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Dean chuckles as he pulls off his companion’s shirt, “I always thought it’d be hot to fuck myself.”
Deanna laughs as she unhooks her bra, “Same here.”
Michael invites the new wolves over to introduce them to the pack. He goes around the room naming the pack in order of rank; first the dominants, then the submissives, the women, and then Castiel.
The new wolves, Dean and Sam Winchester, brothers, Castiel was told, seem confused by Castiel’s late introduction. Usually it’s easy to spot which wolf is more dominant, especially with young wolves, but Castiel honestly can’t tell which of the brothers is more dominant. They stand side-by-side, and Castiel wonders if they are equally dominant, or if they have just been around each other long enough to be able to put aside the dominance contest. Castiel has always been mildly perplexed when it comes to that particular game.
The shorter brother, Castiel isn’t sure which is which yet, speaks up about his confusion. He turns to Michael and nods his head toward Castiel, “What is he, a super submissive, or something?”
The look Michael gives him tells him that he’s said something wrong, and the new wolf lowers his gaze. The taller wolf puts a hand on his brother’s arm.
Michael opens his mouth, but Castiel stands up before he has the chance to say anything. Under normal circumstances being mistaken for a submissive wolf wouldn’t piss him off so much, but Castiel is annoyed by this new wolf’s arrogance.
“You are young, so I will forgive your blinding ignorance,” Castiel says, “I am an omega. I am outside of pack rank. That does not mean I am submissive. It means that if I wanted to, I could make you sit on command, and you would be happy to oblige. You would do well to remember your place.”
The shorter wolf doesn’t say another word, but he doesn’t lower his gaze either. Castiel stares back. The taller wolf smirks at his shoes.
“Sam and Dean Winchester,” Michael says, “Welcome to the pack.”
“Step right up! Shoot out the star, win a prize! Hey, handsome! Why don’t you come win a prize for the pretty redhead?”
Cas looks over at the young carnie and realizes that he’s talking to him.
“She’s my sister.”
“Well, I’m sure your lovely sister would still like a prize, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”
Cas glances over to see Anna ducking her head and blushing.
“Well, she’s actually sort of been a bitch to me today, so I think I’ll pass.”
Anna gasps and punches him in the arm, “Cas!”
“Oh, come on, Cas, I’m sure she’s not that bad. Here, sweetheart.”
The carnie reaches behind the counter of the game booth and pulls out a fake rose.
“For the lady.”
Anna, blushing again, takes the flower and thanks him.
“Well, now she’s gotten a prize so I guess there’s no reason for me to play.”
“Well then how ‘bout winning something for yourself?”
“I’m not really into flowers or stuffed animals.”
“Well how about this then, you win, I’ll give you my number.”
Cas stops avoiding the carnie’s eye and actually looks at him. He’s cute. Beautiful, really. Freckles. Full lips. Green or hazel eyes, Cas can’t really tell in this lighting.
“How much?”
“Three dollars.”
“Cas!” Anna hisses.
Cas ignores her and hands over three bucks. The boy clips up a piece of paper with a star printed in the center.
“Now all you gotta do is shoot until that star is completely gone. Whenever you’re ready.”
Cas picks up the BB gun and starts shooting. He blows out the star with pellets to spare.
The carnie smirks and takes down the paper to inspect it.
“Impressive.”
He pulls out a sharpie, scribbles something on the back, and hands it to Cas.
“Talk to you later, Cas.”
Cas smiles and Anna pulls him away from the booth. It’s not until later, as they’re just about to leave the fair, that Cas thinks to look at the piece of paper.
Dean
The cute carnie with a gun kink
555-3857
Call me
Cas smirks and saves the number in his phone.
I couldn’t think up a witty one-liner for this, so you get a drabble. Congrats.
Upon opening his locker, Castiel immediately spun around to see if he was being watched. People had left notes in his locker before, insults and slurs hastily written on scraps of paper or discarded homework, and at first, he assumed this note was the same. However, when he took a closer look he realized it was not the same kind of note at all. On the back wall of his locker was a post-it note that read,
Your eyes are blue
Your hair is brown
I hope I get to see you around
No signature. The placement of the note suggested that whoever had left it hadn’t just slipped it through the front slots, they had actually gotten into his locker somehow.
Castiel glanced around once more, but there was still no one watching him. With a shiver, he grabbed the note, slammed his locker shut and headed to his next class.
Feel free to picture Dean wearing the hoodie.
You know which one I’m talking about.
The plaque next to the door reads Center for Supportive Care. Dean sighs and knocks on the office door. There’s a pause before a deep voice calls, “Come in.”
The younger man sitting on the couch inside has a strong, stubbly jaw, dark tousled hair which Dean figures is either bed-head or the product of excessive styling, and he has a half-eaten burger in one hand. Dean assumes that this is the therapist’s assistant of some sort.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“Uh, I’m supposed to have an appointment with Dr. Emerson.”
“Oh,” the man quickly shoves the burger back into the fast food bad from whence it came, “I apologize, come in,” he stands and strides across the small room to shake Dean’s hand, “Please call me Castiel.”
“Oh,” Dean raises an eyebrow, “You’re Dr. Emerson.”
“Yes, I am. Please have a seat.”
Dean sits awkwardly on the, admittedly comfortable, couch.
“You’re Dean Winchester.”
Dean smirks, “Yeah. Aren’t you supposed to be wearing an earth-tone sweater and be like 65 or something?”
Castiel blinks at him, “Did someone say I looked like that?”
“Ugh, that damn pillow screwed up my neck.”
Sam glances at said pillow and then back to Baby, “I told you it would be worth it to invest in some real pillows of our own.”
Dean scoffs at him from across the room, sits down behind Baby on the bed, and starts messaging her aching neck, “I am not carrying some memory foam pillow or whatever around wherever we go like some glamper.”
Baby lets her head fall forward and moans, “God, that feels so good.”
Sam smirks from his seat at the tiny motel table, “You know, if you two want the room to yourselves, just let me know.”
Dean glares at Sam, “Don’t listen to him, Baby. He doesn’t understand us.”
Baby hums in agreement and points to another sore spot.
Sam rolls his eyes and goes back to his book.
(via devils-trap)
Dean hates parking garages. Especially since they are creepy and hard to get in and out of and an absolute bitch to park the Impala in. And now he can add ‘full of crazy strangers’ to the list.
There is a tall, incredibly fit, creepily cheerful man who kind of reminds Dean of Wolverine standing where he parked the Impala. Right where he parked the Impala. As in, the Impala is missing.
Sam throws an arm in front of Dean as if sensing his brother’s imminent panic attack and takes a step forward, “Hey there… you okay, man?”
“Sam.”
“Uh… Do I know you?”
Crazy dude just turns to Dean and his creepy smile turns into a full-on creepy, ear-to-ear grin, “Dean.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Dean asks, because he has had enough of this bullshit and he wants to know what this fucker did with his car.
“Dean, it’s me, Baby.”
Dean’s eyes move from the crazy man to the empty parking space, and back again, “What?”
“It’s me,” he repeats, “The Impala.”
……
I may or may not write the rest of this, but right now I need to go eat a muffin. So… my bad, but you’re welcome.
Dean wakes up to his cell phone going off on the nightstand. It is exactly 3 in the morning and Dean only got to sleep at 1. The only thing that keeps him from just flinging his phone against the wall is the possibility that it might be Sam, or Baby, or Cas, or an emergency, or Sam or Baby or Cas having an emergency. His voice is rough with sleep when he answers, ”What do you want?”
An automated voice greets him, “Dean Winchester.”
Dean pauses, waiting for the voice to start selling him life insurance or something, but it says nothing.
“Uh… Yeah?”
“We have your girlfriend Baby.”
Dean is no longer tired. He sits up in bed and reaches under his pillow for his gun.
“If you ever want to see her again, you will not contact the police. We will call again with our demands.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Dean growls, “And if you hurt her in any way, so help me god, it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”
And then Dean Winchester hangs up and throws his phone on his bed.
That awkward moment when you are a powerful archangel and the safest place you can think of is the backseat of the Impala.
Baby was the type of girl who could just make you feel safe.
Of course, she could also threaten your life in a way that would make you start looking up flights to foreign countries, but unless you messed with Dean or me, you didn’t have much to worry about. Baby just had this natural ability to make you feel safe and cosy, like you were sitting in front of a fireplace drinking hot chocolate or something.
Everyone went to Baby with their troubles, even those of us who didn’t like to admit that we had troubles in the first place. She and Dean were practically inseparable, and I even saw her comforting Gabriel a time or two.
I think Gabriel legitimately thought that he was better than his peers. And what do I know, maybe he was, but he annoyed everyone to no end. I used to think that he didn’t actually have real feelings until the day I saw Baby hugging him.
The way he acted all the time, like everyone existed solely for his amusement, had always made him seem tall to me. Of course, I hadn’t gone through my big growth spurt yet, so everyone was tall compared to me. But I remember seeing him in Baby’s arms and realizing just how short he was.
Big attitude, small body.
(via qlionz)
This was in my drafts. This was originally going to be the beginning of All of You, but then I remembered how awful I am at exposition.
Contrary to what one might assume, Deanna Winchester does in fact own makeup, and she knows how to apply it, too. Most of the time she can’t be bothered to make herself up, especially if they’re on a hunt where there’s a chance her face might end up splattered with blood and guts, but occasionally the job calls for it.
She was 15 years old the first time she ever wore makeup. Deanna had tried to convince her dad that she didn’t need a high school education, but John would have none of it. Sam seemed to enjoy middle school, but then again Sammy was a little dweeb who enjoyed learning and writing essays and taking tests. The only good thing about this high school was her gym class, during which the students were encouraged to play soccer or basketball or run around the track or whatever, but as far as Deanna could tell, weren’t actually forced to do anything. This lackadaisical teaching style resulted in most of the class sitting on the bleachers to chat or gossip or flirt or whatever it was normal teenagers did.
Castiel is half asleep beside her, hair mussed even more than usual from their last round of mind-blowing sex, but Deanna is wide awake.
She lets her gaze wander over his still form, memorizing the landmarks of his body one by one, and lets her fingertips trail behind. Cas sighs as she runs her fingers through his hair, shivers when her nails scrape oh-so-lightly across the freckle above his right nipple, and twitches when her fingers hit the hidden tickle spot on his hip.
——————————————————
“What the hell are you wearing?”
Caleb looks down at his black, velvet mini-dress and matching heels, “… A dress?”
(This song is surprisingly addictive. I just had a mini rave in my room. It’s actually kind of hard to type and dance. This is probably completely out of character, but it’s what came out, so whatevs.)
They catch sight of each other across the bar, and Dean can’t help help but think of what a cliche that is. The bar is probably the best lit area of the club besides the bathrooms, but it’s still hard to make out the guy’s features, what with the strobe lights and all. Even so, Dean can tell he’s a looker; dark hair, great jaw line, impeccably dressed. He gets up and walks toward the dance floor, and Dean is mesmerized by the way he moves. He spins on his heel, looks right at Dean, beckons him with a finger, and walks into the crowd.
Dean is on his feet and following in seconds. He looses him somewhere in the mass of dancing bodies, but a hand reaches out to pull him farther into the crowd, and when Dean looks up, he’s smiling back at him. They face each other as a faster song starts and this close Dean can tell he’s beautiful; full lips, bright eyes, stubble. They sway closer and closer together till they’re moving against each other. The song slows down and they meet each other’s eyes, and without further preamble, Dean leans down ever so slightly to kiss him.
He surges up into the kiss, brings one hand up to curl around the back of Dean’s head, and wraps the other around his waist. The beat picks back up and they grind along with it in a way that Dean would usually be embarrassed about, but his mouth, his tongue has him more intoxicated than any of the drinks he had back at the bar. They break apart and he leans up to Dean’s ear in a way that makes him shiver.
“Wanna get out of here?”
Dean smiles and pulls him toward the exit. They step outside and the music fades to just the bass as the door swings shut, but Dean feels like his heart is pumping to the beat. Dean doesn’t want that feeling to stop, so he pulls him in close and kisses him again. One of the bouncers whistles at them and they pull apart.
“I’m Cas, by the way,” he says.
Dean licks his lips, “That’s a weird name.”
Cas smiles, “Tell me about it.”
Dean grins, “I’m Dean.”
“That’s a boring name.”
Dean laughs, “Tell me about it.”
