deercountry | catch all for october

[ The Black Parade, like all parties and general good times, drew Cas's attention immediately. Cellar Door has been converted into a maze of parades and food stalls, confetti and live music, and Cas was all too eager to drag Dean through the seasonal adventure, even despite the repeated warnings from Deerington old hands about how evil October would surely be. This is an event to be experienced, and who knows how long they'll have? No time to waste, and Cas always makes sure he (and Dean, when he's allowed) has a good time.

That good time, at the moment, involves pulling Dean into what could generously be called a clothing store, but given the nature of Cellar Door, the outfits are all generally less clothing and more skin. Cas is grinning as he holds up to Dean's chest a vest that could more accurately be called a corset. He cocks his head appraisingly and hums. ]

It's a start, but definitely not enough of a disguise.

[ Dean obliges, lets Cas drag him out of the house where he's been in a hidey hole of depression - only being able to eat actual garbage wears on a guy - and into the crowded streets of the 'party'. It's more Cas' scene these days than Dean, but he takes the angels hand anyway, unwilling to be separated, following him into the little store with a raised brow, ]

I am not wearing this.

[ Are you kidding, he'd look like the douche from my chemical romance. ]

[ It is a bit of a conundrum, because a drunk Dean is often a black cloud of misery, but eating literal garbage hasn't done sober Dean any favors. Cas would have a little more pity if Dean would just take his advice and get high and stay high. Those apple cores could become potato chips like that.

But here we are, Cas is left trying to cheer Dean up the old fashioned way, literally. And, uh, yes, looking like a porn star's interpretation of Gerard Way is exactly the point. Cas grins. ]

Okay. But, counterpoint: if you want to keep fighting monsters and ghosts for the rest of the month, you need to do it looking nothing like yourself, right? And this... is nothing you'd wear.

[ Flawless logic. Point, set, match. But, regardless of whether the ploy works or not, Cas is obviously enjoying the fantasy while he has it, pushing his hands against the vest, and Dean's chest as it would be molded beneath it, and ogling the cut it makes like he could see right through Dean's shirt to wonderfully tanned skin, already. ]

[ He's a lot more apt to partake in Cas' vices these days than he ever was before before (in The Before, back home, when the need to find the Colt was the only thing that mattered), if not for that exact reason - he's having to eat fucking garbage.

But getting out of the house is good, and while this isn't his style, Cas unfortunately has a point. A really, really good point.

Dean wasn't around for previous October hellscapes - he's only heard about them from the other Deerington veterans, and what he's heard isn't good, at all. He's been told that if you took his apocalypse and multiplied it by a hundred, then maybe he'd be close. No sleep, rivers of blood and bodies, nightmares come to life.

Then again, how is that any different from their new day to day?

He sighs, pushing the vest away. ]

At least pick a color that actually looks good on me.

[ Deer Country is complicated in the same ways Deerington was: it's violent, nightmarish, and surreal enough to feel like a bad trip. But un-reality has never bothered Cas. Nightmares, he has more than one coping method to deal with. And his favorite one is standing right in front of him, acquiescing to Cas's whims in his typical reticent way. Cas could never call this a nightmare, not with Dean here, pliable to his greedy demands for affection, and generously close enough to touch. Cas' eyebrows lift and his tone drops to indignant, but there's no real disappointment in it. ]

I'm sorry; every color looks good on you.

[ Despite the protest, Cas takes back the vest, sets it back on the shelf it came from, and immediately picks up another of a similar style, but blue and black this time, instead of the white and gold from before. It's less striking but no less flattering. ]

"Black and blue" ? Very in your wheelhouse.

[ For real tho, pls take better care of yourself, Dean. You don't need to come home bruised and bleeding from every fight. ]

Funny.

[ It's true, though -- Dean does often come home from nights of hunting here in Trench battered and bruised.

Exhilarated, though. Cas gets to reap a lot of those benefits, that's for sure. ]

You sure red wouldn't be more fitting? [ But he takes it, looks at it with a critical eye, like it's personally offended him on some level (or like he's judging the workmanship, could go either way), before glancing at Cas, lifting a brow. ]

[ Don't tell anyone, because it would ruin his carefully cultured image as the resident slut, but Cas would much rather than Dean managed his hunts unscathed more often, even if it meant losing those extracurricular benefits.

They are very good benefits, though.

And Cas is very funny, thank you. He leans back, thumbing at his lip absently as takes in this new potential look of Dean's. The color really doesn't matter. As soon as it's on Dean, whether it is, even threadbare flannel: it's art. Cas is a very lucky man. And as the one usually dressing himself in blue to match his own eyes, he likes seeing Dean in the color again, for a change. There's something that feels vaguely possessive about it. Cas' lazy grins sharpens a bit at the corners, going toothy. ]

I think a size down might be more fitting. You'll have to try it on to find out.

Edited 2021-10-19 20:00 (UTC)

[ He'll never tell a soul. Cas' slutty reputation will remain intact as long as Dean is around to protect it. ]

You just don't want me to be able to breathe. This looks ridiculous.

[ He's still holding it, looking a little reluctant even as a store associate is pushing him towards the fitting room, go on, try it! It'll look so good on you!

Dean looks at Cas, the smile on his face, too many teeth for a normal smile and maybe he likes that look on Cas' face, the way he feels wanted, needed, and that's what makes him do it, put the ridiculous thing on then bitch that he cant get it hooked properly someone fucking HELP HIM-- ]

[ Sorry, Dean. Now it's two to one, and Cas is still smiling, chin raised with a jealous sort of pride, as Dean's ushered into the dressing room.

This won't be the shopping montage it could've been back in the old aughts. Certainly not with Dean disappointingly sober as he is. So rather than follow Dean into the dressing room and allow himself the kind of inevitable distraction Cellar Door eagerly provides, he peruses the shelves for a pair of pants that might match that vest, and a flowy kind of shirt Dean will hate, possibly solely because Cas favors them. He's perusing a rack of unnecessarily ornate belts when Dean's melodious cursing from the changing room catch his attention.

Cas makes eye contact with the associate and winks at the end of their non-verbal conversation before lazily pushing his way into the stall to aid in Dean's struggling. He leans back against the door and grins rakishly. ]

Hm... If you're complaining that loudly, it definitely isn't tight enough on you.

[ Cas teases, and as he leans past Dean to set the folded shirt and pants on the bench, he drops a mollifying kiss to Dean's shoulder. His hands stay empty for only a moment before he puts them on Dean's hips just below the loose vest and pushes firmly. ]

Turn around, beautiful.

[ He could drink a glass of water and get sloshed, if that excites you more, Cas. And maybe he should, becauses this is the type of thing he'd never put on sober and yet here he is, struggling with hooks and a trying to lace something and frothing at the mouth. ]

I look ridiculous.

[ The kiss pacifies him a little, reaching to briefly slide his fingers through Cas' hair before allowing himself to be turned around. ]

I feel ridiculous.

[ No depressants while you're depressed, Dean bby. Uppers only, which means water is off the table. Even without the fun stuff, though, Dean is compliant, despite his bellyaching, and Cas is so warmed by Dean's indulgence that no matter of whining can put him off. And, of course, the fingers in his hair only encourages him. Cas hums like a cat's purr. ]

You do, and you should feel ridiculous. Denim and combat boots don't do this lovely piece justice at all.

[ The "piece" being the corset? Or fine piece of ass Cas is currently getting up on, unnecessarily close as he guides Dean's hands away from the front clasps and begins pulling them together properly, hook after hook, tucking in Dean's waist. ]

We'll work on that part next.

[ Cas promises, and he grins at Dean through the mirror in front of him while half of the claps are secured. He rests his chin on Dean's shoulder at first, enjoying the reflected sight, but the temptation of the flesh finally wins out, and he presses his mouth against Dean's neck in dry, soft kisses as he hooks the clasps up to the top of the vest, and then down. ]

[ why not :| He hates not being able to drink and eat normal shit, eating literal garbage is driving him absolutely friggin' nuts. It's awful. ]

You aren't helping.

[ He's whining, but it isn't overly heartfelt; Cas' fingers are on him, it makes the junkie angel happy, and Dean isn't going to look a look a gift horse in the mouth. He likes when Cas is happy, even if it's at his own expense. ]

Denim and combat boots are comfortable, [ he points out, but it's half-hearted, tipping his head to allow for the kisses, holding his arms out to let Cas work. ]

This is a torture device. I expect compensation later. In the hot tub.

[ Don't worry; Cas is here to provide a distraction from all of Dean's woes. (Just no kisses on the mouth, garbage breath.) ]

Comfort and beauty rarely get along.

[ Cas agrees with sympathy, though not enough sympathy to keep from hooking the last clasps, and he leans back, mouth dragged along beneath Dean's ear, to get a look at him in the mirror again, now with the vest fit perfectly, showing off those curves and that fine chest. This is what heaven should've been. ]

You look beautiful.

[ Even in jeans, even in nothing, or anything, and Cas doesn't even try to keep the contented adoration from his tone or expression as he tells Dean so. His hands rest idle on Dean's hips for a quiet moment before sliding forward to start unbuttoning his pants. Obviously Dean is completely capable of getting out of them himself, but where's the fun in that? ]

Mm... So, compensation? In the bath? I'm oblivious. Tell me more.

[ Excuse you, it isn't his fault, he hates it, he just wants kisses :( ]

I really wouldn't know.

[ Like, at all. He can appreciate beauty, is aware of the effort it takes for a woman to get all dolled up or for Cas to take a shower, but he himself has never really...done much of that. It's pretty much 'what you see is what you get' with Dean; he doesn't particularly like wearing suits or anything fancy (though those satin panties were really somethin' else), a flannel button down is about the best he can muster these days.

This is tight and uncomfortable but hell even he has to admit he cuts a fine figure, even if he looks like fuckin' Magic Mike with nothing on under it. ]

You know what I mean. You, me, lavender bubbles, nudity required.

[ Well maybe if he didn't eat garbage and instead accepted the zen that comes with being plastered 24/7, he'd get them.

If Dean were more inclined to primping and dressing up as he arguably might've been once, back in olden times, it wouldn't make this encounter any less fun for Cas, but it would make it less meaningful. Dean's obvious reluctance only makes Cas that much more flattered that Dean is willing to do this for him. For Cas amazingly and strangely, of all people.

He feels indebted to Dean, alright. A bath isn't nearly enough compensation, but that doesn't stop Cas from indulging the idea. He chuckles into Dean's neck while unbuckling his belt for him. ]

Nudity? How scandalous. You aren't implying something obscene might happen, are you?

[ The words are emphasized with a tug of Dean's open jeans down, just an inch, lower on his hips and the nip of Cas's teeth against Dean's neck. ]

[ Even back then he'd felt like a seventh grader at his first dance, awkward and out of sorts.

But for Cas, for you, he's allowing this to happen - and he might even wear it. ]

Would I do that? Just who do you think I am, huh Cas?

[ He smirks in the mirror, eyes locking on Cas' blue ones, still feeling silly in the outfit but enjoying the game they're playing, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, reaching to hook his fingers in his waistband near Cas' fingers. ]

[ Might? He's already wearing it. Even if it never leaves this little closet of a dressing room of theirs, Cas still thoroughly appreciates what Dean is doing for him. Especially once what Dean is doing for him is smirking like that and thumbing his own pants further down beneath the V or blue satin. Cas's breath catches, smirk fading a little under the heat of arousal. ]

Ah... You're right. I should apologize for the implication.

[ He demurs, only to spread his hands over Dean's at his hips, drag his thumbs against Dean's wrists and lift up on his toes to whisper against Dean's ear between soft kisses along his jaw. ]

How would you like my apology, Dean? Hm? Right now, with my mouth? Or later, in that bath, with my entire body?

You should apologize. That's a very rude accusation and I won't stand for it.

[ Dean's smirk widens a little, leeeaning back into Cas, tugging his jeans down another fraction of an inch.

Cas, you have no idea how much he loves you. ]

I'm inclined to collect now and later. It's been a while since I've had your mouth on me, and I really like our bathtub.

[Sam had a very strange dream about this awful film of mucus on his hands, of tentacles and eyes that wriggle and stare out from a body-shaped lump. But you know, he's been having a lot of bizarre dreams lately, so... what's one more?

It's not until he goes to bug Dean about something in particular, though, that he realizes maybe it wasn't quite as ridiculous a dream as he'd considered. Cue one frantic, messy-haired teenager rushing into the living room of their cabin, eyes wide with panic and concern as he addresses the older Sam that is trying to enjoy some peace and quiet:]

Dean and Cas are turning into weird sea-slugs!

[It's the closest thing to what is happening that he can get, okay?]

[Sam.. big Sam.. is bent over the coffee table with one hand full of glowing sewer rocks and the other hand keeping reference point in a very large, very old book. He's been working on trying to figure out the fruits of his weird cheese deal but so far no luck. All he really knew was that he couldn't leave something so clearly powerful in the hands of a human brussle sprout.

Then Sam.. little Sam.. comes running in hollering about slugs and Dean and the concentration is ruined. He felt like he was juuust on the cusp of a vision of something but it blows out of his mind like a cross breeze through the window.

So sorry if he snaps a little when he looks up, biting back the knee jerk to say that being a sea slug is Dean's natural state and Sam should let him rest.

Does he look annoyed? He's annoyed. Annoyed and long suffering and so sick of everyone's shit.]

What?

Dean and Cas are weird slugs.

[Be annoyed all you want, Lil' Sam is too busy panicking! Gesturing with his hands wildly, he motions to the room in question. Forget your weird sewer rocks and your stupid book! This is alarming!]

They're, like, laying on the bed covered in this freaky mucus stuff!

Hurry up, dude!

[Mm. Yeah, okay that doesn't sound good. Sounds like a headache.

Sam gives a look before putting down his work and getting to his feet. Lead on, kiddo.]

You just found them like that? Anything else?

Anything else? I hope there's nothing else...!

[He'd like to just focus on one thing at a time, dude. Mainly, that their brother and ex-angel appear to be concerningly covered in dream-boogers, or whatever the hell that's supposed to be. He stops in front of the concerning mass where Dean and Cas should be, looking distressed.]

What do we go?!

Holy sh — I think it just looked at me! Is it looking at us?!

Is this some kind of weird parasite monster?

[HOW DO WE KILL IT]

[They should both be freaking out as they turn the corner. And yet.. Sam doesn't. He doesn't feel... Anything, actually. No deep worry, no fear for the well-being of his family. This is nothing more than an annoyance. Now he's gotta fix whatever this is instead of doing what he wants - and with Dean and Cas out that means he's responsible for his mini me which is not an obligation he wants to be saddled with.

Sam jerks back a hair when the millions of eyes swivel to look at them, hand moving not to pull Sammy behind him to safety but to the knife in his belt. ]

Gross.. Like a fungus, almost.

[He wonders if they will emerge as slaves the way zombie ants are infected. Whether mushrooms will fruit and spores will spread and it will be them next.

That's gonna be a big no from Sam.

Still, he edges closer, knife drawn, until he's close enough to look eye to..eyes. They give a distinct air of do not fucking touch me which he ignores and presses the very tip of Ruby's blade against the schmoo that has engulfed his brother. A sharp pain crashes behind Sam's eyes and he hisses, drawing back to pinch the bridge of his nose as he's taken by a blinding vision of spellwork and good intentions. He sees Dean and Cas as they used to be, as he knew them, and wells with the feeling of metamorphosis. When Sam speaks it's through grit teeth.]

It's okay. Something is happening but it's okay.

Uh, yeah?! You think?

[Fucking gross but also fucking concerning! And yes, he's cursing in his head; this is serious shit, Sam! Just like it's serious when Sam jerks back like he's been electrocuted, and Sammy moves quick to put a steadying arm on his older self's shoulder.]

Dude! Are you alright? What do you mean?!

[A pause.]

... Did you get a vision?

[He nods tightly as he works to release the pressure behind his eyes. It's painful and annoying.]

It's been happening a lot.

You've been having visions and you didn't tell me?

[He isn't sure what to be stressed about right now, honestly, because everything is stressful. He looks to Dean and Cas, looks to Sam, and says miserably:]

What're we supposed to do with them? Can't we break them out?

What'd your vision even tell you?

[This is met with such candid obviousness that he has never even considered telling his younger self about the visions. Genuinely, why would he? Poor kid, Sam's lack of give a fuck is a particularly jagged blade against his throat.]

That we shouldn't try to break them out. Whatever is happening, it's supposed to.

If we attack that thing it's going to attack us back.

[Well, if it makes you feel any better, Soulless Sam, Sammy hasn't exactly been that forthcoming with his own weird visions. But his is more, um. Shame and fear than anything? They haven't exactly had a good track record with being 'freaks' in the family.]

Ugh. Then we just sit here and do nothing?

How long does it take?

[He's leaning in closer, and he's not gonna lie... the urge to prod them with something stick-like is strong.]

[Go on, try it. He wants to see what will happen and is more than happy for Sammy to get attacked by a bloody tentacle instead of him.]

No idea.

I guess this is what they get for jacking off together.

I'm gonna get a beer, you want one?

[Sorry, wait. Hold up. Hold on. Excuse him. Just a second.

He's having a confusing crisis over here while you're being casual about this.]

Dude, we don't need gay jokes right now, this is serious!

[Sorry, he's just going to assume you're being offensively 90's right now.]

[lol. Okay that was funny tho.

He is not himself, Sammy. That guy who made a point of keeping you focused when things went bad. Who took the brunt of the Hunter's funeral as they buried their Waste selves. Who torched his car in quarantine for Cas and Dean after they almost died going looking for you. Who spent every minute of every day in Deerington trying to corral you crazy endverse bastards from repeatedly flinging yourselves off a cliff like lemmings and failed over and over again- all while avoiding the rest of town because every time they saw him they were reminded of Lucifer or confused for you and treated like a murderer.

Nah.. nah, he hasn't been that guy for a while now. And maybe he's glad. What a relief.

Sam pauses for a beat before furrowing his brow and pointing towards the hall.]

...

So.. that's a no on the beer?

Edited 2021-11-14 20:16 (UTC)

[Okay.

... Okay.

Dean and Cas are unconscious, and Sam is — this. And for a moment, he's a little at a loss, but something's been bothering him that he can finally just say:]

What's wrong with you?

There's something off with you. Like, really badly off. You're not acting right.

[We're gonna just do a quick turn toward this topic, right here, right now.]

[Hahaha denied.]

What. [Flat. It's just a beer why you gotta be like this.]

Nothing is wrong with me. We can't do anything and it's no going to do anyone good to sit here clutching our pearls. So we may as well do something else.

But I mean, fine. If you wanna sit here and boohoo about it then that's your business, kid.

Something is wrong with you. I don't know if something in Trench did it or what, but...!

[He bristles as he steps forward — still too small for his age, but there's a few inches in height gained — hands fists at his sides.]

But you'd never act like this. We'd never act like this!

[Man alive he just does not know what to fuckin' do with you.

Sam bristles a little, tick in his jaw flaring as his temper flashes but he holds it back. Sammy is squaring up on him and is he thinking about answering that? Absolutely.

There's something acid on his tongue, vitriol stacked in his throat waiting to tear this kid apart. But god it's just so much effort and if Dean and Cas do resurface that's a fight Sam doesn't really feel like having. He needs Dean's help, so. His hands are kinda tied on really giving a piece of his mind.]

You're really gonna stand there and tell me how we should be? You?

[He gives a piercing, critical, appraisal and gesture. The me that failed? The me that couldn't make right with Dean and took Lucifer like a bitch for years and still couldn't finish the job? The me that wasn't strong enough? Good enough? Brought Lucifer with you into the last, fresh new Hell and probably here, too? Too soft. Too emotional, too soulful. Wimpy, pathetic piece of gawky teenage shit can't do shit-- you? Seriously?

He scoffs]

Truth is? I don't really give a shit what you think.

You know, you really need to toughen up if you're gonna survive because they might not come back. And then it's just you.

[Sam doesn't let himself fall into guilt or misery, not right now, not this time; instead he steps up with a glower and holds steady against his older self. This is important. Something's up, and he's not gonna let his festering regret change the fact that this needs to be said.]

That's exactly what's wrong. You do give a shit! Or at least you did. You're not the Sam that went with me to get Dean and Cas back. You're something different. What happened to you, is the question!

'Cus you're a major dick, and I'm gonna have to assume the town did something to you that needs to get fixed ASAP.

[ First on the agenda was reassuring Sam (and Sam) that they were both alive and okay, in a manner of speaking. Dean's heart was beating and Castiel's grace was doing what it does, sparking wildly beneath the tight constrains of human skin, and that was... invigorating. Fascinating. And strange, given the memories Cas had of Zachariah's manipulation of time, and Sodder's, and also whatever place Trench is, and how he'd reunited with all of them here.

It was an overlay of memories and overlapping realities that feels like how Castiel imagines human dreams must be like. No, not imagines, but knows because he's been human, for years, and he knows too well what strange, human dreams are like.

But he and Dean (and the bed they'd... shared for some uncountable amount of days) were filthy with a strange slimy sort of membrane, and though Cas could clean them with a touch, he doesn't mention it. Instead, he watches Dean walk into the bathroom, and instead excuses himself from the room and the presence of the Winchesters, stepping sideways into the space where he's wholly angelic and finding his wings there waiting for him.

It's not a long flight, from the bedroom to the greenhouse, but it's a meaningful one. He's never flown in Trench before, but he never fully lost his grace back home. He has no idea what happened exactly, only that it must be some sort of consequence for the spell they'd tried in a foolish attempt to retrieve Sam's soul from a world Castiel, in stepping back into, now realizes has too strong a hold on Sam for even a seraph to wrestle him out of. An archangel, maybe...

There's a stone seat beneath the wooden bench that Cas has only ever rested his feet on, but he sits on it now, cleaned of filth during the flight, in pensive thought with his eyes down and his hands quietly clasped between his knees. "Painfully sober," he thinks reflexively, and almost smiles. It's been a very strange dream. ]

[ It was like waking up from a vivid fever dream; something that only a sickness addled mind could come up. He hadn't just gone forward in time, he'd been that Dean, felt his fear and apprehension, his anger and rage and righteous fury. It scares him, the man he becomes, the man he was -- how much of that residual tar is leftover? How much of that taint is still smeared over his soul, black and marring, the wounds just as real to Dean as they were to him?

He spends too long in the bathroom staring in the mirror, trying to figure out just who he really is, Dean or Dean, parsing through memories, picking through the disjointedness of a combined reality.

The room tips around him and his heart stutters in his chest, squeezing as memories tip him back into a bonfire lit night, twinkle lights and Maurice Williams and Norah Jones, Cas in his arms under the fading Deerington sky.

God, he's gonna be sick. Is it terrible of him to miss that, to miss who he was - who he thought he was? Maybe...that end was the bad one, the one filled with chaos and destruction and addiction but God...

He already aches for what he had. What's that say about him?

When Dean comes back out of the bedroom, drying his hands on a towel, it's empty, and his heart sinks a little more, further down towards the basement and beyond, to the pit of Trench itself. He's not sure if he should seek the angel out of give him time, but Dean's rarely had any sense of self preservation or second thought to his own mental health, so he goes to look for the angel, well aware that whatever the conversation holds will likely shatter him further.

That's fine.

It doesn't take long to find him in the greenhouse, the little burning pot bush crackling merrily in the corner as Dean pushes the door open but doesn't advance any further. ]

Hey.

[ Though Castiel knows he should be glad he was rescued from an abysmal fate, he's conflicted. There's a bitter sense of mourning for what he lost with the return of his grace, and guilt that such a feeling even exists when, objectively, the outcome he calls reality is the better one. They averted the apocalypse, imprisoned both Lucifer and Michael, and they... Well, carried on. Castiel should feel proud. Hopeful, inspired, healed, and whole. Instead he feels... lost. All the time Castiel spends searching for answers is ultimately fruitless. He's never experienced anything like this before and can't think of anyone else who has, whose example would give him guidance. He feels distressingly alone in this.

And then the door of the greenhouse opens, and Dean is standing there. Castiel's breath catches and he stands reflexively, stiff with awkward concern and limbs that no longer feel loose and easily commanded like he remembers they did, dreamlike, in this very greenhouse, as he wrapped them around Dean's shoulders. ]

Hello, Dean.

[ Dean is clean, Castiel notices. He smells like lavender and clean skin, and Castiel is ashamed by the scent and his own dream-like former existence. He looks away, sightlessly, through the frosted glass windows. ]

I'm sorry. There must have been something in the spell that I handled improperly to... transport us through time, the way that it did.

[ Arms around Dean's shoulders, legs around his waist, panted breathes and breathy prayers. The number of times they rocked the foundations of this little structure flashes in his eyes and Dean looks away, drops his eyes to the ground, wondering if all the work they'd done in here - together, separately, entwined in each others arms and side by side potting - will go to waste. ]

Well..this is what we wanted, isn't it?

[ He kneels in front of a little plant; some kind of vegetable, something like an eggplant, and touches the leaves. He's pretty sure angel Cas isn't the gardening type. ]

More of the same.

[ Maybe they didn't get Sam's soul, but he guesses at least they got this.

And maybe it's petty, flinging Cas' words at him but they'd hurt in the car, and it hurts now. Cas just...left. Flew away, barely a goodbye.

Maybe he's a little bitter, maybe he's just numb. Maybe he'll push himself up and brush past the angel and help himself to some of that burning pot plant. ]

[ The words are intentionally barbed, and Castiel turns to look at Dean, sadly. He considers telling him that he knew that Dean would never be happy without Sam, and that he tried to get him back, but the failure there, brought here, sticks in his throat, and he can't bring himself to admit it any more than he can bring himself to admit how much he misses Dean right now, standing a frustratingly appropriate distance away from him. A normal, good life with Lisa and Ben, Bobby and Sam, is what Dean deserves. Castiel looks up at him, determined. ]

We'll find some other way to fix Sam, and to return to the time and place we belong.

[ It may be a thin promise, but what else does Castiel have to give but promises, arcane knowledge, and the occasional use of brute force? He's still in Dean's service, at his beck and call. That isn't something that will ever change, and so Cas tries, like breathing around a shard of glass, to accept it as enough. ]

Why? Why go back? There's just copies of ourselves back there, going through the motions anyway, right?

I'm...good here. Or at least, I was.

[ Until they screwed up the spell and messed everything up and now everything is a mess and Dean is having trouble not just grabbing Cas up, because that's what he's used to, it's what he knows, what he's been doing for months, now.

Everything has shifted now, though, away from that and son of a bitch, he aches for what he had. ]

Are you going to stay here? In the cabin, with us? Or are you gonna flutter off and leave, like you did back home?

[ The truth is, Castiel isn't sure what this place is, or what he, and all the others here, actually are. They may just be copies of themselves, or vice versa. Without knowing what the Pthumerians are capable of, it's impossible for Castiel to say if this world is real or a figment of a collective imagination. Still, his instinct is to argue with Dean, because there are reasons to go back, regardless. There's Heaven to put back in order, Sam's soul to rescue, and for Dean, there's Lisa. Castiel's eyes narrow, but he stays quiet. There's too much he doesn't understand about this place or Dean's feelings.

Was he really good here? Was that, what they were here before, really good at all when it just felt like shameless self-indulgence at the dead end of life? It's frustrating, and confusing, and for all Castiel remembers being human, and what that felt like, he's conflicted now by a clear mind and petty logic. This isn't Dean's home, and he needs to go back to it. They all do.

Another barbed comment of Dean's breaks Castiel from his musing. He has an answer for this question, at least, though he's sure Dean won't like to hear it. ]

There's no Heaven here in need of my aid, but I'm still an angel, Dean. My grace has been restored. I don't need to eat, or to sleep, or to bathe...

[ There's no reason to do any of those things with Dean, anymore. Before, Cas yearned for his grace, and now he longs for the comfort that came with human inelegance. And he knows how Dean feels about his privacy, especially while sleeping, where inhuman beings like him are concerned. Castiel's expression is apologetically sad. ]

So that's...that's it. After all that, after all that--

[ He takes a steadying breath, trying to ground himself, the anger and betrayal and hurt and fury rising like bile in his throat, the nausea sudden and all encompassing. The little greenhouse feels too hot, too confined - beads on his forehead and Dean feels like he's about to crawl out of his skin, heart hammering, clawing at his ribcage.

It's the beginning of a panic attack, but he doesn't recognize it as such. He's too busy fighting with memories that both are and aren't his, grappling with what's real, what isn't, what's in front of him, and what he's lost.

Because I'm in love with you.

I love you.

They repeat in his head, a mantra for someone else, a man that isn't him, not anymore, and he hates that asshole with everything under the sun because he had something pure and precious and clearly...

fake. ]

It really didn't mean anything to you, did it. You just clung to me because I was all you had. You know what -- fine. Leave. If you don't wanna be here, then I damn sure don't want you here.

[ Even if Castiel didn't have a strangely empathetic blood running through him now, it's easy to see Dean's anger and anxiety building, and it's... painful, to see him like that when, if there's one thing Castiel wants more than anything, it's for Dean to have the peace he deserves. This is the opposite, and that Castiel has caused Dean to suffer again is endlessly frustrating, but he doesn't understand why, what he's doing wrong, when that... the "that" Dean refers to seems so at odds to the norm of their relationship before Sam said yes to Lucifer.

Castiel is mystified. But Dean's conclusions are so wildly wrong that Castiel can't help but be riled to action. He stands, takes a halting step towards Dean, but ultimately stops himself from closing the distance any more than that. There's glass between them again, now, and Castiel hates it, but he doesn't know how to break through, though he tries with desperation in his eyes and vehemence to his voice. ]

Dean... I do want to be here, with you. Our time together, before, meant everything to me.

[ It was a dream, a beautifully flawed, perfect life that Castiel can't even put words to. Only poetry or a deep kiss could express the depths of his gratitude and love, but he feels undeserving of either. Those are human creations, and he's far removed from either, now. He's a universe trapped in a mason jar, in a dimension apart from humanity. He looks away. ]

I just don't see why you would want me, now, to stay.

Yeah, I'm sure it did. You being so damn ready to leave, that's super convincing, Cas.

[ He balls his hands into fists, clenches his jaw. He doesn't like to be lied to, and he especially doesn't like it when Cas does it. His heart thumps in his chest, an angry thrum. He feels dangerously close to losing control of his emotions, and rather than let Cas see it - Cas the angel, the one he's used to, or...thinks he's used to - he turns his back, glances at the door. ]

Then you don't know me very well at all, do you.

[ Obviously Castiel has misstepped, and telling Dean the truth only resulted in Dean closing off further and getting angrier. Dean says that Castiel doesn't know him very well at all— him, the angel who held the broken shards of this man's soul in his hands and assembled it back together piece by piece like a stained glass window, the holes between the colored glass filled with liquid gold. Something deep and residual inside of Cas laughs full and loud, but the sound doesn't reach Castiel's lungs; it just echoes hollowly through his chest.

Because... Dean is right. Castiel doesn't know Dean at all. He doesn't know what that "I'm in love with you" means to him now, or how Dean could possibly expect him to be the person he was before when he isn't a person anymore. It's more than frustrating; it's heartbreaking. Castiel's voice is small and resigned. ]

If that's how you feel...

[ Instinct tells him that he's unwelcomed, and he should go. The feeling is shivery and ethereal. "So damn ready to leave," Dean has said, though the opposite is true. Never. Castiel knows now, painfully, that he would give up his grace to stay with Dean and have what they had, before. It's a horribly selfish thought. What would God say? Well, Castiel already knows. "Cursed is the one who trusts in man, who draws strength from mere flesh and whose heart turns away from the Lord." Dean is living temptation, and for what? He deserves better than the desolate, draining waste that Cas, graceless, became.

His wings startle the stale air of the greenhouse with an unnatural breeze, and with the sound of feathers cutting through air, he's gone. ]

catch all for october

@ infractus, one more for the road

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

this is like playing chicken with content warnings HOW MANY TAGS CAN WE GO

lmaaaooo i was just thinking that like hmm...how much farther...can we go

cw: this is clearly a platonic relationship; not every smut tag between them needs to be sexual

cw: it's innocent and wholesome idk what you mean

cw: exactly, anyone who sees this thread as smut is looking too deeply into it

cw: they're good boys who would never fuck in a dressing room

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

backdated to the tail end of october

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject