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- Bookmarks:
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Summary
The five seconds before Dean's fully awake are the best moments of his day. In that quiet space between sleep and wakefulness, when dreams are still clinging to the edges of his mind and all he feels is the soft mattress and the warm sheets, he can pretend that everything is fine. That when he opens his eyes and stretches himself awake—joints popping, bones cracking—there'll be someone waiting for him in the kitchen with a hot cup of coffee and an off-center smile.
It's only five seconds. A handful of heartbeats. One painful inhalation and exhale. The blink of grit from his eyes.
Not nearly enough time before it hits him all over again.
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Cas wakes up on the coast of Maine. He makes his way home.
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Cas’s fingertips held in his own, Dean brings the angel’s hand to his mouth, and presses his lips to Cas’s weathered knuckles.
It’s just a thank you. It’s just a way of saying thank you.
Of saying 'thanks, I know that having to do this shit all the time must annoy you, and I know that for some reason you’ve chosen to worry about me and I’m sorry that you have to, and also, I appreciate it.'
It took Dean years not to resent the help of Cas healing him. But slowly the resentment melts into tolerance, and again into thankfulness. And every time Cas touches Dean to heal him, he starts saying his thanks by repaying in touch. It starts with grazing his lips against Cas's knuckles, squeezing his hands, kissing the soft skin of his wrist.
It’s a way of saying thanks. And, he guesses, sorry.
Of saying, 'Sorry for scaring you. I don’t know how me being hurt could scare you like it always seems to. But it always seems to. And that scares me.'
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“It frustrates me,” Cas mutters, “how the same sensation can feel sometimes good, and sometimes not.”
Dean’s hand is still rubbing slowly down the length of his spine, like he’s petting the valley between the wings he can’t see. “Well, that’s just par for the course,” Dean rumbles. “Sometimes a body wants touch and sometimes it wants to be left the fuck alone.”
Cas always wants touch. At least from Dean. He doesn’t say so. “It frustrates me how much good and bad I can feel at the same time.”
“Oh, buddy,” Dean says. “Yeah.”
(After the perfect darkness of the Empty, Cas finds the world a little...overwhelming. Dean tries to help.)
Series
- Part 9 of author's personal favorites
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“Give me the short version,” says Bobby, and Dean looks at Cas, and Cas just shrugs.
“Uh,” says Dean. “I kind of adopted God.”
or: andrew dabb i see your request for the return of fan favourites and i raise you “jack resurrects them all bc he thinks his dads should have more friends”
Series
- Part 1 of the lover's choice verse
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Sam’s big brother was wearing his cockiest, most insouciant, completely bullshit smile on the day he told Sam, “So, uh. I’m gonna ask Cas to marry me.”
Sam dropped the grimoire he'd been browsing on his foot.
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Castiel has always known that there are things that Dean can’t say.
So when he says "I love you," he never expects he'll hear it back.
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[podfic version] “So- so you’d basically be using some sort of sigil to mask our human souls from the Empty?” Sam’s voice interrupts Dean’s desperate train of thought and startles him back to the present.
“Yes.” Jack is nodding, smiling, all gap-toothed and kindergarten positivity.
“And the only parts of us the Empty would see are whatever dead leaves the angels and demons left in our gutters?” Dean raises his eyebrows.
“Exactly.”
He lets out a low whistle. There’s a living warmth finally coming back into his complexion. Not done yet, Winchester, still one more rescue mission. “It’s gotta be me. I’m going.”
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“Are you… scenting me?” the man in an oversized beige trench coat asked, suspiciously, in a deep gravel voice that ran down Dean’s spine. "Why? I really don't smell like much."
Dean’s mouth sagged open. “Dude,” he answered, honestly, “You smell amazing.”
He’d never seen anyone look so shocked at a compliment before. “O-oh.”
Series
- Part 1 of Atypical
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Summary
Dean Winchester never wanted to wear a crown. He had no idea that he even could. It wasn't until the Campbell royals all got themselves assassinated by demons that he and Sam found out that King Samuel was actually their grandfather, and well, shit.
But Dean was a soldier before he was anything else. So maybe that's why he'll do anything to stop this awful demon war—anything. Even try to make an alliance with the angels.
They think they're gonna scare him off by telling him he's gotta be magically married—okay, okay, handfasted, but call it what it is—to some snooty noble angel for a whole year? They think Dean's gonna back out because the angels want him to be handfasted not to a proper princess, oh no, but to a prince?
Bring it on.
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[podfic version]
Only a very few people in the world know that the celebrated and reclusive poet Jack Allen is just Kansas mechanic Dean Winchester, a high school dropout with a few bucks to his name. Not that it matters anymore; life has left him so wrung out he never wants to pick up another pen.Until, that is, a string of coincidences leads Dean to auditing a poetry course with one Dr. Castiel Novak. The professor is wildly intelligent, devastatingly handsome...and just so happens to be academia's foremost expert on the poetry of Jack Allen.
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A year ago, the world didn't end. Now it's summer and the cicadas are buzzing, and something is changing. Something is going to give.
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Getting used to Heaven is something of a marvel. It ain't perfect, and Dean thinks he'd hate it if it was, which is probably why it isn't.
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"You don't understand," Dean whispers, exhaling shakily. "I know you don't, because even I don't. The instant you were gone, I wanted you back. Cas, I wanted you back. I wanted—I wanted—"
Cas stares at him, searching his face. After a moment, his own face falls slack, eyes widening just so. "Oh," he breathes out.
Dean wants to be furious that Cas has figured it out before he has—whatever it is—but he's not even that surprised. Cas knows him too well, always has, even more than Dean knows himself. He's been kicking Dean in the goddamn teeth with how deeply he understands him, even about the things Dean doesn't, ever since they first met. You don't think you deserve to be saved, that's what Cas had said. All bundled up in impossibilities and power, this being that looked at Dean Winchester and knew every single inch of him, as if he had a right to each part.
"What?" Dean grits out.
"I love you, too."
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“In conclusion: Dean Winchester, will you marry me?”
“What?” Dean almost chokes on his sandwich.
“I’m trying to save your soul,” Cas snaps. “You don’t have to look so horrified.”
Series
- Part 1 of Honeycomb
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So Steve didn't complain once. He said nothing about the awful canned food or the bad coffee, about Dr. Buckley's singing in the showers or the smell of Sinclair and Munson when they come up from the engine room. He didn't tell the captain how unfair it was to bunk him with Mike Wheeler and Will Byers, two literal boys who were sharing his cabin, and when finally Steve couldn't take anymore of their giggling and whispering to each other all night long like fucking teenagers oh my fucking Stars — he just took a deep breath.
All day long, Steve was practicing breathing exercises, and repeating calming mantras to himself, in hope that his efforts were gonna be at least appreciated.
And yet, nobody was fucking nice to him.
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Steve Harrington tries to embrace his new job as a navigator on the ST Kite, a scout-class spaceship. But just before he arrived, a tragedy struck the crew, leaving them in mourning. The chief engineer, Eddie Munson, is especially hard to work with, and is often very loud about how Steve doesn't have what it takes to be a real spacer. The fact that the guy is also hot doesn't help Steve's situation at all.
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Kids With Feelings Like You and Me, Understand Him, He'll Understand You (For You Are Him, And He Is You) by Oonionchiver
Fandoms: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
25 Mar 2023
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Summary
Everyone kinda wants him, Eddie.
They want to taste him.
When he’s on stage and his chest is bare and he’s dripping sweat and he spits his drink out into the audience in a fine spray and they go fucking wild, screaming till it hurts, until there’s hardly in any air left in the arena and he laughs, smiles, winks at the girls nearest, tongue out.
He’s a phenomenon, he’s a one man cult.
His tattoos, his scars, the way he sings about love that catches like thorns in the skin, hurts the good way.
And he’s notoriously private.
Except for a handful of incidents.
It’s the perfect storm.
Series
- Part 3 of Gift Fics
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Summary
Eddie Munson is sick of New York, sick of his parents, sick of himself. He doesn't expect to find anything better on his uncle Wayne's cattle ranch— but he doesn’t anticipate a cowboy named Steve Harrington.
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Eddie squints into the bright sunlight flooding the kitchen. He’s eating a bowl of lucky charms that taste like chemicals and fake sugar and he’s not even sure he’s going to make it to the end of the first mouthful. The texture is grainy and artificially chewy and Eddie is sure he used to like these.
Steve, the guy in Eddie’s house, sits himself opposite with neat little piles of scrambled eggs and cut fruit on his plate. He looks at Eddie, gets up again, pulls the blind just far enough that Eddie’s eyes are shaded, and then comes back to his breakfast.
“Can I get you anything?”
“You can get the fuck out of my house,” Eddie replies. But there’s no bite. No meaning. No energy. No anything behind the words. He’s so fucking tired and so done with it all.
Steve carries on like Eddie hasn’t spoken, and eats his breakfast.
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Summary
A series of phone conversations between autumn 1985, and spring 1986.
Series
- Part 9 of a litany of secrets