Coming to you on September 15
Written by @spaghettinatural with art by @thefriendlypigeon & @lenaarting
Characters: Castiel, Dean Winchester, Jack Kline, Sam Winchester, Eileen Leahy, Claire Novak, Kaia Nieves, Jody Mills, Donna HanscumÂ
Ships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester/Eileen Leahy, Claire Novak/Kaia Nieves, Jody Mills/Donna HanscumÂ
Tags: No archive warnings apply, Fix-it fic, Post-canon, Castiel rescued from The Empty, Found family, Oblivious Castiel, Smitten Dean,, Humour, Domesticity, Not Canon Compliant after s15e18 Despair, Mental health recoveryÂ
Summary:Â
In the decade since Casâ disappearance into black goo, Dean has made peace with it all. As close as he can get, that is.
Heâs got his ass in gear, his head screwed on almost-right, and the kind of grumpy-old-man paradise he never thought heâd get, complete with a dog and a kitchen big enough to feed his ramshackle family. Thereâs just one thing missing. Castielâs absence echoes in every warm corner of the home Deanâs rebuilt for himself from the remnants of Bobbyâs house.
Until one night, ten years to the day after his last departure, the man-shaped-being in question crash lands behind Deanâs backyard.
Can the two stubborn knuckleheads finally get out of their own way, now that they have an honest-to-whoever chance at a happy ever after? With a little help from their friends, they try to readjust to a type of peace theyâd assumed they would never get to have together, and the ghosts of Deanâs now-redundant grief.
In between domestic squabbles, Casâ martyr complex, and the lack of distractions when thereâs no end of the world, the two most dramatic men in the multiverse finally learn how to sit down and talk.
Excerpt:
He looked peaceful, resting on the very same bed Dean had been trying not to dream of him in, every last lonely moonlit moment heâd tried to fall asleep alone for the past 6 years or so.
He felt his ribs give an ominous creak, almost threatening to splinter and split at the pressure of his rabbit-fast heart any second. At least he had a fucking pacemaker now, he snorted, slightly hysterically. A painful lump filled his throat as he sank to his knees beside the bed frame, as if in prayer.
He only ever really prayed to the person currently getting twigs and squirrel shit on his pillow, anyway.
Keep it together, Winchester.
But then again, why bother? All he was technically responsible for right now was sitting tight for the next 4 hours or so until Sam and Eileen got there. All he had to do was watch over Cas as he slept, tucked under the soft quilt Dean found in a thrift store three years ago because the admittedly boring shades of beige and brown reminded him of a particular trenchcoat.
So why the hell shouldnât he cry? What did it matter? What problem, exactly, would a 51 year old man in Scooby Doo pyjama pants kneeling on his own damn bedroom floor having a bit of a wobbly cry cause? Would the world end? The ground open up to swallow him whole? It wouldnât be the first time for either, and to be totally honest, Dean probably shouldâve cried then too.
Maybe it was just the first time the planet had ever shifted on its axis under Dean without him being the one imminently called upon to save the whole damn thing.
A dark curl threaded with a few strands of silver poked at Casâ lined, statuesque forehead. Dean reached a trembling finger out, and smoothed it back. The lines softened slightly. He laid his hand, weathered skin, achy knuckles, freckle-tan line where his watch usually sat, chipped black nail polish from the last time Claire had rolled through like a combat-booted thunderstorm, on the warm skin of Casâ brow.
He was struck with the memory, twenty-odd years ago, of himself calling Cas creepy for watching him sleep. Against all odds, a smile tugged at Deanâs mouth. He was such a fucking idiot when he was 30 years old. If only the cocky little brat could see him now. Would he be horrified? Probably. Would he feel a deep chasm of want at the intimacy of the gesture, and his own gall to do it? Oh, definitely.
Congrats, buddy, he thought. Only took you two decades, countless deaths, a double hip replacement, and grieving like his widow to look at Castiel, angel of Thursday, laying in your bed and know surer than air that heâs the love of your fucking life.
Tears welled up in Deanâs eyes.
