Todomecarga
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Sam's too busy to pick up Sarah's engagement ring from the jeweler's.
Enter Dean. He minds just a little, and then not at all.- Language:
- English
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- 8,485
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- 1/1
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Bookmarked by Todomecarga
09 Nov 2024
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Dean’s your typical half-orphaned, monster-killing 22-year-old until a trenchcoated stranger crashes into his back windshield one September night, claiming he’s an angel that knows him from the future and that he’s on the run.
Frigging fantastic.
(Or, in which Castiel gets stuck in Dean’s timeline preseries and Dean kind of hates it—until he doesn’t.)
- Language:
- English
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- 95,274
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- 18/18
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- 5
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Bookmarked by Todomecarga
09 Nov 2024
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An ongoing series of Spike/Buffy tales, meant to be read in order. The first springs from "Wrecked" in season six; the series veers off from canon at that point. These stories are het NC-17, with some slashy flashbacks. Some contain time-travel, dimension-hopping, and/or far flung future adventures.
- Words:
- 509,352
- Works:
- 19
- Bookmarks:
- 109
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i want to do with you (what spring does with cherry trees) by sobsicles
Fandoms: Supernatural
29 Apr 2021
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Dean keeps going back.
When he arrives, it's always to blooming flowers and a windmill in the background, not too far from a brook, the sun painting the plains.
He likes it there. He likes to stand in front of the makeshift urn and check that it's still where he put it, switching out the flowers when they wilt. He likes to listen to the sound of birds chirping, insects singing, the faint sound of water trickling in the distance. He likes to turn his face up and feel the sun on his skin, wondering if Cas would do the same if he were here, somehow knowing that he would.
He likes to talk.
There's never a response, but Dean feels the breeze rustle through his hair and watches the flowers bob when bees come to them and stares as the windmill keeps turning, turning, turning. And he imagines that Cas is replying—the windmill is the tilted head, the bobbing flowers are a gentle smile, the breeze is whatever words Dean wants to hear at the time.
Sometimes, it's almost like he's there.
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For a long time, Castiel thought that every earthly possession other than the immediately necessary was excess to requirement. But Dean – Dean who named his car, who keeps a photograph of his mother in his wallet, some thirty-plus years after her death, who still has the crumpled ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign with a sleeping pelican emblazoned on it from the Microtel outside of Roanoke where he first kissed Castiel, clumsy and unsure, under the unsteady fluorescence of an exhausted bathroom bulb – is sentimental.
It puzzles Castiel, where Dean draws the line between what is meaningful and what it is worthless.