Can you tell I am in love with “What has eight tentacles, and isn’t allowed to eat pie?” YEs you can tell. This was a warm up that turned drawing to put in my portfolio that turned… octopuses. Oh well.
You can find the fic from the amazing Annie D here (X)
My final request: from @happihufflepuff- “Imagine Sam and Eileen’s kid only liking being held by Eileen. She cannot STAND being held by Sam or Dean. Sometimes even Dean looking at her will send her into a fit. Sometimes Cas stops by and the baby is okay with being held by Cas which of course makes Mr. Moose very jealous.”
A/N: A new series!! Also this is my first time submitting a fic to @spnfanficpond, since joining it! I hope you guys like it!
Words: 1011
Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy, Castiel, Charlie Winchester (OC)
Pairings: Sam Winchester x Eileen Leahy, Dean Winchester x Castiel
Warnings: fluff, Sam being an unsure father, secret Destiel, angst if you squint, canon divergence
Sam remembered when his daughter was born. Named after a certain red-headed hunter, Sam saw the fierceness in her eyes and resolved that nothing, nothing would ever keep him from protecting his daughter.
“What’s her name?” asked the nurse as the baby was lowered into Eileen’s arms.
To be fair, Dean is on the lookout for Cas and Cas is just on the lookout for anyone. Anyone on the Strip who’s misbehaving, acting out or just trying to make their way on the Strip in a, well, less than conventional fashion.
Dean does feel a little bit lucky though, leaning against Cas’ parked cruiser (he knows it’s his, he’s memorized the ID like his own phone number), as Cas rounds the corner in his tan uniform absent any detainees. It means they can be alone.
Stepping on the last of his cigarette, Dean stays where he is, perched on the front hood of the police cruiser, he’s drawing attention he knows, cos yeah, this is pretty ballzy, but luckily no one’s seen fit to try and mimic him.
Cas parked in a pretty secluded spot as far as the Strip goes.
The moment Cas sees him is kinda comical. He actually takes a step back. Dean fixes a flirty grin on his face, well it sort of comes unbidden at this point, the sight of Cas alone is enough to stir something up in Dean. Something…unprofessional. Dean knows fully well what he is and isn’t saying.
Cas comes over to him, a storm rolling. Dean slides off the hood but still leans against it.
Try and avoid me now fucker. He thinks with a smile. “Heya Cas.”
“For fuckssake, Dean.”
It’s practically a growl. Dean feels his smile widen. “Almost didn’t recognize you without the Wonder Twins.”
“I—” Cas begins, voice raised, but he looks around to see they’ve drawn some curious eyes he glares at Dean, lowers his voice. “Mx Johnson and Alfie are filming at the station tonight.”
“Admit it, you like your little entourage,” says Dean. “They’re gonna be sticking around awhile then huh?”
Cas doesn’t answer him. “Dean, go home,” He steps to Dean. “I am not in the mood.”
Dean huffs. Doesn’t back down. He meets Cas eye and…sees how tired the other man is. The line beneath his eyes having smoothed out to bags, the flat moue of his mouth is more chapped than normal, when Cas looks at him, he doesn’t meet his eyes, staring off to the side of Dean, over his shoulder.
“Cas—”
“Go home.” Cas side steps Dean entirely, opens up the door to his cruiser. Dean acts, reacts on instinct.
“But Officer! What if I’m out here—” He leans in close. Too close to be misconstrued as anything but murmuring in Castiel’s ear. Breath hot on the side of his face, the curve of his jaw, making it clear all at once, that this is an invitation. “Selling my body?”
Cas’ eyes flash, this ground is familiar between the now, almost in a semi-sick way, playful. He straightens, Dean steps back. Cas tugs on the hem of his shirt, Dean presses back a little against the cruiser, arches one brow.
Cas closes the door as he rounds on Dean.
Dean’s not quite sure what it says about him or specifically them that without even behind asked, Dean digs in his pockets for his wallet, ID and sosh and sets it all out on the hood.
Cas goes through his wallet roughly, not even bothering to check out Dean’s identification. “Are you hooking tonight?”
It’s not a serious question. Dean grins. “C’mon Cas, you know me better than that.”
“Yes, I know you enough not to give me a straight answer.”
Dean hums a low note as Cas turns to him. “Mmm, true.”
Cas’ eyes run up him and Dean actually feels it. A gentle hand, calloused probably, a part of Dean wonders if he would feel it, sliding down his arm, down his side, skirting across his stomach, fingers low. Course Cas wouldn’t do that, not now not here no matter that every time Dean looks at him he gets the impression the other man might want to. Certainly himself, he wants Cas to. But just, with this—with them.
It’s hard.
Shut up not like that.
It’s…complicated.
“Please,” Cas says lowly. “Stand up straight.”
Dean shifts his weight a little, from leaning against the cruiser to leaning on one hip. He watches Cas, pointedly now, not looking at him, but again just looking down at his wallet, nothing much in there, his cards, money, a photo of Mom, Sam and Jess, some condoms.
It’s not an incriminating amount, Dean actually forgot those one were in there, probably out of date, shit. Dean learnt his lesson as a rookie about keeping his kit in his wallet. But still, they’re nothing more than what a normal red-blooded American with a dick would carry about.
The string sitting in Dean’s pocket is less easy to explain away.
So is the shit-ton of money.
Double shit.
Cas looks at the few condoms a little harder, a little longer than he should, Dean thanks about cracking a joke, never seen a cock sock Cas? But what comes out instead is a little more sincere.
“So, you feeling better?”
Cas’ expression is blank. “Pardon?”
Dean knows fully well what he is and isn’t saying.
“The other day,” he finds himself going on. “I popped by for Krissy, you seemed…sort of stressed?”
Cas loses a little of the colour to his face, the Strip lights, a neon kaleidoscope, washing him out.
Part 17/24: Lachesism noun 1. the desire to be struck by disaster;
to survive a plane crash, or to lose everything in a fire
Castiel does a lot of driving over the next two weeks. Up
and down, east and west, criss-crossing backroads and highways and never
staying still for more than a few hours. He’s not using a map, not heading in
any particular direction. It’s almost as if he’s letting the road itself lead him,
and he follows the bends and curves and turns almost mindlessly. Delaware,
Ohio, Alabama, California; he checks different states off a mental list, seeing
their fields and mountains but registering absolutely nothing. He gives Kansas
a wide berth.
Some nights he stays at motels, others he simply pulls over
on a deserted stretch and climbs into the backseat to sleep. He changes cars
every few days, and he only uses cash, pilfered from the bunker’s emergency
supply before he left.
Castiel is quite certain his evasive efforts have been
sufficient, but he’s still anxious, looking over his shoulder wherever he goes.
There’s a nagging piece of him that fears facing Sam and Dean, after all the
damage he’s done and the pain he’s caused. He fears being found.
There’s another piece of him that’s desperate for it.
Dean has been working at Bobby’s auto shop since dropping out of high school. He needed money for Sam’s tuition, but the kid is all grown up with a fancy house and a wife, and at this point, Dean is feeling left behind and in a total rut.
Everyone is worried about him; the guy wakes up at 5am, gets into work by 6, then spends the whole day working before going home, microwaving himself a TV dinner, and conking out in front of the boob tube. He’s stopped passing by the Roadhouse. He’s stopped going to Charlie’s game nights. He’s lucky if he feels up to watching porn before falling face first onto his mattress.
The only silver lining Dean sees in his fantastically empty life is the fact that his 84 year-old neighbour finally moves into a retirement home, putting an end to all the complaints about how loud Dean walks in his apartment.
Enter Castiel. Castiel is a travel blogger who recently decided to settle down close to his family. He’s thirty-six, vibrant, and ready to be the best Uncle ever to his twin’s newly arrived baby. He takes shifts at an independent bookstore while trying to find work as a journalist.
He also has little to no boundaries, so when he sees some guy in his building come home with a veritable stack of Lean Cuisine meals, he makes note of where the poor bastard lives and ding dong ditches a tupperware of pad see ew.
It smells so goddamn good Dean eats the whole thing.
This continues for a good couple of weeks before Dean manages to catch the hot dude keeping him properly fed. At which point, he rudely asks the guy if he can make anything other than weird-ass ethnic food. When hot guy raises a brow, Dean clears his throat and, blushing, asks him over for an all-american meal.
This kicks off a series of dates-that-are-not-dates which mostly involve hanging out and eating good food and watching movies. It turns out that Dean really likes to cook, and it turns out that all of Cas’s ethnic recipes are authentic.
Dean really likes listening to Castiel talk, and Cas, for some reason, seems to enjoy Dean’s lame stories, too. Cas, it turns out, is actually amazing for Dean. He pushes him to become an engineer. They go out to fancy restaurants, and go to the movies, and go on weekend road trips just because they can.
It’s on one of these road trips that Dean kisses Cas: just fresh from brushing his teeth, backlit by shitty motel lighting and wearing cookie monster boxer briefs.
Summary: Cas loves working on the Impala whenever she comes to his shop, no matter the questions he has about the owner.
warnings: Mechanic!Cas, implied as normal verse besides the fact that Cas is a mechanic, flirting, Destiel
word count: ~1425
Cas hears her before he sees her, the rumbling of the engine distinct and beautiful. He loves when she comes to visit, always making sure that it’s him on her case and not one of his employees. He wipes his hands on a spare towel, one that’s already covered in grease and probably doesn’t do much to help his hands get clean, but whatever. He pulls himself away from the (comparatively very boring) 2009 Jetta and walks toward the open garage door.
There she comes, turning carefully into the drive. Her grill is dirty, the wheel wells caked with mud. She’s not a car that should go off-roading, but it seems that’s what’s happened lately.
Cas figures something happened to the undercarriage, starts thinking back through everything he knows about the beauty.
The 1967 Chevrolet Impala comes to a stop just a few feet in front of him, the equally handsome driver giving a half smile through the window. He cuts the engine, the air around them becoming much quieter without the roar of the engine sounding.
The door squeaks as the driver gets out, but Cas knows better than to oil it. Gives her character, the driver has said. Character is something this car could never be rid of, but Cas has left the squeaky door alone.
“Heya, Cas,” he says, shutting the door. “Been a while.”
Karate, SPN Demonic Octopus Guardian 