deansmom:

“Marry me.”

Cas stared at the ring Dean had slid across the diner table like he was afraid that the piece of jewelry was going to explode or something, “…What?” Dean picked up his cup of coffee and tried his best not to look like he was fidgeting with it even though he couldn’t quite bring himself to look at Cas. He grunted out his response and dumped a packet of sugar into his coffee despite his preference for black, “You heard me.”

The former angel sighed and leaned forward in the booth a little, staring at his own cup of coffee, “Dean, we don’t have to – ”

Dean interrupted him before he could finish, his voice sounding way more certain than he’d thought it would, “I want to.” Cas stared at him for a minute, not totally sure if he was serious or not, before slipping the ring on his finger with a small smile and nothing else. The hunter watched him out of the corner of his eye and cleared his throat when he saw that Cas had it on, “Good. Want pie?”

“You should really cut ba – ”

“Finish that sentence and I’m taking the ring back.”

xylodemon:

hey, have you see the…? oh; accidental truths

–

“Dean,” Cas says, coming into the storage room. “Have you seen the…? Oh.”

Dean sits up with a groan, inching away from the weird, stone-carved statue beside his foot. He’d caught it on instinct when it came tumbling out of one of the boxes, and it’d immediately knocked him on his ass. Some kind of mojo had jolted through him; a bright blue electric shock that still has him twitching a little.

“Are you all right?” Cas asks.

Dean starts to say, “Yeah,” but what comes out is, “My ass hurts. I think I bruised my tailbone.”

Cas picks is way through the other stuff that fell out of the box, mostly papers yellowed with dust and age. “What happened?”

“I knocked over a box, and that fell out of it. I – I, um –”

“Did you touch it?”

“Just for a second.”

Cas frowns at it. “It’s a statue of Ma’at, the Egyptian goddess of truth. I’ve seen similar statues of Veritas and Altheia; in ancient times, they were used to make criminals confess.”

“Oh, God,” Dean says, rubbing his face. He’s got plenty of truth inside him, and none of it is the kind of thing he wants to admit to Cas. “Can you fix it?”

Crouching beside him, Cas lightly touches his forehead. He grits his teeth against the familiar, chilly sweep of grace; once it passes, he still has an itch under his skin.

“Sorry,” Cas says, shaking his head. “This is old magic, and.. tenacious. If you only touched the statue briefly, it should pass in a few minutes.”

“Okay, okay,” Dean says. “Can you, can you –um.”

“I’ll go if you want.”

Dean starts to nod his head, but then his big, dumb mouth opens and he blurts out, “No, I don’t want you to go. I never want you to go. I wish you’d stay here all the time.”

Thankfully, Cas doesn’t try to respond to that. He just clears a space on the floor with his foot and sits down about three feet away. A full thirty seconds ticks by; Dean does his best to ride the restless, rising feeling inside him, but eventually it crests, washing over him like a wave.

“I want you to sit closer.”

Cas studies him for a moment, then shifts over about a foot. “Is that better?”

“No,” Dean says. God, he wants to die. “Closer.”

Cas shifts again, straightening his leg and pressing his thigh against Dean’s. Another thirty seconds rolls by; the words crowd into Dean’s throat, spilling out before he can swallow them.

“I want to hold your hand.”

“Okay,” Cas says, offering his hand palm up. When Dean doesn’t take it – he’s too busy staring at it, horrified – Cas just reaches over and laces their fingers together.

Another thirty seconds; humiliation is a living thing in Dean’s gut, but he can’t fucking stop.

“Cas, I — you, um – ” Dean takes a deep breath and bites the inside of his cheek, but it doesn’t stop the words from bubbling up. “Cas, I –”

Cas leans in and kisses him, soft and slow. He tips his head to the side as he pulls away, asking, “Is that what you wanted?” in voice that makes heat wrap around the base of Dean’s spine.

“Yes,” Dean admits, heat flooding his face. “I’m sorry, you –”

“Dean.”

“You should just –”

Cas kisses him again, tugging on his hand until he’s half in Cas’ lap. His coat smells like the inside of the Continental, and his other hand curls into Dean’s hair. He makes a gorgeous noise, so throaty and deep Dean wants to nudge him down onto the floor, slide over him, kiss him everywhere, but that thought startles him back to reality.

“Cas,” he says miserably. “You don’t have to. I’m just –” he waves his hand “ – it’s okay.”

Cas frowns at him for a second, then leans over and brushes his fingers over the statue’s feet. Everything flashes blue.

“Cas –”

“I only leave because I must,” Cas says, his voice far steadier than Dean’s has been. “If I had my way, I would stay here with you. I wanted to kiss you. I’ve loved you for years.”

Dean chokes out a noise. “Fuck.”

“When we were first given the mission to retrieve you from hell, I feared at what we would find, but your soul was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.” He touches Dean’s chest, then slides his hand to the hollow of Dean’s throat. “It was so bright.”

The mojo floods out of Dean in a rush, but he looks at Cas and says, “I love you too,” and means every word.

cryingcryptids-deactivated20181:

(*clutches chest* F E E L I N G S)

“I’ll watch over you”

Those words Cas has been so fond of saying every night grated against Dean’s mind. Whenever Cas was earth-side, the angel was stuck to Dean’s side like glue. He didn’t mind it, not really. 

Cas was a good guy, despite, and sometimes because of, the choices he’d made in the past. And Dean was proud to call the angel his friend.

But, nevertheless, Dean still had some things he’d rather keep in the dark when it came to Sam and Cas.

The nightmares were one of those things.

Hell, with its lightning-lit darkness, gut-wrenching screams, agony taken and given from his hands. Losing Sam, losing Cas. Purgatory, with voracious shadows, adrenaline, and hyper-vigilance. The Mark, with ceaseless bloodlust, relentless dark urges, and the whispers of evil and his demon side. 

Drinking stifled the nightmares sometimes.

More often than not, Dean worked himself hard; spending every minute pounding the pavement, in the gym, researching, or at the shooting range. If he exhausted himself enough, he could squeak in an hour or two of sleep before the nightmares made an appearance.

The last thing he wanted was for Cas or Sam to be witness to his panicked awakenings. 

Every time he woke from a nightmare, his skin was slick with cold sweat, his heart hammered in his chest and he was never quite sure where…or what he was.

So, yeah. It was with damn good reason that Dean shut Cas out whenever he said those goddamned words.

Cas didn’t need to see Dean like that; weak and panicky and afraid.

Dean polished off his glass of whiskey and reached for the bottle. It was lighter than he’d expected. A quick glance confirmed his suspicions. The thing was dry, amber liquid long gone.

Dean slammed his glass back down on his nightstand and shucked off his shirt, jeans, and socks.

His fingers hesitated on the lamp’s string for a moment. He gritted his teeth and jerked down.

The room descended into darkness.

Dean punched his pillow and laid down, hand curling around the hilt of his hunting knife beneath his head. The kiss of cool metal and worn leather grip soothed him slightly.

Half-way through a Metallica song playing in his head, Dean passed out.

Skin split, the sound wet and unholy. 

Dean felt hands, blades, other…things swirling through his insides. He felt the painful yanks and jerks as things were plucked from within. As he was torn up from the inside out again and again and again.

He couldn’t even scream anymore, his vocal chords ruined. He was reduced to nothing more than a fleshy rag-doll to be taken apart and be pieced back together at Alistair’s hands.

And then, once more, like magic, Dean was made whole again.

Each time, those words slithered from between smoky, blood-slicked black lips and broken teeth. 

And Dean had had enough. He wanted down. He wanted anything to make the pain stop. To make the torture cease. Anything.

He stepped down off the rack, bare feet squelching through blood, gore, and other unmentionable bits. A dark sort of hunger burned through his veins. The black sensation crawling up his spine and making his head blur with the need to hurt, to inflict pain like he’d experienced.

Alistair raised one gnarled, clawed hand and pointed at the rack across the way. Dean turned, feet carrying him forward thoughtlessly.

Part of Dean screamed at himself to stop, that that person was someone he knew.

Tanned skin, dark hair, heavy-lidded blue eyes that already shone with fear and pain. The familiar voice issuing across the shrinking distance, deep and gravelly. Pleading, begging.

Dean’s body stopped, his consciousness banging around his skull violently as he watched his hands raise, strike, fall. Raise, strike, fall. 

Red bloomed, leaked, trickled, flooded. Flesh parted and screams rent the air.

No! No! No!

“CAS!”

Dean lashed out, bolting upright and slashing through the darkness before himself. His heart thundered in his ears, the screams still echoing in his head. 

Hands caught Dean’s arms, stilling his wild movements. That only made Dean more crazed.

He was being held down. He was back in hell. They were gonna strap him back to the rack-

“Dean.” 

The voice was husky, familiar. It smoothed over his raw skin and pierced through the red haze in his mind.

“Dean, please relax. You are safe.”

His fingers unclenched, something falling from his hand. Hot, wet, sticky liquid trickled over his palm and down his arm as he grabbed at whoever was holding him.

Light flared, golden and warm. Dean flinched, eyes smarting before they began to adjust. 

His surroundings were familiar. Pale walls, books, desk, guns, the foot of his bed, a chair…His room. 

Where was Cas? Sam? Who was holding him?

Dean’s momentary calm vanished as his breath began speeding again. 

Something warm touched his jaw, jerking his gaze to the right. 

Bold, clear blue blazed only inches from his face. Dean knew that color. Knew who it signified. 

Dean’s shoulders slackened and his insides unknotted. His fingers tangled in soft fabric, brushing covered flesh and bone.

“Cas,” The angel’s name was exhaled on a shaky breath.

Castiel nodded slowly, carefully dropping his gaze to Dean’s hands.

The hunting knife Dean kept beneath his pillow was slicked with scarlet. The red stained his blanket and was seeping into Cas’ coat’s sleeve.

Seeing blood sent Dean’s pulse rocketing again, his mind swirling back into the hazy land where he’d stood before Cas and carved the angel wide open. Blood, gore, and more painting their skin and the Pit’s floor. Cas slumping against the rack’s restraints, lips red and eyes sightless-

“Dean. Dean, look at me. You’re safe.”

Dean managed to drag his eyes up, searching for the red again. All traces of blood had disappeared from the tan trenchcoat and blankets. The hunting knife was gone, too.

Dean reached his hand out, fingertips pressing against Cas’ chest. 

The angel was warm, solid, real.

Dean’s breath hitched, his eyes burning and heart tripping. His fingers knotted in the front of Cas’ shirt. And then, his cheek was pressed against warm, crisp material. The scents of rain, smoke, and the faint acridity of electricity tickled his nose. A heartbeat pounded strong and sure beneath his ear.

“I killed you.”

The words were ripped from Dean’s lips, half-intelligible and stuttered around stammering breaths. 

“No, Dean-”

“You were in hell with me. Strapped, ch-chained to the rack. And, and I-I ca-carved you up, Cas. And y-you were screaming, begging f-for me to st-stop. And I j-just couldn’t m-make myself stop. Blood. Your blood. You-you d-died. I killed you.”

“You didn’t kill me, Dean. I’m right here. I’m unhurt.”

Dean tried to get a breath in.

“The blood-”

“Was your’s. You’d cut your hand with your knife.”

Dean wrapped his arms around Cas’ back, breathing in his smell, soaking in his warmth, trying to convince himself that it’d just been a dream. That Cas was real, was here and alive and safe.

There was a beat where Castiel was completely still.

Then, one hand was cradling the back of Dean’s head with infinite tenderness, the other holding Dean to his chest. 

“Dean,” Cas’ voice was raw and ragged. “I’m safe. You’re safe. None of that was real. This is. Right now. It’s-it’s all right, Dean.”

Dean went limp, breath stuttering and rattling as he pressed his damp cheek against Cas’ shirt. Cas’ arms wrapped around him tighter.

In a fierce, yet not ungentle tone, he dimly heard the angel whisper.

“I’ll watch over you.”

SPN SEXY/FLUFFY TIMES

puppycastiel:

“Hey, guys, so I found…”

Sam ambles into the bedroom with his eyes glued to the printout in his hand. He trails off when he glances up, though the scene in front of him isn’t compromising by any means. On the contrary, it’s actually rather cute, and Sam can’t help the smile that quirks on his lips. “I found a case,” he finishes, and his voice is much quieter now, closer to a whisper.

Cas is propped against the headboard, looking sleep-warm in Dean’s shirt and his favorite sweats. It’d taken Sam a while to get used to seeing Cas so casual, but he’d be lying if he said that it wasn’t nice to have the angel finally relax. Cas is holding a book in one hand that he lowers to the mattress to give Sam his full attention. It’s The Motorcycle Diaries, which Sam recommended due to Cas’ recent affinity for memoirs.

Cas doesn’t move his other hand, however, his fingers threading through Dean’s disheveled hair. Dean, meanwhile, most likely unaware of the touch, is out like a light with his head nestled in Cas’ lap.

“Where is it?” Cas asks, in a whisper so Dean won’t wake. Sam huffs a (muted) laugh because he’s a six-four guy and Cas is an angel yet Dean’s got both of them wrapped around his finger. In his sleep.

“Enders, Nebraska. It’s a few hours’ drive.”

“We’ll tell Dean in the morning,” Cas says, and Sam doesn’t miss the way his friend’s gaze flickers down to Dean, brimming with fondness. And as if he senses it, Dean sighs and shifts away from facing Sam. He nuzzles his face against Cas’ cotton-soft stomach instead, while Cas continues to caress his hair, not minding that Sam is still standing there fighting a grin.

“Sure,” Sam replies eventually, and when Cas looks up, his eyes are soft and bright – and happy.

Cas bids him good night and Sam nods before leaving the room. As he shuts the door, he catches a muffled “Mmph, Cas…? You comin’ to bed?” and stifles a laugh when Cas answers, “We’re already in bed, Dean,” clearly amused.

There’s a few words that follow, something like “smart ass” and laughter, the rustle of bed sheets and pillows. Sam shakes his head as he heads down the hallway toward his room, and when he passes a photograph that Cas framed and hung a few months ago, he smiles at the woman and says,

“Dean’s doing great, Mom. He’s figured it out.”

xylodemon:

everything’s going to be fine; dean is a worry-wart

–

“Everything’s going to be fine,” Sam says patiently.

“No, it isn’t,” Dean snaps, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nothing in our lives is ever fine.”

“Dean,” Sam starts, but Dean just waves him off.

“He could get hurt.”

“Yeah, he could,” Sam admits, stuffing a lore book in his bag. “But, so could I. So could you. That’s the job. Besides, it’s just a couple ghouls.”

“What if it isn’t just ghouls? The newspaper said one of the corpses was missing a head. That could be hoodoo.”

Sam snorts. “In Montana?”

“Okay, yeah. It’s probably ghouls.” Dean paces to the end of the table, unable to make himself breathe. All he can see is Cas sitting limp in April’s chair, and the terrifying split-second before Cas rammed an angel blade into Ephraim’s chest. “I just – he doesn’t have his grace anymore. He can’t just –” he waves his hands around “– you know.”

“He’s a good fighter.”

“He’s a lousy shot.”

“I was a lousy shot,” Cas says, coming into the library. “I’m markedly better than I was a few weeks ago.” He pauses for a second, then jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, should I go back out so you can keep talking about me like I’m not here?”

Sam splits a frown between them, then shoulders his bag. “I’m going to finish loading the car. You two just… whatever.”

The silence is horrible; finally, Cas sighs and says, “Look, Dean, I know you preferred me as an angel –”

“What? No, no way.”

“– but if I’m going to stay here, I want to pull my weight.”

“Cas,” Dean says, looking at his human clothes and his human slouch and his stupid, human bed-head. Everything inside him lurches; he thinks he might be sick. “This isn’t about you losing your mojo. I want you here, juiced up or not.”

Anger clouds Cas’ face. “You think I can’t take care of myself.”

“I think if you died I would fucking lose it.”

Once the words are out Dean wants them back; they seem to just hang there, making him obvious, exposing everything he’s kept buried for years. He turns around, leaning his hands on the table so he doesn’t have to look at Cas, but then Cas is standing behind him. He leans in close, laying a careful hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“I think this is the closest you’ve ever come to telling me.”

“Telling you what?”

“You know exactly what.”

“If you already know,” Dean says shakily, “why do you want me to say it?”

“If you say it I can do something about it.”

Closing his eyes, Dean takes a deep breath. “Like what?”

“I was thinking of kissing you, but only if you’ve finished shouting.”

Dean chokes out a noise; he can’t make himself move. Behind him, Cas huffs under his breath, then nudges at his shoulder and hip until he has to turn around. He catches his fingers in the front of Cas’ shirt; Cas leans in and brushes their lips together, holding Dean’s hot face in his hands.

“Come on,” he says, against the corner of Dean’s mouth. “We have to go kill some ghouls.”