from the 'dean runs away and works on a horse farm' fic

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“Shit. No, it’s okay. Fuck, that stings. It’s okay.”

“I didn’t realize-- I,” Cas stalls as Dean turns around to grab a clean cloth and soaks it in cold water. Cas wrings it out; holds it against the burn for him. “When I touched you, it was an accident." He doesn't meet Dean's eyes, focusing instead on gently pressing the cloth against the burn. "I-- I had to re-make your body. Pour your soul over your ashes to form the clay that I would soon use to rebuild you, breathe life into you-- I--”

“Guh.” Eloquent. Dean can't get his thoughts together. He breathes as evenly as he can through his nose, ignoring the pain and staring at Cas' face.

“I placed you in my kiln. But…" He sighs and re-wets the cloth, the action taking him even closer to Dean. "At the last second, I-- I heard a crack. Dean, you had a marble shoulder. I don’t know why. Your soul-- Heaven is not the only realm which deals in souls. I don’t know why, but yours-- yours had already been stitched back together. With great care, I might add. It was magic far beyond my understanding. But I didn't know, and in my haste to retrieve this-- this delicate piece of reconstruction from the furnace, I touched it with my true form, searing us both. That’s why the scar is there, and why I can’t heal it. The wound is... -" he pauses, brushes his thumb against the corresponding thumb-burn. "It’s on your soul."

I’m not drunk, Dean thinks. But his head is somehow sprinkled with brandy, drinking in the man in front of him in the blue light of the moon. He’s an angel, he thinks. But that right there, that is a man. He realizes what that means: he’s not under a spell, or even the will of Heaven. Psyched out by a Celestial. Guided by the Light. Or whatever. He’s not an ant, in awe of God’s magnifying glass; the one that’s about to fry him where he stands. Cas is absolutely capable of this. But all the same--

No, he’s under the spell of a very real, very present and inviting and lovely and wide-shouldered and slightly grumpy, heavy, strong man who smells faintly of Light Blue where Dean sprayed his neck with it that morning.

Yeah, Cas. It’s a totally normal morning ritual. It's totally not about how smelling my cologne on you makes me feel like I could outrun a train or punch God or ask you to run away with me. That'd be crazy.

Cas stands there, breathing faintly through his nostrils. He’s not moving a muscle except for his eyes that dart back and forth between Dean’s. He looks less like he’s having a fight-or-flight moment, and more like he’s contemplating putting his tongue on a live wire and holding it there. Dean, with the countertop digging into his hip bone just above his jeans, decides to do it for him; jolt them both back to life.

He leans forward and kisses him on the lips.

Pivot. Avoid.

Dammit. Now he just thinks about his father. Somehow, wounds that had healed over over the preceding decades are torn open anew-- no, not torn open.

With horrifying clarity, Dean remembers the day that he allowed himself to be angry with John Winchester. John Winchester who, like Saturn; that towering inferno of horrifying masculine energy, is told a prophecy.

John takes a little longer to devour his sons. Sam gets stuck in his throat.

A Saturnalian Feast is held in his honour. It’s a great turnout: one rare-baseball-game-attending ghoul, one blood-freak, and one dropout with a give-em-hell attitude.

His retroactive castration is successful: the trio beget no heirs.

“Protect your little brother, boy. One day, you might have to kill him.”

R O A D F O O D

hey look i put this on a hoodie