rebel-cas:

He wakes up in a familiar room. Not his. Because he doesn’t have one.

He blinks and sits up. Draped across a chair in the corner is his trench coat. He tried to get up, but his body won’t let him. Instead, he groans and slumps back against the headboard.

“Oh, hey, you’re up,” Dean mutters as he strides across his own room in the bunker and sets a glass of water on the nightstand beside Cas.

Cas looks up at him and silently asks the hunter how long he’s been unconscious.

“Been out three days,” Dean sits himself at the end of the bed, replying to Cas’ nonverbal question.

“He’s back in the cage. Crowley sent his demons to find Rowena in purgatory. She got out and did a spell and bam! Don’t think she was too happy with Lucifer killing her.”

Still not willing to speak, Cas reaches for the glass of water. He lowers his eyes and takes a sip, mulling over the taste of particles.

“Didn’t know if you would make it.” Dean suddenly sits up straighter. “Rowena didn’t know what would happen to you. But we had to take the risk.”

Cas can feel Dean scoot a little closer. “Had to get you back.”

Cas places the glass of water back beside him and squirms as much as he can to be as far away from Dean as possible.

He’s embarrassed. Instead of helping to defeat Amara, the only thing he did was distract the Winchesters even more and set another evil in the world.

He recalls Ambriel’s words. Expendable. He was definitely expendable. With him around, he only got in the way.

He finally looks up at Dean. And he’s decided. He needs to go. He needs to return to heaven and stay there. At the very least. He shouldn’t touch humanity again. Dean and Sam will figure out a way to defeat the Darkness and carry on. They would. They’re the heroes.

“Don’t,” Dean croaks out. Adamantly. “Don’t even think about about leaving.”

Cas isn’t exactly sure how or when Dean started to understand him without having to say anything; it never used to be like this. Dean rarely understood his motives in the past.

He’s so busy pondering this, he doesn’t notice that Dean is sitting at the end of the nightstand, and not the bed, by this point.

“Cas.”

He looks up at Dean again with Jimmy Novak’s blue eyes.

“You’re needed. We need you. Always,” Dean shrugs, and Cas can tell that he’s going to try to lighten the mood. “Who’s going to be our wingman?”

Cas frowns. Dean knows that his wings are in tatters and that they’re barely useful. Was he trying to him feel worse?

“Not like that, Cas. I mean, who’s going to save our asses when we need it? And don’t say Crowley. As much as he’s useful, I can’t ever trust him.”

Dean nudges his blanket-covered thighs. “Stay, okay. Just stay. I need you. I always need you.”

Cas doesn’t realize how much he needed those words. Dean had never asked him to stay before. Everyone kept telling him to go.

So overcome with gratitude, Cas does the only thing he can. He flings his arms around Dean’s neck.

Dean’s arms come up and tighten around him. “I need you more than you know, Cas. I’m sorry you didn’t know, but I do. I need you to stay. Please.”

Cas shoves his head into the crook of Dean’s neck and breathes in. Because for the first time in a long time, Dean makes him feel like he’s home. That he has a home.

He nods aggressively, hoping that Dean can feel how much he wants it.

“Dean.”

puppycastiel:

11.06 “Our Little World” coda, in which they have the talk. 1.1K.

Dean lingers in Cas’ doorway, shifting awkwardly on his feet, ignoring the flutter in his belly at the thought of Cas having a room at the bunker. Of course, Cas couldn’t stay in Sam’s forever, and there simply comes a point when someone has watched too many episodes of Jenny Jones. He’d messed up at the start; telling Cas to leave that first time around was yet another one of a myriad things he kept blocked out. And now, with Cas settled in, he’d screwed it up again. But what else was new.

“Dean, come in,” Cas calls from the bed. His hair is disheveled, splayed dark across the pillow. He shifts his weight onto both his elbows, watching Dean as he walks into the room, and when they’re close enough, he extends his hand, a gesture Dean accepts - grasps - like a lifeline.

“I didn’t mean-” Dean blurts out, at the same time Cas says, “I apologize.” They still, blinking at each other, before the tension breaks into soft, mirroring smiles.

“You first,” Cas offers kindly.

“Oh,” Dean clears his throat, then walks around the bed to sit beside Cas. He chalks up the movement to buying himself more time but, to be honest, he’s just missed Cas. A lot. His presence and warmth.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters with a sigh. “Dunno why I keep hurtin’ you like that.” He gathers the courage to turn his head and finds Cas looking back with fondness.

“Dean, if it’s ‘hurt’ you mean to discuss, I’m the one who-”

“Hey, no, I already told you that I’m fine. It’s fine.”

Silence falls between them once more, strung tight, and Dean curses up a storm inside his head, fists clenched. “Dean,” Cas murmurs, reaching across his lap to take Dean’s hand. He uncurls the fingers one by one then raises them to his lips to kiss each knuckle.

“What’re you doing,” Dean flushes red, though he doesn’t do anything to pull away. He just waits, heart racing fast, for Cas to place those five little kisses.

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collectionofdestiel:

“I love you, sugar plum.”

“Dean-“

“You’re my sweet honey suckle.”

“Stop-“

“My fluffy little love bunny.”

“Dean!” The fallen angel sent a glare across the diner’s table. “I was an Angel of the Lord! I am most certainly not a ‘fluffy little love bunny’ or a ‘sugar plum’ or ‘sweet honey suckle’. I am a warrior.”

The hunter rolled his eyes with a shit-eating grin before leaning over and placing his hand on Cas’. “Sweetheart, you might have been an Angel of the Lord but now you’re my little love monkey.”

“I am no such thing.” Cas scoffed but couldn’t hide the small upturn of his lips. “If I was, then you would be my… cuddly platypus.”

Dean snorted so abruptly that he sent himself in a coughing fit. It took him a few moments to calm himself down enough to shake his head and grin so lovingly at the other man it took his breath away. “You are something, you know that? ‘Cuddly platypus’? You really know how to charm a guy.”

“I am not very versed in nicknames for romantic partners. It was the first thing that came to my mind.” Cas’ tone was defensive as he sent his boyfriend a pleading look. “I am trying to fit in.”

“Wanna know a secret?” Dean leaned up over the table to place a quick chaste kiss on Cas’ lips. “You don’t need to fit in. I love you just the way you are and if that means being your cuddly platypus then that’s fine by me.”

“Really?” There was unmistakable hope sparkling behind those wide blue eyes.

“Yes, dumby. I love you and all your little quirks. Makes you you. No one else in the world would have come up with ‘cuddly platypus’ and that’s what makes you so goddamn perfect.” Dean stole another kiss, not being able to help himself, before settling back against his booth. “Now, you want to split an order of fries? I’m thinking we can have dessert for our main course.”

“That sounds wonderful, snuggly kitten.”

“Cas-“

“Yes, schnookums?”

“I love you, buttercup.”

“I love you, too, honey bun.”

yamiaki96fanfic:

Your body against mine. Whether we’re asleep or having sex or I’m just holding you. I really like holding you.

When you’re the first thing I see in the morning. You look so peaceful when you sleep, Cas. Like a, well you know.

When hear you smiling over the phone and knowing I’m the reason why.

When you crawl on top of me and kiss me good morning, then just lay there.

That you’re a space heater, but you’re always freezing so you get 40 blankets and curl up against me with your damn cold feet against my legs.

The freckle on the inside of your thigh

The way you moan when I bite your nipples.

I like to remember the nights in the Impala when you just pop in and we drive for hours. I like pulling over and making out in the backseat. Or listening to you talk about the stars. Just because you can’t pop in anymore, doesn’t mean anything has to change.

You’re so damn perfect, Cas.

When you slip your hand down the back of my shorts at night.

I love your scar. I’m sorry you hate it. I’ve got scars too, baby.

I’m sorry for how I treated you for so long, Cas. I’m sorry I made you feel like I wanted you for your powers. I’m sorry I called you a baby. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed me. That it took using you to realize how important you really were. I’m sorry you lost your wings for me.

I can’t promise I’ll come back to you, Cas. I can’t promise I’ll be whole if I do. All I can promise is that if I die, I’ll die loving you, and knowing that you loved me back.

I miss you everyday.

“Are you alright, Castiel?” Cas looked up from the note and met Hannah’s worried eyes.

“Yes. Of course. I’m just thinking about the mission.”

“What are you reading?”

Castiel looked down again at Dean’s writing and felt a small smile on his face.

“Just something important for me to remember.” He folded the note and put it back in his pocket.

“About Heaven?” Cas smiled in a way that Hannah had never seen. His eyes were far away when he answered.

“Yes, Hannah. Heaven.”

(Part 1)

anastiel:

The screams followed Jensen off the stage, only increasing as soon as he slipped behind the black curtain. They wanted more, they always did.  Adrenaline rushed through him and his heart was pounding erratically in his chest. Vancouver had been awesome, but this time knowing that Misha was watching him sing had given him a whole new burst of courage. He had wanted to do his fucking best, and that’s exactly what he did.  

He was met backstage by a roar of applause from everyone standing around, a clap on the shoulder form Osric and a thumbs up from Ruth. Frantically, he searched for Misha, scanning the dim sea of faces until he found him standing in the back, down the stairs and grinning at him like a kid who just got his favorite candy.

“So, what did you thi-” Jensen started but he was cut off by Misha kissing him and Jensen couldn’t remember what he was going to say in the first place.

After thoroughly taking his breath away and making him a little dizzy in the process, Misha pulled away, smiling radiantly.

“That was fucking amazing. I want an encore.”

Jensen blushed at Misha’s praise, smiling shyly, “Yeah, sure. When?”

A smirk slid onto Misha’s lips and he leaned in close to Jensen’s ear, “Later, when we go back to the room.”

“Okay babe, I can totally do that.”

Misha’s smirk turned into a grin and he sneakily reached around to slap Jensen’s ass and pushed him towards the stage. “Good, now let’s get back out there and give them one hell of a finale.”

As he stepped back out onto the stage, Misha at his side, he was met with thousands of screams, and blinding lights. He stepped back up to the mic, all of his friends around him, and the ghost of Misha’s lips still on his.

God, he really fucking loves conventions.

casinthongs:

casinthongs:

Aug 16th - prompt: librarian!Cas; inspired by x (1.1k words)

“Excuse me?”

The library is more or less empty at lunchtime with their ‘no eating’ policy. Most people are out, dining at Benny’s or nearby cafés, so it’s a surprise when Cas looks up from the book he’s currently scanning into the registry and sees a man standing right at his desk.

And what a man it is.

Cas clears his throat and corrects the glasses on his nose. There must be something wrong with them because nobody has eyes this green. “Yes?”

He can’t be a college kid. He’s a man, not a boy. Late twenties. Maybe early thirties. Or maybe Cas’s glasses are fooling him today.

The man is looking at him, frowning in thought. “Have—” he starts, and shakes his head, eyes flying down to the book he’s holding, and then daring to rest on him again. “This is going to sound crazy, but… Have we met before?”

A pick-up line.

A gorgeous man, with Introduction to Quantum Mechanics in his arms is flirting with him. Now, that hasn’t happened in a long while.

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whelvenwings:

some serious angst with a happy ending, based on some art that @linneart drew in her amazing livestream the other night. *warning for temporary major character death.* cry with me, everyone.

(read it here on AO3)

Cas can’t see.

The world is a harsh white haze grazing over his mind, whiplash streaks of red razoring down both sides of his vision. There’s a pain in his bones, an ache in his muscles, a growling, yawing hunger in his belly – and the only way to feed it is to hit, hit, hit and hit once more. There’s something in front of him that’s moving, feebly. Cas can feel his fingernails digging into his own palm, four points of crescent pain as he strikes again, and again, and again.

The creature before him doesn’t stop moving. Cas shifts, finding a grip and tightening, squeezing. The hunger has to be sated. The movement has to stop. He can’t see, can’t think, can only feel the rage, the need, the terrible pain.

Somewhere inside him, there’s a tiny swirl of words that revolve out and round him in a swirl, a growing hurricane. Stop – stop – you’re killing him! Stop! STOP!

The words are disjointed, they make no sense. Cas holds onto the creature in front of him, which is spasming weakly, trying to speak. Its hand grabs hold of Cas – just the lapel of his coat. Faintly, a single word threads through the darkness.

“Cas…”

A gasp, a rush of air into his lungs, waking him up.

Cas knows that voice.

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deancasheadcanons:

It happens gradually. There is no cliff to jump off of or wall to hit or any other analogy of suddenness that Castiel expected.

Instead, there are increased touches. Longer looks. A brush of lips on knuckles, shoulders, cheeks, lips. Quiet confessions turn into assertions. 

It happens gradually.

There is little fanfare when Castiel chooses to live in the bunker and begin regularly hunting with Sam and Dean. Their lives slow down, and both Winchesters treat Castiel with more softness than they ever have before.

One morning, Sam tells them there’s a big case in Nebraska. Multiple cities. Could take weeks. Sam says he’s not coming.

The drive out is quiet, the peaceful sort of quiet that makes it easy to stare out the window for hours feeling invigorated by rolling grass. Dean tells Cas that he’s going to start looking for a motel 30 minutes before they stop at one. They eat cheeseburgers and fries on their respective beds with the TV playing in front of them. Dean says, “Night, Cas,” before turning off the lamp and falling asleep.

In the morning, Dean smacks Cas on the arm to wake him up. He calls him “sleepyhead” and tosses a sausage biscuit at him. He laughs at Cas’ grumbling.

Dean taps on the steering wheel to the beat of the music. When the drums are particularly intense, Dean switches between tapping the steering wheel and tapping Cas’ shoulder or leg. After their first round of interviews, the tapping turns to patting a single hand in a steady rhythm on Cas’ thigh. They don’t talk about it.

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deanshandprint:

Eccentric (AO3)

Requested by sparksflycastiel​

Prompt: “I’m with you, okay? I love you, no one else.”

It wasn’t always easy, being in a committed relationship with a college professor.

In fact, some days, Dean considered it downright difficult. It wasn’t that Castiel wasn’t his everything, because he was. Once he’d pulled his head out of his ass and actually took the time to see what was right in front of him, he knew that there was never going to be anyone else that compared.

But that wasn’t to say that some days he didn’t just want to shake Castiel until his teeth rattled in his skull. Particularly during what they’d both come to call ‘grading week’.

It happened every time there were finals. Castiel had a short turnaround before he needed to return his marked papers, but due to the fact that he was always researching himself, he only allowed himself a week. It didn’t sound so bad in theory, but that week was one of the worst weeks of Dean’s life. As soon as he found out when it was, he booked the week off work.

Because there was no way he was letting Castiel burn down their kitchen again.

It was ridiculous. Every time that grading week came around, Castiel would become the most absent-minded, neglectful, messy idiot this side of the Atlantic. He had no ability to self-care, no thought for anything other than his grading. He wouldn’t eat, sleep or shower without prompting, and was a danger to himself and everyone else within a ten foot radius.

The first time Dean discovered grading week, he’d found Castiel had locked himself in his study before Dean had even left for work, and was still in there when Dean went to bed. He’d chalked it down to a one off, but then he’d told Castiel he was leaving breakfast in the pan for him the next day as he left for work. A call from his neighbour just after he’d gotten to work had informed him that his house was on fire. Nobody had been hurt, but Castiel had been shaken and upset that he’d left the stove on and completely ruined their kitchen.

After that, precautions were set in place. Twice a year Dean would take a week’s vacation to make sure Castiel took care of himself properly during grading week, would making him shower and sleep and eat, and bugged him until he did as he was told.

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deancasheadcanons:

“Hey, Cas. Wait.”

Cas pauses in the doorway, but he doesn’t turn around.

“I–you know I’m sorry, right? I’m sorry.”

Cas lifts his chin and starts walking again.

“Hey! Wait! C’mon, man, give me a chance to–”

“To what, Dean?” He’s crowding Dean in a split second, forcing him to tiptoe against the wall behind him. “To explain why you nearly killed me? To explain that it wasn’t really you, that it was the Mark doing everything, that you wish you could take it all back?”

“No, I–it was me. It was me, and I’ll never forgive myself for what I did to you, but–but I’ll ask your forgiveness.” It sounds wrong coming out of his mouth. Probably because he’s never said anything like it before, not even to Sam. “I’ll ask for your forgiveness over and over for as long as it takes.”

Cas narrows his eyes and tips his head back. “Why did you call me here today?”

“To, um, help. With the…”

“You didn’t call me here to make amends, and you only brought it up when you noticed I was upset with you. You only care about me as long as I’m useful to you.”

Dean gapes at him, speechless and realizing that there’s truth in his words.

Not just Cas, either. All of the “friends” Sam and Dean have ever had–are they actually friends? Or are they more like coworkers? Tools? Where they only ever talk if there’s a job and they’re needed for it but inevitably they’ll be tossed to the side and burned at an age too young for anybody to be dying, and Sam and Dean will add them to the long list of side effects of the job.

But that’s different than mourning a friend.

“Cas. Cas, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re…one of the best friends I’ve ever had, and I ruined that, I ruined that, and I’ve been–”

Cas lets him go and says, “Apology not accepted,” as he walks out the door.

destined-for-destiel:

deanlorean:

Number 23 calls him ‘Cas’, and the angel blade clatters to the ground from numb fingers.  You have to kill that one yourself, and it takes three other angels to hold Castiel back.

Number 108 kisses him, hard and rough and possessive, and Castiel disappears.  You find him two hours later, hiding in a corner of the warehouse and muttering quantum physics laws under his breath.

Number 332 kisses him, soft and gentle and pleading, and Castiel stabs him in the heart, hisses, “Not Dean.”  You’ll accept it as a small victory.

Number 491 calls him ‘brother.’  Cas cuts him down with a sob and cries over his corpse for forty-seven minutes.

Number 665 lets Castiel sink the blade into his left lung with a sadistic smile, steps into the puncturing pressure and whispers into Castiel’s ear.  ”You were always a weapon.”  You have to call the other angels back to stop Castiel from sinking his blade into his own heart after that.

Number 804 grins around a mouthful of blood and chokes, “I never cared about you.”

Number 887 spits, “You don’t even have a soul.”

Number 901 snarls, “Angels aren’t capable of real love.”

Number 983 breaks him.  He looks up at Cas with cold, beautiful green eyes and whispers, “I wish you’d left me in Hell.”  After that, you’re almost certain that these are mercy killings, but it gets the job done.

Number 984 is cut down in a vicious and sloppy melee.

Number 987 cries out, but Castiel doesn’t bat an eyelash.

Number 993 doesn’t even see Castiel approach.

Number 998 begs, but Castiel moves with ruthless precision and speed.

Number 1000 is dead before he hits the ground.

Number 1002 crumples against the linoleum and you hit the lights.  Castiel is now fully operational.  He’s the deadliest weapon in Heaven’s arsenal, once again.