“Could you, uh… could you find someone?”
Dean barely sounds like himself. His voice is a low rasp over the phone. He didn’t introduce himself in any way, didn’t say hello, didn’t call her “your highness.” But Charlie knows it’s him all the same. She can picture him standing in the bunker, holding the phone to his ear, rubbing his other hand across his forehead.
She hadn’t been waiting for the call, but it’s not exactly a surprise to hear from Dean. She saw that “meteor shower,” the one NOAA hadn’t predicted, same as anybody else. She’d looked into it but hadn’t found much—a spike in the birth rate, but that seemed more coincidental than anything else. Then again, when is anything ever a coincidence?
She senses that now is not the time to joke with Dean, so all she says is, “Yeah, probably.”
“He might be—he might be going by Jimmy Novak. Or Emmanuel. He—,”
“Cas? You want me to find Cas?”
Dean is quiet for a moment. Maybe he forgot that she read all Carver Edlund’s books, even the unpublished ones. Charlie hears him swallow before he speaks again. “Yeah.”
“You alright?”
“No. Not really.”
Clearly no more explanation is forthcoming. Back to business. “You got any pictures of him?”
Dean doesn’t say anything, but a moment later her phone buzzes. It’s a scan of a small photo, a face shot, probably left over from one of the Winchesters’ many fraudulent collage projects. The man in it is dark-haired, blue-eyed, tired. He doesn’t look like an angel. One of the photo’s corners is very slightly creased, as if it had been folded and then flattened out again, restored. Charlie wonders if Dean had kept this photo aside, tucked into his wallet, a secret icon.
“Good,” she says. “This will help.”
Dean is quiet again.
“Do you… need something else?” Like someone to talk to?
“Just find him,” he says, and hangs up.
Sam is a little bit worried about Dean and Castiel.
When Dean had sat him down a few weeks back and said, “just so you know, me and Cas are a thing, so he’ll be staying in my room from now on”, Sam had been borderline overjoyed. Not only was he going to get the chance to make fun of his brother’s profound bond with his personal guardian angel (something he’d been wanting to do for years) but this meant that all the snarky, sexually frustrated bickering was going to stop and Dean and Castiel were going to start acting like normal human beings in love (well… a normal human being and a normal multi-dimensional wave of celestial intent) like they were supposed to.
But it’s been several weeks now, and the bickering hasn’t stopped. It hasn’t even gotten better.
It’s gotten worse.
The Five Stages Of Grief
When Castiel dies for the first time, Sam watches Dean grit his teeth and mutter “dumb son of a bitch.” He watches his brother take out his anger in tense, vicious barbs against Zachariah, and then growl out “learned that from my friend Cas” like he’s dedicating Zachariah’s pain to the downed angel.
It’s the first time Cas dies, and the first time Sam wonders just when Dean started to care so much about that angel.
The Important Thing Now Is That We're Naked And We're Friends
Pairing: Kurt/Blaine
Rating: R
Word Count: 4,700
Notes: Post-4x14; Kurt and Blaine become long-distance FWB.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit impractical to have a friend with benefits that you have to fly in from Ohio?”
“It’s not a problem; Blaine has frequent flyer miles.”
Anonymous prompted: Blaine goes over to Kurt’s house and Kurt is still sleeping. and Kurt sleeps naked. (A/N: I meant to just write a smutty drabble but then I had feelings. So many feelings.)
At 7:07 he texts Kurt to let him know his connecting flight is delayed. At 7:08 he orders a triple shot soy latte and considers a somewhat rubbery looking egg sandwich in the display case. At 7:09 there’s an announcement for a flight going to Newark instead of LaGuardia. Blaine decides he isn’t all that hungry anyway, and rushes to the counter to make the flight.
He takes a cab in, doesn’t feel up to sorting out public transportation from New Jersey to Bushwick this early in the morning. He doesn’t text Kurt again either. His track record with surprises is spotty, but Blaine just figures that means there’s plenty of room for improvement.
Santana opens the door, gives a brief, unimpressed once-over then steps aside. “He’s in his…area,” she says with a flick of her hand, and goes back to her breakfast.
“Oh, is he busy?”
“Probably,” she says around a mouthful of cereal. “You know, flitting through wild flowers, perching on toadstools, spreading fairy dust everywhere. The usual.”
They’re not exactly conventional in any capacity.
The first time Dean ever kissed Castiel he was covered in blood; dripping black viscera onto the motel carpet, shirt sagging, weighted, against his skin. He’d gone back to the motel room and found Castiel there – sitting prim on the bedspread, hands folded in his lap, and been so fucking overjoyed just to be alive that he’d crossed the room in a flash, pulled Castiel up by his lapels and kissed him on the mouth, hard. Murmured, “Sorry.”, panicked and terrified by what he’d done – and then Castiel had grabbed him back, his coat already stained with whatever crap Dean was covered in.
He’d said, “Don’t be.” – though it came out more as a growl of impatience – and pulled Dean back to kiss him again.
The first time he said ‘I love you’ it was over breakfast; Castiel made waffles. Did he need another reason?
But this is bigger than kissing; bigger than love, than sex, than squabbling over the channels on the radio station. And Dean realises it’s what he wants only slowly; one day the future suddenly doesn’t seem bleak and terrifying. One day he looks to his left and finds the angel there, and doesn’t think it’s strange at all.
Burning Like A Silver Flame
His first time at a gay bar is significantly more depressing than he expected. And really his expectations were not very high in the first place. It’s drab and sticky and the jukebox hasn’t been updated since 1986. It’s also mostly populated by bored looking regulars, all much older than him, not that he couldn’t be into that. Just. Maybe if they didn’t all remind him of his Uncle Fred. Or at least weren’t dead-eyed and flannel clad.
Blaine scans the few groups of men dancing, realizes Sebastian has already ditched him for some random. Just as well, really, but still annoying since he was the one who talked Blaine into this whole thing in the first place.
“Rum and Coke,” Blaine says to the bartender’s back. May as well get a little buzzed while he waits. He fumbles in his wallet for the fake ID Sebastian had gotten him, hops onto a bar stool with a grimace. Seriously, why is everything so sticky?
The bartender plucks the license from his hand and makes a skeptical noise, but sets a glass down in front of him a moment later. Blaine is so busy being horrified by what is stuck to the bottom of his loafer that he takes a swig without looking up.
“I think you forgot the-” Blaine says, pushing the glass of Coke -sans rum- back across the bar. But the rest of the sentence dies in his throat. Now this he can work with.
Ficlet: In Limine
Amidst the giddy chaos after Mr. Schue and Miss Pillsbury’s wedding ceremony, Kurt felt someone take his hand. He thought it was Blaine at first, but immediately realized that it felt wrong—the fingers too slender and delicate, the palm cooler than the heat Blaine always radiated.
He turned and saw Brittany. She smiled and placed a finger to her lips, then pulled him gently toward the door. He walked with her out to the hallway, staying silent, wondering what she could possibly want.
Dean wakes up when the sun is just bright enough to cast a glow of light between the panes of their open-curtained windows.
His eyes take in the body lying soft and warm beside him; a tuft of dark hair, the curves of muscles and skin and bones, graceful hands made to hold Dean’s face between them—no longer the hilt of a glinting sword. Cas shifts, and with him come the covers as he rolls toward Dean sighing out a breath of content. When his eyelashes flutter open to greet the day, Dean is right there, taking in the flood of blue like he’s thirsty for it.
“Good morning, Dean.”
“Morning, sweetheart.”
Cas presses a kiss to his hair. Dean makes a sound like defeat and comfort rolled into one, and tries a little futilely to pull his arm out from under Cas’s hip.
“Come on, I’ll make us coffee,” he offers, but like every other morning, Cas couldn’t give a care. He presses another kiss to Dean’s temple before heaving himself bodily on top of Dean, trapping all of Dean’s limbs beneath his arms, his legs, and his chest. He reaches out behind him to grab the covers and drag them over the both of their bodies until the only thing Dean can see is the yellow glow of sunlight filtering through cotton, and Cas’s face tucked tightly beneath his chin.
“It’s nice to sleep,” Cas says to his neck, drawing his arms down until Dean can feel clever fingers trailing his ribcage.
“That’s what lazy people say.”
Cas pulls up, only to drop another kiss against his mouth. He gives Dean a thoughtful, considering look, then continues kissing any patch of skin his lips can find.
“One,” he says on Dean’s nose.
“Two,” he says on Dean’s jaw.
“Three,” he says on Dean’s left eyelid.
“Four,” he says on Dean’s shoulder.
“Five,” he says on the apple of Dean’s cheek.
Dean sucks in a breath and lets that familiar feeling of Cas unfurl in his chest.
“Are you really gonna try for a hundred today?” he asks. Cas’s lips linger on the shell of his ear.
“Yes,” Cas answers mildly, like they have all the time in the world for him to lay Dean out and press kisses to his flesh—each a prayer, a salve to the wounds thirty plus years of hunting can leave on a man’s body.
And the thing is, Dean laughs, they do. They have all the time now.
Cas starts shifting down, counting out, “Fifteen,” as he brushes his lips to Dean’s chest, where a heart beats healthy and strong, safe at last. Cas smiles.
“In I Iad, In I Ia-Idon”
“Ineeah – innie iaddon?”
Castiel smiled pityingly at him; Dean let his head drop onto the table. “Not quite.” The angel said, smiling all the while, and Dean folded his arms, and rested his head on them.
“What did I say?”
“Not a lot.” Castiel shrugged. “It’s mostly your pronunciation.”
Dean scowled. “Okay, fine. What did you say?”
“Mine is god, Mine is all powerful.” The Headquarters’ dining-room echoed with his voice.
Dean pulled a face. “When the hell would I use that?”
Castiel shrugged, puzzled. “Well, what do you want to learn?”
“I don’t know. Conversational Enochian. Hello, goodbye, where’s the john – you know.”
Castiel looked amused. “Conversational Enochian doesn’t really exist, Dean. The English language is obsessed with wordplay – in Enochian, there’s not even such a thing as euphemism.”
Dean drummed his fingers on the table. “Huh.” He frowned. “Weird.”
The angel threaded his fingers together in his lap and looked at him sideways. “Do you still want me to teach you?”
“Yeah. Yeah, we might as well try.”
Maybe the flower child is just in Castiel; maybe he just grew up a little sideways, a little ‘different’, and that’s why he does stuff like this; Dean doesn’t know.
He found Castiel outside the headquarters in jeans and one of his old shirts, hair a mess. Standing where he was, Dean could only see his back. He was sitting down, and perched on his shoulders, like knots in a line of thread, were six tiny birds.
my little cupcake martina asked for an au with teacher!blaine and bp!/student!kurt uwu
rating: nc-17 ; warnings: age difference (kurt is 18, blaine is in his late thirties), spanking, dirty talk, boypussy (for people who are still unaware of what this means: kurt has a vagina. it’s a common kink, especially in this fandom. so don’t read, if you don’t like that ｡◕‿◕｡), oh and a tiny little mention of past kurt/ocs and puckurt
It’s not that Kurt wants to misbehave.
He just can’t help it.
Especially since Mr. Anderson, the new history teacher, is so damn hot when he gets angry.
fic: If I Needed Someone (Glee, Kurt/Blaine)
Title: If I Needed Someone
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Kurt/Blaine
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~17,500
Summary: BDSM AU. Kurt may be as queer as a two dollar bill, but in New York he doesn’t have to pretend to act like a proper sub on top of all of that. He can hold his head up high and make his own way through the big city without some dom holding his leash. He can be anything he wants.
Notes: Based on this kink meme prompt, though I do take a few liberties with it. I’ve also borrowed bits and pieces of worldbuilding from helenish’s Take Clothes Off As Directed and etothepii’s things you don’t tell me. So much love to zulu for the beta.
