WRITING DUMP~
so i solved my boredom problem by finding new icons! yeah!
so. most of this was supposed to be for octoberwriting, I just haven't finished anything yet. go me.
hawkeye x black widow. two tiny, tiny pieces of possibly the same fic.
“All flash,” he says, lining up his next shot.
She snorts and drops down, just behind the guard below them. His throat is cut before he even knows she's there.
Xxx
“Good pizza,” he offers, his mouth half full of thick, garlicky crust.
She narrows her eyes and flicks a napkin over to him. It lands neatly on his plate. “Sauce,” she says. “You have sauce.” She wipes at the corner of her own impeccably clean lips. “Just there.”
Xxx
She's waiting for him in his room.
He doesn't expect it; it's there, open on his face before he can hide it, and she catches the flash before he schools himself back into impassivity.
~~~
jade peabody and the library ghost.
Five sticky fingers tangle in the fabric of her dress and pull, hard. Jade stumbles, her left heel slipping out of her shoe.
“Sorry,” the culprit says, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. It's Cecily, a pale-skinned child who frequents the library, looking up at Jade with liquid brown eyes, her face mottled with swatches of rainbow from a recent bout of finger-painting.
Jade pushes her glasses up with a finger and smiles. She kneels down and jams her shoe back on her foot; she normally likes strappy shoes for just this reason, but Harley had gotten her these red pumps for her birthday and she'd wanted to wear them at least once. “That's all right,” she tells Cecily, giving her a friendly pat on the shoulder. “No harm done.”
“Ms. Peabody, have you seen my mom? I walked over to play with Jimmy while she was reading and now I can't find her.”
“Hmm.” Jade straightens up and looks around the shelves. Lots of other patrons milling about, but no Petra. “Let's look upstairs,” she says, taking Cecily's tiny hand in hers. “She's probably in the mystery section.”
Cecily trots after her, both hands clasped around Jade's as they head to the second floor. Jade turns the corner and walks towards the shelving for the mysteries; sure enough, Cecily's mother is there, browsing the pages of a thick book at the end of an aisle.
“Momma!” Cecily says happily, letting go of Jade and running over. “You disappeared,” she says, “but Ms. Peabody helped me find you.”
Petra absent-mindedly puts a dainty hand on top of her daughter's thin blonde hair. “Well you should thank Ms. Peabody then,” she says, looking up at Jade with a quick smile.
“Thank you,” Cecily parrots. She climbs into one of the reading chairs they have gathered by the magazine racks.
(fun side note: jade peabody was originally supposed to appear in my deancas fic "in your fragile gesture..." but there wasn't room. :( so she gets her own story!)
~~~
mary and dominic - eventually going to a funeral.
I guess you could say I'm a depraved person.
Or not depraved - not really, because as far as kinky goes I'm probably closer to vanilla than whatever the other end of the scale would be. But definitely offensive. Yeah. Yeah, it's offensive - but maybe not depraved. Would you call it a fetish? It's probably a fetish.
Because all I can think about when I see Father Green is how much I want to fuck him. He's gorgeous, and only about twenty-eight. And a priest, which seems to be the thing that really gets me going about him. My boyfriend Dominic considered breaking up with me, I think, when I told him. Just for a second. He's where I got depraved from, because that's what his mother would say.
But it's pretty innocent. And definitely harmless. I mean, I don't even go to church, really, just with Dominic's family when they come to visit. And that's only because I'm coerced. So I see him - the Father, I mean - and yeah he's a priest and yeah that's pretty damn hot but he's also an actual person. An actual celibate person. And I know this, don't think I don't. I like the idea of him far more than I'd like... you know. Actual him. I mean, sure, I've maybe tried to talk Dominic into a little role play and maybe I have this recurring fantasy about listening to Father Green jerk off in the confessional booth while I whisper dirty things to him. But that's all. And besides the celibacy - which... big deal there - and the caring, devout nature I'd never dream of corrupting, his name is Jerome. So that's that.
Dominic thinks it's weird, like I said, but then Dom won't even admit to having a fetish, much less being open to talking about mine. He acts open and just because maybe I don't like talking about sex all the time he's always saying I'm repressed, but he's the one not being honest with himself. I know what I like. He's had all these weird ideas about sex drilled into his mind his whole life. It's basically just missionary position, some heavy breathing and the occasional “love you” or “is this okay?” Anything else and I swear he thinks we're some sort of sexual deviants. The thought of being tied up turns him on - like I mean turns him on a lot, he's such a sub and he doesn't want to admit it - but he doesn't think I know it does, and he won't ever let me try it. He probably wants to do something really nasty like jizz all over my breasts and then watch me rub it all over my body or something. And that's not ever happening.
His mother disapproved of me - a whole hell of a lot if Dominic's guarded hints were anything to go by - but she disapproves of most things so I sort of just took the glares in stride. We spent way more time with his family than we did with mine. His dad was pretty cool, if a little gruff, and his brother Gabe was the smartest person I've ever met. An alcoholic, too, but with a mother like his who could blame him. Dominic didn't talk to me for a week when I said that, though.
I'd tried to keep him away from my family. Dominic was a nice guy - and sure, my family was nice in its own way, but they were also kind of awful and I had enough of my own problems to scare him away without adding anything else on top of that.
I tried to remind Dominic of this whenever he wanted to visit with me.
“If I don't make you go,” he said, rooting through my closet, “then you'll just stay here. Alone.” He threw a skirt out towards the bed. “Don't you think your mother could use you there?”
“No.” I flopped down onto my bed, spreading my arms out at my sides like wings. I didn't bother looking at the clothes Dominic had picked out for me. “I'm not going.”
“Mary.” He took a step out into the room to glare at me. He shook something floral printed at me in what I presume was meant to be menace. The flowers kind of ruined the effect. “You're going.”
“You can't make me,” I said. Which was a lie, but I was going to fight as long as I could. I turned over so my face was pressed into the comforter and lifted my arms up a little. “I'm Batman.”
I couldn't see him, but I'd bet my last cent Dom was rolling his eyes.
“Okay, fine. Sure. So I'm sleeping with Bruce Wayne.”
“Don't be ridiculous; I'm Dick Grayson. He was a much better Batman.”
“You can try to pull me into this argument, Mary, but it's not going to work.” He made a big show of rattling the hangers around on the rack so I'd be sure to hear them. “I don't care if you're Batman or Superman or goddamned Squirrel Girl. You're getting this bag packed and then we're going. End of discussion.”
It probably says something bad about both of us that most of the time Dominic treated me like a child. I pouted. Appropriately. “How about you get this bag packed and then we don't go, and I just happen to have a bag already packed for my next occasion to travel.”
“Only if by next occasion to travel you mean now.”
“That would sort of negate the not going.”
He slapped me gently on the calf. “Why don't you get up and help me? I have no idea what you want to bring.”
“You bring funeral clothes to a funeral.”
Dominic sighed. “Which you don't seem to have, Mary. Everything you own is too bright.” He held a pink dress with white polka dots and shook it at me. “Do you still shop in the children's department? What adult would wear this?”
“I'm just petite.” I turned back over onto my back and pulled out the book I kept under my pillow. “That dress is fine,” I said, pulling up my knees and propping the book on them. I stared at Dominic over the top of the binding. “But if you don't think I have anything appropriate...”
He rolled his eyes and breathed out, hard, before turning back on his heel and going into the closet. “Okay,” he said, “fine. Look, you have a pair of old dress pants. They're black. T hey'll be fine. Do you have a shirt that matches?”
“They're black pants,” I snorted, “of course I have something that matches. Jesus, Dominic, you do what matching means right?”
“Mary,” he warned, “just tell me what shirt you want me to pack.”
“I think I'll go tits out, actually. Let them all see the girls - it might distract them from the grief.”
He ignored that, or if I wasn't imagining the waves of irritation radiating outward he didn't, and I could hear the soft swick of clothes being pulled off their hangers.
“You have this,” he said, stepping out again, and holding up a long-sleeved top in a shade of somber gray. “Will this work? Does this count as funeral clothes?” I actually really hated that shirt because I hated long sleeves, but I had it for situations just like a funeral, that were meant to be uncomfortable anyway. It was getting to the point where Dom was crossing from annoyed but willing to put up with me into actually angry, so I sighed as he shook the shirt at me, trying to get my attention.
“Yeah,” I said, “that counts as funeral clothing.” He nodded and threw it into the bag he was packing for me.
~~~
+ i also started writing a psych: shawn x gus fic, but i have no idea where i saved it.
plus, something (i might have posted before?) i've had written for FOREVER that i still need to finish
untitled. unfinished. also warnings for sex stuff, like blow jobs and shit. also dean's panty kink. i thiiiink... that's it, though. guh i need to finish this soon. googledocs tells me the last edit i made was 56 days ago. u.u;
“Okay.” Dean runs a hand through his hair as he paces back to the refrigerator, footfalls heavy, and opens the door. There’s already a half-full beer on the counter, though, and Dean glances at it absently before huffing and closing the door again, turning and leaning against it, shoving his hands in the pockets of his old, dark jeans. “Christ.”
“Worrying about it won’t make it any easier,” Cas says from his place at the table. Dean shoots him a sneer and Cas’ expression tightens, eyes glinting impatience. Dean’s been fretting for a little longer than he’ll ever admit to, and there’s a vague, optimistic idea in his head that if he worries and stalls long enough, Cas will offer to tell Sam and Bobby himself. But Cas gives him another look and says “You’re going to have to tell them.”
“I know,” he says, looking away, “but why can’t - “
“You have to tell them, Dean,” Cas says, cutting him off before Dean could even get his question out. He is beginning to look exasperated and probably knows what Dean’s thinking - and since he's as stubborn a bastard as Dean is he's not going to let him get away with it. “I don’t know why you’re so worried.” His voice goes sharp and Dean can tell he’s starting to get pissy.
“I’m not worried,” Dean says, which he is pretty sure is true, but Cas is giving him a flat look, calling bullshit, and Dean rankles, shifting in discomfort and feeling a little defensive. “I’m... not worried,” he says again, and it sounds even less convincing than the first time. “I know Sam and Bobby will be happy for us.” The ring Cas picked out for him - plain, silver, engraved with two shallow grooves - feels heavy on his finger, and he turns it, the silver cool against his skin.
“Yes,” Cas agrees, “they will,” and he’s looking at Dean like he’s being stupid, like he’s making a bigger deal out of it than it really has to be. He stands up, padding as silently as a cat over to Dean. His hair is mussed and he’s wearing some of Dean’s old clothes - a soft, faded t-shirt and woolly sweatpants - as pajamas.
There’s a lump in Dean’s throat and he thinks carefully around profound bond and wedding and domestic partnership and how much that scares him and how much it doesn't. Jesus, he thinks, he loves Cas so much it still manages to surprise him sometimes.
Cas is pushing up next to him, and his fingers wrap around Dean’s wrist. “You’re being stupid,” he says and he leans up, lips soft against Dean’s cheek. “Stop it.”
Dean can’t help the grin that spreads across his face at Cas’ expression, and Cas huffs at him, ruffling up the back of his hair with one lazy hand. “I’m going to bed,” he says. “Don’t wake me up when you come in.”
There is something to be said for it, Dean thinks, when he does it anyway, and Cas doesn’t really mind.
: : :
Dean saunters into the kitchen mid-morning the next day, his feet bare and cold, flannel pants riding low on his hips. There is a hickey on his collarbone, that he probably spent longer examining in the mirror than he really needed to - and somehow, with his announcement, it feels newly obscene, though it’s not like Sam and Bobby don’t know about him and Cas. And it isn’t like they haven’t been caught in less than savory situations before. Sam had walked in on Dean blowing Cas once, and for fuck’s sake he still hadn’t let that go.
More than the sex, though, Sam and Bobby know about the feelings, and after the mocking he suspects Sam will put him through, they’re both going to say something close to “It’s about time.”
Sam and Bobby are both sitting at the table, in varying states of breakfast. Bobby takes a sip of his coffee, mustache twitching at the lip of his mug, looking surlier than usual in the soft, mid-morning light. Dean’s half certain there’s more than just coffee in his mug, too - not that he has any room to judge. Sam has the prissiest breakfast Dean's ever seen, two slices of dry toast and half a grapefruit sitting on a plate in front of him, an empty glass with a ring of milk in the bottom sitting off to one side. He seems sleepy, his eyes blinking closed, head dipping down to his chest, and he has to push the hair that hangs down out of his face at least twice while Dean is watching him.
“So, uh,” he starts inarticulately, breaking the quiet. Sam and Bobby both look over at him. He clears his throat and rubs his shoulder. “Cas and I were talking.”
Bobby looks unimpressed. “You’re having conversations now, huh?” he asks, and Dean takes the opportunity to go pour himself some coffee. “Well ain’t that exciting news.”
Sam hides a laugh with a quick cough. Dean sighs and takes a sip of his coffee, relishing the heat that floods down his throat. He leans against the counter, ankles crossed, going for nonchalant. Sam’s eyebrows go up and it was probably useless to think he’d look anything other than fucking chalant. Whatever the hell that is. He looks off to his right, avoiding the way Sam’s trying to catch his eye. “Cas... sort of proposed.”
He thumbs the ring again while Sam and Bobby exchange incredulous looks. “You and Cas are... engaged? To be married?” Sam asks. Dean levels him with a bitchface Sam could be proud of, because yes, it’s pretty straightforward that’s what a proposal means, and Sam grins, looking sheepish, his shoulders going up around his ears. “That’s great, man,” he says, and it’s equal parts teasing and happy, so Dean’s grateful for that one.
Bobby just snorts into his coffee and says “He finally decide to make an honest man out of you?”
"Oh ha, ha," Dean says, rolling his eyes. "Real funny, Bobby."
Bobby narrows his eyes and clears his throat. "And before you ask - no, I'm not going to walk you down the aisle."
Sam doesn't even try to hide how amused he is, grinning broadly and laughing deep. Dean grumbles a little, muttering some cursory expletives under his breath. He pulls out a box of cereal from the cabinet and dumps some in a bowl, then splashes a quick serving of milk on top. Sam and Bobby leave him alone while he’s eating, at least mostly - every so often he can feel eyes on him, probably Sam’s, but he just stares down at his bowl.
He’s got his spoon in his mouth, walking over to get more coffee, when Cas comes in on heavy feet. “Good morning,” he says, voice rough and sleep-worn.
Dean grins to himself as he pours the last of the coffee into his mug.“Here,” he says, handing it over to Cas. He takes it, face twisted in disgust as he takes his first sip. Dean takes his spoon out of his mouth and drops it into the coffee. “Milk’s in the fridge.”
Cas bustles around blearily for a few seconds; it only takes Sam until he sits down in Dean’s vacated seat to break. “Congratulations,” he says, reaching over to put a hand on Cas’ forearm, voice infused with real warmth.
Cas grunts. “Dean told you?”
“Hey, I said I would, didn’t I?” That gets him twin stares from Cas and Sam, because of course the two bastards are going to double-team him like that, and he looks away, rolling his eyes.
Cas waves away Bobby’s gruff offer of breakfast. It’s getting later in the morning, and Bobby’s close to reached his pre-noon allotment of Winchester facetime, so he grunts and throws his bowl into the sink. He looks at Cas out of the corner of his eye. “You two set a date yet?” he asks.
“No,” Cas says, shrugging, the movement still stiff. “I don’t...” He frowns at Dean. “We haven’t discussed it, but unless Dean wants those trappings I don’t see why we can’t just go ahead and get it over with.”
“Oh come on, man,” Sam says, a grin splitting his face. “You have to have an actual wedding.”
“Getting a little over-eager there,” Dean mutters, crossing his arms and shifting on his feet, but everyone just ignores him.
“I know it’s not... not really about all that,” Sam continues, shifting closer to Castiel, looking fully awake now that he’s got something to rally his energy around, “but love is worth celebrating.” Even Cas looks at Sam askance at that gem. “Right?” Sam asks, defensive, looking at Dean, then Bobby, then back to Cas. “Everything’s been so shitty in our lives, and I mean.” He shrugs his enormous shoulders self-consciously. “I’m really happy for you guys. You’re lucky you found each other, and I thought it would nice to celebrate that.”
Dean rolls his eyes and hopes Sam doesn’t try to bring out his special wedding binder. But Cas looks thoughtful. He looks over at Dean, eyes piercing and curious. “That’s not what I want,” he says, still to Sam, “but... if Dean wants something different, then...”
Every eye turns to him. “Ahh, no,” Dean says, coughing into a fist, looking down at the floor and feeling twenty fucking kinds of awkward. “I mean... Food, yeah. I thought we could have a reception, but anything else?” His nose scrunches in distaste and he waves one hand dismissively in the air. “Writing vows and flower arrangements and all that crap? We can do without.” He thumbs his nose and carefully looks anywhere but at Sam. “We could get tuxes, maybe. I don’t want anything big, though, Jesus. Just... a little church, maybe. Me and Cas, just the ‘I do’s, none of that flowery, romantic crap - Sam, you up there as best man, then we all go have a beer and some cake.” He shrugs. “Simple.”
“And, uh. What color are the flowers in this little scenario?” Sam asks. The bastard looks amused. “And the music? You’ve obviously given it a lot of thought.”
“Bite me,” Dean says. He might have one song bookmarked - maybe - but that’s none of Sam’s fucking business.
“Is that what you want?” Cas asks. Bobby and Sam are still in the room, and obviously listening - at least Sam is, Bobby probably doesn’t give a shit - but the conversation is suddenly and uncomfortably intimate. “A covenant of this nature is not unheard of among angels, but it is... rare.” He pauses, mouth turned down, as he measures his next words carefully. “There are certain rites that must be performed; these are very ancient and very, very important.” He takes a long draw of his coffee, then sighs, smacking his lips together once. He looks cagey, and maybe a little prim, Dean thinks, which is Cas-talk for You got something to say about that, punk? “In deference to the gravity of this, I would be willing to take part in any human rituals you feel necessary.”
Sam starts nodding, like he understands this shit, and Dean sticks out one hand quickly, gesturing down. “Wait,” he says. “Wait, wait, wait.” His hand bobs along with the words. “I’m all for you getting your halo polished for the big day, you want to write me a fucking poem go ahead. But uh. Just what exactly is that very ancient, very important ritual going to entail?”
Even Sam looks eager, leaning towards Cas with an expression of wide-eyed curiosity. Castiel just shifts. “Don’t worry,” he says, like that’s any sort of decent evasion. “It’s complicated. I’ll explain it soon.”
: : :
The first problem, Dean realizes, having been subjected to a really intense - and really specific, too, when he thinks about it - round of questioning from Sam, is that he’s not even sure where they’re allowed to get married. Not where Bobby lives, Sam helpfully points out - and thanks Sam, because it wasn’t like Dean couldn’t fucking google it - but it’s not like it’s a huge deal, not really, it’s not like Dean is going to leave Cas just because they’re not allowed to get a piece of paper legitimizing their relationship - and it’s not like Dean really cares, except that maybe he does, a little, because he saved the whole fucking world and maybe if he wants to marry another guy that’s really not too much to ask for.
“You know that I’m not actually a man, though,” Castiel offers one night. Dean had done a good job not discussing it, but he might have been a little irritable and getting angry at the shower curtain and trying to tear it down probably wasn’t the best way to hide it. He’s not sure whether or not to be grateful he’s lost all ability to bullshit around Cas.
“Yeah, but... You look like a guy,” he says, rooting around for a clean pair of underwear. Cas is eyeing him from the bed in a way that is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. He hitches his towel up and forgoes the boxers, grabbing a pair of sweat pants and hopping into them as he walks over to the bed.
Cas shrugs. “You act like Sam’s mother, but that doesn’t make you a woman, does it?”
Dean frowns. “You meant father, right? I act like Sam’s father?”
“That, too.”
Cas’ interest in the conversation is lagging so Dean just cedes the point. He puts one arm under his head and looks at Cas, laying on his back beside him. “Okay, you’re still mostly angel, whatever.” He puts a hand on Cas’ thigh and runs it up to his hip, feeling with the tips of his fingers for his dick. “But this body? Not junkless. Believe me; I know.” He grins, wide and incorrigible, and Castiel lets out a quiet breath of air, his eyes narrowing. “You look like a guy, so all the assholes who wouldn’t want to let me marry you if you were, sure aren’t going to give a shit just because technically you’re a genderless celestial... thing. Man, we try to tell them you’re an angel and...” Dean goes tense and fidgety, and Cas grips his arm in one tight fist.
“Dean Winchester, if you make light of my sacrifice again by suggesting you are not worthy or - “
“Hey! No, no, calm the fuck down, Cas.” He pulls his arm away, rubbing at it because Cas is still really fucking strong. “But people? Normal people? They don’t believe in things like angels. You know that. And most of the people who do, anyway, think you’re all self-righteous choir boys with the gown and harp.”
“If it’s going to be so much trouble, then, do you want to forgo a ceremony?”
“Nah,” Dean says, looking up at the ceiling and drumming on his chest. Cas gives him a look that says he’s not being casual about it at all. “We’re going to all this trouble of planning? Might as well do it.”
Cas gives him a rare smile. “I was hoping you would say that. I have something for you.” He reaches under the pillow and pulls out a package wrapped in soft white paper. It crinkles under his fingers as he hands it to Dean.
“Uh, thanks Cas. What is it?”
“There’s a custom, I think: a something old, new, borrowed and blue.” Dean huffs at him but Cas ignores it. “This is your ‘something new’.”
“You shouldn’t have,” Dean says. “And I mean that. You really shouldn’t have.” He tears the paper off in two long strips, then laughs as he sees what’s wrapped in it. He holds up a pair of panties - pink, satin, with a lacy waistband and a small bow sewed on in white ribbon - and says “Big plans for the wedding night, huh?”
“Wear them under your tux,” Cas says, reaching for Dean. He sits up eagerly, leaning into Cas. Their mouths meet, hard, and Cas grabs a fistful of Dean’s hair.
It’s only a few hours later when they’re lying in bed, naked on top of the sheets, that Cas says “You shouldn’t worry about the ceremony.” He flings an arm out across Dean’s chest; it’s a gesture that’s meant to be comforting - a concession to the tangled, physical realm Dean knows and Cas is still discovering, and it’s awkward and it shouldn’t warm Dean, not like it does. Cas turns his head and smiles, lip rising past the dull gleam of his teeth. “Sam and I have already talked about it.”
: : :
Even though they’ve got almost everything planned - minus a guest list, because, Dean has realized, they don’t know enough people left alive to invite - Cas is still emphatically reticent about what his ancient angel ritual involves. To be fair, though, it’s not like Dean’s asked about it.
“We still need to figure out who we’re going to invite,” Sam says. He’s neatly fit into the position of wedding planner, mostly because it gave him something to do, and because Cas was even more hopeless than Dean was when it came to things like that.
Dean shrugs and swallows down the bit of burger in his mouth. “Why? We’ve talked about having guests, but do we really need anybody besides us there?”
“Yes,” Cas says, looking over, his face sharp. “It’s very important.”
Sam gives Dean a hesitant look. Dean doesn’t really understand why, so he just looks back and shrugs again. Sam rolls his eyes. “Well, uh. Did you make up a list?”
“I didn’t think you knew anybody,” Dean says with a frown.
Cas’ face turns dark and he lets out a long-suffering sigh. Sam - traitorous bastard - laughs, though he turns it into a cough, his fist at his mouth, when Dean glares. “If you have forgotten,” he says, voice cold, “I come from a very large family.”
“Yeah,” Dean says with a laugh, “but your brothers are dicks.”
“Don’t feel bad,” Sam says, kicking Dean once under the table. “So’s mine.”
Two long fingers rub at Cas’ forehead and he says “I am not trying to make you uncomfortable, Dean. I know how you feel about them. But there must be a certain number of guests there.”
“Oh.” Dean shifts and his face scrunches once before he schools it into something more serious. “You mean for that secret angel thing you won’t talk about.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, well.” Dean makes an encouraging motion with his hand, scooting to the edge of his chair, knees spreading apart. “Now’s the time where you do talk about it.”
“You know me in this form,” Cas begins. “Jimmy Novak’s form. But though I’ve become...” He stops for a second, his mouth still open. He licks his lips and continues with “Become accustomed to this form, until I am fully human it is still a vessel. And as you know, many angels have one true vessel, one vessel that suits them best. For me, that is Jimmy. But he’s not the only vessel I have ever taken.”
“Wait a damn minute,” Dean says. “I thought you said angels haven’t been down here for fucking centuries.”
“That was... true in a broader sense,” Cas explains, voice rough, shaded with stiff apology, “but occasionally we would be sent down.”
“So you’re telling me you wore some other poor sap like an angel condom?”
“Yes, Dean that is exactly what I am telling you.”
“Well I don’t - “
Sam puts a hand on his brother’s arm. “Dude, just shut up for a minute.” Dean rolls his eyes and shrugs Sam’s hand away, but he is quiet.
“You might expect a human to be changed by having an angel inside, but.” His eyes dart over to Sam for a fleeting moment. “What may not be immediately supposed is that the human also affects the angel. When you are in that one vessel, that true vessel, the experience can be.” He clears his throat. “Overwhelming.”
Cas looks unusually solemn; not that he’s ever really a barrel of laughs, but suddenly the whole atmosphere in the room shifts. Whatever it is he’s leading up to, it’s serious. Dean bites his tongue, reminding himself not to be disparaging or an asshole.
“You remember when we faced Famine.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, “and you couldn’t stop eating. Don’t think I’m going to forget that one anytime soon.”
“I might have... hungered. But in my true form? Never for food. I was losing more and more of my grace, my separation from the physical growing ever more tenuous. If it had not been Jimmy Novak, a man who already had a taste for red meat, my hunger would have manifested differently. You are tied to your bodies; even your thoughts, your memories, are affected by the physical structure of your brain. And for an angel, a being incorporeal, to be tethered like that, to be forced into a physical form, it leaves scars.” He looks down at his hands, resting on his thighs, and flexes his fingers. They’re strong hands, with square palms and short, blunt nails, veins in a faint blue just visible under the skin.
The quiet gets awkward quickly; and as much as Dean feels for Cas, he can’t help but think - painful, regretful - of Sam, who had firsthand experience of the other side. The scars that an angel left on its vessel. Something sharp and hot twists in his gut and he tamps down anger, reminding himself not to take it out on Cas. He’s not sure what to say, not really, any words probably inadequate. He wasn’t a completely insensitive bastard - maybe tactless, maybe impatient, but he was more attuned to people than he seemed at first glance. And this, he could tell, just from the set of Cas’ shoulders, the wrinkles in his brow, is something he shouldn’t trivialize. He coughs, scratches at a half-imagined itch behind his ear and waits for Castiel to continue.
It’s Sam who finally breaks the silence. “So, uh. What you’re saying is. An angel’s just as affected as the vessel is?”
“It is not something to be taken lightly,” Cas says. “If you stay in a vessel long enough, their memories, their behaviors... it will start to rub off. The two, human soul and angel, start to entwine.”
Dean pulls a face. “So what - it’s sort of angelic mind meld?”
Cas looks confused, head tilted slightly. “If I understand what you mean from the context then... yes. I think that’s what it’s like. Each remains, essentially, who they were before. They are just more. It’s also why some find taking a vessel so distasteful. To be in close quarters with a human soul, to let it have influence over you, is seen by some as abhorrent.”
That’s all great, but Dean still doesn’t really understand the point. Sam’s got his nerd face on, though it’s tempered with something that might be fear. Dean can feel what he’s thinking, like it’s a palpable thing; that Lucifer, even in there for so short a time, might have left a mark.
Maybe Cas senses it, too, because he pulls his shoulders back and looks up at Dean. It’s almost defiant, and even as contrary as Dean is, he can’t help but grin, buoyed by a sweet curl of attraction. “When angels are joined, it is traditional - as a sign of trust, of respect - to unearth these memories. So that by knowing the parts, you can better know the whole.” He’s already looking at Dean, but his eyes darken and Dean shifts under the weight of his gaze, the heat and intensity that settles there behind the familiar blue. “I know you,” he says. “I have rebuilt you, I have cradled every cell in my hands. There is an intimacy in that knowledge - deep, powerful.” He looks down and Dean can’t see his eyes anymore. “It is only fair you have reciprocal knowledge of me.”
Dean swallows hard, his tongue a heavy weight in his mouth, plugging his throat. Sam is looking at the floor, playing with his hands, but Cas’ eyes are back on him. “Yeah,” he says, and it comes out rough, harder to say than he expected. “Yeah, okay, Cas. I understand.”
: : :
Cas doesn’t talk about the other angels - it’s not something Dean really wants to dissect, it’s something that just goes without saying. He doesn’t clam up, doesn’t refuse to talk about it on the very rare occasions it comes up in conversation, but he never brings it up on his own. There is a wound there, and sometimes Dean worries that it’s festering, that underneath the surface, the part scabbed over, there’s infection and rot, and Cas just lets it sit there. It’s enough to make a Winchester proud, he thinks, and even in his head the taste of the thought is bitter.
They go to bed separately that night, Dean before Cas. There’s a niggling feeling that maybe Cas revealed something big, that maybe he should tread carefully. But he doesn’t dwell on it, or give it much more than a passing thought, and focuses instead on Cas’ intimate knowledge. Physicality has always been Dean’s first language, easier for him to understand than words ever will be.
He’s on the bed when Cas opens the door and he grins, flexing his toes and lifting one hand in a half-hearted wave. “Hey,” he says, pitching his voice low, making his intentions as clear as he can. He rolls his hips in case Castiel didn’t get the first hint.
“Dean.”
Cas moves closer and Dean grabs a handful of his shirt, pulling him down and letting their mouths crash together.
Cas is fierce and insistent, in this as he is in everything. After their night in the brothel, Dean had sort of gotten the impression that Castiel was terrified of sex. And he was initially. He’d been awkward and clumsy and Christ, Dean had been vividly reminded why he liked partners with experience. That hadn’t lasted, though, and if maybe Dean would describe him as methodical more than enthusiastic, it didn’t matter; Castiel had figured out, quickly, how to blow his fucking mind.
The kiss lasts for a few heated seconds, and then Cas bites his bottom lip and pulls away, climbing onto the bed and on top of Dean. His arms are on either side of Dean’s body, hands spread flat on the blankets. He leans down and runs the tip of his nose along the hard line of Dean’s jaw.
“Take off your clothes,” he says, scooting down, making room for Dean to move. “Now.”
And Dean does this. He obeys, shucking his shirt and his pants off of his body, throwing them on the floor over the side of the bed. Cas moves again, leans down, his nose brushing Dean’s navel. And he breathes in deep, until he’s filled with the warm, sweat-rich scent of his skin.
“Cas. Jesus,” Dean says, shifting beneath him. He reaches out and Cas tilts his head up, lets Dean’s fingers drag across his face. He licks his lips and Dean pauses there, his fingers cool and wet when he finally pulls them away.
“I want you,” Cas says, his voice a rough slide. Dean tilts his head back, lets his hand fall to his chest. It’s hard not to luxuriate in that sound, in the blunt, direct way Cas wants him. He mouths at the curve of Dean’s belly and asks, low, “What do you want?”
“Uh.” Dean shifts, grabbing at the shoulder of Cas’ t-shirt and tugging. Cas knocks his hand away. “How ‘bout your mouth, my dick...” Cas bites hard on the inside of his thigh and he trails off, fisting his hands in the sheets. “Yeah, that’s. Ahh, that’s right.”
Cas wets the pad of his thumb with his tongue and sears something with touch into the meaty skin of Dean’s flank. He doesn’t understand, files it away in the part of his brain he’s reserved for Castiel, tries to remember what the symbol feels like against his body - knows, though, in his language, it means yes, you are wanted, you are precious, you are mine. He sucks in a breath as Cas kisses the jut of bone at his hip.
“You can talk, Dean,” Cas says, and the fucker’s voice is settled, calm, a deep roll that Dean can feel up the whole length of his body. “You can tell me what you want.”
“Damn it, Cas,” he breathes, grabbing a handful of Cas’ hair, soft and short between his fingers. The sheets underneath him slide smooth against him whenever he moves. They’re old, Bobby’s had them for years, worn nearly threadbare through too many wash cycles to count. But they’re familiar, the same set he and Cas keep on their bed, and he shifts, skin alive with sensation, every inch of him lit up in awareness and anticipation.
“Dean.” And Cas mouths, hot and sloppy, at the head of his cock. Dean groans, lets the sound curl out of him, scratches encouragement against Cas’ scalp. “Speak.”
“Cas,” he says, quick and instinctive, his body bowing up when Cas sucks hard, his mouth wet around him. “Fuck. Cas. Yes, oh shit, yes, please.”
Sometimes Cas will tease him, draw it out, but tonight he is quick and brutal. He stays in control, playing Dean’s body like a master at an instrument. And it’s good, damn it’s good, hot and relentless as Dean comes, his orgasm punched out of him until he’s left sated and still, breathing hard as Cas climbs off the bed.
He stands up, still dressed, and watches. Dean grins and beckons him with one lazy hand. “Hey,” he says. “Let me do you. You gotta let me do you.”
Cas licks his lips and Dean’s grin broadens. “I think it’s time for bed.” He takes off his shirt and then undoes the button of his jeans. “Aren’t you tired?”
“Hey I’m not saying no to sleep. But first.” He sits up and scoots forward until he can reach Cas. He hooks his fingers in the belt loops and pulls forward. Cas grunts but lets himself be moved. Dean tugs the jeans down as quick as he can, eager to get his hands on Cas, on the flat planes of his torso and the scratchy muscle of his thighs.
Cas touches his shoulder as Dean leans in, nipping a line down his chest. “Perhaps I wanted to... cuddle. Instead.”
“Yeah, sure,” Dean says, wrapping a hand around Cas’ dick. “I’ll give you all the goddamn spooning you want, but first you’re gonna throw me back on this bed and fuck my throat.”
~~~
i'm probably going to regret posting this, please don't steal my original stuff random anonymous internet person :X is it paranoid of me to worry about that? it's chiefly why i'm hesitant to post original work (i had a separate journal for it once, but i don't really use it anymore)
so. most of this was supposed to be for octoberwriting, I just haven't finished anything yet. go me.
hawkeye x black widow. two tiny, tiny pieces of possibly the same fic.
“All flash,” he says, lining up his next shot.
She snorts and drops down, just behind the guard below them. His throat is cut before he even knows she's there.
Xxx
“Good pizza,” he offers, his mouth half full of thick, garlicky crust.
She narrows her eyes and flicks a napkin over to him. It lands neatly on his plate. “Sauce,” she says. “You have sauce.” She wipes at the corner of her own impeccably clean lips. “Just there.”
Xxx
She's waiting for him in his room.
He doesn't expect it; it's there, open on his face before he can hide it, and she catches the flash before he schools himself back into impassivity.
~~~
jade peabody and the library ghost.
Five sticky fingers tangle in the fabric of her dress and pull, hard. Jade stumbles, her left heel slipping out of her shoe.
“Sorry,” the culprit says, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. It's Cecily, a pale-skinned child who frequents the library, looking up at Jade with liquid brown eyes, her face mottled with swatches of rainbow from a recent bout of finger-painting.
Jade pushes her glasses up with a finger and smiles. She kneels down and jams her shoe back on her foot; she normally likes strappy shoes for just this reason, but Harley had gotten her these red pumps for her birthday and she'd wanted to wear them at least once. “That's all right,” she tells Cecily, giving her a friendly pat on the shoulder. “No harm done.”
“Ms. Peabody, have you seen my mom? I walked over to play with Jimmy while she was reading and now I can't find her.”
“Hmm.” Jade straightens up and looks around the shelves. Lots of other patrons milling about, but no Petra. “Let's look upstairs,” she says, taking Cecily's tiny hand in hers. “She's probably in the mystery section.”
Cecily trots after her, both hands clasped around Jade's as they head to the second floor. Jade turns the corner and walks towards the shelving for the mysteries; sure enough, Cecily's mother is there, browsing the pages of a thick book at the end of an aisle.
“Momma!” Cecily says happily, letting go of Jade and running over. “You disappeared,” she says, “but Ms. Peabody helped me find you.”
Petra absent-mindedly puts a dainty hand on top of her daughter's thin blonde hair. “Well you should thank Ms. Peabody then,” she says, looking up at Jade with a quick smile.
“Thank you,” Cecily parrots. She climbs into one of the reading chairs they have gathered by the magazine racks.
(fun side note: jade peabody was originally supposed to appear in my deancas fic "in your fragile gesture..." but there wasn't room. :( so she gets her own story!)
~~~
mary and dominic - eventually going to a funeral.
I guess you could say I'm a depraved person.
Or not depraved - not really, because as far as kinky goes I'm probably closer to vanilla than whatever the other end of the scale would be. But definitely offensive. Yeah. Yeah, it's offensive - but maybe not depraved. Would you call it a fetish? It's probably a fetish.
Because all I can think about when I see Father Green is how much I want to fuck him. He's gorgeous, and only about twenty-eight. And a priest, which seems to be the thing that really gets me going about him. My boyfriend Dominic considered breaking up with me, I think, when I told him. Just for a second. He's where I got depraved from, because that's what his mother would say.
But it's pretty innocent. And definitely harmless. I mean, I don't even go to church, really, just with Dominic's family when they come to visit. And that's only because I'm coerced. So I see him - the Father, I mean - and yeah he's a priest and yeah that's pretty damn hot but he's also an actual person. An actual celibate person. And I know this, don't think I don't. I like the idea of him far more than I'd like... you know. Actual him. I mean, sure, I've maybe tried to talk Dominic into a little role play and maybe I have this recurring fantasy about listening to Father Green jerk off in the confessional booth while I whisper dirty things to him. But that's all. And besides the celibacy - which... big deal there - and the caring, devout nature I'd never dream of corrupting, his name is Jerome. So that's that.
Dominic thinks it's weird, like I said, but then Dom won't even admit to having a fetish, much less being open to talking about mine. He acts open and just because maybe I don't like talking about sex all the time he's always saying I'm repressed, but he's the one not being honest with himself. I know what I like. He's had all these weird ideas about sex drilled into his mind his whole life. It's basically just missionary position, some heavy breathing and the occasional “love you” or “is this okay?” Anything else and I swear he thinks we're some sort of sexual deviants. The thought of being tied up turns him on - like I mean turns him on a lot, he's such a sub and he doesn't want to admit it - but he doesn't think I know it does, and he won't ever let me try it. He probably wants to do something really nasty like jizz all over my breasts and then watch me rub it all over my body or something. And that's not ever happening.
His mother disapproved of me - a whole hell of a lot if Dominic's guarded hints were anything to go by - but she disapproves of most things so I sort of just took the glares in stride. We spent way more time with his family than we did with mine. His dad was pretty cool, if a little gruff, and his brother Gabe was the smartest person I've ever met. An alcoholic, too, but with a mother like his who could blame him. Dominic didn't talk to me for a week when I said that, though.
I'd tried to keep him away from my family. Dominic was a nice guy - and sure, my family was nice in its own way, but they were also kind of awful and I had enough of my own problems to scare him away without adding anything else on top of that.
I tried to remind Dominic of this whenever he wanted to visit with me.
“If I don't make you go,” he said, rooting through my closet, “then you'll just stay here. Alone.” He threw a skirt out towards the bed. “Don't you think your mother could use you there?”
“No.” I flopped down onto my bed, spreading my arms out at my sides like wings. I didn't bother looking at the clothes Dominic had picked out for me. “I'm not going.”
“Mary.” He took a step out into the room to glare at me. He shook something floral printed at me in what I presume was meant to be menace. The flowers kind of ruined the effect. “You're going.”
“You can't make me,” I said. Which was a lie, but I was going to fight as long as I could. I turned over so my face was pressed into the comforter and lifted my arms up a little. “I'm Batman.”
I couldn't see him, but I'd bet my last cent Dom was rolling his eyes.
“Okay, fine. Sure. So I'm sleeping with Bruce Wayne.”
“Don't be ridiculous; I'm Dick Grayson. He was a much better Batman.”
“You can try to pull me into this argument, Mary, but it's not going to work.” He made a big show of rattling the hangers around on the rack so I'd be sure to hear them. “I don't care if you're Batman or Superman or goddamned Squirrel Girl. You're getting this bag packed and then we're going. End of discussion.”
It probably says something bad about both of us that most of the time Dominic treated me like a child. I pouted. Appropriately. “How about you get this bag packed and then we don't go, and I just happen to have a bag already packed for my next occasion to travel.”
“Only if by next occasion to travel you mean now.”
“That would sort of negate the not going.”
He slapped me gently on the calf. “Why don't you get up and help me? I have no idea what you want to bring.”
“You bring funeral clothes to a funeral.”
Dominic sighed. “Which you don't seem to have, Mary. Everything you own is too bright.” He held a pink dress with white polka dots and shook it at me. “Do you still shop in the children's department? What adult would wear this?”
“I'm just petite.” I turned back over onto my back and pulled out the book I kept under my pillow. “That dress is fine,” I said, pulling up my knees and propping the book on them. I stared at Dominic over the top of the binding. “But if you don't think I have anything appropriate...”
He rolled his eyes and breathed out, hard, before turning back on his heel and going into the closet. “Okay,” he said, “fine. Look, you have a pair of old dress pants. They're black. T hey'll be fine. Do you have a shirt that matches?”
“They're black pants,” I snorted, “of course I have something that matches. Jesus, Dominic, you do what matching means right?”
“Mary,” he warned, “just tell me what shirt you want me to pack.”
“I think I'll go tits out, actually. Let them all see the girls - it might distract them from the grief.”
He ignored that, or if I wasn't imagining the waves of irritation radiating outward he didn't, and I could hear the soft swick of clothes being pulled off their hangers.
“You have this,” he said, stepping out again, and holding up a long-sleeved top in a shade of somber gray. “Will this work? Does this count as funeral clothes?” I actually really hated that shirt because I hated long sleeves, but I had it for situations just like a funeral, that were meant to be uncomfortable anyway. It was getting to the point where Dom was crossing from annoyed but willing to put up with me into actually angry, so I sighed as he shook the shirt at me, trying to get my attention.
“Yeah,” I said, “that counts as funeral clothing.” He nodded and threw it into the bag he was packing for me.
~~~
+ i also started writing a psych: shawn x gus fic, but i have no idea where i saved it.
plus, something (i might have posted before?) i've had written for FOREVER that i still need to finish
untitled. unfinished. also warnings for sex stuff, like blow jobs and shit. also dean's panty kink. i thiiiink... that's it, though. guh i need to finish this soon. googledocs tells me the last edit i made was 56 days ago. u.u;
“Okay.” Dean runs a hand through his hair as he paces back to the refrigerator, footfalls heavy, and opens the door. There’s already a half-full beer on the counter, though, and Dean glances at it absently before huffing and closing the door again, turning and leaning against it, shoving his hands in the pockets of his old, dark jeans. “Christ.”
“Worrying about it won’t make it any easier,” Cas says from his place at the table. Dean shoots him a sneer and Cas’ expression tightens, eyes glinting impatience. Dean’s been fretting for a little longer than he’ll ever admit to, and there’s a vague, optimistic idea in his head that if he worries and stalls long enough, Cas will offer to tell Sam and Bobby himself. But Cas gives him another look and says “You’re going to have to tell them.”
“I know,” he says, looking away, “but why can’t - “
“You have to tell them, Dean,” Cas says, cutting him off before Dean could even get his question out. He is beginning to look exasperated and probably knows what Dean’s thinking - and since he's as stubborn a bastard as Dean is he's not going to let him get away with it. “I don’t know why you’re so worried.” His voice goes sharp and Dean can tell he’s starting to get pissy.
“I’m not worried,” Dean says, which he is pretty sure is true, but Cas is giving him a flat look, calling bullshit, and Dean rankles, shifting in discomfort and feeling a little defensive. “I’m... not worried,” he says again, and it sounds even less convincing than the first time. “I know Sam and Bobby will be happy for us.” The ring Cas picked out for him - plain, silver, engraved with two shallow grooves - feels heavy on his finger, and he turns it, the silver cool against his skin.
“Yes,” Cas agrees, “they will,” and he’s looking at Dean like he’s being stupid, like he’s making a bigger deal out of it than it really has to be. He stands up, padding as silently as a cat over to Dean. His hair is mussed and he’s wearing some of Dean’s old clothes - a soft, faded t-shirt and woolly sweatpants - as pajamas.
There’s a lump in Dean’s throat and he thinks carefully around profound bond and wedding and domestic partnership and how much that scares him and how much it doesn't. Jesus, he thinks, he loves Cas so much it still manages to surprise him sometimes.
Cas is pushing up next to him, and his fingers wrap around Dean’s wrist. “You’re being stupid,” he says and he leans up, lips soft against Dean’s cheek. “Stop it.”
Dean can’t help the grin that spreads across his face at Cas’ expression, and Cas huffs at him, ruffling up the back of his hair with one lazy hand. “I’m going to bed,” he says. “Don’t wake me up when you come in.”
There is something to be said for it, Dean thinks, when he does it anyway, and Cas doesn’t really mind.
: : :
Dean saunters into the kitchen mid-morning the next day, his feet bare and cold, flannel pants riding low on his hips. There is a hickey on his collarbone, that he probably spent longer examining in the mirror than he really needed to - and somehow, with his announcement, it feels newly obscene, though it’s not like Sam and Bobby don’t know about him and Cas. And it isn’t like they haven’t been caught in less than savory situations before. Sam had walked in on Dean blowing Cas once, and for fuck’s sake he still hadn’t let that go.
More than the sex, though, Sam and Bobby know about the feelings, and after the mocking he suspects Sam will put him through, they’re both going to say something close to “It’s about time.”
Sam and Bobby are both sitting at the table, in varying states of breakfast. Bobby takes a sip of his coffee, mustache twitching at the lip of his mug, looking surlier than usual in the soft, mid-morning light. Dean’s half certain there’s more than just coffee in his mug, too - not that he has any room to judge. Sam has the prissiest breakfast Dean's ever seen, two slices of dry toast and half a grapefruit sitting on a plate in front of him, an empty glass with a ring of milk in the bottom sitting off to one side. He seems sleepy, his eyes blinking closed, head dipping down to his chest, and he has to push the hair that hangs down out of his face at least twice while Dean is watching him.
“So, uh,” he starts inarticulately, breaking the quiet. Sam and Bobby both look over at him. He clears his throat and rubs his shoulder. “Cas and I were talking.”
Bobby looks unimpressed. “You’re having conversations now, huh?” he asks, and Dean takes the opportunity to go pour himself some coffee. “Well ain’t that exciting news.”
Sam hides a laugh with a quick cough. Dean sighs and takes a sip of his coffee, relishing the heat that floods down his throat. He leans against the counter, ankles crossed, going for nonchalant. Sam’s eyebrows go up and it was probably useless to think he’d look anything other than fucking chalant. Whatever the hell that is. He looks off to his right, avoiding the way Sam’s trying to catch his eye. “Cas... sort of proposed.”
He thumbs the ring again while Sam and Bobby exchange incredulous looks. “You and Cas are... engaged? To be married?” Sam asks. Dean levels him with a bitchface Sam could be proud of, because yes, it’s pretty straightforward that’s what a proposal means, and Sam grins, looking sheepish, his shoulders going up around his ears. “That’s great, man,” he says, and it’s equal parts teasing and happy, so Dean’s grateful for that one.
Bobby just snorts into his coffee and says “He finally decide to make an honest man out of you?”
"Oh ha, ha," Dean says, rolling his eyes. "Real funny, Bobby."
Bobby narrows his eyes and clears his throat. "And before you ask - no, I'm not going to walk you down the aisle."
Sam doesn't even try to hide how amused he is, grinning broadly and laughing deep. Dean grumbles a little, muttering some cursory expletives under his breath. He pulls out a box of cereal from the cabinet and dumps some in a bowl, then splashes a quick serving of milk on top. Sam and Bobby leave him alone while he’s eating, at least mostly - every so often he can feel eyes on him, probably Sam’s, but he just stares down at his bowl.
He’s got his spoon in his mouth, walking over to get more coffee, when Cas comes in on heavy feet. “Good morning,” he says, voice rough and sleep-worn.
Dean grins to himself as he pours the last of the coffee into his mug.“Here,” he says, handing it over to Cas. He takes it, face twisted in disgust as he takes his first sip. Dean takes his spoon out of his mouth and drops it into the coffee. “Milk’s in the fridge.”
Cas bustles around blearily for a few seconds; it only takes Sam until he sits down in Dean’s vacated seat to break. “Congratulations,” he says, reaching over to put a hand on Cas’ forearm, voice infused with real warmth.
Cas grunts. “Dean told you?”
“Hey, I said I would, didn’t I?” That gets him twin stares from Cas and Sam, because of course the two bastards are going to double-team him like that, and he looks away, rolling his eyes.
Cas waves away Bobby’s gruff offer of breakfast. It’s getting later in the morning, and Bobby’s close to reached his pre-noon allotment of Winchester facetime, so he grunts and throws his bowl into the sink. He looks at Cas out of the corner of his eye. “You two set a date yet?” he asks.
“No,” Cas says, shrugging, the movement still stiff. “I don’t...” He frowns at Dean. “We haven’t discussed it, but unless Dean wants those trappings I don’t see why we can’t just go ahead and get it over with.”
“Oh come on, man,” Sam says, a grin splitting his face. “You have to have an actual wedding.”
“Getting a little over-eager there,” Dean mutters, crossing his arms and shifting on his feet, but everyone just ignores him.
“I know it’s not... not really about all that,” Sam continues, shifting closer to Castiel, looking fully awake now that he’s got something to rally his energy around, “but love is worth celebrating.” Even Cas looks at Sam askance at that gem. “Right?” Sam asks, defensive, looking at Dean, then Bobby, then back to Cas. “Everything’s been so shitty in our lives, and I mean.” He shrugs his enormous shoulders self-consciously. “I’m really happy for you guys. You’re lucky you found each other, and I thought it would nice to celebrate that.”
Dean rolls his eyes and hopes Sam doesn’t try to bring out his special wedding binder. But Cas looks thoughtful. He looks over at Dean, eyes piercing and curious. “That’s not what I want,” he says, still to Sam, “but... if Dean wants something different, then...”
Every eye turns to him. “Ahh, no,” Dean says, coughing into a fist, looking down at the floor and feeling twenty fucking kinds of awkward. “I mean... Food, yeah. I thought we could have a reception, but anything else?” His nose scrunches in distaste and he waves one hand dismissively in the air. “Writing vows and flower arrangements and all that crap? We can do without.” He thumbs his nose and carefully looks anywhere but at Sam. “We could get tuxes, maybe. I don’t want anything big, though, Jesus. Just... a little church, maybe. Me and Cas, just the ‘I do’s, none of that flowery, romantic crap - Sam, you up there as best man, then we all go have a beer and some cake.” He shrugs. “Simple.”
“And, uh. What color are the flowers in this little scenario?” Sam asks. The bastard looks amused. “And the music? You’ve obviously given it a lot of thought.”
“Bite me,” Dean says. He might have one song bookmarked - maybe - but that’s none of Sam’s fucking business.
“Is that what you want?” Cas asks. Bobby and Sam are still in the room, and obviously listening - at least Sam is, Bobby probably doesn’t give a shit - but the conversation is suddenly and uncomfortably intimate. “A covenant of this nature is not unheard of among angels, but it is... rare.” He pauses, mouth turned down, as he measures his next words carefully. “There are certain rites that must be performed; these are very ancient and very, very important.” He takes a long draw of his coffee, then sighs, smacking his lips together once. He looks cagey, and maybe a little prim, Dean thinks, which is Cas-talk for You got something to say about that, punk? “In deference to the gravity of this, I would be willing to take part in any human rituals you feel necessary.”
Sam starts nodding, like he understands this shit, and Dean sticks out one hand quickly, gesturing down. “Wait,” he says. “Wait, wait, wait.” His hand bobs along with the words. “I’m all for you getting your halo polished for the big day, you want to write me a fucking poem go ahead. But uh. Just what exactly is that very ancient, very important ritual going to entail?”
Even Sam looks eager, leaning towards Cas with an expression of wide-eyed curiosity. Castiel just shifts. “Don’t worry,” he says, like that’s any sort of decent evasion. “It’s complicated. I’ll explain it soon.”
: : :
The first problem, Dean realizes, having been subjected to a really intense - and really specific, too, when he thinks about it - round of questioning from Sam, is that he’s not even sure where they’re allowed to get married. Not where Bobby lives, Sam helpfully points out - and thanks Sam, because it wasn’t like Dean couldn’t fucking google it - but it’s not like it’s a huge deal, not really, it’s not like Dean is going to leave Cas just because they’re not allowed to get a piece of paper legitimizing their relationship - and it’s not like Dean really cares, except that maybe he does, a little, because he saved the whole fucking world and maybe if he wants to marry another guy that’s really not too much to ask for.
“You know that I’m not actually a man, though,” Castiel offers one night. Dean had done a good job not discussing it, but he might have been a little irritable and getting angry at the shower curtain and trying to tear it down probably wasn’t the best way to hide it. He’s not sure whether or not to be grateful he’s lost all ability to bullshit around Cas.
“Yeah, but... You look like a guy,” he says, rooting around for a clean pair of underwear. Cas is eyeing him from the bed in a way that is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. He hitches his towel up and forgoes the boxers, grabbing a pair of sweat pants and hopping into them as he walks over to the bed.
Cas shrugs. “You act like Sam’s mother, but that doesn’t make you a woman, does it?”
Dean frowns. “You meant father, right? I act like Sam’s father?”
“That, too.”
Cas’ interest in the conversation is lagging so Dean just cedes the point. He puts one arm under his head and looks at Cas, laying on his back beside him. “Okay, you’re still mostly angel, whatever.” He puts a hand on Cas’ thigh and runs it up to his hip, feeling with the tips of his fingers for his dick. “But this body? Not junkless. Believe me; I know.” He grins, wide and incorrigible, and Castiel lets out a quiet breath of air, his eyes narrowing. “You look like a guy, so all the assholes who wouldn’t want to let me marry you if you were, sure aren’t going to give a shit just because technically you’re a genderless celestial... thing. Man, we try to tell them you’re an angel and...” Dean goes tense and fidgety, and Cas grips his arm in one tight fist.
“Dean Winchester, if you make light of my sacrifice again by suggesting you are not worthy or - “
“Hey! No, no, calm the fuck down, Cas.” He pulls his arm away, rubbing at it because Cas is still really fucking strong. “But people? Normal people? They don’t believe in things like angels. You know that. And most of the people who do, anyway, think you’re all self-righteous choir boys with the gown and harp.”
“If it’s going to be so much trouble, then, do you want to forgo a ceremony?”
“Nah,” Dean says, looking up at the ceiling and drumming on his chest. Cas gives him a look that says he’s not being casual about it at all. “We’re going to all this trouble of planning? Might as well do it.”
Cas gives him a rare smile. “I was hoping you would say that. I have something for you.” He reaches under the pillow and pulls out a package wrapped in soft white paper. It crinkles under his fingers as he hands it to Dean.
“Uh, thanks Cas. What is it?”
“There’s a custom, I think: a something old, new, borrowed and blue.” Dean huffs at him but Cas ignores it. “This is your ‘something new’.”
“You shouldn’t have,” Dean says. “And I mean that. You really shouldn’t have.” He tears the paper off in two long strips, then laughs as he sees what’s wrapped in it. He holds up a pair of panties - pink, satin, with a lacy waistband and a small bow sewed on in white ribbon - and says “Big plans for the wedding night, huh?”
“Wear them under your tux,” Cas says, reaching for Dean. He sits up eagerly, leaning into Cas. Their mouths meet, hard, and Cas grabs a fistful of Dean’s hair.
It’s only a few hours later when they’re lying in bed, naked on top of the sheets, that Cas says “You shouldn’t worry about the ceremony.” He flings an arm out across Dean’s chest; it’s a gesture that’s meant to be comforting - a concession to the tangled, physical realm Dean knows and Cas is still discovering, and it’s awkward and it shouldn’t warm Dean, not like it does. Cas turns his head and smiles, lip rising past the dull gleam of his teeth. “Sam and I have already talked about it.”
: : :
Even though they’ve got almost everything planned - minus a guest list, because, Dean has realized, they don’t know enough people left alive to invite - Cas is still emphatically reticent about what his ancient angel ritual involves. To be fair, though, it’s not like Dean’s asked about it.
“We still need to figure out who we’re going to invite,” Sam says. He’s neatly fit into the position of wedding planner, mostly because it gave him something to do, and because Cas was even more hopeless than Dean was when it came to things like that.
Dean shrugs and swallows down the bit of burger in his mouth. “Why? We’ve talked about having guests, but do we really need anybody besides us there?”
“Yes,” Cas says, looking over, his face sharp. “It’s very important.”
Sam gives Dean a hesitant look. Dean doesn’t really understand why, so he just looks back and shrugs again. Sam rolls his eyes. “Well, uh. Did you make up a list?”
“I didn’t think you knew anybody,” Dean says with a frown.
Cas’ face turns dark and he lets out a long-suffering sigh. Sam - traitorous bastard - laughs, though he turns it into a cough, his fist at his mouth, when Dean glares. “If you have forgotten,” he says, voice cold, “I come from a very large family.”
“Yeah,” Dean says with a laugh, “but your brothers are dicks.”
“Don’t feel bad,” Sam says, kicking Dean once under the table. “So’s mine.”
Two long fingers rub at Cas’ forehead and he says “I am not trying to make you uncomfortable, Dean. I know how you feel about them. But there must be a certain number of guests there.”
“Oh.” Dean shifts and his face scrunches once before he schools it into something more serious. “You mean for that secret angel thing you won’t talk about.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, well.” Dean makes an encouraging motion with his hand, scooting to the edge of his chair, knees spreading apart. “Now’s the time where you do talk about it.”
“You know me in this form,” Cas begins. “Jimmy Novak’s form. But though I’ve become...” He stops for a second, his mouth still open. He licks his lips and continues with “Become accustomed to this form, until I am fully human it is still a vessel. And as you know, many angels have one true vessel, one vessel that suits them best. For me, that is Jimmy. But he’s not the only vessel I have ever taken.”
“Wait a damn minute,” Dean says. “I thought you said angels haven’t been down here for fucking centuries.”
“That was... true in a broader sense,” Cas explains, voice rough, shaded with stiff apology, “but occasionally we would be sent down.”
“So you’re telling me you wore some other poor sap like an angel condom?”
“Yes, Dean that is exactly what I am telling you.”
“Well I don’t - “
Sam puts a hand on his brother’s arm. “Dude, just shut up for a minute.” Dean rolls his eyes and shrugs Sam’s hand away, but he is quiet.
“You might expect a human to be changed by having an angel inside, but.” His eyes dart over to Sam for a fleeting moment. “What may not be immediately supposed is that the human also affects the angel. When you are in that one vessel, that true vessel, the experience can be.” He clears his throat. “Overwhelming.”
Cas looks unusually solemn; not that he’s ever really a barrel of laughs, but suddenly the whole atmosphere in the room shifts. Whatever it is he’s leading up to, it’s serious. Dean bites his tongue, reminding himself not to be disparaging or an asshole.
“You remember when we faced Famine.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, “and you couldn’t stop eating. Don’t think I’m going to forget that one anytime soon.”
“I might have... hungered. But in my true form? Never for food. I was losing more and more of my grace, my separation from the physical growing ever more tenuous. If it had not been Jimmy Novak, a man who already had a taste for red meat, my hunger would have manifested differently. You are tied to your bodies; even your thoughts, your memories, are affected by the physical structure of your brain. And for an angel, a being incorporeal, to be tethered like that, to be forced into a physical form, it leaves scars.” He looks down at his hands, resting on his thighs, and flexes his fingers. They’re strong hands, with square palms and short, blunt nails, veins in a faint blue just visible under the skin.
The quiet gets awkward quickly; and as much as Dean feels for Cas, he can’t help but think - painful, regretful - of Sam, who had firsthand experience of the other side. The scars that an angel left on its vessel. Something sharp and hot twists in his gut and he tamps down anger, reminding himself not to take it out on Cas. He’s not sure what to say, not really, any words probably inadequate. He wasn’t a completely insensitive bastard - maybe tactless, maybe impatient, but he was more attuned to people than he seemed at first glance. And this, he could tell, just from the set of Cas’ shoulders, the wrinkles in his brow, is something he shouldn’t trivialize. He coughs, scratches at a half-imagined itch behind his ear and waits for Castiel to continue.
It’s Sam who finally breaks the silence. “So, uh. What you’re saying is. An angel’s just as affected as the vessel is?”
“It is not something to be taken lightly,” Cas says. “If you stay in a vessel long enough, their memories, their behaviors... it will start to rub off. The two, human soul and angel, start to entwine.”
Dean pulls a face. “So what - it’s sort of angelic mind meld?”
Cas looks confused, head tilted slightly. “If I understand what you mean from the context then... yes. I think that’s what it’s like. Each remains, essentially, who they were before. They are just more. It’s also why some find taking a vessel so distasteful. To be in close quarters with a human soul, to let it have influence over you, is seen by some as abhorrent.”
That’s all great, but Dean still doesn’t really understand the point. Sam’s got his nerd face on, though it’s tempered with something that might be fear. Dean can feel what he’s thinking, like it’s a palpable thing; that Lucifer, even in there for so short a time, might have left a mark.
Maybe Cas senses it, too, because he pulls his shoulders back and looks up at Dean. It’s almost defiant, and even as contrary as Dean is, he can’t help but grin, buoyed by a sweet curl of attraction. “When angels are joined, it is traditional - as a sign of trust, of respect - to unearth these memories. So that by knowing the parts, you can better know the whole.” He’s already looking at Dean, but his eyes darken and Dean shifts under the weight of his gaze, the heat and intensity that settles there behind the familiar blue. “I know you,” he says. “I have rebuilt you, I have cradled every cell in my hands. There is an intimacy in that knowledge - deep, powerful.” He looks down and Dean can’t see his eyes anymore. “It is only fair you have reciprocal knowledge of me.”
Dean swallows hard, his tongue a heavy weight in his mouth, plugging his throat. Sam is looking at the floor, playing with his hands, but Cas’ eyes are back on him. “Yeah,” he says, and it comes out rough, harder to say than he expected. “Yeah, okay, Cas. I understand.”
: : :
Cas doesn’t talk about the other angels - it’s not something Dean really wants to dissect, it’s something that just goes without saying. He doesn’t clam up, doesn’t refuse to talk about it on the very rare occasions it comes up in conversation, but he never brings it up on his own. There is a wound there, and sometimes Dean worries that it’s festering, that underneath the surface, the part scabbed over, there’s infection and rot, and Cas just lets it sit there. It’s enough to make a Winchester proud, he thinks, and even in his head the taste of the thought is bitter.
They go to bed separately that night, Dean before Cas. There’s a niggling feeling that maybe Cas revealed something big, that maybe he should tread carefully. But he doesn’t dwell on it, or give it much more than a passing thought, and focuses instead on Cas’ intimate knowledge. Physicality has always been Dean’s first language, easier for him to understand than words ever will be.
He’s on the bed when Cas opens the door and he grins, flexing his toes and lifting one hand in a half-hearted wave. “Hey,” he says, pitching his voice low, making his intentions as clear as he can. He rolls his hips in case Castiel didn’t get the first hint.
“Dean.”
Cas moves closer and Dean grabs a handful of his shirt, pulling him down and letting their mouths crash together.
Cas is fierce and insistent, in this as he is in everything. After their night in the brothel, Dean had sort of gotten the impression that Castiel was terrified of sex. And he was initially. He’d been awkward and clumsy and Christ, Dean had been vividly reminded why he liked partners with experience. That hadn’t lasted, though, and if maybe Dean would describe him as methodical more than enthusiastic, it didn’t matter; Castiel had figured out, quickly, how to blow his fucking mind.
The kiss lasts for a few heated seconds, and then Cas bites his bottom lip and pulls away, climbing onto the bed and on top of Dean. His arms are on either side of Dean’s body, hands spread flat on the blankets. He leans down and runs the tip of his nose along the hard line of Dean’s jaw.
“Take off your clothes,” he says, scooting down, making room for Dean to move. “Now.”
And Dean does this. He obeys, shucking his shirt and his pants off of his body, throwing them on the floor over the side of the bed. Cas moves again, leans down, his nose brushing Dean’s navel. And he breathes in deep, until he’s filled with the warm, sweat-rich scent of his skin.
“Cas. Jesus,” Dean says, shifting beneath him. He reaches out and Cas tilts his head up, lets Dean’s fingers drag across his face. He licks his lips and Dean pauses there, his fingers cool and wet when he finally pulls them away.
“I want you,” Cas says, his voice a rough slide. Dean tilts his head back, lets his hand fall to his chest. It’s hard not to luxuriate in that sound, in the blunt, direct way Cas wants him. He mouths at the curve of Dean’s belly and asks, low, “What do you want?”
“Uh.” Dean shifts, grabbing at the shoulder of Cas’ t-shirt and tugging. Cas knocks his hand away. “How ‘bout your mouth, my dick...” Cas bites hard on the inside of his thigh and he trails off, fisting his hands in the sheets. “Yeah, that’s. Ahh, that’s right.”
Cas wets the pad of his thumb with his tongue and sears something with touch into the meaty skin of Dean’s flank. He doesn’t understand, files it away in the part of his brain he’s reserved for Castiel, tries to remember what the symbol feels like against his body - knows, though, in his language, it means yes, you are wanted, you are precious, you are mine. He sucks in a breath as Cas kisses the jut of bone at his hip.
“You can talk, Dean,” Cas says, and the fucker’s voice is settled, calm, a deep roll that Dean can feel up the whole length of his body. “You can tell me what you want.”
“Damn it, Cas,” he breathes, grabbing a handful of Cas’ hair, soft and short between his fingers. The sheets underneath him slide smooth against him whenever he moves. They’re old, Bobby’s had them for years, worn nearly threadbare through too many wash cycles to count. But they’re familiar, the same set he and Cas keep on their bed, and he shifts, skin alive with sensation, every inch of him lit up in awareness and anticipation.
“Dean.” And Cas mouths, hot and sloppy, at the head of his cock. Dean groans, lets the sound curl out of him, scratches encouragement against Cas’ scalp. “Speak.”
“Cas,” he says, quick and instinctive, his body bowing up when Cas sucks hard, his mouth wet around him. “Fuck. Cas. Yes, oh shit, yes, please.”
Sometimes Cas will tease him, draw it out, but tonight he is quick and brutal. He stays in control, playing Dean’s body like a master at an instrument. And it’s good, damn it’s good, hot and relentless as Dean comes, his orgasm punched out of him until he’s left sated and still, breathing hard as Cas climbs off the bed.
He stands up, still dressed, and watches. Dean grins and beckons him with one lazy hand. “Hey,” he says. “Let me do you. You gotta let me do you.”
Cas licks his lips and Dean’s grin broadens. “I think it’s time for bed.” He takes off his shirt and then undoes the button of his jeans. “Aren’t you tired?”
“Hey I’m not saying no to sleep. But first.” He sits up and scoots forward until he can reach Cas. He hooks his fingers in the belt loops and pulls forward. Cas grunts but lets himself be moved. Dean tugs the jeans down as quick as he can, eager to get his hands on Cas, on the flat planes of his torso and the scratchy muscle of his thighs.
Cas touches his shoulder as Dean leans in, nipping a line down his chest. “Perhaps I wanted to... cuddle. Instead.”
“Yeah, sure,” Dean says, wrapping a hand around Cas’ dick. “I’ll give you all the goddamn spooning you want, but first you’re gonna throw me back on this bed and fuck my throat.”
~~~
i'm probably going to regret posting this, please don't steal my original stuff random anonymous internet person :X is it paranoid of me to worry about that? it's chiefly why i'm hesitant to post original work (i had a separate journal for it once, but i don't really use it anymore)