ficlets in brine

“Weird” wasn’t the word he’d use for this situation. “Weird” didn’t cover it by a long shot. This was certified fucked up, but Dean still had to laugh.

One massive gut-wrenching trip on Angel Airlines, two dead demons and an exorcism later, he was leaning against a guardrail with a half empty beer under the night sky. Next to Dean sat himself – sort of. A wide-eyed, shorter, skinnier, much blonder version of himself, barely old enough to drink.

Yeah. Pretty fucked up.

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02 – Laundry [takes place in the askdomesticdestiel verse]

Dean cracked open the top on his beer bottle, taking a long pull and leaning against the counter. This was his favorite time of day, the small quiet in the kitchen after coming home from the garage. Zep and Cas had learned to give him this time, so he could listen to the creaking of the house, its worn supports settling.

It was warming up early this year, spring coming in March instead of waiting for late April. He couldn’t say he minded, though. The winter had him holed up in the house all hours and his skin was starting to itch with the old need to be on the road. It was a distant memory now, but it was Dean’s entire life until two years ago. Just being able to go into his yard without a parka helped ease the urge.

He snatched a cookie from Cas’ ridiculous ceramic frog jar and headed for the back porch. It was just as rickety as the rest of the house, the east corner quickly succumbing to dry rot and carpenter bees, the damage currently hidden by a collection of terracotta pots dotted with tiny sprouts in the soil. Dean smiled around his mouthful of snickerdoodle; they had all promised to paint the exterior of the house as soon as the weather was warm. He was looking forward to it.

Out in the yard, a collection of sheets and tee shirts fluttered in the breeze. Dean walked down, past the bin of frisbees and soccer balls, out to the wide stretch of yard, to seek out the ghostly silhouette behind the cotton. He caught a glimpse of dark hair leaning down to fetch a flannel from a yellow laundry basket.

“We have a dryer, y’know.”

Cas pushed a sheet aside and peered back at him. “I know,” he said calmly. “There’s no need. This saves electricity.”

Dean popped the last of his cookie in his mouth, washing it down with his beer. He rounded the clothesline, mindful to keep a distance between the freshly washed pants and his greasy garage jumper. He studied Cas, looking so comfortable doing laundry, the sun lighting up his pale face.

Cas stopped. “What is it?”

Huffing a laugh, Dean took another swig. “It hits me sometimes, how weird this is.”

Cas pinned the last shirt to the line. “What’s weird?”

Dean gestured with his beer bottle at the yard and house. “This. I mean, I figured I wouldn’t live long enough to see my late thirties. Didn’t think I’d ever have my own place, or a normal job.” He gestured at Cas. “I never figured I’d have a wife – or, well, y’know.”

Castiel’s sarcastic grin was definitely one he’d learned from Dean. “Oh? Am I your housewife, then?”

Finishing his beer, Dean crowded Cas’ space and looped an arm around his waist. “House husband sounds better.” And it did, and he had to laugh. Dean had never dreamed of having a wife, much less a husband. His younger self would probably shit bricks at the idea, but present Dean didn’t care anymore. If only he could tell his younger self how good it was going to be, that all the suffering and hurt and bullshit would finally pay off, and in the most unexpected way. Dean kissed Castiel then, gentle and sweet, listening to the laundry rustling on the line around them. Three years ago, he thought peace like this was a pipe dream.

“Where’s Zep?”

Cas broke away to pick up the empty laundry basket. “Out with Sam. They should be back by dinner.”

The same arm snaked around Cas’ hip as he straightened up. Dean leaned in close to his ear.

“I hope you’re done with chores for the day, then.”

Grinning, Cas broke away, making a quick break for the porch. “Only if you take a shower first. You’re filthy.”

So Dean chased him, up the porch, into the house and up the stairs. Yeah, life was good.

01 – Heaven [sort of a sequel to this]
[music - Flightless Bird]

“Wait for me, okay?”

Those were the last words he heard from Dean Winchester as he embraced the darkness, letting it swallow him, peaceful at last. His life and death would mean something, the foul beasts put back in their place, his patchwork soul granting him eternity. He didn’t deserve any of it. But it was his.

It felt strange to walk into the Roadhouse. Castiel knew this place, though he’d never been. He’d felt it in the air around Ellen and Jo, thick in the car as they rode to their deaths in Carthage. It smelled faintly of burgers and ale, but mostly of dust and old wood. The floorboard squeaked under his shoe, his shoe, not his vessel’s.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Ellen peaked out from behind the bar, a half dry pint glass in her hand. At her words, Jo rounded the corner, her young eyes wide and sweet. At a table in the corner, Ash and Pamela sat with cans of beer around them. It all looked very real, very tangible.

Jo’s arms were around his neck, bowing his spine down to her height. “We heard what happened. Guess you’re one of us now, huh?”

It took Castiel’s mind a moment to catch up, distracted by the smile in her voice. “Yes,” he answered sadly. “I am… how did you know?”

“Word travels fast ‘round here,” Ellen’s voice came from his left, just before he was embraced again. “Missed you, Feathers.”

Cas leaned into her hair. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.” It was barely a whisper.

Ellen smiled, guiding him to the bar with a hand at his back. “We know you tried. Come on, have a drink. Tell us what you’ve been doin’ down on Earth.”

So Castiel did, but only after receiving a black eye from Pamela (“Payback,” she’d said, and he’d admitted deserving it, but she still helped him up afterwards and gave him a bag of ice). He told them stories of the apocalypse, of battles and losses. He spoke of drinking, of eating and feeling for the first time. He smiled and told stories of Sam and Dean, of dying, of saving them.

He had so many stories of Dean, so he told them. Dean helping him through being human, Dean teaching him about classic rock, Dean scolding him for not letting him sleep enough – or for watching him in his sleep. Castiel went on and on, not noticing the smile tugging at his cheeks every time he spoke his name. Jo and Ellen were exchanging looks as he rattled on, Pamela grinned behind her beer.

His throat felt dry when he stopped. It was a strange sensation.

“Well, Feathers,” Ellen began, amusement in her voice. “I just got one question ‘bout good old Dean.”

Castiel nodded, gulping down the last of his beer.

“At what point did you realize you were in love with him?”

His glass ‘thunked ‘ sharply on the bar. In love. Castiel’s head swam, he felt himself tip forward a bit. All the times he’d saved Dean. Stuck his neck out, gotten himself destroyed. Betrayed, rebelled, stolen, killed, fell.

In love.

It hadn’t crossed his mind once.

“Oh, honey,” Ellen said. Jo’s arm circled his shoulders and pulled.

Wait for me. Okay?

“I suppose I would say now,” he answered.