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Title:  Drabbles/Shorts (Posted 7/24)
Author:  Aerilex
Fandom:  Supernatural
Characters/Pairings:  Multiple
Rating:  PG, to be safe
Disclaimer:  Made for fun, not for profit.  I don't own anything.
Warnings:  You're fine if you know the general Season 5-6 stuff.
Summary:  Kind of self-explanatory.


Prompt: I want to know Cas’ thoughts during that scene where he asked Dean to stand down.

Word Count: 695




“I didn’t ask for your help.”


Have you ever? A downward glance, checking Dean over to ascertain that he's unharmed. “Well, regardless, you’re welcome.” Castiel watches the expression on Dean’s face shift—surprise to suspicion.


“Why are you here?” Dean asks, passing Castiel to inspect the failed Devil’s Trap.


Why do I do anything I do? Castiel thinks, staring at the remnants of the vanquished demon. For you. Isn't it always for you?

“I had no idea Crowley would take Lisa and Ben,” he says aloud, gaze fixed on the middle space as Dean’s soul flashes with disbelief.


“Yeah, right.”


Hurt seizes his Grace. He pushes it away, turns to Dean. “You don’t believe me.” Not a question, but Dean responds.


“I don’t believe a word that’s coming outta your mouth.” Dean faces him, the mocking half-smile he wears like a kick to Castiel’s gut. Castiel flinches, looks away from that accusing stare to gather his resolve. Something flickers over Dean for a moment. It passes when Castiel meets his gaze.


“I thought you said that we were like family,” Castiel says, hard-eyed. “Well, I think that too. Shouldn’t trust run both ways?”


“Cas, I just can’t—”


“Dean.” Castiel struggles with whatever he’s feeling. He moves forward. “I do everything that you ask.” He fixes a pleading stare upon his friend, his brother. “I always come when you call. And I am your friend. Still. Despite your—lack of faith in me—” His voice cracks, his eyes roam wildly, but he is quick to recover. “—And now your threats. I just saved you. Yet again. Has anyone but your closest kin ever done more for you?” Dean looks away. Castiel seizes the opportunity. “All I ask is this one thing.”


“Trust your plan to pop Purgatory?” Dean looks skeptical.


“I’ve earned that, Dean.”


Dean scoffs, shakes his head minutely.


Castiel falters, turning his head again in what he recognizes as a nervous tic. He is desperate for a shred of trust from this man. In the meantime, he has an issue to take up with Crowley. Soon. “I came to tell you that I will find Lisa and Ben, and I will bring them back.” He meets Dean’s surprised glance again, pours all his desperation and yearning into his gaze. “Stand behind me,” Castiel pleads, “the one time I ask.” Give me a reason to stand when nothing remains of me, he begs silently.


Dean struggles, caught between wanting to trust and the instinct to fight. Suspicion, again, as Dean asks, “You askin’ me to stand down?”




“That’s the same damn ransom note that Crowley handed me, you know that right?”


Castiel meets his friend’s fight-hardened gaze solemnly. He hadn’t known that, actually; it doesn’t change his request.


“Well, no thanks,” Dean says, more defiantly angry than receptive. “I’ll find ‘em myself.” He shifts again, obviously resisting landing physical blows and using verbal ones instead. “‘fact, why don’t you go back to Crowley and tell ‘im I said you can both kiss my ass.”


Castiel watches Dean slowly turn and move away, hand fisted at his lips. His mind blurs with thoughts of hopelessness. I asked for your faith, and you’ve given me this.


It is not unlike the abandonment of the Father. It is not unlike the painful twist when the Winchesters relayed Joshua’s words.


The pain grows as Castiel watches his charge, his friend, his brother—no, not his brother. He has been denied yet again by the only source of family and faith he has left. Not even his Father answers him anymore. He is truly a lost thing.


His Grace burns just as his path is cleared. He will act as vessel for Purgatory’s souls and he will save this world. He will do it for those who no longer care for him.


He has never felt more alone than he does now.


He must speak with Crowley. He is no longer welcome here anyway. The ache in his Grace burns.


The angel flees.







Prompt: Dean/Castiel, You said I could have anything I wanted, but I just couldn't say it out loud.

Word Count: 250



Dean is drinking. Again.


Castiel finds him slumped, yearning, clinging to that last swill to fill the absence of a brother he thought he’d miss more. Dean prays, too lost to know his angel is near.


Castiel stoops, lifts Dean from the floor, raises him from a Perdition of his own making and wrests the bottle from slackened fingers. He lifts his charge to the bed, and jewel-bright eyes stare at him.


“Stay,” Dean slurs. Castiel hears what he means. Stay tonight, I promise you’ll be happy, I’ll be happy.

Castiel has given his ties to Heaven for Dean, he’s given everything for Dean. He is terrified to give the last of himself away. He is terrified to lose himself entirely and replace his Father with a faithless man who will only throw him away.


“Cas,” Dean pleads, grip loose on Castiel’s cuff. “Please.”


I’ll give you anything, he means. Just for now.

And Castiel would take it all. He is just selfish enough.


Instead, he reaches out and loosely pulls his fingertips across those eyes until they close under his touch. Dean trembles, sighs. Castiel moves his hand, pushes gently against Dean’s temple, pushes sleep into the exhausted man.


Dean’s breaths stutter into an even rhythm. Castiel slumps to the bed, perched beside his hunter. His hands lay slack in his lap as he stares into the darkness.


If angels could weep, Castiel would drown the heavens in his tears.






Prompt: Dean, there's a black dog, and there's a white dog, depends on which you feed, depends on which damn dog you live with.
Word Count: 100


Dean misses his knife.


Not the demon-killing one, last token of Ruby. The one Alistair carved himself, a present.


He remembers cutting into souls, but that feels too monstrous so he fits the object of his attention to an enemy’s face.


In his imagination, it’s Uriel. It’s Anna. Lilith. Lucifer. Any of the things that’s issued a threat to his brother. Sammy.


Sammy’s gone. Dean remains.


It’s his last night of freedom before throwing himself on Lisa’s mercy. Castiel’s fucked off, and Dean’s alone. Waiting for the knife to fall.








Prompt: they're trying to drive you into the ground, to see if anything walks away./It's love or it isn't. It isn't over./you've swallowed a bad thing and now it's got its hands inside you. This is the essence of love and failure.
Word Count: 200



We love you, Lord, our Master. We love you because no one else will. He will not. Your hunter will not. You are ours. You belong with us, to us.

The angel trembles, coated in darkness. The words are meant to break him open, siphon out what is left of his righteous spirit. He has no choice but to let them act, to let them demand. They are taking over everything inside him, diluting it and translating it into the god-thing he has become.


It would be simple to let go. They urge him to, calling out to him, Don’t fight us, Lord. We will make you strong. No oneno human nor angel nor godwill hurt you again.

The weight of their desires presses down on him, folds him inward until he is tucked inside the sphere of their shadows.


He loses himself piece by piece. He forgets his name. He forgets his purpose. He forgets the brush of his brothers’ wings, the spark of laughing olivine eyes, the warmth of his Father’s love.


There is nothing left for him, and he has nothing to cling to. He sinks into the darkness and cannot fight.







Prompt: The only funny thing about this is watching Castiel struggle against the strange cuffs of Enochian-scripted gold holding his wrists to the ceiling above him, his cursed and very visible wings thrashing and doing nothing to draw less attention to themselves.

Word Count: 200






The only funny thing about this is watching Castiel struggle against the strange cuffs of Enochian-scripted gold holding his wrists to the ceiling above him, his cursed and very visible wings thrashing and doing nothing to draw less attention to themselves.


Dean can think of nothing more embarrassing than being strung up by doll-sized friggin’ elves, but he thinks maybe he doesn’t have it as bad as Castiel. Cas curses for the five hundredth time and glares at the handcuffs tethering him.


“I dislike elves,” Castiel growls.


Dean knows Sam’s on his way, knows the elves aren’t really dangerous, more like they’re protecting themselves. So Dean ignores his own chagrin and focuses on how hilarious Cas looks.


Apparently sensing Dean’s thoughts, Castiel swivels a glower upon him.


“This isn’t funny, Dean.”


Dean can’t help but bust out laughing, watching as Cas’ anger inspires a bloom of color to spread through his wings.


“Dude. Your wings are pink. Like, color-me-bashful pink.”


If looks could throw Righteous Men into the Pit, Dean’d be screwed.


“I dislike you, too.”


Dean keeps laughing, and the wings keep looking ridiculous.


Best imprisonment ever.







Prompt: Creation of Castiel

Word Count: 235


Glory Be



An angel is born.


The stars spill dust over Heaven, and it coalesces into the firm resolve of a warrior that will one day swoop into Hell, that will battle in many wars and face down many enemies, that will save the world.


But that is for later, and this is now.


The stuff of the stars and the moon gathers to form the glow of fluffed white wings, still uncoordinated and wet with new Grace. The newborn is still small, only a speck of light amongst the brighter forms of his elder brothers.


The angel will soon learn his form and will touch upon the nature of his brethren. He will raise his voice amongst the Choir of the Host and he will sing the praises of the Lord. He will look upon the face of the earth and he will watch Mankind rise.


He has no voice of yet, his Grace only sending out tinny vibrations like a dove’s coo. His wings are too new to spread and carry him in flight. His light is too dim to cast out over the charges he will one day protect.


Still, his Grace is strong and his eyes full of the intent of Heaven. He is a faithful, loyal soldier—a faithful, loyal son.


The Father smiles upon His littlest angel, and casts out a message to all of Heaven.


Glory be to Castiel.





Prompt: If no one will listen/if you decide to speak/if no one is left/standing after the bombs explode/if no one wants to look at you/for what you really are/I will be here still... ~Kelly Clarkson

Word Count: 300



A Little Prayer


No one knows Castiel is tired of fighting. He is saddened and hurt with the death of each brother. He is burdened with dark secrets and self-exiled from the earth, where he knows that the Winchesters should be starting a new life free of angels and demons and monsters.


He will fight to defend them to his last. Whether they know it or not.


His wings drag behind him after the latest battle, tattered and torn and heavy under the weight of the responsibility that he holds for not only the angels he has killed, but also the angels that have died under his command.


Rachel leaves him, as he had requested. Castiel seals off the area he has fallen to rest in, drawing sigils over the quintessence of the walls to protect himself briefly while he peers into the world below and longs for the comfort of familiar companionship.


Dean is still with Lisa and Ben. Sam is still wandering elsewhere.


Castiel yearns to join them, to reunite the brothers. But more importantly, he longs for them to be happy and a life that is happy for the Winchesters does not involve an angel who seems to to bring chaos wherever he goes.


Just when the angel feels as though his Grace and his heart will break under the weight of his sorrow, a voice filters through Heaven and brushes against him.


Hey Cas. Don’t know what you’re up to, but I just wanted to say hi and I hope you’re okay up there. Kick their asses and keep ‘em in line, buddy.


Castiel’s Grace glows briefly with the feeling that accompanies the prayer. He sighs, and rises to his feet. He will make it another day. He can do this now. He must.




Date: 2011-08-04 10:52 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Does it look like I'm stalking you? I just can't help inhaling your prose. Just so nicely constructed and lyrical. A real joy! Thank you.

Date: 2011-08-05 12:09 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Nope :D I enjoy the pseudo-stalking lol


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