#and let us bask in the glory that was this domestic heaven | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hale-of-stiles-heart · 7 years

Text

i adoor you

Inspired by this gifset (also on ao3)

Cas had never liked doors.

More often than not, he didn't even deign to open them himself. He simply used a sliver of his grace to bust open doors or gently close them behind him.

A tiny flap of his wings could send the heavy steel door of a bank vault flying off its hinges, the pitiful obstacles nothing to him. It took some restraint to avoid splintering wood doors into bits but it was an art he had quickly perfected.

He always wondered why humans had abandoned more traditional room separators. Hanging cloth and folding screens had worked perfectly for hundreds of years. Besides, they were much simpler to both make and maneuver.

Of course, he understood why humans liked them as much as they did. Doors provided more shelter, protection from the elements and invading enemies. And, perhaps most importantly, they provided privacy.

There were no doors in Heaven. Not originally.

There had been no reason to have doors. Angels did not have any privacy nor did they particularly want it.

They were siblings, brothers and sisters and fellow soldiers living together side by side all the time. What did an angel need privacy for?

They did not sleep. Or eat. Or defecate. Or change clothing. They did not copulate in the same manner as humans.

Simply put, angels did not do anything that they required privacy for. At least, not in the beginning.

Things had changed after Lucifer fell, after humans became their Father's favorite creation. After the angels began killing each other for power and prestige.

When the torture started, angels subjecting their own brethren to unspeakable horrors more suited to the conduct of demons than faithful servants of the Lord, doors made their first appearance in Heaven. More were added when some of the seraphim, namely Naomi, had taken up the practice of wiping angels' minds clean of memories.

The only other doors in Heaven led to the personal heavens of deceased humans. Even in death, humans seemed to be rather fond of their privacy.

Cas had always been envious of them in that respect. As shameful and irreverent as it may have been, Cas had often longed for solitude, for independence, for privacy and freedom. He had wanted to spread his wings and be truly free.

Rebelling against Heaven, against his brothers and sisters, against his own Father who had given him life billions of years ago had given him that chance. But he had ruined it.

In his bid to be free he had essentially clipped his own wings. He believed humans called that ironic. Or was it poetic justice?

He couldn't be sure. There had been no poetry in Heaven, either.

After falling, in every way possible for an angel, he found that he rather enjoyed poetry. But he still disliked doors.

He had never despised a door as much as the one that he was currently staring at. The loud slam still echoed in the hallway like a taunting laugh.

He had gotten into an argument with Dean. Again.

They seemed to be a more and more frequent occurrence since Cas had moved into the Bunker. He had renounced Heaven after the Darkness had made peace with God who decided to make amends with His firstborn children by returning their wings and unsealing the gates to their home.

But Heaven had never been Cas' home. Not really. No matter how many times he sacrificed and slaughtered and died for Heaven, he knew he would never be truly accepted by the flock.

He belonged with Dean and Sam. For however long as they would tolerate him. Which, apparently, was not very long.

Only a few short weeks after he had moved into the Bunker, still adjusting to the mostly sedentary lifestyle of humans, to having his own room and his own possessions few in number though they may have been, he and Dean argued for the first time.

It had been a rather trivial squabble. Cas had failed to put his dirty dishes in the dishwasher after having a midnight snack on one of the nights that sleep evaded him. He had left them in the sink instead.

He had not wanted to wake Dean or Sam by rinsing his dishes and loading the dishwasher at one a.m. He explained that to Dean, effectively ending the argument when he offered to make it right by hand washing his dishes.

His act of contrition had seemed to work. Dean dropped the issue.

Their next argument occurred only a few days later. Cas had messed up again.

He had added too much detergent to the washing machine while doing laundry. Soap suds had overflowed out of the machine and into the floor of the laundry room.

Several of Dean's shirts had been ruined. And the washer had been damaged itself.

Cas had been wracked with guilt about both. He procured the new part for the washing machine but he could replace the damaged shirts without using his grace.

It only took an ounce, metaphorically speaking, of his grace to return the shirts to their former glory but Dean had remained upset. Cas had spent two days scrubbing the laundry room clean in order to make amends.

But as hard as Cas tried to acclimate to life at the Bunker, he always seemed to do something wrong, always seemed to do something that upset Dean. He hated himself for it with a fiery passion he had once reserved for only the most vile and vicious of Heaven's enemies.

He was supposed to be Dean's friend, his protector, and yet all he did was disappoint and upset him. All he did was fail him, over and over and over again.

After the washing machine incident, Cas just seemed to do everything wrong.

He was given cooking duty one night and burned dinner because he didn't realize how fast grilled cheese sandwiches cooked. Another night, he accidentally spilled some ink on one of Dean's copies of Busty Asian Beauties.

A week later, he somehow mucked a spell by adding just a hint too much of belladonna nectar. Dean ended up with bright purple hair for a week, instead of being immune to the thrall of the witch casting love spells in Florida.

On a hunt in Ohio, Cas got distracted while he was supposed to be playing bait for a shapeshifter and almost let the monster get away. He had been rather distracted when the bartender of the establishment he was staking out started flirting with him, complimenting his blue eyes and informing him that he had a pretty smile.

While Sam had been rather frustrated as well, though he was also quite amused by the situation, Dean had been furious. He had given Cas a harshly worded lecture on the ride back to their hotel room where Cas was stuck sleeping on the lumpy futon, the sound of the drug-fueled marathon of sex happening in the next room ringing in his ears all night.

No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried to improve himself, he always managed to screw up somehow.

He watched hours upon hours of various cooking shows, devoured every cookbook that he could find, yet his cooking skills remained 'piss poor' according to Dean. He assisted Sam with his household chores, listening attentively to all of the man's instructions so as not to make any more mistakes — he even took notes — but Dean still found fault in the way he folded clothes and cleaned the bathroom.

But Cas could look past of all that. Because their arguments only accounted for a mere fraction of their interaction.

Most of the time, his life in the Bunker was a dream. More of a heaven than the place where he had lived for billions of years of his life.

When they weren't driving across the country and staying in cheap motels that reeked of stale beer and cigarettes, they basked in their own type of domestic bliss.

Dean cooked dinner almost every night and breakfast every morning, swaying side to side in his comfy bathrobe as he blasted Led Zeppelin and Bob Seger on his pink iPod. After eating just a few of Dean's home cooked meals, suppressing his grace enough so that he could taste the food rather than the molecules in it, Cas understood why humans were such fans of eating.

The first time he tried pie, a decadent slice of chocolate pecan pie in a Boise diner, his eyes had rolled back into his head and he had let out a moan so loud the elderly couple at the next table had gawked at him, scandalized. Sam and Dean had dissolved into hysterical laughter, though Dean had looked more flushed than when he usually laughed.

Most nights, he ended up sandwiched between Sam and Dean on the couch they had moved into one of the empty rooms to create a den. They had found a decent sized television at a local yard sale along with a DVD player and had started building up quite the collection of DVDs.

Dean would make popcorn drenched in melted butter and salt while Sam would roll his eyes and grab a few beers while Cas finished getting comfortable on the couch. It was much nicer than the ones he usually slept on when they were on the road.

Other nights, they found different ways to entertain themselves. From another yard sale, one in Columbus, Sam had purchased a handful of board games. Dean had bought a game himself, something called Cards Against Humanity.

It was a crude game, full of sexual innuendos and crass toilet humor, but Dean seemed to enjoy it, inviting Charlie to play with them a few times. He appeared to enjoy it even more when Cas joined in, always laughing raucously whenever the angel won a round.

Sam preferred more family friendly games, straightforward board games with simple goals and easily understandable premises. Cas had similar feelings on the matter but every once in awhile he would be the one to suggest a round of Cards Against Humanity, if only to see the way Dean's face lit up.

They ventured into town every now and then for more than just groceries and rolls of toilet paper, for weekend farmer's markets and local craft shows. And Dean hadn't been able to say no to a trip to a local music store that had vinyl records in stock.

Cas' favorite outing had been to the quaint, independently owned bookstore that was nestled between a pet store and a local diner. The feeling of being surrounded by books, works of fiction and fantasy far removed from the purely informational tomes in the Bunker, had been humbling.

He had lingered among the stacks for hours, running his fingers over the spines of books, mumbling their titles under his breath. Sam and Dean had just let him browse for as long as he liked, looking on with soft smiles.

It had been one of the most wonderful days of his life.

But the memory of that day was faded and far away, buried under the mountain of guilt and despondency that threatened to crush him completely as he stared at Dean's bedroom door. The door that had been slammed in his face. The door that stood between him and the man he had given up everything for.

He and Dean had been working on reorganizing some of the shelves in the library. They had been separating the books by subject, by the supernatural creatures they primarily dealt with, so they could alphabetize them later.

Cas had mistakenly set down a book detailing the different types of Greek nymphs and the methods most efficient for killing them in the pile of books about Celtic spirits. Dean had immediately snapped at him, launching into a lecture. Their argument had burgeoned from there.

It ended with Dean throwing the book in his hand onto the table and stomping down the hall to his bedroom. Hoping to somehow placate Dean, Cas had followed him, rushing after him in desperation.

But his bid to end their argument early was almost cruelly dashed when Dean finally made it to his bedroom doorway. He whirled around to face Cas, all but screaming, "Y'know what, Cas? Why don't you go fuck off somewhere like you always do?! Go hang out with your little angel pals and leave me the hell alone!"

The door had been rudely slammed shut in Cas' face not a second later, leaving the angel to stare at the numbers designating Dean's bedroom as Room 11. The sound of the door slamming and Dean's words echoed in his head.

Both were loud and jarring, conveying the same message: leave. Get out. Dean doesn't want you here. Cas could feel it reverberating throughout his entire body, coursing through his very grace until he could feel in the tips of his hidden, newly restored wings — the dejection that threatened to swallow him whole.

Breathing suddenly became more difficult as though something had a vice grip on his throat and was squeezing tightly, trying to crush his windpipe. It was almost like drowning, the burning in his lungs and the feeling of sinker lower and lower beneath the waves of his despair.

The dark wood of the door seemed to stare back at him with an angry glare, cruelly reminding him that he was being barred from the man he cared about more than anything. He wanted nothing more than to break down the door, to explode it into a million splinters with a burst of his grace, but he couldn't.

It would be a violation of Dean's privacy. It would only make Dean hate him more. If that was even possible.

He hated the door. He hated the fact that he was so terrible at everything. Hated himself.

He had done it again. He had upset Dean, had driven him away for what seemed like the millionth time.

And he didn't know how to make it right. Ideas pinged through his head, half-baked and full of room for error, but they were all he had. So, he went through with them.

He walked back to the library, feeling oddly numb. The quiet of the Bunker was almost suffocating, both Sam and Dean in their respective bedrooms, as Cas finished sorting the books.

He was meticulous, careful not to make another mistake. After separating the books by subject, he set to work alphabetizing them on the bookshelves.

It was quick work, tedious and routine like the process of cleaning a gun. But he had messed that up too when Dean had shown him. He had used too much solvent.

Shaking his head to clear away the nagging reminder of all the times that he had failed to do the most simple of tasks, Cas had finished restocking the shelves. He decided to dust afterwards.

Then, he cleaned the kitchen. And the bathroom. He rearranged one of the supply closets so the extra towels, cleaning supplies, and various other supplies were easier to find.

Hours later, when the afternoon had turned to night and Cas found himself exhausted despite the fact that he did not require actual rest. But returning to his own room only made him feel more abject.

He only remained in his room long enough to kick off his shoes and grab the blanket from off his bed, the same one that Dean had wrapped around him while he was still suffering from the effects of Rowena's spell.

He returned to Dean's room afterward to find the door still closed, still locking out Cas more effectively than any sigil ever could. For lack of anything better to do, he plopped down beside Dean's door, the floor cold beneath him.

He draped the blanket over himself, breathing in the faint scent of Dean that still clung to it. He tipped his head back, leaning against the wall of the hallway as he stared up at the ceiling.

In the morning, he told himself as he closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep. Things will be better in the morning.

In the morning, Cas woke to the sound of a door opening, the hinges squeaking. He snuffled, keeping his eyes closed as he tugged the blanket higher up his back.

He didn't want to wake up yet, he wanted to stay in that peaceful unconsciousness. He couldn't screw anything up in his dreams.

But the universe seemed determined to rouse him from his slumber. The creak of the door hinges seemed to grow louder as a gruff voice demanded, "What the hell?"

Cas finally opened his eyes, squinting to shield his eyes from the bright lights of the hallway. He scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, blinking to clear his vision as he peered upward towards where he had heard the sleep-rough voice.

Dean was standing above him, pillow creases on his right cheek and five o'clock shadow darkening the sharp line of his jaw. His hair was messy, flattened against his skull in some places while it stuck up wildly in others.

He was wearing the same shirt as the day before, a dark gray Henley with two of the buttons undone. It was wrinkled, like Dean had slept in it along with his faded jeans.

He looked extremely tired, dark shadows under his eyes that seemed less bright than usual. There was tension in his shoulders, like any sleep he may have gotten was not restful.

"Good morning, Dean," Cas rasped, straightening up as he drew his knees to his chest. "I—"

"You're still here," Dean said incredulously, cutting Cas off before he could apologize. His eyes were wide as he said it, full of disbelief and confusion.

"Of course, I'm still here," Cas replied, his brows furrowing as he returned Dean's look of incredulity. Why would Dean think he would leave? Because he had snapped at Cas? Where else was the angel supposed to go? But more importantly, Cas pointed out, "This is my home."

Dean blinked. And opened his mouth to gape at Cas.

Cas was just about to ask Dean if he was alright when he was cut off again, this time by a pair of lips being pressed against his own.

Warm hands cupped his face, rough thumbs tracing over his cheekbones. The faint scent of whiskey and the fancy name brand soap that Dean preferred filled his nose.

And while he was completely taken aback, he was also overwhelmed with a feeling of rightness as Dean kissed him.

A moment later, before Cas could even attempt to kiss Dean back, the hunter ended the kiss in favor of wrapping his arms around Cas' shoulders and tugging him into a tight hug. He pressed his lips to Cas' temple as he breathed, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Cas. I've been treating you like shit."

Before Cas could open his mouth to dismiss Dean's apology, to ensure him that he wasn't, Dean rushed on, "I was scared. And I know that's not an excuse but I was, man. I was so scared."

"I was just waiting for you to get tired of slumming it with a couple of hunters and run back to Heaven," Dean explained, running his hand up and down Cas' back as he cradled the angel to his chest. "I figured you'd do it eventually so I just gave you a little nudge. I'm so sorry, Cas. I always fuck everything up."

"Shh..." Cas hushed, curling his arms around Dean, slipping a hand into Dean's hair to run his fingers over the hunter's scalp. Voice quiet and calm, he murmured, "It's alright, Dean. You haven't fucked anything up. This is my home, you're my home, I'll never run back to Heaven."

Dean let out a watery laugh, tightening his arms around Cas who buried his face in the crook of Dean's neck. That was how Sam found them half an hour later, smiling to himself as he stepped back into his room, closing the door behind himself.

#i don't know what this is #destiel #cas hates doors #angst #with a happy ending #fluff #getting together #dean has abandonment issues #cas is understanding #kissing #hugs

42 notes · View notes