#gardenforcas

happy 3rd wedding anniversary to these idiots :)

(846 words) Also on AO3

Dean knew the rhythm of Cas’ footsteps from the kitchen all the way to their bedroom. Knew it better than the pulse of his own heart; as familiar to him as the scent of the warm coffee that carried with his husband every morning like clockwork. He found himself smiling against his pillow, feeling the early sunshine through the lake house window heat the frosty February air.

So the routine goes; any minute now Cas would pause to bump the door open with his pajama-clad butt, scooting backward into their bedroom, two coffees in hand. Dean would fake the grouchy attitude as if the gentle interruption had pulled him from sleep. As if, minutes earlier, Cas hadn’t waited until his spidey senses told him Dean’s REM sleep was done and he was ready for his daily stubbled kiss at the back of his neck. For the arm that tightened around his waist, sinking suggestively lower until Dean cracked open an eyelid. Falling for the same old trick every day, before Cas would rise his heavenly ass out of bed to start on coffee. Leaving Dean tethered between the land of sleep and this world of dreams.

Same old, same old.

And wasn’t that a hell of a thing.

“You look cute,” Sam laughed, shoving a tuft of cotton candy into the side of his mouth, chipmunk-style.

“Shut your pie hole,” Dean barked, but he stilled as he felt a wet blob of paint hit the top of his ear. The artist laughed, wiping it free then finished.

“Done!” she said, holding up a mirror.

Dean frowned. He scowled at Sam who returned a shit-eating grin.

“A bunny? Really?”

Dean fished out his money from his tiny child-sized pocket, a few twenties falling to the pavement in the process. The woman at the booth eyed it cautiously. Dean shoved one of the bills in her hands.

“Thanks,” he said quickly, then called a few booths over: “Dad!”

He pulled Sam along with an elbow and ran to the first man who turned around, asking him a random question about fair directions until the woman seemed satisfied they weren’t lost.

The evening came slowly, and they rode a few rides. Sam seemed happy, even if Dean watched the clock like a hawk. It was John’s face that set the sun when he found them behind the tilt-o-whirl.

Dean knew they weren’t normal.

If they were normal kids, John might’ve taken Sam to the fair himself.

Instead, he was the reckless kind of angry, shoving them into the car, grabbing Sammy’s arm leaving a bruise as they tumbled in.

The car was dark.

John’s voice was darker.

“Is this a joke to you, Dean?”

Dean stared out the window, seeing a ghostly image of a small boy with a pink nose. He ignored his father, jaw tight. John starting the engine was a warning. Driving Sam back and ditching him in the motel room alone with only a taser as a babysitter was the punishment.

There wasn’t time to wash his face. Instead, Dean took it with him, deep into the abandoned house– small rabbit-boy and his shotgun he’d barely grown the muscles to keep upright.

“I want you to understand something,” John whispered, cinching the back of Dean’s neck with a curved hand. “I’m not what you should be afraid of.”

He paused, letting go.

“Kill it.”

It lunged at Dean’s face, teeth razors, hands like claws. Dean flinched, dropping his gun. John shot and it was a blood explosion–monster confetti. There was a moment with nothing left but ringing in his ears. Dead, film-covered eyes stared up, guts spilling on the floor.

John kicked the corpse, and it was then Dean realized he was frozen. He thought he could see the impala through the shattered window of the basement and he looked for the white balloon and couldn't find it. Gruffly, he was led back to the car.

John buckled him into his seatbelt. Dean crushed white latex crushed under his boot inside the passenger's seat. When the car finally parked at the motel, John took the keys out and held them for a moment.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

The door slammed. Dean stared at himself through the confines of his contracting world, color draining. No fair, no smiles from Sammy or cotton candy, just an endless future staring at the vinyl of the 1967 impala–windows and mirrors.

From his peripheral, a scared rabbit–blood splattered paint. He looked like a monster. To be honest, he wasn’t sure which was the mask… the blood, or his own face. Reading the words to himself, he shivered in the night chill: “objects in mirror are closer than they appear.”

the pain down in your soul was the same as the one down in mine

the long way around | E | WIP | Part one of three (...or four)

Yet another post 15x18 fix-it from yours truly

When Dean takes Castiel on vacation to a secluded cabin, Castiel doesn’t know what to make of it. Dean has been strange, on edge, since he rescued Castiel from the Empty, and neither of them has mentioned Castiel's confession once.

They’ll have to talk about it sooner or later, but a small part of Castiel hopes it's later. The thought that Dean planned the trip to clear the air between them fills Castiel with dread, hope, and a healthy dose of confusion. Has Dean done all this to let Castiel down gently? He couldn’t possibly return Castiel’s feelings…could he?

The only thing Castiel’s sure of is that telling Dean he loved him has changed things irrevocably—for good, or bad, remains to be seen.

As the light starts to fade, Jack likes to take a little jar and try to catch fireflies as they flit around him. Cas reminds him to be gentle, but he’s very careful with them. If he catches one, he sits down in the grass and whispers to it, quick to let it fly away when it’s ready, but a quiet “‘bye.”

Dean lays his head lazily on Cas’ shoulder and inhales and exhales deeply, taking in the moment. It’s ritual at this point, this nightly routine, but a sacred one. He grounds himself by threading his fingers together with Cas’ and brings them to his lips to press a gentle kiss.

For @faithlesshunter happy birthday bestie! <3

Rating: E

Relationship: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Tags: endverse, angst with a happy ending, eventual smut, falling in love at the end of the world, slow burn

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