#pleadingoneword

IT WAS YOU

Thanks so much for supporting me my dear person! :D

Hands flutter anxiously over the table, over the gear, then finally over to Cas' sleeve, where he presses just hard enough to feel the hand beneath it before he backs away. "You okay?" It's on a breath, too strong out for anything else. They're safe in the bunker (never truly safe anywhere, but safe enough), and Sam tries to take strength from it as he tries to hold Castiel's gaze.

Somehow, despite all that has changed in the years since he met the Winchesters—everything he’s learned, everything he’s experienced—, small gestures like this still catch him off guard.

And Sam Winchester, despite his size, is full of small, careful gestures.

He can’t be sure whether it’s Castiel’s comfort or his own that Sam seeks, but he feels the brief warmth of that hand through to the tattered remnants of his grace. And Castiel finds himself wishing he could retaliate in kind by healing all of Sam’s aches and pains.

Blue eyes look up at Sam Winchester, full of tired affection.

This is not a question that always requires an honest, objective answer, he’s come to find.

“I’m fine, Sam.” His smile is barely noticeable, there and gone, but he knows Sam will see it. And now he has the perfect chance to give voice to an old observation.

This is the worst kind of bad idea, because this is the kind of bad idea that’s going to end up with Tony getting kicked out of the Avengers. Or maybe struck by lightning. Or beaten up by Captain America. 

But he’s drunk on expensive champagne and Thor’s had enough Asgardian ale that his cheeks are flushed and he’s let Tony get on his knees for him in an empty guest room at the compound. 

He’s majestic all the way down to the molecules and Tony thinks about telling him that until he sees the smirk written into the corner of that mouth, and he’s pretty sure that Thor already knows. 

Asshole. (It’s so, so hot.)

There are still people down the hall, and Tony can hear the murmur of dozens of conversations even through the walls as he works Thor’s zipper down and leans in to run the flat of his tongue against his shaft, tasting salt and sweat and skin and savoring it. Tony’s reckless, he knows a one time deal when he sees one.

A strong hand traces the curve of his skull, combing through his hair from front to back. They’re both the stupid kind of lonely, the kind that came from trying to be with someone just so you’re not alone, and still walking away empty handed. (No disrespect to Dr. Foster, but Tony gets it.)

It feels a little bit like worshipping, down here on his knees. Tony can see the high collar of Thor’s coat through the veil of his lashes, the way hair the color of sunshine sits over his shoulders. 

Tony takes him a little deeper, tongue flat against hard flesh, trying out all his old tricks with a desperate need to be memorable in the face of probably centuries of blowjobs. 

° • ? ( QUESTION SENTENCE STARTERS.

“I didn’t think about you at all!”

Every syllable was abrupt and incendiary, like an ember that might make kindling out of wherever it lands; an opportunity to ignite and encourage further devastation.

But there had been more than enough of that for one day.

Hell, between the two of them, there was enough destruction for a lifetime.

As much as he’s always known it was coming, Dean has never planned for it. Not when he had the days marked on a calendar in his head and hell hounds on his heels, not any of the other times that the world has ripped them apart. 

Maybe he should have. But as good as Dean is with remembering shit, he’s not as great with following through. Ask any girl he dated across the Great Plains in high school. 

Follow through is not Dean Winchester’s strong suit. 

So there is no note to tell Sam just how loved he is, how much Dean does not regret his life revolving around him. There’s just the little pieces of his life that Dean left behind.

A coffee cup in the sink, not yet rinsed. Leftovers in the fridge. Motorhead in the tape deck and a shirt slung over the back of a kitchen chair. His favorite gun was in his hand when he died, but there’s a back up under his pillow. 

And right beside it?

Thoughts Meme: (Accepting)

@pleadingoneword

(Having a pumpkin carving contest)

“Heads up.”

And Sammy better get that head up, because Dean is already hurling a basketball sized pumpkin at his little brother as soon as the words leave his mouth. Dad’s out of town, working a case down on the bayou and he’s left them to rot in Bumfuck, Louisiana so Sam can finish out tenth grade in one place.

Not because Dad wanted him to, but because Sam had hit puberty like he hit a heavy bag and he was taller than Dad now, and with clenched fists and a deeper voice, it was like looking at a weird photo negative of his baby brother who was also almost an adult. 

But no matter how much Sam wanted to be grown and Dad wanted Sam to be six years old again, Dean was hell bent on making the most out of sixteen. 

“Come on, Beansprout. It’s not like we’re hurting for knives around here.” The rental place is small and shabby, but everything works and they even have their own rooms. Which means Dean sees Sam less than usual. But he’s off work early tonight and there’s a pilfered jiffy pop foil container waiting in the car, and it doesn’t take Dean more than two channel switches to find a horror movie on TV.

“Ten bucks says mine ends up looking better than yours.”

That’s the thing about Sam that Dad never seemed to figure out. Asking him was the worst thing you could do. He was a teenager, he’d get his back up. But Dean knows that if you start something, he’ll be drawn in, like gravity. 

Which is why he’s sitting on their 1970s couch, still in his coveralls from work, trying to figure out the best way to gut a pumpkin with a bowie knife.