Summary: YAY final installment of sex games with Cas! this one’s called “not so fast”. This one involves the reader lying naked in bed while Cas stands at the doorway. The reader asks Cas different questions, and for every question answered correctly, he gets to take a step forward. For every question answered incorrectly, he takes a step back. he only wins once he gets he reaches the bed ;-)
Word Count: 2.2k
Pairing: Cas x reader (obviously)
Warnings: smutty smut, language, cas has a praise!kink, lil bit of dom!Cas *yassss*
A/N: I’ve really enjoyed writing this smutty lil series! I hope yall liked it and enjoy this final installment! also, again, I havent proofread yet so pls excuse any mistakes, I’ll fix em later!
“Dean,” Cas whispers in the dark. “Are you awake?”
Dean had been just about to drift off to sleep, but there’s a note of hesitancy and unhappiness in Cas’s voice that Dean doesn’t like. He doesn’t want to brush Cas off with a ‘whatever it is, tell me in the morning’.
“What is it?” Dean asks quietly. Cas is lying half on top of him, head pillowed on Dean’s chest and leg thrown over Dean’s. It’s one of their preferred sleeping positions on those nights when one of them doesn’t need to be cradled by the other’s body.
Cas is silent for a moment. Dean would wonder if Cas had fallen asleep, but his body is tense and his breathing is uneven. Dean feels a sharp twinge of concern.
“If I am… not enough,” Cas starts, voice hushed but quick. “Please, just… just tell me before you find someone else.”
Crowley stayed by your side for hours, barely moving. His eyes watched your face twist in agony, his fingers ghosting over your face now and then. Finally, after five hours, the Winchesters summoned him. When he was in their room, he looked around at them. Cas was in the process of healing them, their clothes stained with blood. Some their own, some of the witches they had gone after. There was also someone tied up to a chair near the bed.
“So?” Crowley snapped, not pleased at have been yanked away from you.
Whilst you’d been living with the Winchesters, you’d seen Dean angry- at himself, at Gadreel, at every monster he fought. As he looked up at you, you braced yourself to see the same anger directed at you. You had lied to him, and you didn’t expect to be forgiven. Even if you were soulmates.
The depths of the delight in his expression stole away every excuse you might have blurted.
He strode towards you, completely ignoring Cas and Crowley, and pressed his lips to yours. You gasped at the heat that fired from every neuron in your body as you opened your mouth against his and his fingers tangled themselves in your hair.
“Let me see,” he murmured, pulling back and reaching for your left wrist. You shuddered as he pulled back your sleeve to expose his own name, and then brushed his fingers over the tattoo. His expression was filled with wonder.
“I- I thought you’d be angry,” you said uncertainly.
Hôm nay Nghệ An nóng 42 độ. Chạy ra ban công thấy cây cối chết héo gần hết, nhìn quanh quẩn thì chỉ còn 2 em cà chua này là còn thoi thóp sống. Cũng đúng thôi, trời như này đến người còn chả chịu nổi nữa là cây.
I read about the de-aged!Dean episode and got excited
“So, if you’re Sam,” Dean folded his arms, scrutinising his younger brother who was now twice the size of him, “Where’s dad?”
Sighing, Sam averted his gaze, running a hand through his long hair before he looked back at Dean. It had taken ten minutes for Sam to make Dean believe that he was, in fact, Sam. The concept was a struggle for fourteen year old Dean, who knew Sam as a snot nosed, little kid who followed him around like a puppy. The guy towering above him, with way too long hair, wide shoulders, and a freaking giant- the idea of him being Sam was downright weird.
“Uh,” Sam swallowed, “He’s not here at the moment. On a hunt,” he offered with a weak smile.
“Okay,” Dean shrugged, finding that plausible. In 2014, Dean and Sam were old enough to do shit without John watching over them. Still, it kind of sucked that Dean was stuck with an older Sam who he hardly recognised; at least with his father, he would look more like the man he knew from his time frame.
“I’m-” Sam took a step back, looking freaked out by the situation, “I’m gonna call Cas.”
Hands sprout from the ground like flowers. Flowers that have been residing in Hell for forty years, or to another, four months. It depends who’s asked. The flowers grow taller, a head eventually appearing after them, dirt and sweat covering the freckles Castiel knows adorns the paled skin.
A flap of wings sounds beside him, lost on the tortured soul trying to claw his way out of the ground. Castiel doesn’t bother looking over. He knows who it is.
“I had to see it for myself,” Uriel grunts.
“You did not believe me when I announced Dean Winchester was saved?” Castiel asks plainly, keeping his attention on Dean as he flops on his back, lungs heaving for air.
Uriel snorts. “He seems too weak to be Michael’s Sword.”
Castiel stiffens, finally sliding his gaze to Uriel. “I just raised him from perdition. What do you expect?”
“I suppose. We’ll see how he handles his responsibilities. The sooner he knows, the better.”
“You will not communicate with Dean. He is in my charge and no one will speak to him without my permission,” Castiel says, voice more terse than he intends.
His tone doesn’t go unnoticed by Uriel, who tears his gaze from Dean to glare narrowly at him.
“Castiel, do you need reminding of what our purpose is? Do not get attached to this human. He is lesser than us. If he weren’t Michael’s Sword, he’d be just another worthless mud monkey.”
Castiel flares his wings in warning. They’re not as full as they were before his trip to hell, having been damaged by the fighting, but they’re still impressive as they loom over Uriel. He drops his voice dangerously low, threatening. “I suggest you watch what you say, Uriel. Until you’re needed, I am dismissing you.”
Uriel stares at him incredulously for a moment before snickering under his breath and vanishing. Castiel returns his attention to Dean again. He’s gotten to his feet, slowly surveying his surroundings. The dead grass, the circle of fallen trees that surround his grave. Castiel relaxes his wings once again, itching to communicate with Dean but resists. He needs time to adjust, to eat and hydrate before Castiel attempts to speak with him.
For now, he’s content just watching over Dean.
Castiel didn’t anticipate what their first meeting in Hell would be like. Finding Dean’s tortured, corrupted soul, Dean melting into his grace after he’d finally stopped resisting the rescue. Castiel could never guess how strongly he’d be affected by Dean, so much so he’d unintentionally left his mark on Dean’s shoulder.
But Dean needed comfort. In the midst of the fighting, Dean clung to him, torn between needing to break away and continue cutting flesh and crumbling under the effects of Hell. It was when they were almost out that Dean looked up at Castiel, trembling with only one hoarse whisper escaping his lips.
“Are we out of the woods yet?”
Castiel held him more securely, strangely amused by the question despite them not being in any sort of forest. They were in Hell. Nevertheless, he answered Dean honestly.
don’t get me wrong, i am all about cas’ wings flaring out unbidden into the earthly plane in intense moments, whether it’s a pissed-off angel of the lord, or saving dean from the pit, or mostly right when he comes, buried in dean’s ass or mouth or fist. but i also love cas being all sleepy and comfortable and happy, curled up with dean just watching some stupid movie, and without even quite realizing it there’s a huge inky wing stretching across the bed until dean’s laughing with feathers in his mouth. and dean trying to push it down a little so he can see the damn tv and cas studiously ignoring his efforts until dean finally gives up and curls into his chest, arms around cas’ back and hands wrapped in the scapular feathers, and cas just smiling sleepily and encircling them both. basically just cas and dean and wings and safe and happy.
Could you write a quick drabble about cas and the reader smoking weed together and it just being super cute? I just thought it would be adorable and hilarious.
[Drabble, ~1K words]
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
You smile, dangling your feet
off the decaying rooftop. Beautiful—yes. The sky’s a beautiful shade of grey,
never fully blue, never fully clouded either. The people are beautifully scattered
all over, between the fragile buildings and the camps—either asleep, or dead,
it didn’t really matter. Even the dirt scratching at your thighs through the
rips in your pants is beautiful, ghastly, almost cold in and of itself. Every
single thing has been beautiful ever since the Croatoan outbreak—ever since
all the angels left.
Well, all except one.
“And it’s about to get even
more beautiful,” you say, scooching over and patting the space next to you. “I
hope you didn’t forget today’s your turn.”
“Every day’s my turn,” Cas
corrects, the chilled tiles pushing a sigh out of him. “It just depends on what
time you ask me.”
You roll your eyes, stretch
your palm out for him. He kisses it. “Didn’t get enough last night?”
He replaces his lips with a
rolled joint. “You’re just so—”
“If you say the word beautiful
one more time—”
He snatches out his own share
and lights it up between his teeth, drawing a long, uninterrupted breath before
handing the lighter over to you. Just seeing him do this sends your heart
thumping in your ears—in a world on the verge of ending, when you don’t know if
you’d make it to the next day—whether alive, or ‘healthy’—the simple pleasures,
like smoking, or food, or, hell, even rubbing one out every now and then are
more exciting than ever. You flip the delicate roll between your fingers and
let it rest on your lip for a while before trapping it and lighting it, every
cell inside of you anticipating that flow, that state of mind, that—
“Whoever gets those on your
side—” in your camp “—deserves a fucking award.”
stay like that for a while—you and him, zoning off on the roof, your bodies
slumping onto each other with every drawn breath, everything finally falling
into proportion. When you were little, you always thought smoking would mean
seeing things, living in dream world, visiting unicorns and getting lung cancer
doing it. The lung cancer part was still true, at least you think it is, but
when the world is literally ending due to a supernatural viral outbreak, no
fucks are given about the possibility of cancer.
the rest? The rest is bullshit.
doesn’t give you an alternate reality, it just breaks you through yours. When
you’re stoned, you’re at peace, you can see things for how they are, for how
they should be. The problems don’t disappear—far from that, they’re still
there, replaying in the back of your head—but that urgency that usually latched
onto those problems just—poof—vanishes. You’re still a wounded hunter barely of
any use to your comrades, he’s still a fallen angel, a broken angel, and the
world’s still heading to a violent end that even the great Dean Winchester Cas—and
pretty much everyone—keep yammerin’ about can’t stop, or even cushion.
that doesn’t matter.
gonna die eventually, right? Why not just, enjoy the moment? Look at those
white streaks in the sky—so stunning, so captivating. And the blood lining the
streets—it was horrible, but it was just so pretty. So well-organized in a chaotic manner. Like an
artist’s painting—an artistic depiction of everything life-shattering. Maybe it
was deeper, though—maybe God still watched, still existed behind the veil, and
just observed the captivating chaos. You would if you were Him. You’d just
watch your creations go out and about—after all, they weren’t equals. Not even
remotely. They were creations. Like those video game characters—did you care
about them? To some extent, but not enough to change the source code if the
game took a turn that just wasn’t—
might’ve just farted.”
snicker, and the snicker pulls another one, until you just have to speak
through them. “I—” Giggle. “—you’re so random.”
he says, frowning, “You remind me of a cat I saw once, maybe two hundred years
raise your eyebrows, sneaking a quick pull. “Did she look like me?” you ask, “Or—wait—maybe
“Nah,” he says, “That’s
not why I see a resemblance.”
what is it?”
put my finger on it,” he says, poking your forearm once. “Plus, reincarnation
is a myth anyway,” he says, “I mean, God doesn’t run out of souls, you know?
There’s no recycle program. Or else heaven would be empty.”
heaven, by the way?”
miles north, third tent on the left,” he says, “You’re welcome to pay us a
visit any time.”
depends,” you say, “If I
come over there—”
I find God?”
definitely be screaming His name at some point.” He laughs, doubling backwards,
at his own joke. “I am so smooth.”
you know what happened last night?”
purses his lips. “Let me guess,” he says, “You found Michael Jordan.” You shook
your head. “You…wore your bra backwards.”
laugh. “Why would I do that?” You pause. “Hey, maybe I should do that. Do you think it will puff in the back and make
me look like a sideways camel?”
don’t know, why don’t you try?” he asks, “Oh, oh—give it to me—your bra, I’ll try.”
no, that’s not what you want to do. What was his question again? Oh. “You didn’t
up. Tell me.”
dreamt about you.”
stops. A stray hair falls lazily over his hooded eyes, his hands rubbing up and
down his thighs. “Me?”
you,” you say, “You
were here. Right in this place.”
nothing,” you say, “There was no virus, the world wasn’t ending,” you say, “And
we didn’t know each other.”
chuckles. “That’s sad.”
maybe. “Then we flew for a while.”
raises his eyebrows. “Less sad. Tell me more, how was it?”
shrugged it off. “I was hungry and I ended up having a spaghetti meatball
I still flying with you when you ate it?”
you didn’t give me any? You monster.”
I was hungry, besides—”
I kiss you?”
pinch the joint between your fingers and trace your thumb across the edge of
set his aside. “Kiss me.”
don’t even think about it; you pull yourself back, away from the edge and drag
him by the arm with you, pulling him over you, your back pressed against the
ground and your lips catch his, quickly, powerfully, and it’s like a thousand
flaring bulbs firing through your cells, through the hazy wall of smoke—a knot
deep inside your soul so complex yet so simple and you don’t think about
it. It’s you and it’s
him and it’s the rooftop and it’s the end of the world and—
But leik, what if Cas does have wings still and he's just being a LITTLE FUCKING JACKASS. Or, he knows Dean hates it when he just disappears so he stops using them because he can't take how Dean's longing flares when Cas just up and flies away. So, psh, of course he doesn't do it anymore and it's totally not because feeling that longing totally punches a hole in his gut and totally not because he wants to stay and he's just taking baby steps to getting there. Next step is waiting for Dean to ask
Also the moment Cas became an angel again, Dean’s longing fucking bulldozed him. And remembering how awful it felt to feel Dean sad and dejected the moment he vanishes was too much for the newly remade angel. He could barely handle feeling his longing again, what would happen should he just poof out cause it’s just too much and he wants to say something but he can’t? Not yet. Not til Dean’s ready. So, he’ll suffer through it. Though that doesn’t mean he can’t take precautions. I made myself sad.
I want you to stop and think if it was really necessary to type this out. You made yourself sad. You made me sad. And now I’m going to post this and a load of nice people who did nothing wrong today are going to be sad.