Sparks: Because

This is the sequel to Sparks: Why posted over on evil tumblr.

Sparks: Because

who i am is here. what was that I was doing? Flutes and violins? Cas? What the . . . . Rumpled all over from a night spent fully dressed, Dean felt his left hand came up on its own to hold his lids closed. His other groped out to the side, knocking over a piece of paper tented atop his cell phone. With his next lunge the cell went over, squashing the paper flat.

“Dawn is a feeling, beautiful ceiling . . .”

Groping fingers grasped the cheap plastic clock radio. Silence reigned as the digital readout flashed ‘SEEKING’. Douchey classic is still dou

~~rapid drum beats, ROWDY GUITARS~~
“As soon as I get my head round you
I come around catching sparks off you
I get an electric charge from you
That second hand living it just won’t do”

chey?! Dean gasped throatily, “What the FUCK,” ripping the radio unplugged to sail across the room. It missed the mirror by a hand as the second verse started:

“And the way I feel tonight
I could die and I wouldn’t mind
And there’s something going on inside
Makes you want to feel makes you want to try
Makes you want to blow the stars from the sky
I can’t stand up I can’t cool down
I can’t get my head off the ground”

CASTIEL!!!” The music ceased. Dean sat straight up, hands pushing against the sides of his head. His expectation of a massive hangover was having a hard time with the fact that the only thing hurting him now was his throat. A tinny squawk sounded from the radio before Castiel’s placid voice caressed the air:


Pitching face forward onto the bed Dean groaned. -That’s- what I was trying to remember. Does this make me Mary Magdalene or Hera? “I think I’m gonna go back to sleep. It’s safer.” Rolling onto his right side, he curled into ball.

“You should read the note. And look to your cell phone. Dean.”

He rubbed his hands briskly over his face, adding a couple sharp slaps. Wait a sec. His head jerked to look at the bedtable. “Where’d my guns and booze go?” Whipping around to check the bigger table he pushed off the bed, crouching as his eyes fell on the three pistols neatly lined up in front of his Gold. The radio’s behind me. CRAP! He bounced backwards off the bed, bending his knees with his fists up and ready.

Dean. Note. Phone.”

Pivoting to stare at the radio he noticed at last that its cover had landed on the floor near the wastebasket. That’s where the cell was last. Wasn’t it? Eyeing the radio like Castiel was going to ooze out of the wires he sidestepped over. He bent his knees enough to grab the edge, giving it a strong shake. Only hearing a soft rustle he peeked down to grimace at the empty plastic bag. Glaring at the radio again he let the trash drop, stepping sideways to his bed. Keeping his eyes on the thing he let the feel of the mattress against his legs guide him to midway where he sat. Closing his eyes for the length of a breath he looked down at the floor, “Ah. That was what I knocked over.” Grabbing up both he checked the radio was still sitting on the dresser. Phone first. Two texts before voice. Ugh, both Sam.

“chek frikin vox”

“read frikin note jerk”

Hitting speed dial for his voice mail he waded through the tedious choices.

“Hey dude. Jumped into a fight outside the bar. I’m okay. At the ER for some stitches. You know how long that can take. Hope you hit that stripjoint like you said you were. Call me.”

“Sammy saves the day. Again. Oughta get his huge ass some purple frickin’ tights and pink panties so he can be Superbitchyman. And now, the note that not only he but my Lord and Sexxor commands me to read.”

Seriously, what the hell’s going on? I don’t expect you to come running for a few stitches but a callback would’ve been nice. You buy expensive booze, you get drunk enough to forget to take off your jacket and boots — never mind clothes, and you smell like a dog kennel. And what’s with the bad guns care? Probably did a job by yourself? I’m worried because you won’t wake up and keep trying to hit me. I have to get back to there because the blood test showed some weird ass infection. Call me if you manage to wake up before I get back. It’s 8:30ish now.”

Pushing his arm wrist past his sleeve he closed his eyes before looking down. The watch showed him 11:59. “This can’t be good. Help a guy and it turns out he’s been waiting for stupid mooks like Sammy to pass on the love.” He was feeling thirsty but not enough to go over for the bottle, much less to the sink for water like Sam would say he needed. To keep Radio Castiel’s nagging self quiet he got his brother’s name scrolled and pushed dial. It rang until he thought it was going to voice when his brother’s pissiest, “Dean,” hit his ear. He sounded gravelly to himself like he hadn’t slept , “Yeah, dude. I know, I’m sorry. It’s just been a crazy night. Are you all right?”

Oh, not so much but not too bad yet. They said this thing blew up fast while I had to wait. So they want me to do a couple few days of IV antibiotics. I’m sittin’ here in bed with my butt hangin’ out of the longest gown they could find.”

Wincing with a hand to his gut, “I’m on my way, Sammy. Crap. You want your laptop? Change of clothes?”

“No, nah. You don’t have to come today. They’re gonna cut the stitches off soon and already started lettin’ everyone who looks like a med student in to gawk. Stomach’s already goin’ to hell, too. You don’t wanna be around for that and you know it. I gotta go, nurse just came in with somethin’ Crowley probably invented. I’ll call you later.”

“Later, Sammy.”

Dean held the phone cupped in both hands, staring. He’ll be fine. Moose hardly ever gets sick. The glow dimmed. It’s those angelically fortified genes. He got the worst of it so he could -take- the worst of it. Wish I’d woken the Hell up. Something Sam had written penetrated the gloom; sniffing, he finally noticed eau de werewolf pee infecting his clothes. “Dammit, I hate washing this jacket, too.” He lifted his head to gaze woodenly at the radio, “Will you behave while I take a quiet shower? I know it’s a lot to ask without professing love or lust or whatever the fuck you want now but I wanna be ready for public consumption if Sam needs me to go there today.” Castiel appeared before him holding out a glass of clear liquid, “If you drink this without whining I’ll sit out here while you do.” Dean took the glass bringing it to his nose to smell. He smirked at his Hole-iness, hoisting the water into the air as the other sat on the opposite bed, ” ‘Here’s to you and here’s to me and here’s to Eternity.’ ” Intending to chug it down the first taste on his tongue had him filling his mouth to hold it like he had the Johnny Walker Gold. He stared intently at Castiel, leaning his head as his eyes bulged. The god’s uneven smile in reply was broad, crazier than the one he’d shown when talking about Dean’s eggy tackle the night before. Creepier. “Dean. That water is the closest you or I will come to Heaven’s fount while on the Earth. You feel how it quenches the thirst. Finish it and when your shower is done we’ll speak.”

Bottoms up then. His thirst already stated, swallowing the mouthful produced waves of cool energy radiating from his gullet. He cupped it in both hands as he drank. When it was gone he gazed at the empty glass until Castiel waved his palm over it; Dean felt the weight removed. The former angel, his former friend and future who knew what, appeared as smugly calm as the hippie sex addict version of Cas had been stoned to the gills. Pulling off his violated jacket he tossed it on the floor beside the dresser. He couldn’t smell apple pie sitting so far from Castiel but the small smile replacing the axe murderer’s seemed pleased by what he was seeing. Dean remained unsettled so he bent over to undo his workboot laces, pushing them off with a toe to the heel. I bet whining includes saying out loud you can’t see anything else for now. Right? He pushed them away before standing to get his gear from the other side of his bed. With an obstacle between them he paused. How does the vessel look so small but feel ten times the size of Gigantor when I think of him? I hope Jimmy’s left the building. My Hell couldn’t come close to the one in there right now. Ditching the urge to square his shoulders since sex god might like it, Dean strode past into the bathroom.

Locking the door and turning on the fan became little ‘up yours’ of defiance because they sure as shit weren’t going to stop His Cornholioness from busting in. Dean turned his back on the mirror to remove his clothes, dropping everything in the empty trash. Pulling the bag out he tied the stinker off until it could be safely defused at a laundromat. Glaring between the john and the shower he opted for turning the cold spray on while he lifted lid and seat to relieve his main vein. Which just happened to be stupid enough to be in morning wood stance. “Women are so right about so many things dick. Too bad the guy code forbids tellin’ them that.” Smirking as he left both upright he went to add hot water to his shower and jumped in while it still ran cold, “OH YEAH! Rise and shine, Batman.” Unwrapping the annoying sliver of soap he got to scrubbing.

Close on ten minutes later Dean was standing at the sink skimming a razor down his cheek. The fun-sized towels weren’t enough to contain his manliness so he was already wearing his black flannel boxers. Question is do I bother wearing anything else out there? “It’s one thing to get juiced in the neck. Or groped in the giblets. A whole ‘nother friggin’ thing when it comes to other places.” Rinsing his razor in the sink he mowed through another strip of hair. Certain things just ain’t gonna happen, either. God or no god. He can turn me into extra-crispy nuggets first. Wetting one of the tiny wash cloths he wiped the lather from his face and neck, avoiding mirror contact with his own gaze. And we’re ready. It’s not like I’m a virgin protecting my lady parts. He forced himself to meet the green eyes staring back for a count of sixty before unlocking the door.

Throwing back his shoulders he stepped through the door, aiming his glare where Castiel had been sitting. Both beds were empty of cheap suit wearing gods as were the three rickety chairs, and the big table. He reached aside to open the tiny closet but he wasn’t hiding in there, either. That would’ve been too much like a sitcom. “Castiel? You go back in the radio?” A faint gurgling sound came from the valley between the beds. Leaning forward Dean took a few steps and saw leather soles lying toes down with the black clad form of he who’d be god lying crookedly, face down in the dirty carpet. A fist grabbed his heart and squeezed, almost as hard as Alistair those times downstairs. Dean rushed over, grabbing him under the pits to haul his dead weight on the bed. Castiel’s mouth gaped loosely, a faint red rash surrounding his lips that scaled his face like a climbing vine. It was worse below his eyes, fading away before reaching his hair. Feeling like the jerk Sam was always calling him, Dean smacked his cheek, “Are you still in there, Castiel,” before laying his ear over his heart. The beating was slow but he could hear air moving through his lungs in the quiet. Smacking his cheek again he hissed, “I don’t know what you did to yourself. I swear to any god not you I’ll slap you into Purgatory if you don’t start talkin’!”

The gurgling came again with something more that was lost to him. One of Castiel’s hands rose, wavering heavily to point behind Dean. He glanced back to see a full glass of the water he’d drunk like wine. The floppy hand caught him on the nose as he looked to see the brilliant blue eyes staring at him. Pointing at him Castiel mouthed, ‘your choice’. His hand went boneless before hitting the bed. Dean felt as if all the muscles of his face were tightening as he stared down, “You’re tellin’ me it’s my choice if I give you that glass of water. It’ll refresh you like it did me?” The solid chin moved up and down three times. Not looking like you’ll last for a full Q&A session here. Fucking HELL. “Castiel. You betrayed me. I betrayed you. You fixed my frickin’ back without even askin’ then propositioned me like some NFL quarterback horny for a high school cheerleader. I’m just a drop out who’s had to play god one too many fuckin’ times. Not today, no fuckin’ way.”

He twisted around to lift the glass with both hands, securing it in his right before lifting the overachiever’s head with his left. As he lifted the glass to Castiel’s mouth Dean muttered, “You and me try for greatness but I guess we’ll never get past bein’ a couple of fuck ups givin’ Dad the finger. Well, here’s another pissed off son’s opinion, unless your other writers were as big of douchebags as Chuck was.” He poured the water into Cas’ mouth, his voice lowering into tenderness, ” ‘Blessed are the meek. Idiot. For they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness. For they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful. For they shall hopefully obtain frickin’ mercy.’ ” Dean set the empty glass on the little table while watching the red fade to pink on the pale skin. He could hear Castiel’s breaths strengthen in spite of his limbs’ weak movements; fingers flexed, beckoning him. Putting his ear close to his mouth Dean heard him whisper, ‘thanks. cleaned jacket. hospital.’ Dean put his hand atop Cas’ unruly dark hair, shifting position to kiss his moistened lips.

Dean stuck the small ditty bag containing Sasquatch clothing under his arm with the laptop. Castiel had passed out and was currently drooling lightly. Going out to the Impala he got the door open, staring stilled at the trench coat draped over the seat. Several questions passed through his noggin in the moments it took him to recover. “I won’t know ’til Mr. Comatose in there can fess up.” Tossing the bag in first he set the laptop on the seat. Opening the back door, he leaned in to grab the coat to lay it out flat. Serve him right if he lets fly any kind of fluids. “Huh.” Dean patted at the inner pocket, grinning when he found the F.B.I. wallet they’d mocked up for the idiot, a.k.a. Eddie Moscone. He hurried back inside.

Pulling Castiel up by the arm into a fireman’s hold over his shoulder made him wonder about the water’s effect on him; the vessel wasn’t large but it had decent heft. It was being able to lay the guy out while supporting his head like a baby that made Dean sure he was stronger. Probably just ’til it gets peed out. Better put the pedal to the metal then. Door shut, he hopped in behind the wheel, leaning across to get his current Bureau I.D. from the glove compartment. He tucked in his squeaky clean jacket. The tires screamed as he swung her around in a tight circle, engine roaring at the other cars in his way. Taking out his cell he speed dialed Bobby and said, “Hey. Guess what? Good news and low test bad news . . . “

Dean pulled into a space right across from the ER entrance bearing a bright red and white sign saying, “For Hospital Personnel Only.” He threw open the door, pausing to stick one of his business cards in its window. Castiel was moving feebly when Dean put another card on the rear shelf. He dragged him out to drape over his shoulder, kicking the door shut with a hushed, ‘sorry baby,’. The dangling angelgod Dick Almighty mumbled incoherently as he ran across the lot to the opening doors. A blonde nurse came hurrying to him. “Hey, need some help here! F.B.I. special agent down. Not shot. Not sure what the Hell happened.” She waved to a burly orderly who somehow managed to be taller than Sasquatch. The big man lifted Castiel like he was a limp noodle. He laid him out gently on a gurney with her help and he followed them into one of the draped exam areas.

Ignoring him as she worked on Mumbles, the orderly left as another woman in civvies came in with a clipboard, “I need some information. Are you family or a friend?” Pulling out his ID wallet he let the weight of the badge open it, “Special Agent Will Graham, ma’am. He’s my partner, Special Agent Eddie Moscone.” She gave him one of those impressed frowns, pouting her petal pink lower lip out, “What happened to your partner, sir?”
“Well. We were discussing our case and I went to use the facilities. When I came out he was face down on the floor. Makin’ a gurgling sound.” He waited while she wrote, taking the opportunity to peer down her casually unbuttoned blouse. Like I’m giving those up forever. She raised her head and he lifted the edges of his lips in a bare smile. “When I got him up he couldn’t talk. Really weak. Had a rash of some kind on his face.” He circled his own with his hand, “Red, worse under the eyes. I got him to drink some water and it faded mostly. He passed out for awhile but came around when I parked outside.”

He got another business card from his pocket, handing it to her, “He’s still kinda new. If he says his name’s Castiel that’s his code name. Poor bastard looks sick enough to forget himself.” The woman finished writing, “We’ll take care of him. You’ll have to wait outside now.” She palmed his arm, turning when another woman wearing a white coat came through the drape. He nodded once, “Doctor.” She narrowed her eyes at him before going to the nurse’s side. His notetaker smiled up at him, patting his arm as she walked him out of the area. “I’ll be movin’ my car and then come back to wait. Unless, do you know if another special agent is admitted here? Jack Crawford? He’s working our same case.”
“Tall, good looking man with longish hair?” Her clipboard waved towards her face like a fan. Dean adjusted his tie, pursing his lips into a flat line, “I don’t know about the good looking part. But, yes. Very tall. We call him Fabio sometimes.” She stopped walking, “If you check at the desk they’ll know where to find him. I have to speak with the doctor now.” Patting him a last time she headed back. Dean indulged himself in watching her go before heading out to rescue his car and Fabio’s gear.

Clipboard woman wasn’t at the desk by the time he returned. A short brunette who looked too young to be out of high school smiled brightly at him. He fixed her with a stern gaze, raising one eyebrow, “I need to see Special Agent Jack Crawford. He came in earlier with a serious infection.” She typed the name, bobbing her head gently at the screen, “He’s in room 207. Lunchtime, poor thing.” He raised a finger to point at the girl as she smiled sweetly, “Thank you. I’ll give him your condolences.” Rolling his eyes to the heavens he patted the laptop under his arm as he walked away, the ditty bag swinging from his hand. There was more activity around Castiel’s draped area. The nurse from before came out. He took a few steps in that direction but she shook her head, tapping her wristwatch. Waving he mentally adjusted his compass to find the elevators.

Approaching the end of the hallway he saw two very young women in printed uniforms coming from what he’d figured was Sam’s room. They were giggling to each other as they eyed him. Smirking slightly with a small side to side head movement he turned to see them watching his back; he winked. Door ajar he leaned sideways towards it while listening for sounds of life. A heartfelt bleah came from within. He put on his jauntiest smile to push the door open slowly. Jolly Green was, in fact, turning a zombie-esque tinge of lima bean. “Well, Jack, I see you had some company. How’s lunch treatin’ you?” Sammy responded by bringing up the muscular arm impaled by a sturdy IV drip, raising his middle finger.

“That good? Damn, the food here must be top of the line. I hope Eddie enjoys it as much as you do.” His younger brother closed his eyes, swallowing hard. A few short, shallow breaths came, “Thanks for bringin’ my stuff, Will. If you’re gonna be funny you can leave it now on your way out.” Dean held out the laptop, letting it precede him before he put it on the weird bed table. “You know, you’ve made an impression on at least two of the damsels, four if you count the two checkin’ me out after leavin’ your gigantic presence.” He dragged over the ugly chair, tossing the little bag down as a back support first. Sickly puppy dog eyes greeted him when he turned around to sit, “I thought somethin’ happened to you, dude. Thanks for callin’ on the way over. Had time to go barf and get cleaned up in time for this alleged food. Remind me to arrest the kitchen staff.” Fabio’s head flopped back against his elevated torture bed.

A sweaty man in gown and bathrobe was coughing hard as Dean got back in the elevator. He stayed by the front with a nervous glance back. Going my way at least. He wanted to grip his nose as he held his breath. Doors sliding open he jumped out, walking fast towards the front desk. Clipboard woman was passing and caught him by the arm. He flexed a little. “Your partner’s been moved upstairs, 213.”
“Thanks, sweetheart. Can I go up?” She gave his guns a little squeeze, “You can but might have to wait outside when he’s being treated.” Leaving him alone he didn’t watch her go, only stared at nothing. Thank whoever. They think he’s got a shot. A gurney came straight at him so it was jump quick or get run over. Trotting back to the elevator he reached it in time to slip inside, Coughing Guy apparently enjoying a long ride while hacking up a lung.

Seven doors up from Sasquatch. Or is it down? Who cares? Turning left from the elevator his steps slowed the closer he got. Halted where he could just see Castiel lying propped up in his torture bed Dean could feel a tide rushing in of too much to deal with right the Hell now crap. “Wish I’d brought the Gold with. Dammit.” He advanced, sliding his hand along the door to ease it open before closing it firmly. Dragging off his coat he tossed it on the ugly chair, not stopping until he was looking down at his lightly bandaged, slumbering face. “Guess that rash thing was worse than it looked?” The lids rose, brilliant blue eyes startling him back a step. “Dean. Check my pocket.”
“You have to call me Will, Eddie.” Dean grimaced with an intent stare, “Remember? F.B.I., code name Castiel. You’re Eddie?
“Check my pocket.” Muttering, “Pocket,” Dean opened the tall box masquerading as a closet. Rifling through the cheap jacket he found the I.D. where he’d put it and a flashlight sized and shaped digital recorder.

Castiel waved with the unbandaged hand. Dean smiled to see him stronger. Handing it over he pushed several of the miniscule buttons, frowning deeper as nothing happened. Closing his eyes the frown remained, “I can’t make this work any more. They’re all gone. I sealed them away so none can free them. I don’t recall how, now. Jimmy I remember sending to Heaven after killing Raphael. In time his soul may recover its sanity.” Dean smoothed Cas’s soft hair with zero intent of fixing its mess. The shining eyes opened, touching his again. His rough, weary growl softened, “I do remember your words. And these I wanted to remind you of.” Licking his lips he spoke with quiet deliberation, ” ‘I got sparks when I see you. Or hear your voice.’ ‘I come around catching sparks off you. I get an electric charge from you.‘ I can’t give you the sparks anymore but I can still feel them.” Dean leaned his head sharply to face Cas head on, “Don’t worry about it. I didn’t need a fingerzap to get them in the first place.” Dean rubbed his hand briskly against the blanket. Falling forward in slow motion he barely touched Cas’s lips with his own. The charge sparked audibly but he kissed him harder to soothe the pain away.

‘Head On’ by The Jesus and Mary Chain, September 1989. Rowdier version Pixies from ‘Trompe Le Monde’, 23 September 1991.

Too Much Joy ‘Here’s to Eternity’ from ‘Green Eggs and Crack’ 1987. Re-released 16 June 1998. Sample available at Amazon. Band site has iffy connexion.

The Werewolves ‘Lisa’ from the self-titled 1978 LP, RCA Records.

The Moody Blues ‘Dawn: Dawn is a Feeling’ from ‘Days of Future Passed’, 10 November 1967.


Turtles Eating Things








Here, let my add on of my own tortoise.

I think this is my favorite post on tumblr.

Turtles apparently LOVE strawberries.

I want a turtle now ;~;

reblogging for mina :3


it’s like they’re my kindred spirits. the second one is exactly how i eat oversized foods!

I love the faces with the strawberries. It’s like they’re in heaven or something lol.

Destiel Word Prompt Contest: Sparks

Sparks: Why

The night was calling but Dean Winchester was not in the mood to listen. His highly polished, ivory-handled Colt preceded him through the shadowed forest. He wanted those howling bastards to see the moonlight sparking silver off the gleaming nickel; its silver bullets lovingly crafted with his hankering to splatter their guts. Voice full, deep and dark he bellowed, “C’mon you bitches, manwich incoming!  I’m the tastiest piece of ass you’ll see for a long time.” Rustles to the rear and sides sounded maybe twenty feet away. Holding his left arm close like it was supporting his right he had his blue Taurus under the jacket with the Beretta tucked above where the sun don’t shine. “I’m all alone like you girls want it. I even brought barbeque sauce!” Heavy footsteps scratched, scrabbling closer. He could almost smell their feral stink, ready and waiting on the sounds he knew should be coming from straight onward. He muttered low urgently, not having to put on too false a show of nerves, “Someone feel free to lose it over me first. Nice scrumptious Dean Tartar on the hoof. Hell, I almost wanna eat myself.”

Breaking branches snapped from ahead in a flurry waving leaves as two of the biggest werewolves he’d ever laid eyes on sped hunched over towards him. He raised the Taurus at the same time as the Colt and shot them in rapid succession with the darker weapon. Not giving in to the fleeting urge to watch them down, he pivoted to his left, firing the Taurus again at the three advancing from a clump of bushes. Hauling ass towards their fallen bodies, he jumped over and turned when he landed, firing at the two who’d been across from his current position. One of them dropped immediately but the other still came on. Dean aimed high at what he thought were glinting teeth and let the mutt have it with both barrels. Not pausing to gloat over the headless wonder he looked sharply to his right where the ones trailing him had been. No sound of approach came but he couldn’t be sure they hadn’t stopped or doubled back while their brethren were en route to the Rainbow Lounge of Purgatory. It was impossible to tell by scent with the dual pleasures of werewolf sweat and iron-tangy blood bad touching his fine nostrils. Crossing the Colt over his left wrist he put the barrel close to his skin; relatively cool. He engaged the thumb safety and carefully jammed the barrel against his flank inside his waistband. Wincing, he held the Taurus ready, reaching back for the Beretta. He raising it up quick, growling, “No more warnin’s, puppydogs.”

Switching off the safety level he faded back into the bushes. He desperately wanted to suck in all the air he could cram into his lungs, get the full sensual feast of disgusting odor he’d gladly taste. Instead he settled for delicate, bitchy little sips through his nose. Twitching at a soft thud off to his left he stared in that direction before whipping around to snarl at the two dogs that just weren’t fricking clever enough tonight. One of them made a whining sound but that only made Dean madder. No warnings meant no warnings so he didn’t give vent to his contempt, blasting Whiny with both guns first. Hunching over to pursue Old Yeller he saved himself for another hunt when a third little bitch swiped at the air where his head should’ve been. He cocked his head aside while tsking before putting the Taurus to Whiffer’s chest and firing three times because he was feeling pissy. Old Yeller was making a last stand when he stood up, advancing on the balls of his paws. Dean shook his head, finally fed up, “Burn was right, ‘… when one don’t run, or maybe makes fight at you,” the werewolf flung himself forward, wicked claws fully extended. Dean stepped back as he fired, emptying the Taurus and firing twice more with the Beretta. Doggie down. He breathed deep to finish, ” ‘… why, you shoot him and shoot him quick.’ “

Trudging back to the Impala was a slow labor of love as he kept an ear, eye, and reloaded Taurus out for any furry reinforcements. Dean stared into her backseast before slumping in behind the wheel. “Freakin’ Mother of All dead, Cas hopped up on Purgatory Juice, and Sammy decidin’ at long last to get some action after who the frick knows how long and all these motherless bitches still think they can take me out.” He woke his baby up and got the Hell out of there before someone called the Humane Society. He kept the Taurus out, barrel facing the back door tucked just enough between the seat and backrest to not slide around. Dean checked the mirrors frequently for signs of pursuit, law or otherwise. The quiet of the night was barely liveable with only the sound of his baby’s airy purr for company. Flicking on the radio helped and he found himself drawn to the sound of a song his dad used to like when he was in a misty-eyed, drunken state. It was a bit poppy for Dean’s taste but the lyrics caught at him, particularly now:

Why, whoa oh oh
I can’t stay any longer
Why, whoa oh oh
I can’t stay any mo-ore 

Lisa, Lisa
I got sparks when I see you
My dear, my dear
Or hear your voice on the phone
I need ya, need ya
I feel a tide risin’ in you
My dear, my dear
When we’re together, alone*

“God damn it.” He detuned the radio and raised the volume, white noise to blast out the memories of his lost lady and the closest thing to a son he’d ever get to have in this life. Chuckling darkly he raised his voice to shout, hoarse with all he didn’t want to think about, “Or should I be saying CAS dammit, you overflowin’ crapper of STUPID ASSBUTTMONKEY BASTARD?!” Careless of what was ahead on the road he turned near full around to glare at the seat behind him, fearing and hoping to see his new god. Blowing out a rush of air he grumbled, “Keep it together, Winchester,” turning back to the road, grateful to find it clear. “Who the Hell did that song. It’s right on the tip of my,” he trailed off, fervently hoping he was wrong but, no. “Aww, for crap’s sake. The fuckin’ Werewolves. Dad, if you can hear me wherever you’re hauntin’, screw you very much. Okay? Why the Hell did you have to,” he smacked the steering wheel hard, frowning sharply before caressing slowly, “I’m sorry, baby. And Dad. It’s not either of your faults for Lisa or Ben. Or Cas.” I got sparks when I see you.

There wasn’t a sock on the door or Do Not Disturb sign or whatever the Hell Sam might use these days to show he’d scored and the lights were all off. The tiny shard of paper he’d left at the top edge of the door was still at the same angle so Dean figured it was safe enough to unlock and enter. Shifting his paper bag he stuck the key away to put his hand on the pocketed Taurus before pushing the door open. Kicking it closed brought no stealthy attack but he bent his knees to set the bag down rather than stoop over, drawing out the gun as he reached behind to lock up. He flipped on the lights; one hanging over the cheap table went on fine but the one on the dresser flickered and went out in a small burst of sparks. “Crap, hope the bulb didn’t break. Not that I wanted to tiptoe barefoot across this grubby carpet but Sammy might.” Advancing steadily he ignored the problem to grab open the tiny closet. No surprised douchebag waited inside so pushed it closed loudly and lunged for the bathroom light with his empty left hand. The shower curtain was pulled back so unless someone was holding their breath in the toilet Dean was relatively safe from corporeal threats. He raised his foot to pry it open with his boot, leaning his head back while rolling his eyes down in case of ugliness of any kind. “Frickin’ sanitized for your protection. Too bad they never think to add salt.” He let the lid slam shut, the hollow plastic sound reminding him how lonely this time of night was without a monster or two for company.

Shrugging at himself in the mirror he couldn’t summon up the chutzpah for a wink so stuck the Taurus in his jacket. Without taking it off, he got to washing his hands, brushing his teeth with a look of contempt for the floss Sam was always pestering him to use. He spit loud into the sink, telling himself out loud, “It don’t matter because every time I turn around I’m getting resurrected with a brand new frickin’ set of gums and re-hymenated to where it’s not even fun to annoy Sammy with anymore.” Rinsing the stupid little brush he stuck it on one of the scraps of cloth they called a clean towel and raised his hand to smack the lights off. Right before he touched them, both the ceiling heat lamp and oversink fixture popped softly, a spray of sparks flaring out at him from both directions. “WHAT THE HELL?!” His hand had kept moving to switch them off so maybe they wouldn’t catch fire and give him another thrilling death. In a husky whisper he said, “Okay, whoever or whatever’s doin’ that, kindly kiss off. I’m beat and about to get drunk and I really don’t need this crap right now. If you’re werewolf ghosts, that goes doubleplus screw off for you.” Dean patted his hair and jacket but found no glass shards. Raising his middle finger he stalked out fully expecting the dangling table light to blow up. When it didn’t he said, “Thank you for not screwin’ with me any further. I’ll pour you out a drink if you can keep from blowin’ the bed lamp up,” he raised his hand, holding up first two then three fingers before frowning tightly and raising all five, “I freakin’ promise.”

As nothing further continued to not happen, Dean nodded once before upending his head to look at the dresser lamp. “Huh, not broken either. Guess this place is savin’ a little dough with cheapass bulbs?” Pouting his full lips thoughtfully he grabbed the two plastic wrapped glasses, warily stepping over to the table for his self-medication then proceeding to the inner side of the neatly made bed nearest the door. “Kinda nice to see these people using real glasses again. Sam really needs to get a grip and not get all teary-eyed over reusable crap.” Inhaling sharply he undid the wrappers before pulling out his reward, a bottle of Johnny Walker Gold Label. Pouring two fingers for who or whatever first, he filled his up to two fingers away from the rim. “See, there you are. I kept my part. You keep yours, all right?” Dean glared around the room as he put the cap back on, setting the bottle down beside the lamp. He cracked his knuckles and reached to push the little doodad with one eye closed. “Aah, thank … damn, thanks whoever.” He pushed himself against the wall on the lumpy mattress, not bothering to take off his jacket or boots. Picking up his glass he frowned, more than a hint of bitterness in his throaty voice, “I think I’ll just sit here, drink, and not push my freakin’ luck with the TV in case it feels like makin’ like an angel appearin’ out of nowhere.” Or hear your voice on the phone.

Resting the glass on his stomach he stared at it while thinking of his remark’s inspiration. Unable to keep the overwhelming sadness within his aching head his tone sank, “Showoff Cas and his thunderin’ showers of sparks with flashes of,” he waved his other hand, “oooh, aaah wings and lightning. Impressive as Hell but sometimes,” he pinched the bridge of his nose tightly with thumb and forefinger, “Sometimes I wish to the Old God he’d just freakin’ picked a woman to occupy.” Fury gripped him suddenly and he shouted, raising his fist towards the ceiling, “And not a child, either.” Trying to collect himself he lowered his volume to a near whisper, “Crazy, easily confused frickin’ angel.” Gulping down half his glass in one shot, he smacked himself on the chest, coughing. “Not the way to treat Gold Label, Winchester. Good thing those bastards jacked up the price of Blue or Rufus might’ve come down from Heaven to bitch at me for wastin’ it like that. Or Hell. He did his share of bad things, I have no doubt.” Raising his glass high towards the ceiling, he took a moderate mouthful sighing deep as the soothing burn distracted him.

Several minutes later, when he couldn’t feel his tongue anymore, he swallowed the sweet liquor, “That’s the ticket. I wonder if Sam’s sendin’ up flare signals yet. Frickin’ re-hymenated, re-intergrated Sasquatch. At least he’s loosened up enough to get stumblin’ drunk more than once a month now.” He shifted his whiskey to the other hand to get his cell, taking a second to move the Colt from where it’d been poking his waist. He set it on the bed close, pulling out the phone. There was indeed a text message in queue, as well as voice mail waiting but he shrugged. Lifting his chin to take a bead on the waste basket, he chucked it across. “Two points for me. Not quite a Yahtzee but I’ll take it.” Feeling pretty relaxed already he took another overly large swig, letting it numb his tongue again as he removed the Beretta from where it was trying to get fresh with his backside. Taking his time by swallowing small amounts of his mouthful he laid it beside the other gun. Swapping the glass over once more he took the Taurus from his pocket. Laying his finger along its side he squinted at the matte blue finish.

“You, my fine and worthy friend, I may leave to my brother so he can have a matched set upon my final go round in the Death lottery. God … aw Hell. O, Random Douchebag in high schoool I borrowed a girlfriend from, I really fuckin’ hope it’s soon. Just gotta get Moosehead settled up first with some non-possessed non-bitch.” He laid the pistol on his stomach and downed the rest of his glass, letting the alcohol sear his throat all the way down. Leaning over without looking he grabbed the bottle, sticking it between his arm and his chest to unscrew the cap before tossing it to keep the cell company; it bounced off the edge onto the carpet. “Guess I’ll have to take that in my first one’s row, crap. Hmmph.” Shrugging he poured himself golden to the brim, bracing the bottle against his stomach next to the Taurus. He held his mouthful this time, inhaling the fumes slowly through his nose to add to the flavor. As he was beginning to wonder where he’d left the remote both lights flickered sharply in counterpoint to the ones outside. With a series of cracks like an automatic rifle spray, sparks and fine shards of glass began falling on him from the bedtable lamp. Swallowing, he lolled his head back and forth against the wall, a small laugh erupting and growing frantic. He wheezed, a tear trickling from each tightly shut, crinkly eye.

Out of nowhere a hand smacked him so hard on the head he saw spiky stars flashing against his lids. Still laughing, he spat out, “Even when I see stars they’re sparky. If that’s you, Sammy, you’re gonna be seein’ some Fourth of July fireworks right before the lights go out.” The bottle was wrenched from his grip and the pistol fell to the floor, “Holy crap, dude, you know better than to screw around a gun with like that.” He covered his whiskey with his now free hand, holding it away to the safe side. No one spoke but the presence felt familiar to his whirling senses, “I mean screw around with a gun like that. Son of a bitch, I’m just havin’ a little nightcap and you,” he opened his eyes at last and nearly dropped his glass, “CAS?!” He turned his head away to drink steadily as if it were cool water, ignoring the fire erupting within. Tossing its empty self backwards Dean stared up at the still annoyingly smug former angel who seemed indecently naked without his trenchcoat. He’d kept the cheap suit but his blue silk tie was straightened, tied in a double Windsor knot. The comforting, dusky deep rasp was gone as Castiel spoke, smiling at him as never before, “I still may not forgive you for your refusal to profess yet it gave me immense pleasure to not smite you as you and your family deserved.” Lifting his chin in a movement Dean distantly thought like Colin Firth’s in that damned stuttering king movie, the Lord God Idiot McCastiel sat with back ramrod straight, hands curled over his knees on the other bed like it was a throne.

“I will not let you kill yourself or throw your life away. Part of my prior wish to be a better, calmer God than my predecessor.” He held up a hand as Dean opened his mouth. “Do not speak. I know you wish to remind me he was my father but that is of no import, now. He may come to seek me out or choose to continue cowering in depression and dismay at the muddle he allowed matters to come to.” Castiel looked at the whiskey glass on the bedtable and it was in his hand without interceding movement, “Thank you for your offer but I felt it important to remind you that I do care what becomes of you.” Dean stared at Cas as his head turned, looking away at last when he glanced back to see where his glass went. Not on the bed, he couldn’t see where it’d tumbled to and since he was feeling dizzy he reluctantly looked at his former friend. Castiel was holding his empty glass; leaning forward towards him it became filled as Dean took it. The entity formerly known as Cas raised his glass with a smile reminiscent of Jimmy’s when he’d finally gotten to eat his fill of burgers, “I heard you earlier but don’t begrudge your anger. It has taken me time to adapt to this immense well of power. I feel with each moment that I come closer to the time I will be able to release it once more.” Dean paused with the glass an inch from his lips. He choked, “WHAT?! I thought you wanted to save the world like Superman and be the better God. All sorts of crazy juiced up talk.” Taking a healthy mouthful he swallowed it down without a thought for how it felt. “You sound as if you wish me to continue, Dean. Are you ready to bow down and profess your love for me, too?”

Dean wasn’t sure but something felt very fishy with how Castiel was looking at him. He’d seen that look before but Johnny Walker was kicking his head’s ass with velvety-toed boots. I feel a tide risin’ in you. He stuck his finger out at His Popeiness, “You seem to like sayin’ that a whole fuckin’, er, excuse me, frickin’ lot Castiel, Lord of the angel … Lord.” The dark haired one looked at Dean with his face turned aside, squinting deeply. Very slowly Castiel turned his face the other way, vibrantly blue eyes locked to his green ones. When he did it again, ducking his chin when he paused it came to Dean, floating up through the time, muck, worry, and Golden Haze. The last time Cas had looked at him like that was when they’d stuck Dean in the panic room so he couldn’t give his vessel cherry up to Michael. Castiel made his voice huskier but nowhere near his old timbre, ” ‘Well, Cas. Not for nothin’, but the last person who looked at me like that. I got laid.’ ” Then he winked exactly like Dean had at him. “Castiel? You tryin’ to be funny? It’s like watching Sam tryin’ to be one of Snow White’s dwarfs.” He held his glass in both hands, trying to hide behind its flimsy protection. “You listen to me, Dean. All those times I watched over you. All those days I spent hiding, trying to protect you and yours, your Earth, you never once seriously considered what you so flippantly hinted at that day?” With a casual toss of the wrist Castiel drank all his whiskey, reaching over deliberately to set the glass down with a soft click.

“Well, shi, sure. I mean, all dudes do at one point. We’re dudes, random curiousity’s in the hormones if it ain’t in the DNA.” He finally remembered his drink and swallowed until the half glass was gone. Jumping when the thing disappeared from his hand, he twitched backwards when Cas sank onto the bed beside him. “It’s irrelevant to me whether this vessel is male. Of course, if Jimmy’s young daughter had become my vessel it would matter, as you rather amusingly screamed at me.” He put his hand down on the bed behind Dean’s butt, invading not only his space but his eye contact’s comfort zone, “When I first said to you that humans were works of art. Would it surprise you that I prayed then you would know I was thinking of you foremost amongst the others?” Dean tried to speak but all that came out was a high pitched garble. Castiel laughed, caressing his lower back, “Dean, it’s a fact of life and evolution that the Hunter becomes the Hunted. If I were to retain my Godhead, I could see to it that the creation process was less hit or miss yet I’d remain hesitant to disturb such a beautifully chaotic system at the same time.”

Extremely aware of the strong hand now massaging the sore muscles of his lower back Dean found his voice to protest lamely, “But I like girls, love them and all the lady parts I’m so afraid of sprouting.” He really hadn’t meant to say the lady part thing out loud but looking at Cas it seemed a piss poor thing to be worrying about right then. Alarm filled him as Castiel gave him a roguish, half-cocked grin, “Parts you already have, simply rearranged less optimally than a woman’s. I’ve always believed testicles were ill-designed, for example. You know they are analogs to ovaries, yes?” Dean squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to think about how tingly things were feeling downstairs as he mentally compared his biology to a woman’s. Or that new Castiel had just compared his tackle to egg shells where old Cas couldn’t manage to get laid paying good money in a satisfaction guaranteed bordello. 

Castiel’s new voice came way too close to his ear, “It is your choice, Dean. I would never force you into something such as this. Although I may still have to insist on worship if a good reason comes for me not to give up this,” he inhaled deeply, mmming softly in his throat, “thoroughly intoxicating power. Or, if you can’t make yourself adapt, I could always give you momentary sparks like you’ll never regret with just,” Cas’s finger poked him right in the tricky muscle that never unkinked properly. Dean gasped aloud with relief and more. His eyes shot open and his heart stopped finding Castiel’s neck less than an inch from his nose; the angelord’s pale skin seemed to give off an aroma of … . “Castiel, are you smellin’ like apple pie on purpose?” Dean found himself falling the short distance in slow motion, ending up with his nose buried between the neat white shirt’s collar and whatever Cas had become’s tantalizing skin. When we’re together, alone.

“I will spare you the name of the movie but it involved the titular angel who, when in what was called ‘heat’, gave off the fragrance of females’ favorite baked desserts. It was a foolish way to describe arousal by those who created it in the first place, let alone their ommission of males’ similar reactions. However, dessert was a charming notion. So, yes, there may be some purpose but you don’t seem that unhappy. At all.” Dean only felt the hand doing ungodly, delicious things to his upper back now but how Castiel knew he was in semi boner-mode was something he was fine with not thinking too much on. Especially since his, her, its Lordliness was pressing those full, shapely lips against Dean’s highly sensitive ear. This is new, this is interesting but this is something hunting and drunkness haven’t left a lot of energy for. “Cas, uh, Castiel. How about you show me the sparks again and if Sam hasn’t gotten back after I get a little pass-out time we’ll see where we are?” Castiel ducked his head around while somehow not dislodging Dean’s nose from where it’d chosen to live. His breath blew sweet on his lips, “A deal. Sealed.”

Castiel held him tightly across his back, hand massaging the nape of his neck. The perfectly doughnut-shaped mouth surrounded his own plump lips, undulating sinuously without a trace of tongue. Dean’s eyes stayed open and crossed slightly as the sparks flew up and around them both, little starry sparkleshowers as dazzling as the first terror-filled time he’d laid eyes on the angel’s handsome vessel. And then Castiel’s fingers squeezed the back of his neck, emitting purely electric shockwaves of sparks he could feel right down to every last little capillary, his body writhing with surges of devastating, sticky ecstasy. The last conscious particle of him hoped Castiel wouldn’t let him fall on the floor as his body went limp. And He didn’t.

*The Werewolves ‘Lisa’ from the self-titled 1978 LP, RCA Records.