Look at me.
((for hyperion_swan, who asked for Supernatural, Destiel. Um lol. This is going to be purely conjecture from fanfiction and tumblr, you know.))
Dean fucks up, sometimes.
If he ever dies permanently, they can use it as his epitaph, with all its iterations, like, ‘Dean fucks up, sometimes, big time’ or ‘Occasionally he’s not even sorry’, or ‘what gives, anyway?’ because if he’s going to get into the blame game, he’ll like to submit as ‘Exhibit A’ all the fucked up crack that tends to smack him in the face when he isn’t expecting it. Someday Dean will write a book. He reckons that if he adds sparkles and fiddles a little with the Real Life Vampire Encounter, he might make enough money to set him up until the next apocalypse.
“You pissed him off, you figure it out,” Sam snips as snippily as a snippy prep school cheerleader when he’s in a snit about something that’s not in any way his fault, and Dean scowls at him, fists pressed over the steering wheel of the Impala. When the Dean Winchester Death Glare Mark II fails to have any effect, Dean grumbles to himself and swerves viciously out of the parking lot of the diner, hard enough that Sam almost slams his head against the passenger seat window.
They had been inspecting some sort of Ghostly Haunting or Some Shit in a stately old house in town, and Dean had been wandering around the well-preserved rooms, followed by the anxious caretaker of the estate, alternating between eyeing the antiques on display with curiosity and wondering idly whether the Dean Winchester Life Roulette was going to turn up demons, vampires, rogue angels or some sort of monster that he’d never heard of before but which Sam was possibly going to spout the 1d12 stats to, and then they’d come upon Castiel, in the drawing room.
Angel in the drawing room, with the candlestick. Sometimes Cluedo didn’t have a fucking inch on Dean’s life.
The caretaker had yelped and looked as though he was about to faint, wispy old man as he was, and Dearest Brother had wimped out at the first glance of Cas’ grimdark, I Will Soon End Someone expression, and had offered to escort the caretaker out of the building. Chicken. Fucking chicken.
So it was left to Dean to shuffle up behind Cas and peek at whatever it was that Cas was shooting laser eyebeams at.
“It’s not a bad painting,” Dean had offered warily. ”Sort of peeling around the edges but eh, nice colors.”
Having offered the extent of his capacity at art criticism, Dean had waited. Cas had been staring at a small, dusty painting propped up against the wall, of some white city on a cloud, in that crazy sort of unmoving stillness that the angel managed when he was concentrating on something 110%.
Put that way, on hindsight, now that he’s out of that crazy, dusty old house that had not been in any way haunted, Dean fights the urge to bang his head repeatedly on the steering wheel. A white city on a cloud. The Silver City. He should have been sensitive or something. Dean Winchester could do sensitive. Sometimes.
“Hey, Cas,” Dean had tried again, when Cas said nothing. ”Just for reference’s sake, have you been in this place long? Like for the last couple of weeks?” According to the old man and the talk in the tiny little roadside town, the weird sounds and rearranged furniture in ‘Lady Anna’s old place’ had started only recently.
“There is nothing like this in Heaven,” Cas had said then, in his low monotone. ”There are very few colors.”
Dean hadn’t really known what to say about that, so he’d gone for humor, in a sort of knee jerk reaction, plastered on his best grin and drawled, “Well, we could take a photo of this old lady’s house, and you can frame it in your dorm room in Heaven, then I reckon we’ll be cosmically even, eh?”
When Cas hadn’t moved, Dean had looked up, then down, then reached over to spin Cas around to face him. ”C’mon Cas. Art appreciation’s over. We’ve got to hit the road. We’ve been waiting for you to show up for weeks, man-“
And then Cas had glared at him, lips thinned, and vanished, somehow still managing to convey a sense of Castiel Is Very Hurt You Insensitive Human behind. Dean had breathed deep and sighed. On hindsight, Dean, maybe, just maybe, sort of preferred Castiel when he was still robotic.
They pull up at the next motel on the route, have dinner at an even shittier diner, pay for a room, and when they head on up, bickering about who gets to use the shower first, Sam stops dead when he opens the door. Cas is sitting on the edge of one of the beds, head pressed in his palms, elbows on his knees, and Sam shoots Dean an eloquent You broke your angel now you fix him glance, and backpedals.
Dean steps into the room, with a deep sigh, closes the door, and sits on the other bed, facing Cas. The room is tiny and it stinks of disinfectant, and the way the beds are placed, his knees are an inch away from Cas’. ”Okay, Cas. I’m an insensitive jerk and I’m sorry I made fun of your dorm room in Heaven. I’m sure it’s a great room and not like a frat house thing and you wouldn’t have needed a-“
“Shut up, Dean,” Cas mutters, without looking up.
“-photograph or anything and okay.” Dean breathes out. ”So, uh, you’re still upset.”
“I told you to be quiet.”
“Okay! Okay.” Dean holds up his palms, in a gesture of mock surrender, and leans back against the faded yellow wallpaper, folding his arms over his chest.
When his legs start to cramp and his back starts to ache, Cas whispers, painfully softly, “I think that the Lord has stopped caring about his creations, Dean.”
Dean knows, logically, that an upset Cas can mean terminal injuries for anyone caught within arm’s length of said upset Cas, but what his dumb man-brain actually says is, “Angels can get crises of faith?”
“And if he’s stopped caring about the war,” Cas continues sadly, “Then why am I trying so hard?”
Whoah. Okay. Dean rubs at his eyes. ”Um. Because you’re a good angel,” he offers, rather insincerely, because he’s not really good at this cuddling-hugging shtick, and then he adds a vague homily that he sort of remembers when he was a kid, “And because God prefers to help people who help themselves, or something.”
There is another long pause, then Cas notes, dryly, “Somehow I feel comforted and yet exasperated at the same time.”
“Oh good, the Dean effect,” Dean relaxes, with his best grin. ”Do you want to go and get a drink? That’s the usual thing to do when you go through a crisis, you know.”
“By attempting to marinate my vessel’s liver?”
“And getting laid and waking up in a weird bed on the morning,” Dean temporizes cheerfully, because this has always worked for him. ”It’s called life-affirming sex.”
“With a stranger,” Cas repeats, as though he’s taking mental notes, and as much as Sam has always yelled at him for this, Dean can never resist. Cas is so fucking easy.
“That’s why it’s life-affirming, Cas. It’s doing someone you’ve never done before. Doing something that you haven’t done before. It reminds you that you’re alive. That you have self-determination.” Dean hasn’t had to defend casual hook-ups before, and he’s frankly rather impressed at the bullshit that he’s spouting. He hopes that Cas actually mentions this offhand to Sam at some point, preferably when Sam is drinking something that stains-
“Oh. I see,” Cas says slowly, sitting up and blinking, and then to Dean’s shock, leans over to press his mouth against Dean’s.
It’s possibly the worst kiss Dean has ever had, because of the klaxon of what? What? Cas? What? that rings through his suddenly blank mind and because Cas just doesn’t move and stays there, lips crushed to Dean’s and barely even breathing, and then Dean’s brain decides to put forward the great idea of Dean’s mouth parting and Dean’s tongue flicking out and then… yeah, that was definitely a soft moan. From Castiel.
Blasphemy thy name is Dean Winchester.
Dean blinks as Castiel carefully fits himself forward, like he isn’t sure where exactly to put his hands or his knees, until he’s awkwardly sitting on Dean’s knees and watching him searchingly, like he’s waiting for Dean to do something interesting, and Dean sucks in a tight breath, then another, and manages an eloquent, “Whuh?”
“I am doing something life-affirming,” Castiel states primly. ”This shows that I retain self-determination.”
Dean opens his mouth, then he swallows his protest, and grins instead, slowly, because the end of the world is coming and it isn’t as though Dean is new to the concept of inadvisability where the bedroom is concerned, and because maybe, just maybe, he’s curious. ”Okay, Cas,” Dean pushes his palms over Cas’ knees, arranging them more comfortably against his hips. ”C’mere.”
“I am already in your lap,” Cas informs him, with a faint frown, though he’s pliant enough when Dean threads his fingers over the back of his neck and pulls them together again.