#my first spn fic

[crushedbyhyperbole]

Whiskey on the Tongue

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: You are the forbidden fruit Dean had always wanted to taste, and when you steal his whiskey the way you do, he is powerless to resist.

Words: 2.2k

A/N: This is my first ever Supernatural fic after having started watching the show just before Christmas. I know I'm late to the game but is it ever really too late to start loving a fandom? I've tried to make the reader generic in every way other than being cis-female, and Dean finding her hot.

It's been an absolute age since I wrote anything and probably longer since I posted anything here on Tumblr but I'm getting back into it now. Hopefully this finds its way to people in the Supernatural fandom who love a bit of Dean smut.

I hope you enjoy and, as always, I value your comments and feedback.

Warnings: Smut, explicit smut, alcohol consumption, mentions of people who have passed away, profanity as standard with pretty much everything I write.

*** Minors do not read or interact - 18+ content ***

Dean let his head fall back against the headboard, clenching his fists to try to distract himself from the deep ache in his left leg.  It had been falling asleep for well over an hour now, but he didn’t want to move and disturb you.

The door to his room in the bunker was closed.  Locked, in fact, though he did not remember doing it.  You didn’t comment or so much as move when Sam brayed on the door and tried the handle, calling out for Dean to return his book.  The very book that was in your hands right now.

“I need that book back, Dean.”  Sam grumbled.

“Not now, Sammy!”  Dean called back, hoping his little brother would just go away.

“I’m researching Nephilim to help Cas with the Kelly situation, Dean.  It’s important.”  Sam became more insistent.

“I said NOT NOW, SAM!”  Dean hollered with a kind of finality that even Sam wouldn’t argue with.

Outside the door, Sam huffed and stalked away.  Dean looked down to see you looking up at him from your position, lay on his bed.  Your head was resting on his left calf, his leg bent with his foot tucked under his right knee.  You had your knees up with your foot tapping along to his banging playlist, your jeans tight around your thighs and with your head tilted back he could see all the way down the deep V of your t-shirt.

He was going to hell.  Straight there.  Do not pass go.  Do not collect two hundred dollars.  And he probably deserved it.

He snapped his eyes up towards the ceiling but it was too late, he could feel himself stirring uncomfortably in his jeans.  If Bobby was alive he would have skinned him raw just for having you in his room.  Bobby was always protective of you, his niece.  You were only a couple of years younger than Sam but Bobby had made himself very clear that you were off limits.

“If you touch one single hair on her body, I’ll make you regret the day your balls dropped.  Do you hear me, boy?”

Bobby Singer.  That man did not mince his words.  And to this day, Dean had taken that threat as gospel.  Even now that Bobby was up there with the Angels, that son of a bitch would find a way to keep his word.

You shifted, causing a painful twang to shoot up his leg.  The reflexive grunt he failed to stifle made you look back up at him, giving him that glorious view again.

Dean decided he could die like this.  If having a dead leg was a legitimate threat to his life, he would go out happy with the view of your rack in that lacy black bra he could see within the V-shaped window of that too-tight t-shirt.

He raised his eyes, once again to heaven, asking Bobby to forgive him or give him strength or something because – god help him – he wanted to take you right then and there.

It wasn’t unusual for you to seek him out after a case when you didn’t want to be alone, but you didn’t want to talk.  You would just sit while he drank, reading or working on spells.  You said he quieted the noise in your head.  Hell, he wasn’t going to argue, you were a sight for sore eyes every time he came home.  You were wicked hot and sexy in a non-slutty way.  Not that slutty was bad.  Dean liked slutty.  But that wasn’t you, you were different.

A drink.  That’s what was missing.  Dean needed a damn drink, especially if you were going to torture him by laying on him all evening.

He reached over to his bedside unit, for the bottle he kept in there for special occasions.  A bottle of twenty-five-year-old Speyside single malt that he liberated from the British Men of Letters on his last interaction with Ketch.

The pour made you stir again but it wasn’t until he raised the cut crystal tumbler to his lips did you move.  Your hand came up and claimed the glass from underneath, twisting it as you sat up so as not to spill any.

“Where’s yours?”

The cheeky glint in your eye had him pursing his lips in mild annoyance.

“Don’t pout.”  You lifted the glass, turning it until the mark left by his lips touched yours and you sipped, looking him straight in the eye.

Dean’s jaw went slack.  The glisten of the whiskey on your lips and the satisfied hum you made when you swallowed – he swallowed unconsciously when you did – made his mouth go dry.  He had never seen you like this.

You moved to kneel on the bed and walked your way slowly closer, giving his leg a tap; an instruction to move it aside.  He did, causing pins and needles to infest his nerves like ants swarming on a log to escape a flood.

Knelt between his spread legs, you brought the glass to your lips again, sipping at the amber liquid.  You leaned in.

Dean watched you, breathing shallow, attention rapt.  You hadn’t so much as touched him, yet every nerve in his body felt like it was on fire in the best possible way.  The closer you got the shallower he breathed until he was almost holding his breath, looking down his nose at how close your lips were.  His eyelashes looked to flutter against his cheeks just as yours did when you brushed your whiskey dappled lips against his.

He refused to lick where you had been.  He couldn’t.  As soon as he tasted, he would pounce, and…

“Don’t.”  He croaked out when you moved to lay your lips on him once more.

You looked confused but at least you didn’t look hurt.  He couldn’t bear it if you looked hurt because of him.

“Bobby…”  Was all he could say through his constricting throat.

You smiled then, full of amusement, lips brushing against his, you whispered “he’ll understand.”

Dean tried not to respond to you but you coaxed his lips apart and teased your tongue to meet his, short circuiting his brain.  The taste of the scotch and the sweetness of your mouth made him groan.  He had fantasised about having you for years, but never did he think it would be you seducing him.

His hands on your hips guided you roughly to straddle him, the bulge in his jeans pushing up against you as you settled.  He took the glass from your hands and downed the contents, his eyes on yours as he dropped the glass carelessly on the bedside unit.

Your lips met his again but this time you devoured each other, tongues stroking together, moans stifled by each other’s mouths.  He trailed his hands up your body, dragging your t-shirt along with them.  Finally, he could see what he had been having glimpses of this whole evening.  Plush breasts cupped in scant lace that was completely impractical for a hunt, Dean realised, like you had meant to come here like this.  You had intended this from the beginning.

He tore at the lace, dragging it under your breasts to free them, shoulder straps slipped down.  Pawing at them like he had never touched a tittie before, all he wanted to do was suck and nip and nibble.

Your breathy sigh was divine, and the moan that followed was filthy.  You cupped the back of his head as he took your nipple into his mouth and sucked hard, pressing him further, asking for more.

While he worked on your breasts you undid his belt and fly, reaching into the front of his shorts to release him from the awkward angle at which he was trapped.  You stroked him, firm but slow, feeling him for the first time.  You had always wondered what he had going on down there that every woman he had ever been with would come back for more at the drop of a hat.  You weren’t disappointed.

Dean lifted his hips, you thought to allow you to push his jeans down but instead he flipped you, making you squeal.  Once under him, he ravished your breasts anew, pinching one nipple hard while licking and sucking the other.  Soon you were a mewling mess, hips writhing, begging for something he hadn’t given you yet.  Excited that he had taken control away from you, you watched him sit up and yank your jeans down, lifting your legs until they were bare.  Your knickers followed and he spread your legs without preamble, lowering himself between your thighs until his hair and eyes were all you could see above your mound.

“Jesus Christ of Nazareth!”

You groaned as he suckled against your sensitive spot.  Fuck, he was good with his tongue.  Everything about him was good except his image.  Bad boy Dean Winchester.  He was every woman’s wet dream.  He had been your wet dream since you were seventeen.  But now you were plenty old enough and finally getting what you wanted.

Bobby had told you to stay away from him when you were a kid.  Dean had a reputation as a ladies man even then, but he respected your uncle Bobby enough to keep his distance… until now.

Dean dipped two fingers inside, creating pressure in exactly the right spot.  You gasped and gripped his hair as your pleasure began to crest, tugging on it for dear life.  He looked up at you then, to see your eyes closed against the intensity of it, neck and face flushed red with your oncoming orgasm.  When it came, the pulsing of your core was his sign to slow down.  He left off his suckling and stroked you through the pleasure, watching you all the while.  You were a beautiful mess.

“That’s my girl.”  He praised you in that deep rough tone you adored, helping prolong your climax until you took his hand away yourself.  “Are you ready for me?”

You nodded, allowing him to lift your knees up and stroke the weeping tip of his cock over your swollen clit.

From the front pocket of the jeans he still wore, he pulled a foil packet with Trojan embossed on it.  He was swift with its application, aiming his tip just so.

When he slid home, your eyes rolled back and you reached to grip his forearms.  It was something Dean would never get tired of seeing but it felt that much different with you.  You were the forbidden thing he had always wanted but could never have.  Even now he didn’t know whether he would come to regret this.  God, he hoped not.

Balls deep in you, he leaned forward to kiss you, wrapping your legs around his hips.  His instinct was to fold you in half and pound the living shit out of you, but you were already overwhelmed and he wanted to make this soft for you.

“Tell me what you need.”  He spoke softly as he nuzzled your neck.

“Just you, like this.”  You sighed.  Who knew Dean Winchester was a considerate lover.

His slow, measured thrusts brought you closer to the edge, your core fluttering each time, he could feel it.  It surprised him how quickly is climax built at this pace, but the added connection you both shared seemed to turn him on.  He would never give up Busty Asian Babe porn but he could get used to this with you.

You didn’t close your eyes against the pleasure this time, you watched him come undone above you, gasping as his orgasm made his legs and arms shake, muscles clenched tight to keep his weight from collapsing on you.  When he swelled you dug your fingers into his hips to pull him deeper with each stroke, and when he spilled you also came, eyes fluttering shut finally.

Dean knelt up, slipping the rubber off as soon as he was clear of you and, tying a knot in the end, tossed it in the direction of the trash can.

“Shot.”  You said with a smile as the sticky bundle went straight in the can.

He quirked and eyebrow and give you a slightly smug lopsided smirk that said:  What can I say?  I don’t miss.

When you moved to sit, he stopped you.

“Here, lemme get that.”

“Thanks.”

He stripped his t-shirt off and used it to clean up the wetness between your legs.  Though none of it was his, it would still dribble when you moved.  Afterwards he tucked it under your ass and flopped down on the bed at your side, moving his arm behind your head so you could rest it on his chest.  You were both content.  Both had goofy grins on your faces.  Both disbelieving that you had finally gotten what you wanted.

A loud knock at the door started you.

“Are you done?”  Sam said.  “I need that book.”

“NO!”  You and Dean shouted back in unison, laughing afterwards.

“Bobby’s gonna kill you.”  Sam called back through the door.

“I KNOW!”  Dean yelled gruffly, pulling you closer.

There might be a time in the future where the ghost of Bobby Singer came to make him regret the day his balls dropped and, if it happened, Dean would be happy to see him again.  In the meantime, you and he could work on a whole bunch of reasons to make the cranky old bastard come down from up high for a visit.

Dean pulled the sheets over both of your heads, nibbling at your neck until you moaned his name.  Aside from the roar of Baby’s engine, he had found his new favourite sound.

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester smut #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fanfiction #spn #supernatural fic #spn fanfic #dean winchester fic #cloudy's writing #my first spn fic

[caught-a-dragonfly]

Red Alert

#when you can't write fic so you have to draw it ✌ #dean winchester #castiel #sam winchester #mary winchester #claire novak #spn art #spn fanart #this triptych absolutely took over my life 🥴 #i hope it's legible #this is my first time really diving into red light like this #(and it does funny things to the eyes lol) #anyway enjoy this ensemblenatural piece <3

[dykeydean]

DSM-V (there are five dick sucking manuals?)

Dean has no strong opinions on his new therapist. Really. Doesn't think about his hands, or his eyes, and definitely doesn't google "can therapists fuck their patients" before he goes to sleep.

He'd like to go on record saying he was against therapy in the first fucking place.

(in which Dean goes to therapy, and breaks a few HIPAA regulations along the way)

#first chapter posted! #hoping for semi regular updates but we'll see #enjoy :) #my writing #my fics #destiel #dean winchester #castiel #ezra posts #spn fic

[sunlightdances]

Stay (Dean Winchester x OFC)

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Original Female Character Rating: PG-13 for swearing and mentions of sex. Summary: Dean and Avery have a two-night stand, and after that weekend, they go their separate ways. They never expected to see each other again, but the universe has other plans. A/N: Guys, where do I even begin? It’s been ages. I miss you. I see your messages, your likes, your reblogs. Thank you. Here’s this. I wrote a lot of it on my phone, so bear with me if there are typos.

It just goes like this, doesn't it?

One night where the both of them could let go of expectations, of being who the universe was making them be. One night.

But just like they knew they didn't have a choice but to be who the universe wanted them to be, they should have known the universe would pull the absolute worst April Fool's Day prank of all time.

They gape at each other, minds racing as images of tangled sheets, open mouths, and moonlit smiles come flooding back.

The task at hand doesn't let them linger too long.

She's firing with military precision, and he's right there with her, sweat dripping down his jaw as he reloads round after round, wondering if the universe put them both here to die together.

But then Sam shows up, like he always does. He saves them both, and the three of them save the day.

It takes longer for Dean to work up the courage to look her in her eyes. He feels-- he feels ashamed somehow, that he let her go that rainy Sunday morning.

There was never an argument or anything. They both just knew it was time. She had said she had to catch a flight and get back to work, and he lied and told her he had to do the same thing.

They had two nights of connection, of passion, but also of affection. He told her things he never told anyone. They spent a Saturday night fully clothed, eating take out straight from the containers in a hotel's king-sized bed. He felt comfortable with her like he hadn't felt with anyone in years.

And yeah, it sucked when she left. He sort of hoped there'd be a knock on the door saying she missed her flight, but he wasn't sad. They both knew what they were signing up for when they met at the bar that Friday night, eyes only for each other.

Still, he thinks he's remembered her kiss every day since.

He still thinks no one has ever touched him like she did.

So, yeah, he's a little angry and flustered when he sees her here, because she said she worked in marketing or some bullshit, and while he didn't expect her to be totally truthful with a stranger, this is a little too coincidental to be believed.

She bats his hands away when he offers to help her bandage a big scrape on her leg, and he tries not to make a face at the rejection. He's very aware of Sam watching him closely, but he has no idea what to say.

There's no point in lying about knowing her. He told Sam that he had spent a weekend with a woman the day he came home from his impromptu trip, but that it was nothing special, nothing but some no strings attached fun.

Turns out Dean might be the one who had a few strings.

.

Her face feels like it's on fire. Her game plan so far is just to refuse to speak to him, but that feels a bit stupid given the situation they just found themselves in.

Jesus Christ, but he couldn't have said he was Dean Winchester when they met? To be fair - she didn't give a lot of details about herself either. They didn't even really talk about work except when she said there was no way she could stretch her trip into one more day. She had to work.

(She lied about work just like he did, but that's neither here nor there)

She just never thought she'd still be thinking about him months later, much less seeing him in person. In the middle of a hunt.

She did have a real job. She wasn't lying about that. Her work for the FBI is very, very, VERY top secret. Fringe Division has been practically dead for years, but ever since the almost-apocalypse (she supposes she has Dean to thank for that, too), their work is more important than ever.

She was just supposed to be doing field work. Recon. She was never supposed to get involved, but here she is, trying to put a bandage on herself in the middle of the woods.

She can’t stop herself from watching his hands, remembering when they traced every inch of her skin and made her gasp and writhe and the way in the next breath they’d find a ticklish spot and make her laugh.

It’s just all so unbelievable.

Sam is the one to break the ice, which feels inevitable. “So. Anyone want to explain this?” He gestures between her and Dean.

Dean’s jaw clenches. For a moment she feels frustrated because why is he angry? They parted mutually. They both told lies and half truths and let themselves escape in high thread count sheets and each other.

She thrusts out her hand. The one not currently covered in blood. “Avery Harper.”

“Avery.” Sam repeats.

“Technically it’s Special Agent Avery Harper, but I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Dean chokes out a laugh, but it’s a little bitter. Avery’s smile doesn’t meet her eyes.

“I think we have a lot of catching up to do,” she suggests. “Food?”

She turns and heads toward her car before anyone says anything else. She hears a whispered argument, an exasperated sigh, and then finally the sound of footsteps on the crushed gravel. A hand grabs her elbow a moment later, then releases her like she’s on fire.

“We look like shit.” Dean’s voice is gruff. “Pizza at our place instead.”

The drive to their place is pleasant, at least. She struggles to keep up with Dean’s car, but she suspects he’s doing it on purpose so she lets him. He’s never truly out of her sight. She uses the time to try to work her way out of this, but decides there’s no point.

The only thing she needs to do is make them understand she’s not trying to take over their turf and that she has no interest in arresting them, and hope that they hear her out.

She follows along a long dirt driveway. The building looks rundown from the outside, but she trusts them. Trusts Dean.

Inside, she’s not ashamed of the way her mouth falls open as she takes in the gleaming tiles and smooth wood. The place is incredible.

“The inner sanctum?”

“Something like that.” Dean mutters, brushing past her. They both pause at the contact.

“I’m going to…. order pizza”. Sam says, quickly making himself scarce.

She and Dean stand there in the fading sunlight streaming in through a nearby window, and the light catches on his eyes. He’s hurt. She can see that, and she does feel guilty. Even though they were both doing the same thing, she’s realizing now that he probably would have loved to know he was completely understood.

That night, even though she didn’t know who he was, she felt a connection that was deeper than attraction. Now she knows why.

“I didn’t know who you were.” She says, hands tightening at her sides.

“How is that possible?”

“Not every agent is out to get you.”

He smirks. “Most of my interactions with the feds say the opposite.”

She exhales.

He rubs a hand over his face. The sound of his stubble scratching against weathered palms takes her back to a warm bed, a feeling of being so cocooned with someone else she couldn’t tell where he ended and she began.

“Is Avery even your real name?” He asks, voice rough.

“Yes.”

A beat. “Marketing?”

She can’t help but laugh. “I didn’t know what to say!”

“You could have bragged about having a badass job.”

She’s surprised, but tries not to show it. “So could you.”

He shrugs. “Wanted to… shed it.”

“Me too.” She admits softly.

This time when he meets her eyes, his are vulnerable, a dark green that leaves goosebumps on her arms. “I—“ he stops himself. She wishes he wouldn’t. He changes tactics. “Let me take a look at that arm.”

“It’s alright-“

“Ave. Let me.”

A shortened version of her name hits her right in the gut. It’s familiar, intimate in a way she hadn’t been expecting. “Okay.” She relents.

.

He can’t take his eyes off her.

He was angry for a minute, he felt off guard, off kilter, but now that she’s in front of him he can’t bring himself to hold a grudge. He’s just happy to see her.

The FBI.

What a fucking day.

She doesn’t tell him much about why she was hunting, how she knew about the fight he and Sam were in on, how she showed up right when they did and where any of her intel came from.

They’ve always known that someone somewhere in the feds had an inside track, and it always bothered him. But because it’s her, he can’t find it in himself to be angry.

He thinks of the way she didn’t hesitate, just set up shoulder to shoulder with him and aimed her weapon like she’d be damned if anyone or anything tried to get close to the Winchesters.

He’s pretty amazed by her, he’s got to admit. She’s everything he’s ever wanted wrapped up in the most beautiful package, and that’s what makes him pause. Because he’s never allowed to have good things for long.

In his bathroom he inspects her wounds, uses the excuse to crowd her a little bit, inhales the familiar scent of citrus and vanilla that follows her like a cloud.

If she notices she doesn’t say anything and he’s grateful.

Her hand fits just so in his.

“Thank you.” She says eventually.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“Dean—“

He looks up, sees her eyes uncertain, a little wild.

She kisses him before he can take his next breath. It sends heat sizzling up his spine, electricity crackling in the space between them.

It’s exactly how he remembers it, and somehow more. More because they’re truly themselves now, no secrets between them.

His hands are in her hair. Hers are tight on his hips, digging in, a desperation in her touch that he's relieved to feel, proof that he isn't the only one feeling this way.

When the need for air is too much, they wrench apart, gasping. Her mouth goes to his neck, and his lips find her forehead, and he can't do this again. He can't pretend.

"Wait. Avery, wait."

Her eyes are unfocused when she looks at him. "Sorry--"

He shakes his head. "Don't be. I-- god, I wanted that. I just... it's too much. I can't."

"I've thought about this for months." She admits, and his eyes slide shut.

"Don't tell me that."

"It's the truth." When he opens his eyes again, her smile is sad, but there's a bit of hope there too, and it makes his heart pick up speed. "I didn't want to go, that morning. I wanted to give you my number, I wanted to see you again."

"I did too. I wanted you to come back."

"It feels cursed, Dean." She says quietly. "This-- this is all too much of a coincidence."

He nods. "I know. But-- is that so bad?" He leans close, lips at her temple. Can't stop touching her. "Can't we just give ourselves something to be happy about?"

"We do have a lot to fill each other in about." She agrees, words sounding more like a moan in the quiet room.

"Stay." His voice is hoarse. "Stay with me. We'll figure it all out after."

He's tired of denying himself things he wants, things that make him happy. And if all the decisions he's made over the last few months, every thought and every choice have lead him right back here to her, then who is he to question it?

She stays.

#dean winchester x ofc #dean winchester x oc #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfiction #dean winchester fanfiction #not my first original fic on this blog in like 3 years #god #i had a thought and it wouldn't go away

[hauntedpearl]

Endverse, Kind of MCD, 2.4kwords, Gen (ao3)

At the end of everything, there is still him. Cas. There is still Cas.

It's just that Dean doesn't know if it's a blessing or a curse.

His brother — Lucifer — is long gone. So is the other him. The one whose world hasn't gone to all shit yet. Who still has the chance to do the right thing.

Dean hopes he's doing it — whatever it is, because he sure as hell can't figure it out, even now.

Hopes that whatever happens, it doesn't end like this.

It hurts to move, hurts to breathe, hurts to think.

(He's doing all those things anyway. What else is new?)

"Reckless," Cas hisses from somewhere to his left. "I fucking told you it was reckless."

Dean doesn't respond, stares at up at the sky instead.

It's a good sky, all this considered. Here, at the end of everything.

Cloudless, and blue, like the world on the cusp of a warm summer. Like ice cream on a park bench. Sunglasses and sundresses.

Like his —

Like Cas' eyes. Or like they used to be.

It's a nice blue, is all.

Dean's glad to be looking at it.

"Sorry," he says, and his throat is scratched and torn, voice drenched in his own blood. He swallows, tries not to choke on it. Then, "Should've — Should've just stayed back, huh?"

Cas laughs, and it sounds like the rattling of the world. Like it hurts.

Dean's sure it does. Cas had looked like death warmed over when he'd crawled up to Dean on his hands and knees after everything, collapsing at his side.

He'd sighed, and the world went quiet, and it was selfish, but Dean was so fucking glad to have him, just then. Beside him. With him. Here, at the end of everything.

Dean doesn't know what exactly happened to Cas — if it was demons or the Croats or even Lucifer himself. Or a shitty fucking combination of the three. Cas won't tell, he knows, and Dean's not going to waste his last breaths asking.

It's the end of everything. And Dean's just glad for the company.

"Like that was ever a choice," Cas says, now, and he sounds bitter. He sounds helpless. A little smug, too. Sounds a lot like he has been for the past couple of years.

Dean blinks, drinking in the sky one last time. Rolls his neck so he's facing Cas instead.

"Fuck!" he swears, because it hurts like a motherfucker but atleast he can see Cas now. He can look at his face — human, and divine, all at once. It looks bashed in. Dean tries to not focus on that. Or the trickle of blood that carves its way down his chin. Tries to look at his eyes instead. The whites are shot with red — a burst blood vessel, if Dean would have to guess — but the irises are as blue as ever. Not the same as the sky, no, but close enough.

Dean loves them, always has. Loves looking at them.

"Of—Of course it was a choice," he says, now. "I — I didn't m—make you."

Cas smiles at him, close-mouthed, all bloody lips and regret. "Oh, you did, Dean. You always have."

And Dean knows what he means. Understands.

(He doesn't want to, though. But that's nothing new, either.)

"Th—Think you've got one last miracle in you, Cas?" he asks, and it's mostly in jest. But—

If—

Well.

Here's the thing about life— it can suck as all hell, but you'll still want to keep living it. All the time in the world, and it'll still never be enough. And Dean's here, at the end of everything, on purpose. By design. He chose this. Still — somewhere underneath all that hurt and hopelessness and the drive to just end it, he wants to live.

He's always wanted to.

He'll keep wanting to until there's nothing left of him to want with.

Cas pauses for a moment, almost like he's taking stock. Then, "No," he says. Groans as he turns onto his injured side, facing Dean. "'Fraid we ran out of those a while ago."

Just as well, Dean thinks.

Who knows what else he'd have had to endure if they did live to see another day. Atleast there's the sky, on this day.

Atleast there's Cas.

"Did he make it?" Cas asks. Coughs. Sprays blood everywhere. A drop of it lands on Dean's cheek.

Dean watches him as he wheezes, moans. Quiets a little. His eyes grow slightly unfocused.

It hurts to look at him.

Dean keeps looking anyway.

An angel who smote demons with a thought, reduced to the indignities of mortality by his calloused, human hands. Dean's done a lot of fucked up shit in his life but this — this takes the cake. When he's back on the racks in Hell this time, and for good, he'll deserve ever fucking second of it.

"Yeah," he says, shaking himself a little. "Yeah, he did. Just in time, too."

"Good," Cas breathes. Lets his eyes slip close. "That's — that's good."

There on his lashes is a tear.

Dean looks at it — a little universe on the edge of Cas' lashes. It's silver and blue, and shines in the light of the day. Dean wishes he was in it.

He thinks about the other version of him who went back in time. He wonders if he'd fix the fuckfest that this world has become. If it's even possible to fix it.

He wonders if it would matter.

Once, when things hadn't been so bad, Cas would talk to him about these things — Timelines and multiverses and the effect of the flapping of a single butterfly's wings. He bets Cas would know what would happen if the other Dean made a different choice this time around.

Bets he would know if it would matter.

Then, the tear rolls down Cas' cheek, across his nose. Falls to the ground in a bloody splash.

It's all — it's too much. It's overhwhelming.

"Cas—," he calls. Cas hums. Doesn't open his eyes. Dean wants him to open his eyes. Wants to look at the blue of them. He wants to see them smile, one last time. He wants —

"Lo—look at me, man."

"No," Cas says. There's the tinge of something horrid in his tone. Dean hates himself for being responsible for it. For being responsible for everything.

"Pl—Ple-ase, Cas," he begs.

Cas breathes. Dean watches his bruised chest swell, the slight rise in his shoulders. The way his too-long hair, matted and sweaty and bloody, flops in a lazy curve over his forehead.

Then, he opens his eyes.

Duller, now, but there, atleast.

Yes. There.

"Hey there, Cas," Dean says. Tries to smile. The skin across his bones stretches painfully.

Cas' face softens, then. Something that mirrors Dean's own smile carves itself into his bloody cheeks. There's something old, and quiet, and familiar about the shift. "Hello, Dean," he says, and Dean's heart lurches.

There you are, he thinks. There's my Cas.

After all these years. After everything.

It's still him, it's still them. At the end of it all.

Dean doesn't know if it's a blessing or a curse. He doesn't know.

He's not a big fan of deathbed confessions, but — well. Here they are. Cas is fading, he can tell, and his own thoughts are starting to scatter. They don't have long and this — this one thing.

Well. Dean's life has always been a cliche filled nightmare. Why would it be any different now?!

"C—Cas. I wanna—," he starts. Pauses when his breath sticks against the sharp edges of his broken ribs. Groans. Forces himself to keep going.

Just a moment, he prays to a God who's never listened. Give me one fucking moment.

"Dean?" Cas calls. Watches him struggle to breathe. "Dean!" He crawls closer, wiggling on his side. Presses a shaky palm to Dean's chest. Something cracks under his hands but somehow, somehow, the breath whooshes out of him.

He gasps. Then gasps again. And again.

"Th—Thought we were out of miracles," he manages between breaths.

"Wasn't one," Cas replies.

"Right. O—Okay."

But it feels like one, anyway. Every fucking thing about Cas feels like a fucking miracle.

The world is quiet, and Dean's dying under a bright blue sky, Cas' hand on his chest.

That feels like a miracle, too. And, well, isn't that something.

"Thank you," Dean says, after a moment. "For. Fo— for everything. I ne-ver do s-ay it—," and he doesn't. Dean doesn't. Even on frenzied nights that they spend trying to sate the hunger buried under their skins, or the morning-afters when the world is quiet and soft, and easy, if only for a moment. Dean never says it. He's a right fool for not saying it. "B—but. I couldn't — Not without you."

That didn't make sense, he thinks.

Cas just looks at him, his hooded eyes fending off exhaustion, fighting to stay open.

For him, Dean tries again. Says, "Every— every day. Always. I've needed you. And you've been here. Even when I — I didn't de-deserve it. Even — now. I need you, and you're here. You're always here. So— th-thank you. I just—," he trails off.

Cas is quiet.

Dean wonders if maybe he's gone. If perhaps the slight light in his eyes is not life but the echo of it. He cannot stand the thought. It keeps coming at him anyway.

Wake up, Dean pleads. Prays. Say something!

Then, Cas laughs.

And the world keeps spinning. If only for another moment.

"Fuck you, Dean Winchester," he says, and it bleeds the anger and resentment Dean's poured into him for years. "Fuck you. I do— don't. I don't accept your confession. I will not— grant you — this— this absolution."

Dean wants to think that he isn't seeking absolution. But he doesn't know anymore.

Maybe he is. Maybe he wants to be forgiven. Maybe he wants to know that it was alright to want Cas. To love him. To need him.

To be told that it was excuse enough for everything.

Dean laughs, too, then. Because what else is there to do.

His bones rattle in his chest under Cas' hand. He wonders if Cas can feel them. If he can feel the way his heart slows.

"Do what you wa-nt, ass-hole," he says. "For-Forgive me for try-ing, I guess."

"No," Cas says. Heaves himself closer, still. "I won't. It's all too late."

Yeah, okay.

That much is true. It's the truest thing of all.

It is.

It really is too damn late.

"I know," Dean says. "I'm so-sorry."

And he is. He's so fucking sorry. He wishes— Well.

What does it matter anyway.

Then— he screams.

Pain blooms in his chest, sharp and bright, and the edges of his vision turn white. He tries to move, but cannot. Tilts his head down, just so. Watches as Cas presses his palm flat against his chest and pushes once more.

Another scream tears out of his throat.

Cas uses his leverage to push himself closer, until he's flush against Dean's side. He drops unceremoniously, then, sprawling on his stomach, his body half on top of Dean's broken ribs. His chin settles on Dean's shoulder, and Dean feels his every laboured breath against his neck and collarbone.

"I hate you," Cas says. Wheezes, really. "But I—," and Dean thinks Don't. Don't say the word. " I guess— Guess I needed you, too."

Dean's relieved when Cas borrows his words. His arm's pinned between their bodies but he wiggles his fingers until he's got a fistful of Cas' shirt in his hands.

"'S'alright," he says to him. "'S'okay. I'll t-take it."

There's only Cas' messy hair in his line of sight, so he closes his eyes. Counts the dark spots on the back of his eyelids so he doesn't fall asleep.

Not yet, he begs his body. Not yet. Not yet.

"Hey, Cas?" he asks.

"Hmm?"

"Th-think they'll figure it o-ut in ti-me?"

"The other ones?"

"Yeah," Dean says. Thinks about the ease in his other self's skin that seemed to have left him forever ago. Wonders if he's sane enough to make use of it while it's still there.

"I—I don't know," Cas says. Dean hears rustling as he moves against his side. (It doesn't hurt so much, anymore. Everything's numb.) Cas pushes himself up, and Dean feels the tip of his nose against his cheek. Cas' forehead falls against his temple. Dean presses into the touch. "I hope so."

"Yeah," Dean says. "Me-me, too."

Dean thinks about what it could've been like, if they'd figured it out sooner. If they'd had the luxury to figure it out. What his future could've looked like.

A log cabin, he thinks. Some place to come home to. Hunting together, maybe. Holidays where he would cook. A guitar. Birthday sex, and pie, and holding hands under the covers. A couch. Dean would've loved a good couch. Memory foam on the bed.

Dean loses himself in this dream that seems real, and vivid, and bright. So fucking bright. Brings his lax hand up to the Cas' on his chest. Threads their fingers together.

"Sing for me," Cas asks. Curls his fingers around Dean's. Holds tight.

Dean's too far gone to sing. So he hums instead.

Cas mouths the lyrics against the skin of his neck.

Take a sad song, and make it better.

They tried, he thinks. Despite everything. They did try.

The sky is the kind of blue that means sandalled feet, and busy beaches. But Dean's not looking at it anymore.

At the end of everything, there's still him. There's still Cas.

And the sound of a song in the air.

It's not too bad, when all's said and done. It's not bad at all.

#doe's writing #destiel fic #endverse #mcd #end of all things or whatever #i watched eeaao and had the first line of this fic stuck in my head and also A Concept! #so i wrote it! #it's not going on ao3 bc I'm not convinced of its quality rn but maybe eventually #should I even tag my taglist I DON'T KNOE #I'LL LEAVE IT UP AND WE'LL SEE AFTER A NAP #okay thanks i hope you like it!. #spn fic #this one is sad! #angst

[bloodydeanwinchester]

Shakey Graves // Kids These Days

Supernatural: 1x12 // 4x16 // 4x18

taglist 1 (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!)

@castielsupernatural @demolitiondean @quiet-doll @angelsdean @universalcas @faithcastiel @millicentmarva @fountaincas @deanbroco @waldrea @thigholstercas @castielfucks @youre-only-gay-once @girldaddean @verypissedoffdee @redleavesinthewind @cascigarette @naughtystiel @achillestiel @faithdeans @annaslittlebiitch @castiellesbian @obsessionofspn @my-people-skillls-are-rusty @hauntedpearl @colonel--sarge @latinocas @babygirlstiel @blue-eyed-cutiepatootie @flowernerdcastiel @srazten @cockworkangels @birdstiel @shallowseeker @arsonistsam @nvybloo @f-rgetregret @saintedcastiel @oughilovehim @loyalbloggerwhowaits @mrcowboydeanwinchester @cannabiscasgate @deangraham @icarusalchemist @riverwithoutbanks @rainsongdean @nelsonsmynickname @dakrapatops @vegancas @butch--dean

#oh don't mind me just making a webweave for my wip instead of actually writing it like a normal person #this just popped into my head yesterday as i was listening to this song (it's on my playlist for this fic) and i had to make it 🤷🏻‍♀️ #also sorry i did change the first lyric from seventeen to twenty-seven because obviously i had to #spnedit #destieledit #cowboycoven #supernatural #spn #destiel #spn 1x12 #faith!dean #spn 4x16 #spn 4x18 #my faith dean fic #usermoogs #jenna.gif

[prince-of-elsinore]

Five Times Dean Forgot and One Time He Remembered (6.4k, rated M) by elsi Fandom: Supernatural Pairing: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester Tags: temporary amnesia, post-12.11 Regarding Dean, curses, kissing, very light/mention of incest kink, feelings realization, Sam POV

Summary: Rowena warned him the obliviate curse might have “aftershocks.��� That Dean could relapse to his amnesiac state without warning—though only temporarily, she assured. But this? This goes beyond calling a lamp a “light stick.”

A kris kringle gift for the lovely @wetsammywinchester, who writes such wonderful fic, leaves such fabulous comments, and is an all around joy to have in the fandom! Happy 2024!! <3

Read on AO3.

#wincest fic #wincest #spn fic #spn 12x11 #spn episode regarding dean #my first 5+1! #my fic #gift fic #spn

[sasanka-27]

It’s real

| Fandom: supernatural | Pairing: Dean/Castiel | Words: 7k+

| Type: oneshot | Rating: Teen and up | Author: Sasanka27

Summary: Morning of his birthday Dean wakes up alone doubting if he hadn’t dream the good parts of his life.

Link:

#i dont care that its cropped its my drawing lol #anywayaay #guess what #im finally posting my first destiel fic #writing #destiel #destiel fic #fluff #all i can do is fluff actually im not good writing angst #ao3 fanfic #its a oneshot that might expand with my fix it fic heheh #you know how did they get here sort of thing #deancas #my fic #spn fic #dean bday two months later because why not right #also dont trust me when i say short i usually end up with like 10k this was buposse to be just 3k #first suposse to be fluffy so here i go i am here heheh #something to read while you enjoy tea/coffee in a morning #destiel fanfic #dean x castiel #destiel fanart #sasanka27 fics

[roublardise]

Bela & Dean | 911

do you understand my vision....

has killed her parents and wonders if it was worth it and if she would do the same deal at 24yo // in the deep of the night he pictures killing his dad and sometimes he wishes he had. also they're the same.

#she died breaking free he died following the very first order etcetcetc #patricide dean is everything to me if it wasn't. obvious. in my fics. so you can understand how compelling they are to me #you can tag as ship i don't mind they can be everything :) #spn #spnamvarchive #spn fanvid #bela talbot #dean winchester #dean x bela #bela x dean #my stuff #my vids #Youtube

[runawaydr3amerao3]

Fic Rec: 'An Anchor' by @themegalosaurus (SPN, Dean/Sam, Explicit)

I had a sudden urge to read fics based on episode 12x09 First Blood (the one with the solitary confinement) because there is so much angst fruit to be plucked from that whump tree. I didn't find a whole lot (devvo), but there were some. This is the first one I read. It doesn't refer to the ep too specifically, but holy shit it's a good fic. Highly recommend.

TW for self-harm. Please read the tags. Don't forget to show your love to the author with a comment. 💖

#supernatural #sam and dean #spn #fanfic #samdean #sam winchester #dean winchester #wincest #fic rec #supernatural 12x09 first blood #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfic #deansam #dean and sam #read the AO3 tags #tw self harm #other peoples fic #my recs

[youchangedmedestiel]

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Words: 4,159

Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Characters: Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester

Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, Season/Series 12, Attempt at Humor, Fluff, Getting Together, Castiel Loves Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Loves Castiel, First Kiss, Second Kiss, and then more kisses, Smut, they are so gone for each other, and they obviously look at each other a lot hence the title

Summary:

Team free will is in the car driving back from a hunt when Sam mentions Cassie, Dean's ex from at least 10 years ago. After Cas mistaking it was about him, the conversation evolves into describing how Dean is when he is in love. It all clicks in Sam’s head as he tells Cas how Dean was behaving around Cassie. 10 years replaying in his mind all of a sudden. Cas asks him what he understood and Sam tells him Dean is in love with him. From there, nothing is stopping Cas anymore. This fic was writtent for the 5K by 5 May event.

#this is my first participation to a fandom event #5k 5 may #this was fun #fic challenge #writing fanfiction #this is about those two idiots in love obviously #destiel #deancas #castiel #dean winchester #canon compliant #spn season 12 #attempt at humor #getting together #fluff #first kiss #and then a lot of other kisses #smut #they look a lot at each other #also when the other isn't looking #hence the title #hope you'll enjoy reading it #under 5k #ao3 writer #my destiel fanfic

[we-re-all-stories-in-the-end]

I’m working on a fic that is literally driving me insane.

Like, I have a job, and it’s not writing modern Persuasion AU fiction about Cas and Dean fucking Winchester

#what the hell am I doing #it’s my first fic #I mean writing is a part of my job but like not usually about this #spn crack #spnblr #supernatural #casdean #dean winchester #destiel #misha #destiel is canon #deancas #destiel fanfic

[their-we-go]

Title: on the mend

Author: queer_we_are

Description:

“Dean gets out of hunting. He buys a small house in a small town. Cas and Jack move in. And Dean starts fixing things.”

#first 2 chapters are up now! #really excited about this one! #i hope you like it <3 #spn #my writing #my art #destiel #destiel fanfic #destiel fic recs #domestic destiel

[didsomeonesaybuffet]

Hiiii I've just posted chapter 1 of my Hell's Kitchen AU where Dean is competing, and Cas is a sous chef. Here's a snippet for you:

If You Can't Stand the Heat...

Walking into the dining room for the first time, Dean felt a wave of terror that he hadn’t anticipated. Suddenly he felt wildly out of place, and shoved his hands into his pockets in the hopes that their shaking wouldn’t give him away to the others as someone weak to pick off. 

They gathered around the kitchen’s pass in a semicircle, that heady mixture of arrogance and bravado that had followed some of the group from the bus was beginning to subside, sending nervous ripples through the group. Dean rocked backward on his heels a little, hoping to appear nonchalant. He was seriously considering walking straight back out through the front doors and hitching a ride to a gas station Bobby might pick him up from when he heard footsteps in the corridor behind the kitchen. A sharp elbow caught him in the ribs, and his head snapped to the left where his eyes found Charlie beaming up at him, almost vibrating with excitement. He smiled back, some of his nerves abating. 

The footsteps in the corridor materialized as Chef Crowley strode into the kitchen and walked up to face the group from behind the pass. He was a little shorter than Dean had expected, though he had no doubt that infamous personality more than made up for that. 

‘Welcome to Hell’s Kitchen!’ Crowley smiled as he said it, but it was devious more than it was friendly. The group applauded and some cheered, though Dean was having a little trouble breathing enough to remain conscious, let alone cheer. He’d followed Crowley’s career for years, studying his recipes and keeping track of his accolades, hoping that one day he’d see his own name in similar headlines and articles. ‘Each of you had been selected out of the thousands of applicants from all across America; you showed potential, talent and passion in your applications, and I have high hopes for each of you. With that said, it’s time for you to cook your signature dish. I want to see what you’re about. 

‘Before you get into the kitchen, I’d like to introduce you to your sous chefs. For the red team, he’s a celebrated and highly awarded chef with five Michelin stars, most recently for the incredible desserts at his flagship restaurant Angel’s Food Cake on the east coast. Everyone please welcome Castiel Novak.’ Applause and cheers broke out among the group of chefs as Castiel walked through the back door to the kitchen and made his way to stand beside chef Crowley. His gaze swept across the chefs crowded in front of him, appraising each of them in turn. His eyes rested on Dean for a moment before Crowley began to speak again. 

Read more on AO3 (please please please please)

#destiel fic #Dean is a chef who's unsure of himself #Cas is a michelin star chef #little bit of love at first sight #couple of lingering touches #it's a slow burn by my standards #hkau #spn fic #supernatural fanfiction

[nights-ofren]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester Characters: Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Additional Tags: Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Kissing, The Impala (Supernatural), Dean wants castiel so bad, My First Work in This Fandom, NOT OMEGAVERSE Series: Part 53 of January's Omegaverse (Or Not) Challenge Summary:

Having to work a multiple demon possession wasn’t that bad if you got to enjoy the view from the Montana cabin they had rented for the week.

The mountains, trees and a killer sunset he had expected. Not the scene portrayed in front of him, walking out of the door.

The Impala was covered in foamy soap, and Cas was standing there, hose in one hand and sponge in the other, white shirt drenched. If the scene in front of him had been in slow motion, it would have looked like something directly out of a Motley Crue video.

#my very first Destiel ever posted pls be kind #dean winchester #castiel #destiel #dean x castiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #destiel fic #supernatural #spn #jensen ackles #misha collins

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Just A Trick

It’s a fucking joke. A trick. Loki’s at it again.

He’s going to snap out of this any second now, whole and well, definitely not impaled on six inches of rebar right through his back.

Dean palpates his chest, puzzled that it looks fully intact. He must be imagining the pain inside, that eerie feeling of metal grinding against bone, of cartilage and flesh shredded and bleeding.

This cannot be happening.

“AHHH!” he barks, furious, and Sam in front of him flinches.

His little brother looks frozen in shock. Dean told him not to move him, that the stupid piece of rebar that cannot be real is holding him together right now. Sam seems at a loss what to do, and Dean knows he has to take charge.

“Call 911, Sam,” Dean tells him through gritted teeth. “Now.”

At the command, Sam snaps out of his stupor.

“On it.” His fingers fly over the display of his phone.

“Tell- tell them to bring rescue equipment,” Dean rasps through the burning in his chest. There’s a mounting pressure behind his breastbone, and breathing is becoming more difficult. “They’ll have to- to cut me loose.”

Sam nods, and when the operator picks up, Dean hears Sam rattle down the five w’s in quick and coordinated order, emphasizing the fact that Dean is fucking impaled on a fucking metal rod and that there is no time to waste. Thank God the woman on the other end knows her job: In the next few minutes she does her best to keep Sam calm and Dean alive while ensuring them that help will arrive in a matter of minutes.

Hopefully, that’ll be fast enough. Dean’s lungs feel like they’re filling up with sand (although it’s probably blood), and the pain from his injury radiates through his torso in bright-hot rays.

“…him awake,” Dean catches the 911 woman’s voice through the speaker. (Did he zone out for a moment?) “And keep him still.”

Dean almost has to laugh. Keeping still won’t be a problem, pinned as he is, like a fucking butterfly in a glass case. The staying awake part, though, may become a little too much to ask. He’s tired, so very tired, and, really, who wants to be lucid with a metal rod rammed through their insides?!

He feels Sam pet his cheek and hears the urgency in his voice when he tells him to “open your eyes, Dean, stay with me, stay awake, come on, eyes open!”

Nevertheless, he feels his eyelids droop. But as his gaze wanders down, earthbound, he catches sight of one of the bodies strewn on the floor, and-

“Sam!” His consciousness snaps back to red alert. “Shit, Sammy, the- the bodies!”

His brother, eyes wide and fixed on him, shakes his head. “I don’t care, Dean. I don’t care what they’ll think. We’ll figure it out. Doesn’t matter now.”

It’s Dean’s turn to shake his head. Fuck, even that hurts. “Sam!” he urges. “You’ve got to hide- put them into the-“ He tilts his head to indicate the boarded-up stall in the corner of the barn, where the vamps had hidden the children.

Sam looks but doesn’t want to listen.

“No, Dean, it’s no use. And I’m not leaving you.”

Only now does Dean realize that Sam has gripped him under the elbows, supporting him as best as he can. Not that it’s doing much, and it doesn’t have to; the rebar is keeping him upright well enough, and Dean can still feel his legs underneath him, stubbornly holding his weight.

“No, please, you-“ Dean quickly squeezes his eyes shut against a stab of pain. “I’m not surviving this to rot in prison,” he croaks, his fingers digging into Sam’s forearms. “I can’t do it, Sammy. You can’t.”

“But-“

“We’ve gotta try, Sammy!” Dean is desperate, so desperate a stupid joke bubbles up in him. “You look like crap in orange.”

Miraculously, that works. Maybe Sam believes that it’s not as bad as it really is because Dean’s still cracking jokes. In any case, he lets go of Dean’s arms and drags the bodies, cut-off heads and all, into the stall one after the other, and he padlocks it. Then he quickly spreads straw over what little blood there is on the floor - their luck that vampires don’t bleed much, what with not having a heartbeat.

“Okay. Okay.”

A little out of breath and sweating, Sam’s back in front of Dean, back supporting him, and Dean vaguely wonders when his little brother became so strong and fast.

Everything is becoming kind of vague and cottony in his head. Flashes of panic, flashes of pain - it all bounces off a veneer that seems to lay itself between him and the world. He’s running out of time, and it’s a scary thought, and shouldn’t the ambulance be here by now?

“I’m fading- I’m fading pretty quick,” Dean manages to articulate.

Sam’s eyes flare with fear, but dammit if he isn’t trying to be brave about it.

“You’re not,” Sam says stubbornly, his grip on Dean intensifying. “You are not dying on me, you hear me? You are Dean fucking Winchester, you’ve been through worse, and you’re going to make it out of here alive! And when you’re out of the hospital, you’ll hang out in the bunker for a few weeks and watch soap operas while Miracle sheds all over your goddamn sheets, and I’ll be pissed at you for drinking beer in bed. You’re going to pull yourself together now and stay awake, or I’ll have to slap you in the face!”

Dean wants to grin but isn’t sure if it shows on his face. Everything is growing a little numb.

“Easy, tiger,” he says, and it’s barely a whisper, his throat scratchy and tight. “Take it easy on your old-” He has to cough and, Jesus Christ on a stick, it hurts like fucking hell. His ribcage clenches around the rebar, his heart hurtling into a frenzy as the pain starbursts through him. He hasn’t lit up in agony like this since his days in Hell.

Choking helpless coughs, Dean squeezes his eyes shut and tries to ride it out.

“Dean! Breathe! Come on, just breathe!”

Dean latches on to Sam’s voice until his ravaged lungs can pull in enough air again to at least keep him conscious. When the fit is over and reality returns, Dean’s cheeks are wet, and his mouth tastes like copper. Sam’s face is his anchor, his hazel-brown-green-blue eyes searching and holding Dean’s gaze as if he could tie him to this world with the love and the iron will Dean recognizes in them.

“There you go. That’s it,” Sam says firmly. “You’ve got this.”

He’s not got this. “I- hnnngh”

Dean’s legs give out, and pain tears through his chest when the rebar takes his weight like a meat hook. God no, Dean thinks, not this again. Memories of Hell flood him, red-hot and blinding.

“Dean! Hang on!”

Sam is there, ducking under his right arm and pulling it across his shoulders, his other hand on Dean’s belt. It hurts, pulling on everything that’s torn in him, and through his own choked noises of agony he hears Sam’s “I’m sorry, Dean, I’m sorry”, but at least Sam’s manoeuver keeps him from being cut in half.

I’m not going to make it, Dean thinks. And: Cas. Please. Help me!

It doesn’t make sense. Cas is gone, absorbed by the Empty. The angel cannot swoop in to save him this time. Dean’s heart stutters at the memory of his loss, of Cas’ sacrifice. Of Cas’ love for Dean. That stupid, stupid, soft son of a bitch.

“Come on, Dean, stay with me! They’re almost here!”

And Dean hears it: The wail of an approaching ambulance - no, more than one? A cacophony of sirens closes in on them.

“Hey, hey! Dean! Stay with me!”

And somehow, Dean does. He’s wheezing, and his vision is a narrowing tunnel. Blood pools in his mouth and dribbles down his chin. His heart is a piece of burning coal, his whole chest on fire. His legs don’t belong to him anymore.

But he can’t do this to Sam. He won’t do this to Cas. The angel gave his life for him. He’s not going to die like this - a stupid, senseless, idiotic death. It’s not going to happen.

The barn’s bathed in light now, and Dean distantly wonders if Cas has come after all, but then there are voices and uniforms and gloved hands on him. Sam’s warmth leaves his side, and Dean finally loses consciousness to a chorus of questions and medical lingo washing over him.

xxx

It’s not the first time he’s woken up choking on a breathing tube, but it never gets any easier. At least he knows the drill - alarms blaring and people rushing in while he gags and bucks and panics. They put him under again, and the next time he comes to, the wretched tube is out, and he’s left with a nasal cannula and the feeling of a cut-up throat. They’ve draped him on his side, propped up by pillows, and he doesn’t even want to know where all the tubes and wires lead that disappear under his hospital gown. It burns here and itches there, and his chest and back feel like hamburger meat held together by duct tape.

“Dean? Hey…”

Sam untangles his long limbs from where he’s folded himself into a chair by the bed, a blanket slipping to the floor.

“Hey, you’re awake!”

“S- … S’my”

It’s a pathetic attempt at pronouncing his little brother’s name; he sounds like a rusty door hinge. But it seems to be good enough for Sam whose eyes - Jesus, when was the last time he slept - light up in his tired, scruffy face.

“Man, it’s so good to hear your voice.”

Sam reaches for Dean’s hand, carefully, as if he were made of something breakable. But his grip is warm and firm, and Dean doesn’t shrug him off.

“How’re you feeling? If you’re in pain I can call the nurse and she can give you more of the…” He waves at one of Dean’s numerous IVs.

“Peach-... peachy,” Dean croaks, forcing one corner of his mouth into a smirk.

“That can’t be true,” a different voice says from the door, a deeper voice, and Dean almost stops breathing at the sight of the hallucination that walks into his line of vision. It must be a hallucination; it can’t be Castiel, Angel of the Lord, in his rumpled trench coat, tie loose, beardy, with a paper cup of coffee in his hand.

“You’re recovering from complex cardio-thoracic surgery. They had to crack your chest and resuscitate you - twice. You’ve been on a ventilator for eight days. I don’t believe “peachy” is an accurate term to describe your physical condition .”

Dean stares at the angel, uncomprehending. His heart throws a drumroll, for everyone to hear as it beep-beep-beeps in agitated spikes.

“Cas?” His voice cracks.

Castiel hands the coffee to Sam and steps closer until he’s right by the bed, standing there in typical Cas-fashion - a little slouched, arms at his sides, head slightly canted, blue gaze intense and ethereal.

“Hello Dean.”

There’s no saliva in Dean’s mouth. Something twists in his chest, both painfully and warm. His head is swimming with half-bred thoughts, clouded by too many fucking drugs. He doesn’t know what to feel, how to deal with this sudden, bright blue shock of elation.

“How…?” is all he manages.

Sam has risen to his feet, smiling through the exhaustion etched into his features.

“He showed up while you were in surgery. When your heart stopped. We don’t know exactly how, or why. If Jack was involved. We think that maybe it was you who brought him back.”

Dean licks dry lips. “Me?”

“I heard your prayer,” Castiel elaborates. “I wanted to come. But I was stuck. The Empty - it had me pinned down. I couldn’t even move. But when your heart stopped, I felt it, and something - something happened. It shook me loose. I felt a surge of power. And then…” He gestures around the room. “Then I was here. Human. I think you pulled me out.”

It’s all a little too much for Dean. His body is a mess, and his brain is bubble-wrapped. Words want to surface from where Dean tucked them away, rehearsed over and over, certain he’d never get to say them. His throat hurts, his chest tightens, and he is not going to fucking cry.

“I’ll give the two of you a minute,” Sam says, running a hand through his too-long hair. “And I’ll go get your doctor. She’ll be happy to see you awake.”

His brother leaves, and Dean is left with a staring angel and blinking tears away.

He lifts a shaking hand to wipe at his eyes, but the movement is pulling on tubes, and he’s weak as a kitten, so he lets his arm sink again.

“There’s so much-” he starts and stops, sandpaper for vocal chords. He can’t look at Cas anymore; he wants to look at nothing else for the rest of his life. He’s been such a damn fool.

The angel reaches out a hand and gently lays it on Dean’s left shoulder, where it’s always belonged.

“It’s okay, Dean,” he rumbles softly. “We will figure this out when you feel better. You need to rest now. I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s the permission Dean needed. Exhausted and overwhelmed, he closes his eyes.

Tomorrow, he thinks, Cas’ hand still warm and safe on his shoulder, tomorrow I’m gonna say it back.

#i only just finished watching supernatural for the very first time #and this is my way of coping #suptober23 #no.31 #trick or treat #fanfic #fix-it fic #spn 15x20 #carry on #spn #supernatural #dean winchester #castiel #sam winchester #hurt/comfort #whump #injury tw #spn finale #no one dies in this one #it's oct 31 somewhere