If I Were A Fruit, I Would be Temptation

All of my writing, now all in one place.

Master List

Somewhere in Minnesota, the evening tv glow reflecting on her face in blues and greens, a woman dozed quietly. She was exhausted from a long day, the stench of urine and Jack Daniel's still clinging to her clothes, dreams of a life where she didn’t come home every day ready to collapse playing in her mind. 

The woman, Olivia, worked at a homeless shelter where she had ended up straight out of high school. It was okay money, enough that she could afford to split rent on a two-bedroom house with her best friend, but the work was difficult and smelly. She had fallen asleep on the couch as she often did after her 12 hour shifts, halfway through eating a tasteless microwaved meal, exhaustion getting the best of her. 

Olivia had no idea that this would be her last meal, wilted broccoli and cardboard mac n cheese from a black plastic box, burnt on the edge and still cool in the middle when she warmed it up. 

On the tv, an actress screamed, waking Olivia from her sleep. She rubbed one hand over a bleary eye, putting the container on the short table in front of her. She pushed herself up disjointedly, like a newborn fawn just testing out its legs. The tv clicked off and she threw the remote back into the couch cushions, not bothering to pick it up when it bounced off and onto the ground. 

She entered her cramped room, pausing when the guinea pig she kept in the corner squeaked at her insistently. Shit, she had forgotten to feed the little rodent today. With a big sigh, she reached down to grab a scoop of food from the bag she had left open on the floor. She was absolutely exhausted, but little Chipper needed to eat just as much as she did. She fiddled with the lock one-handedly, the rusting metal squeaking in protest. 

The moment that the lock was open, the guinea pig launched at her, mouth stretched unnaturally wide, teeth sharp and pointed where they usually were wide and beaver-like. Olivia didn’t even have time to scream as the furry little beast ripped open her throat, eyes shining red in the moonlight filtering in through the window. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dean sat perched on the edge of a table at Bobby’s house, Sam arguing with him from a chair. He liked being taller for once, still sore that Sam had passed him up as a Sophomore in high school. It wasn’t fair that the younger kid got the freakazoid tall genes, especially when their mom and dad hadn’t been all that tall. He tried to rein in his wandering mind as Sam continued to blabber at him, shaggy hair falling in his face as he gestured. 

“Well, then tell me what else it could be.” Sam said.

“Look, all I know is I was not groped by an angel.” Dean frowned in a “what do you want from me” face. 

“Okay, look, Dean. Why do you think this Castiel would lie to you about it?”

“Maybe he's some kind of demon. Demons lie.” Dean said. Sam scoffed.

“A demon who's immune to salt rounds and devil's traps... and Ruby's knife? Dean, Lilith is scared of that thing!”

“Don't you think that if angels were real, that some hunter somewhere would have seen one... at some point... ever?”

“Yeah. You just did, Dean.”

“I'm trying to come up with a theory here. Okay? Work with me.”

“Dean, we have a theory.”

“Yeah, one with a little less fairy dust on it, please.”

“I hate to get involved in your little squabbles, but I’m with Sam here” Bobby cut in. 

“Oh come on.” Dean said, throwing his hands up. 

“I’ve been digging through lore, Biblical, pre-biblical. Hell, some of it’s damn cuneiform. It all says the same thing.” Bobby said.

“What’s that?” Dean said, crossing his arms as he stood up. “That angels are real? That they decided to take a fucking vacation down under to get handsy with my soul?”

“It says that an angel can snatch a soul from the pit.” Bobby said, ignoring Dean’s sass.

“What else?” Dean demanded.

“What else what?” Bobby was getting tired of the boy’s standoffishness. It wasn’t like angels were a far stretch, they dealt with demons and reapers, vamps and werewolves, all on the daily. 

“What else could do it?”

“Airlift your ass out of the hot box? As far as I can tell, nothing.”

“Look, Dean,” Sam started, “you don’t have to like it, or- or even believe it in the devout, reads-a-bible-a-day christian way. But all the signs are pointing to this being a real angel that pulled you out of hell. A real god that cares about whether you end up in hell or not.”

“I mean, I’ve saved some people. I figure that makes up for some of the other shit I’ve done, but when you count it all out, I come out more sinful than righteous. I mean, I’m just a regular guy. Why do I deserve to get saved?”

“Apparently you’re a regular guy that’s important to the man upstairs. Can’t you even just consider it?” Sam asked, trying to find any scrap of faith that might be left in his jaded older brother. 

“Well, that creeps me out. I don’t like getting singled out at birthday parties, much less by… God.”

“Okay, well, too bad Dean. I think the big man himself wants you to strap on your party hat.”

“Don’t you ever say that again. I don’t wear party hats.” Dean shoved a finger in Sam’s direction menacingly.

“You two done being at each other’s throats? If this is a real angel, we need to learn everything we can about them.” Bobby said, pulling out a heavy stack of books and dropping them on the table. 

“Sam?” Dean said.

“Yeah?”

“You are going to go get me some pie, or so help me god, I will beat you over the head with one of these books.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll make a snack run. No need to get violent.”

Dean sat down in an actual chair as Sam headed out, shaking his head as he picked up a book. Fucking angels, he thought, there’s no way. 

Sam drove to the gas station with the radio tuned to a pop channel, something he could never do with Dean in the car. He should have been frustrated with Dean, the way he usually was when they argued, but all he could find himself feeling was unbridled hope and joy. If angels were real, it meant that all the years of praying and hoping finally meant something, that they hadn’t been worthless or a waste of his time. And the fact that an angel had saved Dean, maybe that meant that someone had taken notice of his pain and decided to help. 

After Dean had gone to hell, when Sam had finally exhausted his list of demons and reapers, hunters who owed him favors and psychics that seemed legit, he had fallen into a funk. Sam had well and truly run out of options, and in his helplessness, had turned to the last source he could think of to help. God hadn’t exactly been reliable for him in the past, but Sam couldn’t shake the faith that had settled in him long ago, the faith that said there was some greater force out there. So he prayed, for hours on end, for days at a time. He prayed so fervently, with such attention to the task in front of him, that he fell ill. Deathly ill. 

That was when Ruby had found him, laying in a motel bed, feverish and delirious. She had helped nurse him back to health, keeping him fed and safe while he recovered. For the first part of it, he was so delirious that he wasn’t sure if she was real or not. When his fever had finally broken, days after Ruby arrived, Sam was still weak and confused, accepting readily when she fed him drinks laced with demon blood. He had been hooked immediately. 

After Sam was well and truly addicted, Ruby came clean about who she was and why she was there, explaining the demon blood and the effect it would have on him. Sam was angry, of course he was, but it really had seemed like Ruby just wanted to help. Begrudgingly, ever suspicious of what ulterior motives she could have, Sam accepted her help. 

He pulled into the gas station just as an ad break started, radio clicking off when he stopped the engine. Sam spun the keys around his finger, shoved them in his pocket when he got close to the front door of the place. A shadow broke away from the corner of the building, bee-lining directly to Sam. Subconsciously reacting, not even truly aware that he did it, Sam turned to face the figure as she approached him. Ruby’s face came into focus as she drew close, brown waves shining bright in the sun. Despite himself, Sam had to catch his breath every time he saw Ruby like this, hair shining and brown eyes staring back at him, all sorts of secrets hidden in their depths. He caught himself quickly, noticing the purse of her lips, the wrinkle between her brows. She was here on business. 

“Is it true?” She asked him, stopping a respectable distance away, arms crossed.

“Is what true?”

“Did an angel really save Dean from hell?”

“So you’ve heard about that. It’s looking like that’s the case, yeah.”

“Fuck, Sam. I’m sorry, I have to go then. An angel won’t care if I’m trying to help.”

“Ruby, they’re the good guys. This is a good thing! Maybe God is finally taking notice of what is happening here on Earth.”

“Not for me. I’ve never met an angel, but from what I hear they smite first and ask questions later. I’ll find you when it’s safe.”

Ruby turned to leave, pinching the bridge of her nose once Sam couldn’t see her, but she quickly remembered herself, whirled back around and shoved the newspaper in her hands against his chest. She let her hand linger for just a moment, speaking quickly.

“Here, you might want to take a look at this. I’m not quite sure what it is, but all the demons are staying away so it’s probably important.” she said. 

Sam looked down, catching the newspaper in one hand, and by the time he looked back up Ruby had gone. He felt a twist of disappointment in his gut, but shrugged it off. He stayed distracted enough to forget the pie, a grave mistake. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Back at Bobby’s house, Dean was excessively preoccupied with the lack of pie. He gestured to the plastic bag, and back to Sam, sputtering in disbelief. 

“You had one job dude. One goddamn job.”

“I’m sorry Dean, I forgot.” Sam shrugged, not overly concerned about it. He didn’t add that he forgot because he had been preoccupied with what Ruby had told him.

“I just- I just can’t believe it.” Dean put a hand over his heart. “My own brother. My own brother didn’t get pie when I specifically asked for it. It’s basically sacrilege.”

“Dean, it’s just pie.”

“‘It’s just pie’, he says. Blasphemy!” Dean mocked him. “That’s like if I smashed your precious computer and then went ‘Sammy, it’s just a computer’. Just pie my ass.”

“Can you focus? This news article, don’t you think it’s worth checking out?”

“How can you focus on news articles at a time like this? I’m in mourning Sam.”

“Shut up. This is weird, I mean a lady’s throat was ripped out, bites taken from her body, blood mostly drained, and organs missing. It sounds like the spawn of a werewolf and a vampire got her or something.”

“A were-pire. Cool.”

“So don’t you think we should at least check it out? We’ve been at the books all morning, we can worry about angels later. At least angels aren’t currently ripping throats out.”

“I don’t know. The papers say it looks like it’s just an animal attack of some sort. I mean, it’s weird for sure, but there’s only one death like it so far. I kind of want to figure out everything I can about the creature that knocked Bobby out cold with one finger.”

“Yeah but-” Sam was cut off by a ringing doorbell. 

Bobby looked up from his reading, making eye contact with the other two men. That was weird, the doorbell at Bobby’s place rarely rang, if ever. As if whoever was at the door could sense their hesitation, the bell rang again. Dean picked up his gun, walking cautiously to the door, peering out the peephole. There was nobody there. He opened the door, gun still cocked in his hand in case someone jumped out. Nobody did. 

On the porch, there was a single envelope, baby blue and with a chicken-scratched title scrawled across the front. The envelope read for Sam and Dean. Dean picked it up between two fingers, still half expecting a bomb to go off when he did, and retreated back inside, locking the door up tight behind him. 

He set the envelope on the table between him and Sam, both of them confused into silence. Nobody should know that they were at Bobby’s, let alone know their real names if they did know the two boys were there. Sam tried to think back, wondering if he had been followed. Maybe it had been Ruby? But she was obviously scared of attracting angel attention, and the handwriting on the envelope wasn’t hers. 

“Well, are you going to open it?” Dean asked.

“Me? Why don’t we rock paper scissors to see who has to open it.” Sam said. 

“No, I already opened the door and brought it inside, that means you have to open the envelope.”

“You damn sissies,” Bobby sighed, curiosity overcoming him, “pass it here. I’ll open it.”

Bobby slid a knife under the flap of the envelope, ripping it open in one smooth movement. The contents of the envelope were almost as confusing as the circumstances under which it had appeared. The piece of paper inside read, simply:

Dear Sam and Dean,

It is important that you follow that news ad and go to Mankato Minnesota. There is more going on that you don’t know about. Find the Godzilla statue. Everything will be explained there. Tell no one of this letter, and burn after reading. Especially don’t tell that angel.

Yours, S.S.A.A.D.

P.S. Hit the Pub 500 if you have time, Dean will love the food there.

“So, we’re going to go check this out right?” Sam said.

“Abso-fucking-lutely.” Dean said, eyes wide, spy movie plotlines flashing through his head.

“I’ll go start the car.”

“We’re getting some goddamn pie on the way though.” Dean said. Sam laughed, excitement rushing through him.

“Okay, we can get some pie.”

“You boys be safe.” Bobby said, pulling out a magnifying glass to look closer at the letter. “I’m gonna stay here and see what I can learn about this letter. I’ll keep digging into angel lore too.”

“You got it Bobby.” Dean saluted, arms full of hastily packed clothes and gear, all but running out the door.

Master List

Oh for the love of all things holy. They were trying to summon Castiel, make him appear in person. It would work, not extremely well, but in theory the ritual would force him to the location of Dean and Bobby. There was just one teensy weensy problem. 

He wasn’t inside of his vessel yet. 

It would be a great excuse for visiting, if he could get in a body before the inevitable tug started to pull him towards that barn. If he didn’t get inside Jimmy Novak in time, it would be Bobby and Dean that would suffer for their mistake, that would have to deal with the inevitable ruin that comes with seeing an angel in their true form. After all the work he had done to save Dean, Castiel wasn’t about to watch him be ripped apart on a cellular level. The pull that was starting to draw him magnetically wouldn’t let him teleport to the Novak’s house, so Cas flew as fast as he could, barreling down into Earth’s atmosphere like a comet, a falling star. A falling angel. 

Flames engulfed his form, dancing along the oily surface of his wings, stinging air tossing him to and fro. He was in free fall, wings wrapped tightly around his body, streamlined like a bullet. The beginning ritual was trying to pull him off course, and he had to angle harshly to continue on his same trajectory. Ahead, the Novak home came into view, seeming to grow larger with every passing moment. At the last second, Castiel flared his wings to stop his free fall, muscles straining with the effort, fire flickering out with the sudden stop. He flung the door open, wood splintering where the deadbolt tore through, not bothering to knock or take the time to unlock it. Jimmy was sitting on the couch, watching television, and nearly jumped out of his skin when the angel entered. Castiel reached out one glowing hand, struggling against the magical rope tightening against his midsection. 

“James Novak, do you understand what the Lord has asked of you?” 

“Yes.”

“Do you offer your Earthly vessel, free from sin and prepared to accept the soul of an angel?”

“I do.”

And so it was done. Castiel walked into the skin of his new vessel, nerves screaming with pain as they connected to those of the human, senses dulling, wings shriveling and burning off until they were nothing but shadow. He had only been in a human vessel once before, and it was just as excruciating of a transformation the second time around. This was why most angels preferred to stay in Heaven. In an angelic body, you cannot feel pain. Discomfort and strain, sure, but not true pain. The second you tried to inhabit a mortal body, however? All the pain you avoided experiencing, all the millenia you have lived, rushed into your body all at once. The pain caused extreme amounts of damage to both vessel and human, and it would take some time for both to heal to the point that they would not die if suddenly separated. 

The pain brought Castiel to his knees, the tightening noose of the spell now catching his neck and dragging him halfway out the door before he could function well enough to get back to his feet. He took flight once again, breaking the sound barrier as he rocketed towards Dean Winchester. The boom of his shadow wings flaring to stop made the barn door fly open, and through it Cas caught a glimpse of the two men inside, springing to the ready. He took a deep breath, rain soaking his hair, wetting the top of the trenchcoat. 

Castiel walked in the barn door, pain still coursing through his body, human blood rushing in his ears, rock salt blasts tearing through his coat but not even scratching the skin beneath. As lights burst around him, highlighting the holy man in a wash of bright white, Cas found he couldn’t quite catch his breath. Dean looked like a thing of legend, hair ruffling in the wind, jaw set, hand grasping for the knife next to him without looking away from the angel. He looked like he was bathed in lightning, sparks raining down between the two of them. He looked beautiful. 

Cas hardly heard Dean ask who he was, green eyes flashing with alarm as the angel drew near to him. 

“I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.” Castiel said, eyes flicking to the hand mark that was hidden under Dean’s jacket.

“Yeah, thanks for that.” Dean grumbled, and then he tried to stab Cas. When he stared up at the angel, shocked that his attack hadn’t worked, Castiel wanted to laugh. They really had no idea what they were dealing with. Bobby tried to attack from behind, and Cas knocked him unconscious with a flick of his hand. 

He explained to Dean who he was, what he was. The holy man’s brow furrowed as he took it in, clearly not believing a word of it. He accused Castiel of lying, and the angel countered that he had no faith. He had seen it, in hell, when the man refused to pray. He flared his wings briefly, calling thunder and lightning to light them up in increments, watching carefully for Dean’s reaction. Dean accused him of purposefully burning out Pamela’s eyes. He tried to explain, that he hadn’t meant to, that his true form was dangerous for some, that he had tried to talk to Dean before. Then came the part he had been fearing.

“Why would an angel-” Dean jerked his head, angry “-rescue me from hell.” Castiel stepped closer.

“Good things do happen, Dean.” He didn’t add: good things happen to you, I made them happen for you.

“Not in my experience.” He all but choked the words out, pain and rage warring for space in his face. He still remembered hell, remembered the worst parts of it.

“What’s the matter?” Castiel tilted his head, searching Dean’s eyes for the answer. “You don’t think you deserve to be saved.” The realization was shocking. This man, whose soul Castiel had cradled to his chest, who all of heaven would go to war over, believed that he was a failure, destined to forever live in John Winchester’s shadow. Dean huffed out a breath, the angel’s words hitting him in the gut.

“Why’d you do it?” He asked again, trying desperately to keep his voice steady.

“Because God commanded it.” Castiel put as much gravitas into the words as he could, trying to make the man believe. It was basically the truth, and they all needed Dean Winchester to understand his role here. The chosen one. The saved one. The holy one. That was how it was supposed to play out. “Because we have work for you.”

Master List

Wind howled past the shell of Dean’s ear as he slammed the trunk closed. It carried with it the scent of summertime hay fields, pollen making his nose itch as he glanced up at the night sky overhead. He wasn’t one for dwelling, or diving too deeply into the meaning behind things, but with stars like that he could find the child inside that had prayed once upon a time. But he hadn’t been a kid for a long time, and after so much of his life spent face to face with the bumps of the night, there was no room left in him for any sort of silly hope like that. He shook the thoughts of God out of his head, hoisting a leather bag over his shoulder with a creak.

It was a risk to try to summon this thing. They both knew that, but Dean was a big fan of dealing with the devil you know. By the looks of Bobby, laying out the ingredients for a summoning spell, so was he. The old barn they were setting up in still held the ghost of animal scent- sweat, hay, manure- but it was quickly being overshadowed by the reek of spray paint that lay heavy on the air. Not nearly enough open windows existed in the space for the amount of marking they had done, and although the lights above flicked on with no complaint, the giant fans didn’t budge. Bobby and Dean would be a little lightheaded, but it was decidedly better to be mildly high than dead.

It wasn’t the first time that Dean had huffed paint, and the smell brought with it a string of hazy memories. He had been in his early teens, maybe 14, and had briefly been enrolled at a shitty public school in Wisconsin for the billionth time. Summertime loomed only days away, and everyone was antsy to finish learning and get outside already. Some kids, like Dean, bypassed the last few days of school and just cut class to start enjoying the sunshine. So, he had been doing that very thing when it happened.

On his way around the back of the red brick building, Dean had all but smacked directly into another boy that was also hurrying away from school. The other boy had a black bag swinging from his hand, clanking of spray paint canisters coming out muffled from the canvas. The boy had been looking behind him, nearly running to make it around that corner. He fisted the front of Dean’s too-big hoodie, shoving him into the wall and dropping the bag to bring his other hand up over Dean’s mouth. The boy’s hair was a violent shock of red curls, and when he leaned back to peek around the corner, body pressed close to Dean, stray rays of sunlight caught his hair, outlining him in a halo of spun gold. 

Something in Dean’s chest had stuttered, not even able to react to being shoved against a wall. 

After a few tense seconds, the boy’s freckles disappearing between creased brows, he released Dean. A sheepish smile spread across his face, pink in his cheeks matching the blush that had risen on Dean’s face. 

“Sorry bout that, Mr.G was almost on me. I’m Scotty.” 

“Uh- Dean. It’s alright.” It most certainly was not all right, but he wasn’t about to say that to a complete stranger. 

Scotty invited him to come along, and with nothing better to do, Dean let himself be pulled to a secret corner of the school property, tried not to stare at the freckles that lined the other boy’s mouth. They had huffed paint behind the art building, and as the fumes got to their heads, they both loosened up. Dean learned that Scotty was 16, that he was the oldest in his family too, that he was the fuckup. He learned that Scotty loved music, that he hated chocolate ice cream. Dean shared a little bit too, that he was always expected to watch his younger brother, that his dad drank too much and that he was worried he wouldn’t ever amount to anything. He shared that he loved baking. Dean didn’t say anything about the way that he had only learned to bake out of necessity. They spoke for hours, loopy and loose-lipped, clouds tracing shadows across the landscapes of their faces. 

Scotty was the first. Dean didn’t have the words for it, for that chest-stutter, stomach-flip, suddenly-aware-of-your-breathing feeling, but that afternoon he spent with Scotty was the first time he felt it. It wasn’t the last, by far. But Dean had seen the disgust on John’s face when they drove past a pride parade the next month, and he was wise enough at that point to avoid anything his father disliked. So he shoved the memory deep down inside, cut his eyes away from any man who started his insides fluttering, made a decision to never think about it, to never name it. And, for the most part, he had been successful. It was just on nights like this, with the moon softening his armor, the scent of spray paint heavy in the air and on his tongue. He was tempted to bring it up to Bobby, but he pushed the impulse away, forcing his attention back to the task at hand. 

Bobby finished up the last steps of the summoning spell, the first drops of a rainstorm tapping against the roof, harsh lighting washing him out. The pale cast of his skin made him look more worried, drew attention to the crease of his brow and the thin line of his mouth half-hidden under mustache. They had just got Dean back, and if this thing went sideways he wasn’t sure if he could handle the whiplash of losing him again. His poor heart was getting too old to be twisted all around like that. They both picked up knives, adrenaline strumming their nerves like guitar strings. And then they waited…

And waited… 

And waited. Until finally Dean, spinning a bladelike a top in boredom, decided it was time to call it.

“Are you sure you did the ritual right?”

Bobby just stared at him.

“Sorry. Touchy-touchy, huh?”

-WHAM-

The door to the barn slammed open, revealing the torrent of rain outside. Dean scrambled to his feet, both men freezing, ready for action. The wind picked up dramatically, trying to tear the corrugated metal roof off the structure. Whistling, bitter cold air whipped around the pair, hitting them with stray droplets of rain. There was a beat of nothing but rain and heavy breathing.

“Wishful thinking,” Dean said, scanning the perimeter of the room, “but maybe it’s just the wind.”

A light blew overhead, darkening the end of the barn that Dean and Bobby were sheltered in, furthest from the open barn door, then one further down, and another. As the pair ducked, hands going up to shelter from raining glass from all the exploding lights, a figure appeared in the doorway, striding in confidently. He was clad in a trenchcoat, flowing loosely around and behind him, akin to a cape. His eyes were deep-set, shadowed under strong brows in the sparks of light from the broken lights. Bobby and Dean leveled rock salt guns on the newcomer, tearing holes in his pristine coat as they fired. Fuck, it wasn’t doing anything. Dean grabbed a knife as the stranger drew near, hiding it behind his back. The stranger walked right up to him, and for a brief moment Dean was frozen.

The man had black hair, mussed and wild from the wind, droplets of rain still clinging to a few strands. His eyes were piercing, shocking. They were blue like ice, blue like morpho wings, blue like the sky on a blindingly bright day. Dean couldn’t think of a proper comparison, but whatever the exact shade, those blue eyes were fixed on him. The stranger looked serious, serious and tired. Sparks flew again, and for just a second they caught the drops of water in his hair, a halo of scattered lightning against the backdrop of a rotting old barn.

“Who are you?” Dean said, tensing the hand he had around a blade behind him. 

“I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.” The man’s voice was deep, gravelly, sparks reflecting in his eyes on the last word. He was face to face with Dean now, closer than he had expected. 

Fuck, Dean thought. 

Hullo everyone! Bartok here, I actually have an extra of this scene from Castiel's perspective. Leave a lil comment or send me a message and maybe I'll post it...

Master List

Castiel had started to think that Dean couldn’t hear him. Not his real voice, at least. He had tried talking to him multiple times, first at the gas station and then at the motel, and all Dean did was cover his ears and cower. Cas had been trying to tell him about how important he was, to tell him he knew that Dean hadn’t prayed in hell. He had wanted to tell him that he was sorry about the handprint, sorry about dropping him and having to put him back together again.

The process to rebuild Dean’s damaged soul hadn’t been pretty. It was essentially a spit and duct tape job, with the soul relying on a lot of luck and a few prayers to keep running. The soul would be able to start repairing itself once it was back in a body and the emotions started flowing again, but the short time before Dean came back from the dead was a little touch and go. 

It was disappointing that after all they had gone through, so quickly, that Dean couldn’t hear Castiel’s true voice. It felt like God was playing a cruel trick on him, stating right from the get-go that he did not have any sort of special connection to Dean. Or that he was saying Dean would never be able to truly understand Castiel. He had a vessel lined up, so he could go visit the human that way, but raising the man from hell had already caused such a hubbub that he was reluctant to do so. 

Cas could feel a pair of spying eyes trying to wind their way towards him. Foolish, foolish humans. They were trying to find him, to figure out what had happened to Dean. It made sense, but Castiel had been counting on being able to talk to the boy before this, to explain what was going on and why it had all come about. Of course, the Winchesters weren’t known as the most patient people on Earth. So they were looking for answers right away. He should have left them a note, tried to talk to Sam too, sent someone else to talk to them. It was too late now, these people were messing with things greater than they understood, and someone was bound to get burned. The woman started to pull at the veil covering his true form, picking at threads one by one. 

“You don’t want to do this.” he tried to warn her. 

“Sorry Castiel, I don’t scare easy.”

“So be it.” he said.

Reluctantly, without a true choice in the matter, he gave in to the woman trying to spy on his true form. Cas could hear the echoes of the woman’s screams as his true form burnt out her eyes, but he was only focused on the whispers of Dean that he had heard in the background. The scent of his fear drifted through the interdimensional space, before the connection abruptly cut. Castiel was left with nothing but a whiff of smoke from burning eyes.

He took a deep breath, wings flexing as he tried to make a decision. The other angels would have a fit if he went to visit Dean, but someone had to explain to him what was going on, lay the groundwork for him to become Michael’s vessel. Beside that, he wanted to see the man now that he had been put back together, to admire his handiwork and the resilience of souls. 

Cas wanted to see if the man would ever pray. 

He didn’t take the idea of disobedience lightly, and he had already yanked himself out of the good graces of heaven by taking a dip in hell. Cas had used the excuse of doing the right thing for the wrong reasons, but still had ruffled a lot of feathers. He had been pulled into a council room with some of the most important angels while they tried to decide what to do with him. 

The whole situation reminded Castiel of when he had been created, of the pearl-clutching that had ensued when he popped out of his egg and into existence with black wings and a strange, piercing gaze. He was, quite literally, the black sheep of the family. He had sat in a room just like this, still wet from albumen, shivering and staring at heaven around him while angels fought about his existence. Some of them had wanted to cast him out of heaven, saw him as a blemish on heaven’s face, others thought it was a sign from God. The last angel, the youngest, born on Holy Thursday. It had to mean something, they had argued, but nobody could say what that something might be. Finally, Gabriel had stood up after hours of listening to the argument grow more and more heated. 

“Everyone shut the fuck up,” he said, “he hatched in heaven just like the rest of us. He is our brother. He is an angel. There is nothing else to say about it, Castiel will stay.”

Wisely, the angels all fell silent, heads inclining in agreement as if the whole congregation of angels was praying. Gabriel was right, and they wouldn’t argue with the archangels even if they disagreed. So the matter was settled. Gabriel had walked to Castiel slowly, wrapping him in a hug.

“Welcome home, baby brother.” He said. 

It was the only hug Castiel would get while he was in heaven. Most of the angels, even the ones that had argued on his behalf, would not touch him. In a realm where almost everyone was exactly the same, any kind of difference sparked an intense, primal kind of fear. The fear of being an outsider. The fear of not belonging. 

No more angels were born after Cas, and communication from God slowly petered to a halt after his birth. Millenia later and he had landed back in the same room, angels around him yelling about rules and propriety, and the horror of a human being yanked out of hell and shoved back into a body. Mostly, they were yelling about disobedience, about the absolute gall of the angel with the black wings. Castiel had simply waited for everyone to tire themselves out before making his case. Not that there was anything they could do to reverse it, what’s done is done. 

“He was chosen. We need him.” was all Cas said. They knew what he meant, that Michael needed Dean, that this was the right thing to do, that the rules didn’t really matter here. They could hem and haw all day about whether it was proper or not, but not a single one of them could tell Castiel that he was wrong. 

There was still angry muttering as they dispersed, some angels sending Castiel dirty looks as they passed him. He stood with his arms crossed, burning gaze fixed squarely on the ground. Sometimes he wondered if the black wings had also come with a different sense of what was right and wrong than the other angels. Orders were important, of course, structure was important, but nothing should get in the way of the overall mission. At least, that is the way Castiel saw it. Some angels seemed to worship order more than they worshipped God. One angel filed by a little closer than the others, close enough that Castiel could hear the word huffed under his breath.

“Diabolus” he said. He had all but spat it in Castiel’s direction, like a stray loogie. It was latin, it meant devil, evil one, disobedient, satan. It meant traitor. The word hit Cas like a sack of rocks, his frame deflating and shoulders sinking. Even if they weren’t all saying it, a lot of them were thinking it. That this was so similar to Lucifer, who had disobeyed God. The original black sheep of the family, even if he hadn’t had black wings. It was an old insult, low hanging fruit for any angel that was mad at Castiel. The term also meant “prince of darkness”, which hit a little too close to home. Castiel had disobeyed orders, but he had been doing it for the greater good, his acts aligned with an angel’s overall purpose. Lucifer had been selfish, they were told, had disobeyed because he believed he knew best. At least, that was the version of the story that Michael told. 

Cas thought about it and shrugged, letting his frame re-inflate as the last angels left the room. If he was going to be called a traitor anyways, he might as well make sure it was worth it. The black-winged angel set off towards Jimmy Novak.

Jealousy wraps a hand around

my neck in the middle of the night,

goosebumps trailing her touch

as she presses kiss after kiss

to my chilled waiting skin.

The heat of her sinful mouth

thaws me from the outside in,

fighting against bitter cold air.

I listen as jealousy weaves

ribbons of lies into my hair,

the braid falling softly against my neck,

Master List

Drops of holy water were still beaded in Dean’s hairline like a crown of guilt. He couldn’t help but think of Jesus, of the crown of thorns and the blood that would have run down his face. Dean didn’t know much about the bible, had never been religious, but the irony of it still struck him. A man of hell with holy water in his hair, thinking of Jesus.

Bobby was driving at a mad clip, a smile sneaking onto his face every time he looked at Dean. Even if everything was a bit fucked, that smile made Dean feel like it would turn out okay. He had made it out of the grave, made it to Bobby. He could rest now, he didn’t need to be on constant high alert. As his thrumming nerves calmed, the handprint on his shoulder throbbed with pain. Dean placed his own hand over it, massaging gently. He hadn’t told Bobby about it yet. The handprint was warm through his jacket, like he was running a fever just in that spot. 

It doesn’t matter yet, he thought, whatever nightmare of a creature did this can wait until I know Sam is safe. Still, he had to wonder at what would have enough power to drag him from hell single-handedly. It was hard to believe that a demon could pull off a stunt like that and not end up as Crowley’s lunch, and there were very few things stronger than a demon. There had been that weird storm at the gas station too, the whistling wind and shattered windows. The handprint had felt like it was burning into him then, fiery hot as the earth howled around him. They had to be connected somehow.

The truck stuttered to a stop in front of a dingy motel, lurching into a parking space hard enough that Dean could feel the seatbelt engage against his chest. Bobby had been distracted the whole time they were driving, and the sudden stop was unlike him.

“Thank you, guardian angel.” Dean joked as he unbuckled himself.

“Yeah, sorry kid. Just thinkin’.” Bobby said. 

Dean nodded. He was thinking about it too, though neither of them had voiced the fear yet. What had Sam given up to get Dean back? Would there even be a Sam anymore? The two of them knew better than anyone that Sam didn’t exactly keep in touch with reason when it came to family. Hell, reason barely visited any of them. So the nervous energy just bounced back and forth between the two, growing into the space left by their silence. 

Bobby held back as they reached the door to the room, letting Dean step up and knock. There was a pause, then the door opened to a silky-haired woman in her underwear, a hickey still forming on her neck. Her mouth moved, but through the blood pounding in his ears, Dean didn’t hear a word of what she said. He licked his lips and let a nervous smile flit across his face.

“Sorry, I think we have the wrong room.” At the same moment, Sam walked past behind the woman, freezing when Dean called out: “Sammy?”

An ipod. There was a fucking ipod. In his fucking Baby. That was it, he was going to kill him. He was going to throttle Sam for this, this absolute disrespect for his older brother. Sam, of course, put on a puppy face but wasn’t really all that sorry. Typical.

“You were dead” he said with a shrug.

Dean couldn’t even respond to that, he just sputtered with rage. It was damn rude to the dead, to just do whatever you wanted with their things after they were dead. Still, he couldn’t be too upset when the car still roared to life like it always had, when he had his ass back in that worn leather seat and his little brother beside him still in one piece. Even if things weren’t looking up quite yet, he had hope. 

The drive to the psychic’s house was void of conversation, Sam deep in his thoughts about Ruby, and Dean zoned out to the thrum of the music. He had it turned up loud, the kind of loud that you could feel in your teeth and along all your bones. It was a good feeling, one that reminded him he was real and whole, back on Earth. The rumble of the engine couldn’t be heard over the music, but he could still feel it through the steering wheel, and it comforted him all the same. 

Dean had always loved driving like this, hands and feet busy, thoughts pushed out by the noise. He couldn’t stand just being still, and his hands and feet were constantly searching for something to be occupied by, head racing with layers and layers of half-formed thoughts. Driving solved most of those problems, gave him some time to just exist, to just listen and let things pass through him. It’s why he was so insistent about driving. Less of an issue of being the oldest, and more just grasping onto a lifeline. Of course, he still put on the excuse like a threadbare suit of armor, calling dibs on the driver's seat like he was just competing with Sam. He didn’t know why he wasn’t honest with anyone about it, why it felt like baring his soul to say that it helped calm his frantic mind. 

He glanced over at Sam, and in the carousel of the passing streetlights, he could see tension jumping through his younger brother’s jaw. Dean could tell something was eating him alive, that there was some big secret lurking under that mop of hair. The signs of Sam hiding something had been the same since he was five years old. Jumping jaw muscles, like he was chewing on the truth, deep sighs when he thought nobody was listening, fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves. Dean was glad he had never outgrown that, and he felt a twitch of nostalgia thinking about little Sam. 

He couldn’t force the truth out of him, but there was obviously some big secret. It would come out in time. All he could hope for was that the secret wasn’t tied to that handprint on his arm. As if he had awakened it with the thought, the handprint started to ache like a knotted muscle.

Master List

WARNING: EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT

Ruby ran a hand through Sam’s hair. She could never quite get over how beautiful it was, how soft it felt under her hands. Moments like these were rare for them, moments where they were just laying there, not talking or fucking. Sam didn’t like her just hanging around, and it hurt every time he kicked her out. She could see it on the horizon even now, the rising self-loathing in his eyes, the way he stiffened under her touch. 

She let her hand trail lazily down Sam’s chest, trying to stay nonchalant as her heart beat faster. As she reached the top of his boxers, fingers slipping under the loose band at the top, he reached over and Ruby was scared for a second that she would be pushed away. God, it was so fucked that she even cared. 

Thankfully Sam slid his hand up her neck, twining his fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck. He leaned in close. Sam wouldn’t do it, she knew that by now. She still paused, lips parted, waiting for the kiss that never came. Instead, Sam yanked Ruby’s head back by the hair, almost savagely, and bit down where her shoulder met her neck. Pleasure and pain shot down her spine simultaneously, pulling a low groan from her belly. Sam’s hand tightened in her hair at the noise, and he nipped down her collarbone, rolling on top of her as he made his way across. 

Ruby dug her nails into Sam’s back as he continued, pushing aside her meager tank top and sucking one of her nipples into his mouth. Her hips bucked against him, grinding into his growing hard-on. Sam bit down around her nipple, and Ruby moaned again. His tongue flicked against the surface of her nipple, overwhelming her with the sensation. Ruby’s vessel had pierced nipples, and it made things so much more sensitive than in other bodies. 

Ruby slipped her hand deeper into Sam’s boxers, trying to distract him from toying with her. She was already getting close just from the nipple play, and needed to take a second to cool down. Her hand wrapped around his dick, stroking along the smooth length of it firmly. Sam’s elbows buckled on either side of her, his breathing hot against her breasts. With her other hand, Ruby started to ease his boxers down. She pressed a gentle kiss to his shoulder as Sam reached down to help finish getting his underwear off.

While he was balanced on one hand, Ruby kicked a leg out from under Sam and flipped him over so she was on top. She pulled her underwear to the side, guiding him towards her vagina and sighing as he slid inside. Ruby was already so wet that he slid in easily, filling her up as Sam moaned. He grabbed her hips firmly and thrust up into her, driving even deeper. She was still so goddamn worked up that the motion made her bite back a whimper. He felt so fucking good inside her.

She rolled her hips on top of Sam, focusing on the tip of his dick as much as she could and then pushing down onto him so that he slid deep into her. Ruby leaned over him, hips still working, and licked at the tender skin behind his ear, nipping Sam’s earlobe playfully. Sam caught her head with his massive hand, pulling her closer.

“Please” he said.

It was all he had to say, there was only thing Sam Winchester would beg a demon for. She reached over him to the knife on the table next to the bed. Ruby stuck the blade into her mouth and cut her tongue deeply. 

Sam pulled her to him, not even hesitating as he started to kiss her greedily. The blood mingled in their mouths, teeth clacking with the force of the kiss. Ruby pushed her tongue into his mouth and he pushed it out again with his own, sucking at the blood she left behind. It was like Sam was trying to swallow her whole, mouth locked on hers and free hand pulling her hard down onto his dick with every kiss. Ruby would have let him.

HEY YOU. Yeah, that's right, you. You wanna know every time I post more of this? Really?

... really? Ok, call me Overlord Bartok and I'll consider it.

Somewhere in that secret 

world I share just with you,

bottled laughter rains

like teardrops down from

foamy, quick-whisked clouds.

The skies are painted pink and blue,

splashed with dreams that we

carried in grimy jean pockets,

threw into brick walls

just to see what would stick. 

We can go back there someday,

if you miss childhood like I do.

Blue butterflies wait to kiss

the tips of our noses, I’m told,

when we lay in the grass

and pick dandelions until

we grow tired of talking 

about all the feelings

that have been hiding belly-deep.

Come with me,

I never quite learned how

to make that duck sound

with a blade of grass.

Can you teach me,

We should all be a little in love

with life, with our friends.

There is something so intimate in:

I have known you for years,

your breath still mingles with mine

inside a long-lost pool toy,

I hear your voice in my dreams. 

Are friends not closer than lovers?

Here, let me tip your head back,

so you can drink from my water bottle,

and my hand will cup your jaw,

one lifetime away from a kiss.

Here, curl up in my bed with me

and we will shelter from the world

under scratchy wool blankets,

telling stories into flashlights.

Let me lend you my warmth, my time,

let me care for you the way 

you cared for me last spring.

We are all a little

in love with our friends

Master List

Castiel had broken some rules, true, but it was for the right reasons. Rescuing Dean from hell wasn’t exactly, how to say this, completely in line with what heaven wanted him to do. Okay, in fact he had been specifically warned to leave “that goddamned mess” right where he was. 

It threw a wrench in their plans, having Dean in hell, but everyone else was too concerned with upsetting the balance between heaven and hell to do anything about it. Cas had no such reservations, he knew that ideally Dean would be Michael’s vessel, so he was going to make it happen. It was all for the greater good, a holy purpose to send him blazing through hell as a one-man army. That was, it had been for the greater good, until the second his hand met Dean’s shoulder. 

Hell had welcomed him with an embrace of ice and fire, the chaos of the under-world trying to pierce its way into his mind like an ice pick. Castiel had been prepared for that, for the torture and discomfort. He had not been prepared for the prayers. He could not hear them up in heaven, not even on Earth, but many of the souls in hell were praying. They were begging for help, for an escape, begging for God to notice them. It was very… human, and it tugged at Cas’s heart to hear them crying out like that. 

As he wove through the chains and bursts of lightning, wings straining with the effort, the angel’s jaw clenched as he tried to drown out the cries of the damned. It was overwhelming, a literal tidal wave of want and need and prayer. He was not here for them. There was only one soul that Castiel could save here. 

As he drew near to Dean’s soul, strung up in the sky like a marionette of gore, Castiel couldn’t help but notice a distinct lack. Dean was not praying. There was not an ounce of longing, begging, or crying coming from the man’s soul. It was striking to Cas that he was not asking for help. Obviously, he didn’t expect help to come. One of the most important men in the world, and he didn’t believe he was worthy of being saved. 

He was going to get saved whether he asked or not. 

Castiel wrapped an arm around Dean from behind, clutching the man tightly to his chest. Unhooking chains carefully, cringing at the damage they had done to the man’s soul, Castiel flapped his wings hard as the heavy weight of Dean’s soul slumped into his arm. He smelled like smoke and cherries, like he had been manning a barbecue before being dumped in hell. The brush of his hair against the angel’s jaw ignited a protectiveness that Cas had never felt before. This was no longer just a soul he was saving for heaven. This was his Dean, and he was going to get him out of here no matter what. 

With the unhooking of the last chain, a far-off alarm started to blare, and Cas held Dean with an iron grip as he shot off towards Earth. He wasn’t one to brag, but if there was one thing Castiel excelled at, it was flying. The hand that wasn’t wrapped around a soul held an angel blade, glinting with every flash of lightning that arced past them. 

Demons swarmed towards the pair, riding hellish flying creatures that looked like a cross between a fanged jackalope and a beetle. They were deeply unsettling, and the riders wielded swords and maces, balls and chains, wickedly sharp throwing stars. The demons came at Cas from every angle, swinging at him with everything they had. Castiel turned, wrapping his wings around Dean, dropping into a whistling-fast dive. He bombed past the demons, banking hard to the right and entering a cave system. With yelling all around him, Cas tightened the hand on Dean’s shoulder. They wove left and right through endless tunnels, moving so fast that the angel could barely avoid hitting every rocky ledge that popped up in front of him. An outcropping clipped him on the wing, sending them spiraling into a wide column, shaking the whole structure with the impact. Dean tumbled from Cas’s arms, only his shoulder staying in contact with the angel’s hand. Castiel would be okay, but he was worried about the soul, which had already been damaged almost beyond repair. He rolled back onto Dean, curling the unconscious man back into his chest, and took off again. 

They broke out of the cave system and Cas could see the shimmering of a thin space between hell and Earth. It was almost close enough that he could reach out and…

Master List

Dean Winchester did not know it yet, but a guardian angel had just saved his ass. 

The world flashed around Dean once, twice, three times, between hell and darkness. The world settled on darkness, and with a ragged breath his eyes flew open, hands shooting out to brace against the rough wood at his sides. His throat felt… dusty, rubbed raw and gritty at the same time. The screams of hell still echoed in his ears, and the sudden silence around him was unnerving. He patted his pockets, desperately trying to stay calm even though nobody was there to see if he lost it. He hated small spaces, hated feeling like he had been buried alive again. Thank you dad, he thought sarcastically. A lighter, thank fucking god he had a lighter. He felt for the spark wheel, fingers numb from the cold, and flicked it hard, twice before it caught. 

From the dim light held cradled in his hand, Dean could see why it felt like he was in a wood box. He was, actually, in a wood box. Fan-fucking-tastic. 

“Help!” he tried to yell out, vocal cords dry and papery-quiet “help!”

Nothing. He was going to have to get out of this himself. Reaching up in front of his face to try and open the box, he pushed right through rotted wood, and promptly dropped dirt directly into his mouth. Sputtering, Dean started digging himself out of his grave for the second time in his too-short life. Old fear rose in his throat, sour like spoiled milk, when he didn’t easily break the surface. You’re okay, you can do this. You’ve done it before. He kept digging, dirt compacting under his unkempt nails and rocks scraping open his knuckles. What the fuck? He always kept his nails cut short. 

Your nails and hair keep growing after you die, dumbass. The thought was in Sam’s know-it-all voice, and Dean shook it off. He wasn’t dead, or undead for that matter. He needed to get out of here, get back to Sam. He had definitely died, he could remember that much, and under the panic that writhed in his gut over being buried, Dean could feel a new worry rise. Had Sammy done this? What would someone have to give in order to raise a man from the dead? The price for that had to be enormous, almost unbelievable in scope. Dean knew that this all circled back to being his fault anyways, that he had made the deal to raise Sam from the dead. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and all that. 

He broke through to fresh air, dirt giving way suddenly under his scrabbling palms, and Dean struggled to pull himself all the way out as his lungs screamed for air. He was weak, starving and more thirsty than he could ever remember being. There was still dirt coating the inside of his mouth. Dean turned in a slow, bewildered circle, taking in all the trees blown down around him. At the same moment, an angel still covered in blood from fighting his way out of hell, hand cramping from having gripped his charge so tightly, screamed to let the heavens know. 

Dean Winchester is saved.

A rewrite of Supernatural starting from season 4, with Ash still alive, Destiel taking a front seat, and all that ridiculous cheesiness that made the original so great. This is my show now, so canon can kiss my ass, and Ruby will get the depth she deserved all along. There's going to be plenty of adventure, pining, sex, fighting, and pie. Now make some popcorn and then sit down, shut up, and let me spoon feed you this bullshit. Updates every Tuesday.

Chapter 1- link

Chapter 2- link

Chapter 3- link

Chapter 4- link

Chapter 5- link

Chapter 6- link

Chapter 7- link

Chapter 8- The Mysterious Letter

Chapter 9- coming 6/3

Chapter 10- coming 6/10

Chapter 11- coming 6/17

The inside of my head goes tick-tick-tock,

churning along like the gears of a clock. 

A clock counts down inside of a bomb,

hardly a threat, just the size of my palm. 

Some people, I’ve heard, call the bomb a brain,

A countdown from birth to becoming insane.

And as the years grow long, clock hands grow short,

like fuses for a plan that is the very last resort.

 I wait, on edge, for inevitable doom,