I WROTE CRACK!FIC
Title: GDMFDWW (Or: Why Dean Really Hates Witches and
Everything They Stand For)
Author: earth_heart
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dean, Castiel, Sam (mentions of Dean/Castiel)
Warnings: Uh.... crack? (I think?)
Spoilers: Eh, somewhere in season 5, where Castiel is not-quite angel and not-quite human
Disclaimer: Supernatural does not belong to me. It belongs to Kripke and the CW/WB. I make no profit from this story.
Summary: Goddamn motherfucking devil-worshiping witches.
AN: SO. My poor, abused brain needed a break from the angst and heartbreak that is Finding His Voice. There will be updates of that tomorrow, but tonight... Tonight my muse demands crack. Or my failed attempt at it.
------
Dean Winchester liked to think he was a pretty easy-going guy, y’know? Give him beer and pie, Sammy and Cas, and his baby, and he was good. Put some evil SOB in front of him to kill, and he was great.
There are very few things Dean hates (‘cept for Lucifer, and dick angels, and the apoca- y’know what, we’re getting off topic here.)
Anyway.
So, yeah. Few things Dean hates. One thing he does hate though, with a burning, fiery passion only a true Winchester can possess (Sammy don’t count, ‘cause he’s all girly and shit) is witches.
Witches, man. Goddamn motherfucking devil-worshiping witches. They were the bane of his existence; the kryptonite to his Superman, the-
You get the picture.
The point is, Dean really hates witches. When they’re not spewing fluids everywhere (which is disgusting) they’re throwing out curses and spells and generally making his life a living hell. Several little tween bitches had thought that zapping him with a lust spell would finish him off.
(That had been when he was fifteen, and he and Sam were never going to talk about that night. Ever.)
Tonight’s Monster of The Week just happened to be witches. Four of them in their stupid little coven with their stupid little fantasies stuffed into teenage skulls already overflowing with shit like Twilight and Vampire Diaries.
The day Dean sees a sparkling vampire is the day he will lay down and gladly die, because that shit is just not worth living through.
Fuck, we’re getting off topic again.
Witches, right. We’re talking about the witches. There were four of them, the oldest barely nineteen and the youngest a fresh-faced fifteen-year-old (what are people teaching their kids these days?). The Brothers Winchester and their trusty-dusty angel-boy went up against the coven, and they were totally kicking ass.
Then the spells started flying. Goddamn spells.
“Dean!” Castiel shouted, and then there was something warm and impossibly strong shoving Dean through a wall (because that tenacious little fucker still had power, man). Dean got a glimpse of tan trench coat and dark hair before his view was blocked by the plaster raining down on him, and when he emerged three of the four witches were dead and Sam was looming over the fifteen-year-old, looking serious and disappointed and like a giant puppy who’d spotted a mouse.
The witch was bawling her little air-filled head off, begging to be spared and saying that she didn’t want to die, and please; couldn’t they be merciful?
Dean hates witches, and she wasn’t going to change, and when he saw the bundle of coat on the floor where Castiel was supposed to be he felt completely justified in putting a bullet through her head.
“Dean!” his brother squawked, flailing his arms and looking even more disapproving, and Dean grunted.
“Witches, Sammy. Goddamn witches. They are evil, we are good. I do not give a shit that all they wanted to do was curse Robert Sparkle-Ass with a love spell. I just do not care.”
With that, he dropped down and poked at the aforementioned bundle of trench coat, because they were minus one angel-boy and Dean kind of wanted the son of a bitch to be okay.
The coat wiggled, and he totally did not let out a girly shriek and fall back on his ass. He just fell back on his ass, god dammit Sam, shut the hell up.
Grabbing a fistful of tan material, Dean yanked it away to expose-
-large, serious blue eyes; big and wide and confused on a small, slightly-chubby face. A kid was sitting where Castiel had stood; looking disoriented but with that familiar air of disapproval, as if Dean had done something wrong without realizing it and his punishment was a week of no happy-fun-time.
God, Dean hated no happy-fun-time. He was forever bitchy when Cas wasn’t putting out, and Sam would buy a second motel room just to escape his moodiness and inability to keep from snapping at a fly buzzing too loudly around the television.
Hey, that fly had been a noisy fucker, you shut the hell up.
Dean realized his mind was rambling; skipping and sputtering like his mouth as he stared down at the child-who-was-Cas. He knew it was Cas, because he’d know those blue eyes anywhere, and that dark hair, while even messier and more spiked up than usual, was unmistakable.
The wings were new, though.
Still, to be sure... “Uh, Cas?”
“Why are you so tall, Dean?” Castiel demanded, his tiny wings fluffing up in a general, overall unhappiness that kind of made Dean just want to pinch his cheeks and hug the little dude. Which, by the way, little nerdy dude with wings was totally now a fact. Score for Dean.
“I’m not tall, Cas. You shrank. Witches must have hit you with some kind of regression spell or something.”
The angel’s wings puffed up even more, kind of making him look like some crazed, homicidal pigeon, and Dean bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing.
Sam, though, being the total girl he was, suddenly let out a very loud, very un-manly squeal and scooped up Castiel off of the floor.
Which is when they found out that the only thing covering their little angel’s modesty was the familiar white button-down shirt he was now drowning in; the material slipping off of his shoulder. And when Sam accidently touched a place that Castiel felt he really should not touch; that is for Dean only, Dean’s brother got knocked flat on his back with one humungous bitch-slap from a tiny, puffed-up wing.
Controlling your laughter? Who said anything about controlling your laugher? Dean sure as hell didn’t, because he was practically rolling right now; tears streaming down his face and the bodies of four dead tween witches growing colder by the minute.
Witches, man.
So Dean smuggled Castiel back to the hotel, cradling the man-turned-child against his chest and trying not to let his heart swell with sappy shit at the feeling of those little arms wrapped around his neck, a tiny nose rubbing sleepily against his jaw.
Apparently car-rides were enough to tucker out a child angel. D’aaaaw.
When he tried to put Castiel down on the bed, the ma- fuck it, boy- let out an unhappy whine and squeezed harder. Dean was two-point-six seconds away from choking, because child or not, his angel was still a strong fucker, before Cas seemed to catch himself and let go.
“Easy, Cas, easy. Sam will be back soon with some ‘jammies and other stuff for you to wear until we figure this shit out.” Dean promised, stroking a hand through the boy’s hair and watching how his wings fluttered and relaxed.
Castiel huffed, and his pout was just so adorable it wasn’t even fair, because Dean was not a pedophile god-dammit, and when Cas looked at him like that he kind of wanted to kiss him. Ew.
“I do not like this, Dean. I feel small and helpless.” the angel complained, his wings thrashing and nearly hitting Dean in the face when he leaned over to comfort him. The hunter reeled back with a yelp, the tip of his nose smarting, but at least it wasn’t as bad as Sam.
If his brother’s face didn’t bruise, Dean would be surprised. Those wings hurt.
Speaking of brother, the door opened and Sam came bounding into the room; his smile big and warm and his eyes brighter than they’d been in a long time. Who knew all it would take was their resident badass angel turning into a four-year-old boy?
Goddamn witches. Dean could not believe this was his life.
“Here, I got a bunch of stuff.” Sam gushed, all giant and full of love and emotions, and oh god was that a tear of happiness?
Dean was so disowning the Sasquatch.
“Dude, I said a few things, not the whole store.” Jesus, Dean had earned that money fair and square! It wasn’t his fault people sucked at playing pool.
“I got a few things. He needed clothes, and pajamas, and underwear, and socks, and shoes. Also, I found this adorable little hat.”
How was this Dean’s life?
“If there are wings on that hat, I’m going to kill you.”
Sam cleared his throat and looked decidedly sheepish, then just grinned and turned to Castiel to show him everything. There were Power Rangers t-shirts and adorable little jeans and khakis, and Dean even saw a Zeppelin shirt, for which all would be forgiven.
Then he found the footie pajamas.
“Did you get these from the girls’ section?” he demanded, glaring at Sam. His brother was busy ignoring him and cooing over Castiel, whose wings had fluffed up to the point where he looked like a very intimidating cotton ball. “Sam.”
“They’re cute!”
“They’ve got angels on them!”
“Exactly! I thought it was funny.”
... It was pretty funny.
What was even funnier was getting Castiel into them, since it was two in the morning and really, baby angels should be in bed by at least seven. Sam actually had to leave the room before Cas would change into them, and every offer to help was met with a glare and a huff.
They soon realized that the pajamas would not fit around the wings, so Dean used the demon-killing knife to alter (read: cut holes into) the back so they would close around the feathery appendages.
Once Castiel was changed and tucked sleepily under the covers (baby angels slept; who knew?), Dean went rooting through the clothing Sam had come back with. His brother actually hadn’t done too badly, considering; if Dean was willing to forgive the footie pajamas.
He kind of was, because Cas just looked so damn precious that there were sure to be blackmail pictures when this was all said and done.
Around that time, Dean moved a little shirt with a tiger on the front and found the hat.
“Sam.”
Sasquatch re-entered the room and immediately looked at Cas, who was curled up into a lump and covered by one wing while the other stretched out behind him. His brother immediately snapped a picture, and then turned to Dean. “Yeah?”
Dean held up the hat.
Sam smiled sheepishly. “It’s cute.”
“It’s a fucking.... what the hell is it? A frog? Some cracked-out chameleon? Who the hell would buy something like this for their kid?!”
The puppy eyes came out, all big and pleading and watery, and Dean made an angry noise in the back of his throat. No way. No way in hell. Footie pajamas with little angels on them, he could handle. It made the blackmail pictures that much better.
No way was he subjecting Castiel to the Hat From Hell.
“No.”
“You ruin all my fun.”
“If you both do not shut up, I’m going to ruin something.” came the threat from under the blankets. It was hard to find it intimidating when it was just a child’s sleepy voice, and so Dean grinned and punched Sammy before crawling onto the bed.
Hey, he was a responsible, mature man. He could sleep in the bed without it being awkward. Shut up.
Castiel seemed to approve of his idea, because the lump wiggled and turned; nearly smacked Dean in the face with one flailing wing as the child rolled over and curled himself against the hunter’s chest. He snuffled sleepily, tiny feet kicking and wings resettling, and then promptly went back to sleep.
Dean didn’t smile, and it definitely wasn’t soft and warm and sappy. Shut the hell up. He wasn’t sure when he got to sleep, but he remembered pulling the child angel closer in an instinctive, protective move, and then closing his eyes.
When he woke up, it was to nearly six feet of badass angel curled around him, his wings gone but the footie pajamas somehow intact and still on him. How the hell that happened, Dean didn’t even want to know.
“Guess the spell wore off.”
“Yes, some time ago.”
“Glad you’re back now, man. Gotta say though, you made one cute kid.”
Castiel let out a quiet noise and then shoved his head back under Dean’s chin. It wasn’t as cute as when he’d been a baby angel, and Dean was gonna miss the fluffy wings, but at least no one could call him a pedophile now.
“Sam’s gonna be so disappointed. I think he was looking forward to having you wear all those little outfits.”
“I do not think I approve of much of Sam’s choice in fashion.”
Dean snorted.
“You and me both.”
Goddamn motherfucking devil-worshiping witches, man. What the fuck.
Author: earth_heart
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dean, Castiel, Sam (mentions of Dean/Castiel)
Warnings: Uh.... crack? (I think?)
Spoilers: Eh, somewhere in season 5, where Castiel is not-quite angel and not-quite human
Disclaimer: Supernatural does not belong to me. It belongs to Kripke and the CW/WB. I make no profit from this story.
Summary: Goddamn motherfucking devil-worshiping witches.
AN: SO. My poor, abused brain needed a break from the angst and heartbreak that is Finding His Voice. There will be updates of that tomorrow, but tonight... Tonight my muse demands crack. Or my failed attempt at it.
------
Dean Winchester liked to think he was a pretty easy-going guy, y’know? Give him beer and pie, Sammy and Cas, and his baby, and he was good. Put some evil SOB in front of him to kill, and he was great.
There are very few things Dean hates (‘cept for Lucifer, and dick angels, and the apoca- y’know what, we’re getting off topic here.)
Anyway.
So, yeah. Few things Dean hates. One thing he does hate though, with a burning, fiery passion only a true Winchester can possess (Sammy don’t count, ‘cause he’s all girly and shit) is witches.
Witches, man. Goddamn motherfucking devil-worshiping witches. They were the bane of his existence; the kryptonite to his Superman, the-
You get the picture.
The point is, Dean really hates witches. When they’re not spewing fluids everywhere (which is disgusting) they’re throwing out curses and spells and generally making his life a living hell. Several little tween bitches had thought that zapping him with a lust spell would finish him off.
(That had been when he was fifteen, and he and Sam were never going to talk about that night. Ever.)
Tonight’s Monster of The Week just happened to be witches. Four of them in their stupid little coven with their stupid little fantasies stuffed into teenage skulls already overflowing with shit like Twilight and Vampire Diaries.
The day Dean sees a sparkling vampire is the day he will lay down and gladly die, because that shit is just not worth living through.
Fuck, we’re getting off topic again.
Witches, right. We’re talking about the witches. There were four of them, the oldest barely nineteen and the youngest a fresh-faced fifteen-year-old (what are people teaching their kids these days?). The Brothers Winchester and their trusty-dusty angel-boy went up against the coven, and they were totally kicking ass.
Then the spells started flying. Goddamn spells.
“Dean!” Castiel shouted, and then there was something warm and impossibly strong shoving Dean through a wall (because that tenacious little fucker still had power, man). Dean got a glimpse of tan trench coat and dark hair before his view was blocked by the plaster raining down on him, and when he emerged three of the four witches were dead and Sam was looming over the fifteen-year-old, looking serious and disappointed and like a giant puppy who’d spotted a mouse.
The witch was bawling her little air-filled head off, begging to be spared and saying that she didn’t want to die, and please; couldn’t they be merciful?
Dean hates witches, and she wasn’t going to change, and when he saw the bundle of coat on the floor where Castiel was supposed to be he felt completely justified in putting a bullet through her head.
“Dean!” his brother squawked, flailing his arms and looking even more disapproving, and Dean grunted.
“Witches, Sammy. Goddamn witches. They are evil, we are good. I do not give a shit that all they wanted to do was curse Robert Sparkle-Ass with a love spell. I just do not care.”
With that, he dropped down and poked at the aforementioned bundle of trench coat, because they were minus one angel-boy and Dean kind of wanted the son of a bitch to be okay.
The coat wiggled, and he totally did not let out a girly shriek and fall back on his ass. He just fell back on his ass, god dammit Sam, shut the hell up.
Grabbing a fistful of tan material, Dean yanked it away to expose-
-large, serious blue eyes; big and wide and confused on a small, slightly-chubby face. A kid was sitting where Castiel had stood; looking disoriented but with that familiar air of disapproval, as if Dean had done something wrong without realizing it and his punishment was a week of no happy-fun-time.
God, Dean hated no happy-fun-time. He was forever bitchy when Cas wasn’t putting out, and Sam would buy a second motel room just to escape his moodiness and inability to keep from snapping at a fly buzzing too loudly around the television.
Hey, that fly had been a noisy fucker, you shut the hell up.
Dean realized his mind was rambling; skipping and sputtering like his mouth as he stared down at the child-who-was-Cas. He knew it was Cas, because he’d know those blue eyes anywhere, and that dark hair, while even messier and more spiked up than usual, was unmistakable.
The wings were new, though.
Still, to be sure... “Uh, Cas?”
“Why are you so tall, Dean?” Castiel demanded, his tiny wings fluffing up in a general, overall unhappiness that kind of made Dean just want to pinch his cheeks and hug the little dude. Which, by the way, little nerdy dude with wings was totally now a fact. Score for Dean.
“I’m not tall, Cas. You shrank. Witches must have hit you with some kind of regression spell or something.”
The angel’s wings puffed up even more, kind of making him look like some crazed, homicidal pigeon, and Dean bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing.
Sam, though, being the total girl he was, suddenly let out a very loud, very un-manly squeal and scooped up Castiel off of the floor.
Which is when they found out that the only thing covering their little angel’s modesty was the familiar white button-down shirt he was now drowning in; the material slipping off of his shoulder. And when Sam accidently touched a place that Castiel felt he really should not touch; that is for Dean only, Dean’s brother got knocked flat on his back with one humungous bitch-slap from a tiny, puffed-up wing.
Controlling your laughter? Who said anything about controlling your laugher? Dean sure as hell didn’t, because he was practically rolling right now; tears streaming down his face and the bodies of four dead tween witches growing colder by the minute.
Witches, man.
So Dean smuggled Castiel back to the hotel, cradling the man-turned-child against his chest and trying not to let his heart swell with sappy shit at the feeling of those little arms wrapped around his neck, a tiny nose rubbing sleepily against his jaw.
Apparently car-rides were enough to tucker out a child angel. D’aaaaw.
When he tried to put Castiel down on the bed, the ma- fuck it, boy- let out an unhappy whine and squeezed harder. Dean was two-point-six seconds away from choking, because child or not, his angel was still a strong fucker, before Cas seemed to catch himself and let go.
“Easy, Cas, easy. Sam will be back soon with some ‘jammies and other stuff for you to wear until we figure this shit out.” Dean promised, stroking a hand through the boy’s hair and watching how his wings fluttered and relaxed.
Castiel huffed, and his pout was just so adorable it wasn’t even fair, because Dean was not a pedophile god-dammit, and when Cas looked at him like that he kind of wanted to kiss him. Ew.
“I do not like this, Dean. I feel small and helpless.” the angel complained, his wings thrashing and nearly hitting Dean in the face when he leaned over to comfort him. The hunter reeled back with a yelp, the tip of his nose smarting, but at least it wasn’t as bad as Sam.
If his brother’s face didn’t bruise, Dean would be surprised. Those wings hurt.
Speaking of brother, the door opened and Sam came bounding into the room; his smile big and warm and his eyes brighter than they’d been in a long time. Who knew all it would take was their resident badass angel turning into a four-year-old boy?
Goddamn witches. Dean could not believe this was his life.
“Here, I got a bunch of stuff.” Sam gushed, all giant and full of love and emotions, and oh god was that a tear of happiness?
Dean was so disowning the Sasquatch.
“Dude, I said a few things, not the whole store.” Jesus, Dean had earned that money fair and square! It wasn’t his fault people sucked at playing pool.
“I got a few things. He needed clothes, and pajamas, and underwear, and socks, and shoes. Also, I found this adorable little hat.”
How was this Dean’s life?
“If there are wings on that hat, I’m going to kill you.”
Sam cleared his throat and looked decidedly sheepish, then just grinned and turned to Castiel to show him everything. There were Power Rangers t-shirts and adorable little jeans and khakis, and Dean even saw a Zeppelin shirt, for which all would be forgiven.
Then he found the footie pajamas.
“Did you get these from the girls’ section?” he demanded, glaring at Sam. His brother was busy ignoring him and cooing over Castiel, whose wings had fluffed up to the point where he looked like a very intimidating cotton ball. “Sam.”
“They’re cute!”
“They’ve got angels on them!”
“Exactly! I thought it was funny.”
... It was pretty funny.
What was even funnier was getting Castiel into them, since it was two in the morning and really, baby angels should be in bed by at least seven. Sam actually had to leave the room before Cas would change into them, and every offer to help was met with a glare and a huff.
They soon realized that the pajamas would not fit around the wings, so Dean used the demon-killing knife to alter (read: cut holes into) the back so they would close around the feathery appendages.
Once Castiel was changed and tucked sleepily under the covers (baby angels slept; who knew?), Dean went rooting through the clothing Sam had come back with. His brother actually hadn’t done too badly, considering; if Dean was willing to forgive the footie pajamas.
He kind of was, because Cas just looked so damn precious that there were sure to be blackmail pictures when this was all said and done.
Around that time, Dean moved a little shirt with a tiger on the front and found the hat.
“Sam.”
Sasquatch re-entered the room and immediately looked at Cas, who was curled up into a lump and covered by one wing while the other stretched out behind him. His brother immediately snapped a picture, and then turned to Dean. “Yeah?”
Dean held up the hat.
Sam smiled sheepishly. “It’s cute.”
“It’s a fucking.... what the hell is it? A frog? Some cracked-out chameleon? Who the hell would buy something like this for their kid?!”
The puppy eyes came out, all big and pleading and watery, and Dean made an angry noise in the back of his throat. No way. No way in hell. Footie pajamas with little angels on them, he could handle. It made the blackmail pictures that much better.
No way was he subjecting Castiel to the Hat From Hell.
“No.”
“You ruin all my fun.”
“If you both do not shut up, I’m going to ruin something.” came the threat from under the blankets. It was hard to find it intimidating when it was just a child’s sleepy voice, and so Dean grinned and punched Sammy before crawling onto the bed.
Hey, he was a responsible, mature man. He could sleep in the bed without it being awkward. Shut up.
Castiel seemed to approve of his idea, because the lump wiggled and turned; nearly smacked Dean in the face with one flailing wing as the child rolled over and curled himself against the hunter’s chest. He snuffled sleepily, tiny feet kicking and wings resettling, and then promptly went back to sleep.
Dean didn’t smile, and it definitely wasn’t soft and warm and sappy. Shut the hell up. He wasn’t sure when he got to sleep, but he remembered pulling the child angel closer in an instinctive, protective move, and then closing his eyes.
When he woke up, it was to nearly six feet of badass angel curled around him, his wings gone but the footie pajamas somehow intact and still on him. How the hell that happened, Dean didn’t even want to know.
“Guess the spell wore off.”
“Yes, some time ago.”
“Glad you’re back now, man. Gotta say though, you made one cute kid.”
Castiel let out a quiet noise and then shoved his head back under Dean’s chin. It wasn’t as cute as when he’d been a baby angel, and Dean was gonna miss the fluffy wings, but at least no one could call him a pedophile now.
“Sam’s gonna be so disappointed. I think he was looking forward to having you wear all those little outfits.”
“I do not think I approve of much of Sam’s choice in fashion.”
Dean snorted.
“You and me both.”
Goddamn motherfucking devil-worshiping witches, man. What the fuck.