k-vichan reblogged
k-vichan reblogged
@k-vichan – much belated, but it’s done!
Summary:
A near-death experience on a case isn’t enough to stop Dean from diving back in to make sure Cas is ok.
k-vichan replied to your post: Prompt Me 50, Destiel :3
lake, call, face,track, grind,shelter,
- Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
- Additional Tags: Vignette, Near Death Experiences, Nobody Dies, I promise
- Words: 130
Holy butts I don't wanna spoil this for anyone but you got like 17 of my favorite fic things into 1300 words and HOW DID YOU DO THAT
k-vichan reblogged
assimilation
coda to 12..01 Keep Calm and Carry On – 6k~ mary-centric deancas; cw for homophobia in that Mary quite literally has been plucked from the AIDS crisis and dropped into 2016
In Mary’s defense, she does knock.
Since they got back to bunker a little after midnight and Dean was so tired he could barely park the Impala straight in its bay, they resolved themselves to beer, frozen pizza, and a couple hours of sleep before they resume the search for Sam. Mary had the beer and frozen pizza, at least; she’s too keyed-up to sleep, the bunker blinking and humming around her with technology and with the details of the last thirty-three years. It was overwhelming. She didn’t know where to start, so she started somewhere familiar – with Dallas.
The only problem is, she can’t figure out how to get from one episode to another, and the more frantically she taps at the little square which apparently substitutes for a mouse now, the further she ends up into weird flashing screens telling her that she’s won nine million dollars. So she goes to Dean. And she does knock.
From inside Dean’s bedroom, there is an answering grunt, a groggy yeah?
Mary opens the door, says, “Dean, I can’t get the computer to–” and then realises she is looking not at Dean, but at the angel, sleepily lifting himself from a tangle of sheets. Propping himself up on his elbows, chest bare, blinking at her. His hair is a mess, sticking up tufty. There are two dark, swollen marks on his collarbone.
“Mary,” he says, his voice low and rough. “I was just–”
Then Dean is there, suddenly, diving between them, and he snatches at the door, slams it closed. He stands with his back pressed to the door and he stares at her. “Mom,” he says. He is wearing a worn grey bathrobe and a mortified expression. Even in the dimly lit hallway, the colour chasing up from his jaw and throat is obvious. “You – I was – I was in the bathroom – what are you–”
She is still more or less frozen, her eyebrows raised. She says, “I won nine million dollars.”