"Never again shall you thirst, for I am come to wet your mouth with wine and water, to quench your thirst with kisses. Words of Love from my own lips will serve as your oasis, and you shall never want for drink again."
castiel never signs dean’s name when he talks to eileen he signs freckles instead, and eileen finds it all cute because he gets this extra soft look in his eyes when he does
One more! Because I’m a sap for happy endings and there were like… so many options.
On a personal note: I am completely floored by all the comments, tags, messages and additions to that other comic. I’ve read and cherished each and every single one. <3
i joke about the thirteen year old me that lives in my head screaming over spn now but i think…..maybe part of the reason that it is going to mean so much if they actually come through and give us a happy deancas ending is that at thirteen i was so fundamentally unhappy? i was angry at everything, not the least of which being myself as i started to come to terms with my identity, so to see these characters who i latched onto then as being like me in a way actually canonically being gay and getting a happy ending….it would do a lot for thirteen year old me
It’s Saturday night. I’m sitting in bed, obsessively refreshing tumblr like it’s 2013. Will they bring Cas back? Will Dean reciprocate? With every new piece of information, my heart soars. It sinks. My clown makeup, so perfectly applied Thursday night has begun to sweat off with my ever-increasing anxiety. I should have gone for the industrial stuff, but I could only afford the drugstore paint. Rookie mistake. I look longingly at my shoes in the corner. Nothing feels real. Did Cas even confess? Am I a fool?
No.
I reapply my paint. I pull on my shoes. I nudge my red nose into place. I can have low expectations but I must not lose hope. If I get burned, I have a whole circus to support me.
a kind-of coda to 15x18. this is not speculation, just what i felt i needed to write
Dean had tried not to think about what he’d do if he ever saw Cas again.
It shouldn’t be possible. Cas was gone, for good. And sure, he’d been gone for good more than once before and always found his way back from it but that didn’t guarantee anything. Dean couldn’t afford to hope, not when losing Cas had almost killed him the last time.
And yet. That hope had stuck stubbornly around, refusing to go away despite Dean’s best efforts. This wasn’t, couldn’t be, the end, because Cas may have said his piece but Dean sure has hell hadn’t.
He’d hold him, was his first thought. The way he had before, clinging to Cas with all that hunger and desperation he felt whenever he returned, his longing safely hidden behind social conventions, armed with an iron-clad excuse to touch that no one could question.
He’d kiss him, was his second thought, and even thinking it had Dean’s heart seizing, caught somewhere between pants-shitting terror and transcendent joy. It was something he hadn’t even allowed himself to fantasize about before, and even thinking it felt almost too audacious.
Maybe, since he was already in the realm of impossible fantasies, he’d say something cool first, something like ‘We really gotta work on your timing, angel’. And Cas would smile, like he’d known what was coming all along and had just been waiting for Dean to get with the program, and that would be the moment Dean would lean in and kiss him, capturing that smile against his lips.
(Except, no, it wouldn’t happen that way because Cas hadn’t known. How he couldn’t have was beyond Dean, not when angels were supposed to feel longing and he’d been bleeding it for almost as long as he’d known Cas. But then, how could Cas have known when Dean was only just coming to terms with it himself?)
He’d punch him in the face, was his third thought, but anger was becoming more and more difficult for Dean to hold on to and the urge for violence faded quick. Even if Cas had picked just the absolute worst way to tell Dean he loved him, the one guaranteed to cause him the most pain, and all that without even meaning to.
Dean gasps as his foot slips and a shower of pebbles skitters down the stone wall beneath him. His fingers scream as the rough-cut blocks of the castle wall tear his skin, but he holds on, pulling himself up until he can drag his body over the balcony edge and slump to the paved floor, panting with relief.
The walls of Heavensgate castle aren’t that high, but one misplaced step might have meant a nasty fall if he had lost his grip. He thanks his lucky stars as he inspects his grazed hands, then checks his pocket to make sure the rose has survived the ascent. The petals appear black in the thin moonlight, and while the bloom is slightly crushed, it will be fine to lay somewhere for the princess to find.
The princess… As Dean catches his breath, he leans his head back on the stone behind him, thinking of her pretty eyes. Princess Tessa captured his heart the moment she’d rode into the stables after a long ride, and smiled at him as he’d helped her down. She’d never said a word to him, but Dean has never given up easily. Tonight, he’s determined to make it into her apartments and leave this rose for her to find.
He climbs to his feet, wincing at the pain in his hip from where he’d scraped it against a windowsill earlier. He hopes like hell this is the right balcony, because he doesn’t think his hands are going to take climbing any higher tonight. Turning to survey the end of the long balcony facing the town, he can see several darkened windows and at least one door, all closed.
He turns back toward the ocean side of the castle and nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees someone standing there on the balcony with him.
He manages to stifle a yelp, but it’s too late, the person is on him, pushing him up against the rough stone wall face-first in a way that might be exciting if it wasn’t pants-wettingly terrifying.
“Who are you?” the person growls, and wow, isn’t that a voice to make Dean swoon? The man is solid, as tall as Dean, and built like a brick shithouse if Dean’s any judge. He cranes his neck, but can’t see the guy’s features in the shadows—and he sounds mad. He should probably wriggle out of this and run for his life, but he’s being crushed against the wall so hard that he can hardly breathe. He says nothing.
The guy tries again. “What are you doing here?“
Dean tries the reasonable approach first, before he resorts to kicking the guy in the nads and bolting. He gasps out, "Hey, no need to get violent, man. I just wanted to deliver this to the princess, okay?” He holds up the rose in the hand that isn’t pinned behind him, and the hold on him slackens considerably. Enough for him to breathe, anyway.
“A rose? You’re serious?"
"Yes! Look, I don’t mean her any harm, okay?” Dean pushed back against the elbow across his back, praying to anyone who’ll listen that this guy isn’t the kill first, ask questions later type.
Thankfully, he seems to be more the curious type. The pressure on Dean’s back lets up and he spins around, taking a few deep breaths. The guy is watching him, but he’s still in shadow so Dean can’t make out more than tousled hair and one hand on the hilt of a sword.
“I’ll be getting out of your hair, then,” Dean says, turning to run, when the guard sidesteps to block him.
“Give me the rose,” he growls out.
“Sorry, what?” Dean asks.
The guard holds out a hand. “I’ll give it to her for you.”
Dean blinks at him, suddenly unsure if that knock into the wall had damaged more than just a graze on his cheek. “You'd…you’d do that?"
"Do you have a message?” the guy asks, plucking the rose from Dean’s fingers.
“Just…just say it’s from an admirer,” Dean says, still unsure what’s happening.
The guard says, “Very well,” then steps back from Dean’s space, leaving an opening for him to escape.
Dean murmurs, “Thank you,” then swings back over the rampart, lowering himself gingerly back down to the balcony a few floors below, hands still raw and stinging. He has no idea how he’s gotten away from this one without a whipping, but he’s thankful to the strange guard.
***
Two days later, Dean and Sam are brushing down horses. The Harvest is upon them, and while the season means hard work for the farmers and producers of the region, the nobility take it as an excuse to party. Or in this case, to ride out across the moors to “take the air”. Dean is also fond of riding out there himself, but how is anyone supposed to enjoy the quiet, windswept solitude of the landscape with forty other people and horses?
They make quick work of looking after the six royal mounts borrowed for the event by visitors to the castle, and are just finishing up the last few when a new group arrives.
Sam hisses, “The princess! Dean!"
Dean stands up straight from where he was bending to check a shoe, nearly banging his head on the side of the stall in the process.
The princess rides into the stable, dramatically swinging her leg over the saddle and dropping to the ground. She looks stunning, as always—her long, brown hair loose and flowing, her face flushed from the ride. Her fine riding leathers show off her figure in a way that has Dean swallowing hard.
He smiles as he steps forward, but as the princess dumps the reins and sweeps out of the stable without a glance at anyone, let alone Dean, his heart clenches tight. What can a stable boy ever hope to offer a princess? Nothing, he realises, abruptly wishing he wasn’t covered in shit. But he is, most days.
He pushes down his shattered dreams and rushes forward to grab the reins of the royal stallion, and nearly runs right into a man standing behind where the princess had been.
The man is well-built, with dark, tousled hair and the bluest of ocean-blue eyes. He holds the reins of his own mount as he stares at Dean for a few moments, then raises one eyebrow in a questioning way. "Scale any more walls, lately?"
Dean’s eyes widen as he takes in what the guy is wearing—the blues of a palace guard. He quickly takes the reins, trying to hide the still-healing scratches on his hands. "No sir,” he mumbles, but before he turns away with the horses, the guard gives him a barely there but definite wink.
The guard glances over his shoulder towards the door, then looks back to Dean. He raises his voice a little so the two other men behind him can hear. “Full moon tonight, I hear. Harvest moon. The princess’s masked ball will be busy.” His eyes linger on Dean’s before the three men turn to leave the stable, discussing the security requirements for the ball.
Bobby’s voice cuts through Dean’s thoughts as he stands watching them leave. “You just gonna stand there all day, ya idjit? Get them horses put up!"
Dean scrambles back into action, leading the remaining horses into their places.
Sam joins him, murmuring, "What was that all about, anyway? You friends with the guards, now?"
"What? No! I don’t even know who that was,” Dean admits, finding himself sad that was the case.
Sam huffs as he gets to work removing a saddle, “You’re kidding, right? That was Sir Castiel, the princess’ personal guard—he’s the youngest to ever take the title. They say he’s tough as nails.”
Dean considers as he brushes down Castiel’s horse. He hadn’t seemed tough the other night on the balcony. Okay, when he’d been roughing Dean up, sure. But everyone liked a bit of that now and then, didn’t they? But there’s something about the guard that’s drawing Dean in, making him want to know him better.
A masked ball, huh? Two days ago he might have jumped at the chance to snatch a dance with the princess. But maybe…maybe now he has a different conquest in mind.
***
The stone blocks bite into Dean’s hands all over again, but he grits his teeth and scrambles over the balcony, his mask firmly in place. Tonight he’s a bat—a creature of the night. He’d made the mask himself from some old leather Bobby had said he could use. He’s scrounged his nicest clothes and scrubbed the crap from under his nails, and he hopes he doesn’t smell like the farmyard.
The wide, open balcony outside the ballroom is almost empty of guests, so no one notices as he drops into the ball. No one, except for the guard patrolling the outer edge. It’s not Castiel. Cursing, Dean ducks back behind the large potted plants in the corner, but it’s too late. The guard is on him, dropping him to the ground with surprising speed. He grunts as his hip and shoulder hit the stone floor, but a moment later the guy is hauled off him.
“What the hell are you doing, Gadreel? This is one of our guests!"
Dean is so pleased to hear Castiel’s voice that he grins beneath his mask.
The other guard apologizes, then Dean is pulled to his feet. He releases the helping hand and looks into the face of his rescuer, Castiel. His eyes are so freaking blue in the bright lights of the ballroom, and he wears no mask—only a small smile that lights him up.
"Thanks, man,” Dean says, grinning.
Castiel eyes Dean’s face, then looks down at his cleaner appearance. “Nice mask. A cat?"
Dean scoffs. "Bat, actually.”
Castiel’s amusement is all in his eyes. “Of course, bat…man. In you go,” he says, cocking his head at the ballroom doors.
Inside, courtiers in brightly coloured dresses swirl around the room on the arms of well dressed gentlemen, like birds flocking with their feathered and jewelled masks, almost too gaudy to be real.
But Dean only glances at them before turning his eyes back to Castiel. The guard’s amusement has disappeared, replaced by a sadness that pulls at Dean’s heart.
“Actually,” he says, “I was hoping to run into you.” He pulls a slightly damaged rose from his back pocket, presenting it to Castiel with a flourish.
Castiel looks at the rose, then back up at Dean with sweet surprise in his eyes.
Dean gives him his broadest smile. “Care to dance, Cas?"
And while the Harvest ball carries on inside, outside the full moon shines down on two dancers, lost in each other.
AO3 won the 2019 Hugo Award for Best Related Work!
Here’s the speech given by Naomi Novik when the award was accepted:
All fanwork, from fanfic to vids to fanart to podfic, centers the idea that art happens not in isolation but in community. And that is true of the AO3 itself. We’re up here accepting, but only on behalf of literally thousands of volunteers and millions of users, all of whom have come together and built this thriving home for fandom, a nonprofit and non-commercial community space built entirely by volunteer labor and user donations, on the principle that we needed a place of our own that was not out to exploit its users but to serve them.
Even if I listed every founder, every builder, every tireless support staff member and translator and tag wrangler, if I named every last donor, all our hard work and contributions would mean nothing without the work of the fan creators who share their work freely with other fans, and the fans who read their stories and view their art and comment and share bookmarks and give kudos to encourage them and nourish the community in their turn.
This Hugo will be joining the traveling exhibition that goes to each Worldcon, because it belongs to all of us. I would like to ask that we raise the lights and for all of you who feel a part of our community stand up for a moment and share in this with us.
For the @destielharlequinchallenge you make a piece of art or a fic based on one of the many (MANY!) summaries kindly provided by the mods. This is my contribution to the challenge (click on the image for higher resolution!).
This piece was inspired by this summary:
Small town librarian Dean Winchester is perfectly content with his safe, mundane existence, so when the panty-meltingly gorgeous “Mr. Novak” enters his life, showering him with gifts and attention, of course, he’s skeptical. Meanwhile, Castiel fights every baser instinct he has to win over his human mate—including behaving in the ways of a human male. In the end, however, it may take the fiery passion and fierce possessiveness of his dragon to convince Dean that he’s worthy of being loved.
Thanks to the mods for making this a fun and stress-free challenge <3
Many of the interviewees are also aro-spec, and there is quite the variation of aces interviewed. This is a nice read and I just want to let y'all know that it is possible to be heard on a large public platform.
