A searchable database of all the fic I've read.For my own reference, but feel free to tag along.
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In the end, they broke each other. And, to be honest, Gabriel had meant to break Sam. At least at first. The Messenger of God and the brother of the soldiers at war, all he’d wanted was to call Sam and Dean to their respective destinies, to get it all over with, to maybe see at least part of the garrison survive the bloodbath. He’d made a living by giving people what was coming to them and the Winchesters were hunters, members of Earth’s band of half-crazed, revenge-driven killers; surely they were the perfect candidates to be used by the very supernatural beings they liked to hunt.
Sometimes, as Gabriel sits in his perfect island home, surrounded by a beautiful fake beach, delicious fake desserts, and gorgeous fake women, Gabriel wishes that he never actually met Sam, never had a chance to talk to him, to watch him in moments of weakness and strength, to see how very different from Lucifer he truly was. The world is ending outside his quiet little home. Dean Winchester withstood and continues to withstand Michael’s attempts to use him as a vessel, but, in standing against his destiny, he forgot everything else he once stood for. And little Castiel, loyal to a fault, followed him into the darkness, hoping to protect the broken human he’d come to care for and, instead, becoming another tragic victim of love in Earth’s long list of sad stories and unhappy endings. And Sam. Sam played his part, just as Gabriel once hoped he would.
“This is stupid,” Gabriel laughs hollowly, closing his eyes as Sam’s lips trail down his throat. When he decided to fly Sam away to his island illusion, he hoped that Sam would be a rough lover, that some sort of animal instinct would be unleashed and reveal Sam’s inner shadows. But Sam is as sweet as ever, worshipping Gabriel instead of just taking him, and Gabriel tries not to let that burn, but it does. Sam is Gabriel’s in this moment, but he is Lucifer’s forever. It is not a spoken rule, but it might as well be written in Gabriel’s bones. And oh fuck, does that burn.
“We’ll find a way. Dean and I. We will,” Sam promises, pulling away to look into Gabriel’s eyes with such a bright intensity that Gabriel swallows convulsively and looks away. It sickens him that he ever tried to break the spirit of this man. It sickens him even more that he almost believes Sam, despite the fact that the future has already been written.
Gabriel isn’t even sure how he spends most of his days. He thinks he fills them with women, éclairs, and wine, but he rarely remembers any of it. Everything he touches seems intangible, like touching beams of light or resting his hand against snow. There are days when he thinks of nothing, when he lets the world outside his little pocket dimension paradise crumble to bits as he basks in conjured sunlight and drinks until he can pretend he feels it. But there are days like today where he can’t help but think of Sam, of what it was like to have Sam in his house and in his bed, like he had in those few short moments before fate called them to attention. He’s grown to resent Lucifer, to hate him maybe, for being able to have Sam. It’s a selfish thought that he drowns in more merlot, but it lingers, the jealousy, the resentment, and, worst of all, the thought that he could have given Sam something different. Not better, maybe. But different.
His teeth are everywhere and Sam finally has to push him back and flip them over before his neck is covered in possessive bites that Dean will surely see.
“I’m yours,” Sam promises, reading the intention behind those insufficient little marks.
“I shouldn’t even ask you for that,” Gabriel says. He wonders sometimes, if Sam would take anyone besides Lucifer, that he’d happily belong to anything that wasn’t the devil, but Sam’s eyes always look so earnest and Gabriel falls far too easily.
“Then be mine back,” Sam suggests, like it’s that simple. At the time, Gabriel thinks it is.
Gabriel doesn’t know if Sam is still alive. He doesn’t know how it’s possible, with Lucifer burning up his insides and consuming his mind. If he’s alive, he’s probably half-mad. Gabriel spoke to Lucifer once, watching his brother’s face – Sam’s face – contort with a cruel smile, easily reading the look in Gabriel’s eyes. ‘Love’ is the word that Lucifer guessed with a quirked eyebrow and Gabriel fled – like always – before he could find out whether or not Sam was still Sam. It shouldn’t matter. This is fate. They were just humans. But Gabriel’s Grace, the part of himself he kept smothered all those years, aches and twists in him, fighting to be acknowledged. But acknowledging it would mean coming to terms with it. And Gabriel can’t. Or he won’t.
Sam’s smile must be one of the wonders of the world. It’s rare, but Gabriel likes to coax it out of him, to watch this conflicted, unfortunate human light up with life and peace.
“That is the worst joke you’ve ever told,” Sam tells him, shaking his head and grinning when Gabriel conjures up another margarita for him to drink, the ocean roaring outside the window.
“Easy on my pride, kiddo. You’re drinking for free, so shut up and pretend to enjoy the show,” Gabriel tells him, and spends the rest of the afternoon telling worse jokes until Sam is groaning, but still smiling, and Gabriel feels content for the first time since he stopped calling Heaven his home. He leans over and kisses him eventually, and they fall back against the couch in a clumsy heap, alcohol on their breath and laughter bubbling up in their throats.
In the end, Gabriel asked Sam to stay there in his imagined paradise. And in the end, Sam obediently walked into Lucifer’s clutches. And Gabriel, broken in a different way, stayed instead.
(via thecorruptedquietone)
BRING HIM BACK
Furious tears well in Dean’s eyes, rage burning within the hot olive eyes as he glares at his father. His knuckles turn white, gripping John’s velvet cape so tightly that his hands cramp up and ache. But the pain isn’t that bad, and nothing like what’s in his heart. No, that’s a whole knew kind of pain, one that doesn’t compare to little things like tripping on a rock or being bucked from a steed or having a sword plunged into the chest. This is something much, much worse.
John snarls, firm hands grasping his son’s wrists, trying to fight him off. He expected some anger from his son—considering the blasphemous things he heard the other night, he isn’t all too surprised—but not something like this. Of this magnitude, of this proportion; it makes him realise that he really exhausted the angels’ stay. Castiel’s in particular; he really went outside his boundaries.
The king can’t get in a word, though, relegated to mere grunts and snorts as his heir lunges at him, crazed and devastated, driven by a maddening force that would make even the strongest of dragon’s a bit skittish. He’s always known of Dean’s power, but he’s never fully realised it until now, now when his violent emotion of upset and ire, now when he lost everything he loved. A voice in the back of John’s mind even questions his decision, even though he knows he did the right thing. (He did, right?)
“Bring him back!” Dean shouts, gruff voice hoarse from yelling, all his cries for the return of his beloved angel echoing in the corridors. Half the castle can probably hear them, but Dean doesn’t care. There’s not much to care about anymore, “Bring him back right now you bastard!”
“Dea—” John attempts to take a swing at Dean, not as an act of malice but as a way to calm him down, but misses, only provoking Dean more. Though he misses Dean’s face, braising Dean’s chest instead, the destructive emotion turns on itself, his son’s hands weakening, too overwhelmed with emotion to stay stable.
Dean keeps spitting out insults, like acidic venom, but all of them start stringing and slurring together, the memories of Castiel—the time they shared, the things he did, the way they felt for each other—blowing more holes in him than any catapult could. His armour clinks as his skin trembles, an involuntary action he damns to every corner of Hell, and soon the fabric of his father’s cloak slips from his fingers. But still, the pleas keep coming.
“Bring him back,” The commands digress to begs, desperate behests unheard of coming from his mouth before now, “Dad, just bring him back…Bring him back…Please…”
John heaves a heavy sigh, partially torn between giving in to his child’s cries, or turning a deaf ear and letting him shriek in his own personal purgatory. And, although it’s hard for him too, John must put the matters of the kingdom first.
“I can’t, Dean,” John tells him, almost soulless when he says it, “It had to be done.”
Before he could face any more of Dean’s abuse, he rips away from the boy, turning and marching down to his chamber. He holds himself high, upholding the regal stance, but his ears still catch the sounds of Dean groaning, of Dean shouting, of Dean nearly shattering to pieces. And as he listens to Dean’s wall crumble and the untamed sobs pour out, he closes his eyes. This is not a good day to be king.
Silence did not hang heavy upon the castle; it drowned all smiles the King passed by in a sea of stewing tension. They bowed in respect as is owed him, but his servant’s eyes hold warmth for their King no longer. Some, to be fair, held curiosity instead of disgust. The ones who glared would not have troubled King John, were they not his most favored subjects. He set his mouth and continued his walk as though he did not notice. John let his feet carry him past the stables, where Joanna had begun saddling a horse. When their eyes met, a snarl erupted on her face. She barely tamped it down to a void, though the mask could not disguise the fury in her eyes. She curtsied, bid him good evening with all the proper titles, and sped her efforts on in case he lingered. She begged his leave to ride, launched herself into the saddle and galloped out in record time, leaving the King staring at the hay scattered in her wake. John eased his clenched hands and took a deep breath.
Turning on his heel, he strode towards his own chambers with the single mind to finish what menial tasks needed be done before he could be free to destroy a practice dummy with his great sword. He hadn’t clearly thought, however, of what might be outside his heir’s door. He stopped at the archway upon catching Sam and Ellen amidst a soft conversation. Ellen had a hand on his arm as he gnawed on his worries with her, both pained as they stood outside the barred door.
“… hasn’t eaten in two days. I’ve tried and tried to get him to come out, if he doesn’t eat soon I’m going to port in.”
“Didn’t he punch you last time you did that, Sam?”
“I don’t care! Let him punch me! I need to know if he’s okay…”
“Give him some time, honey, he’ll-”
“Be perfectly fine.” John gruffed, their gazes snapped to him in alarm. “Don’t you have studies to attend to, Sammy?”
“I finished last night.” Sam’s nostrils flared as his jaw clenched, the cowed tilt of his shoulders evaporating as he squared them at his father. John wished Sam showed such determination when he’d put a practice sword in the boy’s hand.“In that case, I don’t get why you’re mooning outside of his doorway like a lovesick maid, you could be getting practice done with Robert.” John ignored the growing anger on Ellen’s face.
“Bobby’s busy.” Sam growled.
“Then get your ass out of this hallway and get washed for dinner. You can see Dean there.” That gave Sam pause, though it only softened his anger to trepidation.
“What are you gonna do? Dean won’t come out.”
“He’s going to listen to reason or the guards will drag him out.”
Fire flickered in Sam’s eyes, his temper doubling. “You’re so full of it, dad! It’s not even that you sent Cas away, it’s how you did it! Cas deserved better than that! Dean deserved better than that! You’re not thinking about the kingdom, you’re thinking about us obeying you like mindless golems!”
“You petulant-” Sam threw a vial down and disappeared into a spray of sparks, ghosting into Dean’s room judging by the clatter within. John watched his breathing lest he lose his composure in front of Ellen. The woman regarded him over a lifted jaw, her mouth tight as she gauged him. He gave her a steely glance, his own jaw clenching. He dismissed her with a wave, waiting until she had turned to leave to storm away. Half out of checking Sam on telling the truth and half out of hoping for the bastion of a friendship barely younger than his boys, John escaped to the tower library in search of Bobby.
The hope of a warm reception fell out of a tower window and liquefied on the battlements. Bobby snapped the books on the table shut one by one, returning them to their rightful shelves with the meticulous care only reticent anger could afford.“Sire.” He growled by way of greeting, the only resident of the castle who ever got away with such cheek. “What can I do ya for, aside from tellin’ ya to apologize to your son?”
“Bobby, I can’t waver in this, the kingdom is depending on him to take my place, produce an heir, and-“
“And be fuckin’ miserable? Last I checked, severely depressed kings don’t do too well.”
“What are you suggesting? That I just allow it to carry on? That I allow him to tear the kingdom apart with the lack of an heir? You’ve seen what that did to Ventemere, I will not put our people through that.”
“I ain’t sayin’ you didn’t have those interests in mind, but you didn’t exactly yank Dean’s heart out gently.” Bobby peered at him sternly from over his spectacles, his frown disappearing into his beard. John cast his hands out only to set fists on the desk and lean on them.
“Then what would you have me do?”
“The best advice I can give you is this, ‘A king must accept the consequences of his choices, for both his people and himself.’”
John watched him evenly from below furrowed brows, chewing his tongue a few seconds. “I said that.”
“Then maybe it’s time you lived it.” Bobby yanked the last book off the table and ambled out to his chambers, leaving John with no companion save a flickering candle stub.
(via thecorruptedquietone)
by rockstarpeach
Words: 3200
Summary: Sam doesn’t see any reason why he and Dean shouldn’t start having sex. Dean doesn’t agree. Sam doesn’t take rejection well.
by thecouchcarrot
Words: 24,921
Summary: Dean’s busy trying to re-soulify his brother, but Cas needs help. Maybe it’s time Dean gave it to him.
Dean glared indignantly. “I find the term ‘lovebirds’ to be offensive. We prefer to be called ‘sex-falcons.’
by obstinatrix
Words: ~400
Warnings/Summary: MEANNESS. that’s both the warning and the summary.
by wallmakerrelict
Summary: Even though Dean and Cas are settled down with a kid now, Dean still goes hunting sometimes. Cas waits, and worries, and occasionally cleans up after.
by fossarian
Words: 2239Summary: Castiel likes some things Dean isn’t really sure he should.
BRING HIM BACK
Furious tears well in Dean’s eyes, rage burning within the hot olive eyes as he glares at his father. His knuckles turn white, gripping John’s velvet cape so tightly that his hands cramp up and ache. But the pain isn’t that bad, and nothing like what’s in his heart. No, that’s a whole knew kind of pain, one that doesn’t compare to little things like tripping on a rock or being bucked from a steed or having a sword plunged into the chest. This is something much, much worse.
John snarls, firm hands grasping his son’s wrists, trying to fight him off. He expected some anger from his son—considering the blasphemous things he heard the other night, he isn’t all too surprised—but not something like this. Of this magnitude, of this proportion; it makes him realise that he really exhausted the angels’ stay. Castiel’s in particular; he really went outside his boundaries.
The king can’t get in a word, though, relegated to mere grunts and snorts as his heir lunges at him, crazed and devastated, driven by a maddening force that would make even the strongest of dragon’s a bit skittish. He’s always known of Dean’s power, but he’s never fully realised it until now, now when his violent emotion of upset and ire, now when he lost everything he loved. A voice in the back of John’s mind even questions his decision, even though he knows he did the right thing. (He did, right?)
“Bring him back!” Dean shouts, gruff voice hoarse from yelling, all his cries for the return of his beloved angel echoing in the corridors. Half the castle can probably hear them, but Dean doesn’t care. There’s not much to care about anymore, “Bring him back right now you bastard!”
“Dea—” John attempts to take a swing at Dean, not as an act of malice but as a way to calm him down, but misses, only provoking Dean more. Though he misses Dean’s face, braising Dean’s chest instead, the destructive emotion turns on itself, his son’s hands weakening, too overwhelmed with emotion to stay stable.
Dean keeps spitting out insults, like acidic venom, but all of them start stringing and slurring together, the memories of Castiel—the time they shared, the things he did, the way they felt for each other—blowing more holes in him than any catapult could. His armour clinks as his skin trembles, an involuntary action he damns to every corner of Hell, and soon the fabric of his father’s cloak slips from his fingers. But still, the pleas keep coming.
“Bring him back,” The commands digress to begs, desperate behests unheard of coming from his mouth before now, “Dad, just bring him back…Bring him back…Please…”
John heaves a heavy sigh, partially torn between giving in to his child’s cries, or turning a deaf ear and letting him shriek in his own personal purgatory. And, although it’s hard for him too, John must put the matters of the kingdom first.
“I can’t, Dean,” John tells him, almost soulless when he says it, “It had to be done.”
Before he could face any more of Dean’s abuse, he rips away from the boy, turning and marching down to his chamber. He holds himself high, upholding the regal stance, but his ears still catch the sounds of Dean groaning, of Dean shouting, of Dean nearly shattering to pieces. And as he listens to Dean’s wall crumble and the untamed sobs pour out, he closes his eyes. This is not a good day to be king.
Claim: Possessive!Dean for Bee
Warnings: Rough Sex and possibly slight d/s.
When it comes down to it none of this is really Castiel’s fault. The dude’s attractive and occasionally he gets this expression, blue eyes going wide and teeth sinking into his bottom lip, and it’s completely irresistible and the angel doesn’t even do it on purpose. Still, it catches the attention of all those who fall into his path and it pisses Dean off more than he’s willing to admit.
Mine
Prompt: set in S6, Balthazar has been hanging around more and more and Dean does not like it. He likes it even less when they’re say, in a public pace, and Balthazar seems to find perfectly acceptable to come behind Cas and hug him. Hugs that seem to never end. So that’s what I want, lots of Calthazar being oblivous to the world and cuddling.
Note: This is really more or less Calthazar and Destiel because I’m not the best with Calthazar as anything beyond a brother thing. Plus possessive!Dean mmmm. If this doesn’t fit your expectations, a million apologies; I just can’t do straight Calthazar. And jealous!Dean, just, jealous possessive Dean…
Dean doesn’t like Balthazar. At all. From the moment they met, Dean had his suspicions, his doubts, his prejudices. Most of the angels are dicks—see Gabriel, Uriel, Zachariah, and the rest on the ever-expanding list of examples—and Balthazar is definitely one of them. He’s not as bad as the archangel who repeatedly killed him or the one who wiped his brain and made him play rabbit Director of Marketing; but he’s been rising on Dean’s list for some time.
Mostly because Balthazar takes joy hanging around, these days. And for no reason other than to tap dance on Dean’s nerves! His presence is one thing, his sarcasm is another, but the real kicker has to be his interactions with his little brother: chiefly the blatant hugging near-cuddling madness. He has to be doing that on purpose.
The worst part is probably how oblivious Castiel is.
Domesticating
Anon’s prompt: Post-purgatory fic in which Team Free Will lives in a house far away recuperating and reassessing their plans. Sam looks for schools secretly while Castiel and Dean bond over domestic activities.
Dean lived an apple pie life once, that one year with Lisa and Ben that feels so far in the past. Normalcy has always been a curious thing, the idea always tickling his fancy, something about it simultaneously boring him, and then at the end of the day he just can’t make heads or tails of it. Well, at least it was that way living with the Braedens.
Now that he and Castiel broke free from Purgatory—an arduous task that, in the coproate world, equates to enough overtime to deserve a good year long paid vacation—things are a lot different. Sam’s been saying that Crowley’s been on the down-low, and although Dean hates staying put when that slimy King of Hell could be planning another apocalypse, he has to. He’s been put on bed rest, something unheard of in the hunting world, but something Sam made him to agree to. He’s seen enough monsters; he deserves a break.
So he and Castiel—also on taking a forced leave of absence—have been staying at a squatted house, playing normal for the neighbours while Sam manages nearby ditty hunts in the area, repressing any effort of assimilating Dean back into the life of the hunter, and constantly wheedling him into making their feigned domestic act a permanent fix.
Caritas
Sam knows it’s been hard for Castiel. He knows that carrying the burden of Lucifer’s insanity and drowning in the debt of betrayed loved ones is unfathomably brutal. Sam should know after all; the boy with demon blood, the vessel of the Devil, has made his share of big mistakes in the past.
And he was forgiven, blessed with clemency when he needed it most, compassion and mercy granting him a warm usher back into an altered normalcy, and not isolating him with the heaviness of hurt and blame. And even though Castiel’s actions were horrible—both on a biblical and personal scale—Sam came to terms with the wrongs. Sam forgives him.
Castiel’s been popping in and out, rambling on about bees and honey and all the fascinating things he’s seen before vanishing again, off with the wind to explore some more. Sam guesses he comes by more than he lets on, probably watching them at night, too. Not in the creeper sort of way, more in the protective guardian sort of way. That’s what angels are, after all, and that’s why Sam always prays to them. Even after his horrific journey to Hell, he still believes in them, knowing that there’s at least one good one still around.
Castiel doesn’t notice when Sam awakens in the middle of the night, sitting downcast at the table, finger playing with some little buzzing creature in the darkness. Probably a bee friend, Sam thinks as he creeps up from the bed (Dean, as always, insisted on the couch), but his little insect friend doesn’t seem to be cheering him up. He hears Castiel muttering something, but he speaks too low and all his words are too slurred for Sam to catch all of it. He doesn’t like how it sounds, though, and for a minute he starts hearing his own words from long ago ringing in his head, ones of him deserving this ill fate and that he should be left alone to die, undeserving of caritas.
Castiel is so busy repeating words of shame and guilt that he only notices Sam’s presence when two giant arms wrap around him, a firm body pressing against his back and silencing him. Sam feels the angel stiffen in his hold, obviously caught off guard, alarmed by the warmth engulfing him. He looks down, only to watch Castiel slowly look up, blue eyes wide and startled, nonplussed by the affectionate human contact—and from someone he so wronged no less!
“I owed you that,” Sam says with a smile, assuring Castiel with a kindly green gaze that, yes, he’s forgiven him and no, he doesn’t think that he should subject himself to torturous self-loathing. He lightly pats Castiel’s chest, right over his heart, then squeezes him a little tighter, not so much as to hurt him, but not too little as to show he still cares.
Castiel doesn’t react at first, too confused and overwhelmed. His body goes still in the silence. Then, the slightest smile teases at his lips, and Castiel doesn’t even care that the little bee flew out the window. He still has a friend, after all.
For Roo: Happy birthday darling, here’s muzzled Loki smut hollaaa.
NSFW pic + Thor/Loki drabble after the cut
“You haven’t been the same,”
“Excuse me?” Michael looks up, meeting Raphael’s sharp, concerned gaze. The other archangel gazes down at him with latent sadness, all the humour and friendliness sucked out of him. Things in Heaven have changed, have been changing, are still changing. And with all that’s happened, it’s safe to say that Raphael, the one who loves the old ways most, is deeply worried. Especially for the strongest, for Michael, for the brother closest to the latest renegade, Gabriel.
Raphael remains unflinching, unmovable, austere and grave. His expression tells him that Michael can’t play coy, can’t pretend he’s alright; because Raphael knows. He knows that this news struck Michael hard, and if the rumours that Gabriel was last seen speaking to Michael are true, then that makes it all the more worse for him.
“He’ll come back,” Raphael assures him, but as soon as the words leave his mouth, Michael ducks his head, sorrow weighing him down. It’s an unimaginable sadness, one he never asked for, and one his Father must be using as some sort of divine punishment, and never would he wish a man feel such heavy woe, never should he be burdened like this, this with ache and pain and swelling tears.
Well, not real tears, for in Heaven angels cannot cry, but if the archangel could shed them, he would. He would weep a thousand rivers and fill a dozen seas with them, hoping that he may flood the earth and call back Gabriel, who likely stowed away in an ark at the chance. But he cannot, and worse yet, he knows Gabriel cannot. Cannot come back, cannot return, cannot rejoin them in Heaven. He cannot for reasons Michael doesn’t understand, and that just makes him want to weep more.
Raphael kneels down, embracing his brother as a sign of comfort. And as Michael rests near Raphael, he whispers the painful truth to his brother.
“No… he won’t.”
