he looks thirty it's terrible and hilarious look at that tiny face

Story: Horrortale: “Her”

Inspired by @tomis-jb and his idea of Horrortale Alphys

So @wdlewdster and @tomis-jb and I were having discussions on horror, and they managed to encourage me to give it a shot at writing some, perhaps with future projects in mind.

So this was my first real jump into it. Very stream-of-conscousness writing here. It kinda flowed out of me and I barely did any editing. Keeps it feeling grimy, in my opinion. Such dirty writing.

Fandom: Undertale
AU: Horrortale (Unofficial)
Warnings: Blood, Gore, Vomiting, General Horror


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Less than Ideal // Paper Windows 'verse, 1 - deancas

ao3

Dean is almost entirely sure Cas’ birthday is next week. Or at least what they believe to be Cas’ birthday. Neither of them is very certain.

Neither cares very much, really. Dean can’t recall a year in which anything more that a “Hey, wasn’t your birthday yesterday?” was exchanged.

“Congratulations, another year closer to death,” Dean said that first year, mouth around a warm bottle of beer. Cas had dismissed him with a flippant hand gesture. He never seemed to get Dean’s sense of humor anyway. Never laughed, open mouthed and delirious, the way he did when he saw something funny on TV.

“Every day is another day closer to death, Dean.”

That had been the end of the whole birthday shebang, Dean thinks. Cas couldn’t care less about mundane human things, such as celebrating the completion of another loop around the sun, and Dean had never been really partial to birthdays anyway. And he secretly thinks that Cas still resents having things such as birthdays now. And an actual age, and a social security number.

Yes, that is probably it, he ponders, watching a young couple waiting in line at his next stop. They’re holding hands. It’s six in the morning and they look like they’re coming from the hotel just half a block away from the bus stop. Perhaps some other time, Dean might have smirked at them. Winked even. Now the pulls the bus to a stop and opens the door for them, waits until they’re seated before he gets going again. It’s cold and humid outside and his knee aches when he pushes the gas pedal, a tell tale that it’s going to rain this afternoon.

It’s not like Cas resents being human. He mostly hates the fact that he ages now. That his head hurts when he eats too much and that his eyes can’t focus as well as they used to. He complains loudly about cold feet and clogged sinuses, and holds glaring contests with the growing stains in the yellowing ceiling of their ratty apartment. But he hums contently when he’s trying a new brew of tea, and he sighs and moans when Dean feels generous enough to rub his feet. Dean’s not sure if they are happy, but they are content.

And content is a lot more than he ever thought they would get.

Dean’s last round finishes at seven thirty, and he walks home, feeling the dampness settling into his bones. He hates the mid-season terribly, and he suddenly misses his bed: the warmth of their old sheets and their new duvet, the only real luxury they could afford. There’s only another eight blocks or so to go, so he hurries his steps, stops at the drugstore across the hospital to get a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of milk. The florist opens at seven forty-five and he wonders if he should get something for Cas, something to combat the smell of mold and dirt and concrete their bedroom always stinks of. It’s seven forty-three. His knee hurts.

He lights a cigarette and waits in the cold.

Cas is already up when he gets home. Dean drops the flowers on the kitchen counter, puts the milk in the fridge and slowly peels all of his layers off, minding the dull ache on his right leg. He wants nothing more than to get into bed and wrap himself around Cas, maybe snore against the mole on his chest, but Cas is standing still against the rail on the tiny balcony, eyes closed and face turned towards the wind.

“Mrs. Park called,” Cas says after a long silence, without looking at Dean. Dean eyes their bed, wariness already making its way into his chest.

“Steve can’t make it today, so I’m taking the morning shift.”

“Okay”, says Dean, dropping his boots and pants over the side of their bed. He wishes Cas would close the balcony door, wishes he’d skip the morning shift and come into bed as well.

“Isn’t it funny? That I have a co-worker named Steve?”

“Hilarious.”

The bed is cold and Dean shivers when he reaches for the duvet with bare feet. Cas gives him a funny look from the balcony. He isn’t sure if Dean actually finds what he said hilarious, and that is kind of hilarious by itself.

“Isn’t it your birthday next week?” Dean calls, not really looking at Cas, but at the stain on the ceiling, the same one Cas glares at every night. It’s shaped like a bunny, or some sort of rat. “We should do something this time.”

Cas finally closes the glass door with a shrug, draws the curtains, and walks towards the bed. He kisses Dean on the cheek: a soft, careful thing, and goes to grab his coat. Dean falls asleep shortly after that.

He wakes up at midday to the sweet smell of jasmine, feeling tired but warm.

There are flowers on his night stand, a narrow patch of light reflecting brightly over the plastic cup that contains them. Cas’ very own brand of romanticism.

Dean rubs his knee, turns around and faces the empty side of his bed. Their bed.

He’s alone. He will be all day.

He sighs and goes back to sleep.

——

Paper Windows ‘verse will be a series of ficlets in the same universe, revolving around Cas and Dean’s post-Apocalyptic life.

A big thanks to Ella, Mischief Central Manager, without whom this verse wouldn’t even exist, and to Dusty who very kindly offered her invaluable input, support and beta'ing help.