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.
Dean scooched over to Cas’ side of the bed. The warmth had faded but it was the scent he chased; like rich earth pounded by the heavy rain of a thunderstorm, the charged promise of lightning still to come. Like honey and ether and so like home, Dean could drown himself in it. Smother himself in his husband’s pillow with a smile on his face and a bulge in his pants.
And so, it began.
The gentle clink of the spoon dropped into the sink. The ceramic scuffling on the kitchen countertop. The first bare footstep on the warm wooden floor.
Three years of this, Dean thought, and he knew he could go a thousand more.
A squeaking sound broke the routine, and Dean perked up his bedhead to listen to the audible eye roll and soft sigh that accompanied it. The footsteps and squeaking drew nearer, and Dean propped himself up on an arm to watch the regularly scheduled show.
The ass that greeted him was familiar, but Dean’s eyes bulged out of his head like Donald Duck at the first sight of Daisy. Cas backed into the room, letting the door swing softly shut behind him.
Dean’s husband paused, breakfast tray in hand and a look of genuine surprise on his face that quickly morphed into a feigned innocence.
“Sweetheart,” Dean managed to say with a tongue that now weighed an ACME ton. “Are you wearing leather pants?” He was dreaming, right? Had to be. If the next words out of Cas' mouth were "tell me about it, stud" in Olivia Newton-John's voice that would surely confirm it. A laugh threatened to burst all the way from his belly, born of shock more than anything, because this was Cas. His Cas. In tight leather pants. Like he was Jon Bon fucking Jovi and Dean was eighteen, alone in his motel room and realising some shit.
But Cas ignored the question, setting the breakfast tray safely on the bedside table. When he turned to find Dean’s gaze still locked on his broad thighs, mouth hanging open like it didn’t know where to start, he placed his hands on his hips.
“The third wedding anniversary gift is leather, is it not?”
Dean glanced up from his stupor, feeling his heart swell like a damn balloon at his husband’s words.
Leather. Anniversary. Right.
How Cas heard "leather" and thought "pants"... actually, he didn't need to know how or why, because this was happening. Somehow this was real life.
Dean licked his lips. Didn’t mean to, but he did.
He’d tell Cas about the new leather couch he’d secretly set up in the Cas Cave later. Right now…
“The salesperson insisted this was the perfect gift,” Cas frowned down at himself. “Perhaps this was a mistake.”
“Whuaa-“ Dean started, tangling in the sheets as he struggled to sit upright. “No, no, they’re – hell of a – gotta tip the guy… god, Cas.” Only the need to defend these pants with his life gave Dean the strength to tear his gaze from them a second time.
He’d expected to find that frown he loved so much – the one that crinkled Cas’ brow, and tugged his soft lips into a flat line. Instead, his husband grinned at him, eyes blazing with that smugness that was the bane of Dean’s life.
Son of a bitch. He played him.
“Happy anniversary, Dean,” Cas said, stepping forward to crawl on his knees across the mattress, caging Dean in between his thighs.
Dean pulled him closer, sunlight glinting on the band of his wedding ring as he ran a hand through Cas’ hair. Three years of this. Already three. Only three.
And he could never have enough.
“Happy anniversary, Cas.” The words were a whisper against his husband’s lips.
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Dean didn’t want anyone touching his face, let alone painting it, but Sammy begged, looking up with a pink pig snout and he caved. It tickled as her brush smoothed long whiskers along the round of his cheeks. His white balloon bumped at the top of his head as he wound the string absently, waiting.
“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 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.
Even though they’ve seen it hundreds of times at this point, they love to sit on the dock and watch the sunset.
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.
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