Hello! My main fandom is Supernatural. My biggest OTPs are Destiel & Sabriel, but I have more. Other fandoms I love are: A Song of Ice and Fire (Game of Thrones), Star Trek, Downton Abbey, Watchmen, Sherlock, et cetera! (Oh by the way, I made this poll after Destiel lost to ships from other fandoms 3 times in a row, haha.)
When Cas falls, he returns to Sam and Dean, a bus ticket in his hands.
He’s dirty, he’s disheveled, he smells.
When he knocks hard on the bunker’s metal gates, it bruises his knuckles, and the speckled patch of color doesn’t disappear. Dean answers the door and, as per usual, looks at him with eyes shining with withheld bitterness and draws in a singular deep breath.
“Can I please stay here?” Cas asks (begs).
Dean sighs and lets him in.
Only if you promise to never leave.
* * *
When Cas falls, Dean finds him standing in the middle of his room every single morning, a look of rapt concentration in his eyes. He clenches and unclenches his fist in a pattern, lips pressed tight before he lets go, tension released, shoulders slumping in defeat.
He tries to jump, swivel around, swing himself in a multitude of ways.
It is only on the fifth morning that Dean realizes Cas is trying to fly.
(I’m sorry, baby bird.)
* * *
When Cas falls, he reaches out to Dean in a haze of confusion, two fingers held together, ring and pinky fingers tucked neatly underneath his thumb. It’s a slow incline up Dean’s features; fingertips gently ghosting over lips and nose and eyes before it gently presses against the skin of his forehead.
Cas smiles bitterly.
* * *
I’m sorry, I’m sorry—he repeats, over and over again, like a child begging for forgiveness—I’m sorry—
“Cas, stop, it’s okay,” Dean urges as he brings himself to his knees, hands cradling Cas, who has stumbled onto the floor, curled up protectively against the wall.
“I’m sorry, I tried Dean,” Cas breathlessly sputters beneath his hands, “I tried, to heal—please—”
“Dammit, it’s okay,” Dean growls now, dipping down to meet Cas’ eyes, “I can bandage myself up just fine—”
“Please let me stay,”
Dean feels his foundations crumble beneath his feet.
I’m useless but—“Please let me stay,”
Dean chokes down his words.
He holds Cas tighter instead.
* * *
When Cas falls, it takes weeks to get him right again.
“So you’re okay now?” Dean asks slowly, his tone cautious, “No more mental breakdowns?”
“Yes.” Cas answers, chin tucked against his chest in sheepish embarrassment, “I apologize for the trouble.”
Dean waves his hand dismissively. “Forget about it.”
“Maybe it’s for the better.” Cas says thoughtfully, and Dean curiously looks up from his lunch.
“You think being human is good?” Dean repeats, as if no statement has ever been more wrong.
“Yes, because now—” I can grow old with you.
Dean looks at him expectantly. “What? Because now what?”
Cas smiles, shaking his head.
“Forget about it.”
hi this is what Cas looked like when he was about to be killed
and this is what he looked like when he got saved
The first kill is surprisingly easy, but Naomi isn’t fooled.
Castiel hesitates. In the way his hand shakes before his blade is buried in Dean Winchester’s chest, the problem manifests, and Naomi is determined to stamp it out.
Puppet number thirty-eight begs for his life.
Castiel weeps silently, and Naomi has to force his blade herself.
The two hundred and thirty second kill has Dean swinging a fist at Castiel’s jaw.
There is no glint of satisfaction, as Naomi hoped, when Castiel slashes his throat.
“You’ll thank me for this,” Naomi promises.
Castiel stares blankly ahead. Around them are towers of the corpse of one man.
Any sympathy Naomi has is brutally suffocated under the memories of miles of burnt out angel wings a would be god left scattered among the spheres of Heaven.
Four hundred clings to Castiel’s coat and whispers something in his ear.
The grip is strong even after death.
Naomi peels back the fingers and watches the arm land with a dull thud.
She wants to rest. Instead, she waves the blood splatter off Castiel’s clothes, leaving him clean and untainted.
“I care that you’re broken,” she whispers tearfully to Castiel’s face. “That’s why I’m fixing you!”
Dean’s head is cradled lifelessly in Castiel’s lap. He tenderly strokes the body’s hair.
Naomi doesn’t think Castiel hears her.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine is almost perfect.
One thousand is relief.
One thousand and one is assurance.
One thousand and two is for the hell of it.