*slowly rolls off bed and under it*
don’t touch me till season 9
Cas randomly starts to cry because he’s not used to the weight of full human emotions and Dean wraps his arms around Cas, hugging him tight, comforting
“Shh, it’s okay Cas. I know. I’ve got you. It’s okay, angel.” which only makes Cas cry harder
“But I’m not an angel anymore, Dean!” he sobs
Dean kisses his forehead and just squeezes him tighter, “You’ll always be my angel.”
When Dean gets back to his room, there’s a plastic bag on his bed. It contains a six pack of beer (one bottle is missing), some beef jerky, two copies of Busty Asian Beauties, a pack of toilet paper and a note.
All the note says is, “They were out of pie,” and there’s a dash and the letter C. Dean flips the note over for additional information, but there is none. He crumples it up and starts to toss the note toward the trash can, but he thinks better of it and unfolds the note carefully. He tucks it into his wallet and takes the beer and jerky into the kitchen.
Cas is in his room when he returns, sitting on the bed. On the bedside table are two plates, each with a slice of pie and a fork. One plate looks like it’s blueberry pie and the other one is apple.
“Cas, what the hell…”
“I’m sorry, Dean, I meant to be back sooner, but pie has proven to be difficult to be found around here.” Cas stands up and gestures to the plates. “Take your pick.”
“Cas? This is…. this is really weird.”
“Hey Cas did it hurt when you fell down from heaven?” Dean snickers, and then bites down into his burger.
Sam rolls his eyes. “Dean, seriously?”
“What, it lightens the mood, man.”
Cas raised one brow before leaning forward. “How about you?”
Dean looks back at him in mid-chew.
“Did it hurt when you clawed your way out from hell?”
Sam jumps from his seat, a fist in the air.
Title card for Season 9 plays.
“I can’t see you anymore,” Cas says one day.
Dean looks at him askance and flips the burger patties on the grill. “Come again?” he asks.
Cas sits on the barstool at the counter, hands folded on the polished granite and eyes downcast. It’s been two weeks since the “greatest meteor shower of the century” shook the planet – that’s what all the news broadcasts are calling it, and the world’s top meteorologists are in a tizzy trying to explain it – and one week since Dean got a call from an unknown number, heard raspy uneven breathing on the other end and knew, inexplicably, that it was Cas. One week since Dean drove out to Pontiac Illinois – and why the fuck does Cas keep popping back in Pontiac?– and picked up his fallen angel, dirt caked on his overcoat and embedded in the tear tracks on his cheeks, and bundled him in the front seat with the blankets he’d shoved in the trunk.
One week since Sam and Dean undertook the impossible task of teaching Castiel how to live, instead of exist.
“Your soul,” comes the answer almost a full minute later. Cas’ voice breaks. “I can’t see your soul.”
angels, they’re falling
please the first time Dean kisses Cas he thinks it’s going to be all soft and slow and it is until Cas snaps from surprised to really fucking into it and the next thing Dean knows, he’s pressed up against a wall and he’s vaguely reminded of seeing Cas do the same thing to Meg and that kind of gets him a little angry, a little jealous and he meets Cas stroke for stroke with tongue and teeth, neither one realizing that they’re peeling the other out of their clothes until it’s skin on skin, jeans against slacks, belt buckles digging into stomachs.
And this thing between them has been building for too many years to stop now just because of a couple of pairs of pants and the underwear beneath. Dean doesn’t expect the hands under his ass that lift him off the ground, manhandled like he’s never been by anything human and fuck if that doesn’t make his blood sear through his goddamn veins.
Those very same hands that gripped him tight and raised him from perdition, lifting him now with fingers under his thighs, coercing him to wrap his legs around hips he never knew were that slim. And it’s rough. He’s going to have a friction burn on his back form the wall, stubble burn on his chin and lips from the kisses, and jean burn on his thighs where they’re dry humping like no tomorrow and he doesn’t fucking care.
Neither one of them cares.
Not when they’re too far gone to kiss, panting hard against each other’s mouths with murmured gasped, moaned “Cas-” “Dean…” until one of them comes first - and it’s Cas. A choked off noise on his lips, face pressed to the curve of Dean’s shoulder and if Dean feels teeth in his skin he doesn’t care about that either.
And Cas doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t stop rolling his hips against his until Dean is coming in his jeans too - like he hasn’t done since he was in high school. They don’t care about it even when Cas drops to his knees and Dean ends up half in his lap, half sitting on the floor and they don’t say anything about it - there’s nothing to say - when they pick themselves up nobody-knows-how-long later to shuck off the last of their clothes and Dean takes Cas’s hand, drags him to the shower for wet, lasting kisses against cool tiles with exploring hands and mouths.
I do not think you understand how much I need Castiel wearing Dean’s clothes next season. Ripped jeans hanging low on slim hips; ratty old concert tees that are slightly too small for Dean, but fit Cas like a glove, and plaid button downs that are just a bit too big, but Cas wears because they’re soft and smell like Dean.
okay so i thought the end angel falling scene of supernatural was really haunting so i cut the audio out and let me tell you its beautiful