1 - 20 of 122 Works by domesticadventures in Supernatural
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Standing there alone before the rift, Dean forgets the plan, the stakes, the people waiting for them on the other side. He remembers only the roar of that other portal, how the pale cast of it etched out Cas’ face in excruciating detail, how Cas’ hand was in his until it wasn’t.
He left Cas here once before. He won’t do it again.
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An alternate take on Dean and Cas' time in purgatory, canon-divergent after Dean's prayer.
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Castiel, Angel of the Lord, fount of knowledge, can give you the exact date and time down to the millisecond, and if you tell him that it doesn’t match what your clock says, he’ll tell you your clock is wrong. Cas knows the when and where of every major occurrence in human history since there were any humans for there to be history about, and quizzing him about it is one of Dean’s favorite games to play, sometimes to show him off and sometimes just for his own amusement.
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Cas is becoming human and Dean, for all intents and purposes, is ruining him.
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“You know,” Cas says, a little breathy as Dean presses a kiss to his throat, loosens his tie, “I could just—”
“I know,” Dean says, walking Cas backwards over the threshold, kicking the door shut behind them. He finally pulls Cas’ tie free, tosses it to the floor. Could slide Cas’ coat and suit jacket off all at once, but does them separately instead, draws it out as he sucks at Cas’ bottom lip. “I don’t want the shortcut.”
Cas huffs a little laugh. “You’re going to keep surprising me forever, aren’t you?”
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"I don’t wanna die here,” Dean says, voice catching. “Not like this. Not now, not after we just got out from under Chuck’s thumb. I wanna live. I wanna have a life and I want you there. So please—”
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“We should fuck,” Dean says.
Cas looks up from where he sits on his bed, hair still damp from the shower, frowning as he places a finger on the page of his book to mark where he left off.
There are a million things Cas could say here; Dean has rehearsed them. After lunch, his restlessness had given way to a vague panic, a dread that matched his every step and crept along with him from room to room. Eventually, he had returned to his bedroom and spent the rest of the afternoon pacing back and forth, playing out all the possible scenarios. When Cas asks him Why? or Are you being serious? or when he sighs and says, in that way he has, Dean, he knows exactly what he’s going to do. He’s going to shrug casually, like he isn’t invested in the answer, like he isn’t desperate for an outlet, and say, Why not? He’s going to raise an eyebrow and say, What, are you not interested? He’s going to crowd into Cas’ personal space, he’s going to shove himself right up in there and whisper Cas against his ear.
Instead, Cas says, carefully, “Okay.”
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“I know you said you were gonna be hands off,” Dean says, “but I was hoping you might answer one last prayer.”
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Dean takes stock. This is what he has left: one incomplete picture, a bloody handprint, a decade plus of regrets, and two other people in the whole world to wait with him until God finally calls their numbers.
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A lot of things in Dean's life have been manufactured by an asshole God, current apocalypse included, and now he’s gonna manufacture a little scenario of his own.
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When you’ve lived your life out of motel rooms in every state in the lower forty-eight, every place seems exactly as important as the other.
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There’s nothing to it, really -- a lingering touch here, a fond glance there, knees bumping under tables, shoulders pressed together as they lean in to whisper conspiratorially. All in all, it’s been surprisingly easy pretending to be married to Cas.
Series
- Part 5 of hilariously late christmas prompts
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“Dean,” Cas says. “Please. I don’t have time for this.”
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Castiel tells it as an anecdote: a shore, a fish, a word of advice from his brother. A single, defining moment, easy to understand and appreciate.
The truth is always more complicated.
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Cas is growing a beard.
It’s a good look on him, which would already be a problem even if it didn’t remind Dean of the last time Cas had a beard, which was -- Jesus, he can’t even remember how long ago it was. Cas has been around long enough now that Dean’s lost track of the years.
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He stands to grab plates from the kitchen, but Dean catches him by a belt loop as he goes by, pulls him in and kisses him. When he pulls away, he says, softly, “Hey.”
Cas huffs a laugh. “Hey.”
Dean kisses him again before he steps away, grinning as he grabs a couple beers from the fridge. Cas watches him as he pulls the plates from the cabinet. “How did we get here?”
“Well,” Dean says, “you wanted to take the day off to spend time together, and I was an ass about it, and–”
“No,” Cas says, “I mean here.” He gestures between them, gestures to the apartment. “All of this.”
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“I swear to God,” Dean tells Cas’ voicemail, “if you just forgot to charge your phone or some shit and got me worried for nothing, I’m gonna kill you.”
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Dean’s type, to the extent he has one, doesn’t ask too many questions, lets him stay long enough the morning after to make them both breakfast, and drinks whatever’s on special for two dollars a pop at the local bar.
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“I’ve been calling you,” Dean says once the sound of Sam and Jack’s footsteps disappear down the hallway. He leans with his elbows on the table, rolling his beer between his hands.
“I’m sorry,” Cas says. “I would have picked up, but I was otherwise indisposed.”
“Yeah, that’s the thing, though. Sometimes, you did pick up.”
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There are angels all over the country. Dean has seen them on street corners, met them in bars, taken them to bed. He never expected to wind up with one sleeping on his couch, but he supposes stranger things have happened.
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The static merges with the rumble of the engine, with Dean’s intermittent snoring, with the thump of the tires as they cross seams in the road. Cas reaches over and takes Dean’s hand in his own.