Do What Feels Good

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My friend cymbalism and I had a hankering for some Dean/Castiel shower smut, so we wrote some. Like, 12K+ words worth. What can I say? We had way too much fun. Hope you get a kick out of it, too.

Title: Do What Feels Good
Authors: catchclaw & cymbalism
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Castiel learns to love alone time in the shower. And then he learns to share. 
Warnings: Prolonged showers may cause skin to prune. Also, human!Cas, autoerotica, tattoo worship, and uber-indulgent fangirl fantasy. And PWP like whoa.
Word Count: ~12.5k
Notes: Inspired by [x]. Egged on by [x]. And [x] didn’t hurt, either.
FicMix: Story soundtrack / our smut-writing playlist extraordinaire.

[Read it on AO3]

Come Spring

tumblr_l9k4raCh1J1qclbsno1_500My parents live about 4 hours away from me, and to get to them, to the town I grew up in, I tend to take the backroads, that kind wind through a handful of counties that are littered with little towns, places with not much more than a stoplight. Driving back to my house last Thanksgiving, key pieces of what would become this story came to me in chunks: the opening lines, for instance; then passing by a tractor dealership strung up in Christmas lights; then seeing a little cafe tucked in at a railroad crossing.

A long way of saying: sometimes, stories sneak up on you. And then take months and months to make any damn sense.

Objectively, he can see that his brother isn’t beautiful. Not like this, stretched out like some humanoid starfish, his hair in his eyes and his mouth a drawbridge open to sleep. No, Sam looks like a naked frat boy who passed out in his little brother’s bed, legs knotted in Spiderman sheets and feet almost touching the floor. He looks oversized, too big for the everyday world they’ve wound up in; but then, he’s always been too much for Dean.

Continue reading “Come Spring”

All The Ways This Is Gonna Go Wrong

A Destiel college AU drabble that I posted back in March on my tumblr; one I liked well enough, in retrospect, to archive over here.

I’ll overthink it, like I always do. Hell, I think I already have if I’m writing this shit down. All the ways this is gonna go wrong.

Like:

I’ll plan really careful what to say and when, and then something random will happen–you’ll snort popcorn up your nose, or I’ll hit a pedestrian, or the bar will be too crowded after the movie and we’ll have to go someplace else. Except it’ll be Friday and every bar will be slammed with undergrads and you’ll get quiet and I’ll get pissed and we won’t go anywhere, fine, and you won’t even let me drive you home. You’ll insist on walking, ok, only like four blocks, but still, it’ll be enough to convince me that you’re out trolling for a soriority chick, like the last girl you were with in that LDR that you’ve brought up more than once just so I know that you’re not looking for a serious thing but that you’re free to fuck whoever you want, no strings but plenty of baggage. And then I’ll drive home with the radio off and scowl and slam the door a little harder than I should and wake up fucking Sam, who’ll interrogate me outta the goodness of his heart and his sympathy will make me want to punch a wall, which of course I can’t because then you’d see the scars on Monday in class and say:

Oh. Dean. Are you ok?

Continue reading “All The Ways This Is Gonna Go Wrong”

Television for Women

I’ve been sick for the last few days and, for me, something about being sick screams bad TV movies and tea. So one night in a Vicks Vapor Rub huff, I wrote this, some post-season eight Destiel bunker fluff.

His first month in the bunker, Cas won’t stop watching Lifetime. Television for women, the promos proclaim, but Cas doesn’t seem to care.

At first, they think it’s because he’s lost the remote. but then he starts name-checking Meredith Baxter Birney at the dinner table. Lynda Carter and Jaclyn Smith. Heather Locklear and Tori Spelling and that’s a little weird, sure. Earns him an eyebrow over the green beans but hey, you know, whatever.

Continue reading “Television for Women”

Free From Faults

So my friend DarkCaustic and I started writing together well on a month ago, and next thing you know, we had 15,000 words of romantic smut to show for it.

In this story, you’ve got DarkCaustic on Sam, me on Cas, and oh, how we wish that were so.

So. If Dean’s going to leave Sam for an angel of the Lord—which he didn’t even believe in two years ago—he should at least have the decency to tell Sam to his face. And the high-end flirting routine Dean and Cas are staging in front of him right now? So does not count.

Continue reading “Free From Faults”

Here’s Truth

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Ok, so I posted this story briefly last weekend and then freaked the fuck out about it and took the thing down. But a kind friend read it, unruffled my feathers, and encouraged me nicely to get a grip and post it again.

Here’s the deal: this story’s a Western AU for Supernatural, one that begins at the end of episode 6.18, “Frontierland.” I’m fond of it. It’s different. I hope you dig it, too.

This is Part I of III, I think.

The sheriff of Sunrise knows that something in his head ain’t right. That he don’t quite fit in, where he’s at, even if he’s not sure why. He stands out a little, sure. But then, so does the town doctor—a man who seems determined to run Sheriff outta Sunrise once and for goddamn all.

I.

 When the dust settled, the sheriff was alone.

Six-shooter, sure. Dead Phoenix at his feet. Ok. But no Sam, no fucking clue as to why watching the clock on the courthouse strike twelve felt final, once and for all.

He waited there in the street for a while. Alone, only by rights, because the rest of the town was still terrified: of him, of the thing he’d just smoked, of each other.

He stood stock still, yelling his brother’s name like it was the only word he could remember. Hell, at that point, maybe it was.

His head felt cloudy, like a June day with a storm that wouldn’t break. Like something was wrong. Like he was.

But he couldn’t remember why.

There was just Sunrise. An afternoon in April in the year of Our Lord 18 and 61.

“Well, shit,” he whispered finally, all shouted out at last.

And that was the smartest damn thing he said all day.

**

Continue reading “Here’s Truth”

salud

for my friend makingfists, via booze: a little new year’s destiel fluff.

they’re supposed to go out, to sam’s, but cas has a cold.

won’t admit it, of course. just pads around all day looking miserable and pulling tissues from his sleeves like a freaking old man. curls up on the couch in dean’s ratty sweater and watches home shopping network on mute.

but he’s fine.

“i’m fine,” he whines every time dean touches his forehead. “dean. leave me alone. i’m fine.”

dean rolls his eyes and feeds cas popsicles—“i don’t like the grape ones, dean”—and tries not to wince every time he coughs.

cas finally passes out around 10 with the cat in his lap and dean sneaks out to the kitchen to call sam, to cancel. “yeah,” dean says, soft. “i’m sorry, dude. but drink some champagne for me, yeah? ok. i’ll tell him. thanks. and hey, good luck popping sarah’s cork tonight, sport.” he hangs up while sam’s still swearing and smirks his way back to the couch.

they stay there all evening: dean’s fingers on cas’ neck, slow; the cat shooting dean looks from cas’ lap like: “can’t you see i’m working here, human?”; cas snoring hoarse and drooling on a pillow.

and maybe dean sleeps a little there, too.

he wakes up just after one disoriented and dry-mouthed to see cas’ face in his, his weight sweet heavy full in dean’s lap and those blue blue eyes that dean would know in any darkness staring right down to his soul.

“um,” cas scratches. “dean. happy new year.”

and dean grins and leans up for his kiss because that’s what’s supposed to happen now, right? but cas just leans back and pushes a glass of—what? orange juice? into his hand.

clinks his cup into dean’s and says: “salud.”

they drink and dean laughs and catches cas’ face with his free hand.

“baby,” he breathes. “cas. happy new year.”

cas’ kisses taste like nyquil and tea and they’re sweeter than any champagne.

King For A Day

balthatzar is all kinds of awesome

Merry Christmas, all. Have a little Destiel from Balthazar’s perspective. 

Against his better judgement, Balthazar agrees to spend Christmas with Cas, Dean, Sam, and Gabriel. It is, to his surprise, not entirely unpleasant.

Christmas with humanity is, to be frank, a drag.

But I’ve had centuries, nay, millennia, to hone my avoidance techniques.

It’s gotten to the point, in fact, where I manage to very nearly forget about Christmas until the very last minute, leaving me to suffer for only a day or two when certain of the more flexible humans I know are “celebrating” with their families, which I know they enjoy not a jot. But still, they go every year and leave me bored enough to try skiing or draft beer or sex in the missionary position and really, life is too bloody short for any of that.

So it was with great trepidation that I accepted Cas’ invitation to “celebrate” the “holidays” with he and his favorite pets: the short one Cas was in love with, for some reason, and the gangly one who’d been banging a demon, which frankly put him head and shoulders above the other one, in my book, but, alas. There’s no accounting for taste. Continue reading “King For A Day”

who is it that’s left to be saved?

this is a weird way of dealing with what happened in connecticut, i know. but it’s the only way i can, right now. so forgive me.

dean wakes up and the bed’s empty.

ok.

not weird.

but he hears somebody crying, somewhere, and that is.

he strongarms his robe and pads out of the bedroom. foggy.

oh. the tv’s on.

he stumbles to the den, sees the blue light flickering over cas’ face.

“cas,” he grits. “dude. what’re you doing?”

cas doesn’t look at him, exactly, and it’s kind of funny for a moment, that picture. cas’ face all rumpled and slack with sleep, his eyes locked on the screen. on some dumb infomercial, no doubt. he loves those stupid things.

so dean takes a step in, grinning. looks a little closer.

listens.

cas. he’s crying.

all of dean’s 3 am fumbles fall away and he beelines for the couch. grabs cas. pulls him tight against his chest.

and that’s when he knows it’s bad, because cas doesn’t fight back. just goes, face wet ripped in dean’s neck.

“sweetheart,” dean says. “what is it? what’s wrong?”

cas fists dean’s robe tighter and shakes. doesn’t answer.

lets the tv speaks for him.

it’s the middle of the night, for christ’s sake, so there can’t be any updates, anything new to report. and yet CNN’s still spinning, still turning in circles on B-roll, still pretending they know anything. can even get close to why.

whatever cas is watching, it has to be a rerun. a repeat of no-news that’s come before, because the sky’s still light behind the anchor who has the grace to be grayfaced and shocked.

they keep showing that one picture, the one of a jagged line of little kids joined hand-to-shoulder. some open-mouthed. some weeping. some stunned. all of them young. so fucking young, dean thinks.

he knocks his cheek into cas’ hair and strokes his back.

“i told you not to watch this,” he says, his throat a little tight. “baby. you can’t do this to yourself. they won’t know anything for like days, ok, and they’ll just keep repeating all this shit until they do.”

cas’ hand snakes under his robe, his shirt. finds his heart.

“i don’t understand,” cas rattles. “this was not demons. or angels. it was a human, dean. why would someone do this?”

on the screen, there’s a cop gesturing in front of a forest of microphones. his face set, his eyes hard, and for a moment dean can see what that cop must have seen. must have had to look at, hard, so he could go out and not tell reporters what it was really like.

he wouldn’t have had permission to look away, that cop.

dean’s stared death in the face more than once. had to meet his eye. but this guy—and all the official-looking people around him—it feels like they’ve seen worse, in that school. little kids shot up. torn. lost for good, no second chances. no deals. no takebacks. no more.

you can’t save everyone, the world keeps telling him. cas has. sam.

but he’s lucky. he’s still got them both.

his fingers find the remote and he shuts that shit down. stretches back and pulls cas along with him, his hand still over dean’s heart.

it’s quiet. cas’ shoulders sag and his body goes pliant in dean’s arms.

dean closes his eyes and tries not to see the cop’s face.

“sometimes,” cas says, soft. “i wonder if humanity deserved to be saved.”

and that’s when dean knows it’s bad. because he can’t bring himself to disagree.