on his back, looking up at Dean in the golden light of the bedside lamp. Oh. "You're beautiful." 

"Cas," Dean grumbles, looking away briefly but then back to Cas's face, a conflicted expression set into his features. "Cas..." 

That seems to be it for several long seconds, during which they examined each other openly. It's Dean who breaks eyecontact again first, casting his gaze out into the room. He rubs a hand over his own jaw roughly, and Cas sees his fingers pinch despite him trying to conceal it under the bolt of his jaw. Checking if it's a dream. Cas doesn't blame him. 

Dean takes a deep breath, then says, with difficulty and closed eyes, "I don't want you to." 

Cas tilts his head, and puts his fingers to the place Dean had pinched. Dean lets out a little cut off sound, a dimmed whine. 

"Is that true?" 

"Yes," Dean says, his voice tight - but he clutches the front of Cas’s shirt just as tightly. When Cas gently slides his palm up to Dean's cheek, Dean presses into it hard, his eyes still squeezed shut. Cas gives him the time he needs, moving his pinkie finger in soothing strokes next to Dean's crow's feet. Love, yes, it is love. Patient, kind and stubborn. That's the feeling that rises in Cas every time he gets the chance to look at Dean. He wouldn't trade it for anything. 

"I'm not-" Dean says eventually, taking a sharp breath in partway through, "You shouldn't feel that way." 

"I've had quite a lot of people tell me what I should be feeling. It hasn't stopped me thus far. No one has changed me as you have." 

"Don't say that. Don't blame me. I didn't do anything." 

Cas shakes his head, though Dean can't see it. It's a little humanoid habit he's picked up. One of those little things Heaven can't stand about him. One of hundreds. 

"Dean, I'm not blaming you. I'm thanking you." The loneliness of Dean's closed eyes is becoming too much to bare. "Will you look at me?" 

He does, and the action frees tears from his eyelashes. One runs down to Cas’s palm, and Cas wishes he could kiss the drop, to keep it safe forever. The green of Dean's eyes stands out strong against his wet lashes, and he blinks back more rising tears. All this from three simple words. 

Dean has a few words of his own to say. He presses the heel of his hand down on Cas’s forehead, like he's smiting him, and says, brokenly, "I've ruined you." 

"Dean," Cas says, struck with a burst of love in his chest, "you saved me." 

"No," Dean insists, pressing harder. "I've made you vulnerable. Now you're gonna - you're gonna die and it's my fault." 

"What are you talking about?" 

"Everyone. All the time. Everyone I-" Dean shuts his eyes again, and Cas misses him instantly, "Everyone I love. If I start to think it's possible then it's too late." 

Cas thinks about it seriously. "Maybe I will die." Dean makes another noise of suffering, so Cas tries to mitigate his words with another sweep of his little finger on Dean's face. "Dean. I might die. I can't promise you otherwise, with the lives we lead." 

"Stop," Dean moans, "Stop it. Why are you doing this to me? What did I do?" 

"You cared about me. You believed I could be better than I was, more than a tool for Heaven's will. You were right." 

"What good has it done you?" 

Cas narrows his eyes. "Don't insult me. Look at me." Dean complies, and swallows, his throat bobbing with it. "I'd rather die than never live. I'd rather love than be silent. And if I die, I will return to you. Always." 

The tears are running thick and fast now, Dean's face is red and his chest heaving. 

"Cas." He says again, beseeching, then he leans down. He kisses the back of his own hand, still pressed on Cas’s forehead, and it's Cas’s turn to close his eyes, just for a moment. "You don't know what you're doing to me." 

Cas thinks he might. They have both been in this partnership for a long time. They know each other well. 

"I have my suspicions." 

When Dean's eye catches his, Cas smiles, just a little, and it grows when Dean kisses him on the mouth, once, quick. 

"I liked that," Cas tells him, and Dean groans, then kisses him again, and again, another groan coming through from the back of his mouth when Cas kisses back. 

They stay that way, kissing tenderly for a small eternity, until Dean's alarm goes off at 5am. Cas makes a noise of complaint when Dean turns away and untangles their linked hands to switch it off, which makes Dean laugh. The tension and fear had slowly receded as they made out, replaced with a quiet, sparkling joy. 

"Thanks," Dean says, holding himself off a little from Cas rather than coming back for more. 

"You're welcome," Cas says, with a confused frown, which gets Dean smiling, toothy, "What for?" 

Dean shrugs with one shoulder. "I dunno. Everything. All of it. I can't believe you just said it as soon as you knew, man. You're supposed to hold that stuff in until you're about ready to explode whenever the other guy looks at you." 

"Is that what you were doing?" 

Another shrug, and a sly smile. "Hey, it worked didn't it?" 

"Hm. Well then, thank you too." 

Dean huffs, and settles his head down on Cas’s chest. Cas pets through Dean's hair, marvelling at how soft it feels, and gets a sleepy, pleased hum in response. 

"You're welcome, Cas," Dean mumbles his eyes fluttering shut, and that same warmth that pushed Castiel's realisation of love suffuses him again. 

Truly, he considers while Dean's breathing evens out to sleep again, here, he has always been welcome.

#destiel #deancas #destiel fic #sharing a bed #cawis creates #<i should go back and tag all my stuff I think haha

[annmariethrush]

Suptober Day 6: Full Spread

Dean can't share a bed like a normal person, which Cas carefully documents throughout the night while they are supposed to be sleeping together.

On AO3 or below the cut

Dean was thrilled to be in possession of a large bed at the bunker. While it sometimes got a little lonely, or a little cold since the place was particularly drafty, he had spent so much of his life without things that he could call his own that he savored having a bed which was just for him. However, after a few weeks of Cas sneaking in and out of his room at night in partial states of undress, he figured that he should start letting Cas come sleep with him. Although he still associated sharing a bed more with getting the short end of the stick and not having one to yourself than with anything romantic or otherwise, he had decided not to be a little bitch about it and buck up.  After all, he did have the bigger bed, and sharing was better than giving up his sweet sweet memory foam entirely to go sleep in the bare bones room that Cas occupied when he was at the bunker.

So here he was, scooting his pillow over to the right side of the bed, mentally preparing himself for his first night of co-sleeping with his angel.

"Dean, I don't even sleep. I would be perfectly happy to sit at the desk and watch you while you rest. My presence on the bed is not necessary for you to sleep." Cas eyed him warily as Dean shuffled around the room, doing a poor job of hiding his stupid feelings on the matter.

"No Cas, that's stupid. I don't care if you don't sleep, if you want to be in here with me while I'm sleeping, you'll get in bed with me cause you're my boyfriend and that's what boyfriends do." Dean plopped himself down onto the bed with a huff and pointed at the spot next to him. "Strip or be stripped, sweetheart, it's time for bed."

Cas rolled his eyes and began the tedious process of pulling off layer after layer of clothes until he was left only with his undershirt and boxers. Climbing into bed under the blanket, Cas placed a gentle kiss on Dean's cheek before snuggling close to him. Dean sighed contentedly and relaxed his body into Cas's, letting the rhythm of his breathing slowly lull him into sleep.

--

When Dean awoke, everything seemed normal. His jaw gaped in a big yawn, and his arm was stretched most of the way across the bed to grab his phone from his night stand when he remembered. Why was he alone and in the middle of the bed again? He went to sleep with Cas! He bolted upright, panicked, only to discover Cas, now partially reclothed with his dress pants on once more, sitting in the desk chair across from him looking at his phone.

At the sound of motion, Cas's eyes lifted. "Oh, good morning, Dean."

"What the fuck, Cas?" Dean suddenly felt more hurt than he had anticipated. "I told you to stay in bed with me, what happened?"

The corners of Cas's mouth slowly curled upwards, causing Dean's racing heart to slow ever so slightly. Without saying a word, Cas returned his eyes to his phone and started swiping through something. A few moments passed this way, with Dean staring at Cas wide-eyed while Cas swiped away, and just as Dean was about to voice his frustrations at not being answered, Cas pulled himself from the chair and came to sit on the side of Dean's bed.

Cas handed the phone to Dean, saying simply, "Swipe."

Dean's jaw slowly loosened as he stared at the picture on the screen. With a time stamp of 1:44 am, a dim and grainy photo showed him laying diagonally across the bed, head exactly where it had started, but his legs and feet almost to the opposite corner in the space where Cas was supposed to have been. With a creeping sense of shame, Dean swiped to the next photo, finding another dim and grainy image of him from 2:07 am, this time with his right leg and right arm sprawled out to form some sort of janky 'K' shape, his body taking up at least three quarters of the bed. Hesitantly, he swiped again, finding yet another dim and grainy photo, this time from 2:56 am, where he had rolled over and assumed a large right angle, leaving only his ass on his designated side of the bed. 

He felt his cheeks and neck begin to redden and he looked over at Cas with big eyes, "I'm so sorry Cas I didn't--"

"Oh, there's more." Cas's face was smug. "You haven't even gotten to my favorite yet."

"Fuck me..." Dean muttered, returning his eyes to the phone.

The next photo was from 3:22 and featured Dean in some sort of corrupted yoga pose, with one arm above his head, one leg directly underneath him, and the other bent in under him, a stretch he wasn't even sure he could purposefully achieve. 

When Dean swiped to the next photo, he heard Cas stifle a giggle. "This is my favorite. You look like you're praying."

Sure enough, when Dean inspected the photo, this one from 4:13am, he had somehow ended up on hands and knees with his face at the foot of the bed, hugging his pillow to his face and chest, his ass pointed into the air.

"How did I even..." Dean trailed off, defeated.

Cas took his phone back from Dean, smiling a little too hard. "You're a very animated sleeper. I'd be excited to see if you can do some of those while you're awake though. Watching you gave me some ideas about how I'd like to see you spread out for me."

Dean shoved Cas's shoulder lightly, "You horny bastard. Maybe I'd get better sleep if you just laid on top of me instead of next to me."

Cas raised an eyebrow suggestively and then shook his head. "Perhaps... Now I want to confirm that you are not a direct descendant of the starfish, though, as you seem to be very good at imitating them."

#suptober23 #humor fic #spn #supernatural #dean is a goofball #destiel #castiel #dean winchester #deancas #casdean #destiel fic #Cas is a cocky asshole (affectionate)

[trenchcoatimpala]

Shatter Pattern

Wrote a thing because things rattle around in my brain and I have to get them out. Read below or on Archive

Dean tried to let himself relax into Cas’ arms. He wanted to relax. But it felt impossible. He was stiff; tense. His body rejected the feeling of security Cas’ arms radiated. And he had to sit up, out of Cas’ orbit, his heart thudding in his chest. He wanted to tell Cas: yes, please hold me, keep me safe, kiss parts of me when I won’t notice. I want to fall into you, become part of you, drown in your presence and suck air from your skin. But his body coursed with nothing but its own betrayal because he could never let himself fall like that. How do you go from being the one who does the holding to being the one who’s held. Dean wasn’t used to being held. 

Dean hadn’t been held since he was four. The comfort and safety of his mother’s arms felt more like a dream, made up to help him cope with harsh realities, than an actual memory. He didn’t know why he was broken into pieces that didn’t match in their shatter pattern. There was no gluing back together parts of himself that didn’t fit or that he didn’t have because they were scattered under porcelain bowls in nameless bars, and wedged into stained motel beds; eaten by miles of black roadtops, and left behind in the dumpsters of small diners. Somewhere along the cross-country roadtrip of his life, he lost the part of himself that could sink into the safety of another person's arms.

It didn’t matter that he wanted it back, that he craved it so desperately he ached for it. That he cried out in the night begging to allow himself to agree to be loved. He could see the boy who’d gotten to grow up with that missing piece. He could see him standing on the other side of a chasm, laughing as he ran into his mother’s arms, growing up to marry someone he could let crowd into his space, wrap him in something that didn’t remind him of torment; that didn’t make him feel like he was suffocating. 

“Dean?” Cas asked softly, and his concern punctured a hole in his chest, letting the floodgates loose. 

“I’m sorry,” he cried. 

Cas’ hand was large and warm on his back and Dean wished he could sink into it. “For what?”

“I don’t know how to do this,” he sniffed. “How to let you in. I’m not- I’m not good at it. I’ve never been good at it.” 

“I know,” Cas said, and he kissed the top of Dean’s head, which only made him cry harder. “Shh, I know. It’s okay.” 

Cas rocked him so gently, pressed his lips to his hair, hummed something in Enochian that vibrated through Cas’ chest and into Dean’s back, pushing through him like a shockwave. His chest stopped constricting and his eyes fluttered shut on the last of his tears as Cas enveloped him in his grace. It was overwhelming, striking like a bolt of lightning through a cloudless sky, but suddenly he could breathe. 

“I’ve got you,” Cas soothed. “I’m here. I love you.” 

Dean let Cas’ words carry him forward. He stepped onto glass, blood blooming across the soles of his feet; walked down muddy roads where he had to pull himself free with each step, the squelch of wet matter trying to suck him back down; scratched himself on thorns that tried their damndest to embed themselves into the furthest reaches of his skin; and finally, he stepped over the edge of that chasm and heaved himself up the other side, panting and shaking beside that little boy he could of been. 

The boy smiled at him, freckles so prominent in the sunlight, and he took Dean’s hand and guided him to the last part of his journey, where he could let himself sink into Cas’ arms, fall under the calming waves, and breathe in the oxygen his lungs had been missing. 

tag list, ask to be added or removed

@undeadcas @tearsofgrace @hellerstiel @casgetoutofmyass0907 @wantstoflyafraidtofall @gayhuckleberryinatrenchcoat @thepixelagora@thelahatiel  @im-sam-fucking-winchester@piebook67 @bestiarum@theedeangirl@november5th@bixlasagna@ancient-fangirl@famouspsychicpizzabandit@you-cant-spell-subtext-without@bumbledumble1@cascigarette@addicted2demons @our-stars-graveside @fivefeetfangirl

#my writing #trenchcoatimpala writes #spn #supernatural #desitel #fanfic #spn fafic #destiel fic #drabble #spn drabble #destiel drabble

[deancasbigbang]

Title: And you're the sky

Author: Desirae

Artist: Caduceuzs

Rating: Explicit

Pairings: Dean/Cas, background Gabriel/others

Length: 28000

Warnings: n/a

Tags: Pilot Cas/Chef Dean, mutual pining, roommates, insecure Dean, Castiel has endverse vibes, romcom, jealousy, recreational drug use, boys in love, happy ending

Posting Date: October 5, 2022

Summary:  Pilot, Castiel Novak left home, and the family business, more than a decade ago, after a falling out with his late father. But now, a desperate call for help from his brother has him returning home. Gabriel has been grounded from flying due to hypertension and needs Castiel to fill in for him until he is cleared to fly again. Refusing to stay in the family home, Castiel is invited to use Gabriel’s best friend’s spare room; only when he arrives, Castiel is shocked to discover that his new roommate is a former one-night stand; one that he had thought of many times over the years. Dean Winchester, a man with his own demons, and didn’t let them define his life.   Falling into a routine— talks with Dean over morning coffee, reconnecting with his brother, and flying the route he’s known like the back of his hand since he was a kid— is easier for Castiel than he ever imagined. It was everything he always wanted.   Dean was everything he ever wanted. All Castiel needed to do was stay.

Excerpt: “Alright, Gabe, pull up a stool and tell me why you've been acting like a toddler with a sugar rush?” “These stools are bolted in-”  “Shut up and sit down. What's going on with you?” Dean studied his friend, even more concerned now when his usually bright golden-brown eyes looked downright miserable. Gabriel sighed, and it was a defeated sound. “I've been grounded.” Dean’s brows rose. That wasn't what he was expecting. " Until I can get my blood pressure under control, I can't fly,” Gabriel continued, grabbing a napkin from the dispenser and shredding it agitatedly.  “And I know I have Kevin, but he's a junior pilot; he can't fly all the hours. His mother would kill me.” Gabriel had that right. Linda Tran was a force to be reckoned with and was already pretty upset that Kevin had given up going into politics to become a pilot.  “I’ll have to put out an ad, and who knows how long that could take. If I don’t get another pilot soon, I could go under." Dean chewed on his cheek, debating about whether or not to say something, then figured why not. The worst Gabriel could do was shoot down his idea. “What about your brother? He's a pilot, too, isn't he?” It was a testament to how off Gabriel was that he didn’t end the conversation right then. “Things are complicated for my brother. I don’t know if he would even return my calls.” “Do you not speak at all?” “Cassie, he… he was my best friend. Dad fucked him over pretty bad. I’m not going to get into why; it’s not my story to tell, but when he left, he said he’d never come back. Not as long as Dad was still on the island.” Dean regarded his friend,” Well, he isn’t here now,” he said gently. “And if you and your brother were as close as you say, maybe he’ll be grateful for the chance to come back and help you out.” Gabriel looked doubtful but gave a half-hearted shrug.  “I’ll think about it.” “You will?” Dean asked, brow raised, and Gabriel sighed again. “Yeah. If I can’t find someone by the end of the month, I’ll call Castiel.”  

DCBB 2022 Posting Schedule

#dcbb 2022 #fic preview #2022 promo #deancas #destiel

[haus-seeblick]

Suptober Day 2! "The Perfect Pillow"

Rating: Teen and Up

Ship: (Pre-)Castiel/Dean Winchester

Tags: Literal Talk About Pillows, Early Seasons, Flirting (kind of), Dean Wants Comfort, Castiel Wants Dean Winchester to be Happy, Humor, Pining, Horny Dean Winchester, Hand Kink, Crack and Humor, this is silly, Sleepy Dean

Summary: Dean cannot get comfortable on this awful, lumpy motel pillow. Castiel senses his distress and arrives to help him out. He takes the task very seriously.

Read under the cut, or on ao3 here!

Dean huffs a grumpy sigh and wriggles around under the covers once again, trying to reposition himself in a way that doesn’t leave his neck aching. The damn lumpy pillow on this motel bed is the absolute worst kind — way too soft and way too thin, providing neither support nor comfort. It’s infuriating.

Sam doesn’t understand Dean’s choosiness about pillows. Whenever Dean grumbles about one, Sam points out that they spend most of their nights sleeping in a car that doesn’t even have headrests. 

“That’s different,” Dean insists every time, though when Sam asks how, exactly, it’s different, Dean just sticks his tongue out at him. It’s way too much to explain that the Impala is home , and therefore the comfort is built in. It’s just a different kind of comfort. A motel has to work for it, starting with the pillow. 

Dean swears and sits upright, seizing the pillow and folding it in half before flopping back down. It provides slightly more support, but it’s still far from ideal. 

At least Sam is out tonight with that cute nurse they met while working the hospital haunting, so there’s no one around to judge him.

“Why are you restless, Dean?”

The gun is in Dean’s hands before his brain fully catches up, and the pillow flops to the floor as he sits bolt upright. The pale yellow light from the parking lot filters through the curtains, sketching out the shape of someone perched on the edge of his bed. Dean blinks.

“Cas?”

“Hello,” Castiel says calmly, not flinching at all as he stares down the barrel of Dean’s weapon.

Dean drags a hand over his face and lowers the gun. “Jesus, dude. You gotta stop doin’ this.”

Castiel tilts his head. “Visiting you?”

“Visiting me in the middle of the night, unannounced,” Dean says, tucking the gun away and leaning over the side of the bed to retrieve the limp pillow.

“I sensed your distress,” Castiel responds simply. 

Dean grumpily fluffs the pillow and collapses back down. “I’m not in distress.”

“Your thoughts broadcasted otherwise.”

Apparently Dean’s thoughts are a dramatic bitch. He glares up at Cas, who’s really sitting too close. Not that Cas would pick up on that. Dean’s only known the weird angel for a few months, but it’s already abundantly clear that Castiel doesn’t understand normal human boundaries. Normal guy boundaries. 

There’s a little pinging voice in the back of Dean’s mind, though, that points out that it doesn’t really matter this time, because they’re alone and who’s gonna see? No danger of anyone else noticing what Cas’ proximity does to Dean’s— well, everything.

“I’m fine,” he huffs. “So you can flap back off to whatever you were doin’.”

“I could help you sleep,” Castiel suggests, and Dean’s stupid, traitorous brain nearly melts at the unintended implication. He tugs the scratchy blanket all the way up around his shoulders. 

“Thanks for the offer, man, but I can get my four hours on my own.” He prods at the pillow, scrunching it into a lump and burrowing his cheek into it. God, it’s awful.

“It appears you are uncomfortable.”

“Yeah, well, part of the lifestyle,” Dean grumbles. When Castiel doesn’t respond, Dean sighs. “The pillow just sucks, that’s all. I’ve had worse.”

The covers rustle as Castiel shifts slightly on the bed. Dean watches him surreptitiously through a cracked eyelid. Even in the dim, fuzzy light, his features are sharp and defined — cut cheekbones, that straight nose, those watchful eyes. Even his eyelashes stand out, long and dark, casting shadows of their own. 

It’s rare that Dean lets himself just look. 

Castiel observes the window thoughtfully for a moment, before gazing down at Dean. “What are the qualities of a pillow that doesn’t suck?”

Dean doesn’t even have to contemplate. He opens his eyes fully, rolling onto his back so he can face Cas. “It’s gotta have some thickness to it, y’know, enough to prop up your neck, but not so much that your head gets tilted up. And it has to be firm, but not hard. Like, take this one." He gestures at the monstrosity under his head, “It's way too soft and loose, so I gotta bunch it up.”

“May I?” Castiel asks, reaching out, and Dean raises an eyebrow but props himself up on his elbows enough for Castiel to be able to sink his — long, thick — fingers into the pillow right next to Dean’s cheek. He kneads the fabric, thumb almost brushing the side of Dean’s neck. A tingly smattering of goosebumps buzzes along Dean’s skin. He hastily sits up straighter.

Cas withdraws his hand shortly after. “I see,” he says. “I’ll be right back.” And with a whoosh, he’s gone.

“Uh.” Dean sits there, mouth slightly open, then shrugs. “Okay.” He lays back down and tries very hard to avoid thinking about strong, well defined fingers and broad palms. Headlights sweep across the dusty-yellow walls and ceiling as someone pulls up to the motel, and Dean hears a door slam and voices fade down the sidewalk in the direction of the office.

His neck still hurts, but he’s not even thinking about it. The prospect of Cas coming back makes him thrill as if he’s a horny, crushing teenager or something. It’s ridiculous. 

Not two minutes pass before the curtains flutter with yet another whoosh, and Castiel stands in the middle of the motel room, arms wrapped around a bulging array of — pillows?

Dean sits up. “Dude, what did you do?”

“I brought you alternatives,” Castiel says, striding forward and unceremoniously dumping the bundle onto the bed at Dean’s feet. “I attempted to find pillows that matched your preferences in size and texture.”

Dean’s not sure whether to laugh or gawk, so he ends up doing a mixture of both and sounding like a choked sheep. Castiel regards him with concern. 

“Sleep is important for humans, Dean,” he says, with all the air of a professor imparting vital, brand-new knowledge on a dim pupil.

“You got me there.” Dean holds out a hand. “Well, hit me. Let’s try these babies out.”

Castiel lifts one of the pillows and — Dean hardly sees it coming — smacks him in the face with it. 

“What the fuck!”

“You told me to hit you,” Castiel responds, sounding perplexed. “I thought it was part of the comfort testing.”

Dean clutches the pillow to his chest. “It’s a figure of speech! I— Nevermind.” He squishes the pillow in his hands. “This one’s nice.” Nudging the shitty one off the bed, he floofs the new one until it looks ideal, then sinks his head down into it. Castiel walks around the bed until he’s standing right next to Dean’s face, staring down at him.

“What do you think?”

Dean can’t even bring himself to feel embarrassed by the proximity of Castiel’s crotch. His shoulders and neck melt into the pillow, even the muscles in his face relaxing. “’s amazing,” he nearly moans. 

“Does it support your neck without tilting your head?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Is it firm enough without being hard?”

“So firm,” Dean sighs, already drifting.

“Dean. There are more pillows to sample.” 

“This one’s a winner, buddy.”

“We need to assess all options before making our final decision,” Cas insists, and suddenly there’s an arm sliding under Dean’s shoulders and lifting his torso effortlessly. Dean jolts back online, eyes flying open to find Cas’ face just inches from his as the angel slides the pillow away and replaces it with another. 

“Lie back down.” 

Dean’s not sure he’s getting enough oxygen as Cas’ palm presses flat against his chest and guides him back onto the bed. 

They test five more pillows, and Dean allows Cas to manhandle him more often than is strictly necessary, but sue him. There’s no one else around, and Cas is the one who started it. Might as well drum up some material for the spank bank.

In the end, Dean decides on Pillow #3, which really is the most comfortable item of bedding he has ever encountered. It cradles his neck and head like it was custom-made for him, and he feels sleep descending almost as soon as he sinks into it. 

“Mmm. Heaven might be at war, but this was a good use of your time, Cas.”

“I agree,” Castiel rumbles from his perch on the edge of the bed. “It is a relief for me as well, to have the near-constant buzz of your discomfort assuaged.”

“Gee, way to make a guy feel special. You make me sound like a mosquito.”

“That was not my intention.” Castiel stands, and Dean watches him through his lashes. “I enjoy being in tune with your emotions. It’s— well, it’s more connected than I’ve felt to anything in my long existence.”

Dean’s not sure what to say to that, so he stays quiet.

“Sleep now, Dean.” Cas’ deep voice fills him, covers him, and he swears that he feels fingers brush his forehead as he drifts into unconsciousness. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean wakes the next morning to a pain-free neck and a kink-free back, and if it weren’t for the lumpy, discarded pillow on the floor next to him, he would’ve thought that he dreamed the whole thing. He reverently packs his new pillow into his duffel bag before checking out of the motel.

Sam comments on his jaunty mood as they pull out of town later that morning, and Dean just shrugs. 

“You had your visitor last night, I had mine.” 

#suptober22 #destiel fanfic #crack fic #pillow talk #literally #dean winchester #castiel

[august-unhinged]

Monstrous May 1: Vampires

A familiar attends a dinner party. It does not go as planned.

Transmasc main character, dubcon (hypnosis), public humiliation, public sex, blood drinking.

Abraham had done what felt like hundreds of these parties before. He was led into the place by Vanja, who was giving him the same talk he always gave Abraham, reminders about the etiquette he needed to follow, those at the party he was permitted to deny drinking from him as they would drain his body dry, ‘and remember you reflect-’

‘Ultimately on you instead of myself. Yes, master, I know.’

Vanja had turned to him slightly, giving him a long look out of the corner of his eye.

‘My apologies,’ Abraham sighed, ‘but I do know what I’m doing. I know what to expect.’

‘Of course you do,’ Vanja murmured with a smile. They headed through a hallway, blocked momentarily by a member of the catering staff pushing a trolley full of blood bags to the refrigerator. All O-negative, far too stale for any of the guests to drink, but useful if a thrall or familiar was getting a little empty.

Vanja did the rounds when they entered the reception room, choruses of ‘oh, darling’s and ‘it must have been three hundred years’ sounding out as he swept various guests in his arms and kissed them once on each cheek. Abraham headed towards the drinks table where some familiars he knew were gathered and ordered a wine. Sweet, white. Vanja insisted he could tell the difference, even the vintage, when he drank from Abraham, and while Abraham was skeptical, he wasn’t going out on a limb to find out. He partook in some murmured pleasantries with those he knew, caught up with who had been turned or died since their last gathering, and introduced himself to the new faces among them. He was the host’s familiar, after all. He had to network.

A bell pealed clear and high to announce dinner was to be served, and the room took off en masse to the smaller dining room; there were only thirty guests this time, and small gatherings in the Great Hall just looked wrong, as his master insisted. Abraham went to take his position behind Vanja’s chair, standing, and neatly rolled up his sleeves as he did so. He would alternate left and right through the course of the evening, but generally preferred starting on his left, because Vanja got less careful as the night went on and he wanted to give his writing hand a fighting chance, at least.

The victims were already trussed on the table. They were gagged, and one of them - whose wrists were bolted down to leave him facing Vanja and Abraham at the head - looked up at Abraham pleadingly. He sensed his humanity, clearly. Abraham gave him one dispassionate look before tilting his head up to survey the crowd. He knew enough faces to know the evening had the chance of getting rowdy, and made brief eye contact with another familiar who was clearly thinking much the same. She shrugged at him, proferring her wrist for her mistress who was already clamouring for a drink.

The first and second courses went by in precisely the way Abraham had anticipated, the volume in the room increasing to a pleasant din. Vanja always wanted the switch onto gin before the third, which was Abraham’s pet hate. He knocked the drink back all the same, the tonic coating his mouth queasily as it slid down his throat.

‘Look at him,’ Vanja crooned as he noted his familiar’s obvious disgust. ‘My obedient little virgin, doing everything he despises for me.’

Abraham still cringed at the nickname, despite his begrudging acceptance that it was a term of endearment.

‘Still a virgin?’ Mills cried from halfway down the table. ‘With an arse like that?’

Vanja cackled, a sound which was echoed around the table, and Abraham felt himself flush - which only intensified when Vanja turned around and grabbed his arse. His nails dug into Abraham’s flesh, which stung briefly, but not as much as it did when Vanja slapped it to another chorus of laughter.

‘Tell you what, Van, send him down here and I’ll take care of his hymen for you.’

Vanja bared his fangs.

‘You will not, you wretch. How am I supposed to drink his blood when it tastes like your cock?’

‘Not a taste you’ve had a problem with before, good man,’ came Mills’ sarcastic reply, and Vanja hissed. He turned Abraham back around, who was still blushing furiously.

‘God, but look at it,’ Hector, who was sat next to them, said softly. ‘Are you sure you won’t share? He’s fucking teasing us all, look at his fucking cheeks.’

‘Which ones?’ Mills shouted. If Abraham weren’t being professional, he’d have covered his ears against the raucous laughter.

‘He’s mine,’ Vanja hissed, and that did lessen Abraham’s plight for a moment. Vanja turned to him then, his eyes like pools of browned butter, swirling and gold-flecked as he held Abraham’s gaze coolly. ‘A drink, dear.’

‘Of course, master,’ Abraham muttered, holding up his less-injured arm to him. A dangerous smile slowly spread its way across Vanja’s face.

‘Oh, come now. That’s all so routine, isn’t it? And I’d hate for you to be bored.’

Ah, and there it was. Retribution for Abraham stepping out of line earlier. It was to be expected. What was unexpected, though, was Vanja grabbing him by the waist and pulling him onto his lap. Abraham’s hand flailed out for support on instinct, and he knocked over a glass. The sound of it shattering on the floor silenced the room briefly, thirty sets of keen eyes - and their familiars’ - all turning toward the source of the noise.

Oh, Abraham wanted to die.

‘See,’ Mills’ fucking annoying posh-boy voice crowed, ‘Vanja’s been swayed by my little idea.’

‘Silence, idiot,’ Vanja snapped, before tugging Abraham’s collar out of the way and setting his mouth against his neck. Abraham froze, his heart beating wildly in his chest. At the very least, Vanja wasn’t going for an artery; he sank his fangs into the back of Abraham’s neck. His toes curled and he bit his lip with the effort of not shouting. He was used to it on his arms, and Vanja had drunk from other places - including his neck - every so often, but never this publicly. His teeth were cold where they slid into him, and Abraham writhed for a moment as he felt the soft suction of Vanja beginning to drink, but any moment now, any moment…

Ah, and there it was. Vanja’s venom slipped into his bloodstream, and Abraham began to relax, leaning back heavily against his master as his head started to swim. ‘Fucking delicious,’ Vanja purred in his ear, leaving a wet and bloody kiss directly underneath it, and Abraham smiled lazily. ‘I did tell them to give you the good stuff.’

As if on cue, a waiter slid a cold glass into his hand. Abraham still found it unpleasant but he couldn’t bring himself to care, tipping his head back to let the drink flow into him. Vanja drank as he did, kissing again, laving his tongue over the wound and sealing more of his venom into it.

‘Be careful,’ Abraham murmured. Everyone knows what happens when you give someone too much of the stuff.

‘He wants me to be careful,’ Vanja sighed to Hector, who rolled his eyes before fixing Abraham with a hungry stare. Abraham could feel Hector’s thrall glaring at him too. He tended to be a little… possessive.

Vanja kept this up, taking little sips every now and then until Abraham’s neck was a litany of bruises and teeth marks. Though he was disinhibited from the venom, he could still sense that the atmosphere in the room was somewhat changing. It may have had something to do with the way he was draped over Vanja, his legs spread astride his master’s knees, his breathing heavy, his heart thumping steady and fast.

Then Vanja slid his hand into Abraham’s shirt, and Abraham drew in a sharp and heavy breath. He squeezed one of Abraham’s tits, drawing his nail over his nipple, before withdrawing and bunching his hand in the fabric and - fuck - ripping it off. Abraham whined, vaguely aware of the other vampires tittering at him, but Vanja was palming his tits again, rubbing his nipples into peaks, and he just… didn’t care. He arched up into it. It wasn’t like this was anything they hadn’t seen before.

‘Look at you, you little harlot,’ Vanja muttered. His voice rung heavy with the tone of enthrallment, and Abraham squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would help.

‘He’s enjoying it,’ someone commented. ‘I can smell it from here.’

Abraham whimpered. He shook his head, but all that did was provoke some chuckles in the room.

‘Open your eyes,’ Vanja commanded. ‘Look at them look at you.’

Abraham did as he was bid, just as two things happened; Vanja sunk his fangs into him again, and trailed his hand down to start groping his cunt. He moaned loudly, and Hector raised an eyebrow at him, which was somehow worse than the whooping and catcalling down the table.

‘Excellent dessert,’ someone shouted.

‘Yeah, this is dinner and a fucking show.’

‘It really is a wonder he’s still a virgin, then, if he’s this easy.’

Abraham’s lower lip trembled. It was deeply undignified. His hips were moving under Vanja’s hand, his whole body undulating, his tits rising and falling with the heavy movements of his lungs. Vanja snapped his fingers for a blood bag, and Abraham knew he was fucked.

Metaphorically, obviously. Vanja wasn’t letting him lose his precious virginity just yet.

‘I’m going to strip you now, darling. Do me a favour and ask me nice and clearly.’

Abraham’s mouth opened of its own dark accord.

‘Please, master,’ he said, his voice high and straining, ‘take them off, please, I want everyone to- ahh- I want them all to see my dripping cunt.’

The laughter was turning darker and more vile. Vanja did just as Abraham had begged him, tearing off his trousers and tugging down his underwear until Abraham was bared entirely under his audience’s gaze. He was wet, he was fucking soaked, his dick aching and his lips puffy and pink, all engorged with blood and desperation. Abraham didn’t have enhanced senses, so there’s no way he could have heard the slick sound of tongues running over fangs as the guests took in his delectable little exhibition, but he could have sworn he did.

He made eye contact with that same familiar again, who shrugged, again. I can’t help you out of this one, man, her eyes seemed to say.

Vanja’s arm encircled his waist possessively, and Abraham felt the warm hand of a waiter holding his wrist to place the cannula. O-Neg-V, he knew the bag would say, because his master wouldn’t have his blood sullied by anything less. It would spoil the taste.

Vanja slid two fingers inside him, accompanied by a ‘fuck me, listen to that,’ from Mills, at the unmistakable noise of Abraham’s wet hole being filled. Abraham could only groan, his head tipping back onto Vanja’s shoulder.

‘You’re doing very well, pet. I promise I won’t let them fuck or eat you.’

‘Thank you, master,’ he managed to whisper out. He was so sensitive all over that even the fine silk of Vanja’s shirt made him whine, and when the needle slid into his skin - even though it was removed a second later, the plastic casing secured by a dressing, he sobbed.

‘Oh, sweetheart,’ someone said sarcastically.

Vanja was moving his fingers inside him, fucking them in and out almost lazily, dragging his fingertips over his g-spot and making Abraham shudder with each movement. He wanted to close his legs, to trap Vanja’s hand inside him and grind against it, and protect against being so obviously eye-fucked by the room at large, but he couldn’t. He was a dead weight in Vanja’s arms, his hips trembling, and he was still enthralled, so he couldn’t help but look around the room. Some of the guests were touching themselves as they observed him, while others still had pushed their familiars to their knees to make themselves useful.

Hector shifted in his seat, leaning across the table, ignoring Abraham and staring intently at Vanja. He held out a hand.

‘May I?’ He asked, and Abraham shook his head, but he felt Vanja’s head tilt to the side, as he did when he was considering.

‘You bite him,’ Vanja said eventually, ‘and you fucking die.’

Hector nodded, then reached forward and took one of Abraham’s tits in his hand. He touched differently to Vanja, softer, his icy hands slightly broader, and he took his time, kneading and flicking his thumb against Abraham’s nipple until Abraham shook. Vanja slid a third finger into him and Abraham cried out, pushing his chest up into Hector’s touch and spreading his legs even more wantonly. After that, it became a little more frenzied.

There was a short conversation before Abraham felt a mouth at his other nipple and he cried out in alarm before realising there was no telltale sharp scrape; he twisted his head to see a familiar on her knees, her master’s hand on the back of her head, observing the scene imperiously. More hands, in his hair, his thighs, pulling the chair back so better access could be had to his front. Someone was rubbing his dick, up and down, never brushing the head, gentle, firm touches that had him moaning and gasping until they withdrew their hand and slapped between his legs and he howled. More fingers inside him, crowding him, coating themselves in his wetness before forcing their way into his asshole. Vanja still drank from him every so often but he was far more invested in keeping Abraham awake, alert, forcing him to watch as cold hands fought for purchase on his body.

Mills had taken it upon himself not to touch, but rather just to murmur in his ear.

‘You’re doing very well,’ he crooned. ‘There’s eight fingers inside you in total, now, I bet that feels a tad overwhelming, doesn’t it? And I’m sure dear Roman would stop abusing your cock long enough to let you come if you didn’t moan like such a fucking harlot when he spanks your cunt like that. One of these days, I hope you know, you’ll be turned in a room much like these one, and all of us will enjoy fucking every hole of yours once your Vanja’s tasted you for the last time. Not that it will mean much by then, now we all know what an atrocious little slut you are.’ Abraham was whimpering and sobbing, moaning whenever he felt himself being fucked open by the fingers in every one of his holes. It was too much, which he tried to beg, but that just made them double down. Vanja was just rubbing at his g-spot now, while another nameless guest concentrated on fucking him in time with the fingers in his asshole. Roman had just closed his thumb and index around Abraham’s cock and was letting Abraham fuck his hand, his hips thrusting in what was barely a rhythm and more of a response to the movements inside him and the mouths at his chest and neck.

‘Please, please,’ he cried once he felt his cunt start to clench down around the fingers in him.

‘Well, do we think he deserves it?’ Vanja asked, and there was a throng of assents and dissents, before Vanja threw his head back and laughed. ‘As if it matters,’ he snarled, ‘because this boy and his delectable cunt are mine, and I think the poor thing could do with it. You’re going to come, Abraham,’ he said, but there was no richness to his voice. It was all on Abraham; he was being given permission, not an order. ‘You’re going to come now.’

Abraham’s hips moved faster, rutting against Roman’s hand, and his body tightened and writhed - but there was nowhere for it to go, so many hands holding him down and forcing the oncoming orgasm to rocket down his spine and into his cunt. Vanja was still rubbing him, dragging his long fingers against the little nub of flesh inside Abraham’s cunt that made him shout all the more desperately as he rolled his hips down against Vanja’s knuckles. He felt hot tears on his cheeks and blood trickle down his neck as Vanja drank from him at the moment it hit him, pure dopamine, throbbing through him as he felt something give and clear liquid shot from his overwhelmed, overstretched hole; his cunt spasmed and contracted, pushing more of it out, and his cock was jumping under Roman’s hand.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck,’ Abraham panted, one hand flying to the back of Vanja’s neck to hold him close. Vanja was muttering his own curses against Abraham’s skin, which sparked him again, jerking under the relentless hands of his tormentors as his still-aching cunt gripped them hard, actually forcing their movements to still as he ground his hips down and used them to wring every last fucking drop of come out of him.

Everything was still for a moment, and Abraham blacked out.

[sindicate]

@prettybrawler continued from here ( caed & lestat )

          a  hand  waves  carelessly  signalling  dismissal ,  a  putrid  smile  fed  by  a  vile  mind  grows  on  the  vampire's  perfectly  shaved  face  as  he  steps  forward  and  now stands a  few  steps  ahead  of  caed .  he  is  staring  at  the  poor  soul ,  blue  hues  that  would  so  often  be  seen  as  an  angelic  feature  were  completely  corrupted ,  it  is  obvious  it  is  taking  everything  in  him  not  to  rip  that  man  apart  and  the  fact  that  it  would  take  minimum  effort  seemed  to  make  the  idea  even  more  enticing ..  the  image  of  louis  pops  up  just  in  time  to  stop  him  from  acting  on  his  instincts  and  become  the  worse  that  nature  can  display  which  warrants  a  deep  breath .    "  tsk  tsk  tsk ,  matches .  you  christians  and  your  savage  manners ..  "    he  scooched  down  in  front  of  the  human ,  grabbing  the  matches  from  his  pocket  ever  so  graciously  although  the  way  the  man  jolts  almost  looks  like  lestat  had  just  punched  his  gut .

          he  too  was  disappointed  that  the  human  did  not  put  up  a  fight .  centuries  of  witnessing  what  he  considered  lower  rank  creatures  experiencing  the  human's  deepest  desire :  to  survive ,  and  acting  on  it  when  faced  with  something  their  brains  couldn't  quite  cope  with  might  have  spoiled  him ,  but  he  was  expecting  a  show  at  least .  fight ,  flight  or  play  dead ,  the  latter  seemed  to  have  been  the  choice  of  the  night  for  the  one  laying  in  front  of  him ,  and  it  bored  him  to  the  point  of  drying  out  the  smile  from  his  lips  and  sparkle  from  his  eyes .  he  takes  a  deep  breath ,  clearly  annoyed ,  and  straightens  up  once again ,  suddenly  thriving  on  the  image of  the  peasant  running  down  the  streets  of  new  orleans  drivelling  on  about  the  devils  living  in  that  house  and  how  they'd  just  gotten  a  new  add  to  their  family ,  so  he  steps  back  and  straightens  his  arm  and  hand  pointing  towards  the  door .  "  you  are  free  to  go .  "

ever so hesitant at first , the human inevitably decides to bolt out of the place afraid the vampire would change his mind , perhaps , which serves as cue for lestat to turn around and face caed now . perhaps letting the human go was also a way of getting to caed's nerves , seeing as the vampire has made him work for him once again ever since he's forced lestat to go look for the black dog once again . " i believe i spoke clear english when i said ' keep them out of the house ' not out of the rooms only " there was the dashing but malign smile on his lips , perhaps touching caed's nerves was the whole reason to have him back . after all , he shouldn't have to chase after the black dog considering the pact he's made with one of his ancestors .

#prettybrawler #i'm sorry this took me so long but i'm here for this look at how smug lestat is icb him #( lestat l. / interactions )

[elizabethrobertajones]

Do you think we were supposed to be getting MOC!Dean vibes from how excited Dean was to have the Colt back? I mean, he got pissy when the First Blade was taken from him to, though he ultimately ended up giving that to Cas, but y'know... willingly. Idk where I'm going with this, just something I thought of...

Yeah, idk if it was meant to be exactly like Dean and the First Blade but he was definitely being a bit obsessive about it :P Once you sleep with something under your pillow you cross a line where if this was the sitcom version of the show the next day he’d walk into the library and Sam and Cas would have hung an intervention banner :P 

I mean I don’t think we need to go over Dean’s detailed history with the Colt, either in actions or emotionally how much was connected to it and the obvious security a kill-anything weapon has to your well-being (a rare feeling for him although 12x18 proved that could be preeetty useless when not applied properly anyway)… but he was also personifying the gun and he does this with the car and I guess in a way it’s stuff he puts a bit of himself into. 

(I watched 9x10 recently enough to still be laughing at Crowley calling the car Dean’s phallus on wheels - I don’t think that’s an accurate representation of what Baby is to Dean, and 11x04 showing her as a protective womb and somehow almost cosmically attuned to him as a friend is way more accurate, if we don’t go with her being a representation of his soul. But hands down she is feminine and not just because he calls her so, but symbolically. But the Colt. Definitely a phallic representation for Dean.)

But his weirdness about the gun got him in trouble in 12x18, that the bad guys got the better of him, and, well, the dude in 5x09 who complained why do they not put their weapons on a bungee? Highlights the problem of relying on a kill-anything weapon (and pfft now I think about it like this - WAS that foreshadowing that they gain and lose the Colt in one episode immediately after that because Dean dropped it after Lucifer threw him across the field? :P)

I think the problem is this is such a coveted item, it’s its own curse. And I just spent a moment trying to think of what other thing in pop culture I could compare this to aside from the obvious of the One Ring and realised I was thinking of season 3 and the Colt. So. Uh. I feel like there’s a very obvious comparison to some item that was only got through stealing and was its own curse but my brain is ALSO now just saying, hey, rabbit’s foot in 3x03, and at this point I give up. My brain is a mess of Supernatural and I can’t remember anything else any more. 

Anyway, it’s not something spelled out in the text like that, but right before the Colt comes back into play, like bungee guy and his warning about losing weapons, we have this:

SAM It’s a hell of a luck charm.

BOBBY It’s not a luck charm, it’s a curse! She made it to kill people, Sam!See, you touch it, you own it. You own it, sure, you get a run of good luck to beat the Devil.But, you lose it, that luck turns. It turns so bad that you’re dead inside a week.

SAM Well, so I won’t lose it, Bobby.

BOBBY EVERYBODY LOSES IT!

(Lol to “beat the devil” I hate this show sometimes)

Obviously Colt didn’t make it AS a curse - he made it to kill demons and lock a Devil’s gate shut… But from the outset it has the problem that because it can LOCK the gate it can also OPEN it. So the very earliest we see the Colt is two demons coming to get it from Samuel Colt; it’s a beacon of potential and Colt may have used it for good, but there’s an immediate reaction of interest to use it for bad, because it’s power, and power, of course, corrupts. (Like the ring of power, or the First Blade comparison, as two items specifically about the corrupting influence of dark bad power) 

But still. Once it’s there…

SAMUEL COLT (nods) Not bad. (Samuel opens his jacket so Sam can see the colt in his holster) You don’t want it. It’s a curse. Believe me.

SAM Great. Then let me take it off your hands.

Sam actually is given the Colt (and that scene now to me feels like 9x11 riffed off it a LOT - Dean taking the Mark from Cain feels almost identical in mood, only Sam taking on this “curse” was a lot more benign, unless of course it somehow twists time and fate up to make the Colt so much of their problem in the future). Anyway, he takes it to Dean seemingly with permission and no hard feelings from Samuel Colt, and so it’s sort of got a sense of ownership to them, but not exactly the strongest, especially as it may have just been on loan.

Best I can guess, based on the Elkins connection, after they disappeared back to the future, Elkins the bartender came out and saw the ash and had no interest in it, but did see the Colt and took it, then when Samuel Colt came to town it was like no i never saw no gun, and Colt assumes Sam took it (and hey he did want to pass on that curse :P) and that’s it. Elkins passes it down through his family, Daniel Elkins sort of can’t believe what he’s got, and maybe for all we know was a hunter because having the Colt invites trouble and his family had a history of it and had to learn the hard way.

Dean steals the Colt from him in 4x03, and fails to use it while discovering how their family is well and truly cursed with Mary’s deal. 

John wanted it from Daniel Elkins and never got it from him while he was alive because I bet Elkins did not want to share that curse and had some fear about what it would do to John - the Elkins family having it is sort of like Bilbo having it all the time in the shire - he messes around doing party tricks with his magic ring, but the plot doesn’t come for HIM. 

Vampires eventually steal it, John steals it from them, he gives it again to Dean, but retains a loose ownership of being the one who’d be mad about wasting bullets, even if Sam and Dean wave it around and shoot it a few times, John reclaims it and gives it to Azazel. Azazel gives it to Jake. Sam steals it from Jake, Bela steals it from Sam, gives it to Crowley who gives it to Dean, and then immediately steals it back from him and gives it to Ramiel. Ramiel is killed for it by Sam (unintentionally) and Mary steals it, for Mick who gives it to Sam, who gives it to Dean, who Cas steals it from, who loses it to Dagon, who melts it and the poor ghost of Samuel Colt, haunting miles of railroad in the middle of Wyoming, suddenly has his spirit freed and goes up to Heaven at long last like, finally :P 

Pretty much everyone who either steals it or has it stolen from them is killed for it or because of this struggle - losing it is a safer way to not die, so Dean dropping it at the end of 2 time travel escapades, or after attempting to kill Lucifer, sort of means the gun falls off the radar, in a kind of threw it into the deepest ocean way, where it stops being on the board. But the curse is clear and the power struggle for it. 

I think this sort of desirability of it as an item IS the curse, and Dean is best placed of anyone in the world to know about it because he’s been not just connected to the story all along, but also with the time travel things, especially 4x03, intimately connected with its  history in a really weird way. He was the one who shot the phoenix, after all, even if Sam got the Colt in the first place. Dean being the last “true” owner of the Colt is a nice way to end it, in that Dean is the centre of the universe way. But also that Sam brought it to him and Mary stole it for them - the family history, the family curse… (I still think Samuel Colt’s journal was in the Campbell library because there was a family connection)

Also it’s great Cas stole it and shot it and had a part in that - also mirroring Eileen’s attempt to shoot Dagon, which makes me feel like she’s part of the family and should marry Sam >.>

ANYWAY all that said, I think that’s the curse/pull of the Colt, the sort of “my precious” feeling that would come from it. It’s an object soaked in blood and in the supernatural world that seems to leave a mark. I think the gun was actually almost bonded to their story or to Dean, and he would have the Gollum-like intensity over it because it’s been his for hundreds of years all through its existence, in the “i’m my own grandfather” way time travel messes with things. And I think that it wasn’t EVIL per say but the “curse” had a truth to it that Samuel Colt couldn’t even begin to understand what he’d created, and what it would become. And all the people who died for it - all that power and all that swapping hands? If ownership puts a bit of something into a thing like Dean personifying Baby until she looks out for him in turn like 11x04 showed, then think of the gun going through all those hands, and all the evil or desperation they poured into it while coveting its power.

I don’t think it necessarily drove Dean mad in the way if we had a longer arc with it it MIGHT have Gollum’d him like the First Blade did but for the 3 episodes he owned it, it definitely seemed like a danger and I think this is why he was susceptible to it. I think 12x18 in a way might be a great thing to rewatch for Dean and the Colt - how it influenced him in that time, that he was sloppy and filled with bravado… I said in my notes for that episode that he was happily waving his phallic gun around that represented a sort of power and therefore virility he doesn’t normally feel - a GOOD feeling about himself, self-confidence and self-assuredness, and so Dean hooking up felt a natural part of exercising that power. But it made him reckless and vulnerable and so he ended up being the damsel tied to the chair and thrown in a meat locker. Sam, who had a tearful reunion with the Colt and saw it in a completely opposite light to Dean, as a dangerous, cursed tool, as Samuel Colt said and Sam knows full well, had a clarity about it.

I think if Sam kept the Colt Cas probably wouldn’t have stolen it, and the Colt would still be un-melted, because a totally different story would have been told.

But it got to Dean. It probably wouldn’t have CHANGED him long term, but the immediate personality effect was all over 12x18 and it suddenly filled a huge part of the emotional drama of 12x19 where Cas stealing it became a Cas or Colt situation and they were weirdly paralleled closely together (as well as that weird sexual side to Dean owning the Colt that 12x18 explored, being used with the Colt being in his bed, and Cas stealing it from there…) - if it had been some other McGuffin and not The Colt with all its history I think Dean also would have been a lot more chill in 12x19, and not be betrayed, and not waver even for a second to seem like he was messed up enough to be weighing the worth of the Colt against Cas in the first place. 

I don’t think if the Colt hadn’t been melted it would have had a long term affect on their relationship even if Dean would have been upset about Cas taking it…

I am still wondering if they’ll develop that Cas nearly died FOR Mary to steal it and if Dean would ever clearly be made aware that the BMoL stole it from Ramiel and that’s why they were there and what Mary was doing.

I want more on the cursed family history and whether they mention the Colt or not in that, it just existing for a moment in this season has dragged up more than enough of that…

Okay I have way too many thoughts about this ask I went way off point with. 

But yeah, I don’t think the Colt ACTUALLY would have been like the Mark of Cain and First Blade to Dean, but metaphorically that’s the emotional impact it had, with the family history and HIS history with it being the Mark, and the Colt of course being the Blade.

#Asks #12x12 #12x14 #12x17 #12x18 #12x19 #Chekhov's kill everything gun #my stuff #Dean analysis #I still can't believe the Colt was in his bed and Cas stole it from there #when I was watching I snorted about Cas moodily looking at Dean's bed when he left the room #and it turned out he really was coveting Dean's phallic representation in Dean's own bed #and Dean's betrayal was that Cas emotionally used him and took that from him #not that he just stole the item #but the absolute literal this is about actual sex in my own bed intimacy that was portrayed there #metaphorically this is why Dean was upset #Cas had a one night stand and bolted #this is what the Colt stood for in Dean's bed #to be completely clear about that

[arizona2004]

Crushing

Cassian x fem!reader

word count: 2308

Lying awake in bed in the early hours of the morning, I eventually decide to get up and head to the roof where I know I’ll find my best friend. A smile slowly tips the corners of my mouth up as I creak the door open softly and spot Azriel on his back, wings spread wide while he stares at the stars.

“Hey,” he says as I approach, pulling his wing in so I can lay next to him.

“Hey,” I mumble my reply while he scrunches he sniffs the air.

“You smell like sex.”

I huff a laugh, “I just masturbated.”

He chuckles beside me. “D’ya think about Cassian while you did it?”

“No!” I practically shriek, bolting into a sitting position and turning to face him. “I told you, I don’t have feelings for him.” 

“Right,” he drawls out, a smirk on his face, “and I don’t have dark hair, wings, and a huge cock.”

“I’m confused. Are we playing two truths and a lie, now,” I deadpan.

Azriel's eyes widen perceptibly, and he sits up too, “You did not just…” the shock is evident in his voice too, and I can’t help but laugh as I roll away from his hand, shoving me because we both know my claim is definitely not true.

Once upon a time, Azriel and I were more than friends. We were lovers, but there wasn’t any love in the relationship besides the sexual kind. We made love on the regular and were one another's confidants. But somewhere along the way, the sexual feelings sizzled out, and we were just friends again. Closer, somehow, than before.

“You know you can talk to me about him, don’t you y/n,” Az asks, lying back down as he’s given up on beating me since no one was around to laugh at my claim anyway.

“There’s nothing to talk about, is there?” I turn my head to face him, on my back again too.

“He could reciprocate these feelings. Maybe if you talk to him-”

“No,” I cut him off, “I’m not ready to get my heartbroken.”

“Cassian would never break your heart. If he truly doesn’t feel the same, he’d let you down gently. I know he would; he’s not cruel.”

“It doesn’t matter how gentle he is. Whether a vase falls or is thrown to the ground, it breaks nonetheless.”

“It doesn’t have to,” he retorts, “what if I catch it?”

I laugh at that, the tears that had begun filling my eyes: fading, “You’re taking my metaphor too literal. You can’t catch this one.”

“But still: you don’t know he doesn’t feel similarly.”

“He doesn’t, Az. He’s never offered any reason for me to believe he does, and we both know Cassian wears his heart on his sleeve. His feelings are all too clear.”

His sigh is the only sound that follows as he relents, and we fall into the easy silence until the sun begins rising hours later.

“Did you get any sleep last night?” I ask suddenly, concern rushing through me, knowing Az was probably up here for a while before I joined him.

“Yeah. I was asleep for a bit before you came up,” he whispers, the birds beginning to chirp.

“It’s your birthday,” I whisper, unsure if I want him to hear me or not. But he does. Of course, he does.

“I know,” he says it quietly too, as if it’s a secret, and rises, reaching a hand out to help me up.

Taking it, I smile and stand beside Az. “Let's get some coffee,” I say, turning to the door, not waiting for him to follow.

“You know,” he starts speaking behind me as we enter the kitchen, “if I could have one wish come true for my birthday, it would be”

I spin to face him as he cuts himself short, “Yes?” I ask. What would it be, Az?”

His steely hazel eyes bore into mine. “It would be” he pauses again. For dramatic effect, I suspect as the words finally leave his mouth and a smile blooms across his face, “It would be for you to finally tell Cassian how you feel.”

I groan as I turn and walk further into the kitchen to start on the pot of coffee. “I can’t believe you’re still on that. Is it all you’ve been thinking about for the fast hours?”

“Not all. I’ve thought of many things.”

“Then why are you bringing that up?”

“Because I think telling him the truth will make you a happier person.”

“Telling who what?” Cas asks as he overhears the end of our conversation on his way into the room. 

My heart skips a beat in my chest, and my throat goes dry as I freeze in place, stunned all over again by his beauty, just as I am every time I see Cassian. Azriel, being the best friend he is: shuts his mouth and keeps it that way as he checks on the coffee.

“Oh, come on,” Cassian groans, a smile lighting up his face as he turns to face me, “neither of you is going to tell me?” he asks.

I just continue standing frozen for another moment until I remember to stop staring and turn to the fridge, away from Cassian.

“You’ll tell me, won’t you, Az?” he keeps prying, “I know how you love talking,” he says, making me burst out in laughter as I pull the eggs from the fridge. 

When I look back up: he’s looking at me, and the room is quiet again. Cassian’s giving me a look I can’t decipher, but it has me feeling uneasy and makes me drop the carton of eggs. Cassian catches them faster than I can react, and my eyes meet Az’s smirking ones before Cas rises, blocking my view and my scowl. 

“Told you so,” I think he mumbles, “Cassian keeps things from breaking.”

“What?” Cas asks, not understanding the hidden meaning behind Azriel's words.

“Nothing,” we say in unison. 

“You guys have got to stop keeping secrets from me. I’m dying over here.”

I chuckle and move up between them to take the coffee pot. Cassian’s eyes pull me away again. “What?” I ask as he stares.

“Nothing,” he says, “it’s just- that’s the second time you’ve laughed this morning.”

By brow furrows, confused, “...okay.”

“You don’t laugh much,” he explains, pulling his gaze from me, back to his task of making an omelet, “not nearly enough, anyway.”

“Oh,” I say, not knowing how to respond as a blush rises to my neck, but I don’t have to figure it out because Azriel discreetly coughs, reminding us of his presence. I turn with the coffee pot, not missing the way Cassian’s cheeks redden and Azriel smirks.

Maybe it’s what Azriel was saying earlier getting into my head and erasing the doubt that had hidden all the signs, or maybe it’s my own foolish hope clouding rational thought, but this morning I can actually imagine that Cassian does like me. He said I should laugh more. He’s smiled and stared. He was blushing. Is it crazy to think he could return my feelings?

I swallow the lump in my throat as I sort through my thoughts and pour coffee into my mug. 

“y/n?” Cassian’s voice cuts through my thinking.

“Hm?” I reply, looking up as I realize he must have asked me something. His cheeks pinken slightly, again.

“I asked if you want an omelet,” he answers, turning back to his pan. 

“Yeah, sure,” I reply softly, trying to suppress the smile blooming my cheeks.

“You didn’t offer me an omelet,” Azriel interrupts, shooting a glare at Cassian.

“There’s only enough for two,” Cas replies, “and y/n is obviously the better friend.”

My timid smile falters at that. ‘Friend,’ he said. “I’m going to see if Mor’s up for training,” I say before Azriel can reply, and leave the kitchen, taking note of the glare Azriel throws at Cassian as he whispers something I can’t hear. What could that mean?

*

An hour later, after Mor threw a pillow at my face and I scarfed down breakfast with the boys, we headed up to the training room. Just as we arrive, though, Az stops.

“Rhys just summoned me. Gotta go,” he says before smiling at me and looking pointedly at Cassian, then leaving.

“I wonder what that was about,” I ponder. “Do you think everything’s okay?”

“Um, yeah. I’m sure it’s fine,” Cas’s reply is timid. Almost as if he’s shy.

“You okay?” I ask, and he finally looks at me, a blush spreading across his cheeks. These feelings couldn’t have just sparked today. I’m probably seeing what I want to see.

“Uh- yeah,” he replies slowly, rubbing his sweaty palms on his leathers.

I point it out to him, “You only do that when you’re nervous,” I say. 

“Oh- I do?” he says, just realizing.

“Yeah. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just-” he cuts himself off and swallows, “Az wants me to do something today. As a sort of birthday present to him.”

“And you’re nervous about it?” I ask.

“Yeah, well. You see, there's this secret that I’ve been keeping. He wants me to come clean about it.”

“For a master of secret-keeping and wanting privacy, he really has a problem about bugging other people with their secrets,” I say, wondering what secret of Cassian’s Az knows as I pick up a staff, and Cassian does the same.

“He wants you to do the same?”

“Yeah,” I reply, “but I’m not sure mine is much of a secret. I think it’s obvious, but Az says I need to be more open and vocal, I guess, about it.”

“You could tell me your secret,” he broaches, “I promise I’ll keep it. And then I’ll tell you mine.”

“Oh? I have to tell you mine first,” I say, knowing I won’t give in to that as we stand in the middle of the training ring but don’t move to fight.

“I could tell you mine first,” he says, looking more nervous than ever as he drops the staff and takes a step forward.

“I’m listening,” I reply, jutting my chin out to look up at him as he moves closer.

He places both hands on either side of my face, shocking me. I hadn’t thought he’d move this close. “I promised Az I’d fess up anyway,” he continues, rubbing his thumb along my cheek gently and leaning in. He inhales deeply, and I don’t think I’m breathing at all as he whispers into the small space between us, “I’m in love with you. I have been for a little while now. I’m crazy about you, and I want to be with you. I want you.”

He stops speaking and stares at me for a moment while I stare back, not knowing what to say. When he slowly takes a step back, though, and pulls his hands away, I quickly realize I miss the feeling of them. So, reaching out as quickly as I can, I grab them and refuse to let go.

“y/n, please don’t. If you don’t feel the same, I don’t want you to say anything. I’ll just go.

Still, though, I refuse to let go of his hands. I take a tentative step forward instead and lift my gaze to his, “I do, Cas. I do feel the same,” I say, biting my bottom lip and wishing I was tall enough to reach his own as I glance down at his soft pink lips. 

I don’t have to wish for long, though, because a second later, Cassian is leaning down and plucking my lip from between my teeth and sucking it into his mouth, kissing me gently.

His tongue is swift, entering my mouth quickly, and his lips: soft and confident, take charge of my mouth and fill me with a warmth I’ve never felt before. As he slowly pulls back, leaving small kisses along my cheek and jaw, I can’t help but grin widely. I have everything I wanted because Cassian truly does feel the same; Azriel was right, and I won’t be able to escape admitting that to him. 

“What are you grinning at?” Cas asks, placing his forehead against mine and pulling me close.

“Nothing, I just- I’m happy,” I answer, closing my eyes and holding tightly to Cassian. 

Bonus scene

When y/n left the kitchen to get more

“You did not just say that,” Azriel’s icy whisper cuts through the little space between him and Cassian.

“Say what? I offered her an omelet. I’m being open about my feelings for her. This is what you asked of me. Happy birthday, by the way.”

“I see you’re trying, Cas, but ‘friend’ really?”

Cassian's gaze drops back to the task at hand, he knew it was a mistake as soon as it left his mouth, but he couldn’t just take it back. “I didn’t know what to say,” he states, glaring at Azriel, “I wouldn’t have had to of said anything if you hadn’t cut in.

Azriel just huffs at that, shaking his head and pouring coffee. A moment later, as they still whisper about how Cassian should precede now, y/n returns hair looking tousled, and the boys before raise their gazes to her. 

When Az raises his eyebrows at her disarray, she explains, “she threw a pillow at me. And said some rather rude things, but I’m going to let them go because I suspect she’s hungover and exhausted.” The boys just laugh at that and move toward the dining room with breakfast. 

“I’ve got your plate with me, y/n,” Cassian says as he passes her, but could you grab our cups of coffee?”

“Sure,” she replies softly, unable to stop the warmth from filling her cheeks.

#cassian x reader #cassian acotar x reader #cassian acotar fic #cassian acotar x y/n #cassian acotar x you #cassian x you #cassian x y/n #cassian fic #a court of thorns and roses #a court of mist and fury #a court of dreams #cassian x fem!reader #casisan acotar x fem!reader

[deancasheadcanons]

[ao3]

Dean is doing something weird.

Sam is supposed to be watching a movie, but the armchair he’s sitting in faces the couch, which means he can see Dean and Cas out of his periphery and the movie isn’t interesting enough to keep his attention from wandering over to where Dean has his hand in the air, moving his fingers in a steady pattern like he’s stroking someone’s hair.

“What are you doing?” Sam asks.

Dean moves his hand to his lips, one finger telling Sam to sh. In a whisper, he says, “Only way to put him to sleep.”

Sam blinks down to where Cas is tucked against Dean’s chest, arms crossed and face smashed under Dean’s arm, asleep.

Dean goes back to moving his hand through the air.

They expected, when Cas came back from the Empty, that he would be human or at least something close to human. Instead, Jack restored his grace completely, wings included. As Sam watches his brother, he wonders if Dean can see or feel the wings, if he can actually sift his fingers through the feathers to put Cas to sleep, or if, more likely, Dean has finally lost it.

Dean is more relaxed than Sam has seen him in years, with his feet kicked up on the coffee table and his back slouched against the corner of the couch, one arm on the armrest and the other around Cas save for the hand floating through the air. He makes a scratching motion with his fingertips, and Cas fusses and shifts against him, pushing his face into Dean’s shirt until he’s settled.

“Sammy,” Dean whispers. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Sam turns his attention back to the movie.

At some point maybe Dean will tell Sam about his relationship with Cas, but Sam has been watching the two of them skate around each other for years and years and he’s learned patience.

He’s also learning to stay out of the way and try to mind his own business.

For the first two days Cas was back, Sam barely saw him and Dean at all, and when they did pass him in the hall or run into him in the kitchen, they both looked miserable and sad. 

Then, Cas left for four days.

Then, Dean left for five days.

They came back together and disappeared into Dean’s room and Sam didn’t see them for 24 hours.

When they finally emerged, Sam found them sitting in the kitchen with Jack, eating breakfast. Sam took the empty seat next to Jack and drank his coffee and listened to their inane conversation—something about life on other planets and whether Jack had the power to travel through space-time to find out if aliens exist—and Dean asked something and gestured with both hands and then dropped one hand to Cas’ knee and kept it there, rubbing it absentmindedly as he listened to Jack’s answer. Cas made eye contact with Sam for a second and then turned his attention quickly to Jack.

They went on a couple of easy hunts, and Sam roomed with Jack with no questions asked. Debriefing was held in Dean and Cas’ room at the end of each day, the two of them sitting together on the unmade bed, wearing pajamas, existing comfortably in each other’s personal space while they all four discussed whatever case they were working on. Once, Sam looked over his shoulder as he was leaving their room, and he saw Dean getting up from the bed, saw him untangle his legs and lean over and press a kiss to the bolt of Cas’ jaw before heading toward the bathroom.

For a week, Dean and Cas went back to the way they were before. They didn’t touch as much, or disappear together as much, or even really smile at each other. Sam thought maybe this would be the right time to talk to Dean about Cas, that maybe whatever fight they were having would soften the blow of sharing feelings with Sam.

But then Sam nodded off while reading in the library one night, and as he sleepily stumbled his way down the hall to his room, he saw Dean a few feet away, standing with one hand propped against the wall by Cas’ face, like a teenager about to kiss his girlfriend at her locker.

Cas was backed up against the wall, in a much more relaxed posture than Sam had ever seen him take, and he was looking at Dean and smiling. They were whispering, and laughing, and then Dean was pressing a hand to Cas’ hip and angling his face to kiss him, and Cas put his own hands up on Dean’s hips and kissed back. 

Soon after that, Cas and Jack went on a case together for a few days, and Sam overheard his brother talking on the phone incessantly—while he was cooking, or working on the car, or brushing his fucking teeth. 

“Yeah,” Dean would say all goofy toward the end of each call. “Yeah, you do? Sure. Yeah, I love you, too. Miss you.”

Cas and Jack got back two days ago, and now Sam is sitting in the Dean cave with Dean and Cas, biting his tongue about Cas’ wings, desperately curious to know if it is actually possible to touch them but unsure if he really wants to hear what his brother might describe.

When the movie ends, Dean sighs and shifts on the couch, jostling Cas and saying, “Hey, sleepyhead, wake up.”

Cas stirs, clearly angry, and pushes a hand into Dean’s thigh to sit up. “Why would you do that while we’re watching a movie? I wanted to see it.”

“Can’t you just download it to your brain? Sue me for wanting to get some cuddles,” Dean says gruffly.

Sam huffs a laugh, and Dean glares at him.

“Goodnight, Sammy,” Dean says, and then he’s hauling Cas off the couch and dragging him by the hand down the hall.

Sam stays in the Dean cave for another few minutes, scrolling through his phone and sending a couple of texts to Eileen, then he makes his way through the dimly lit bunker and stops in the kitchen for a glass of water. 

Dean is at the counter, his back to Sam, and one arm wrapped low around Cas’ waist from behind. Lips pressed to Cas’ shoulder, then his neck, and mumbling to him, “C’mon, Cas, you can’t be mad at me. I’ll ask permission next time.”

“You’ll have to make it up to me,” Cas says with a teasing tone, his sarcasm more sure than it used to be.

Sam sneaks out, not wanting to hear whatever comes next.

The next morning, though, Sam passes by Dean’s room and sees such an impossible picture that his fight-or-flight instincts kick in and he’s drawing his pistol from his waistband.

“Sammy, little privacy, please?” Dean asks casually.

Sam gulps and relaxes his hold on the grip. His eyes roam over the miles of black feathers until they reach the bed, where Cas is curled up and asleep, naked except for a pile of clipped feathers in his lap. Dean is next to him, wearing only boxers, with a bucket of dirt under one arm. He scoops the dirt and presses it between the feathers, and it’s then that Sam realizes the feathers aren’t black but an iridescent rainbow reflected in different light. They fill every corner of the room, their shape undefinable as wings in the cramped space.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Sam asks. 

Dean glares at him and then returns to the feathers, roughly scraping his hands between a couple of them. “Preening.”

Sam decides, in this moment, that he’s had enough. “Dean, I think you and Cas should have your own place.”

Dean moves a tuft of feathers out of the way so he can make eye contact with Sam. “What? Why?”

“Um.” Sam keeps looking around at all the feathers. “Because I live here, and you guys are weird.” Unable to stop himself, he adds, “How am I seeing this anyway? Is this what you always see?”

“Hmm? The wings? No, dude,” Dean says like Sam is an idiot. “He keeps them in a different dimension.”

“But when you were…petting them last—”

“I just know where they are,” Dean interrupts. 

“OK but how?”

Dean shrugs. “Because it’s Cas.”

“Well, can I touch one?”

Cas wakes up suddenly and both he and Dean shout, “No!”

Sam sighs and puts his hands on his hips.

“Your skin will burn and slough off your hand within seconds,” Cas explains.

Sam knows he shouldn’t ask, that he already knows the answer, and yet he hears himself saying, “But Dean can touch them?”

“Of course,” Cas answers. “I’ve held his soul in the palm of my hand. He’s seen my true form. Our existences in this universe are inextricably bound together until we die, and probably after we die, too.”

“Oh Cas, I love it when you talk dirty,” Dean teases.

Sam glares at both of them.

Dean puts out a placating hand. “Alright, fine. We’ll get our own place.”

And that’s the only time they ever talk about Dean and Cas’ relationship.

…Until, years and years later, when Dean and Sam are both going gray, there’s a lull in the conversation as they sit in rocking chairs out on the back porch of Dean and Cas’ house, and Dean fills the silence with,

“Do you think it’s weird that me and Cas are together?”

Sam frowns. “You’re asking me this 15 years into your relationship?”

“You know that son of a bitch got dragged to the Empty because he told me he loved me? That was the deal he made, that the Empty would take him when he was happy or something, and the thing that made him happy was telling me that he fucking loved me.” Dean scoffs and shakes his head, reluctant smile on his face. “He’s so stupid.”

Sam takes a second to process the information, then he says, “You guys never, uh, did—shared feelings or hooked up or anything before…that?”

“No.” Dean sighs. “I thought it would be too weird. Are you sure it’s not weird?”

Cas comes outside then, also old and gray because Dean insisted that they age together, and puts his hands on Dean’s shoulders from behind and kisses the top of his hair. “You coming to bed soon?”

Dean tilts his head back and squeezes one of Cas’ hands. “Few more minutes, sweetheart.”

“OK. There’s decaf coffee in the pot if you want some.” Cas leans down again and kisses Dean’s forehead, then he straightens and looks at Sam. “Goodnight, Sam.”

“Night, Cas.”

After Cas has gone, Sam says, “No, I don’t think it’s weird at all.”

#my fics #tf #destiel #destiel ficlets #let's pretend i wrote and posted this in november of 2020 #listen sometimes u just gotta write a deancas drabble when the mood strikes

[classicalmonuments]

Khirbet et-Tannur

Jordan

2nd century BCE - 4th century CE

The Nabataean temple ruins atop of Jabal et-Tannur overlook the confluence of Wadi al-Hasa and Wadi La‘aban north of the modern town of Tafila. From the 2nd century BC through to the middle of the 4th century CE the sanctuary was an important pilgrimage place for the Nabataeans to worship, and celebrate seasonal rituals and banquets. With no spring for water supply, it was not a permanent settlement. It functioned in connection with the neighboring village and temple of Khirbet edh-Dharih, some 7 km south on the old caravan route coming from the capital city of Petra.

The sanctuary consisted of a temenos (temple enclosure), with a forecourt and roofed colonnaded walkways on the north and south sides connecting to rooms equipped with benches on three sides, called triclinium for resting and ritual banqueting.

The eastern façade of the inner temenos was also richly decorated. The famous relief known as the Vegetation Goddess, veiled by leaves and framed by flowers with an eagle above her comes from a semi-circular pediment over the main portal. Both sculptures are today on display at the Jordan Museum in Amman. Scholars suggest to see in her the goddess of the nearby spring of La‘aban. An inscription found on site dated 8 or 7 BC mentions building works dedicated by the guardian of this spring. After 2000 years, this name lives on in the name Wadi La‘aban, the river bed connecting Khirbet et-Tannur and Khirbet edh-Dharih.

The inner temenos (sacred area) was an unroofed square enclosure (ca. 10 x 10 m) with an altar platform in the center that had a frontal niche to host the cult statues of the main god and goddess. A male cult figure holding a lightning bolt and flanked by bull calves was found during excavations, probably the supreme god Dushara with attributes and iconography adopted by the Nabataeans from neighbor cultures. From the goddess Allat only one foot and a part of her lion throne were found. Placed between them might have been the zodiac ring encircling a bust of a Tyche, carried by a winged Victory (Nike), another one of the famous discoveries at Khirbet et-Tannur. The upper zodiac piece is in the collection of the Cincinnati Art Museum, USA, together with the main cult statues. The sculptures date from the main construction phase of the first half of the 2nd century CE. The altar niche was surrounded by an elaborate decoration including busts also representing zodiac signs, from which two have survived: the personification of Pisces (in Amman) and Virgo (in Cincinnati).

A staircase led to the altar's roof, where a sacred flame was lit and animal sacrifices were burnt. Incense, grains and offering cakes were burnt as offerings on either side of the altar niche, and on smaller free-standing altars scattered around the site as well.

The east-west axis alignment of the sanctuary ensured that the rising sun would illuminate the altar niche during the spring and autumn equinoxes, when special rituals and celebrations took place to ensure agricultural abundance. The remains of ceramic lamps with nozzles on several levels suggest night-time processions and rituals to worship zodiacal deities appearing in the starry sky.

Sources: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

#art #Architecture #travel #history #jordan #temple #altar #dushara #qos #allat #eagle #corinthian #temenos #2 bce #1 bce #1 c #2 ce #3 critically injured in san jose crash #4 ce #zodiac #thyce

[sarah-bae-maas]

Gwyn wants to explore, and Azriel needs a friend - a Gwynriel fic - Part 1

In honour of this blog turning five years old, I thought I would treat you all to a two part/chapter Gwynriel fic that has been wandering around in my brain throughout countless days of lockdown and tortuous university classes. 

I’m already well underway with part 2 of this fic, but I do have some assignments coming up, so expect it within the fortnight! 

So please do enjoy this nearly 15k words worth of Gwynriel goodness <3

Masterlist Ao3

_____________

She was staring at him.

Again.

Azriel had always paid special attention to Gwyn – not that he would tell her that, of course. It was a secret held deep in his shadows that she was his favourite Valkyrie, the one he thought the most brave and resilient. It would not be an unpopular opinion if he did share it, the other women looked at her with great admiration, and Nesta often sung her praises when the female wasn’t there to refute her words. But Azriel knew the presumptions people might make if they knew he thought it, and the last thing he wanted was for a misunderstanding to make Gwyn uncomfortable.

Gwyn was holding a bag for Emerie to kick, her stance strong enough that she didn’t flinch at all with each pummel. Her focus should have been on Emerie’s form, but rather her teal eyes were glued to him. Every time Azriel looked over at her, she quickly shifted her gaze to her friend, but his shadows constantly reminded him that Gwyn was once again paying her attention to him.

Cassian called the end of the session. Azriel was grateful, he was finding it harder and harder to train the women effectively when he knew Gwyn was right there.

He practically fled the scene, his cheeks brushed with red, barely nodding to the women who said their thanks to him as he passed. It’s not that he didn’t like her attention, but it made his stomach feel heavy, his hands shake, and he didn’t like how out of control he felt whenever she looked at him like that.

He settled in the dining room. Standing, he braced his hands on the table, a bead of sweat dripping off his forehead and tarnishing the wood. Nesta wouldn’t like if he got his sweat all over the table, even though her and Cassian had coated it in far more scandalous bodily fluids. He should do something productive, like work or eat or pester Rhys and Feyre to have Nyx for the afternoon, but instead he chose to close his eyes and picture the person who’d been haunting him.

He and Gwyn were friends. She was over nearly every night to eat with Nesta, their dinners a sort of lively Azriel hadn’t experienced since he’d lived in Illyria with Rhys and Cas. It was joyful to live in a space filled with such light, but also overwhelming. Azriel found that as much as he loved the time with the rag-tag team they’d made for themselves, his social timer still clicked in his mind as a constant reminder that sometimes dealing with people, even the ones you loved, could be utterly exhausting.

Not with Gwyn though, his shadows lamented, setting him straight. No, Azriel never felt tired with her.

“Az?”

As though his thoughts alone had summoned her, Gwyn’s voice startled him out of his reverie. He turned, his lips parting slightly at the sight of her.

She was still in her training gear – a shirt and pants lovingly stitched by Emerie with embroidered flowers decorating the seams – her neat braid falling around her face, framing her pearlescent skin in fire.

“Gwyneth. Do you need something?”

Her eyes were wide, her hands clasped in front of her as she wrung her fingers. It made Azriel tilt his head in confusion, not understanding why she was so nervous. They spoke every day, she mouthed off at him often, and her shift in confidence had him surprised.

“I have a proposition for you, but you must promise to not tell a soul.”

Azriel raised a brow, leaning back into the table. He spread his hands before him. “I’m listening.”

Gwyn swallowed, her cheeks turning the same shade of red as her hair.

“Imsturbalt,” she squeaked.

“What?”

“I masturbate a lot!” She smacked her hands over her mouth, as if betrayed at the words they spilled.

Azriel’s jaw went slack, his eyes near bugging from his skull. “Okay… that’s good? Self-exploration!” He half-heartedly waved a celebratory fist in the air, not sure what to say to her statement.

She groaned louder than a stabbing victim. “I was thinking that, I didn’t intend to say it aloud.” She rubbed her hands over her face, peeking at him through her fingers. “Please don’t tell anyone I said that.”

“Your secrets are safer with me than they are anyone else.” Azriel smiled, trying to diffuse the obvious tension in her body. “So, your proposition?”

She tensed her jaw, moving her arms behind and looking at the ground as she spoke. “I guess my previous statement that will never be mentioned again to anyone if you like having the functional use of your organsperhaps wasn’t entirely irrelevant to what I’m going to ask you. But I beg, please let me finish before you say anything, and also don’t feel pressured to say yes.”

“Okay.”

“Silence.”

“Yes ma’am.”

She grinned at him, her eyes finally meeting his again. “As you know, better than anyone really, I have a difficult past.”

Azriel wished he could burn the images of finding her on that table from his mind. He’d had to actively teach himself not to envision her crying and screaming for her sister when she’d first became a permanent fixture in House of Wind. He’s seen many horrific things in his time, was no stranger to the worst humanity had to offer, but it was different when it was someone so vulnerable, so selfless, so important to him. It might have made him a bad person that he didn’t equate people’s trauma accordingly, but how could he possibly care for a stranger as much as he cared for Gwyn?

“What happened to me made me fear my body. Fear the sexuality I see women like Nesta and Mor own. They’re so powerful, and the things that have happened to them… They’re not broken. They’re not less. They’re not afraid.” She paused, sighing deeply. “I would never look upon anyone in the library as lesser than because of the things that have happened to them. It wasn’t until I met Nesta and Emerie that I realised I didn’t give myself the same grace. I want to own the parts of me that were stolen. I want to feel like my body belongs to me. I didn’t even know where to begin, but then the House gave me this book, some fluffy romance novel, and the girl in it was just like me. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I just felt so seen. Like the Mother herself had handed this smut piece into my lap to make me feel better.”

Gwyn moved to one of the lounge chairs that Cassian had haphazardly shoved into a corner one night when Nesta didn’t feel like moving from the dining room. Gwyn was effortlessly graceful as she sat and curled her legs up, her head resting on her fist.

“That’s where the masturbating comes in.” Her eyes avoided his again, focusing on patterns her fingers drew in the velvet material of the chair. “The girl in the book did it. She’d never had an orgasm either. So, I did too.” She laughed quietly. “It made me feel good. Not just the physical pleasure part, but the part where it was just me, empowering myself at a pace I was comfortable with.”

Azriel wished he could say something, but one, he knew to be silent and let her have this moment, and two, he didn’t know how to tell someone he was proud of them for touching themselves without it sounding weird. He was proud though, extremely so, at how strong she felt from acting on her wants. Her resilience had always astounded him.

“In the book, the girl meets this man.” Her voice lowered, barely more than a whisper. “He treats her so kindly, in a way that I’ve seen Cassian treat Nesta a million times, in a way I yearn to be treated. I’ve given myself a clean slate. This body, my body, has only been touched by me. I am whole. I was never broken, just healing. And I’m at a stage where I want more. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

Azriel wished her could say yes, please the eager note in her voice that hoped he was on the same page as her, but even his shadows were silent to her desires.

She glanced at him just long enough to see him shake his head. She tipped her head back. “When Nesta first started sleeping with Cassian, I was so curious. What were they doing? What was he doing to make her look so satisfied? But when I tried to picture it, my stomach would churn. And then time passed. I grew stronger. I became a Valkyrie. And like many others before me and many more in the centuries to come, I walked in on Cassian and Nesta fucking.”

Azriel inhaled sharply. To hear the vulgarity fucking from a mouth so pure sent a bolt through him, and he chided himself for his inappropriate thoughts during such a serious conversation.

“They don’t know I saw, not that I think they would have minded. I would bet good money that if I asked for a demonstration on pleasurable acts Cassian and Nesta would be more than happy to comply. Where I might have once felt sick from seeing them, instead I felt-”

She cut herself off, looking for the right words.

“I felt burning desire. I’ve never been so envious of someone in my life. I didn’t want to have sex with Cassian, but by the Cauldron I wanted to feel the way that Nesta did. I wouldn’t tell you this if I didn’t know you were such a good secret keeper. Or such a good friend.”

Azriel couldn’t bite his tongue any longer. “Gwyn, what do you want from me?”

“I want you to have sex with me.”

***

Azriel stared at his ceiling, his shadows dancing and rolling around him.

I want you to have sex with me.

He tested the words on his own lips. They tasted sweet. They also brought an uncomfortable amount of pressure to his cock. He refused to touch it though and kept both his hands firmly behind his head.

He’d told Gwyn he needed to think about it, and she understood. She said she didn’t expect an answer from him straight away.

Azriel had a lot to consider.

He was practically titillated that when Gwyn had decided she wanted to explore herself with a male, it was him who she thought of. She expressed that it was because she knew he’d care for her, that he’d respect her and because of how much she trusted him. There were not words to express how hearing such things felt to him. It made him want to do this for her, because his soul be damned he knew he would do right by her. Make her feel good, feel special, feel appreciated.

It would be amiss though not to acknowledge that if he did do this, let her warm his bed while he tasted her, it could ruin not just the friendship they had established but also the dynamic of the house. She had assured him that if his answer was no, they would continue their lives as if the conversation never happened.

Which brought a darker thought to his mind.

If not Azriel, then who? She would surely approach someone else. Someone not deserving of her, who might not treat her how she deserved to be treated. That was not to say Azriel thought that in all his bastardly ways he was what Gwyn should have – no, she deserved more than he could ever give – but at least he knew that she would be safe with him.

The thought of another male’s hands on her made him see red.

That was answer enough.

***

Nesta and Cassian were gone for the weekend, caring for Nyx while Feyre and Rhys had a romantic getaway for the weekend. Azriel secretly thought Nesta was using this as a trial to see if her and Cassian were ready for a baby.

It was the perfect opportunity to have Gwyn join him.

The day after she’d approached him, he’d slipped her a note after training to say that he was all in, and to meet him the next night. He tried not to watch her face as she read the note but couldn’t help it. She went bright pink, but she seemed exhilarated.

And now she was standing in his room.

They nervously looked at each other. Azriel wanted to give her the chance to speak first other than their obligatory greetings, but she was tongue-tied.

“I was thinking we should take this in steps,” Azriel said, sitting on the edge of his bed, watching her refrain from pacing back and forth.

“That seems logical. What sort of steps?”

“I was thinking tonight we take sex off the table.”

“What?” Her face fell, hurt evident in her expression.

“Just for tonight. Gwyn, have you had your first kiss?”

She shook her head no.

“Then maybe we do that. And anything beyond only what you want. I need you to know that you’re in control here. Whatever we do or don’t do is completely your decision.”

She nodded, a small smile gracing her lips. “That sounds reasonable. Like you’re my little puppet.” Her hands mimed using a marionette, and Azriel found it easy to reciprocate her smile.

She moved to his side, planting herself on the bed next to him. He couldn’t help but notice the how good she smelled, how carefully her hair had been arranged and how she’d worn her nicest dress. She had wanted to look good for him, and the thought made his heart squeeze.

He reached out and held the hands she clasped in her lap. It made her look at him, her teal eyes flashing in the room only lit by his fireplace.

“You’re a very good friend, Azriel.”

“Do you want me to kiss you, Gwyn?”

She nodded, turning her body to face him.

He brushed her cheek with his thumb, then her lips, before he settled on cradling her face. She leant her head into his hand, so trusting as she looked at him. His hand was so big that the fingers that lay on her neck could feel her hammering pulse.

She leant in the same time he did.

At first it was just a peck. Their lips brushing against each other’s so gently it made Azriel ache. He pressed his lips to her again, and again, getting her used to the feeling of his lips on hers. She enthusiastically reciprocated, her slender fingers running up his chest before meeting behind his head, tangling themselves in his hair. He smiled against her mouth, pleased at such a reaction when the real kissing had yet to even start.

His grazed his tongue along her lip, and she eagerly opened her mouth, letting his tongue slip inside her. The noise she made at the contact buzzed straight through him, and he was pleasantly surprised when Gwyn, in all her eagerness, took control of him.

She kissed him as though she had done it her whole life, like her mouth belonged on his, and the feel of her delicate tongue made him deepen their kiss, angling her head so they could better feel one another. She was practically leaning back, and if this had been a meaningless one night stand she’d have been on her back by now with Azriel’s mouth between her thighs.

She broke away from him, his mouth instinctively following hers as it wanted more, making her gleam in pride.

“I want to change positions,” she said, her hands still wired into his hair.

“Anything you want,” he replied breathlessly.

Azriel didn’t know what to expect, but it was not her getting up and crawling into his lap. She straddled his thighs, and there was no way she wouldn’t be able to feel his erection pressing against her. He did with his hands what any male would do in this situation, and her giggle was enough to know that she’d wanted him to do that.

“Your hands are on my ass,” she laughed.

“Is that okay?”

“Very much so.” She took a deep breath. “Take your shirt off. Please.”

He obliged.

“And you should – you should take off my dress too.”

“Are you sure?”

“I have a slip on underneath.”

His hands shook slightly as they ran up her sides and to her back, undoing each button on her dress. To give her a more authentic experience, he decided to lean in as he did, kissing a new spot on her neck with each button that came undone.

She raised her arms so that he could slip the dress over her head, and he averted his eyes when her slip rode up with it. He didn’t look back until she had adjusted herself. When he did, he nearly fainted.

She was divine in her beauty. He always saw lovely she was, anyone with eyes would. Her body was lean and tight. Her uniform may have hidden it, but she had the power of any warrior in her body. Azriel wondered if she purposefully hid her strength so that it was a secret part of her arsenal. Smart female.

He ran his hands up her spread legs before planting them back on her ass. Unable to resist, he squeezed his hands, making her groan.

“Your hands feel so good,” she gasped. “Do everyone’s hands feel like that, or is it just you?”

He snickered. “Anyone who is worth their weight knows how to make a female feel good.” He bumped her shoulder with his nose. “What would you like me to do now? Do you want to keep kissing?”

“Fuck yes I want to keep kissing.” She leaned forward, her breasts pressing against his chest as she playfully nipped at his bottom lip. “But maybe we could do other things. Even better things.”

“What do you have in mind?”

Gwyn reached behind her and grabbed one of the hands resting on her behind. For the first time since they’d started, she looked nervous. Her legs were shaking, and Azriel was unsure if it was anxiety or anticipation for whatever she had planned.

She guided his hand under his slip until he was cupping her sex.

“You aren’t.” He swallowed hard. “You aren’t wearing underwear.”

She shook her head playfully. “I didn’t think I would need to.”

She pressed his hand into her, and he moaned at the wetness he found. She was so slick for him already, and all they had done was kiss. He did an exploratory brush through her folds, and as at the tip of his finger grazed over her clit, she arched into him, holding on tight to his shoulders.

He started teasing her, obsessed with the little noises she was making at the back of her throat as he did, but he soon realised something.

Usually, when Azriel was with a female, they got progressively more… turned on. Their bodies would react to his touch, and his fingers would be coated in their juices before he even attempted to enter them with either his fingers or his cock.

Gwyn was not.

It seemed the more he touched her, the more it was like her body didn’t want this. For all intents and purposes, she was… drying up?

His hand went still, and he could feel her body instinctively relaxing as his hand left her pussy.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered, clinging to him.

“You don’t enjoy this.” He made her look him in the eye, and his throat tightened at how she looked. There were tears lining her eyes and a deep furrow on her forehead.

“I do, I promise I do. I’m just nervous. If we – if we just overcome this one thing-”

“No, Gwyn.”

“Please Azriel,” she said desperately, trying to guide his hand back between her thighs.

As gently as he could, he lifted her from his lap and placed her beside him on the bed. Her breath shuddered, and he couldn’t bear the shattered look on her face.

She didn’t say a word, just stood up and tried to locate her dress. Azriel didn’t even know where he had thrown it, but he stood and stopped her from looking anyway.

“Gwyn…” He grasped her hands in his, towering over her as they faced each other. “I want to do this for you, please believe me when I say that. But maybe we just need to take a few more steps first. Do something else before that.”

“What else is there?” She was dejected, her shoulders slumped. “I don’t know what I’m doing Az. And I swear on the Cauldron I want this. Fuck, this is so embarrassing. I’m just so nervous, and I get in my head about everything I do-”

“Hey hey hey, stop that.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, and the ropable tension in her body started to ease out. She slumped against him, his arms wrapping around her in an embrace. “This is fine. Great, even.”

“You are such a liar.” She sighed, but at least she returned his embrace, tucking herself into him so they were as close as possible.

He tried to think of ways to salvage the night for her, to give her at least a little bit of what she wanted.

An idea sprang to mind.

“Gwyn?”

“Mmm?”

“Get on the bed. Lie down.”

She looked up at him hopefully. She didn’t need to be told twice. She practically flung herself at the bed, laying down on her back and resting her arms above her head. She grinned at him, and he didn’t miss the way she clenched her thighs together than spread them apart like a silent invitation.

Azriel couldn’t help but brighten at her enthusiasm. He undid the buttons on his pants and kicked them down so he was naked before her.

“I thought we weren’t having sex!” She jolted to her side, holding herself up on her arms and staring at his penis, her eyes practically bulging out of her head at the sight of it.

There were many things Azriel did not like about himself. But he had a damn fine cock.

He laughed at the look on her face and shook his head. “We’re not having sex. I’m not even going to touch you.”

She deflated. “Really? Not even a little bit?”

He followed her to the bed, climbing over her without touching her and planting himself next to her so they were lying side to side. He turned his head to her, and she looked at him curiously.

“We’re not just going to lie here naked, are we? It’s a bit cold for that.”

It was a little chilly. Her nipples were hard under her slip, which had ridden up to her stomach.

“No, but we can get under the blanket if you want.”

Her gaze raked up and down his body. “I’m happy above the blanket.”

They laid in a comfortable silence for a moment, happily taking in each other’s bodies. She was the most exquisite thing he had ever seen, and he was glad to see that their kissing antics had left her dishevelled. He liked that look on her.

“Are you actually not going to touch me?”

“I’m not. I think you should touch yourself.”

“Pardon?”

“I’ll touch myself, too. It’ll be a way for us to be more comfortable with each other. For you to be in control of your pleasure.”

“Will you watch me?” she murmured.

“If that’s okay. You can watch me, too.”

She considered his words, and Azriel wondered if this was in fact not the good idea he’d thought he’d had. She pursed her lips, and he knew her answer when she grabbed the hem of her slip and pulled it off, leaving her naked before him.

They stared into each other’s eyes as her hand brushed over her exposed breasts, and Azriel had to hold himself back from taking them in his mouth, from pinching her perked nipples with his teeth. Maybe later, that could come; he thought she would quite like it.

Her right hand kneaded her breast and tweaked her nipple while her left dipped down between her legs. Two fingers ran over her core, and he studied the way she massaged herself so that he could do it to her in the future. At the sight, he tentatively grasped his cock, wanting to make sure that she was truly okay with him touching himself at the vision of her with her fingers dipping inside her, moistening herself before focusing on her clit.

Her eyes flickered to his stroking hand, and her response nearly made him finish then and there like a teenager exploring themselves for the first time. She’d seen him, and lifted her leg so that it was draped over one of his, giving her a better angle on her clit and twining them together.

“I’m used to being quiet,” she shuddered. “So that no one hears me.”

“Be as loud as you want. Scream for me.”

Her hand quickened, and his sack tightened as he matched her speed with his own hand, gripping himself tightly. He moaned so loudly that he was once again thankful that Cassian and Nesta weren’t in the house. Even the magic of the walls mightn’t contain the pleasure pulsing through him as he watched her.

Her legs started to shake, and the little noises she’d made before were no more. Her voice was loud as she no longer held herself back from feeling even ounce of her impending orgasm.

“What are you thinking about?” She asked, her hips starting to gyrate against her hand.

“You. All I can think of is you,” Azriel moaned. He pumped himself quicker, his grip becoming harder.

“What about you,” he whispered in her ear. “Are you thinking about what you saw Cassian do to Nesta?”

Her toes curled at his words. “I’m thinking of what I saw them doing, but it’s you and me.”

“What are we doing, Gwyneth?”

Her eyes fluttered shut. Her tongue licked her lips before she bit down on them. “We’re in the library. You have me bent over one of the desks, and you’re taking me from behind. One of your arms is around me, and you’re flicking my clit as I scream your name. You’re so deep in me, Azriel, I can feel every inch of you as I clench around you. Cauldron, you feel so good. The best thing I’ve ever felt, Az.”

His breath hitched, and he felt himself on the brink of coming. What finally did him in was her teeth biting down on his shoulder as she screamed his name, her orgasm making her whole body shake as it overcame over.

When they had both come down from their highs, they laid trying to catch their breath, both their bodies covered in sweat.

“That was amazing,” she sighed, turning to face him.

He grabbed a corner of the unused blanket beneath them to wipe himself off, then turned to face her, an arm going around her waist and his lips pressing a kiss to her forehead and cheek.

He wanted to look at her body, finally relaxed and languid, but his shadows had another idea. They bathed over her like silk, dancing over her curves and crevices, making her laugh.

“I quite like them,” she said, her eyes starting to drift closed.

“Are you tired?”

“Mhmm.” She snuggled into him further, stealing his warmth. His cock responded to her touch, but it was too soon yet to do anything meaningful.

“Move up for a sec.”

“Is that you trying to hint that I should go?” Her voice was joking, but the look on her face said that she’d go if he wanted her too.

“Absolutely not, you’re staying here with me. I’m just grabbing the blanket.”

She moved away just long enough for him to pull the blankets over them and pull her to his chest again.

She made a content noise and closed her eyes to sleep, and Az thought to himself that he didn’t care if this one day ended their friendship, because it might very well be the best time of his life anyway.

***

The next two weeks were filled with them sneaking away and feverishly touching themselves in all sorts of ways. Once, Gwyn sat in his lap naked while they stroked themselves, kissing each other the entire time. Another time, she pleasured herself by grinding against his thigh and he palmed himself – they hadn’t even bothered to take their clothes off. A late-night training session had led to her using a particularly shaped massage tool on herself in very a scandalous way while he watched, near feral at the sight of her pumping into herself. He did not return that item to the training ring, instead he kept it in his bedside drawer for future use.

It wasn’t until sixteen days and countless orgasms into their agreement that Azriel was finally able to touch her.

It had been a busy night. Rhys, Feyre, Nyx, Mor and Emerie were over for dinner, and it had been the most fun Az had had in a group since last solstice. At the table, he’d had Feyre on one side and Gwyn on the other, and her little secret touches to his thigh made him feel warm all over.

It wasn’t necessarily an arousing touch, just an affectionate one. When the group had started to disperse to drink, Nesta the sober adult taking care of Nyx, Az noticed Gwyn sneak away. He promptly followed her, making sure everyone was distracted as he did so no one noticed what they were doing.

Within a few minutes he was between her thighs tasting her. She had mentioned the night before that she wanted his tongue on her, and by the Cauldron was he happy to oblige. She was sitting on the edge of desk in the library that she’d described to him all those weeks ago, and whilst on his knees before her, he jerked himself off as she crumbled beneath his mouth.

Thankfully, by the time they returned, people were far too tipsy to question where they’d been.

Except for Nesta, who looked suspiciously between the two of them. Whatever she was thinking, it was at Gwyn’s behest if she knew anything. It was her decision, always, what happened between them, and if she wanted people to know about their sneakiness, that was for her to decide.

Seven days later is when she first touched him. Until that point it had all been about her, which is what Azriel wanted. They were on his bed, his fingers deep inside her as they kissed, when her hand brushed against his cock. He moved his hips aside, and she broke their kiss off with a noise of indignation.

“Stop swatting my hands away!” She flicked his nose with her finger.

“Huh?” He was still dazed on the sound of his hand gliding through her dripping wet core.

“Do you not want me to touch you?” Her voice was curt.

“I just want this to be about you. I don’t want you to think that I’m only with you for my own sexual gratification. The only thing that matters to me is your happiness, my soul purpose is you. You’re my priority.” He kissed her neck. “My desires are your desires.” Another kiss. “I can’t focus if you’re anything less than panting and satisfied.”

She pursed her lips, a familiar expression at this point. It turned into a joyful smile, and she smacked a kiss to his lips. “That was actually very sweet. After I get you off, I’m going to sit on your face.”

What was even better than the heavy petting and intense make out sessions was the talking. Sometimes for hours they would just tangle themselves together and divulge their life stories. Azriel knew all about her sister and mother – Gwyn confessing that she felt guilt when her twin wasn’t on the forefront of her mind, but sometimes she pushed her away because the memory of her was overwhelmingly devastating. Az wiped her tears away, desperate to see her smile again. But he also knew of all the good times she’d had growing up, and it made him feel alight inside to know how loved she was. Az told her mostly of Rhys and Cassian and the family they had made for themselves, about how it was so hard to be away from his mother, but he wouldn’t have survived another day in his father’s presence. Gwyn cried for him sometimes, and Azriel had never known such empathy from another.

When they were alone in the House, Nesta and Cassian off on one of their sexcations, Gwyn would spend her evenings and nights with him just as a friend, doing housework and menial tasks that she didn’t have to while humming various tunes. Az would tell her to stop working, but she would just grin and say she liked feeling like part of a home too much to not pretend that she lived there too. So he would just hum with her, his shadows dancing and swaying the way they always inevitably did around her. Then they would fall into bed together (or any surface really) until they were spent and exhausted.

Azriel had never known happiness like this.

***

Azriel was buzzing with excitement. He’d left Gwyn wrapped up in his bed, the sun not yet risen, and made sure to leave her some breakfast on his nightstand and the fire burning to keep her warm without his body next to hers. Usually he would wake her up early with his head between her thighs so she could go back to the library, but she had already told the acolytes she roomed with that she would be staying with Nesta, so no need to sneak around when no one was expecting her.

Before they’d gone to sleep the night before, Gwyn said something to him that left him smiling even now as he made his way to Rhys.

I want to have sex, Az. I’m sure. I know I’m safe with you.

Az didn’t know why Rhys needed him, but if it involved leaving Velaris, he would barter for a few more days so that he might be with Gwyn before he left. An odd feeling entered his chest at the thought. He couldn’t name the feeling; he just knew he didn’t want to leave Gwyn alone.

He landed on the doorstep of Feyre and Rhys’ home. Before he had the chance to let himself in, Feyre opened the door, a grave look on her face.

“Quick. Before they start yelling.” Feyre pinched her nose, the other hand holding Nyx on her hip.

Azriel pushed past her, and it wasn’t hard to find the source of Feyre’s frustration.

“Once again you fucking asshole, you need to back off. How dare you-”

“Nes, calm down-”

“Tell me to calm down again Cassian and I’m out of here. As I was saying, how fucking dare you accuse her of such things, Rhysand, High Lord of Shitting me up the Wall.”

“Nesta, for fuck’s sake you’re getting defensive for no reason!”

“No reason?!” she spat, Cassian holding her back before she lunged at Rhys.

“Too late,” Feyre muttered at him as she walked into the office, sitting at the desk to remain neutral in Nesta and Rhysand’s pissing match. Azriel would love to know what had riled them up so much that they were nearly screaming at each other, but any guidance from his brothers was not there.

“You have to admit that it’s suspicious, Nesta!”

Rhys threw his arm at Azriel as he approached, looking triumphant. “Azriel will agree with me.”

“He will not.”

“May I ask what I might need to agree to, or will it remain a mystery as to why you’re yelling so early in the morning?” Az crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for them to stop acting like children.

“Rhys accused Gwyn of being a spy,” Nesta growled.

“You’re twisting my words! I said I’d had reports of her acting strange, of her behaviour being completely different, and I suggested that it was worth looking into. We have to consider the safety of Velaris, and Gwyn would be the perfect plant.”

Azriel was sure Rhys was going to say more, but he was interrupted by Azriel’s uncontrollable fit of laughter. His laughs shook his whole body, and he felt tears in his eyes from how hard his fit was hitting him. He had to bend over to try and catch his breath, clutching at his chest as though his lungs might leap out of it.

“What’s so funny,” Rhys deadpanned.

Azriel shook his head and walked to Nesta, putting an arm around her shoulder.

“Are you serious, Rhys? Gwyn? Gwyenth Berdara?”

“Yes, I’m serious. Both Clotho and Merrill have approached me. Clotho, because she was worried, and Merrill, because she thought that Gwyn was being insubordinate. Clotho has had multiple girls come to her in fear for Gwyn, saying she’s been disappearing at night and coming back early in the morning. They she’s tired, unfocused, and that she’s exceeding every expectation they had for her in training and acting like a different person in the library. This has all been reported over the last month.” Rhys picked Nyx out of Feyre’s arms to calm himself before continuing. “Gwyn knows incredibly sensitive information about us. She helped us with the Trove, she treats the House of Wind like she bloody lives there. She’s awfully comfortable for a person who previous to knowing us refused to leave the library.”

Any humour Azriel felt had been leeched from his body. Nesta’s verbal beating of Rhys had been justified and then some.

“With all due respect, you can go fuck yourself,” he bit at his brother.

Feyre made a noise in the back of her throat and took Nyx back from Rhys before leaving the room, shutting the door behind her.

Too much swearing for such little ears! she said into their minds as she was leaving.

“What the fuck, Az?” Rhys looked startled.

“I knew he’d side with me,” Nesta said smugly.

“She’s ‘awfully comfortable?’ Yeah, she is, because she found a fucking family. Nesta is like a sister to her, and she’s over at the House a lot not because she’s entitled, but because we want her there. You might not make that much of an effort with Nesta’s friends because of your own personal shit, but Cassian and I consider her a close friend. Accusing her of anything unbecoming, to me, is as bad as if you’d dragged me in here to tell me Cassian was working against us. You sound ludicrous. Also, need I remind you, it’s not your fucking House anymore. Who we have over is none of your damned business.”

Rhys scoffed. “It’s not your House either.”

“Sorry, High Lord Rhysand, I’ll manage my expectations.” Az clenched his jaw at Rhys’ words. He was right. Azriel didn’t technically have any property, neither had Cassian until Rhys had given Nesta the House as a mating gift. Azriel didn’t technically have a home beyond the sky, nothing worth giving to or sharing with another person. Even now, Gwyn was waiting for him in a bedroom that technically wasn’t is. He wouldn’t dare leave though, not when he knew it was one of only two places that Gwyn felt safe in.

“Why are you getting so defensive? You know what I’m saying is reasonable.”

“It would be if we didn’t know her. She is… there are not words to describe her.”

“Yes, there is,” Nesta piqued. “She is competitive. She is feisty. She’s a Valkyrie. She is the kindest soul in Velaris. She is so brave, and strong, and the most selflessly loving person I’ve met in my entire life. If you weren’t so thick headed, you would see that she’s like Feyre in a lot of ways.” Nesta paused. She left Azriel’s side to stand in front of Rhys, her shoulders back and her head high. “If you accuse her of something it would break her heart. I won’t let you hurt her.”

“I would never hurt her, Nesta.” Rhys rubbed a hand over his face. “If you’re so convinced that nothing is going on, can you explain her strange behaviour.”

Nesta turned away from Rhys, so that he couldn’t see her face. When Nesta looked over at Azriel, she didn’t need to say a single word for him to know that she knew the exact reason Gwyn was acting different.

It was because of him.

“I don’t need to explain it because I trust her. I’m also with her nearly every minute of every day. Do you not think I would not notice if she was conniving against us? Or are you truly that foolish?”

“I agree with Nesta,” Cassian said. “She’s either with us training the Valkyries, or she’s working with Nesta in the library. Who cares if she’s a little distracted, we all are sometimes.”

“And you’re sure of this?” Rhys directed his question at Azriel, almost as if he couldn’t trust Cassian and Nesta to be impartial because of how close they were to Gwyn. Huh. If only he knew.

“I have never been surer of anything.”

***

“Azriel, wait.”

Azriel was stalking through the front gardens. He would walk until his head was clear, then he would go home – go to the House of Wind – and spend the morning with Gwyn. Nesta had other plans.

“What is it?”

“Gwyn-”

“-will be safe. I won’t let Rhys near her.”

“I’m not worried about that. What is going on between you two?”

“Nothing.”

“I’m not blind. All the things Rhys described? Sure, might be espionage, but it might also just be someone falling in love.”

“We’re not together.” Love? What a preposterous thought. Gwyn had been very clear from the beginning in what she wanted from him. She needed someone to fulfil her physical needs, and Azriel was happy to do so. All the other stuff, the talking and friendship, was just icing.

“Then what are you doing? Setting yourselves up to get hurt?”

“This is a conversation you should have with her.”

“She trusts you so much, Az. Please, don’t do anything that would hurt her. She’s come so far since we met.”

“Nesta, I promise you I couldn’t dream of hurting her. The thought alone makes me feel visceral pain. What we do, what we are, is just her making decisions and doing what she wants. How did you even know there was something going on?”

Nesta smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I guessed she had a flirtation with someone. I knew it was you from the way she started saying your name.”

Azriel felt his eyes burn, but he did not know why. “The way she says my name?”

“I’ve heard the way she says it a million times. From Cassian and I. From Rhys and Feyre. I can’t describe it beyond that.”

Azriel shoved his hands in his pockets and shifted where he stood. “Have you told Cas?”

“I don’t need to, he knows.”

“So you guys have talked about it?”

“No. I haven’t told him that I know. But I know he knows. And he also knows I know.”

“So he knows you know even though you haven’t told him you know and you know he knows even though he hasn’t said he knows?”

“Exactly,” she laughed. Her smile was more genuine now. It was a look she’d only had since her mating ceremony. It sung contentment, something she, like him, struggled to have.

She came to him and linked their arms, resting her head on his shoulder. Her friendship was invaluable to him, as much as it was a surprise when it first started to form.

“I have one other thing to say, and then I’ll let you go home to Gwyn.”

“Yes, Nesta?”

“The House of Wind is as much as your home as it is mine. You can stay there forever if you want. It is your home, Azriel, and I wouldn’t dream of it being anything else.”

***

Gwyn was awake when Azriel returned home. She was humming a song to herself in bed, wrapped in his blankets like it was a cocoon. She had the breakfast he made for her in her lap, and when he entered the room, she pulled the blanket aside and opened her arms for him to fall into to.

Maybe he still looked stormy after his talk with Rhys, or maybe she just wanted to hold him. Either way, he fell happily into her embrace.

***

Gwyn had set a date. She did not intend to be so clinical about it, she just wanted to give herself a chance to mentally prepare for what was about to happen, and she needed a few days to do so.

The month she’d had with Azriel had been… Cauldron, she did not know how to exactly describe it. When she had approached him, she honestly did not think that he would say yes to such a ridiculous idea. But he had, and he’d given her nothing short of the best month of her life. Her cheeks ached from how much she was smiling, and even if she was tired when she worked, she wouldn’t give up her restless nights for anything.

It would also be remiss for her to not acknowledge that perhaps what she had with him was more than an arranged bargain, but any time the thoughts propped up she promptly put them to the side.

She had not gone to see Az last night, needing the time to do extra work so that she could be missed for a day. Or two. Maybe even three.

Gwyn didn’t know how long this marathon might last, but if it were anything like Nesta and Cassian’s, it could be a while.

She had also warned Clotho and the females she shared her room with that she would be staying at the House of Wind for a few days. When asked why, she just said she was doing something with Emerie without going into any detail.

So, tonight it was. She was ready.

She was so fucking ready.

The moment dinner was served in the library she made a run for it, having to physically restrain herself from skipping out of the library. She was so excited, her body literally vibrating with energy, that she didn’t even see Nesta before their bodies slammed together.

They went to a ground in a tangled fumble, and Nesta was too busy laughing to listen to Gwyn’s repeated apologies. The brisk evening air greeted them, the stars starting to peek through the violet dusk as they laid on the path that took them from the library to the training area to the House.

“Well, you made looking for you much easier,” Nesta said, brushing off her dress as she stood. She offered Gwyn a hand, which she gladly took. Nesta started walking towards the House, their hands not dropping as they swung them between them like children.

“Why were you looking for me?”

“Emerie is here with Mor and Feyre. I wanted you to join us for dinner.”

“I have dinner with you every night.”

“I know, but I wanted you to know that you’re not just welcome but also invited.”

Gwyn smiled at Nesta, love for her friend filling her heart.

They approached the House, Nesta’s face falling as they walked in and saw Rhys standing in the middle of the room, confused looks on the faces of Mor and Emerie as everyone just looked uncomfortable.

Nesta’s hands squeezed Gwyn’s, and for just a second it felt like Nesta was about to pull Gwyn right back to the library.

“I’m not sure what the problem is,” Mor said slowly. “We go out in Velaris all the time, why can’t we tonight?”

“You’re more than welcome to, I would just rather stay here,” Azriel replied.

Gwyn knew the look on his face. It was the same look he’d had a few days ago when he’d returned from Mother knows where after Rhys summoned him. Gwyn assumed Azriel had just had to do one of the many hard tasks expected of a spymaster, but perhaps there was something else if his face was a mirror of that again now.

“What’s going on?” asked Nesta.

They all turned to look at them like they were surprised to see them. Not even Azriel had noticed their entrance, although Gwyn self-admitted that Azriel tended to be surprised by her sudden appearances quite often. She didn’t know for sure, but she thought maybe his shadows didn’t bother warning him when she was near. It’s not like she was a danger to the guy.

“Rhys came and said we should try the new restaurant on the Rainbow! The one near Feyre’s studio? I’ve heard really nice things about it, and the family that opened it are really beautiful.” Mor beamed at them all, trying to disperse the odd tension. “And then maybe we could go dancing.”  

The idea sounded wonderful, and Gwyn wistfully wished she could join them. In reality, just the thought of going into the city set her heard racing. The only time she had ever left the library or the House, other than to go to Emerie’s house which landed them in the Bloodrite, was to officiate Nesta and Cassian’s mating ceremony. Although the memory was one of her most treasured ones, it was not something she thought she would be able to do again. Not yet.

“I’ve heard great things about that place,” Nesta replied, her stomach audibly grumbling at just hearing about the exquisite food it might receive.

“You are all more than welcome to go.” Azriel swept a hand out between them. “But I don’t want to.”

His gaze flickered to Gwyn, and suddenly the eyes of everyone were on her.

A blanket of understanding washed over the room. Most eyes were understanding, Mor’s held the pity that Gwyn hated, and Rhys looked indifferent, if not satisfied.

Azriel’s resistance became evident. It wasn’t just that it was the night, their night, but he didn’t want her to be left alone whilst everyone else galivanted through the city having the time of their lives when they knew she wouldn’t be able to join them.

“I don’t want to go either. It’s been a long week and I’m tired,” said Nesta.

Gwyn narrowed her eyes at her lying sister but couldn’t hold it in her heart to be angry. In face, she had to stop it from swelling with how loving their words felt. They didn’t want her to be alone. They wanted to stay with her.

“You know,” spoke Emerie softly, “I can’t imagine anywhere making food as well as the House.”

Mor’s eyes shot to Emerie, and Gwyn wondered if she was imagining the slight betrayed look in them.

“Guy’s, c’mon. Rhys and I made a reservation, they’re expecting us! It would be rude not to go,” Mor pleaded.

Azriel opened his mouth to snap back, but Gwyn interrupted. “She’s right. You should go enjoy yourselves.”

“But Gwyn-”

“It’s okay, Nesta. Please, I really think you should all go.” She made a point to look at Azriel. “It sounds like it would be a lot of fun.”

“It’s not fair to arrange activities that we can’t all participate in.” Azriel’s voice had softened as he looked at her, and if she didn’t have better self-control she would stride over and plant a kiss on his pouting lips.

“How could Mor have known that Gwyn would be here? It’s not her fault,” Rhys interjected.

“That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard-”

“Stop, just stop.” Gwyn clutched her hands in front of her and stepped away from Nesta. She needed them to see her as an adult, as someone who was strong and to be taken seriously. “It’s fine. Really, truly. I have a lot to do anyway.” She turned to Feyre and waved her fingers at Nyx. “If you would like, I can take care of him so you can enjoy some grown-up time.”

For a second Feyre looked hopeful, but then she schooled her face into neutrality. Rhys stepped between the two, and Feyre had to put an arm on his shoulder.

As if to stop him stepping any further.

Gywn blinked, feeling like she should blanch away but not sure as to why.

“That won’t be necessary,” Rhys said. She’d heard him use that voice before. It was his political voice. His I-have-an-agenda voice. Now it was her turn to look confused.

“No worries,” Gwyn whispered.

She looked away from the High Lord’s searing gaze and back to her friends. She hoped her face didn’t speak of her sadness.

“Please go. I would feel awful if any of you stayed on my part. If anything, by going and having a great time you’d be doing me a favour, because I wouldn’t feel guilty.”

“You could always just come with us,” Mor said, tucking her hair behind her ears in a way that was comically similar to how the ‘popular’ girls in her smutty books would behave.

Gwyn bit her lip, thinking about it. Of course, logically, she would be safe. They would all be there, Azriel would be there, but she genuinely felt like she might vomit at the thought. A bead of sweat dripped down her back, and she despised how her eyes stung with tears. She breathed the way her and Nesta had learnt from Valkyrie texts and pulled herself back to reality. Sometimes the logic of actions did not dictate how you would feel, or react, to a situation. Gwyn reminded herself once more to be kinder to herself.

“Thank you for the offer, Mor, but I am happy here.” Gwyn smiled brightly at them all, and they seemed to relax – all but Az and her sisters.

She shooed them out of the House, hoping that one day she would be able to join them.

***

It was odd. Gwyn had spent much time over the last few years alone, but it had never affected her. And although the House was quite good company – it had dinner and dessert ready for her with a box of tissues and chocolates even before Cassian had finally flown off with the resistant Nesta – it wasn’t the same as spending time with someone who could talk back to you.

She only just made it through her meal when she crawled into Azriel’s bed, hoping the scent of him would make her feel better.

It didn’t, but the sight of his room did. There were unlit candles lining the room, and flowers adorning every surface. The cheeky male had even installed a mirror on the ceiling above the bed, and she blushed profusely at the implications.

He had tried to make it romantic, and she adored him for it.

She had no idea when he would be back, and she scolded herself for wishing it would be sooner rather than later. She wanted him to be out and about with his family, even if it made her burn with envy that everyone would be able to enjoy him but her.

She rolled over, stuffing her face into his pillow and groaning. She should take off her day clothes and resign herself to pyjamas. Maybe she should sleep in a different bedroom so as to not torture herself with what this night could have been.

Her night with Az. The night with Az.

“That’s it. I am so over this,” she said aloud before springing up. She stomped out of the room and towards Nesta’s, flinging her closet open to inspect her clothes.

It was just a restaurant. It was safe. She would be fine. Besides, how could she overcome her fears if not to face them? She had gone to Emerie’s and survived. She had gone to Nesta’s mating ceremony and survived. She had won the bloody Bloodrite!

As she looked through the dresses, she quickly realised they wouldn’t fit. They would hang loose at her hips and chest, where Nesta was beautifully endowed and she was not.

“Not to worry, I’ll just take a coat then.” Taking the first one she saw, light but soft enough that warmth wouldn’t be an issue, Gwyn shoved her shoes on approached the door that led to the ten thousand steps that would take her to Velaris. She didn’t know where to go from there, but she knew in her heart of hearts that she would be able to find her friends with enough willpower. And since meeting Nesta and Emerie, since being empowered by the strongest females she knew and since empowering herself, she knew she had that willpower in abundance.

“Let’s fucking do this.”

***

She didn’t know at what point the House had left her, its omnipresence not connected to the stairs, but she was doing just fine even if she felt its absence. She counted in her head to keep track of where she was.

One thousand. Feeling good. Coat in arms.

Two thousand. Out of breath but in a good way.

Three thousand. Fucking shit.

Four thousand. Maybe she should turn around.

Five thousand.

Six thousand. How has Nesta done this multiple times?

Seven thousand. She had this! This was easier than Ramiel!

Eight thousand. If she died here no one would find her.

Nine thousand.

Ten. Fucking. Thousand.

Gwyn realised that there was no way she’d be able to eat with them. They would be having dessert if they hadn’t already moved on. She just needed to find them.

As Gwyn took the last step, her toes touched the streets of Velaris for the very first time.

It was so beautiful she thought she might cry. There was colour everywhere, the laughter of adults and children alike, and she could smell delicious food as the many restaurant’s wide-open doors let the scents pour into the streets. The faelights lining the streets reminded her of the stars she often gazed at with Azriel, the thought of him like a caress to her mind.

Azriel loved Velaris, would die for this city if he had to. How could she been afraid of something he loved so much?

She took one step. Then one more. She was sure to anyone that glanced her way she must have looked like a lunatic, her eyes wide in wonder as she moved at a snail’s pace, Nesta’s coat bundled in her arms because after all those steps she didn’t need it.

Her heart was hammering in her chest, equal parts fear and excitement, as she walked through the city. She got a few odd looks, but she could see it was out of curiosity for a newcomer in a city that had been locked down for centuries, and not for violence. She wasn’t leered at or bothered. In fact, the only time someone even talked to her was when a toddler sprinted from his mother’s side, his legs too quick for his body to keep up, and he fell into her.

The mother apologised profusely but Gwyn didn’t care at all. How could she be mad at the pudgy little baby?

It was easy to find her way to a district clearly dedicated to all things food. If possible, she slowed down even more. She peeked inside every restaurant looking for the four sets of wings that would set her friends apart from everyone else.

Finally, after what seemed like hours of searching but was probably closer to forty minutes, she saw them.

Azriel and Rhys were standing outside the restaurant Mor must’ve been talking about. Light and music drifted from its open windows, the streets still full of roaming people. Gwyn knew they wouldn’t be able to see her yet, and she wondered how she should approach them.

Azriel… did not look happy, and the tense set of Rhys’ shoulders and back let her know that his face likely looked the same, even if he was facing away from her.

Before she could think of a strategy, Azriel looked up, his eyes meeting hers.

Gwyn could not describe the feeling that filled her as they drunk in one another. Still standing twenty steps from him, his gaze made her feel like she was wrapped in his arms.

She raised one hand in a wave, and it was like Rhys didn’t exist at all.

Azriel shoved him to the side, Rhys making an indignant sound as he did. He ran to her, and she dropped Nesta’s coat so she could wrap her arms around him as they crashed together. People in the streets backed off at Azriel’s display, and in that moment she couldn’t have cared less about where she was, as long as she was with him.

His wings wrapped around her, creating a shield between them and the outside world.

“Gwyn.”

“Hey Az,” she whispered, her arms around his neck and his face tucked to her shoulder.

“What are you doing here? Is everything okay?” He straightened and brushed the hair from her face. It had stuck to her skin from how much she had sweat while taking the stairs, but she didn’t care how she looked. She knew he certainly never would.

He looked ready to fight an invisible threat, and it made her throb in unspeakable places.

“Nothing’s wrong. I just – I. Um.” She hadn’t rehearsed what she would say to him, but it’s not like she could blurt out Hey! Just wanted to near you at all times and rub my body against yours!

“Did something happen? What do you need me to do?”

She shook her head. “No, no, Az, really, I’m fine. I just regretted not coming out with you all.”

He must have been able to see the honesty on her face and smile, because he relaxed, his wings folding back.

The look on his face was adorable as the realisation dawned on him that she was here for him.

“Did I miss everything? Are you all done?”

He didn’t answer, but he did look behind him. Rhys was standing there with his mouth open, his face laced with something Gwyn couldn’t put a name to. Before she could greet him, Rhys stormed back into the restaurant.

Azriel turned back to her, and he didn’t hesitate when he lifted her chin and kissed her.

She gasped but reciprocated zealously. She pushed her body into his, and his arms went around her as he lifted her off her feet, cradling him to her as he kissed her like she was the wind that let him embrace the skies. He tasted like air, like gold, like this was his final breath and he was he was sharing it with just her.

***

Azriel sat with Gwyn while the rest of their friends danced. She hid it well, but he could tell that she was nervous being in this new environment.

She had been so good, so brave when she went into the restaurant and greeted Azriel’s family. Nesta and Emerie jumped up when they saw her, and Nesta held her tightly while Emerie rushed to get another chair. Nesta was trying to be subtle, but Azriel saw the happy tears she shed as she held Gwyn. Emerie then insisted that Gwyn sit and eat her strawberry and mango cheesecake with her, which earned an inexplicable scowl from Mor. Interesting.

Once Gwyn was satisfied and protesting the consumption of more food, they all walked together to one of the classier bars Nesta used to frequent so they could go dancing. Everyone was light as a feather, except Rhys, but life was hard as a fucking asshole, so Az wasn’t surprised he was feeling surly.

And now here they were. Azriel and Gwyn seated with the others dancing to their hearts content. Mor was spinning around with a giggling Nyx, Feyre and Rhys were swaying but it was obvious they were speaking to each other through their daemati bond, and Emerie and Nesta were terrorising Cassian in a three-way dance.

“How are you feeling?” Azriel asked, his shadows silent to her moods. If it had been anyone else, he would have known she was coming to the restaurant before she’d even left the House. But his shadows didn’t like to spy on her and revelled in him being surprised by her.

“I feel good.” Her gaze was focused on the dance floor, and Azriel glanced over to see what was so entrancing.

Nesta and Cassian were finally dancing alone, Emerie now with Nyx and Mor. The way Cassian and Nesta were grinding on each other was nothing short of pornographic as they moved into the shadows of the dance floor. Nesta’s back was to Cassian, his hands clasped on her hips as his lips were on her neck as she pushed her ass back against him.

Azriel snorted. They’d be fucking in an alley within the next fifteen minutes.

“Do you want to dance like that, Gwyneth?”

She turned to him, a lovely flush spreading from her face to her chest. “No,” she said unconvincingly. She slid her chair closer to his, the bar stool so high she had to hop onto it to sit. It was frightfully cute, and Azriel had to restrain from kissing her again.

He couldn’t help it in the street. The sight of her – rumpled, breathless, her face alight with joy – was too much for him.

She was beginning to be too much for him.

The longer he was with her, the more of her he was allowed to have, the more he feared he could never go back to just a simple friendship. This female would either be his salvation or his ruination, either of which he would happily accept if it meant he could savour every minute he had left with her.

Under the table, she linked their hands, and Azriel thought he might very well die from the touch.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to enjoy our plans.” He rubbed his thumb against her finger.

She smiled his way, her eyes crinkling at the sides. “It’s okay.” She looked down, biting her lip. “I went to your room. I saw what you had done.”

He swallowed hard. “Did you like it?”

She removed her hand from his and placed it on his thigh. “I loved it.”

He shifted in his seat, glad that the tablecloth was long enough so that anyone around, if they looked, would only see their ankles. “You’re playing with fire right now,” he chucked under his breath as she continued to stroke his thigh.

“I especially liked the mirror on the ceiling. May I ask, what purpose does it serve?” Her smile may have been all innocent, but the way her hand was moving was anything but.

She leant against him so they were touching shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip.

“It was for your pleasure.”

“Is that right?”

He brushed his lips to her ear, grateful that the dim lights of the bar kept them in the shadows and that the dancing bodies kept their scents hidden. And over the live music, no one would hear them. “Mhm. It was so that, no matter what position I put you in, you could watch me.”

She tipped her head back, humming in acknowledgement. Her hand, already in dangerous territory, swept down his increasingly hard length.

He grunted, laying both his hands on the table and fisting the cloth.

“Is this okay?” she asked, breathless.

He nodded, taking a swig of his drink to distract him.

She brushed her hand down again, bolder this time, and he squirmed in his chair.

“I would take it out, but I fear it would be seen over the table. So inside it stays,” she sighed. “It must be hard being so large.” She put her lips to his ear, mimicking what he had done to her. “I do love it though. The size, the taste, I think about it constantly.”

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he choked out. “But at least I’d die happy.”

Her hand slipped inside his pants, and he couldn’t help but thrust up into her hand. He tilted his head back in pleasure as she worked him, getting the angles just right as she pumped him. He was unbelievably aroused by the public act, barely able to believe that she’d do something so audacious. But Cauldron have mercy, he would do anything if it meant she was touching him. She could ask to ride him right now in the middle of this bar and he would blissfully indulge.

“I’m going to finish soon,” he warned her.

“I can’t wait for you to finish in me.”

Her words were his undoing, and he felt the edge of the table splinter under his grip as he contained his moan of pleasure.

He stared at her as she pulled her hand from him, offering him a serviette to clean himself like she hadn’t just given him a mind-blowing orgasm where anyone could have seen.

“Az?” she asked after a few, content minutes of silence.

“Yes, Gwyneth?”

“Do you think we could go dance?”

***

Gwyn couldn’t remember the last time she had been this relentlessly happy. Azriel flew her and Emerie back to the House of Wind, the latter looking forlorn as they finally left the bar in the small hours of the morning.

Rhys and Feyre had left much earlier, Nyx too small to stay up that late, and if Gwyn was being honest she was surprised they lasted as long as they did. Feyre seemed fine, but Rhys was in a shocking mood. Every time she asked Azriel about it, he just muttered about Rhys being a jerk without elaborating. She could tell that whatever it was, it was sensitive, so she didn’t push him.

Her and Nesta put a very intoxicated Emerie to bed, stripping her and putting her into some pyjamas before tucking her in nice and tight with some herbs on her nightstand that would help her head in the morning. Azriel and Cassian had already gone to their respective bedrooms, and Gwyn contemplated how she was going to sneak into Azriel’s room when Nesta stopped her.

“Can we talk for a second?”

“Of course.”

Nesta led her to the library, and they plopped themselves onto one of the plush couches. Gwyn faced her as she sat, tucking her feet under Nesta’s thighs to keep them warm.

Two hot chocolates appeared to them on a table, a dish of marshmallows to the side. They whispered their thanks to the House, claiming the warm drinks. Gwyn pressed hers up against her face, liking the warmth on her skin.

“What do you want to talk about?” Gwyn asked, taking a sip.

“Azriel. You. You and Azriel.” Nesta patted her shin, and Gwyn put her drink down. This wasn’t a hot chocolate kind of conversation.

“I don’t know what you’re talk-”

“Do you love him, Gwyn? Because if you did, or even if you don’t, you don’t have to sneak around Cassian and I and pretend nothing is happening. You can live here, forever if you want. All four of us in the House.”

“Nesta-”

“Imagine if we both had our families and babies here. It’s a big place, we wouldn’t get in each other’s way. And maybe Emerie could come too and she could fall in love too and we’d all be so happy. Okay, I’m rambling and that was weird. What I’m trying to say is – is that you can Azriel are so obviously together and I’m wracking my brain trying to figure out why you’re keeping it a secret from us, not that I care that you have secrets you’re an adult and you don’t have to tell me everything, and I’m so fucking happy for you, Gwyn, and I want you to know that you can be publicly happy, if you want.”  

“Nesta…”

“I just love this. You and him. I’ve never seen Azriel so happy and you just smile all the time. And, oh, it reminds me of Cassian. In the way that I can see ourselves reflected in you two, and I wonder if maybe if I hadn’t been so,” she gestured at her head, “you know, then I could have just been this happy from the start of us, with him, like you two. So I need you to know that if you want that, if you want him, I am so incredibly supportive and I will do anything you want if it means you get your happily ever after. Okay, I’m done.”

“Nesta.”

“And I also would just love to know how this all began. Like the secret little smiles and observations that I’ve had for as long as I’ve known you just changed one day. And I know you guys used to train alone sometimes and I know you were always here with him, and me and Cas but I can’t pinpoint when your friendship turned into this.” She paused and took a deep breath. “Sorry, I really am done now.”

“Are you sure?” Gwyn pinched her cheek lovingly, and Nesta swatted it away.

“Yes.”

Gwyn took a second to think about her words, and as nice and idyllic as they sounded, Gwyn wasn’t sure they were the truth.

“Nesta, we aren’t together.”

“What?”

“We have a…” Gwyn struggled to find the words. “Deal? Agreement?”

“A sexy agreement?”

Gwyn laughed. “No. Well, yes actually.” She launched into the story of how her and Azriel had started their bargain, detailing how Azriel had agreed to help her overcome her fear, and how much they practised towards her ultimate goal of sex. Gwyn also expressed how their closeness was something she treasured, as spending so much time together naturally led to a deepening in their friendship. Her face stained pink as she told her of some of the things they had done, but how, after over a month together, that hadn’t actually sealed the deal.

Nesta was silent the entire story, letting Gwyn speak her truth. She was contemplative over Gwyn’s words, not saying anything until she was done speaking.

“Before I say anything, I want to let you know how incredibly proud of you I am, and how much I support wanting to explore yourself and your sexuality. No matter what I say, I need you to know that.”

Well, that wasn’t a good start.

“I understand, Nesta.”

“Gwyn, do you love him?”

Gwyn took a deep breath. It was a topic she often pushed from her mind, unable or not wanting to broach the subject. “I don’t know.”

“It’s a yes or no, Gwyn.”

Gwyn shrugged her shoulders. “What if it’s a ‘I’m not sure because I so thoroughly blurred the lines between what was real and what I asked him to do to help me?’ What if it’s a ‘I don’t know if I could say it to him but if he said it to me, I would say it back in an instant?’”

“Do you know how he feels about you? Has he said anything?”

Gwyn shook her head. “I know we’re friends. I know he cares about me. I know he would do anything I asked of him. I know he must love me, in some way, but I don’t know if it’s love-love or platonic love.”

“And he’s never given any sort of indication of his intentions?”

Gwyn pondered how thoughtful he was, how detail oriented he was to her pleasure and how he was the best part of her day. And as she thought about it, about him, who was so caring and lovable and agreeable, and she realised that a lot of what he did for her – the comfort, the talking, the support – he would do for anyone.

“I’ve never asked.” Her breath shuddered, and Nesta put a hand to her cheek.

“Maybe you should.”

“What if he doesn’t feel the same way as I do? What if I’m just an obligation?”

“Oh, my love.” Nesta repositioned them so that Gwyn was lying down, her head in Nesta’s lap, as Nesta lovingly stroked her hair. It reminded Gwyn so much of what Catrin used to do that she couldn’t help the tears that started to shed.

“It’s better to know what you are to him. If it’s any consolation, I think he cares about you a great deal. Maybe even loves you. It’s hard to tell when he’s naturally so cold.”

He wasn’t cold, she wanted to say, he was the warmest person she knew. Instead, she cried, and she let Nesta comfort her like she always did.

***

A few days passed, and although Gwyn never left the House, her sexual relations with Az didn’t progress. Rather, they stopped altogether. He didn’t mind at all, he was just glad for her company. They talked and trained, and Azriel was surprised that somehow he could be even more impressed of her than before.

She also started doing what he called her ‘casual kisses.’

They would be doing something monotonous, like sorting weapons for training the next day, and she could kiss him as she walked by him. Or they would be sitting in bed reading, and she would lean over and brush her lips to his temple.

It became a game, who could casually kiss the other first if the opportunity arose, and it was the best game Az had ever played.

He felt himself looking forward to the nights even if the only touching they did was cuddling until they fell asleep in each other’s arms. Azriel wondered if this is what home felt like.

It was late, and Gwyn decided that she needed to return to the library before people started to question where she was. Az didn’t have the heart to tell her they already were.

“I had the most interesting conversation with Nesta the other day,” she said as they reached the door that would take her away.

“What about?”

Gwyn fiddled with her fingers, trepidation oozing from her.

“Are you okay?” he asked, worry starting to maw at him.

“I’m fine.” She turned to face him, and he took the opportunity to kiss her on her hairline. He loved the height different between them, it made him feel bigger than he was. “Nesta asked me about us. She has suspected for a while.”

He schooled his face into neutrality. As far as Gwyn knew, this was new information to him.

He hadn’t told her a word of what had happened between them and Rhys, and it would stay that way. All it would do was hurt her, and Azriel was serious when he said no harm would ever come her way from him. She did not need to know that Rhys was acting like a tool.

In more ways than one. Azriel didn’t need to read minds to know that Rhys was highly suspicious of them both. And more so, as much as it pained him to admit, how much Rhys disapproved. He wasn’t sure why, and he couldn’t bear to ask, but he had a good idea. Rhys, as much as he loved Az, must know that he would never be good enough for Gwyn. The idea had plagued him for days, and the only thing that drove away the dark thoughts were the casual kisses Gwyn would bestow upon him.

“How do you feel about that?” he asked her, snapping back to their conversation.

She shrugged. “At first I was worried, but now I’m actually kind of relieved.”

“Why were you worried?”

“You know, it’s weird. I had it in my head that if people knew I was on this mission to achieve some ultimate, empowering orgasm that they might judge me. But Nesta never would, and I felt like an idiot as soon as she looked at me and told me she knew we were,” she gestured between them, “touching.”

Az snickered. “Touching is one way to sum it up.”

“She asked me something I couldn’t answer.”

“What was that?”

“She asked me what we are.” She brushed her hands over his chest absentmindedly. “What I am to you.”

He clasped her hands and held them to his heart, trying to make her look at him when she was purposefully focusing on the floor.

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her the truth. That I don’t know what I am to you.”

“Gwyn…”

“I need to say something, and I beg you not to interrupt until I’m done.” She sniffled, and he hated the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes.

She took a deep breath and wiped her tears away, facing him with steel. “I genuinely approached you with nothing but friendship in mind. I had a plan, to sleep with you once and then go back to how we always were before – me, as your overly competitive but absolute best student, and you as, as this God of a man that I could not believe even walked the same existence as me, let alone be someone I considered a friend. You were my ribbon Az. The thing I wanted to be as good as. And then you said yes to me. I didn’t expect you to. I half-thought you would laugh because you thought I was joking. But you didn’t, and you said yes, and I have made the grave mistake of developing feelings I swore to myself I wouldn’t.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but she put a hand over his mouth before he could.

“I had every intention of having sex with you until Nesta asked me what I was to you. And then I realised that if all I was to you was a proposition to uphold, I couldn’t do it. I can’t be with you just once. I can’t be just friends if we take that last step. So, Az, I’m asking you, and please don’t feel obligated to say anything you don’t feel, but what am I to you?”

He couldn’t breathe. His chest felt like his ribs were being ripped apart and then shoved back together until his lungs were caged too tightly. He knew what he wanted to say, that of course she was more than that, she was everything, but then he thought of her spirit being crushed by his inadequacies, and how she could do so much better now that she was ready to. She was pure, she was light, and she deserved more than his darkness.

He had been quiet too long.

Watching her was like watching a porcelain doll shatter after being dropped. Her face crumbled, and she pulled her hands away from him as she tried to contain herself.

“You’re my best friend.” He finally said, his own tears stinging at his eyes. “I can’t lose you.” Which he would, if she stayed with him and realised how truly broken he was.

A sob fractured her chest, and Az hated the way her voice sounded when she spoke. “You’re my best friend, too.”

And then they were kissing. It tasted like salt from their tears and was more passionate and heart-wrenching than any of the kisses they’d had before. They were drowning, their only hope at salvation one another as they clung to each other with all the strength they had.

Azriel didn’t want to let her go. He knew once he did that it would be over. His month of bliss, of final contentment, would be over. Part of him wished Nesta had never opened her mouth, or that he’d been able to tell the truth, but all of him wished that he was someone else, or that he was more like his brothers, so that he was good enough for her.

When they finally stopped kissing, it was not so she could leave. They still clung to each other, breathing in each other’s scents, well into the night.

When she whispered goodbye, part of his soul left with her as she walked away.

He lied to her by staying silent. He should have told her the truth, that what he was feeling went deeper than affection, maybe even deeper than love. But this lie protected her, and he would take it to his grave.

#acosf #fanfic #gwynriel #azriel #nessian #feysand #acotar #acomaf #acofas #acowar #sjm #sarahjmaas #tog #koa #emorie #mor x emerie

[dothwrites]

15.19--freedom

“Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose/Nothing, don’t mean nothing if it ain’t free, no, no”--Janis Joplin

---

Freedom. 

Dean rolls the word around on the tip of his tongue and tastes how it feels. Freedom. 

It’s a strange concept, especially since he always assumed that he was. Ever since Apocalypse Version 1.0 was averted, Michael and Lucifer locked in the cage, thanks very much, he’s always assumed that he was the one calling the shots. No matter how badly he fucked up (and he fucked up a lot), he could at least take comfort in the fact that those were his choices. No one’s hand up Dean Winchester’s ass, no siree. 

And then Chuck came and ripped that certainty away from him in one quick motion and then...everything was suspect. Sam, Mom, Jack...Cas. Every word, every action, every emotion... He couldn’t trust anything, so he trusted nothing.

He still wakes up from nightmares with those words echoing in his head: You’re dead to me. He bolts upright, almost puking, because he can’t believe his past self, he can’t believe that those words came out of his mouth, to Cas, to Cas of all people--

He splashes water on his face and notices that his hand is shaking. His stomach churns in warning, but he doesn’t think he’s going to puke. However, he also doesn’t think he’s going back to sleep tonight. 

He and Sam are in the bunker, but he knows they won’t stay. It’s too empty now, their voices echoing through the halls and rooms. Maybe once, he would have been all right with that, would have even enjoyed it, but now, he can’t bear it. He remembers all too well how it felt to have Jack’s voice bouncing through the kitchen as he talked about the latest movie they had watched, or how it felt to just feel Cas behind him as he moved through the kitchen. 

Every time he makes his breakfast, he’s reminded of what he lost. Every time he and Sam come back to the bunker, there’s the sinking disappointment to find themselves alone once more. Dean ends up spending most of his days in his room because anywhere else freaks him out. He can’t stop whipping his head to look over his shoulder, halfway convinced that he’ll find someone standing behind him. He’s always disappointed when he finds himself alone. 

He and Sam are going to leave the bunker behind. He doesn’t know when and he doesn’t know what for, but he knows that it’s going to happen. 

He asks Sam one afternoon why he hasn’t left yet. Eileen is waiting for him, biding her time a hell of a lot more patiently than Dean would, and Sam still isn’t going to her and starting the American dream life. And one afternoon, Dean either runs out of fucks and gathers up his last little shreds of courage, and asks him. 

“So when are you going to move in with Eileen? I can’t imagine that she’s going to wait for your gigantor ass forever.” 

Sam looks at him from across the table. There’s a book open in front of him, but Dean doesn’t think that he’s read a word. He knows that he’s been stuck on the same screen on his phone for several minutes. Without the pressing urgency of saving the world, things just seem so...pointless. Which is not necessarily bad. But it means that he and Sam spend a lot of slow, lingering afternoons like this, with just the two of them wandering through the bunker and occasionally bouncing off of each other like two very faulty pinballs stuck in a malfunctioning machine. 

“She’s fine,” Sam says, which isn’t an answer. “She understands what’s happening.” 

Dean’s glad that someone understands because he surely has no fucking clue.

---

His life falls into a kind of routine. Wake up, make breakfast. Find pointless chores to do around the bunker. Make lunch. Watch some bullshit shows on TV. Make dinner. Have a beer. Fall asleep. 

He feels like the worst kind of retiree, devoid of purpose. 

Sure, there are occasional hunts, but he doesn’t feel the need to go on them. The world is turning, same as it always did, and there are other hunters in the world. If that’s one thing that he learned through these past years, it’s that he doesn’t have to do everything. 

(Plus, he and Sam literally defeated God, so he thinks they deserve some time off.)

The forced retirement doesn’t make him happy. The bunker is the cleanest that it’s ever been and he doesn’t feel happy about it. There’s a gaping hole in his chest that’s shaped like the rest of his family, and he can’t sleep at night. He makes dinner and all he can think about are the empty places at the table. 

Sam sticks his head into Dean’s room. It’s a regular day, though Dean doesn’t bother to note either the actual date or the day of the week anymore. Time blends together in an endless cycle of waking, chores, and sleeping, because without a purpose to hold him together, he’s slowly falling apart. 

“I’m going to head out,” Sam says. Dean notices that he doesn’t put a timeline on his departure. “You should get out too.” 

Dean raises his eyebrows but doesn’t ask the obvious question: Where would he go? Sam, slightly chagrined, scuffs his feet against the floor. “Maybe go see Jody, Donna, and the girls? See if Charlie and Stevie want a third on their hunt? Bobby said something about building up his library here.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, with absolutely no intention of following through on any of those suggestions. He’s not quite wallowing in his own grief and filth (every time he tries to crawl back into a bottle, he just remembers the pinched look at the corners of Cas’ eyes whenever he would find Dean halfway through a bender, and that memory effectively nixes any desire he might have had to crawl into the nearest bottle), but he’s not exactly the poster boy for healthy coping strategies either. 

“Dean.” 

Dean hates that note in Sam’s voice, the oh-so-soft and sensitive tone that could soothe widows and lull children. He hates even more that it’s being turned on him, hates most of all that he derives comfort from it. 

“I don’t get it,” Dean finally says, because if Sam is leaving then he might be losing his chance to ask his question aloud. “I don’t get...I mean, Jack could have brought him back. He could have done it. I could have asked him. I was right fucking there, and I didn’t ask.” 

He’s dissected those moments in his head until there’s nothing left, and he’s forced to cobble them back together like some Frankenstein of memories just so he can take them apart all over again. Why didn’t he ask Jack to bring Cas back? Why didn’t Jack do it of his own free will? Jack knew how he much he needed Cas; hell, Jack brought him back once before when he wasn’t God. So why couldn’t he do it then, when Dean needed him the most? 

“I don’t know,” Sam says, still in that same soft voice. “Maybe...maybe it was like Mom? I mean, Cas made his choice. For better or worse, he made it, and maybe Jack thinks that we need to respect it?” 

A thick lump rises in his throat. Cas’ face replays in his nightmares, tear-stricken and yet smiling, peace and grief shining in his eyes. I love you. Like it was the easiest thing in the world to say at that moment. Like it was all he’d ever wanted to say. 

“I never...” Dean swallows, but he doesn’t manage to chase away the horrid feeling rising in his chest. “I never said it back to him, Sam. I never...all those times he said it to us, and I never...he died, thinking that no one loved him. The one thing I want, I know I can’t have, is what he said to me.” 

Dean doesn’t necessarily have a list of his regrets (there are too many to really list), but if he did, then he knows this would be at the top of it. Cas sacrificed himself, Cas let himself get taken, Cas died, and all to save someone who he believed didn’t love him back. 

How could he not know? 

Dean knows he’s not necessarily Mr. Subtle; he knows Sam knows. Their enemies damn sure have seemed to figure out through the years exactly where Dean’s heart lies. How could Cas, as brilliant as he was, as insightful, as compassionate as he was, not understand that Dean’s been lost on him, quite possible since the first time he walked through those barn doors? 

Sam’s face goes on a journey and it ends up at about the same place that Dean feels. Maybe now Sam understands why it’s so much effort for him to just make it out of his room. 

“He thought it was worth it,” Sam finally says. “Even if he thought...At the end, it was still worth it to him.” 

You were still worth it, is left unsaid, but Dean hears the echo nonetheless. There’s an accusation there which he doesn’t want to confront, but he has to nonetheless. 

“I can’t stay here anymore,” Sam finally says. “I can’t...” When he looks at Dean, his eyes are glistening. There’s a plea for understanding in his face. “There’s a whole world out there that I haven’t gotten to see since...since Stanford really. Since ever. I can finally go out there and walk around and not worry that something’s going to come after me. I can finally...” Sam rubs a corner of his shirt between his fingers. “You always said that I wanted a normal life, and I did, for a while. Then, when I figured that it was never going to happen, I stopped myself from wanting it, because what was the point? When everything we had got ripped away from us, what was the point of anything? But now...” 

“If you start now, then you can probably make Des Moines by night,” Dean offers. It’s all he can say, but it’s enough. 

Sam smiles, his eyes glassy. “I’ll call you when I get there.”

It’s not a goodbye, but it is. It’s the bonds of desperation and codependency snapping and shattering and reforming into something else. Dean doesn’t know how to love his brother in this new world. All he knows is that Sam deserves to live the life he’s deserved. 

Dean closes his eyes. 

When he opens them, Sam is gone.

---

That night, he goes up on the roof of the bunker. It’s cold, but not unbearable. There’s a light drizzle falling which strengthens to a gentle shower the longer he stays outside. 

Dean closes his eyes and looks up at the sky. Out here, the stars shine clearer than ever before, visible even through the rainclouds. 

He can’t help but think of Jack. His son. He can say those words now, acknowledge that Jack gave him everything he really wanted; the chance at a family, the chance to erase some of his father’s sins. Jack was gentle, he was kind, he was loving, he was theirs. And then he was gone. 

Cas, Jack, Sam...

“What am I supposed to do?” Dean asks the rain, the same wild pain rising up in his throat. “What am I supposed to do now?” 

---

He makes it back inside, damp and cold, and strips himself. He should shower, but he can’t be bothered, so he falls into bed naked and shivering. Not like it matters; no one is around to see him anyway. He falls into a fitful doze and is only awakened hours later by the soft sounds of someone moving around his room. 

He bolts upright, snatching his gun out from underneath his pillow, because old habits die never. He blinks the sleep out of his eyes as his heartbeat catches up with his adrenaline. “Sam?” he asks, and then, more tentatively, “Jack?” 

His desk lamp blazes into the life with a soft snap. Dean’s heart leaps into his throat. 

Cas smiles at him, the same as always, sadness always lurking in his eyes and at the corners of his mouth. Dean finally understands why he looks that way. 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says. The sound of his voice sends shivers down Dean’s spine, but the hair on his arms doesn’t rise. Dean understands then. 

“This is a dream.” He lowers the gun. His heart slows to normal and disappointment is bitter in his mouth. “You’re not really here.” 

Cas’ mouth lifts in a lopsided smile. “It’s as real as you make it.” 

“Don’t fucking Dumbledore me,” Dean mutters. He rubs at his temples. Somehow, even lucid dreaming has lost its appeal. Talking to Cas isn’t appealing when he knows that he’s just talking to his own subconscious. 

“I fail to see what a fictional wizard of questionable sexuality has to do with this.” 

“Good to know that my subconscious has your sense of humor down.” Dean glares at Cas. “Why the fuck are you here, anyway? It’s a dick move, even for my brain.” 

“Maybe because I’m the person you want to see? I don’t know. It’s your head, not mine.”

“Yeah. No offense, but I think I’m just going to go back to sleep. Or wake up. I don’t know. Whatever it is, I don’t need to see you anymore. It’s just...It really hurts, all right?” 

“I’m not real, so you’re not really hurting my feelings.” 

“Good. Well, now that we have that sorted out.” Dean punches his pillow as a punishment for betraying him, before he turns back to Cas. “I miss you,” he says, because he’s weak and always has been. 

“Dean.” The sound of Cas’ voice always manages to make Dean stop and now is no different. He turns around and looks at Cas. 

Somehow, Cas looks more solid around the edges. The lines around his eyes are more pronounced, and if Dean turns his head at just the right angle, he thinks he can see grey silvering at Cas’ temple. 

“Sam was right,” Cas says. “I made a choice. That’s what this was all about, ever since the beginning. Making choices, running our own course, picking our own path.” 

“Yeah, thanks for rubbing it in,” Dean mutters. The last thing he needs is his subconscious reminding him that once again, Cas decided that he wasn’t good enough to stay with. 

“But that doesn’t mean that you can’t make a choice as well,” Cas continues, ignoring him. “There’s nothing to stop you. You can make whatever choices you want and take the consequences that come with them. And if you make the right choices, then maybe...” Cas bites his lip, looking almost nervous. “Then maybe I can make some choices too.” 

Dean opens his mouth to argue--Cas is dead, the time for making decisions has come and gone--but his subconscious is a dick, and before he can say anything, his dream fades away in a wash of black. 

---

Dean wakes up energized. His eyes open into the same room, but it’s different somehow. It’s ridiculous, because the bunker is underground, but it’s almost like he sees the sun shining through his windows. Even the air tastes different. For the first time in weeks, he gets out of bed without dreading every step away from his mattress. 

He glances at his phone. There’s a message from Sam along with a picture. In it, Eileen and Sam smile at the camera, their heads pressed together at the temple. There’s still a shadow of sadness in their eyes--they’ve all lost too much to be truly carefree ever again--but they look good. Happy. Whole. 

Cas’ words echo back at him, both from the dream and from those last, horrible, terrifying moments. 

Everything you did, you did for love. 

You can make a choice. 

Dean starts towards the library. 

---

It takes him three weeks of almost non-stop research to cobble together enough spells to make something that has the potential to work. This isn’t his strength; Sam is much more suited for this type of work, but he won’t bring Sam in on this. If this thing goes really damn badly, then it has the potential to wipe him off the face of the earth, goodbye Dean Winchester. If this thing does what he’s halfway expecting it to, which is nothing, then he’ll have gotten Sam’s hopes up for nothing. He’s not going to expose Sam to either danger or disappointment, not when Sam’s finally managed to get to some kind of happiness. 

If everything goes well...

Dean won’t let himself think about that. 

He spends two days smoothing out the kinks in the spell, double and triple checking his translations. He gathers his ingredients, and then spends another hour pacing around the library. His stomach is roiling, and his nerves are jittery. He can’t bear to stop, but he can’t bear to move forward. 

The memory of Cas’ smile spurs him into action. Cas went to his death a willing martyr for a man who he believed didn’t love him back. He can’t let that stand. If anything else, Cas has to know. 

The drive to Pontiac, Illinois takes him the better part of a day. The impala springs forward across the asphalt, almost like she’s eager to eat up the miles after her forced retirement. Dean pushes hard down on the gas pedal, urging her forward. One way or another, this is going to come to an end tonight. 

It takes him a while to find the barn. The last time he was here, he wasn’t in his right mind, still reeling from the horrors of Hell and the confusion of finding himself alive. He’d been scared and angry, lost and so very alone. And then an angel had walked through the door and told him that good things happened, that he deserved to be saved. The last little bit might have been a line fed to Cas by a bunch of dickhead superiors, but the sentiment behind it had stayed long after those superiors were all dead. 

They replaced the doors which Cas shattered and painted over the walls which Dean and Bobby covered with sigils, but if Dean looks carefully, he can see the shadows of them behind the new coat of whitewash. He touches them gently for a second, remembering Bobby and all of the years which led him back to this place. Then he pulls out his can of spray paint and proceeds to deface the barn all over again. 

When he’s done, he sets up the ingredients on the table. The table is where it was all those years ago, facing the doors to the barn. He doesn’t quite believe that Cas is going to pull the same trick, storming through the doors in a shower of sparks, but he can always hope. 

“God...Jack,” Dean corrects himself with a wry twist of his mouth, “I really hope this works. Cas, wherever you are, I really hope you have your ears on.” 

Dean looks at his translations and begins to speak. He’s hoping that intention counts for something as his tongue stumbles over the unfamiliar words. His heart beats an uncertain pulse in his chest. This has to work. It has to work. 

He puts every ounce of belief into his voice, every bit of the faith Cas once accused him of not having. I have faith, he thinks, putting force behind his voice, sending his words rocketing into the dimensions. I believe in us. 

What’s real? 

We are.

The last syllables roll over his tongue, followed immediately by a peal of thunder. The barn shivers, a ripple rolling through the air to settle over Dean’s skin. Electricity crackles in the air, filling him with potential. 

“Castiel?” he calls to the darkness. “Cas?” 

There’s no answer, but the spells and research had been unclear on whether or not there should be an answer. He would prefer knowing that Cas was listening, but in absence of certainty, he’ll have to have faith. 

“Cas, I really hope you can hear me,” he says. The words bring back the memories of Purgatory and a time when he and Cas could barely look at each other. He pushes those memories away and concentrates on the truth he can feel in his heart, the same truth which has guided him through the years and all the way from Lebanon, Kansas to the small barn where it all began all those years ago. 

“I know you made your choice. I know you were happy. But...it’s not the same without you. I’m not the same without you. I wake up and think about you, and you’re the last thing I think about before I go to sleep at night. Every moment, you’re there because you’re not there. I look at all the places you’re missing and I can’t help but think that everything would be better if you were there.”

Dean swallows. “I miss you,” he confesses to the night. “Cas, I miss you so much. And I want you to come back. Not because I need you or because there’s something to fight against, but just because I miss you and life is better when you’re around.” He thinks of what Sam told him before he went. “There’s a new world out there, and I can’t think of who I would rather explore it with than you, but in order to do that, you’ve got to make a choice, all right?” 

His heart is pounding so hard he thinks it might explode out of his chest. “I want to share my life with you. I want to figure out this world together. I want to be able to look at you and hold you and experience everything with you. Cas, I want to tell you what I should have told you every single day for years. I’m sorry that I never told you while you were with me. And I’m sorry that the first time I say it, I’m not going to be looking at you, but it wouldn’t be our lives if something about this wasn’t shitty, right?” 

Dean takes a deep breath. “I love you, Cas. Not because of what you can do or how useful you are. I love you because of who you are and how hard you try. And I want to say it to you, every single day, for years to come. I’ve made my choice, Cas. Now you just need to make yours.” 

Silence overtakes the barn. The only sound is the faint whistling of the wind through the slats of the barn and the quick rasp of his breathing. There’s no flap of wings, no deep voice growling in his ears, no pop of electricity. 

“Please, Cas,” Dean whispers, closing his eyes to try and stop the burning behind them. “Please.” 

Thunder rolls through the barn, shaking through the wood down to the dirt floor. Dean’s head jerks upright as he scans the barn. “Cas?” he calls, hardly daring to hope. “Castiel?” 

A thin, golden thread rips open in the air before him. It looks almost exactly like the rifts between worlds which Jack used to create, but that’s not possible. 

It’s not possible, but Dean dares to hope anyway. 

“Castiel? Cas?” 

A single hand reaches out through the golden tear, and then Dean is moving, he’s practically tripping over his own feet in his haste to reach the rift. “Cas, Cas, please,” he’s saying, not quite aware of the words which are tumbling from his mouth. “Please.” 

Until his fingers grip the hand, he’s not sure that it’s real, but that’s solid flesh and bone underneath his palm. Dean pulls, feeling resistance on the other end. “No,” he grunts, reaching into the rift. His hand touches skin, and his resolve grows. He didn’t come this far only to lose. They haven’t come this far only to fall apart. 

“I want you,” he says, as though the force of his words can rip through the veil. “Cas, please, come home, Cas, please--” 

With an almighty heave, he pulls once more and then he’s falling backward, another body tumbling against his in an ungainly pile of limbs and bodies. There’s skin and there’s warm, and there’s weight. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees the rift close up, as neatly as if it were never there at all. 

He doesn’t care about that. He can’t, not now. 

Dean looks down at the body sprawled across his lap. There are miles upon miles of naked skin for him to peruse, and he hopes that he’ll be able to do so later at his leisure, but for now, all he can concentrate on are those two luminous eyes blinking up at him. 

“Cas?” Dean asks, hardly daring to believe. His hands cup Castiel’s face, fingers sweeping a few locks of dark hair off of his forehead. 

Castiel blinks at him, his dark eyelashes fanning over his cheeks. A slow smile creeps across his face, like the dawn spreading across the horizon. “Dean,” he says, his voice the same as it always was, but this time it’s better, because it’s a voice that Dean never thought he’d hear again. 

“Cas.” It’s the only word Dean seems capable of saying, but words don’t seem important anymore, not when he can lean forward and press his lips to Cas’, not when he can taste the small sigh of surprise on Cas’ lips. “Cas, I missed you so much, oh god, Cas, there’s so much I want to tell you, there’s so much I want to do--” 

Cas interrupts him with another kiss, his arms threading around Dean’s shoulders to pull him closer. Gentle fingers tug at the hair at the nape of his neck, and Dean thinks that he could live in this moment forever. 

But before he does that, there’s something else which needs to happen first. Dean pulls away, ignoring the small whine of protest from Cas. 

“Cas, there’s something I need to tell you,” he starts, only to be interrupted. 

“I know,” Cas says, his face splitting into a wide, gummy smile. No shadow lurks behind his eyes, no hint of tears glisten in his eyes. There’s just happiness, radiant and absolute, gleaming from his face. 

“I heard your prayer.” 

Maybe once upon a time, Dean would have been satisfied with that answer, but not anymore. 

“I love you,” Dean whispers, pressing the words into Cas’ skin with gentle kisses over his temple and cheeks. “I love you, I love you, I love you, and I’m going to tell you every day until you get sick of it.” 

“You’ll have to try for a very long time,” Castiel answers, his fingers tracing along Dean’s jaw. “I like hearing those words very much.” 

Dean can’t help but kiss him again. As he does so, he feels the lost and scattered pieces of his heart knitting back together until he can finally breathe for the first time in months. “Come on,” he says, once he surfaces for air. “Let’s go.” 

It only hits him then that Cas is naked. Apparently rebirth and snagging people out of alternate dimensions results in a distinct lack of clothing. Dean’s eyes want to travel over the skin revealed to him, but he waits. There will be time, he realizes with a tiny thrill of delight. He and Cas have all the time in the world.

He manages to find a blanket to wrap around Cas’ shoulders. It will do until they get out to the car where he has a spare set of clothes. For now, he helps Cas to his feet. Cas looks around him, his eyes wide and huge, as though he’s overwhelmed with the world around him. 

“Where are we headed?” Cas asks as they head towards the door. The Impala waits outside, beckoning them forward once more. 

Dean grins as the cool night air washes over them. It’s gentle and soft, eternity held in the breeze. There’s a world held within the palm of tonight, a world held within the rest of their lives. 

“Wherever we want,” he answers, stepping out of the shadow of the barn and into the world. 

As they walk towards the Impala, a light rain begins to fall. 

---

“Before, I wanted to say: "I found love!" But now, I want to say: "I found a person. And he belongs to me and I belong to him.”― C. JoyBell C.

#spn spoilers #supernatural #spn15 #15.19 coda #coda fic #destiel #destiel fic #destiel fanfic #deancas #deancas fic #dean winchester #castiel #15x19 inherit the earth #fare thee well spn #dothwrites #not beta'd we die like men here

[one-more-offbeat-anthem]

after the credits

to thirteen years of cas and of the greatest love story ever told...an empty rescue fic for y’all :) 2.3k,  read on ao3 here

--------------

After a while, Castiel gets tired of watching. He’s practically dreaming all the time, but he’s so tired.

Eternal sleep is not restful.

He can’t leave the Empty, but he manages to mold it, with his mind, into a theater. He went to one once, with Dean, and there are probably nicer theaters, like those for plays and operas, but this movie theater is right for him. If he concentrates, he can almost smell burnt, buttery popcorn and spilled soda and old carpet, and Dean right next to him, aftershave and car oil and whiskey.

Almost.

The scenes unfold in a memorable order, because they’re Cas’s own memories. At first, he tried to jump in, alter the scene, but he’s powerless. So, like clockwork, he watches. He’s saving Dean in hell. He’s being stabbed in the chest by the same man he raised. He’s asking Dean to get answers from Alastair and then almost getting the grace pressed out of him. He’s slamming his palm onto a bloody sigil. He’s--

Everything, all of his twelve years on earth, pass by, over and over and over again.

Right now, it’s an early scene, not far into the cycle. It’s not one of his favorites, because he can see the expression on his face, remembers exactly how he felt. Remembers that he he was feeling at all.

“That was a pretty awkward kiss, huh?”

Cas turns sharply at the sound of Dean’s voice. Of course, Dean does talk in this scene, before he kisses Anna. But this Dean is sitting next to him, frowning at the screen.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Cas says.

“I know.”

Chances are this is just the Empty trying to mess with him. Last week a random trashcan showed up in his theater. Or maybe it was last year, or a millenia ago, or five minutes from now. Time is weird.

They keep watching in silence. On the screen, in the memory, Cas’s head jerks away from the sight of Dean and Anna kissing. The scene flips then, to a park at night, Anna right in front of Cas, no Dean in sight.

“For the first time, I feel...” Memory-Cas says.

“It gets worse,” Anna warns.

“So your first feeling….” Dean starts.

“It was something.” Cas can’t look at him. The scene on-screen changes.

Dean, to his merit, doesn’t press.

The memories progress through the year they spent trying to stop the apocalypse, the year that ended with Sam diving into the pit and Dean going off to Lisa’s. Then through Cas starting to work with Crowley, a conversation that happened right behind Dean without his knowledge.

On-screen, Cas is watching Dean rake leaves. The expression on his face is nearly mournful. After a moment, Crowley steps into view.

“Ah, Castiel. Angel of Thursday. Just not your day, is it?” Crowley says.

“What are you doing here?” Memory-Cas asks.

“I want you to help me help ourselves.”

“Speak plain.”

Crowley smirks. “I want to discuss a simple business transaction. That’s all.”

“You want to make a deal? With me? I’m an Angel, you ass. ”

The scene flips again.

“Is there a way to pause this?” Dean asks.

Cas shakes his head. “It just does this, on a loop. I can’t sleep. The Empty won’t let me.” He puts a hand on the armrest between them. “I forced the theater up, to make it better.”

“It looks a lot like that theater we went to once.”

“I know.” Cas stares at Dean for a moment, looks away.

Many of these scenes are things Dean knows of. Cas works with Crowley, gets locked in a ring of fire, feels his chest seize up as Dean looks back for a moment. Watches the Leviathans lead him to a lake. They meet again on porch steps, Cas unable to remember who he is but still able to figure out that Dean is important. Cas gets his memories back, takes on Sam’s hell trauma. They go to Purgatory, Cas stays behind. It’s like clockwork.

Until.

“I don’t remember that,” Dean says slowly, watching himself die on the screen. “You never--you’ve never killed me.”

“Yes and no.” Cas knows what’s coming next--he’s going to kill Dean thousands of times. Each one is the same, with Cas in tears as these copies, mock-ups of Dean struggle, beg and plead, tell him not to. Each time, Naomi makes him do it again.

Until, finally, he doesn’t hesitate.

And she says he’s ready.

As they watch that scene in the crypt unfold, with the real Dean at Cas’s mercy, Dean leans forward, putting his elbows on his thighs and propping his chin in his hands. “You lied.”

“Hm?”

“You said you didn’t know what broke the connection.” Dean twists his head to look at Cas. “But you did.”

“I did,” Cas assents.

They watch Cas ride cross-country on a bus, pulling out his phone and almost calling Dean over and over again.

“Is there a way that we can see some of my memories?” Dean asks.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”.

Dean shrugs. “Well, I am here, and you figured out how to make a friggin movie theater, so I think I can do it.”

The image on the screen shudders, coalesces, breaks into a million pieces and then reforms. Dean is standing on the edge of a lake, picking up Cas’s coat, still covered in Leviathan goo. “You dumb son of a bitch,” Memory-Dean mutters, wrapping up the coat in his arms.

The scene flickers again--the coat in those same hands, moving from car to car to car, and then being passed to Cas. “I always knew you’d come back ,” Memory-Dean says. It’s a soft scene, almost, but then it flips to Dean seizing a monster’s collar in purgatory. He’s covered in blood and grime as he shoves the monster up against a tree, practically growling, “Where’s the angel?”

Even after the monster answers, Dean guts him.

It’s a cycle. The memory blurs through sleepless nights, through Dean stepping into streams to pray, prayers Cas knows well. It pushes past Cas letting go of Dean’s arm in the portal, and here’s something else new: Dean sees Cas on the side of the road, sees him outside the window while it pours down rain, sitting bolt upright at the phantom sight of Cas’s face.

“Why are you here?” Cas finally asks. This must really be Dean, after all. The Empty wouldn’t know these things, wouldn’t be able to dream them up. They’re too good, too honest.

“To bring you home.” Dean kicks the back of the seat in front of him, leans back in his own chair.

“I can’t go home.”

“You should.” The scene on screen rapidly changes--it’s Dean as he looks now, carrying a little boy on his back. The little boy is blonde, round-faced, holding onto Dean’s neck for dear life, laughing as Dean swings around.

“Is that--” No, it can’t be.

“Yep. He’s four, you know.” Dean clears his throat. “He misses you.”

“I wish I could have gotten to say good-bye.” Cas trails off.

“Come home. Then you never have to say it.”

Cas shakes his head. On the screen, Dean is reading to Jack, Jack following the words with a chubby finger. “It would be...awkward.”

“How?” Dean raises an eyebrow. “We’re family, dude. Jack misses you, Sam misses you, and Eileen’s been hanging around, and me…” Dean clamps his mouth shut.

That’s why.

“Things aren’t going to be the same. Not after…” Cas takes a deep breath. “What I said. We won’t be able to ignore it.”

“Then we won’t.”

“Dean--”

“You don’t know?” Dean’s eyebrows furrow. “You don’t know. Okay. I, uh…” The screen turns black.

“You what?” Cas is almost afraid to know.

“I didn’t want you to see this.”

The blackness unfurls into Billie’s library, Dean standing in front of her. They’re clearly in the middle of a conversation.

“What do you want me to say?” Memory-Dean asks. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t matter. ”

“Don’t you?” Billie replies.

“I couldn’t save Mom. I couldn’t save Cas. I can’t even save a scared little kid. Sam keeps trying to fix it, but I just keep dragging him down. So I’m not going to beg. Okay, if it’s my time, it’s my time.”

“Dean--” Cas starts, but Dean just looks at the floor, like he’s trying to avoid this.

“You really believe that,” Billie says. “You wanna die.”

“When was this?” Cas asks, speaking over the rest of Billie’s statement.

“It was...right before we, uh, got the call from you. That you were back.” Dean leans his head all the way up, looks at what would be the movie theater’s ceiling, if it wasn’t in the void. “I had a bad time. I…I would show it to you. But I don’t want you to see me like that. I held it together enough to wrap your body and burn it…”

“Hunter’s funeral.”

“Only kind I know how to do.” Dean swallows, audibly. “I’m doing what I can now. Having Jack to take care of, and Eileen around, too, helps. But it’s…” He finally looks at Cas again. “Please let me take you home. Please come home with me.”

Cas would do anything for Dean Winchester. He has done anything for him before. So he will grant him this, at least the illusion, because Cas knows he can’t leave the Empty. He’s trapped here for eternity.

He takes Dean’s hand.

-----------------------------------------

There is a little boy crawling on him.

“Daddy,” the boy says, poking his face, “I know you’re awake.”

“Jack,” Dean says, from somewhere up above, “Cas is still sleeping.”

Cas blinks rapidly. “‘M not.”

“Shouldn’t’ve said that.” Dean releases Jack, and Jack fully clambers onto Cas.

“I missed you,” Jack says.

“I missed you too.” Cas holds onto him, tight. He’s so small, like he’s supposed to be. A kid. Safe.

Cas thinks he might be in Dean’s bed.

The bunker, he discovers, looks much the same. He was gone for four months, in which time Dean and Sam took care of Chuck, Jack became a kid, and Eileen became a permanent fixture. When Dean and Sam aren’t looking, she signs to Cas, “He already looks better.”

“Who, Dean?” Cas signs back.

Eileen nods. “He had a pretty bad time.”

Dean turns around then, and Eileen presses a finger to her lips.

There’s not a quiet moment for the rest of the day. Sam explains what happened--”You might be human now,” he says, and Cas replies, “I’m not tired yet.”--and Jack wants Cas to read to him and play Barbies and racecars and puppets (apparently Dean built Jack’s little puppet theater, which--).

After dinner (spaghetti and meatballs, and Dean has a Coke instead of beer, Cas notices), everyone goes off to bed, and Cas realizes he is tired, which is something to think about.

He starts to head to the room he typically stays in, but Dean seizes the top of his arm. “Nope, you’re coming with me.” Dean drags Cas down the hall towards his room.

Cas hadn’t gotten a good luck at it earlier, what with Jack climbing all over him, but he sees it now. Dean’s bed unmade, scraps of random paper littered across the dresser, a picture Cas recognizes because he and Dean are wearing cowboy hats, and now he knows how Dean was really doing right before that case in Dodge City--

There’s also a dent in the wall. That’s new.

Dean follows Cas’s gaze. “I chucked a whiskey bottle at it. Sam took the rest of my stash the next day.” Dean steps over, brushing the drywall’s cracks with his fingers. “I didn’t fix it up so I wouldn’t forget.”

I couldn’t save Cas. I can’t even save a scared little kid. Sam keeps trying to fix it, but I just keep dragging him down. So I’m not going to beg. Okay, if it’s my time, it’s my time.

“Dean,” Cas says, “Tell me in words.”

“What?” Dean turns away from the wall. “Tell you what?”

“You know.”

Dean swallows, licks his lips. “I’d say don’t ever do that again on the whole dying thing, but I said that to you once and you didn’t listen. And maybe if I say it the right way now, you’ll stay, but…” Dean slumps, sits on the bed. “You can’t leave again.”

Cas touches the wall himself before sitting next to Dean on the bed. “I’m not going to.” He isn’t sure if he’s allowed to touch Dean.

Dean touches him instead, leaning into Cas, finding one of Cas’s hands, holding it tight. He’s crying, Cas realizes. “I love you,” Dean says into their joined hands, then his chest wracks with a sob. “I was always so sure that if--” another sob, “If I said it, you’d leave. Get taken away from me.”

“I’m not going to leave,” Cas repeats.

He isn’t sure how long they sit like that, but Dean finally straightens up, lets go of Cas’s hand, wipes his eyes with the back of his own. “Pajamas,” Dean says, standing and crossing to the dresser. “We gotta get you some of your own, but…” He digs a pair of sweats out of the drawer and tosses them to Cas. “These’ll do for tonight.”

Cas doesn’t ask if he can stay. Dean doesn’t ask him to leave.

With the lights out, it’s pitch black, almost as inky as the Empty, but Cas can hear Dean breathing, so close to him. The bed is almost too small for both of them, so they’re nearly chest-to-chest. Hardly ever have they been this close. Never did Cas dare to dream it.

In the dark, under the covers, the world outside of this room, Dean kisses him. It’s flat, soft, a brush of lips, the barest ghost, but it’s enough. More than enough.

Cas is home.

#offbeatwrites #it's DEANCASAVERSARY #IT'S CAS DAY #IT'S CAS'S BIRTHDAY #it's also one of my best friend's birthdays she has the best birthday huh #anyways I don't really know where this fic came from I just went hey. what if cas hadmovie theater #and I LOVEEEEE the trope of them showing each other their memories. there was so much stuff that if they'd just TALKED about it.......... #god. #anyways! enjoy :) #also yeah minor similarities to a drabble I wrote this summer #that was very much an accident but I think they're different enough

[nastychastity]

Dean grew up listening to Elton John as a little kid. John and Mary were big fans; they had many of Elton’s albums on vinyl and cassette, classics like Don’t Shoot Me I’m Only the Piano Player, Honky Chateau, and Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. When Dean was three, he would pore over the album artwork for Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy like one of his picture books. Mary and Dean would sing “Crocodile Rock” at the top of their lungs in the kitchen, both of them giggling while she stood him on her toes and rocked from side to side. John would teach Dean how to do air guitar for “Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting” in between cooking spaghetti and meatballs for dinner.

Then Dean turned four, and Sammy was born, and Mary died.

A few months after Mary's death, in the Impala on a long drive to some nowhere town, Dean quietly asked if they could listen to one of the Elton tapes, and John responded, cold and flat, "Sold them." When Dean asked why, John clenched his jaw and snapped, “Because we needed the goddamn ammo, Dean. I don’t want you listening to that queer, anyway.”

For the next near quarter of a century, Dean only heard snatches of Elton's music in random passing, drifting on the radio or playing faintly at gas stations in the middle of the night.

Then Dean made the deal to save Sam’s life that would send him to hell.

A few months before Dean is due to be ripped to shreds by hellhounds, Sam pulls a cassette tape out of his jacket pocket and pops it into Baby’s deck. The music starts, and Dean bristles, recognizing the voice immediately. The sharp, jagged bolt of angerconfusionsadness is at once strange as it is familiar. He swallows, forces it down, keeps it compact. He takes a quick, sipping breath and asks, carefully neutral, "What's this?" Sam pretends not to notice Dean’s weird reaction and smiles minutely, picking at his nail beds. "Elton John. Found a cassette at a yard sale last week. He did the music for The Lion King. You snuck us in to see that movie when I was 11, remember?"

Dean huffs and rolls his eyes. "Yeah, how could I forget? You practically begged me to steal those tickets. You were all excited about those baby lions." "I did not--" Sam cuts himself off to level a glaring bitchface at Dean, and Dean chortles, lifting his hands momentarily from the wheel in surrender. "Alright, I remember, Sammy, sheesh. Don’t get your panties in a twist. What, uh... what other stuff has he done?" Dean feigns ignorance. He learns about Elton John all over again through Sam, and it’s... it’s nice. Sam doesn’t know much about the music, but he seems to know a fair amount about the guy’s life, definitely way more than Dean ever did as a toddler. “Apparently he was married to a woman for five years,” Sam says at one point. Dean balks in surprise. “Wait, really? Isn’t he gay?” Sam shrugs. “I guess getting married was the safer option then.” This sits funnily in Dean’s chest. “If There’s a God in Heaven (What’s He Waiting For?)” leaves both of them in heavy, tense silence. Sam sniffles and clears his throat gruffly. He rasps, “Dean--” and Dean blasts the stereo, drowning Sam out. Dean has his mother back for the first time in decades. They keep each other company in the bunker kitchens when nightmares render them sleepless. Dean makes hot chocolate with cinnamon and whipped cream for both of them like Mary used to do when he was a child. He thinks about dancing to Elton John in his childhood kitchen, rocking on his mother’s toes, and something behind his ribs unfurls. He pulls up his music library on his phone and presses play on “Tiny Dancer.” He glances over to Mary after a few moments, silent, cautious. Mary’s answering smile is warm butter, and Dean breathes. On their three-year anniversary, Dean takes Cas to an old record store to buy vinyl for the jukebox player. He finds an Elton album he’s never heard before called Peachtree Road. The song titles catch his eye: “Answer in the Sky,” "Freaks in Love,” “All that I’m Allowed (I’m Thankful),” “I Stop and I Breathe,” and “I Can’t Keep This From You” stand out in particular. He drops the record in his basket. “Dean,” Cas calls. He’s standing a dozen feet away in the hip hop section, his chest and arms snug in one of Dean’s hoodies. Dean’s heart flickers at the sight. “I have found Lizzo’s newest album. This will be my purchase.” “Sounds good, babe,” Dean replies easily. “Found some Elton John, one I haven’t listened to before.” Cas tilts his head in consideration. “I don’t believe I have listened to Elton John at all.”

“First time for everything, right?” Dean quips. He adds, belatedly, “You’ll like him. He’s gay, like you.” Cas beams his radiant, gummy smile. “I’m sure I will.” Pop Rocks throw a party in Dean’s belly. He gingerly checks to make sure that the velvet ring box is still in his pocket. “Cool. Ready to go?” “Yes, Dean.”

They sway to “Your Song” for their first dance as a married couple. Dean hums the melody softly in Cas’ ear, and Cas shivers in Dean’s arms, and Dean is home.

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