Pairing: Dean/Cas

Pairing: Dean/Cas

Tags, NSFW, humor, fluff, love without plot (yeah that’s the tag im using OKAY?), language

“Quit it.”

“What?”

“Lookin’ at me like I’m gonna disappear. I’m not gonna disappear.”

Maybe it was a little on the side of harsh, that pause Dean took as he said it, because it’d peeled Cas’ hands off Dean’s sides and now they did little more than ghost a touch against his skin.

That sugar-rush blue ping-ponged through Dean’s face. Cas’ cheeks were already red, but they somehow managed to dip a shade darker in the blossoming morning light. “I—sorry,” he stumbled, collar bones popping as he huffed an uneasy breath. His eyes fell away, nested somewhere around Dean’s throat instead.

Nice, Dean thought. Real good, genius.

They’d only gone horizontal, what? Five—six times now? Seven, he corrected, if he counted that time in the walk-in closet at the Brownsville retirement home. Not much to say about that case, except maybe that… But, wet spots or not, no one had lost any clothes, and if that shit didn’t count in high school, he wasn’t gonna start tallying them in his 40s.

‘Course, Cas might have a different take on that, but Dean wasn’t gonna ask.

He shook his head instead, bowed and kissed an apology into Cas’ neck. “Shut up. Don’t be sorry,” he said, rolling his hips again. “I just mean, I can’t get much more naked. So quit tryna strip me more, huh?”

His slow, deliberate rhythm culled the raw silence back into heavy breath. Cas’ hands came back to his skin, warm. A little more timid. They slid down Dean’s waist, rested at the turn of his hips. He dug fingers in as their dicks rode against each other.

Dean hummed, leaned into it, watched Cas’ mouth bow open. Closed. Open again. Then, suddenly Cas’ eyes came up again. The damn things hit Dean just as hard as before, sliding a stripped nerve shock through the bottom of his gut like someone had just pulled the ground cable from an outlet. “Stop,” Dean cracked, the smile slipping out and going wide. “You’re doin’ it again.”

“I’m not—”

“You are, you bastard.” Dean palmed Cas’ chin, pulled his head to the side and bit a kiss into his neck, settled into the dark shadows the pillow and comforter bred at the corner.

Cas chuckled. It was golden warm against the hum of the AC. “It’s just—it’s different with you,” he continued, voice rough. “You’re so different.”

Dean swallowed, tried to ignore the thready feeling that was trying to knit different under the dictionary definition of bad.

Also see: ways to be emotionally fucked by a lover while… fucking.

Dean huffed, dragged the tip of his nose through Cas’ stubble, nipped his earlobe, ground against him—Different ‘cuz you let Michael drive the station wagon, and now you’re bad. Spoiled. Or, different ‘cuz none of this is as good as he hoped, and you think you’ve got it all now, but you don’t—

Dean unburied. Peeled off Cas’ chest, hips stilling and heart suddenly in his ears. “Different?” he asked.

It was only fair. Dean owed him to ask.

Cas was never any damn good at being clear, and Dean was even worse at waiting around for it. But he’d told himself he was gonna take more breaths—more thoughtful-fucking-pauses—because six months with the Puppet Master had given him plenty of opportunities to reflect, and it hadn’t taken him a hundred and eighty-four days to realize most of his problems started with being a little too trigger-happy—emotionally and physically. “Different like, we need to have a conversation about boys vee girls?”

“Wha—no,” Cas scoffed. Then, “There are more than two genders—”

“Different, like not enough whips and collars? Help me out here.”

Cas caught a laugh in the back of his throat. “Different good,” he said, fingers spreading at Dean’s shoulders, and if Dean didn’t know any better, he’d think Cas was trying to calm him down. “I only mean to say… everything with you is… better.” Then, he added, “Good better,” as if that was something Dean was gonna confuse.

Still, it melted through Dean’s chest like wax and lit his face hot. He suddenly knew why that fixed, blue gaze suddenly seemed so sharp when they were sideways; when they were kicking up dust at the cheapest truck stop motel, or when they were packed in a locked storage closet, making the most out of that keyholed light.

It was because it was just for Dean.

Unfiltered.

Dean perched elbows on Cas’ shoulders, watched Cas sink further into the old motel mattress. “That’s cuz this matters,” he said. “It’s always better when it matters. You an’ me.”

Cas’ eyes ate through Dean’s face, to his mouth and back up again, slow. Maybe Dean shouldn’t have said anything it at all because all it did was turn that already mush-soft expression even softer. Now he was sure he would drown in the liquid blue.

He scoffed, planted a hand over Cas’ face, pushed him playfully away. “Stop it. There’s about to be a hundred percent more blindfolds involved.”

“I’m not saying no to that,” Cas mumbled from behind Dean’s palm.

This story also on ao3

From Misha's community text

A slightly more poetic (read: incredibly cheesy) take on Castiel’s ruminations and rescue from the Empty for the Destieliversary. 

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I’m definitely a few days late with this, but I was at the mercy of an old injury flare-up, apologies. I’m also very uncertain in general about this comic, but hey, throwing it out there anyway. I hope you enjoy <3 

Please don’t repost, but feel free to tip me if you like my work :) 

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Art for Blood of the Lamb by @papereternity, for the DCBB 2023 (@deancasbigbang). You can read the fic [here].

Dean has never had a space, he could just be himself until one summer in Missouri where he meets Cassie who takes him under her wing. For a few short months he can express himself the way he wants to and experiences what a normal life could look like. When he reunites with his family he has to reconcile this with the version he is with them and face the problems he's ignored before, all while there is an apocalypse underway. A certain angel showing up might just be the straw that breaks the camel's back. A Dean-centric retelling of S1-5