Tag: drabbles with lime

winchester-reload:

Inktober Day 6 Topic: “Lips”

-Pink-

Doing this thing

@winchester-reload : I hope you don’t mind? It’s cool if you do, though!

Dean is failing, fading. Castiel can feel it. Not sure how he can, but he can. Too cold, too wet, and ten minutes ago was not the time to discover that Dean Winchester could only swim where there weren’t currents. 

And right now wasn’t the time for Castiel to realize that he’s an angel of the lord, and never felt the need to learn first aid until this second. He can heal wounds and illness, scrapes and stabs, but he’s not a witch – he can’t just make a room warmer. He can’t do anything for low body temperature.

Except. One of his Netflix marathons might be useful now. He strips them both of their sopping clothes, Dean limp and barely awake against him. It’s a trial in the cramped back of the Impala. But he gets it done. Gets the car started to blast the heater. Sprawls out in the backseat with Dean against him, cold and not shivering yet, but something about the sensation of skin on skin feels incredibly final to Castiel. And not in the bad way that they’re so accustomed to. This is the other way.

His arms feel trapped where they’re wrapped around Dean’s torso, palms flat against his stomach and belly. He’s getting warmer. That’s a good sign. When Dean starts to shiver, Castiel can’t help himself, really. He slides his head forward, convincing himself that rubbing their cheeks together is completely innocent. Just checking the human’s temperature, of course. That’s what he’ll tell Dean if either of them survive what’s happening right now. Dean trying not to freeze to death, and Castiel trying not to burn up. 

But then Dean starts to shiver. Small tremors at first that wrack him almost painfully. His blue lips part on a breathy moan, and that has to be a good sign. “Cas,” he whispers.

It’s pained, but to Castiel’s ears it sounds… it sounds like he wishes it would sound in another place. Or perhaps right here under better circumstances.

Castiel stares at the plush bow of Dean’s lips, transfixed. He swallows. Is acutely aware of his breath on the side of Dean’s face when he answers softly, “I’m here, Dean.”

Dean’s head tilts up, eyes still closed as he trembles harder. His lips are losing their gray tinge. That’s a good sign. They look so much better this way. A particularly violent shudder lances through Dean, his whole body arching as he gives a startled, hurting grunt. Castiel’s arms tighten around him helplessly and he tries not to be afraid. The fear is making him want things much more than he usually does. “I’m right here,” he murmurs, voice seeming to soothe Dean again. “You’re okay.”

Dean sighs, turning his head, eyelashes tickling Castiel’s neck to make the angel tense as lightning shoots through him at the tiny sensation. “Thanks,” he breathes. His breath is warm. So very, very warm.

After all this time, Castiel thinks. I’ve been so good. I’ve tried so hard. Dean had told him that everyone has a breaking point. It’s true. And it’s in the backseat of the Impala on a frigid night. A silent sob chokes Castiel’s throat.

Dean’s cold fingers slide up over Castiel’s arm, over his neck, into the curled hairs behind his ear. Castiel is shaking as badly as Dean is now. Maybe more. Definitely more when Dean opens his eyes, gaze hard and irrevocable. “It’s okay,” he says. Nothing else. No explanation.

It has to mean what Castiel hopes it means. He’s been so good. So long. Too long. He tilts his head further down against the awkward angle and kisses Dean’s perfect lips. Mild pressure. No teeth. No tongue. Just lips.

Dean’s fingers spasm and tighten in his hair. That and the sudden acceleration in his heartbeat are the only signs that Castiel has guessed correctly.

It must go on and on the careful meeting and parting, warm gusts of breath, the gradual deepening of the exploration. And when it’s over, Dean sighs like a truly sated soul. His weight falls heavy against Castiel’s chest, head tucked into the space below his jaw. “It’s okay,” Dean whispers again, finally done shaking. “Cas, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

It sounds so much better when Dean says it now that the urgency is gone. Castiel plants one soft kiss against the arch of Dean’s eyebrow before settling back, too. “We’re okay,” he agrees.

Prompt 3: SFW, Destiel, pining idjits, fluff. Dean is a local rock star, Cas is a local genius (no glasses), everyone treats Dean like a celeb & Cas like an all-knowing tribe elder, not like he’s old & not in a mocking way. They’re both revered by the locals but in different ways. They consider each other as otherworldly & untouchable & are head over heels for each other. They end up under a mistletoe, despite it NOT being xmas but kiss anyway & discover they’re not so untouchable after all ;)

Castiel Novak blinks at his computer screen in utter disbelief. It can’t be. No. NO! Dean Winchester’s acoustic Christmas concert is sold out. But it can’t be sold out! It’s the only public event that Castiel has ever wanted to attend in his life. 150 people, intimate historic club in downtown, a meet and greet afterwards, Dean Winchester unplugged. This is a man who sells out arenas. This show is the experience of a lifetime. 

And Castiel hadn’t been able to use his considerable contacts to secure a single ticket on the sly. So he’d done the normal thing and stayed up all night in order to refresh the ticket site incessantly until they went on sale. How had his internet been slower than 150 other people? That can’t be possible!

He bangs his head down onto the table, only raising hit when his computer chimes with a new email. Heartbroken, Castiel lifts his head until his chin is resting on the polished wood, and he lethargically touches the screen. Ah. An invitation to the Mayor’s Christmas ball. Bemused, Castiel touches the RSVP button without thought. It still amazes him that he’s considered a local legend. He hadn’t done much besides being a huge nerd. And a pretty big activist for LGBTQ+ rights. And now that there’s a liberal mayor, he’s got press, too.

In fact, while some people thrive on the fame, Castiel just feels vaguely nauseous being the center of attention. But he can use fame to better his small part of the world, so he does.

At any rate, back to his depression at not being able to attend Dean’s concert. 

In fact, the disappointment follows him for the next few weeks, which he hates, but feels is justified. He wants to get into the Christmas spirit, but he’s going through the motions. He can’t even muster up cheer for the party, which, despite the crowds, he does love. He can talk to influential people about his projects, and the New Year usually brings a lot of donations from them.

Gloomy, Castiel puts on his best suit for the occasion; a dark blue tailored suit and crisp white shirt. Maybe he’ll find someone to dance the night away with and forget some of his woes.

The city’s art museum is decked out to the nines in preparation for the ball. It’s been in full swing for about an hour when Castiel arrives to rub elbows with the wealthy and influential. He’s not particularly wealthy himself, but within minutes, has found himself surrounded by a substantial group of well-dressed dignitaries and city royalty, all shaking his hand and hanging on his every, quiet word about is plans for youth programs in the coming year. At least here he’s in his element.

But then dinner is being served and people begin to move in pairs with the plus one’s to the dining room. Depression starting to creep back at being by himself again, Castiel starts to follow. Until there’s a tap and a small, “excuse me?” from behind.

Castiel turns with a polite smile that freezes on his face completely.

Dean Winchester.

“Hi,” Dean says.

To him. To Castiel. Suddenly, he feels his face burning, he’s so unworthy. His heart slams in his chest. Dean Winchester is a god. And up close, he’s the most beautiful person Castiel has ever laid eyes on. He fills a room with his presence just walking into it, and now here’s saying hi. To Castiel. “You’re Dean Winchester,” he gasps. All his dreams have now come true. Dean had said hi to him. Dean is here. Dean is talking to him.

Then it starts to dawn on him that something is completely out of place. Dean is shifting from foot to foot. Rubbing the back of his neck. If Castiel didn’t know any better, he’d think the superstar who commands an audience of thousands is… profoundly embarrassed.

Dean holds out his gorgeous hand. “Yeah. And you’re Castiel Novak. I’m… uh…” he huffs a small laugh. “Man, I’m your biggest fan.”

This can’t be happening. Numbly, Castiel shakes Dean’s hand. It’s like having an out of body experience. “That should be my line,” he says weakly. “I’ve been depressed for weeks that I didn’t get a ticket to your show. I’ve been your fan since you first played the Majestic five years ago. You had a homemade CD, and I bought it. You autographed it for me.” He needs to stop babbling.

That seems to startle Dean something awful. His eyes pop wide and his face goes beet red. “That was my first show,” he mumbles, eyes on the ground. “You were there? Castiel Novak? No way. All the stuff you’ve done for the city. My, uh… my little brother… he and I kinda… well, he’s ace, and your programs helped him discover that, and then he helped me come out, so… uh… I mean, I just sing and play the guitar. You save the world. I should have your autograph.”

Slowly, Castiel’s smile starts to bloom. He reaches out and touches Dean’s arm until the man’s wide eyes meet his. This might be a dream. And if it is, there’s no reason for Castiel to act a fool. It’s much easier to pretend he’s having the best dream ever. It helps so much, he says, “I didn’t bring a plus one. Would you like to sit with me for dinner? We can see who can out-praise the other for the next hour.”

Dean’s startled laugh is as warm and melodious as his singing and speaking voice. Naturally it is. “You know what? I’d love to.”

He holds his arm out, elbow crooked, and Castiel loops them together. And the two city legends enter the dining hall to the stares of everyone arm in arm.

Ficlet prompt: Destiel in the Disney AU of your choice (a Disney franchise, or Disney world, or whatever)

“I think I hate this place,” Dean grumbles, stumble/hopping as he lifts his foot up. What the hell is on the bottom of his shoe this time? Gum? Ice cream? Micky Mouse’s spooge? The world may never know.

“I love this place,” Castiel says. He’s not smiling. He’s not particularly emoting at all. But there is a certain… lightness in his steps as they tromp through Disney World. It’s sweltering hot, considering Florida in July, but angel’s don’t sweat, so Castiel isn’t bothered. It’s literally shoulder to shoulder down Main Street. Dean’s having a hell of a time keeping his weapons hidden, though in place like this, a bronze sword probably seems like part of the magic. I sorta is, anyway.

“Yeah, well, let’s just figure out where those fucking harpies are and get outta here.”

Castiel stops in the middle of the teeming river of people to take Dean firmly by the shoulder. “Dean. We must protect this place at all costs.”

“Dude,” Admonishes, coming to an irritated standstill. The crowds are making him jumpy. First of all, this isn’t the fucking… I dunno, Library of Alexandria, or something. It ain’t sacred ground. Second, there’s hardcore security, literally everywhere. This is gonna be hard enough. Let’s just…” he winces as he’s shouldered out of the way by a rush of about ten kids. He sighs. “Let’s just keep moving.”

Castiel plods along with him towards the sunset. “It feels like sacred ground,” he mutters, almost too softly to be heard by Dean.

Dean figures that their best chance of getting towards the artificial lake where the harpies have taken up residence, is during the parade when most eyes would be on the fireworks and other bullshit. Of course, Castiel has assured them that he’ll be able to zap them out of there if worse comes to worst. Which it probably will since they’re at Disney World.

It’s too risky to wait until the park closes. The chance of being discovered is too high. Unfortunately, the best time is probably during the fireworks display. No one would notice a bit of extra noise. But since there have been an inordinate amount of inexplicable injuries in and around the park for a touch of bad publicity, they will be watching for anyone or anything out of place.

They’ve broken away from the crowds, closer to the bungalows for the rich and richer to stay in that abut the lake, when Castiel puts a staying hand on Dean’s shoulder. He points towards the far edge of the park’s property where the lake roars away into a drainage system surrounded by tall grass and reeds. “There,” he says.

“Let’s go.”

“Get ready,” Castiel advises. “They’ve seen us. They will be quick to fight.” He slides his hand up to Dean’s shoulder, and in half a blink, they’re sloshing into the retention pond.

Dean has only a second to lament the dirty water pouring into his shoes, when Castiel growls and grabs one of the gray winged humanoid beasts with a squelch. He rips the wings from its back with a snarl and yells, “Dean!”

In a smooth movement, Dean swings around instinctively towards Castiel’s voice, goring with his bronze sword. It hits true to the harpy’s liver, killing it.

Castiel swings around again and gasps loudly while grabbing for another harpy. For a moment, Dean thinks the angel’s been hurt, but Castiel’s eyes are turned upwards. “The fireworks!” he breathes, crushing the harpy’s skull. “They’re beautiful!”

Dean rolls his eyes, stabbing the two that Castiel rips the wings from simultaneously. Through the carnage and blood, the crackling blues, greens, golds, and reds sparkling across Castiel’s silhouette. 

The nest is cleared in minutes, though Castiel keeps his gaze on the sky at all times. Dean joins him, leaning heavily on the hilt of the sword, winded and bloodied.

Blindly, Castiel reaches out and takes the hunter’s hand. “It’s better than magic,” he murmurs, transfixed. “Thank you for taking me here with you.”

Dean sighs. chuckles breathlessly. “I’ve had worse dates,” he admits.

Castiel smiles in response.

“You come across as, um, a little intimidating.” (a prompt i found on the internet) – Destiel with punk!Cas? :) I’m so sorry if this is shitty, I have no idea how to send prompts. You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. Have a nice day! :)))

WELL IT LOOKS LIKE I’LL JUST HAVE TO DO ANOTHER DRABBLE FOR MY ROCK ON ‘VERSE, HUH? Such a shame. @winchester-reload, you might be interested in this since your art spawned it. 

The art that spawned the ‘verse can be found [ Here on Winchester-Reload’s Tumblr ]

“Um,” Sam says hesitantly in the doorway to the tattoo studio’s break room. “Hey, so get this. Cas, I’ve had a customer complaint? About you?”

Dean actually puts down his magazine at that. 

Castiel sighs. “That girl who cried earlier?”

Dean snorts. “A crier? This is a tattoo parlor. Lots of people cry. That’s how we do business.”

Sam rolls his eyes, puffing a breath that ruffles his pink hair. “It was a piercing.”

Shrugging, Dean says, “people cry at those, too. People are wimps.”

Castiel holds up a neatly black-polished finger. “No, it was my fault. I couldn’t use the piercing gun, so I had to use the needle, and she… freaked out a little.”

Sam grabs a soda from the fridge and sits down at the table. “It’s not like I’m gonna do anything about it, but it’s not the first time someone’s said that you come across as… um… a little intimidating.”

Dean absolutely howls with laughter. A whole, knee-slapping guffaw that has Castiel scowling probably as badly as he did at that hipster girl to make her cry.

Sam shoves Dean’s chair with his foot. “Sorry, Cas. Really. Dean. Dude, stop laughing and help him out, okay?”

“How?” Dean chuckles, wiping tears from his eyes.

“You’re really good with people. We gotta keep up our image here. There are like, a dozen other tattoo parlors around, and a couple bad Yelp reviews could sink us. Word of mouth is important.”

Dean scoffs. “You’re world famous, Sammy. This shop isn’t going underwater just because Cas has a grumpy puss.” He squeezes Castiel’s cheeks in his hand, wiggling and making kissy noises.

Castiel moodily bats Dean’s hand away. “I swear to God I will dye your hair a natural color while you sleep.”

Gasping dramatically, Dean puts a hand over his heart. “But the blue matches your, eyes. Fine, you sexy thang. I’ll help polish your rusty people skills so you don’t shame Sam.”

“Why did you marry him?” Sam asks Castiel mildly.

“Might have been a head injury. Perhaps temporary insanity,” Castiel answers.

“Both of you suck,” Dean chirps. “I’ve changed my mind, I’m not helping.”

Ignoring him, Sam says, “he’s super sensitive, too.”

Castiel nods. “Maybe he has low self-worth.”

Dean scowls. “I will piss in your cereal. Like, literally.”

Castiel nods to Sam. “He also has a penchant for being a big, whiny baby.”

Sam pats his brother-in-law on the shoulder. “Maybe I should teach you how to be more sociable. Dean never matured beyond elementary school.”

“I want a divorce!” Dean says loudly.

Castiel turns his sly, knowing smirk finally on his husband. “The hell you say. No one gives you a ride like I do.”

Sam laughs loud, brief, and scandalized.

Dean shifts in his chair, pants kinda tight. “Y’know, if you looked like that at the ladies, you’d never get a complaint ever again.”

Let’s see, prompt: Dean/Cas + commuters who take the same bus/subway everyday

Dean Winchester has perfected the art of being really fucking rude on the subway. It’s reasonable. He sits in the least crowded car, gets on at one of the early stops, and has to ride for a goddamn hour twice a day with all the other assholes in the city. Usually no one minds enough to hassle him.

Until today.

Someone bumps his knee with a messenger bag. Dean turns his music up louder and ignores it.

The bump comes again, more insistently.

Dean crosses one leg over the other.

This time the hit to his shin actually kind of hurts. Dean glare up.

An angel glares back down.

Dean pushes his headphones around his neck and glances around the train. There are plenty of seats available. “Can I fucking help you?” he snipes. Mornings are already terrible enough.

“You’re awfully rude,” the man says, sounding just as cranky.

Dean gives him an obvious once over from twisted tie to ugly trench coat. Clearly neither style nor manners exist in his part of town. “Says the dude hitting me with his bag.”

He rolls his blue, blue eyes. “I’d like to sit here.”

“Why?” Dean demands.

The guy nods over his shoulder. “I have long commute and there are no less than eight children down on that end acting like heathens. I hate mornings, and I realize that’s a personal problem, but I don’t want to take out my bad mood on them by causing a scene. Which I will do. Because it’s seven thirty and my coffee maker broke.”

This time, Dean glances over and sees exactly what he’s talking about. There are a clustered group of elementary school kids talking loudly and jumping from seat to seat. He can’t really argue with the logic and doom the guy to that sort of nonsense. He picks up his laptop bag and scoots his legs closer together. “Have a seat.”

Like a deflating balloon, the gorgeous stranger plops down and tilts his head back with a sigh of deliverance. “Thank you,” he breathes. Without looking directly at Dean, he holds his hand out. “I’m sorry for hitting you. I’m Castiel.”

Dean shakes firmly, lighting up at the touch. “Dean.”

Eyes closed and smiling, Castiel says, “hello, Dean.”

“How long’s your commute?” Dean asks, shutting off Spotify.

“Pine and Main,” Castiel groans.

Luck couldn’t be with him any more. Making up for years without, he supposes. “Same,” he says. “I work at Sandover.”

Castiel’s eyes pop open and he stares at Dean. “I knew you looked familiar,” he says. “I’m in accounting.”

That explains the trench coat. Dean grins. “Then I guess you won’t mind keeping me company to the canteen for some coffee? I mean, since your machine broke. I’m buying.”

“It would be the gentlemanly thing to do,” Castiel answers, lips twitching further. “Since you’ve learned of my plight.”

“Exactly.”

And just like that, Dean becomes the guy on the train who’s only a jerk for two stops in the morning. Just until a squinting, harassed accountant shoves through the doors right on time to push Dean’s bag into his lap, collapse into the now vacant seat, and fall asleep on Dean’s shoulder like he never woke up in the first place. Yeah. It’s a much better way to start the day.

Prompt 1: SFW, Destiel, College AU, FLUFF. Whenever Dean tries to confess his feelings to his roommate and best friend Cas, he ends up swearing – mostly fuck – making Cas really confused. It goes on for weeks, maybe even a month, before Cas bakes Dean the best blueberry pie in the whole universe (despite knowing Dean HATES blueberry pies, it’s the one pie that’s inedible) and tells Dean he made it just for him and Dean ends up eating the whole pie and accidentally use the L word ;)

Castiel isn’t an idiot. He knows that much about himself. He realizes where his failings are. He understands that he doesn’t always understand people who aren’t like him. His gaze so often turned inward, he has a hard time really “getting” people like Dean Winchester. Dean’s the direct opposite of him. He’s an extrovert, knows how good looking he is (and uses it), laughs loudly, eats every meal like he’s starving, and surrounds himself with other people.

Sometimes Castiel wonders how Dean’s made so many friends since he’s sometimes super weird around his roommate. They don’t spend tons of time together, but Castiel truly treasures those days when Dean prefers some peace and quiet that he promises Castiel doesn’t ruin in the slightest.

But over the months it seems… off.

They’re doing homework together at the kitchen table one night, and Dean’s head jerks up from his engineering textbook. “Cas?” he says, sounding hesitant.

Castiel’s eyes meet his and he likes the way it feels. “Yes?”

“Um…” Dean rubs the back of his neck. “I just, y’know, hey, would you… fuck.” Then he gets back to work.

Castiel blinks. He almost asks for clarification, but then Dean’s gathering up his books hastily and muttering about early classes, leaving Castiel alone and so very confused.

About a week later, a strange exchange happens again. Dean bangs into the living room after classes and bellows, “what’s the word, Cas?”

Castiel shrugs, not looking up from his book. “It’s a shortened version of my name.”

Dean is so quiet after that, Castiel is compelled to glance up. The look on Dean’s face is… is… fond? “Hey,” Dean says quietly. “I’ve been meaning to ask if…”

Castiel sits up straighter, curious.

“Well… like, maybe…” he swallows so hard that Castiel can hear it. “Fuck.” Then he’s gone again.

Castiel twists around on the couch to watch Dean’s hunched, retreating back. “What’s going on with him?” he murmurs.

For a solid two months it keeps happening.

“Cas, would you… fuck.”

“Cas, man, I gotta tell ya… fuck.”

“Cas, I’ve been thinking for a while… fuck.”

Now it’s Dean’s birthday. And Castiel, despite everything, is beginning to suspect. So he decides to take the ball out of Dean’s court because otherwise they’ll never get together, and Castiel really really wants to get together with Dean. He’s only got a hypothesis right now, of course. He could be completely wrong. But there’s only one way to find out. Fortune favors the brave. Or. Whatever.

Dean’s having dinner with his family, so Castiel uses the time to bake a blueberry pie. Dean loves pie. It’s the one thing he doesn’t eat at Mach 5. He’ll sit still long enough to let Castiel confess. Hopefully. That’s the plan, anyway.

As soon as Dean gets home, Castiel yanks him into the kitchen and points to the pie sitting on the table. “For you,” he says. “Happy Birthday, Dean.”

Those arresting green eyes light up, and Dean throws himself into the chair, ready to dig in. After a single bite, he chews, swallows, and starts laughing. He takes another bite and then another. “Holy hell,” he gasps. “You’re lucky I’m in love with you, Cas, ‘cause blueberry pie is fucking disgusting. It’s literally the only one I don’t like!”

It takes him shoveling in the whole thing for Castiel to find his voice. When Dean’s done, he throws the fork into the pan and beams up at his roommate. “I am, too,” Castiel says suddenly. Breathless. “I’m in love with you, too.”

Dean’s eyes go wide, and he slowly goes still. But then. That gorgeous smile breaks out like the sun after a storm. “Happy Birthday to me,” he murmurs, standing, walking over to Castiel, and kissing him until he forgets the taste of blueberries.

Sastiel, college roommate au, one or the other of the boys has been using the sock-on-the-door signal to get time to himself to jerk off without risking his roommate hearing him say his name in the throes of passion… until the day said roommate really needs that textbook/paper/forgotten item and bursts in anyway.

Sam feels so bad about this right now. So bad. It’s been a whole semester that he and Castiel have been living together, and both have been very diligent about following the house rules. Then again, he didn’t expect the sock on the door rule to be so… frequent.

Not that Sam can deny how hot Castiel is. Because… he totally is. It doesn’t surprise him at all that the guy’s getting plenty of action. Except… that it kinda does.

Castiel doesn’t seem to go out much. He goes to the university gym early (with Sam only), then goes to the coffee shop for breakfast (with Sam only). Then he showers (with himself only), then he goes to class (walking with Sam only), then he comes home (two hours before Sam). He hated the one party that Sam took him to. And he shrugs when Sam asks if he ever wants to have his friends over.

Where is he meeting these people? He’s quiet and thoughtful. Smart as all hell. And he’s got the best smile Sam’s ever seen.

So, all data considered, Sam hates that fucking sock on the door. It means that Castiel is getting laid (without Sam) and it… it sucks. It sucks a lot. And Sam is more than happy to follow the rule because his indigestion can’t handle seeing it, hearing it, not being a part of it. But he’s got a presentation to give in thirty minutes and his laptop and flash drive are still in his bedroom. He needs them as much as he doesn’t need his own stupid jealousy.

Like a secret agent breaking into a room, Sam unlocks the front door and creeps inside without a sound. He tiptoes past the living room and down the hallway. He’s holding his breath as if that can somehow stop the creaky hinge on his bedroom door, when a soft voice filters through Castiel’s door.

“Faster, Sam, please!” It begs.

Sam goes incredibly cold and hot all in a second. Of all the fucking luck. Castiel isn’t fucking him, but now it’s another Sam? 

Don’t be a perv, don’t be a perv, don’t be a perv. Sam presses his ear to Castiel’s door like a perv. And something’s a little… off. It doesn’t seem like Castiel’s having sex. Sam’s been so grossly obsessed, that he knows all the creaks in Castiel’s bed springs when he tosses and turns late at night. He knows the sound of the drawers opening and closing. He certainly knows the sound of Castiel’s voice. Right now, there’s no creaking, and there’s only one voice.

Panting, moaning, quiet, so quiet, “oh, God, Sam!” 

Then silence.

Sam gulps. Shifts and tries to will away his sudden, urgent, painful erection. It’s just not possible. It can’t be possible. It’s too good. Too unthinkable.

He’s stood there too long.

The door swings open inwards and Castiel is there in his pajama pants and a thin blue t-shirt. He actually shouts in surprise when he runs into Sam.

Sam blinks, face burning. “Um,” he says. “I…”

Castiel looks down in embarrassment, but it doesn’t escape Sam’s notice that his gaze stops right at his waist. Shit.

Calmly, Castiel looks back up. His expression is inscrutable, but he says, “Sam, I think we should talk.”

Sam nods. He agrees he totally agrees. “Just a sec, though,” he croaks, and he leans down to kiss his best friend.

The noise Castiel makes is better than anything that filtered out through the door. His arms go around Sam’s neck. 

That night, the sock on the door goes back in the drawer where it belongs.

I was actually thinking of asking you to write this drabble before you asked for prompts. Castiel works in the booth for a music production company that is letting 5 people record a single because of a radio station giveaway. Everyone is crap. Except the quiet, shy man with the green eyes, beat up guitar, and voice to die for.

(Dude, I could write CHAPTERS about this, but drabble it is!)

Castiel Novak considers himself to be patient. Mild mannered. Even as a calm sea.

Oh, how he wishes that were true.

Currently he’s pushed his glasses up on his forehead to rub at the bridge of his nose where an astonishing power headache behind his eyes. 

He wants to burn the local alt-rock station to the ground. No, he wants to burn all radio stations to the ground. Who the hell thought it was a good idea to giveaway recording studio time? Especially when the only prerequisite had been, “dial the phone fastest.” No auditions, no sifting through, just be one of the lucky callers.

The contest isn’t paying dividends. But Castiel is paid to do this for one hour per person, so he drops his headphones around his neck while winner #1 pterodactyl screeches her way through a Top 50 synth-hit. He doesn’t even have to listen to know what to say and when. “That’s great, Becky,” he says blankly. “Let’s run through it one more time.”

The only saving grace about it being today and not tomorrow is that today he doesn’t have to actually listen. They screech, scream, growl, and voice-crack their way through their songs, and Castiel records it all. Tomorrow is going to suck because he will have to listen. Lay the tracks to best effect and somehow pull together a passable mastertape to send to them.

He’s not sure why he bothers with professional pride. Becky thinks she’s hot shit and hasn’t hit a note head on since she opened her mouth forty-five minutes ago. She wouldn’t notice the difference. But Castiel will autotune her to death if only to save himself some minor ear bleeding later.

Garth at least can carry a tune, but leaves Castiel with the vague worry that the lanky man thinks he actually is Johnny Cash.

Benny can’t sing his way out of… well, anything, but he doesn’t pretend to. He follows the adage, “when in doubt, sing loud.”

Jo is okay, but so nervous that she ends up forgetting all the lyrics.

Castiel is just sitting back in his chair hoping to embrace the sweet silence of death, when Dean ambles into the recording studio carrying a truly tragic looking guitar. He sits on the stool and waits for Castiel to stop staring.

It takes a minute, but then, Castiel remembers the rest of his day and thinks, the pretty ones are usually the worst. He sighs. Clicks on the microphone. “What will you be singing today?”

In a melodious baritone, Dean leans towards the microphone and simply says, “Lynyrd Skynyrd.”

Castiel shrugs. He can’t possibly give a shit anymore. “Whenever you’re ready.”

His guitar work is a bit sloppy off the cuff, but it only takes two seconds for Castiel to recognize Simple Man. He only has a moment to mourn the murder of a classic, because when Dean starts singing, Castiel shoots up ramrod straight in his seat.

Clearly, Dean doesn’t know anything about recording. He’s slumps over his guitar and doesn’t consider the position of the microphone because his voice fades in and out a little bit when he sways. 

He’s gorgeous and he’s good. Castiel would record a dozen – a hundred people to hear something like Dean’s understated, heartfelt, blessedly on tune voice.

He can’t even believe it when Dean finishes singing. It feels like he’d just started a second a go. But he places his hands over the strings and the song is over.

Castiel opens his mouth. Closes it. He could cry. He tosses off his headphones and stalks to the recording room. When the door flies open, Dean looks surprised. He blinks at Castiel. Gapes. His ears turn an interesting shade of red.

Castiel wants to kiss him to assuage both his attraction and his gratitude. But instead he says, “you’re the best singer who’s been here all day. You’re the best I’ve heard in months. But you suck at recording.” He jabs his finger out almost angrily. “Sit up straight and sing directly into the mic. I’m going to get another one for your guitar. If you keep moving around and depriving me of your voice, I’ll lose my mind.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says faintly, shell-shocked.

Castiel stalks back to the door and whips around again. “Do you know other songs?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, a small smile blooming on his full lips. “Tons.”

Castiel waves a hand. “I want to hear them all.”

Those green eyes warm further. “Got no other plans tonight.” He’s almost cheeky.

Castiel smirks. “Yes, you do. You’re going to sing me to sleep.” He closes the door behind him leaving Dean laughing beautifully behind him.

Genderswap Destiel AU

Deanna Winchester is the most popular girl at Lebanon Prep Girl’s Academy. She comes to class late (if she bothers to show at all), doesn’t wear the school uniform after 4th period PE, talks loud, laughs louder, and smells like motor oil and gun powder. 

There’s a rumor going around that she can get any girl to kiss her, and has worked through half the Freshman class before the semester is even over.

The teachers don’t say anything about her attendance or the uniform violations. None of the other students say anything about it, either. They seem to know something, but never talk about it. 

They’re a clique anyway, most of them having been at the school since kindergarten. They don’t open up to outsiders. Deanna isn’t an outsider.

Casiel Novak is an outsider at Lebanon Prep Girl’s Academy. She joined the school starting Freshman year. She comes to class early (never missing a day), wears the school uniform of pressed white shirt, blue tie, modest blue skirt, and khaki jacket, perfectly, talks rarely, laughs less, and smells like lilacs and fresh laundry sheets.

There’s a rumor that her family is in witness protection, and it’s worked through the entire Freshman class before the semester even started.

The teachers don’t say much about her because she is an unobtrusively excellent student. She’s in Honor’s and AP classes, homework always complete and turned in on time.

It’s a mundane life, but Casiel doesn’t hate it. She doesn’t like it, either. It’s all so gray. Tasteless like the lunch she portions out neatly every morning and eats in the empty quad because she learned very quickly how embarrassing it is to try to find a seat in the crowded cafeteria where no one will make a place.

It’s freezing today, but the cherry trees are about to bloom. They’ll be lovely. There are dozens of the trees around the school. The sun is bright, too, so Casiel doesn’t shiver too much as she unwraps her PB&J.

“Hi!” someone says brightly.

Casiel takes a bit of her sandwich, ignoring the voice since it’s not for her. It’s never for her.

Until a pair of jean-clad legs appears in front of her. Then a green flannel shirt. And then the grinning face of Deanna Winchester.

Casiel blinks. She has green eyes.

“Can you hear?” Deanna asks slowly. “Is that why you never talk?”

“I can hear and talk,” Casiel says faintly. Up close, Deanna is beautiful. Light freckles across her nose, long eyelashes, dusty brown hair. She looks like the summertime. Suddenly Casiel understands why so many other girls would kiss her full mouth.

“Why are you out here by yourself?” Deanna asks, popping the collar of her weathered leather jacket against the chill.

“No room at the inn,” Casiel answers, hoping she does’t sound too bitter. She is, but she doesn’t like to show it.

It surprises her more fully when Deanna collapses onto the bench next to her. “Ugh, these people here. Acting like the only friends worth having are the ones they’ve known since they pissed the bed.”

“I’m okay with it,” Casiel say softly. She doesn’t want to rock the boat with the most popular girl in school.

Deanna grabs the bag of chips in Casiel’s lunch box and pops it open. “No, you aren’t,” she says breezily, tossing a handful into her mouth.

She can’t explain why, but she finds herself saying, “no, I’m not.”

Deanna laughs. It sounds as much like the summer as she looks.”That’s okay.” She stands up and holds out the bag of chips. She shakes it until Casiel takes the clue and stands up, too. “I’m gonna go make room at the inn. You coming?” She turns around, taking long strides back towards the main building. She doesn’t even look to see if she’s being followed; confident that she is.

Casiel fumbles for her things and jogs to catch up. She can’t explain why, but she feels like the warmer weather will come earlier this year.