deancas*

Dean falls asleep with Cas’ fingers sliding over his back. It’s become a ritual, Dean flopping down on the bed, Cas sitting down next to him to massage the day’s ache out of his muscles. But inevitably, the massage turns to a tender caress as Dean slips into sleep, Cas’ long fingers gliding instead of digging. Dean doesn’t seem to mind.

Dean drifts in and out of consciousness, enjoying the security in the weight of Cas’ hand. But he never notices the patterns Cas is drawing, the careful design Cas creates as he connects Dean’s freckles in invisible lines.

Over the countless nights they spend like this, Cas creates an entire night sky over Dean’s body, drawing constellations into that expanse of skin. He builds a universe all his own, creates the stories that go along with each figure, great legends of bravery and undying love.

Dean lies there, softly snoring, sometimes smacking his lips, completely oblivious.

Until one night, he doesn’t.

“What’re you doing, Cas?” Dean mumbles into his pillow.

Cas is caught so off guard that he just answers honestly. “Drawing constellations.”

Dean doesn’t bother to lift his head out of his arms. “Feels like you know what you’re doing. Have you done this before?”

“Yes,” Cas answers, relieved that Dean doesn’t sound shocked or angry.

After a few seconds, Dean rolls to his back, giving Cas his bare chest and stomach. “And what are these constellations?” He’s groggy, but still amused.

Cas grins, then drags his finger over a cluster of freckles on Dean’s rib cage. He starts talking, telling Dean his made up stories. Dean laughs, a deep rumble that tickles into Cas’ fingers and works its way up Cas’ arm and into his chest.

“This is what you do when I’m asleep? Should I be worried that you not only have my freckles memorized, but that you’ve turned them into a solar system?”

Cas’ stomach sinks. “I’m sorry. I suppose it is a little strange.” He pulls his hand away, embarrassed and a little nervous.

Dean leans up and grabs it, pulls Cas’ hand back down to his chest, right over his heart. “I was just teasing, Cas.”

Dean pulls him down into a deep kiss, turning so that they are both on their sides, totally tangled in each other.

Cas sighs into Dean’s mouth with relief that he can go on living in the magical galaxy that is Dean Winchester.

Okay you know how they say when you have (unprotected) sex with someone, it’s like you’re having sex with everyone they’ve had (unprotected) sex with?

Bear with me here.

So Meg kissed Dean that one time:

And Cas kissed Meg that one time:

Originally posted by bewithyouinajiffey

So basically what I’m saying is, if our sex ed teachers are to be believed…Dean and Cas have basically kissed.

Thanks, Meg.

Belated Statistics

Some may remember, a while back I asked for examples of your favorite Destiel episodes of SPN (this open response survey was done during the hiatus between 12x08 and 12x09 - so BEFORE SPN came back. It did not include 12x09, 12x10, 12x11, or 12x12, though I’m sure that almost every one of them would probably also be on the list now… haha)

My main reason for doing this was to see which episodes people MOST associated as Destiel episodes, and then compare the writers and directors of those episodes, to see if there was a trend in who was more likely to write or direct an episode that we deem as a “destiel episode”.

The criteria for it being a “destiel episode” was literally just… any episode that, when you thought of destiel, THOSE episodes were screaming out to you. Any and all of them.

(under cut bc length)

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12.12

okay but imagine if crowley hadn’t broken the spear and cas had died. dean would have been so broken. he would hate himself because he didn’t do anything to stop cas’ death, even if he could have. he spent cas’ last moments fighting, doing what cas told him not to do, instead of properly saying goodbye or holding him. and if dean did hold him in his final moments (which he definitely would have), the scorch marks from cas’ wings would be permanently marked onto dean. he would never be able to forgive himself.

All I Want, All You Can Give

I finally posted that Coda for 12x12. Here’s the first of six chapters. It’s a 5 times they hugged and one time it turned into something else fic. You can read the whole 8k of it here on Ao3.



He hugged him fierce and strong the moment that he came back into the bunker. The hug was the type to remember, and it seemed like they’d been having more of them lately. Dean let this one linger even more than the ones from before. He let it linger in his thoughts too. The angels had their sacred oath, but Cas seemed like he was continually in a grey area where that was concerned.

One could say that a hug is nothing, is everything, matters or doesn’t matter. Dean was steadily falling into the camp of it mattering a great deal. He found himself plotting and planning the next opportunity, the next chance at connecting. He didn’t let the thoughts dive too close to anything more, but there was an almost obsessive bit of focus placed on the moments, the deep warm moments spent in each other’s space that one could say were absolutely a dive into the deep end of the pool.

Dean got his memories back and with them something that resembled an epiphany. He got back to the bunker and Cas was there, looking like he’d been pacing a through into the cement floor. Dean went right to him and hugged him. He dug his fingers into the folds of the trench coat’s fabric. He dipped his cheek in just a little so that he could feel the smooth slide of skin against his own day’s growth of stubble. He breathed in the smell of him, the warmth, the closeness, the moment. Cas held him too, like he thought he’d lost him. He almost had, and truth be told every day was a risk. Every day they each could lose the other. The hug went on a little longer that day as Dean came to realize that.

It mattered.

It was everything.

Dean paced with short steps, hands balled into fists and shoulders tense. He was such a gentle emperor, it could be easy for one to forget his size and power. It was not long ago that he wore a uniform and was one piece of a human machine. 

A pale, golden glow filled the room. Dust motes swirled in the disturbed air with Dean’s every step. The morning sky was serene as the sun began climbing over the treeline in the distance. It was too beautiful a morning for such rage, but Dean had long ago learned that crisis never chose to show up during a storm. The storms just followed. Natural consequences to disastrous actions. 

“What should we tell your brother?” Charlie never feared him and he loved her for that. 

He stopped and took a breath, watching a flock of birds swirl above the forest. They crossed directly in front of the sun and their small forms were lost to the light. 

“Tell Sam I’m coming to see him. We can discuss the declaration then.” Dean closed his eyes and pushed away the memories of his old battalion. 

Benny cleared his throat. “And what do we tell the… future emperor of the twelve kingdoms?”

Dean opened his eyes as the memory of his commander on his knees played out. Your imperial highness, we must get you to safety. 

Seventh in line. He was the seventh in line, and suddenly he was the emperor. Mother, father, uncles, cousins. Everyone who had been in line ahead of him, gone. A war zone should never have been the place to preserve a soldier’s life. 

“Tell Azazel I keep my promises,” Dean said. 

The door opened and Cas entered quickly with his guard behind him. He touched the side of Dean’s face, his brows drawn together and mouth turned down. 

Dean waved Benny and Charlie away, preferring a moment with his husband alone. The guard left last, closing the doors behind herself. Tension bled from Dean’s muscles as Cas stepped in close and kissed him. 

“Dean, I’m so sorry.” Cas wrapped his arms around Dean’s shoulders and held him tight. 

“We’ll get through it, we always do.” Dean buried his face into Cas’ neck, his hands resting just above Cas’ hips. 

“The civil war only ended seven years ago. He won’t even give us a decade of peace.” Cas ran his fingers through the hair at the base of Dean’s neck. 

The morning sun kept rising over the forest, reflecting light off the snow in the northern mountains. Wind blew in from the southern sea and ran through chimes hanging all over the city. The bells of peace. Dean was going to have to tell his citizens to take the chimes down. There would be no more peace. 

Love (In Progress)

A Dean/Cas Fluff-fest fic by @pathsofpassion

January 24

The bed isn’t their bed, but Ellen keeps decent mattresses in her temporary rooms and he wakes comfortably, though no mattress is comfortable enough to make morning a bearable or humane time of day. Castiel blindly gestures at the coffeepot on the small desk, his eyes still squinted shut against the intrusion of daylight.

Obligingly, the coffee pot turns itself on and starts brewing. Being a witch has its perks.

He is not at all surprised that the largest and most beloved of those perks has left him to wake alone; rolling into the warm spot his familiar left in the covers, Castiel snuffles and mumbles incoherently. Undoubtedly Dean pushed for staying at the Roadhouse last night instead of returning to their cozy apartment across town purely for the chance to cadge Ellen into making him breakfast.

The other Roadhouse guests, renters, and temporary lodgers have long since risen by the time Cas drags himself from the bed and, coffee pot in hand, makes his way down to the kitchen.

Ellen is finishing up the last of the breakfast orders, surrounded by flour and biscuits and bacon. He leans in the kitchen doorjamb between the bar and the kitchen and watches, sipping his coffee straight from the carafe. At her feet, a large toffee-colored mutt is bounding around the kitchen floor, feathery tail wagging and fluffy ears relaxed and floppy against his head as he darts in to chomp at a bowl of scraps.

This is not the breakfast Cas anticipated Dean begging off of his near-aunt, but when his familiar is in canine form, leftover hamburger and steak trimmings are the very height of luxury.

“You’re going to spoil him,” he drawls, abandoning the half-empty carafe on a countertop in favor of bending down to snag his hand in the thick ruff at the back of Dean’s neck and drag him away from the bowl.

Ellen shrugs at him from where she is frying the last of the bacon, her wry smile tucking up the edges of her mouth. “It’s his birthday, s’far as I see it, that’s the point.”

The fond roll of his eyes precedes Cas down to crouching on the floor next to Dean, who is happily panting and alternates between lunging fruitlessly back toward the bowl of leftovers and licking Cas’s face.

“There are plans,” he informs Dean firmly, ignoring an excited yip and the tail hitting his side. “Plans made for your enjoyment, specific plans which are time-sensitive and depend upon you having two legs, not four.”

Read on AO3 or

Dean sits, miracle of miracles, and cocks his head at Cas. Mischievous moss-green eyes narrow, and three seconds later, he is facing not a maple-colored lab-retriever mix, but a stately and overly-large golden eagle. Dean launches himself up to perch on Cas’s shoulder, his beak and the talons of one foot raking affectionately through messy hair.

Ellen doesn’t even pretend not to bark out a laugh.

“I wish I could have seen your bird form when you first chose it,” Cas says, carefully rising to his feet. He knows that Dean picked a golden eagle after one too many viewings of Rescuers Down Under as a child. “You must have made an adorable eaglet. Maybe your mother has pictures.”

Unsurprisingly, Dean makes a horrified noise in protest and flaps off of his shoulder in a huff. There is absolutely not room for a fucking eagle to fly in Ellen’s kitchen, but Dean does manage to flutter to the floor without (much) awkwardness or errant clouds of flour. Cas snorts as Dean struts smugly around his feet, the reason for his familiar’s shift finally connecting from his earlier statement. “A form that has two legs and hands, you absolute menace. No feathers. No fur.”

Aw, Caaaaas. Deans voice in his head is all summer grass and sunshine, despite the whining.

He folds his arms, putting on his sternest expression. Today is a surprise, and he is going to spoil Dean whether Dean cooperates or not. The secrecy has been driving Dean crazy, and Cas would be a filthy rotten liar if he said he didn’t enjoy every minute.

At his feet, Dean takes two exaggeratedly-stealthy steps toward the bowl of leftover meat, his talons clicking on the hard tile. Cas merely cocks an eyebrow at him, waiting, and Dean steps again.

“You’re welcome to that breakfast, of course,” he says mildly as Dean hunches over to grasp a shred of meat with his beak. “Though it does mean I’ll have to cancel the pie-tasting at Gabriel’s for brunch.”

The eagle pauses in the midst of tipping his head back to gulp down his scrap, bright eyes peering over at Cas. …Pie?

“Strawberry, apple, rhubarb, pecan, coconut… something with maple.”

Dean drops the remaining shred of meat back into the bowl and takes off running toward the bar and the stairs that lead up to the Roadhouse showers. A couple of awkward, lunging steps in, he shifts from eagle to cat and becomes a lithe streak of ginger dashing away.

It’s… nice, to see Dean switching between forms so easily. To see him excited for his birthday for the first time Cas has known him. He cleans out the bowl of scraps for Ellen while he remembers last year’s January 24th, how Dean had gruffly requested that Cas ignore the day and – cautious with the newness of both their bond and their romantic relationship – he had reluctantly agreed.

It had been the right thing to do at the time. Cas respecting Dean’s wishes even in the face of his own desire to spoil his familiar and boyfriend had gone a long ways toward deepening Dean’s trust and their bond. This year, they’ve made enough progress in their relationship that Dean has cautiously allowed Cas to plan him a nice birthday, which is – meaningful. In ways he can’t yet express.

“As if I wouldn’t include pie on his birthday,” he mutters to Ellen as he sets the dirty bowl into the dishwasher.

She makes a considering sound. “Mary and John’ll be here with the rest of the gang at four to set up for the party. You sure you can keep him out ‘til five?”

Cas tilts his hand from side to side. It wouldn’t be the first time that they’ve had to head home early; with his ultra-sensitive shifter senses, Dean’s tolerance for crowds of strangers only goes so far. But most of the day he’s planned should be in private, intimate spaces where the press of humanity won’t constantly push at Dean. “If we have to change plans, I’ll let you know.”

And if he makes the pair of them later than intended by following Dean up into the shower, well. Dean certainly doesn’t protest.

When Dean – clean and finally human – pushes away from the table at Gabriel’s café, Cas can almost imagine that he can see the man’s stomach protruding with his pastry-related indulgences. He does not have to imagine the satisfaction radiating from his partner; he can feel it across their link, and closes his eyes for a moment to bask contentedly in the knowledge that he has made Dean happy.

His lids lift, and at his side Dean is smirking at him. The expression is a little wry, a little fond; “Dork,” Dean tells him, nudging Cas’s shin with his foot, but his eyes are surrounded by pleased crinkles. Dean reaches a hand out to ruffle at Cas’s hair, nearly identical to how he’d run his talons through it earlier. “What’s up next, sunshine?”

“You will see,” Cas hums, as Meg clears off their table. The pie sampling had really been Gabriel’s present for Dean, an awkward expression of fondness. With Gabriel, it is best not to acknowledge such things. Cas will never understand why his brother and his shifter-familiar get along so well, but he’s learned not to attempt comprehension of their fondly antagonistic relationship.

(They are both quick-witted, funny assholes who share a juvenile sense of humor. This is not difficult to understand; he simply refuses to acknowledge it. Undesirable behavior is best countered with a lack of attention, after all.)

Dragging Dean out of the café before Gabriel can appear and try to guess the rest of Dean’s surprise, Cas winds his fingers with his partner’s and tugs them toward the Impala, black and gleaming where she’s parked on the curb. This morning was Gabriel’s gift, and this evening will be consumed with all of their family and friends, but the rest of the afternoon is just for him and Dean. No one else knows where Cas is planning to take them, nor will they.

“Still not gonna tell me?” Dean’s settled behind the wheel, and Cas grins from his place in the passenger seat.

“Just drive. I’ll tell you where to turn.”

A gesture of Cas’s fingers brings up a floating green arrow in front of the windshield. Cas’s direction-spell leads them by back ways and circular routes, eventually coming into the chosen establishment from the rear so that Dean won’t have the chance to blanch and bolt until he’s out of the car.

They get out; Dean closes the Impala’s door behind him, and his nose wrinkles as he looks over the hood at Cas. His canine form was his first, and even in his human shape those are the heightened senses Dean can access most easily. “I smell water. And frou-frou bath shit. And Gilda.”

He keeps his gaze even, steady on Dean as his familiar’s eyes narrow. Like all skittish, wounded animals, Dean is ever ready to bite first and analyze intent later, but they have been building trust, and he will not falter in providing his heart’s mate with the best care he can.

If Dean truly doesn’t want this, beneath any macho posturing, Castiel does have back-up plans. But. Dean rarely allows his physical self to be cared for, to be pampered and tended and eased. Such things are labeled as frills, feminine, unmanly, un_necessary_. For someone who is so vibrantly present in their own body, so intimately connected to their physical being in any shape, Dean is almost violent in his opposition to actually caring for his corporeal self.

Cas lifts an eyebrow, refusing to be cowed by Dean’s initial grimace, and the subsequent, “You got me a spa day?” is far more neutral than he’d hoped.

“Us. I will be with you the entire time.”

Dean assesses him, and Cas can sense across their connection how manufactured protests bubble up in Dean’s throat and then falter into silence, one by one. Dean makes a considering hum, bottle-green eyes gaining a mellower shade. Inwardly, Cas allows himself a hint of a smile. It is in Dean’s nature to thrash against structure or guidance when it is first provided, just as it is equally in his nature to melt into a firm grip once he realizes it’s beneficial for him. Cas has learned this much, at least, though Dean finds new ways to test their relationship on a near-daily basis.

Though Dean’s gaze is still suspicious, and though across their bond he is still skeptical, he locks Baby behind them and lets Cas take his hand as they walk into the fairy-run day spa. Victories come one small moment at a time.

“Cas, I love you, I love you, I love you.” Two hours later, Dean’s chants are interspersed with moans as Gilda works her (figurative) magic on his feet. Cas’s own pedicure is finished, completed by the able hands of Gilda’s assistant, but Dean’s feet had been in such poor shape that the fairy was spending extra time working them into submission.

“Can you teach me that?” Cas requests, watching Gilda’s strong hands expertly rub at his partner’s feet. She smiles up at him and beckons; Cas rises from his pedicure chair and goes over to crouch down next to where she is sitting.

“This is the motion to start with.” Gilda’s accent is thick; someone unfamiliar with the supernatural would only identify her as foreign, but Cas knows her native tongue is not from this plane of existence. “See?” She starts over with broad motions, working from the top of Dean’s foot to his sole, and then from his heel up to his toes. Cas watches her fingers closely for technique, noting the different movements involved – pulling here, squeezing there.

He tunes out the sounds of pleasure from Dean; otherwise his ears would turn a nice red, given that usually Cas only hears these sounds in their bed. Or, granted, at Gabriel’s café. Or when Dean is eating one of Ellen’s burgers.

“You try.” Gilda smiles at him and shifts off her stool, beckoning Cas to take her place.

There is intimacy here.

Dean goes quiet, watching him from half-lidded eyes as Cas takes his right foot in both his hands. His thumbs start at Dean’s heel, working in opposite directions as he gently coaxed the muscle into relaxing. He moved up into the arch of Dean’s foot, now stroking outward from the center. Cas’s eyes are on Dean’s, not on his hands, as he works; he does not notice when Gilda tactfully withdraws.

His knuckles drum against the instep in soft, rolling strokes, and Dean can no longer keep his eyes open once Castiel’s fingers hit the ball of his foot, his toes. Each inch is given careful attention, each touch soaked in – not skill, perhaps, but. Love. All of the love and affection that Dean usually will only accept sideways, worked into each of his feet.

When he has finished with both, Cas leans forward, pressing a tender kiss to both Dean’s knees where they are exposed by his spa robe. His familiar makes a grabby-hands motion, reaching for Cas; he smiles as he stands, taking Dean’s hands and kissing each knuckle. This earns him a whine, and he chuckles as he bends over to brush a light, chaste kiss to his partner’s mouth.

“Gilda would kill us,” he says, squeezing Dean’s hands a last time before moving back to his own pedicure chair. Dean’s thought-projections of Cas ducking his head or his hands beneath that robe are not at all subtle.

Dean is pouting at him, but not seriously. His cheeks are pink, flushed, but across their bond he does not feel displeased. “No, Charlie and Dot would kill us for upsetting Gilda,” he corrects, stretching in the reclining chair and flexing his feet.

Gilda reappears as if summoned by her name, her hands beckoning them up. They already had the deep-tissue massage, which Dean approved of, and the body scrub and wrap, which Dean loudly disapproved of before sinking into relaxation with distinct murmurs of pleasure.

Their last treatment is a soothing hot stone massage, a procedure so relaxing that Dean actually falls into a contented doze halfway through. Closely as he’s been monitoring his familiar’s emotions and mental state for the past several hours, Cas smiles as he closes his own eyes. He’d refused to show it in the parking lot, but he had been nervous about this particular surprise. Dean’s utter pleasure and contentment with the massages and treatments are… validating. That he has provided something Dean needed, even if Dean wouldn’t admit it.

Castiel’s eyes narrow when Dean backs him up against the car door in the parking lot, but Dean presses their mouths together in a warm, lingering kiss that leaves little doubt as to his appreciation. Cas winds his arms around Dean’s neck, leaning back into the sturdy cold of Baby’s metal and nuzzling their mouths together in soft, small samples of touch.

“Thanks, Cas,” gets breathed out against his temple, and it’s damn cold in Wichita but Dean is a line of welcome heat all up the front of his body. Possibly even better than the physical connection is the psychic one, where Dean is pulsing out gratitude and happiness along their familiar bond.

Castiel smiles, small, and scrapes his fingernails gently at the back of Dean’s neck. “I did well, then.”

He’s answered with a wry snort, and “Y’did good,” accompanied by a crinkle of Dean’s eyes that is more genuine than their teasing. “Y’always do good, Cas. You know you spoil me.” His familiar’s eyes are serious now, if no less warm.

Shaking his head, Cas gives one more fond squeeze of his arms. “I give you what you deserve, and you deserve everything good.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but lightly colors at the implied praise; genuine appreciation is Dean’s deepest weakness, and one Cas exploits with ruthless love.

It is just past five, so they have nicely managed to fill the requisite hours before the party; Cas has one last surprise planned, but it will not be in place for some time yet. He kisses Dean’s nose and mouth, one after the other, before going around to the passenger side of the impala.

Castiel has been selfish, in the daylight hours; he has kept the majority of Dean’s birthday to the two of them. So now, at the Roadhouse party with most of their family and friends, Cas lets himself fade into the background.

He watches as Jo and Ellen tag-team Dean into a rousing defeat at pool; watches as Mary and John embrace their eldest son, comfortable and easy even in their complications. (Mary and John get along far better after the divorce than they ever did during their marriage; they still share a home on the outskirts of Wichita, having followed Ellen and therefore Dean when the Roadhouse relocated).

Charlie, Benny, Ash, and Kevin pull Dean into a rapid-fire game of Munchkin, while Aaron and Gabriel bicker good-naturedly over the proper way to cut the cake. Gordon even came up from the basement room he’s been renting from Ellen, and he may be drinking steadily at the bar but he is present. Lisa couldn’t make the party, but sent her warmest regards in the form of her homemade Oreos – one of Dean’s particular favorites. Bobby is stuck on a hunt in Idaho; he left a set of work gloves wrapped in newspaper for Dean to open.

Really, there is only one glaring gap on the guest list. Stanford is a long ways from Kansas, and Sam’s scholarship doesn’t cover airfare to attend his brother’s birthday party.

The presents are minor, mostly fond and silly, at Dean’s request – well. At Cas’s interpretation of Dean’s quiet discomfort toward being given Too Much or his birthday being a Big Deal. Donnie makes Dean the pinkest Cosmopolitan Cas has ever seen; Mary and John give him a detailing kit for the Impala and a new rope tug to play with in his dog form. Benny and Kevin give Dean a new set of gaming dice and a book of dirty jokes.

The cake has been cut and all the presents distributed to a laughing Dean by the time the doorbell rings. The Roadhouse was closed down for the evening; everyone stops talking and looks toward the entrance.

“I believe that’s for you, Dean.” Cas has to bite his cheeks in order to keep from smiling too hard. He gets a squinty, green-eyed look for his trouble, and then Dean is opening the door and being swamped by a hug from –

Sammy?” chokes out into a shoulder that is now the height of Dean’s head; Sam has grown since summer. The crowd of kith and kin flocks to the door, everyone exclaiming and reaching to claim their own hug from the youngest Winchester. Castiel stays back. It is enough, for now, to watch Dean’s disbelieving joy at being reunited with his brother.

You did this for me, whispers across their bond, awed and reverent. Dean is still half-wrapped around Sam, but his eyes have once again found his witch’s. Cas. Thank you.

He has to fly back Sunday morning, Cas cautions; he cannot help but send a wave of love and happiness across their bond. We wanted to surprise you.

He feels more than hears Dean’s snort of amusement. Believe me, buddy, I’m surprised.

Long hours later, it is only the actual Roadhouse crew left. Cas herds Dean upstairs with kisses and warm insistence; this once, Jo and Ash can finish the clean-up. Cas needs to lay Dean out in their bed and settle next to him, exchanging slow, slow touches of lips. Sam went home with John and Mary, but will be back for breakfast in the morning. Now, this, is just the two of them.

The both of them had too many drinks to drive back to their apartment when Ellen offered a cozy mattress upstairs. Dean will protest the lack of memory-foam in the morning, but he is the reason Castiel is too warm and fuzzy with alcohol to drive.

“Best birthday ever,” Dean slurs in between the grazing of their mouths; Cas draws back to smile at him, thumb tracing gently along Dean’s cheek. “S’rsly, Cas, tha’ was – “ Dean yawns, huge and sleepy. “Aw’some.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” Cas kisses Dean’s forehead, soothing him. “Sleep now. Sam will be here early.”

His only response is a contented hum, as the man in his arms wriggles and turns, trying to find a position where he is completely curled up in Cas’s hold. Dean huffs softly, and within seconds Cas is holding a much smaller creature – Dean’s feline form, the ginger tabby. He strokes his hand down Dean’s head and back as the cat settles against his chest, curled up in a comfy, tight little ball. “Good night, Dean,” he murmurs before closing his eyes.

He falls asleep with Dean’s purrs rumbling against his heart; how he ever lived without this man in his life, he will never understand.

for @marvelousdean
pairing: destiel
rating: G
tags: cas pov, alternate canon (kinda-ish)

The conception of Dean Winchester was something that the angels of Heaven knew was coming since the beginning of everything. From the moment of creation, the angels knew that when the first egg of Mary Winchester attached itself to the linings of her uterus, the sword of Michael was forging. What Castiel didn’t expect was the brightness of Dean Winchester’s soul.

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Thank-you and farewell!

What an incredible first year for this challenge! We are absolutely overwhelmed by the works you’ve all produced, and so grateful that you shared them with us. We hope you had as much fun with this as we did. 

It’s a bit far away to be certain, but we’re definitely considering running this again next year, so keep an eye on the blog, we’d love to have you back. 

–Anna and Lauren 

Here I am, showing up a week late with starbucks! Happy Valentine’s Day to my valentine, @capaxinfiniticas ! Enjoy a lil something about true love :)


Castiel didn’t know anything about love.

He came face to face with this truth whenever he held conferences with the cherubim; this was why he always felt out of his depth in being their leader. In some ways, however, he was the perfect candidate for the job. He was not blinded by love nor any other emotions that could get in the way of efficiently and unbiasedly carrying out the Host’s orders.

That was why, when a cherub came to him on this day in heaven’s gardens, Castiel listened intently. He was a strategist above all else, after once being the leader of an angelic war battalion around the same time humans were busy discovering fire.

“Castiel! My lord, I regret to inform you…” The cherub shied away from Castiel’s intense stare, their pudgy face screwing up like they were expecting reprimand. None of the cherubim ever understood his expressions. “I regret to inform you that… that…”

“Amana, we have gone over this enough times: you may speak to me however you are most comfortable.”

“But – your face looks unhappy–”

“My face just looks like this. Please, continue, and I will not pass judgement.” The cherub held out their pinky finger and Castiel sighed, reaching for it. “I pinky promise.”

“Thank you, Castiel, that makes me feel a lot better. Phew!” The cherub wiped sweat off their brow. “I tried really, really hard to find a connection for Dean Winchester. I thought I found the perfect match, but the arrow missed! Again!” Amana brandished the spear in question from the quiver on their back, twiddling it around. It had markings carved into its shaft. “This silly old thing, it never wants to go anywhere near Dean Winchester! It’s like it has an aversion to him, which might be telling us he was never meant to find true love in the first place, even with celestial interference… oh!” The cherub looked off to the side dramatically, face full of sorrow. Their lower lip shook as they clutched the spear to their chest. “Say it isn’t so, Castiel! Is that possible?!”

“No, I don’t believe it is.” Castiel calmly placed his hand on Amana’s, then turned it over to request for the spear to be handed over. Amana gave it up after their panic passed. “Thank you. I’ll look into this Dean Winchester myself, and now you are free to move on to your next assignment.”

“Oh, good luck with that one, my lord! Good luck! I’ve been trying for months and months and months, and I thought I might have been doing something wrong! That’s great news, absolutely great news!” Amana squeezed Castiel into a sweaty bear hug, shaking him from side to side right in the middle of the garden.

Castiel pat the cherub on the shoulder, forcing a tight smile onto his face. He hated their hugs.

*****

When an arrow misses its target, it is never through fault of the cherub’s aim: it is only a sign of wrong love. Then it’s up to the cherub to find a different connection, one that is stronger than the last so the arrow can find its destined target. This entire process could be skipped if only the target met their destined connection, though the chances of that happening were two in six-billion. As such, the cherubim did not rely on this method often.

There must have been a reason why none of their best attempts worked on Dean; they must have been missing something. Castiel’s job was to find out what exactly it was they were missing.

And what an angel like Castiel could do that the cherubim couldn’t, was enter the dreams of humans.

He stood off to the very edge of one of Dean Winchester’s dreams, glancing around the scene before him. He was in a park surrounded by flurries of strikingly red and orange leaves as they fell to the ground, the chime of children’s laughter filling the air as they ran by.

Dean sat on a bench by himself, the empty space next to him standing out in stark contrast. Dean clasped his hands together in his lap; he was just enjoying the weather like everybody else in his dream-world. Castiel narrowed his eyes and waited. There had to be a catch.

Suddenly, a parade marched past Dean along the dirt path, with circus animals and loud instruments and cymbals clashing together.

Dean stood up and walked in the opposite direction of the parade with a look of disgust, right towards Castiel who stood next to a tree. Cas flapped his wings with a mighty gust of wind, and exited the dream before Dean could see him.

*****

After that, Castiel visited Dean’s dreams every night in an attempt to figure out what he desired. He watched Dean live, and fight – because he would never run from his nightmares – and most importantly, he watched Dean experience and confront his own subconscious.

Something changed inside Castiel while he observed this imperfect being, though he couldn’t quite place what.

*****

After some months of this passed, Castiel decided he could not figure out this problem on his own.

He had always been known for his outlandish ideas and strange battle tactics, and this time was no exception: he was going to visit Dean directly in one of his dreams.

Castiel wasted no time once he entered Dean’s dream that night, waving away the scene with a flick of his hand. The space around him dissolved like steam, then settled back into the same park from the first dream he’d entered. It was presenting itself the middle of February now, with barren trees lining the dirt path and wind howling through empty expanses of space.

Castiel observed Dean from behind a tree again, waiting for him to just accept the new turn his dream had taken while he circled around the park. He ended up sitting on the same bench as last time, his legs outstretched towards the dirt path. He whistled a tune to himself. Castiel approached Dean. He did so slowly, so that Dean had more than enough time to spot Cas and decide if he’d allow this interaction to happen. However, Dean just stared straight ahead. He stopped whistling to say, "You know, I never had a dream like this before.”

Castiel lingered by the side of the bench for a moment. “I wouldn’t imagine you have. I made it for you.”

With the gesture of a hand, Dean invited Cas to fill the empty space next to him. He sat down when Dean finally seemed to accept his words, humming. “What does that make you then, some type ‘a freaky djinn?”

“I do not possess the same abilities nor the same motivations as a djinn, no. Do you consider this dream to be a desirable scenario?”

“Well you’ve been warming up my dreams for a few months now whenever you do your thing in the background. I always know you’re here, so yeah, it ain’t half bad.”

“I’ve been 'warming your dreams’?” Castiel repeated in question.

Dean turned. “What? Yeah, like you do that, literally. Unless I got somebody else knocking around up here.”

“That is unlikely. I would have found them by now.” Castiel tilted his head at Dean, just regarding him. No more distractions. “What I came here to tell you, Dean Winchester, is that heaven has very big plans for you, plans of which you have not made easy on us.”

Dean scoffed. “Dream on if you think that’ll ever change, angel boy.” They caught each other’s eye just then for the first time.

A sudden cacophony erupted amongst the cherubim over angel radio. Castiel tried to cover his ears from the sound but to no avail, inhaling sharply through his teeth. It started with shouts of rejoice, over and over again between mentions of Dean Winchester’s name. He had to go back and see what had happened.

“We’ll see about that. Now I must go.” Castiel stood up, outstretching his wings.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, but some others might not be.” He looked back at Dean just before he departed, completely misinterpreting the interest he saw there.

Heaven was in an uproar. Castiel appeared in the middle of it all, with angels and seraphim and cherubim alike flying around in a frenzy. Amana the cherub came to him with their arms raised in the air. “Rejoice! Rejoice, Castiel! Dean Winchester has met his destined connection! He was always meant for true love, isn’t that amazing!” Amana hugged themselves and spun in a circle, their eyes going all dewy.

“Amana. Can you tell me who it is?”

The cherub paused for a moment. “If you give me Dean’s spear, that should be able to tell us. Oh, I’m so happy I could cry!” They twirled around again, their wings fluttering behind them.

Castiel materialized the spear Amana had given him the last time they’d met. Its shaft had many names notched into the wood, each one crossed out with an almost disappointed slash. When Amana held the arrow again, they hovered their palm over the shaft, a soft pink light emanating from it. The spear’s surface was cleaned, the previous names disappearing so a new one had enough room to carve itself into the side. Because Dean had met his true connection, the name would come to them all on its own. They watched it together, both of them now holding Dean’s spear.

It spelled 'Castiel’.

Amana fainted beside him.

So that was why the entire Host was in a frenzy - this was something unheard of, an angel and a human being destined together.

But it was true. Dean must have fallen in love with Castiel, and Cas now knew that he had fallen in love with Dean. With his spirit, his mortality, everything that made him so terribly human. Only Dean Winchester could face a powerful force like Castiel and openly defy him without so much as batting an eye. He couldn’t tell if it was out of stupidity or bravery; oftentimes, Castiel noted, they were the same thing.

Castiel fled to Dean before any of the other angels could find him.

If he knew anything, he knew he could find the answers with Dean.

unforth-ninawaters replied to your post: unforth-ninawaters replied to your post: …

lol I wondered about that - if it was that you can’t see Dean as a bottom or that you can’t see Cas as a top…

Yah. I think it’s Cas as a top I struggle the most with. But of course it comes together in DeanCas: I greatly prefer Dean to be a top and I really want Cas tot be a bottom. So lucky for me, that works out well! ;D

Though it also depends on the setting a bit, because I have a hard time seeing macho posturing canon Dean as an enthusiastic bottom *lol* (But that is just my character analysis, I’m sure others reach different conclusions. That’s totally alright.)