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Week 6.

11 kalends Octobris (September 21).

Note: Okay, so I give up on PWP. Warnings for this chapter of fantasy violence - of the monster-fight type, not domestic abuse or anything.

 

It had started out innocently enough. A quarrel in the morning, over nothing much - only Dean’s boundless and rather crude enthusiasm for chatter before breakfast, and Castiel’s lack of the same. Nothing terribly serious, logic would dictate; but Castiel wasn’t accustomed to arguing with Dean, even over small matters, and he found himself sulkier and more shaken than he’d expected.

They were out on patrol all day, the two of them - only a patrol, to keep the maps properly marked, nothing like a hunt. Castiel was soaring in slow zig-zags, scouting for signs of anything dangerous, Dean below on his horse with his favourite dog and a larger greyish one ranging out around him, shaggy and bloodthirsty. And maybe Castiel was a little further away than he would otherwise have been, maybe Dean was a little quieter. Maybe Castiel was a little distracted, tracing the complex little electric flickers of redcaps and gnomes and other more mundane life in the forest below. And his eyes were useless through the thick green thatch of the pine forest, of course, and he had no reason to be looking for something so large: the muted, roiling glow was nothing like the vibrant flare of werewolf, or wodewose, or any of those other creatures with a taste for flesh.

But excuses were for children, and those innocent of consequences.

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Previous chapter.

Week 5.

Pridie ides Septembris (September 12).

Note: So, this chapter completely fails at PWP. It’s 13k long, and only about 5k of that is actually in the bedroom. Most of it is rambling family conversation around the table. I blame Charlie, Gabriel, and Family Themes. And also the fact that everybody’s learning to relax now. If you haven’t read the main fic, most of the group conversations before and after the actual sex scene will make no sense; but it might help to know that, while Castiel is living with Sam and Dean, Anna and Gabriel are staying with Charlie for now; that Anna and Charlie have A Thing; and that Gabriel has PTSD which means touching him is generally not a good idea.

 

---

 

“Fuck a goose,” Gabriel exclaimed politely, as he dropped onto the vacant bench opposite Dean in his nice quiet corner of the Roadhouse.

“‘Fuck a duck’ sounds better,” Dean pointed out absently, trying to get this weird plait-knot thing to lie flat. “If you’re into, you know, fowl play.”

Gabriel snorted and kicked his feet up onto the table, at right angles to Dean’s. Ellen wasn’t around, so boots on tables were fair game, so long as you wiped the tabletop down before she noticed. “What poor textile are you butchering today, Winchester?”

Dean flipped him off, unravelled the last few rows (they’d been all lumpy anyway), and handed it over. He’d got the techniques from Missouri, so it was in theory a human design. Gabriel, though, had taken it upon himself to work out how those techniques, intended for large-scale fabrics, could be adapted for something the size and durability of an angel wedding bracelet. He’d supplied the threads, too, because apparently getting the right colours was important and there weren’t that many options in the local dyes.

Apparently Dean was already paying him back by working on removing the stick from Castiel’s ass. Dean wasn’t quite sure he approved of anyone but himself speculating about Castiel’s ass.

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Previous chapter.

 

Week 4.

Nones Septembris (September 5).

One day after the final scene of Bright as a Gorgon’s Eyes.

 

Strong, slippery hands kneaded their way up the back of Castiel’s bare thigh. Again.

They slid up over the sensitive crease between thigh and buttock, pressed deep tempting furrows into the aching muscle there, rubbed the tingle of the liniment firmly all over and set shivers that had nothing to do with any liniment chasing each other up and down his body until the skin itself was yearning for those fingers to slip just a little sideways, just a little farther in, right to the most delicate spaces in the very centre of -

Then they moved away. Castiel’s slicked-up buttocks were left to the lazy lick of the summer sun, and the hands returned to the back of his lower thighs, just above his knee.

Again.

Castiel was beginning to suspect that he had betrothed himself to a very cruel man.

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Previous chapter.

 

Week 3.

6 kalends Septembris (August 27).

Six days after the events of An Acorn Button. This one accidentally got a bit plotty. For those who haven’t read the main story: Castiel’s parents died during the angelic civil war, and his oldest brother (Gabriel) staged his own death, fled, posed as human and set himself up as an itinerant pedlar. Their other brother, Balthazar, was killed far more recently in the fighting between humans and angels, and it was Dean who dealt the death blow. They’ve resolved all that now (insofar as you can resolve that), and Gabriel is preparing to leave with his eager new apprentice, Sam. Who might just be infatuated with him. Dean found out that little fact six days ago, and it’s forced him to actually confront the fact that he's about to lose his little brother.

 

“... Shit.”

Dean’s stride broke and faltered, the last harsh thud of his boot jarring and skidding on the grass. It left a black scar in the earth.

Castiel looked up, his face caught between bemusement and welcome and his long clever fingers tangled in a mesh of coloured threads, and that was all Dean saw before the dark cloud in his head was whispering no, no, don’t let him see, don’t touch him and dragging Dean back and away.

He fled like a fucking coward.

Or he tried to. But he hadn’t got three steps before Castiel said his name, rusty and puzzled and quiet, and apparently even when Dean was in this mood Castiel could just reach into his gut and twist.

Dean’s feet stopped moving. His shoulders felt tight as rock under Castiel’s gaze.

“Don’t,” he snapped out, and his voice was this foreign jagged thing that should never be turned on his angel. “I can’t, Cas, okay? Not right now.”

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Previous chapter.

 

Week 2.

14 kalends Septembris (August 19).

Note: For those of you keeping track of the timeline, this chapter takes place two days before the events of An Acorn Button.

 

Castiel woke up with Dean’s mouth sliding damp and leisurely across the back of his left shoulder.

“Grrm?” he asked, of the pillow.

Dean’s lips curved against his skin, and pressed closer for a moment, so Castiel could feel the brush of his nose and chin too, and the weight of his cheek against the folded wing. “Hsssh, g’back to sleep. I gotcha.”

“Mmmp,” Castiel agreed hazily.

A line of warm, open-mouthed kisses wandered around the edge of his shoulder blade, tucking into the sensitive parts between the main bone and the ball of the wing joint that fitted in at its base. Castiel shifted, lowering that wing a little to let him in. Dean paused, nuzzled at the spot, then danced his finger along the dampened path that his mouth had made.

“Your back’s kinda weird,” he decided, all early-morning drawl, and pressed a kiss into the centre between the wings.

“Yrs’s empty,” Castiel muttered into the pillow, and lost the end of it in a yawn.

“I mean,” and there was Dean’s hand, light and careful on the back of Castiel’s ribs as he stretched up to kiss the side of Castiel’s neck. “How’s there even room for all this extra stuff in here? Don’t the bones get in each other’s way?”

Talking,” Castiel accused peevishly, and tipped his head aside to encourage him in better morning things, because once Dean started getting curious about how things worked there was no stopping him.

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