Word count: 2430
Rating: PG
Written for destielficprompts
Prompt request: Angels at their strongest can manifest as winged humans, but at their weakest revert back to birds. Where Dean takes care of an injured bird who turns out to be an Angel. Submitted by daitoshi
Summary: Dean cares for an injured bird who turns out to be, well. Something else entirely.
[recording begins]
Is this—? Dean, have I?
Yeah. Red light’s on, so it must be working.
Ah. Good.
Wait, are those notes? Cas. You wrote shit down already?
I gathered some of my thoughts in advance, yes. It’s important to me to record these events correctly.
But I didn’t—
I know. It’s all right.
Um. Why don’t you start, and I’ll just, you know. Chime in.
Very well. Ahem. Once upon a time, there was a very lonely man. Though he’d likely disagree with that characterization.
Damn straight. I wasn’t lonely, ok? I was focused.
Did you spend all of your time alone?
Not all of it, no.
Did you spend more time talking to yourself than to anyone else?
…maybe.
Did you wake up in the middle of the night with your heart aching even more than your arms, empty and grasping for something you’d long ago decided you’d never have?
Come on! This is getting creepy, Cas. Maybe we shouldn’t record this.
As I said: he was lonely.
Oh for the love of—!
But he was also very good at looking happy, even when his heart was ash. He built the homes of other people’s dreams: enormous kitchens and overgenerous hearths and bedrooms big enough for its inhabitants never to touch, never to brush shoulders, even, unless it was their intent.
And the bathrooms. Don’t forget those. If I see another marble-lined tub in my lifetime, I’m gonna puke. And explain to me again why people need two sinks? Jesus.
You made a fine living off of ‘two sinks.’ Your principles did not deter your desire to eat, did they?
Yeah, well. You’re the bitchiest narrator I’ve ever heard.
Would you prefer to tell this story on your own?
Oh, c’mon, Cas. Don’t get your feathers in a bunch. Come over here and sit by me.
Hmph.
Or on me. That’s good, too. See? There you go.
As I said—
Mmmmm.
Dean. You are not helping. Please restrain your entirely understandable desire to caress me until we’re finished.
Oh, I’ll make sure you finish, baby. You know I always finish what I—
Your attempts to distract me are transparent. If you don’t stop, I’m going to complete this composition by myself.
God. Fine, Cas. Fine. Get on with it.
So the man—Dean—spent years building sets for other people’s lives while thoroughly neglecting his own. He sank into himself, little by little, year by year, and hid his grief carefully from those who loved him.
I couldn’t tell Sam. He’d have just worried. And what was I supposed to say? Hey, I know you’re all settled and shit, that you’re loving driving your kid to preschool and reading him the books that I read you, that your wife is like the literal light of your life, has been ever since the day you met, but set that aside, would ya, and haul your ass up here to cheer me up. That woulda been so fucking selfish.
The man put others’ happiness above his own. Always. And for many years, this way of being was all that he knew. All that he‘d decided he deserved to know.
Great. Whoever’s listening has probably shot themselves by now. You wanna try a little less Robert Stack?
I don’t—?
I mean, liven it up a little! Sheesh. You make me sound like I was one step from the grave.
Weren’t you?
Fuck.
I don’t think that’s an appropriate solution to this narrative dilemma.
I love you, you weirdo.
Dean—
So keep going.
His life changed on a Tuesday in April, on one of those days that was colder than it looked. The sky behind the house, his house, was easy, the color of beginnings, and the sun slid sleek into the sky, confident, like it’d shaken off months’ worth of winter just for this moment.
Dude, it straight up looked like spring. Finally.
So he stood in the kitchen a little too long, let his hand play over the radio and the coffee cool in his hand. He leaned his head against the cabinets and grinned out over the yard.
Like I said: spring. At last.
He hadn’t known just how badly he missed sunshine, missed colors that weren’t gray and brown, until the cold had dug its heels into February and hung on tight. It was dark all the time, even during the day, the wind a tricky ninja that broke open his hands. His skin was a shroud, tight and thin, and at night, his knuckles shivered with blood.
But that morning, it was perfect. From behind the kitchen window, the world almost ached with beauty.
That was lovely, Dean.
Don’t look so surprised. I can sling metaphors as good as the next guy.
Anyway. You can’t blame him for his optimism. It had been a long, dull winter, and even the birds were fooled, that day.
Yeah. There were these two bluejays going at it on the porch, chasing each other away from the feeder and back. One of ‘em kept banging his head into the legs of the grill.
Bluejays are not the keenest of creatures.
And the cardinal, the one who lived in the busted-up elm tree. He was lurching around on the steps, minding his time until Heckle and Jekyll beat it for good, I think. But I didn’t see you then, Cas.
You didn’t?
No. Not until I headed out for the truck and fuck, it was a shock when I opened the goddamn door. It was so cold! Totally contradicted the sun and the sky looking all April and man, I was pissed.
You took it as a personal affront.
Well, yeah. I was duped. Mother Nature is such a fucking tease.
She should contort herself to fit your needs, to meet your very particular meteorological desires, is that it?
Hey, what’s with the bitchface? Ohhhh. You’re pissed I didn’t see you right away, huh?
I am not.
You are!
I fail to see why this is amusing. You could have easily walked right past me. Left me to freeze, or to be harassed by those Cro-Magnon bluejays.
But I didn’t, Cas. I found you.
Hmph.
To be honest, I heard you before I saw. You were making the saddest little peeps.
I do not “peep,” Dean.
Not now, maybe. But you were then. Rolling around in the grass just beyond the bottom step and peeping like a mad man. Mad bird, I mean.
If I made any noise, it was purely precautionary. I needed to attract your attention so that you didn’t crush me with your boot.
…God. You were so small.
Was I?
You don’t remember?
I don’t remember feeling like that. Small. I do recall that you seemed very large. Dean. Stop smirking.
What? I didn’t say a word.
But you are thinking it very loudly.
HA!
Are you finished?
Hee! Um. Yes.
More than anything, I remember the pain.
Oh jesus, Cas.
I knew that my right wing was broken. My feathers were covered in blood. I could feel the tear in my side where Raphael had stabbed me.
Baby—
And then you were there, this great looming creature above me. I remember I was afraid.
You didn’t want me to touch you. You sort of tried to flop away through the grass but you tripped. Over your busted wing, I guess.
Yes.
So I bent down and sort of stuck my hand in front of you, so you kinda had no choice but to bump into it. When you did, I picked you up as gentle as I could. And you stopped peeping. Didn’t make another sound. Just leaned into my fingers and let me carry you inside.
You set my bones so carefully, Dean. You touched me like I was something precious. Something to be protected. Something you could heal.
Cas.
An attitude that allowed you to overcome your limited knowledge of birds’ anatomy.
Heh. I knew enough. Me and Dr. Google did just fine.
Indeed. Although the box you put me in was not terribly spacious.
What? You loved it! You spent like hours curled up in there. If birds could snore, that thing woulda been filled with Zzzs.
Regardless.
That first night, I couldn’t bring myself to leave you in the kitchen alone. I don’t know why. I didn’t want you to be lonely, I guess. So I put your box in a chair by the bed and watched you try and sleep around your little splint, sweetheart.
Dean.
And I just got used to you there. Hell, I almost brought you to the site with me those first few days. Which would have been dumb. But I liked the idea of keep an eye on you. Besides, you ate all the freaking time.
Of course I did. I was healing. I needed the energy.
Yeah, you did. And maybe I should have known something was weird when you healed so goddamn fast, and then when you started to grow so righteously.
Mmmm. Perhaps.
Do you remember that?
Much of that time is a blur. The details. But I remember your voice. The way your fingers felt on my feathers. My skin.
Oh.
And I remember the day that I came back to myself. That I suddenly knew who I was: Castiel, angel of the Lord. Albeit a wounded one, trapped in the body of a bird.
And that’s normal, right? When you all get hurt?
Normal? No. We have to be gravely injured, on the brink of obliteration, some say. And not all of us who are wounded fall to Earth in this way.
Why not?
I don’t know. It’s not something that we discuss. Even angels don’t care to speak of death. It’s more of a story, a tale that’s passed down to the very young. Angels who are hurt, angels who fall, who take on a different set of wings.
Hmmm.
…and the humans who save them. They’re part of the story, too.
Heh. Nice to know we get a bit of a shout out. Now, tell me what it was like for you. Becoming Castiel again.
You were sleeping. It was dark. I had been dreaming, I thought, of heat and light and a thousand voices, bird songs, beautiful and strange in my head. It should have been terrifying, but I found peace there. I recognized myself in those songs, I think. And I opened my eyes and it was that fast, Dean: a bolt of thunder in my mind and I was myself, again. More to the point: I was sitting on top of the box, of your nightstand, and I felt rather—uncoordinated.
You faceplanted, you mean. You scared the shit out of me, Cas.
Is that why you punched me?
Um. Yeah. But can you blame me?! Some naked guy suddenly shows up in your bedroom in the middle of the night—what was I supposed to think? Gotta say: this guy’s an angel? Not anywhere on my radar at the time.
Understandable. I admit that I was startled, too. That’s why I punched you back.
Heh! You got me good, too.
Yes, I did.
Modesty not really one of your problems, is it? That an angel thing or a you thing?
I’m not sure…
Anyway! After we finished hitting, then we talked. Or you did. After I made you put on some pants. And made you some Eggos.
Yes. Those were delicious. I was very hungry.
I trusted you, you know. Isn’t that weird? I mean, I should have fucking called 911. Or prayed, or something. But you? You just looked at me, all focused and hopeful, and I believed you, Cas. Even though my brain said I shouldn’t. My gut told me you were speaking truth. That’s funny, huh?
No. It’s beautiful, Dean. As are you.
Oh, baby. Huh. Do you remember what you said? Like the thing that really cracked it open for me?
No.
You said: “Dean, when I was broken, you healed me. When I had fallen, you raised me towards the sky.”
Yes. You did.
I know, but—You don’t—those aren’t things that you hear every day, you know? I mean, it was fucking confusing, hearing that come out of your mouth. The same one that was chirping away a few hours before, now there you were, saying stuff that—
What?
—that in any other context would have meant: I love you. And what was weird was that I—I kinda loved you, too.
I—I don’t know that what I felt for you then was “love.” At least, not as I understand it now—
You sweet talker you.
But—what I said was true. You did save me. You kept me safe. You let me heal.
Yeah. Yeah, ok, Cas. And now—now you’re ready to fly away home, right? I mean, that’s why you wanted to record this, isn’t it. Because you’re gonna leave.
What? Dean, no, I—
I mean, I know you don’t want to come right out and say it or anything, but I can see that’s where this is going. You wanna make a record of our story so you’ll have something to take back with you. So I’ll have something of you to keep here with me.
Dean. Listen to me. I’m not leaving you.
Not now, sure, but soon you’ll—
Dean. Stop. Please.
Cas. It’s ok. I understand.
No, no, you don’t. You’re determined to write this on your own terms, aren’t you? Fuck, Dean. You’re the most willfully blind man I’ve ever known. Listen. Have I never told you the rest of our story? The one that we sing to the youngest among us about the angels who break, the angels who fall?
…no.
They don’t return to Heaven. Not because they are unwanted or unable. But because the ones who live, those among us who wear different set of wings on Earth—to live, we must love. We must be loved. And I love you, Dean. And despite your best efforts, sometimes, I know: you love me.
Castiel.
You saved me. You’ve given me a kind of life I’d never have known if Raphael hadn’t hurt me, if my brothers hadn’t turned their backs and let me fall. And I have the rest of my life to return the favor to you, beloved.
Cas, I—I think we should turn the tape off.
You—?
I’d like to keep this next part just between us.
I don’t—Oh. Oh, I—yes, Dean. Yes.
[recording ends]
A wee bit of Destiel fluff for Halloween.
The first ring came at six.
It was a ballerina, a smurf, and a—
“Who are you?” Cas asked, his fingers caught in Almond Joys.
The little kid blinked and rattled his test tube.
“I’m a mad scientist!” he yelped.
Cas peered down at him. “What is it about science that you find infuriating?”
Dean took the bowl away after that.
co-created with my friend fanspired over on Sam/Dean Slash Archive
Summary: The first time was just a fluke. The second first time? A big misunderstanding. But the third first time? Now wait just a damn minute…
Tags: fluff, humor, first kiss, first time, parody, meta, characters reading fanfic, angst, repeated references to foreigner songs
Chapter 8 is now up, and Chapter 1 begins below.
The first time was just a fluke.
They were someplace east of Oklahoma City, out in the middle of nowhere, it seemed like. Turned out to be routine: just your average, everyday poltergeist. Investigate, salt, burn, rinse, repeat.
And yeah, maybe Dean had gotten himself a little banged up in the process, but that was pretty much par for the course, right?
It wasn’t his fault that Sam was such a crappy nurse.
They’d been at it for an hour: Dean nursing some cheap tequila, Sam poking and prodding and disinfecting until Dean was completely and thoroughly pissed. And antsy as hell.
“Jesus!” Sam said. “Hold still!”
“Maybe if you weren’t taking all freaking day here, Sammy.”
Sam slid the needle through his skin again. “I’m not the one who put my shoulder through a sliding glass door.”
Dean grimaced. “Look, it seemed liked a good idea at the time.”
“An unlocked sliding glass door,” Sam added, dabbing.
Dean grumbled and reached for the bottle.
“Hey!” Sam said. “Leave some for me.”
“Dude,” Dean huffed, clutching the tequila to his chest. “You’re not touching this until you’re done touching me.”
Sam isn’t at his best when he’s hurt. Good thing Dean is.
I don’t believe him at first, convinced he’s yanking my chain, but then I see his face.
“How the fuck are we out of codeine?” I bark.
He scowls at me, hanging in the bathroom doorway. “Well, I guess we used it all up, Einstein.”
“But—but—” I say, gritting my teeth and willing myself not to look at my swollen purple fuck of an ankle. The Grimace at the end of my leg. “Damn it, Dean, it hurts!” And now I’m whining which is just awesome, but I can’t help it. The fucker is stinging like a bitch and I swear it’s melting the damn bag of ice that I just got up the guts to drop on it.
He rolls his eyes and flips off the bathroom light. “Come on, princess. It’s not the first time you’ve broken your ankle.”
“It’s not broken!” I snap. “It’s a bad sprain.”
“Pfft,” he scoffs. “Whatever.”
He settles next me on the couch and manhandles my foot into his lap. Plucks the ice bag away and drops his fingers over the bone. Pushes. He’s gentle, but still. Ow.
I must make a face because he laughs, low in his chest. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, still stroking my skin. “Such a freaking baby, Sammy.”
“Whatever,” I grumble. “Fuck you and your ‘why don’t you go first’ bullshit. Why yes, Dean. I’d love to get clocked by a goddamn poltergeist with a Nancy Kerrigan fetish!”
“Nah,” Dean says. “Kerrigan got whacked in the knee, dude.” He slips his hand a little higher, like I might be unclear as to the definition of “knee.”
“Since when are you an ice skating expert?” I scoff, swatting at his hand. “You hate that shit.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just keeps running his fingers up and down my leg. Leans into me. Pressure and soft and Dean. It’s not awful. Kinda nice, actually. Takes my nerve cells’ attention away from my damn ankle, at least.
I look up and he’s staring at me. Smiling.
“Who said I hate it?” he says, his voice slow and lazy. Almost like he’s sleepy. Or like he’s gargled a bottle of syrup. Runny and thick and sweet.
My face gets hot. I don’t know why. It’s just Dean. Big stupid Dean and his blunt hand, his fingernails smooth across my knee. Scraping.
A little PWP that showed up today out of nowhere. Cas and Dean meet up in the library stacks, and, well, awesome stuff happens. That Sam overhears, much to his chagrin.
I leave Sam wrapped in maps and Platt books and ease over towards the bound periodicals.
Cas wants to see me. Didn’t say why, but who cares? I can’t wait to see him.
Been too long.
We’re in DC, holed up in the Georgetown University library. Sam is in fucking heaven. Blends right in.
Me? Not so much.
It’s summer, so the only kids around are all in high school. Overachievers. Still in the shrieky and annoying phrase. And they’re all preppies. I hate preppies.
I swear, Sam popped his collar the minute he stepped on campus.
Whatever.
I’m only here because our shitty motel doesn’t have power. It was like 95 degrees in the room when we woke up, and there was no way I was sitting in that oven all day. Alone. With no cable.
So I sucked it up and came to campus with Sam. Steeled myself for a day full of suck.
And then Cas called. Growled something about the periodicals and hung up. Mysterious.
Par for the course.
I slide up the main aisle. It’s quiet. Almost deserted.
I pass the coffee machine and the copiers, turn the corner and bam. There’s Cas, tucked into a corner.
And it’s 95 degrees outside, easy, and humid as hell, and yet there he is in his freaking suit, his coat wrapped around him like it’s February or something.
I grin, though, when I see him. Can’t help it.
But.
“Dean,” he says. Dark.
Uh oh.
“Cas?” I say, stepping around the shelves. Meeting him in the shadows. “What is it? You said it was urgent.”
He meets my gaze. “It is, Dean. It is.”
Then he grabs me by the arms, quick like a cat, and knocks me into the wall, his eyes so dark they’re almost violet.
“Whoa, Cas, we can’t—” I manage before he mauls me, rams his mouth into mine and gets really freaking grabby and that’s so not a turn-on that I curl my hands around his face and sink my tongue down into his, wrap it around his teeth until he moans way the fuck too loud for a library and I—
Author: catchclaw (c’est moi)
Summary: For Dean, sex is easy—whenever, whoever, fine. But he misses kissing. Which is a little weird, maybe.
Tags: First Kiss, First Time, Kissing, Fluff, Season 1
Pure stand-alone fluff set in season one. If this baby were any fluffier, it’d be hopping off the page.
Some fluffy curtain fic for the weekend. This is a Long Beach Iced Tea of an S/D story: a little sweet, a little sour. Long enough to linger over and pink as all get out. But it’ll all look pretty in the morning.
Two years after defeating Yellow Eyes at the Gate, after their dad’s death, the boys are happily grounded at a motel of their own. But one wrong romantic gesture from Sam and Dean is well and truly spooked. Shocker.
Sam’s not talking to me this morning.
Which is just freaking great. Just the way I like to start my day: with a fight.
I sit down at the kitchen table and drink my coffee, watch him poke at the pan and not look at me.
Outside, it’s beautiful. Sunny and warm with the promise of more guests this evening, of a decent week even though it’s still early in the season.
Inside? It’s still dark.
He puts a plate of eggs in front of me and retreats. Crosses his arms and drinks his coffee at the counter.
Yep.
I guess I could just apologize—I know that’s what he wants—but damn it, I don’t feel like it. I’m not the one who’s in the wrong here.
He stands there for a minute, waiting, just fucking certain that I’m gonna say something.
Well, I’m not.
Finally he gives up. Sighs and slaps a yellow pad on the table. Points.
“Your list,” he says.
He marches out, through the living room, out the door to the apartment, and into the lobby. I hear him scrabbling around the front desk, opening the register and banging shit all over the place.
Fine.
I get up, grab my keys and the list. Whistle for Diana.
She doesn’t show.
Huh.
I go out to the lobby and there she is, lying at Sam’s feet and glaring. Daring me to say a fucking word.
Great. Even the dog’s mad at me. Awesome.
I skulk out without speaking and slam the front door as hard as I can.