he said funky town

Supernatural Vertical File

an attempt to organize a million links

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Fic Quotes #11
[ other ] lite brite
simonejester wrote in spnverticalfile
Pairings this post: Castiel/Dean/Gabriel/Sam, Castiel/Dean/Sam, Dean/Sam

“Um,” Sam said carefully, somewhere behind Dean.

It was Sam’s “I think something is wrong” voice #281 - the “Dean what prank have you played on me while I was asleep” voice with an edge of “just how drunk was I last night”. No actual panic. Worth waking up, not worth opening eyes, not until potential for actual mocking presented itself.

Okay then.


“Sam,” he mumbled, “gerroffmyneck.”

“I’m not touching your neck, Dean,” Sam grumped, in “we have more important things to worry about right now, Dean, ohmygod, how is this my life and how am I related to you and I think I got my panties in a twist somewhere” voice #4. (He had about thirteen of those.)

Someone licked Dean’s ear, all wet and sloppy. Then they pressed a smirk against it. Definitely a smirk.

“I’m touching your neck,” Gabriel said helpfully.

Dean considered this.

“Huh,” he contributed, after a moment’s fuzzy thought.


Also,” he added, with a “how dare you interrupt me when I’m talking and also considering rubbing one out over your frankly delicious back” voice, which Dean mentally noted down as #1 until he heard any more of them, “pretty much everywhere else over the last eight hours.”

Sam’s spluttering noise was not quiet this time.

“’K,” Dean mumbled. “Do something about Sam, wouldya, he sounds like a leaky faucet.”


“Hey Cas,” he murmured, pretending his voice wasn’t doing that warm fuzzy thing it kept doing around Cas lately. “We had an orgy last night, didn’t we?”

Castiel’s mouth curved against his palm, just a little, and his eyes went sly and soft. “We engaged in loving, consensual polyamorous activities,” he concurred gravely.

Dean considered this information.

“Was there tequila?” he hazarded.

“Occasionally.” Castiel tilted his head thoughtfully. “Also professions of friendship and familial devotion, and many manly backslaps that devolved quickly into hugs, and Gabriel’s solemn promise, extracted under duress, never to attempt to drive your car, ever. Or to reupholster it. Her,” he amended considerately.


A hot, heavy weight landed across Dean’s hips, and his eyes snapped front and centre.

Huh. Castiel. Naked Castiel. Sitting on him. Naked. Staring at him. Looking lustful. Dean hadn’t even known he could do that. And naked. Dean hadn’t been willing to swear that there was actually skin under all those clothes either. Apparently there was. Skin. Lots of skin. Very very noticeable. Especially where... oh, holy shit. Bruises. Stark and vivid against pale skin. Hands and fingers around his wrists, at his shoulders, above his hips in the soft curve of his waist. Some of them Dean’s, he was pretty sure, but definitely not all of them. Teeth, bites, neck and throat and jaw and thigh and sweet zombie jesus over one nipple, and that one over his collarbone had broken the skin. And Castiel hadn’t healed them. He liked them, wanted that evidence there, and his eyes were burning hot demand into Dean’s face and Dean was very, very sure he was on board with this.


It was probably too late for gay crises when your body was one long, delicious, stretchy ache of new experiences and your dick was straining up towards your apparently not asexual angel for another round, anyway. Dean’s brain knew when it was in its own best interests to stay in, hah, sleep mode.

“Done with your little freak-out, honeybunch?” Gabriel purred somewhere, all hunger and dark amusement.


The quick shoves of his hips, firm and unarguable as if this were a battle, pushing himself down onto Dean and taking him, just taking, like those inches of heated flesh had belonged to him all along, ever since he’d rebuilt Dean, and he was just taking them back.


“Dean,” Castiel acknowledged, his voice one deep scrape of want. “You are a mess.”

Gabriel made a small amused noise. “And whose fault is that?”

Apparently orgasms couldn’t shut Gabriel up. Dean was all kinds of not surprised by this.

--Sleep Mode, by (AO3)whit_merule, (Sam/Dean/Castiel/Gabriel)


Cas finally lays the piece of pancake tentatively on his tongue and closes his mouth, chewing distrustfully. When he goes back to the plate for another bite, Dean gives some serious consideration to tearing up a few napkins for impromptu confetti.


If they do talk in the middle of their unacknowledged watch, it’s usually about Sam, reassuring themselves and each other of the tiny signs they imagine as improvement by the simple act of saying the words aloud. Otherwise it’s a discussion of small human things, bits and pieces that have Cas confused or conflicted; the proper length of time to make eye-contact without creeping people out, urinal etiquette, why it’s called a Three Musketeers bar even though there’s only one of them.


Sam handles him with the casual, possessive ease that he has with everything from guns to lock picks to a Dewey decimal index; shifting and arranging him in a way that doesn’t just expect to be obeyed, but is completely oblivious to the idea that it might not go that way. Even now that they’ve bought Cas clothes that actually fit, the press of Sam’s hand between his shoulder blades, gripping at his hip, makes him look miniature, like he shrunk a couple of sizes in the wash while Dean wasn’t looking. Shit, maybe he did – seems like plenty’s been going on without Dean seeing it.


Sam’s expression spasms into something that might have been a smile before it got mugged and beaten on the way to his face.

--Into the Light of the Dark Black Night by bewaretheides15, (Castiel/Dean/Sam)


You know who I am, don’t you?” Christopher Lee asks, his dark, beady eyes fixing on Dean’s.

And yeah, Dean guesses he does.

“So Dracula is God now?” Dean asks, taking a step closer to the older man.

“Always a smartass, Dean,” God remarks, clucking his tongue ruefully. “And not even a thank you.”

He says something else, but Dean’s barely listening—can barely hear him—he can feel fury surge through him, that same bloodlust he’d felt at the beginning of the battle, rage of the last six or more years rising up inside.

Thank you?” Dean demands, incredulous. “Now you show up? All the dying we’ve done, me going to hell, Sam going into the pit, our mom, our dad, our grandparents, and what? We’re supposed to be grateful that you finally got tired of banging hookers in Rio? Ran out of blow? Maybe your skeeball arm finally gave out?” Dean spits, stepping up to the old man.

“Dean.” Sam’s voice is a warning, and Dean hesitates, annoyed, looking at his brother.

Sam cuts his eyes sideways at Dean, his mouth moving in a whisper in the same direction, as if it might help keep the Almighty Himself standing less than five feet away from hearing him. “He might be a dick, but he’s still God.”

The amount of fucks Dean gives can’t be measured, since they don’t exist.


Finally, Sam looks at Dean and says, “Guess you should have specified we wanted Bobby and Cas delivered here, huh?”

Dean cuts his eyes in the direction God disappeared, gritting his teeth.

There’s an honest to goodness, no shit, double-rainbow hanging in the sky, shimmering like the world’s biggest ‘fuck you’.

“Asshole,” Dean mutters.


Instead, Sam—who usually lives about three counties over from “flogging a dead horse” in the land of “flogging the stain of something that used to be alive once, maybe"—actually changes the fucking subject.


“What the hell are we supposed to take to a barbecue?”

“What barbecue?” Sam asks, confused.

“Sunny invited us to hers. At seven. Everyone is going to be there,” he adds, mimicking Sunny’s words, not quite able to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

Sam thinks for a moment, straightening and walking the rest of the way down the stairs. “What’s she cooking?”

Dean looks at Castiel and Castiel looks back with an expression that says he knows about as much as Dean does. Perfect.

“No idea,” Dean shrugs.

“Red meat or white,” Sam says after a few seconds. “One or the other. We can bring white and red wine.”

“Great,” Dean nods. “Any idea where we’re gonna get that on a Sunday in South Dakota?”

“It’s not a dry state, Dean. Bobby lives here.”


“So,” Naf says, settling his elbows on his knees as he leans forward, looking up at Castiel, “You’re staying with Dean and Sam?”

“Yes,” Castiel nods. “I live on their settee.”

Naf just stares at Castiel for a long moment (well, Dean assumes he’s staring from the way his face is still turned toward Castiel’s, though with the sunglasses it’s hard to tell), and Dean’s searching frantically for something to say when Naf busts out laughing.

“All right, man,” he says to Cas, still laughing, “You’re funny. You can stay.”

“Would I have to leave if I wasn’t funny?” Castiel asks, deadpan serious as he squints at Naf.

That just makes Naf laugh even harder. “Oh man,” he coughs, looking over at Dean. “This guy is good.”

Dean nods, forcing a smile. “It’s… why we keep him around.” God help him. No, not God, fuck God, he amends quickly.

Castiel looks at Dean, brows rising and pulling together in a sort of confused frown, and it’s clear he doesn’t understand why Naf is laughing. “Is this good? He’s laughing. I don’t have to leave, do I?”


He’s got a brother suffering from a sick nesting instinct, a former angel with a popcorn fetish living on his fucking settee, their hot neighbor still hasn’t flirted with him once, and God is still an asshole.


Castiel doesn’t seem to give a fuck (or possibly his brain is orbiting Mars)


God shakes his head and sighs heavily, exasperated. “You’re like a baby. A big, mopey baby, who won’t stop crying. Christ.”

Dean stares at God in drunken awe for a moment.

“He’s my son,” God shrugs. “If I can’t take his name in vain, who can?”

Yeah, Dean’s still stuck on staring, but it makes a certain kind of sense.

--Like a Fish out of Water, by (AO3)nyxocity, (Sam/Dean)


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