It happens in the grocery store.
Dean is trying to find fish for Sam, since the goddamn son of a bitch likes his omega threes - the sort that aren’t the transformer - and almost rips Dean a new one every time he returns with beef. He and Cas are standing in…
happy birthday shristi! <3
“It’s been a while,” Dean tells him, and takes another sip from his beer bottle, his third of the night. There’s a ring of condensation left behind on the wooden countertop, and Cas reaches out a finger, traces through it, smears the water away.
“Yes it has,” he agrees. “Four years.” His own beer is chill in his hand, and he grips it tighter, tries to block out the sound of the laughter around them, the cheers of those watching the game on the television in the corner. “You closed the gates of hell,” he says, and Dean nods.
“About a year ago, yeah. Killed Metatron myself.” He waits a beat. There’s a cheer from the crowds watching the game—some goal scored, some play called. “Surprised to see you’re here,” Dean says at last. “Thought you’d head back up.”
sometimes i think about the college au where cas takes his girlfriend meg home for thanksgiving break
“In My Father’s House…”: A Supernatural/House of Leaves crossover
Author: Stammering Elocution
Pairings: None (gen)
Word count: ~10,000
Spoilers: Many for House of Leaves; minor…
A story from the first world. From the days of Christianity and Innovation. When the paved roads were still unbuckled and the cars still ran. From the days of faith. And stars in the sky.
A fairytale, if you will. Or a fable. Since there’s probably a lesson to be learned.
Once there was a man whose job it was to save the world. He was the second kind of martyr. Not like Jesus, who the stories say died for the world. It was this guy’s job to keep living for it.
He must have been murdered ten or twelve times. But his feet kept coming back to the crust and the dirt. And he kept walking those paved roads and climbing those impossible mountains. He kept nailing himself up on those metaphorical crosses, and throwing himself in front of beasts and buses, and every time he did, the angels brought him back.
He was a bad dude, this guy; the second kind of martyr. His heart was all carbonized and black. And he liked killing.
He was a martyr of the kind of world that had bombs and guns and kids dying homeless in stone cities like giant graveyards.
Anyway, an angel fell in love with him. And that was sort of the beginning of the end.
There was this disease that coal miners got in the first world. It was called black lung. They went down into those unlit shafts of damp and shadow, and the coal dust and the black mold got into their lungs and coated them in filth. And then their lungs started dying before their bodies did, turning gray and hard. They rotted from the inside out.
That’s what this angel’s love was like. He fell down into that black carbon heart and the rot got inside him.
The thing about a rotted love is that it still feels like a good love. Like a right love. So this angel, he thought he was doing good. When he worked together with this man, he thought he was stomping out evil and purifying the world and Heaven together.
This angel became the second kind of God. Not like Yahweh, who made the world in seven days and sat back to watch it spin. It was this God’s job to set things on fire.
Maybe that’s an extreme way of saying it. Maybe it wasn’t his job. But that’s what he did.
Sometime in the twenty first century, the man went missing. Him and his killing, black heart walked south, down into the desert and no one ever heard from him again. And he must have eaten his own soul and digested it or something, because he never ended up in Heaven or Hell. He was just gone.
That poor, love-sick God came down looking for his martyr. And when he couldn’t find him. He burned the world down.
Okay, so I lied. It’s not really a fairytale.
It’s just history.
But my little girl, she asked me the other day why the all the trees are red and the skies black like coal dust. And I didn’t want to tell her: ”Baby girl, the world is still burning down.”
So I told it to her like a love story. And then I put her to bed.
“So, you ready for this? Cas and Charlie’s Excellent Adventure?”
Chapter One: Homeward Bound [The Pillow ‘Verse]
Pairings/Characters: Castiel, OCs
Count: ~3,050 words
Summary: Lights are still tumbling from the sky, days later.
the fic where castiel wants to take an overseas trip to an angel crash site in southeast asia, and of course the winchester are coming with, if only to keep cas from being tagged a suspicious character at the airport — you’ve got only the bird’s eye view of this world, man, you can’t just do what you want anymore, do you even have a passport — and the flight they catch experiences turbulence. sam’s okay, but dean’s afraid of flying, and to castiel the lurch of freefall feels too much like falling. it’s only long after things are smooth again that they realize they’ve been gripping each other tight.
men of letters bunker OF LEAVES
‘cos the place is magically warded and maybe over the years the magic began to ferment and uncoil, and it grows wild, like weeds. by the time dean and sam found the bunker, perhaps it has already been corrupted by all that untended power bending the world to itself. dean could’ve sworn there was a door here. dean could’ve sworn the hallway wasn’t this long yesterday.
what’s that noise? this bunker is old, so it’s probably rats. it’s probably rust making the pipes creak. definitely. it’s not a growl. it doesn’t sound hungry. it doesn’t follow sam into his dreams. right? maybe.
“what’s in the room at the end of the hall?” cas asks one day.
“some kind of study,” dean says. he and sam keep meaning to clean it, but they put it off because the dust keeps making him sneeze.
cas says, “i mean the room after that.”
“there’s no room after that.”
there was no room after that. there is now.
the room must be very big. they know this because all they see is darkness. the light spilling in from the hallway doesn’t illuminate anything at all. it’s not that sam hears the growl, but he feels like he is hearing its aftermath: dead silence.
“after you,” sam says.
cas says, “i’ll get the flashlights.”
“how did we miss this?” dean wonders, but maybe it’s not that they missed it. maybe it’s just been waiting for the right time.
Dean didn’t even know the bunker had a gym for the first few weeks. Sam, of course, had found it right away and once he’d recovered from his illness, he’d started working out faithfully. Dean, on the other hand, still only had a vague idea of the gym’s location—he’d never bothered to memorize the circuitous route there, through the various dark corridors and sub-basements, since he never planned to use the damn thing. Exercise was for suckers. Hunting was good enough for him.
But here he is now, wandering the wilderness of dusty stairwells and long halls of mysteriously numbered doors, all because Sam had assured him that Cas was in the gym. Dean has no idea what Cas might be doing there. But he has to stop Sam from exerting any more influence over Cas, because if both of them start nagging him about health shit, that will be the end of him.