#falling!cas

(Fic is also on ao3)

This life Dean has now, he never would’ve been able to imagine it.

They still hunt, of course. But now they have a network of experienced hunters at their fingertips. Instead of hightailing it to South Carolina to track down what might be a wraith, they can make a few phone calls and let another team in the area handle it. Sam, Dean, and Cas usually volunteer for anything within a hundred miles, so there’s still a lot of time on the road, but Dean finds that it’s different when you have a home to go back to. There’s downtime, usually a week or so in between cases, so Dean can watch TV, cook homemade meals, reread Vonnegut novels, listen to records in his room, touch up chipped paint on the Impala. It’s just the right amount of normal, a halfway point he never knew existed.

Sam spends most of his free time in the bunker’s library and archives, helping other hunters via phone and email with research on particularly difficult cases. He’s revamped the Men of Letters index system, and needs only consult a massive spreadsheet to find cross-referenced material for any given question a hunter might have. As an older brother, Dean really wants to be embarrassed by this level of nerdiness, but he’s mostly impressed. Besides, it seems to be fulfilling for Sam in a way that hunting itself never was.

And there’s Cas. He’s not a powered-up angel anymore, but he’s not fully human either. He still wears his holy tax accountant outfit most of the time, except to sleep, which he’s been doing more and more for the past year. At first, the sleeping was incredibly concerning to Dean, but Cas assured him that he wasn’t sick – his grace had just dimmed slightly from being on earth for so many years. “I’ve been away from heaven for a long time,” Cas said. “If I returned, maybe my grace would regenerate, but that could take years. Maybe longer. And I would much rather stay here with you.”

Dean still can’t pinpoint exactly when everything shifted into place between them. It had been happening for a long time.

He feels a little guilty sometimes. For millions of years Cas was an angel, and Dean doesn’t want to be the reason for the loss of that identity. There are certain things about Cas that are the same – he’s philosophical, caring, protective, moody, and stubborn as ever. But now that they’re not busy saving the world every other day, Cas has time to build a more human identity for himself, complete with finer details, and Dean gets to witness it all.

Cas still doesn’t need to eat, but he’s decided he likes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, neapolitan ice cream, and sushi. He’ll try almost anything, though, and seems content to pick off Dean’s plate, even when it’s the same old bacon cheeseburger and fries. He’ll happily listen to any music Dean recommends, and seems to somewhat enjoy Physical Graffiti, but when left to his own devices he has far mellower taste. For Christmas last year, Dean bought him a few cassette tapes of artists he seemed to like – Don McLean, John Denver, Simon and Garfunkel. It’s not stuff that Dean would listen to on his own, but he often lets Cas choose the music in the Impala, much to Sam’s indignation.

Dean has learned other things about Cas, too.

Cas likes to sleep naked. He usually ends up curled around Dean, with their legs tangled together. He talks in his sleep, and some nights Dean wakes to hot breath on his neck and the low hum of Cas’ voice as he murmurs something unintelligible. Before they shared the room, Dean slept with a wool blanket, but Cas runs hot, and their combined body heat has rendered blankets unnecessary for most of the year.

When they have no plans for the day, Cas likes to keep him in bed as long as possible, and isn’t afraid to tempt Dean with a nip to his earlobe or a slow, lazy grind against his ass. Not that he needs much tempting. Dean can’t help feeling mortified at the needy sounds Cas can pull from him, the sighs and gasps and moans. But in these moments Cas always looks at him with an expression of untempered devotion, and under his hands Dean has learned to let go.

One of the earlier times, Cas was so tender with him that Dean actually cried. It was the cascade of praise whispered directly into his ear – You feel so good. Dean. Beloved. – combined with the overwhelming realization that Cas meant it, all of it. These words weren’t manufactured for the moment. They were sincere on a scale that Dean had never experienced, and his soul seemed to cave in under their weight. Cas, of course, paused to ask if he was okay. Dean just kissed him, hard, and that must have been answer enough for Cas, because he resumed the gentle rocking of his hips and kissed him back.

Sometimes it’s like that – careful, sappy. Sometimes it’s rough, Cas riding Dean hard with a hand around his throat, just on the verge of too much pressure, an almost feral growl, white knuckles and the harsh scrape of teeth. Dean isn’t afraid, even when Cas pins his wrists above his head, even when the lamp on the nightstand flickers and pops from a surge of residual grace. Considering all the horrific violence in his daily life, and all the people he’s hurt, Dean never expected to enjoy this kind of sex. But with Cas it feels right. It feels right to leave marks on each other out of love rather than rage.

As mind blowing as the sex is, it’s not even Dean’s favorite part. It’s the quieter moments that really get him, like putting his arm around Cas when they’re watching movies on the couch, or the warm, amused look on Cas’ face when Dean inadvertently lets a pet name slip (Be careful, babe). It’s the easy confidence with which Cas takes his hand, even when Sam is watching (Dean’s working on getting used to that part). Or the way Cas recounts his dreams, no matter how mundane, over coffee in the morning, ever fascinated by the complexity of his now part-human subconscious. It’s the methodical press of Cas’ hands against Dean’s sore shoulders after a strenuous hunt, and the obvious fondness in the way Cas rolls his eyes at Dean’s jokes.

Christmas Time is About Loving You by wingsdestiel for MercuryStardust

Summary: Castiel wants to fully experience the holiday season, Dean has a realization, and feelings happen. Takes place sometime after 10x18, in an AU where there's no MOC.

The day Castiel decided to become human had been strangely ordinary. He half expected a surge of panic or an unwelcome revelation mingling itself into his conviction but instead everything remained exactly the same. He could hear his brothers’ and sisters’ dull whispering and praying but none of it directed at him - he was alone.  Castiel stood there, in Heaven, staring into nothingness and forcefully trying to make himself recollect any and all doubts he may still have left. This was a monumental decision after all and he felt a sudden uneasiness gripping him everywhere - why was everything so calm? So normal? Should it really be so easy? 

But then, they all knew that God had left the building - so who was going to care? 

The truth was that in all of his existence, Castiel had seen many things that had made him fall silent and utterly hopeless. Over the course of thousands of years, he had grown used to feeling a detached sense of sorrowfulness whenever he witnessed pain and destruction. He had created a constant layer of numbness masking everything he was - it gave him relief, it made things bearable. It made existing easy.

He hadn’t noticed at first, but things drastically changed the moment the Apocalypse finally started rolling. The angels had all been waiting for it - it was a moment firmly set in time, inevitable and pre-determined. On the surface, it was another mission among many but a substantial one this time. Not only did it mark a turning point in their entire celestial order, but it also marked the moment Castiel met Dean who, within a mere blink of an eye, managed to entirely disintegrate many of the truths Castiel had once thought he knew. 

Nowadays, there were a couple of things in Castiel’s existence that managed to break through his usual indifference and inflict a bone-deep sadness that would slowly engulf him and shatter something inside of him he never knew he had - it made him see darkness and turned him toward a winding road of helplessness. It wasn’t nice or welcome but it was real and it made him aware of an entity beyond his Grace.  Then, on the other hand, there were times when he felt like smiling and laughing which had been a completely alien occurrence to him at first.  Naturally, he understood the idea behind a smile but he had never seen much use for it - he was confined inside a temporary vessel after all.

And yet, the first time it happened it had felt like a little blossom was lighting up his insides, invading his entire system and forcing a smile onto his vessel’s lips - changing their normally stoic form into something they clearly weren’t used to showing since Castiel had taken over. It had felt strange… and genuine at the same time. It was a way to counterbalance the sadness he felt and it connected to something other than his Grace, it connected to himself - to Castiel. And that was the first step away from his celestial self. 

He blamed Dean for all that. After all, it had been Dean who made him choose to rebel, made him cut his ties to Heaven, made him want to be rather than to exist. Dean who had smiled back at him and lit his insides on fire. Dean had made Castiel want to lose this pre-determined detachment dictated by Heaven, made him want to feel… and feel he did. 

You see, sometimes Castiel would push aside his doubts and fears and just stare into the whirlwinds that were Dean’s eyes - the depth and chaos completely mesmerising to him, trapping him in their infinite brilliance. It sometimes made Dean uncomfortable, it made him squirm and roll his eyes and try to hide himself away. But…. sometimes, Dean would get lost as well. Sometimes they would just stare at each other and stand still in time, trapped in the moment. Connected, understood. And sometimes they both just smiled - those were the moments he looked forward to the most despite the never-ending war and chaos going on all around himself.  Castiel wondered what Dean saw in his eyes in return - did he recognize the battles Castiel had fought? The ages he had lived through? The pain he had forced himself to forget? He used to hate the feel of limiting himself by a vessel - but what he found in Dean’s eyes made him forget all about that because he saw himself reflected in them - his true self. Not the vessel or his angelic form but Castiel - the warrior, the dreamer, the lost soul…. and it made him feel warm and secure, made him feel things he wasn’t sure he was supposed to understand. It made him smile. 

But with emotion came a new understanding of humanity - and at the center of humanity, there was Dean. Dean who, despite his strength, could not see how important he was and would constantly crumble underneath the weight of his inner demons. Dean who, despite marking a mere moment in Castiel’s infinite existence, was the only thing Castiel wanted to bind himself to in all his yearning for freedom. Dean, who loved so strongly, but was lost in a world of loneliness and terror. Castiel could see it all whenever he looked a little bit too closely and it shattered him - those were the sad times. It made him want to run right into the pull Dean had on him and force him to understand. Force him to see what he saw. The beauty he saw. 

After all if there was one thing Castiel was certain of, it was the fact that Dean Winchester was beautiful. He often felt the almost painful urge to touch and explore and understand who and what Dean was - to hold him, keep him safe, keep him by his side always and forever. Often he thought of the many times he had fled Dean’s company out of fear, out of obligation, out of a lack of choice. Although, no matter what the reason, he had always had a tendency to just linger a little while longer in that chaotic space in-between just before actually flying away. Dean didn’t know, obviously and it gave Castiel a deep sense of longing and regret whenever he witnessed the frustration and pain his leaving would cause. Whenever he lingered, he wanted to turn back and stay. Stay with Dean forever. Make Dean smile forever. Love Dean forever. 

But forever, to him, was impossible and that’s because forever wasn’t unlasting, forever was forever and that, more than anything else, made him want to cut off his wings, scorch them, burn them… get rid of this obligation he carried - the ever-present reminder that he was bound to a cause so much bigger than him, and that Dean was but a small, insignificant moment in this infinite past and future Castiel himself existed in. Castiel wanted freedom and choice. Yes, Dean may have opened that path for him and with him but it hadn’t been enough. Heaven would always highlight the scars he carried and remind him of the celestial intent his being was based upon. 

His intent… his angelic purity. So very different from Dean. So far away. And it was killing him, slowly but effectively. At first, he had wanted to fight it, this growing resentment toward everything that had defined him for so long. But now he came to embrace it all because now he finally decided to accept it. The truth was, in all the times he had spent close to humanity, close to Dean and even closer to himself, he slowly but surely erased every little sense of belonging he felt toward Heaven. His love for Dean was burning away the angel he actually was and he craved for more. Castiel felt like an addict and it scared him how little he cared. Maybe he was insane, maybe he was wrong…. but all he wanted was to love Dean and make him see that he was loved. He wanted to make Dean look into a mirror and finally understand the significance he carried. He wanted Dean to finally reclaim all the love he had lost during the thunderstorm and tragedy that had been his life. 

And Dean, in return, had always made him feel like Cas, just Cas. Which gave his entire existence so much more meaning and reality than anything his Grace, his brothers and sisters or Heaven could possibly offer him. 

So. It was an ordinary moment as he prepared his mind to go about the task of ripping out his Grace. He kind of wished he wasn’t alone. He wanted to say goodbye too - but then, what did it matter? He hadn’t really been an angel in a seemingly long time and bearing his true form while standing at the outer edges of Heaven felt alien enough as it was. 

He dove into his memories of Dean’s eyes, his smile, his beauty, his unabashed significance. And it was in that moment that suddenly, everything became extraordinary. 

"I’m ready", he murmured. "This is it."

And… he fell, screaming in agony and, strangely, already mourning the now inevitable loss… but content. Anticipating. This was the road he had chosen and despite the screaming and terror erupting in every fiber of his being, he could already sense the light of Dean’s smile echoing somewhere underneath it all. 

No matter what the consequences, this was worth everything. 

-

Scratchmarks ★ - (Dean/Castiel/Future!Dean) Sometimes sex isn’t a goal, but a method. A method to escape, a method to forget, or a method to communicate, and Dean doubts that his future self is listening to what Cas is saying.

Word Count: 11,860

Rated: Explicit

Complete

intolerable

agonizing

unimaginable

those words do not even seem to begin to graze the surface in describing the pain.

Doesn’t know why, either. There’s no obvious threats around, and Sam’s snoring slightly in the other bed. He’s so used to the sound that it’d never wake him unless it stopped suddenly.

The heater in the corner’s rattling a bit, but that wouldn’t do the trick, either. He must’ve heard something outside, or maybe one of someone’s doin’ it in the next room. Dean’s just settling back down when he hears it again.

Somebody’s sneezing. And they’re in the room.

“You wanna tissue?” he ventures, reaching for the knife under his pillow. A shadow in the corner moves very slightly.

“No, thank you, Dean,” replies Cas’s voice. It’s a bit garbled, though, and comes out more like, “No tank you Dee.”

“Dude, I didn’t know angels could get colds,” says Dean, coming over to him. He’s not all that surprised, not really. Not when Castiel won’t put on more than just that old trench coat. Thing’s getting rattier by the day, but he refuses to switch it out for something more practical.

“We can’t. This isn’t a cold, Dean,” Cas huffs. He sniffs, and then keeps sniffing.

“Sure,” Dean responds, rolling his eyes. “Clearly not a cold. Dude, sit down or something. You’re making me nervous.”

He guides Castiel to his bed and puts pressure on the angel’s shoulders until he sits. Sam shifts in the other one, wakes a little. He calms down and drifts back off when Dean tells him it’s just Cas, to sleep while he can.

There’s this look Cas gives him then, like the love of family is a gift from God. Dean turns away so he doesn’t have to see it.

Sam, such a girl, carries all this stuff for curing colds wherever they go. Always has. Dean, for the life of him, can’t figure it out. His little brother hasn’t been sick in more than fifteen years.

Comes in real handy now, though, so maybe Dean’ll cut him a break. Most of it would be useless to him if there weren’t directions.

Castiel tries to refuse, at first. He’s fighting a losing battle, and they both know it. Doesn’t stop him from trying- it’s not in his nature to lay down and take anything.

Some of the meds (or supplements or whatever it is Sam has on hand) must work, because it isn’t long before Castiel lies back on the bed. He won’t close his eyes, keeps tracking Dean wherever he goes. Clearly, sleep isn’t something that happens to angels, either.

“Look, man,” says Dean when he can’t take it anymore. “You have to get some rest. You’re not gonna kick this thing if you don’t.”

Cas shoots him a glare but it’s weak. Actually, it’s so small that Dean probably wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been looking so close.

He is looking, though, and he’s got a hand on Cas’s forehead, checking for a fever. He doesn’t find one, not a huge surprise, but he can feel how Cas is shivering.

“Jesus, Cas, you gotta be kidding me,” Dean groans, and starts untying Cas’s shoes. He doesn’t bother with the socks, just grabs the blankets and tugs them over the stupid angel’s body.

“Idiot,” he mutters, but he’s pretty sure he can’t hear any heat in his own voice. He tucks Cas in the way he used to do for Sam, back when he was still the bigger brother.

Maybe he’ll call Bobby in the morning, see if he can dig up something on angel colds. It’s a long shot, but the old man’s been bitching about not having anything to do. Might help take his mind off some things.