The Apocalypse. Have A Nice Day!

here you go, anon: (I had to retype this, and reedit this, with the help of the amazing @3dg310rdsupreme so like. just remember to curse tumblr before you start reading, cause that’s why it took ridiculously long:)

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“So?” Dean raises his eyebrows at Cas, starting to walk down the stairs with an angel by his side. They’ve just finished waving Sam and Eileen off to their date - which is exactly what it sounds like; he stood in the doorway, and Cas smiled from the doorway, until Sam’s car disappeared down the road. “Dinner?”

“Of course.” Cas nods. 

He’s not going to eat, but there’s a little something called company. Dean doesn’t want to eat alone. And what’s more, Dean’s even going to set up a plate for him. He started doing so a while back, cause otherwise it’s just like Cas is there to watch him.

And be it eating or sleeping - that’s always weird.

Walking all the way to the kitchen feels like trekking towards the centre of the Earth. Dean scrubs his face in annoyance, exhaling impatiently. He’s supposed to get used to it. 

It’s really hot. And they’re underground, in a windowless bunker. A bunker with a broken air-conditioner - it’s ancient; so that’s justifiable, was the general consensus, but Dean’s willing to bet it all boils down to their exceptional Chuck-induced bad luck, and Fortuna just wasn’t a good enough godly mechanic.

Or maybe she never anticipated that heroes could get hot, too. Sweating is for the weak and the transient - or some shit. Dean can practically picture her sneer.

Jesus, he hates her.

“Do you need help?” Cas says, once they’re in the kitchen. Dean turns around to blink at him, while he returns to the present. Cas manages to make it sound like were Dean to say yes, Cas would actually help him prepare food. 

Now, Cas is good for a lot of stuff. Strong, strategic, trustable instincts. Brave. But he isn’t worth shit in the kitchen. Dean isn’t really sure if Cas knows that but he hopes, for his sake, that he does. 

Yet, it’s an earnest question, ridiculous or not, so Dean earnestly shakes his head in response. “I made dinner while the rest of you were busy helping Sam choose a corset.”

It’s the kind of hot where Dean’s automatically surly. Sure, he generally is too - but right now, he doesn’t even have to try. 

“It was his shirt.” Cas corrects, simply, and Dean rolls his eyes at the walls as he turns around to get plates. “My advice was to go with the pecan.”

“Was he wearing a pie?” Dean throws back, dryly. He’s got the plates. Now he puts them on the table, and turns to fetch spoons. Cas is still standing, because of course he is. “Guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Pecan’s a shade of brown.” Cas states for the record, and Dean’s getting tired of Cas not going along with his lines. 

And he’s really getting tired of the goddamn heat. 

“Too bad. Now I want dessert. Way to ruin burgers, Cas.” Dean snaps, and Cas looks a little startled - and would you look at that. Even Cas is sweating. There’s beads of sweat on his forehead, and his coat seems even more uncomfortable than usual. 

Suck it, Fortuna. Real heroes sweat. 

“You know what?” Dean mutters, mostly to himself. He really is trying to be less of a jerk - but he can’t seem to help it. It’s Valentine’s day, and it’s hot. So he decides to stop talking, and takes off his jacket, a deep blue leather utility, and shucks it away on a counter. 

Cas seems to find this interesting, his eyes following Dean around the room; so then Dean does the first thing that comes to mind. 

He walks over to Cas, and holds his hand out. 

Cas stares at it, like he’s trying to figure out the purpose of its existence. Dean helps him, because he’s awesome like that.

“Your coat.” 

Because why the fuck not?

Castiel has no idea what came over him. 

Yes, Duke Winchester was a pain. He was arrogant and entitled and dismissive of anyone he deemed unworthy of his attention. That had meant Castiel for a long while, until he’d spoken up for his sister when Winchester had rebuked the chance of dancing with her. 

Since then, the two had been at each other’s throats. Winchester had gone out of his way to show his disdain for Castiel (though luckily just Castiel and not all of the Novaks), and Castiel might be young be he stood up for himself when treated unjustly. He might not be a duke, but being a viscount’s younger brother was hardly something to scoff at. 

It had all come to a head in the gardens outside Lady Harvelle’s estate. They’d been arguing once again, moving closer and closer. Castiel remembered clenching his fists, his body so on fire he’d almost felt like he could punch the duke for being such a… such a damned bully- 

And somehow, when he’d laid hands on the duke, he’d become completely, utterly lost. 

He didn’t punch or slap or even push away the duke. No, he tangled one hand in his annoyingly perfect hair, the other in his cravat, took a step forward- 

To his credit, it wasn’t Castiel who’d leaned in and started the kiss. That had been all the duke. But he had returned it, to his shame, and he’d let it go on too long.

Long enough that they’d been caught by Castiel’s eldest brother. 

“How dare you,” Michael had said as he shoved the two apart. He’d glared daggers at Castiel, but most of his wrath was saved for Dean. “You will marry him, after compromising yourselves thusly. If I found you, who knows who else might have seen.” 

“Marry!?” both choked out. 

“I will marry no one,” Dean growled. “Least of all him.” 

The words might have been more convincing, if he hadn’t first given Castiel a once over and liked his lips with a fire in his eyes. Perhaps marriage wasn’t on the forefront of his mind, but he clearly wanted to do something to Castiel. 

“You will,” Michael said easily. He was still angry, but had grown calm in his certainty. “You will marry him, or I will take this matter to the queen and demand it.” 

“The queen!?” Dean sputtered. Even Castiel gasped, though he knew if Michael threatened it, it was no bluff. “You would ruin your brother’s reputation? Surely if the queen knew, the whole of London would within a day-”

“I would prefer not to,” Michael said coldly, “but I would rather risk Castiel than the Novak name. You marry him, or I ruin you both, so that no one else can do it instead.” 

Dean looked like he would still argue. That he would throw the weight of his title (or even his fists if need be) to argue. Slowly, though, his shoulders slumped and he turned away. 

oíche chiúin [4.1k] (ao3) Rating: T written for the Dean/Cas Tropefest Mid-Winter 5K!

Over the years, Dean has spent Christmas alone more often than he’s wanted.

It’s sometimes not of his own free will, but more often or not, something comes up and Sam leaves, or a hunt splits them up, or someone ends up in the hospital. Fearing for his life, drugged up on morphine, unconscious for more than twenty-four hours—he’s run the gamut. There are an entire myriad of reasons, but in the end, Dean seems to always end up alone.

It never does make it easier, though, especially this year. This year, he sits alongside someone else’s hospital bed, hands fisted in prayer. A crucifix dangles from his grip, shaking with the force. Whispered words don’t work anymore, but it helps him feel better. Softly, Dean hears the hum of Christmas carols being sung on low through the speaker system; outside, snow falls, dusting the rooftops throughout Kansas City.

Castiel is supposed to be discharged in the morning. Just a broken foot, but something that his Grace can no longer heal. At the most, Dean gives him another month or two before the rest of it fades away, leaving nothing else in his body other than the things humans have. Bones, veins, blood. A soul. A beating heart. Castiel will have a nice scar, after the doctors pinned his bones back in place. Angel’s first battle scar. One day, this story will be hilarious.

“how do you love?

like a fist. like a knife.’’

In all honestly, Dean shouldn’t be so aware of it. The touch is casual – everyday. Something that might happen when you pass a little too closely with a stranger on the street. Except it isn’t everyday (Dean can count on one hand the number of times someone has touched him in the last month) and it isn’t a stranger.

It’s Cas; it’s Castiel’s hand floating up to trail fingers along the middle of his back. Dean shouldn’t be so aware of it and he shouldn’t react like he does – which is a full-body shudder and a hitch in his breathing. He stops in the middle of a step, so that Sam behind him has to come up short.

His brother passes him an odd look, no doubt wondering if there was some lingering injury from the showdown they had with the wraith. Dean just passes him a Winchesters-patented “all good” smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. As Sam heads into the bunker, so does Cas. Dean watches the angel go, watches the flicker of his trench coat. His eyes track the curl of fingers from under the coat’s cuffs.

Later, Dean wishes it were further into spring, wishes he hadn’t been wearing his leather jacket, so the press of Castiel’s hand could have been closer to his body.

It starts happening regularly, is the thing. Cas’s shoulder against Dean’s chest as they maneuver through one of the bunker’s smaller storage rooms, Cas’s hand cupping Dean’s elbow to catch his attention, Cas standing so close as he reads the laptop over Dean’s head that Dean can feel the heat of him, smell that just-sideways-of-human smell Cas gives off – like metal melting and the milk from dandelions.

And then.

In the kitchen, beers open but untouched, Sam long-since asleep. Cas’s knee is against one of Dean’s but it has been since they sat down, almost an hour ago. They’ve been meandering through a conversation on the “future.” On what that could even mean for them, for Dean, and Sam. Dean can feel his heart beating in the swell of his knee, at the point where it connects with Castiel’s.

At least, until Cas’s hand comes up to fit over Dean’s cheek. The heel of his wrist is against Dean’s mouth and his fingertips are just brushing Dean’s hair and he lets out a truly mortifying, breathy noise at the touch. Like his chest has given out. His shoulders curl in a little and his eyes shut and without meaning to really he presses into the angel’s worn palm.

“You keep…doing that,” Dean roughs out after a moment.

“I’m sorry,” Cas says in that way, where he apologizes for the thing he’s doing, but doesn’t stop doing it. “You’ve been praying for it.”

Dean’s eyes flash open at that and he looks to Cas with a stricken expression. “No, I haven’t.” Still, he doesn’t pull away.

“You have,” Castiel insists. For all the panic through Dean’s system, Cas is calm. “Prayer doesn’t have to be words. This is more…intention.” His face does shift then and there’s an ancient sort of pain around his eyes. “I can feel…your longing.”

Thirteen years ago Dean would have rocked back on his heels and jeered out something about chick-flick moments but Dean is coming around forty and he’s tired and he hasn’t been touched in – well, he lost count. And this is Cas.

He swallows. Closes his eyes. Tilts his head. Murmurs into Cas’s hand, “What’m I longing for now?”

Dean’s marks ↳ protection, salvation, damnation

“You’re filthy,” Dean tsks as he pushes Cas through the lesser traveled halls of the house. Cas has been in the Winchester estate many times, but he’s rarely been in the wings were the bedrooms are. In fact, he can only recall being there once when he was five and his family was forced to spend a couple days during a particularly bad snow storm. 

Now he has the distinct impression that Dean is leading him to his personal chambers with such intent that Cas worries what the older lord has in mind for him. 

When they finally arrive in a small tiled room, Dean releases his hold on Cas and sets to work filling a tub. 

“I’m not so dirty,” Cas says. 

Dean laughs and points to the line of mud that’s followed them into the room. Admittedly, Cas’ boots are a mess and even his breeches have seen better days. He’s not sure if he left any mud in the fields, honestly.

“You’re a mess,” Dean says before turning his back and Cas and continuing to fill the tub. “You’ll give your mother a fright if she sees you like that. Can you imagine Lady Naomi’s face if she should see you like that? It’s almost enough to make me send you home right this instant to find out, except she’d keep you under lock and key if I did and then I wouldn’t see you for a fortnight.” 

He’s right, and Cas sighs in resignation. He starts to undo his cravat and shirt - the only salvageable parts of his outfit - and wonders how he can possibly wiggle out of his boots without covering his hands in muck. 

“I’ll need a change of clothes,” he says after he’s discarded most of his clothes. “You have any in the Milton colors I could borrow-” 

Cas stops short when he realizes Dean’s right in front of him, ready to pull Cas to his feet. Which wouldn’t be so bad, if it weren’t for the fact that Cas is completely naked. It’ll be impossible to hide the effect Dean’s proximity has on him, and he has to look away as Dean helps him up. 

“I’ve got plenty you can borrow,” Dean says with a leer that Cas is quite sure he’s only seen Dean direct towards lady’s maids and opera singers. And on one notable occasion to a stable boy, but Cas is equally sure he’d misunderstood that instance. 

And then Dean gives him a once over as he leads him to the tub, and Cas starts to reassess his assumptions about Dean Winchester. 

Cas sinks into the water as much s he can, his cheeks burning and his desire to curl in on himself making it impossible to wash away the mud. 

Dean’s hand settles on his back, a calming weight, as his other hand works to wet a cloth. 

“Wha-?” Cas asks. 

“I’m going to help clean you up,” Dean says, his expression all mock innocence but his eyes sparkling with mischief. 

“That’s not necessary. I can- You should- Dean-”