Wᴇ ʜɪᴅᴇ ᴏᴜʀ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴs Uɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ sᴜʀғᴀᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴇɴᴅ ( closed )

[righteously]

WHO: Various!
WHERE: The Aerie
WHEN: July 2512 (November 2020)
WHAT: Consolidated Event Threads
NOTES OR WARNINGS: extreme violence, angst, adult language, potentially explicit content.

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D̷E̷A̷N̷

[righteously]

t̷i̷m̷e̷l̷i̷n̷e̷

[righteously]

→ asking out cas
→ getting caught by stephen
→ sponsorship conversation with blake
→ killing lance
→ nighttime quarry arena bonding with Cas

→ asking out cas

[unwings]

[ six feet of flannel and smirks is hard to miss, and cas spots him crossing the room, colors bright against the stark white backdrop of everything inside the Company offices.

Passing by Sam’s workstation, it becomes clear where he’s headed, and Cas drops his eyes back down to the scrawled equations and formulas in front of him, letting out a softly huffed, quiet laugh for the man’s audacity. He’s working, Dean, what are you doing. Ignore that there’s a small smile on his lips anyway, that’s what the ducked head is making a half-assed attempt to hide.

Scribbling away at a notepad, Cas has a pencil tucked behind his ear and a different one in his hand being used, because he forgot about the one behind his ear. It happens. Dean saunters up and Cas flickers the briefest glance up at him, but doesn’t stop with his scribbling. ]

Don’t you have work to be doing, Dean? [ Cas asks the steno pad in front of him, ] The hydraulics on the sector 4 platform need repairs.

[righteously]

[ See? Right there, prime example -- the pencil behind his ear that he definitely forgot considering there's a pencil in his hand -- that's the kind of adorable crap Dean's a sucker for. He's, like, sixty percent sure Castiel is hiding a smile in that otherwise impressive mask, so Dean hits him with one of his own. ]

Mornin', Cas.

[ Cheerfully greeted, as though he didn't just get called out on not working.

When he slows to a stop at Castiel's workstation, his hands automatically find whatever fidget toy, stress ball, or interesting something Cas has on it. He's a tactile person, with a clearly liberal view of personal property. ]

See, the thing is... I was thinking, man am I ready for my company-approved mandatory hour long lunch break.

[ No way he's leading anywhere with that. ]

And then I was thinking... you know who else probably likes eating food? Cas. Maybe that guy has a company-approved mandatory hour long lunch break, too.

[unwings]

[ dean's grabbing at things that don't belong to him, like a child full of restless energy, and cas watches from the edge of his vision while dean commandeers his favorite knick knack - a rubik’s cube-esque little puzzle box, something he occupies himself with when he hits a wall with a problem. Now, dean’s fondling the thing and cas’s eyes catch on his fingers gliding over the toy, distracted with thoughts about work hewn calluses, mechanic dexterity. he's a tactile, physical personality, and there's something both appealing and apt about dean working with his hands, crafting and molding complex machines with them.

it’s a cute, endearing kind of nonsense, the way he rambles on, and his voice has an easy, smooth drawl to it that worms in around all the parts of cas that want to be stubborn and standoffish and laser focused on work. the beaming smile and bright eyes don't help, so he does his best not to look at either of those, not if he wants to stay on task. ]

Fair conclusion.

[ admitted absently. yes, he does have a company-approved mandatory hour long lunch break, and clearly dean wants to combine those breaks, but what’s the point in connecting the dots for him? ]

Like most all employees, and humans, I do require sustenance to live. [ cas confirms mildly, turning his attention from the notepad to his computer. dean winchester has a talent for distraction, and for cas, who'd always prided himself in his focus and efficiency, it's both infuriating and intriguing. dean's something he simply can't ignore. ] Is this a new revelation you’ve stumbled on?

[ finally, his eyes turn back on dean’s, brows arched expectantly, with a hint of amusement, as a hand reaches to snatch his puzzle box back. that's not yours, stop touching it, you manbaby. ]

[righteously]

[ The puzzle box goes with a momentary pout on Dean's part, an unvoiced I was playing with that protest that doesn't manifest past the two seconds it exists in his feelings.

No worries, Cas has tons of other shit on his desk so he'll just pluck something else out, not even remotely dissuaded. ]

See, humans yes. But here I was this whole time thinkin' you were an angel.

[ Smooth, right? It's a cheesy line, and it's delivered with an expression that makes it clear he knows exactly how cheesy it is. The self-mockery's part of his appeal, he's told.

But he's not done yet. ]

And I asked myself, 'Self, what in the hell would an angel even eat?' And then it hit me.

[ Pause for dramatic effect. ]

Angel food cake. They're serving it in the fancy cafeteria I'm not supposed to know about. Grab your coat, let's see how it stacks up.

[unwings]

[ and there goes cas's pencil sharpener. there is no winning.

except, dean calls him an angel, and it's such high praise, cas is left blinking dumbly. sure, it's cheesy, and that part pulls an involuntary scoff of a laugh, let out through the first genuine smile that gets past his mask. okay, fucker, you got him with that one. ]

An angel. Really? Here, building death traps?

[ doesn't feel very angelic, but somehow dean doesn't see that stain on him. he's successfully drawn cas's attention away from his work. angel food cake, he says, and cas presses his lips in a line to avoid the encroaching smile.

it's unfair how charming this level self-deprecating cheese is, and cas angles his eyes back to his computer screen - less towards the open programs, more towards the small clock in the bottom corner. it is about lunch time. and yet - ]

I'm in the middle of a project, Dean, I can't drop everything just because you want to wax poetic about deserts.

[ but he wants to. cas would absolutely love to listen to this ridiculous man ramble sweet nonsense about snack cakes at him. it's absurd how much he wants to. ]

[righteously]

[ Death was an angel too, Cas. They're warriors, read the bible.

Doesn't matter, that laugh-scoff keeps the smile on his face, it's pure encouragement, he'll take it. ]

Perfect, so it's settled. Dinner. What time am I picking you up?

[ Because that's what that means right? What he heard wasn't no, it was a whole bunch of not no. His whole... body language vibe is not no. Dean's pretty good at reading people. ]

[unwings]

[ and now they've jumped from company mandated lunch to nebulously timed dinner fast enough to give cas whiplash. ]

What? I never said—

[ how has this happened to him. why has this happened to him. how does an establishment as strictly governed and organized as the Company keep an employee that's the embodiment of social chaos. cas huffs, shaking his head at the audacity of this offensively attractive problem of a human being, and attempting a put-upon frown. ]

Following a conversation with you is exhausting. [ cas reaches out to snatch his pencil sharpener back too, tapping it back down in it's proper, assigned space on his desk resolutely. ] Quarry's soon. I'm probably working late tonight.

[ which is still not no, but it isn't a yes yet either. ]

[righteously]

Alright, alright.

[ His hands come up in a gentle surrender, and it's accompanied by the shake of his head. You can only push so much before it starts to get creepy. He'll back off, and he'll gently return Cas's pencil sharpener where he found it. ]

You win this round.

[ That doesn't stop him from gently pointing. ]

But five bucks says I'm gonna get you to fall in love with me before all's said and done. Just watch.

Jᴇsᴜs Cʜʀɪsᴛ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ sᴀᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏɴɪɢʜᴛ

[righteously]

'𝐶𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑖𝑓 𝑤𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑜𝑤𝑛
𝑊𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑖𝑡 𝑜𝑢𝑡

[ The screwed up thing about it is that Dean didn't even really know. Dean isn't a Kestrel, he's not part of that whole rebellion, he doesn't even have any goddamn idea Cas is working with them until like a day before this whole thing goes down, tops. Maybe he loosely supports their whole goal, their whole philosophy, sure, sounds great — but he's a realist. He's got nothing that propels him to hope, nothing and nobody he feels like he has to step up to the plate and fight for. Nothing in him believes that they'll ever actually pull off real change.

And then there's Cas, the goddamn idiot who thinks he can make a difference, apparently. Frustrated as he is when he finds out — and he is, he's furious for different reasons than Cas might ever know — deep down a part of him admires the hell out of the guy for it. Maybe even loves him a little for it, but now's not the time.

And apparently it never will be.

They know somebody's stealing plans, charts, diagrams. They know somebody's distributing information to the rebels, and they know it's happening in their department. Now, thanks to the quaint little tracking chip attached to one of the USB drives, they know where it is. Namely, Dean's apartment. As soon as they crack that bitch open it flairs to life, and he's never had this particular brand of icy, sinking dread before.

It takes him about two of the four minutes they have to recover and come up with a plan. Not enough to explain it, not enough to actually assess his decision and figure out whether or not it's stupid.

They're going with it. ]

Shut the hell up and listen to me.

[ Sorry, Cas. If you were hoping to take the reins on this one you're getting shot down without a second thought. ]

Whatever I say, you go with it, you understand me? You keep your goddamn mouth shut, and you let me do what I need to do. If you screw this up you're not gonna be fixing it for me, you're just gonna make sure we both go down. I'm not watching that happen again after Benny.

[ And after his mom. It's not an exaggeration to say that he'd rather die than see someone else he cares about fall in the quarry.

He has enough time to plant a rough, inelegant kiss on Cas's mouth before the Shrikes kick down his front door. Dean paints a convincing picture to the grunts that mean to arrest someone, but they're wildly taken aback by Castiel's presence in an apartment in this shitty sector. It's easy to sell a lie by throwing out shit like:

I was using you, you poor dumb bastard, or how in the hell could you think I'd ever really want a rich asshole like you?

He's got them sold, he knows it as soon as they slowly descend on Dean alone with their cuffs. It would've worked, he thinks, it really would have worked if it weren't for the mind-reading douchebag that swept in to fuck it all up. ]

[unwings]

[ he's so stupid. so goddamn stupid.

when cas started down this path, dean was just some sweet infatuation - a charming, dork of a man with a brilliant smile and sharp mind and gentle disposition underneath all the terse roughness. that was before angel food cakes and evenings curled up together on his couch, cas tracing the lines in dean's palm absently while talking low about hopes, dreams, douchebags who wear sunglasses indoors, and the merits of impractical action films. before he kissed him and it felt like floating on air, like he didn't really know what a kiss was supposed to be before dean winchester. cas was willing to pay the cost of rebellion himself, but he never thought the price would be dean. what an idiot he'd been.

dean's rattling off commands and he wants to refute, shove back, refuse to accept this sacrifice, but it all happens so fast. his head's spinning and cas barely has a moment to plead with him — ] No, Dean, please, you can't—

[ and then their lips crash together and cas realizes, with sudden horror, it may be the last kiss they ever have, hands gripping at the front of his shirt, desperate to keep him close. it's futile. the shrikes crack the door in and before cas has time to make a move to supersede, dean's claimed the guilt for this. silent as he throws out faked vitriol to play the part, cas feels like his body's gone numb, rooted in place and devastated as he watches it all play out.

eyes glassy and jaw gaping with words he can't find, the genuine heartbroken despair cas wears plainly fits plenty well enough into the narrative dean's painting for the shrikes. it wasn't supposed to happen like this. it was supposed to be his life on the line only.


it's like the air's sapped from the room when the cardinal steps in behind the line of shrikes manhandling dean into cuffs, and a shot of icy terror races up cas's spine. he knows him. everyone in parliament knows him, but for cas it's more personal, having just gained the ire of the arrogant, imposing cardinal days or weeks earlier. dean may have just thrown himself onto the pyre for nothing at all, and the realization is utterly crushing. shocked, numb, frozen in inaction, his eyes drift to dean's, bleeding sorrow and apology in the gaze. he fucked up, dean. he fucked up so, so bad, and he's so sorry. he's ruined the both of them.

in stark contrast to the defiance he'd shown stephen before, cas's eyes drop immediately away from him, towards the floor. there's nothing he can do now, but watch and wait, in silent dread, for the axe to fall. ]

[rehandle]

[ It's exceedingly rare that Stephen leaves the Volary these days— with the whole city available to experience through the eyes and ears of its populace, what would be the point? There's nothing he might want that can't be brought to him, nothing he might wish to see that he can't stretch out with his power and witness in an instant.

But occasionally something makes a big enough noise to draw him out, the lure of a thrill enough to warrant the extra work of stripping away the memory of himself from every mind that needn't hold onto it. And oh, this one had been something. It had started plainly enough: city surveillance, mind bleeding idly out and down through the Volary, when one mind had dropped him a hint of a flurry of activity amongst the Shrikes. He'd followed it, skittering through to the cluster of thoughts working on a potential Quarry case, following the suspect's name to its owner's mind. Nothing extraordinary. Nothing to linger on past a cursory scan. At least not until the alleged perpetrator's thoughts had drifted to a face that flipped the whole thing on its head.

Castiel had shown a disdain for hierarchy and system in their brief meeting that spoke either of promise or a fall. And here was his face, his voice, his laugh, his smell, all wrapped up in the mind of a criminal.

It had been enough. Stephen had dropped a quiet thought into the mind of a trusted Shrike, let them know to expect him on the raid, and headed out into the day.

And now here they are. And on walking into the room he finds not only the target of the day's operation— but Castiel himself. There's a suspended moment of silence as he takes it in, allows what pieces are already present to slot into place. ]

Hello, gentlemen.

[ When Castiel refuses to look at him his attention turns to Dean and the Shrikes struggling to detain him, benign smile plastered onto his own face. ]

This is cosy.

[righteously]

[ Dean's exposure to parliament has been incredibly minimal. He doesn't have big dreams or aspirations, he doesn't stir a lot of shit, he doesn't care enough to. The exactly two members he's known personally are ones he's dated, and neither of them have really taken the time to talk about their... coworkers? Co... cult... members? The point is, poor stupid Dean has absolutely no idea how quickly his entire plan is going to go to shit when Stephen walks in.

It's probably clear enough in his smartass attitude, written in the loose bravado he still wears even as they secure restraints on him. ]

Honey, your strip-o-gram's here.

[ It's called out pleasantly to Cas, but eye contact's all on Stephen. ]

Aren't you guys supposed to-- I don't know, sing or tap dance or something? Earn your keep, Sascha.

[ It's all a front. Of course it is. His hammering heart knows exactly where he's going, but like hell he's giving any of these assclowns the satisfaction. ]

[unwings]

[ a week ago, castiel was happy to squint judgmentally at this man strutting around the volary like a preening peacock, dismiss him as far too fully of himself to be in touch with reality, write it all off as a man that's lived too long with too many people worshipping him. now, cas is seriously considering dropping to his knees and begging stephen for dean's life.

it won't work. he knows it won't, and both their lives now depend on how cruel stephen strange is feeling today. the quarry might be the optimistic outcome, at this point. cas hasn't seen much of how the cardinals do business, but the reigning class doesn't have a great track record for compassion.

dean never should've been pulled into this. cas may as well have knotted the noose and wrapped it around his neck himself, and soon, stephen will know every detail of that truth. the chill of it grips his chest so tightly he can't even crack a flicker of a smile for dean's flippancy. only a wince, knowing it'll do nothing but worsen their fates. ]

Dean. [ cas says quietly, but firm, eyes finding dean with a mournful, pained grimace. ] He's a Cardinal.

[ hushed and spoken like an apology, because it is. dean came into his life full of light and laughter, and in return, cas has dragged him down to hell. ]

[rehandle]

[ A quirk to his lip as Castiel's tone implores Dean to silence. It's quaint. Dean's blinding ignorance, the Magpie's too late recognition of his hubris. To think oneself above a system one willingly engages with and still have such pride in your contempt of fellow participators... the cognitive dissonance is something else. Watching the realisation that choices have consequences settle somewhere deep in the wretched man's bones is a satisfaction all of its own.

Stephen's voice in Cas' head, heard as though he'd spoken seconds before, though his mouth never moves to form the words: ] I'm honoured you remembered.

[ His place. Where each of them stands on the ladder and what their respective positions mean in real, concrete terms - only far, far too late for that knowledge to protect him from his utter helplessness in the face of an authority he'd never deigned to acknowledge before. More than the paltry politics of rank and stature, sycophants and wannabe subjugators, Cardinal means power. Absolute power. And within that, unbeknownst to so very many, Stephen Strange means absolute individual control.

Eyes on Dean, his voice makes it into the room this time. Dry, unrankled, though made richer in its timbre by an undercurrent of warm amusement. To Castiel: ]

It tracks that you'd choose a lover who doesn't know when to close his mouth. [ And to Dean, suddenly playful and light in line with his setup: ] And no, sweetheart. You've got it all wrong. I'm all yours.

[ It's at this that the Shrikes holding Dean in place all seem to hesitate slightly, for just a moment... then peel aside, leaving the alleged criminal with his restraints as the only thing keeping him contained. It's also all the warning Dean's going to get before Stephen's voice is for his mind only, holding all that same unburdened ease. ]

Or, to be more accurate, what's yours is all mine. Let's see what we have here...

[ There's no sensation to accompany the violation of one's most taken for granted privacy - Stephen's power is a silent and merciless thing, racing along neural pathways without leaving so much as a trace. But he figures the signpost of a voice in his head ought to help Dean get the message.

Being underestimated by those who don't need to know any better is half of his life's work. But every now and then, when the situation allows, it's nice to see his presence felt. ]

[righteously]

[ If Stephen's got a problem with people disrespecting authority, he's sure to take issue with Dean. There's a very clear do I look like I care written in his expression at Cardinal, because — let's be honest here, above a certain point everything's just flavor text. Really, Cas himself has the authority to ruin Dean's entire life. The ceiling doesn't really get much higher.

He gets all of three or four seconds to look unimpressed after sweetheart — it lasts right up until he hears the voice in his mind.

Then the fear hits.

The shrikes release him, and he doesn't know any better than to try and fight. Restraints don't mean anything, he's got every intention to ram his shoulder as hard into Stephen's sternum as he can, even if it means taking them both to the ground.

Except.

You know. He accomplishes jack squat, because of who Stephen is as a person. He's got nothing to combat the bodily control, and nothing to keep him from pulling every memory Dean has out of his head. Dead mother, gaping hole like a missing limb that he keeps trying to fill with failed relationship after failed relationship — coincidentally, this relationship likely rapidly on its way out the door what with him taking the fall for Cas.

All Dean's got is his endless ability to run off at the mouth. ]

Oh, screw you, you circle-jerking sociopath son of a bitch!

[rehandle]

[ Dean takes the bait, hits the wall of immobility, and Stephen takes it as a prompt to take things one step further. This is no longer about him. The obedience or lack thereof of a population paid no attention by their ruling classes save for when they're tossed into death games and treated as sport is only relevant when it becomes a large-scale movement: he expects no love from a man who's just received a death sentence. A magpie who's spent ample time benefiting from the same system he disrespects, however? That man deserves to be made to feel his mistake. And Dean makes for the perfect leading man in that particular show.

So Dean's limbs move in spite of him. They carefully lower him first to one knee, then the other, until he's the perfect picture of a supplicant. A loudmouthed, foulmouthed supplicant.

And then comes the unexpected kicker in his idle hunt for proof. Taking the fall for Cas.

Dean's barely finished calling him whatever name comes out after son of a bitch when his words dry up, throat closing over, barely the smallest scraps of air permitted to slip through no matter how he might struggle to breathe. Stephen turns his attention to Castiel. His gaze, devoid of earlier play, is sharp, piercing. Cold. ]

Was there something you wanted to tell us?

[ There's disrespect - and then there's this.

Stephen waits, choking Dean with his own epiglottis, for Castiel to confess to a crime it hadn't truly occurred to him to suspect him of. ]

→ nighttime quarry arena bonding with Cas

[unwings]

[ they’re between seasons - samhain and yule - tucked into the temporary housing where they’re told to rest and heal, with horrors of the last season still playing through the backs of their minds like a nightmare on a broken record. But at least there’s shelter and a respite from constant threat, there’s insulation, medical supplies, a false sense of temporary peace. After patching themselves up, they find the bed and burrow under the covers together, tangled up limbs while sharing the pocket of warmth as they breathe in time. Dean’s head rests on his chest, his hair soft between cas’s fingers carding through it, brushing short strands back from his face. ]

You know what’s funny?

[ voice low but quiet, as if they still need to whisper despite the relative safety. Cas’s arm tightens around dean’s back, fingertips tracing his ribs at his side through his shirt. Like he’s afraid dean might slip away, like he could just disappear. ]

We’re going to die here. [ well, that’s not funny at all, and it’s spoken with a waver to his voice, and a sorrowful, bittersweet smile, no pause in the rhythm he’s carding through dean’s hair. a whisper of fear speaks in the way cas pulls him closer. ] But, I’ve smiled more in the last few months with you than I have in my entire life.

[ it’s achingly genuine, it’s honest. Castiel’s life felt like a blank, aimless timeline before dean came into it. God, he thought they’d have more time. He’d give anything for just a little more time with him. A kiss is pressed to the crown of dean’s head, and cas hovers there, breathing him in. ]

I keep thinking, wondering what it’d be like, if we were in another world.

[ it’s strange, but castiel’s felt an odd familiarity, like he knew him before - the angles of his features, the color of his eyes, the set of his shoulders. Like he’d pieced him together himself, bone by bone, even the base of his voice (shouting, laughing, murmuring) seemed like it hit somewhere in his chest and resonated through him, sparking something that knew it belonged. Swallowing thickly, emotion creeps into his voice, and the fingertips in dean’s hair shake just slightly. ]

One that still has trees, animals, oceans. Fields of flowers and mountains. [ eyes distant, but his smile is dreamy and wistful, pulling back to press another kiss to dean’s forehead, muttering absently. ] We could have a cabin by a lake. Plant vegetables, raise chickens. Compost.

[ yeah, somehow composting is romantic to him. Who knows. You picked a weird boyfriend, Dean, but at least he’s stupidly, hopelessly in love with you. ]

[righteously]

( It's the first break he's taken since they've arrived. From minute one it's been aggressive survival - dragging Cas around, barking out orders, picking up a blade like he was born for it. Like it was as natural as breathing.

He's killed people. That should bother him more than it does, but that would mean letting it all out of the box he's reinforcing to carefully compartmentalize it all. He doesn't have to tuck it away and pretend he's fine forever, just a few more weeks until they're the last two alive and he puts himself down.

He's not thinking right now. His mind is carefully, deliberately blank as he rests on Cas's chest, as he lets fingers card through his hair and lull him into a sense of peace.

Cas talks and his words are simultaneously an arrow to the heart and a soothing stroke across the wound.

Not that he needed it, but it's an enormous reminder of why he's doing this. What he's fighting for.

He breathes out a laugh against Cas's skin. Shirtless, both of them, by necessity. There are wounds on shoulders and wounds on backs that needed tending to. Clothes washed in the sink and hung up to dry.

A palm passes up Castiel's side, wide and flat, fingers spread, smoothing its way up to his ribs. He takes a few seconds to think about it, imagine it — another world, the two of them, no glass dome over their heads. No threat of a quarry. Wide open roads, and the ability to travel them for miles and hours. )

Don't be stupid.

( Quiet, gentle. It lingers just for a moment for impact, so he can follow it up with: )

We're not composting. I don't care how hot you are on Earth Beta, I'm not a friggin' hippy. Gotta draw the line somewhere.

[unwings]

[ dean isn't fine. neither of them are, but dean's taken on the mission of getting them through to the end of this nightmare with a deadly seriousness. he's good at it, and cas knows he never wanted to be, he was never meant to be. it's such a far cry from the man he is, but he's doing what he has to for them to survive.

there's no true solace cas can give him for that, no comfort for the blood on his hands. all he can do is show him how much he's adored, hold him like the cherished thing he is, and let out a breathless, easy laugh when he indignantly rebukes the concept of recycling. ]

Fine, fine, no hippy composting.

[ fondness bleeds through the words, and it feels achingly good just to smile with him. warmth soaks through where their skin meets, the closeness and intimacy of it soothing, and he sighs as he relaxes in small increments, trying to let the horror of the prior days fade to the back of his mind. all he needs in his head right now is dean. eyes blinking closed, cas focuses on the affection in the hand smoothing over his side, the soft puffs of air against his chest, the proof of life in the muted thud of dean's heart against cas's chest. ]

What about a distillery? [ low muse, mumbled with fingers finding knots in the back of dean's neck to knead away. ] A bar, maybe, like the first one you took me to.

[ a pleasant, bright memory treasured in castiel's mind, and he lets himself be swept away in it, recalling the rose dean brought him, the you're different that took him by surprise, framing cas a way he'd never thought to look at himself, the charm and sweetness of his smile.

they're dreaming up a future they'll never have, and as much as that fact kills him, cas still wants to envision it. give voice to it, speak it into the world, so maybe, somewhere, it exists in some acstract, metaphysical way. stupid, he knows, but everything he's been looking for his whole life is in his arms now, a blissful happiness that's darkened only by the reality it's all coming to a violent, bloody end soon, one way or the other.

the arm holding dean tight to him shifts to stroke over his back, avoiding bandages with careful tenderness, simply enjoying the way his heart swells with dean's body under his hands, in his arms. they'll never have a chance to build this life together in reality, but cas wants to shape it with him in their minds, sketch out the frame of it, fill it in with color and breathe life into all they could've had. with any hope, their afterlife might reflect it just a little. ]

[righteously]

( He shifts under Cas's touch, gracefully rolling himself until he's more on top of Cas than beside him. His hips on Castiel's thighs, forearms bracketing his ribs and partly holding him up, and his neck sloped down. He presses his forehead down somewhere just above Castiel's sternum, shoulders flexing and space opening up to make more room for his kneading fingers. )

Distillery.

( Echoed thoughtfully, a raspy mumble punctuated by light, lip-dragging kisses down the few inches of skin beneath his mouth. )

I work the front, tend bar, you take the back? Do all the... nerdy... numbery accountant things?

( Which he should obviously not be responsible for, what with calling them numbery accountant things. Although he probably could do it if he set his mind to it, it's definitely not his area in this hypothetical dream-world they're painting. )

I want a porch swing.

( He declares finally, lifting his head to look up past Castiel's chest toward his eyes. )

One of those old-fashioned ones with the chains and the-- the uncomfortable ass wood that people deal with anyway. You, me, two beers, and a porch swing.

( That's it, that's the recipe. That's what happiness looks like. )

[unwings]

It'd be criminal to let you anywhere near bookkeeping.

[ cas tells him flatly, with an humored snort. as if naturally drawn by the curve of his body, cas's palms sweep over dean's sides and back, pressing into tense shoulders with one hand while the other drifts to bunched muscle around his spine, massaging patient and slow downward, vertebrae by vertebrae. His weight against cas is a reassuring, steady pressure, and something in being framed by his body makes the moment feel safe, private, protected.

you, me, two beers, and a porch swing. it paints a clear, vibrant picture, one cas will cling tightly to for the rest of his life, however short that may be.

a serene, peaceful hum sounds low in his chest where dean's lips drag sweet warmth over his skin, and cas nuzzles into the fluff of dean's now messy hair, affectionate in the way a cat rubs against a beloved caretaker's shin. ]

Sounds like heaven.

[ dean finds his eyes, and cas holds the gaze steady and calm, unhurried when the hand at his shoulders ventures up over his neck and jaw, sweeping over the scratch of scruff on his cheeks. he's lost in him for a moment, tracing the lines of his features with eyes and fingertips, experiencing the beauty of him.

Cas tells himself they could do this every night. Curl up together, work the aches and pains out of each other, body, mind and soul. Fall asleep with dean blanketing him, able to feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, knowing he's safe and well. A delusion, yes, but they're well past the point of caring about mental health now. ]

Cushions do exist, you know. If you'd rather spare your ass the discomfort.

[ a fingertip's tracing down the slope of dean's nose, lifts and taps lightly at the peak of it. boop. the pad of his thumb caresses over the velvet softness of his lower lip, mapping the plush fullness from one corner to the other. ]

What's the view from our porch?

[righteously]

( He huffs out a laugh at that flat remark. He ain't wrong. He shifts up farther, planking on his forearms so he can slowly sweep in to hover over Cas just a few inches. Close enough to touch noses, to bump foreheads. )

Trees.

( Quietly, decisively. He punctuates it by dipping down to press their lips sweetly together - short, chaste, and he pulls off again so he can finish. )

Hills. Mountains. Not a single freakin' skyscraper in a ten mile radius.

( Because he hates them. Hates how claustrophobic it feels here no matter where you're standing. )

[unwings]

[ dull nails drag light over dean's back as he shifts forward, and cas tips up his chin to meet dean's lips, soft and gentle, brushing the still cold tips of their noses together when he pulls back. arms circle loosely around him, holding him comfortable and lax. ]

Mh, fresh air and birds. Remember birds?

[ dean can likely feel the smile there when cas finds his lips between words, claiming another sweet, simple, lazy kiss from him. ]

We could wake up like this every morning. [ cas murmurs, cheek affectionately nuzzled against dean's, lips brushing the rise of his cheekbone. ] Not another soul for miles.

[ probably not great for business if they’re including that bar idea, but it’s his pipedream and he’ll make what he wants of it. Groggy, lethargic mornings tangled up beneath cozy blankets with dean’s skin warm and pliant and welcoming against his, tucking into his shoulder to dodge morning sunshine through bedroom windows. Yeah, sounds about right. ]

Besides the chickens, of course.