Wideeyedloner - A Feeling; A Heartbeat; A Hater.

「僕たちは愛するために生まれました。 ただ愛するためだけに生まれました。」

"We were born to love. We were born just to love."

I had a dream the other night that I met the Supernatural production team and suggested a plot idea even though the show is long over.

I woke up and was like, “wtf, I didn’t even like the show that much and stopped after season 6.”

(My email address is a Supernatural reference.)

Oh man I'm still so bummed this was cancelled.

GET TO KNOW ME ★ Favourite TV Shows = Dead Like Me “Life sucks, and then you die. And then it still sucks.”

「 Don't know why this love gotta be 難しい

I'm the 宇宙の super lover バーバルなのに」

[fic] [spn | dean/cas ] near-fall

near-fall spn dean/cas 2600 words thank you so much to Nym for the alpha and houndoom for the beta!! <3 errors mine all mine

ao3 link

As Dean watches the popcorn bag spin on the microwave’s rotating plate, he nearly jumps from how old his reflection looks. Yeesh. The year of resisting the urge to throw himself on a pyre from grief has caught up to him. He looks at least fifty. He feels so much older.

Dean had been drinking too much, sleeping too little, and getting pretty careless on hunts, to be honest. Jack probably showed up just in time with Cas in tow before Dean had the chance to do something really stupid and get himself killed.

He still looks so wrung-out it could have been last month, last week, or last night that he had rushed Cas, gripping him tight, crying like a freaking girl. And now they’re just sitting around like all the rest of this shit never happened, getting drunk and watching crap like Betty White getting tackled into the mud, just for laughs. None of this would have been on his bingo card for 2021.

Wild.

The microwave beeps, so Dean takes the popcorn and a few Margiekugels back with him to the Dean Cave.

He sinks back onto the couch, returns the popcorn bowl to the coffee table and distributes the beers just in time to tune in as Cas explains to Sam, “Once the commanders were slain, their foot soldiers fled. So yes, there were… artistic liberties taken in writing the tale of David and Goliath.” Sam nods along, fully engrossed.

“That makes a lot of sense,” Sam agrees.

This gives Dean an idea for the next video. “Hey, remember that wrestling case a while back? Sure brought back memories.”

“Of you trying to suplex and leg lock me in high school? Yeah, those were great times.”

“Yeah, they were.” Dean reaches for the laptop and—jackpot.

“Seriously?” Sam sounds put-upon, like someone who for some reason didn’t enjoy being twisted into a pretzel as a child.

“Problem?” Dean quickly swallows his beer so he can stuff his mouth completely full of popcorn and chew obnoxiously while Sam watches in disgust.

“You’re going to show Cas a wrestling clip. Knowing you, it’ll be the lip-synching country singer, the himbo, or the stripper.”

“How else is the man going to understand what it means to be a red-blooded American, Sam? It’d be unpatriotic not to show him.”

“Dude, Cas wasn’t technically born and isn’t a citizen of anywh—this is stupid. Cas, do you even want to watch wrestling?”

Cas, sitting placidly between them, beer balanced on his knee, responds, “I wouldn’t be opposed.”

That settles it. “I promise, Sammy. This is a good match.”

They watch the video, passing around the popcorn bowl, commenting on the grainy quality, the wrestlers’ entrances, their athleticism, the color commentary. The Undertaker chases Shawn Michaels inside and outside the cell, beating him bloody and prompting Cas to question what kind of grudge this demon had against the stripper. Dean does his best to answer Cas’ questions about the leadup to the match and pro wrestling in general. Sam, already on his phone to text with Eileen, helpfully supplies additional information.

Dean grabs them more beers toward the end, and comes back to Michaels knocking The Undertaker flat with his signature move, only for The Undertaker to rise back up in his own impressive signature style. Grinning, Dean looks over at Cas in the flickering light from the TV. The match continues in reverse miniature in Cas’ pupils, his pink lips parted and wet with beer. The air in Dean’s lungs turns to lead and drops into his gut.

Beyond Cas, he notices Sam turn to face him, eyebrows raised questioningly. Dean shakes his head no, all good, whips his unfocused eyes back to the match, and tells himself to get a fucking grip.

Kane makes his much-anticipated debut, incapacitating The Undertaker and allowing a bloodied Michaels to win the match. A victory for the Heartbreak Kid.

Dean’s still feeling kind of sappy from thinking about having Cas back, mixed with whatever the hell was going on earlier. Anyone could see that Cas is a handsome man, in good shape, and a great catch. Dean’s head is just screwy tonight. Gotta be the beer or something. He’s also got this antsy feeling he used to get after watching wrestling, like he’s going to go into the city to dropkick and shooting star press everyone in sight.

“I knew you would pick the stripper,” Sam teases.

“He was a great wrestler!”

“Yet he was outmatched by this ‘Undertaker’ and required third-party assistance,” Cas observes. Dean can always count on him for support.

—-

Another round of Margiekugels later, they’re in the gym downstairs, layering gym mats. Even with the central air keeping it a crisp sixty-eight degrees, they feel warm, so they’ve shed their outer layers and boots.

“This is, like, the best part of watching wrestling,” Dean tells Cas.

“Maiming yourself,” Sam stage whispers, still lifting a mat into place.

“I’m still unconvinced we’re in any condition for athletics at the moment,” Cas says. “My…tolerance isn’t what it was.” Because all men mourn their lost ability to consume an entire liquor store.

Sam nods like he knows what that’s like. “Nothing too crazy, okay? My back also isn’t what it used to be, and I’d kind of like to live my life without a permanent spinal injury.”

So they take turns demonstrating to and with Cas some maneuvers they’d tried in their youth, including downtempo Sweet Chin Music, the People’s Elbow, the Sharpshooter. Most pro wrestlers retire by their age, so it’s no surprise that the bodies of two elder hunters and an ex-angel (all lacking the appropriate conditioning) are creaky and bad at it. Each new move is punctuated with a “watch it!” or “I don’t bend like that” or “I didn’t survive all that shit to die in some dumb accident like Lawrence of Arabia.”

They’re laughing and sweating their asses off on the floor when Sam winces and says, “Ow, yeah, that’s my cue.” He sways to his feet, scoops up his hoodie and his boots in one hand, and holds his beer up over his shoulder with the other. “Night. Try not to die.”

Now that it’s just him and Cas, Dean suddenly feels something like discomfort, which is ridiculous. It’s only Cas. “Beer break,” He says, probably too loudly. It’s a little warmer than he likes by now, but still gives him something to do and provides an excuse to look away from Cas.

When he turns back, Cas is looking right at him with those fierce fucking blue eyes. Dean’s sure Cas can see everything that’s been going on in him tonight and can make better sense of it than Dean himself can. It makes him want to curl up, turn away, so he can’t see. But he also wants to meet whatever danger he perceives in Cas’ gaze head-on.

So he steps back onto the mats and says, “Ready?”

The late hour, drinking, and earlier gymnastics have them heavy-limbed and tired already, so they end up grappling. They can’t get too serious about it with the way the mats are laid out, but Cas rapidly gains an advantage. The guy is strong and surprisingly quick, and knocks the breath right out of Dean with a bear hug takedown.

Cas tries to free his arms from beneath Dean’s body to pin him, so Dean quickly rolls them, covering Cas and beginning the count. Cas, the fucker, almost instantly wriggles free and is on Dean again. The mat under his back has been sliding askew onto the concrete floor and he feels the world tilting as he jerks under Cas, trying to steer them both back toward the rest of the mats. Cas is stubborn as shit and knows it, smirking down at Dean while he struggles.

Dean is determined to wipe that smug expression off his face. “You gotta do better’n that—“

He braces his left side and shoves, intending to reverse their positions, but only manages to push his body, sternum to groin, into Cas. The movement makes goosebumps rise all over Dean’s skin.

The central air clicks on, humming quietly overhead. Cas is flushed and sweaty above him, and Dean can feel the warmth of his body through their clothes. His breathing is heavy and every exhale stirs the damp hair not stuck to his skin. His eyes are vibrant as they search Dean’s face.

Unbidden, his body tries to shove again, but it’s a weak effort, and both of them know it. His stomach does moonsaults, over and over.

Jesus. They’ve been this close before, he’s sure of it, on hunts. Crammed together like toothpicks in a box, in motel rooms, in Baby, in diner booths. He’s fought beside Cas before, fought him before, been aware of his breathing next to him, looked him in the eye. But this—whatever it is—has never been so strong.

It’s always been there, part of their friendship but playing at a lower volume than whatever else was going on when they were dying or about to die or the only things preventing catastrophe. Not something that demanded attention. But in the three months since Cas has been back, the volume has turned up with every glance, every word exchanged, every casual touch. Dean just can’t make out what the damn song is.

His body aches all over and his mind is hazy and he knows he should stop this—but he hears himself say, “You gotta—make sure you cover me for a three-count, like we talked about.”

Cas’ eyes narrow, and he slowly lowers his whole body closer, closer, until his chest is pressed to Dean’s, pinning him firmly to the mat. Cas’ right arm has Dean’s left restrained near their heads, and the other hand has Dean’s wrist. His deep breaths are hot next to Dean's ear and he smells of butter and hops.

Cas’ body should be offset for the cover. Dean should probably say something, but his mouth is dry, could maybe use more beer. Cas’ left knee is sinking into the mat between Dean’s legs, and he can feel the heat of his thigh cradled between his own. And—

There’s Cas’ dick, right at the crease of Dean’s hip. It’s hard, muted by Dean’s jeans but unmistakable. Okay, it happens. It’s happened to Dean on occasion on hunts, from fear or just from blood circulation—no biggie. Dean certainly won’t hold that against him (ha)—not when he’s sporting an erection of his own, fully pressed against Cas’ thigh.

But Dean’s body feels like it’s all nerves, alight all at once, flaring where their skin touches. And he swears he’s not trying to but his body squirms within Cas’ firm hold and under his solid weight and manages to rub himself against Cas, and Cas against his thigh. His cock gives a throb at the sensation, making Dean grit his teeth hard, and Cas stutters out a groan.

“Dean,” Cas rumbles into his ear. “the pinfall.”

The—right. He crawls his hand away from Cas’ loose grip and out to the side, feeling a little hysterical, and begins the count.

Smack. “One.” Somehow, they’ve managed to jostle their bodies and he’s trying not to take it personally but the friction feels amazing. Cas clearly agrees, tightening his grip on Dean’s shoulder. Dean bites down on the inside of his lip when he feels Cas’ mouth part against his neck. What the actual fuck.

Smack. “Two.” He hits the mat harder this time, because he’s nothing if not a hedonist, making sure he rocks both their bodies, and Jesus, was that Cas’ tongue? The wheezing sound the sensation forces out of Dean is completely pathetic. 

And there’s a thump-thump-thump as Sam tries—and fails—to wobble stealthily down the stairs. A moment later, he rounds the corner and enters the gym with both eyes on his phone in landscape mode in one hand and the index finger of the other hand to his lips. A look of horror blooms on his face as Cas and Dean stare back up at him silently from the crooked mat on the floor.

“Oh god, I thought you’d still be—“ He shoves his phone in the front pocket of his hoodie and makes a hasty U-turn to trip back up the steps so his voice and footfalls speedily recede upstairs. “I’m so sorry!”

That breaks the tension of—this, and Cas and Dean both begin chuckling. Cas leans up on his elbows to look at Dean fondly, a small smile curving his lips. Dean pats Cas’ arm, fingers traveling along his delts. Man, he has great arms. Dean would ask for Cas’ workout routine if he didn’t know that a) Cas doesn’t exercise and b) he has no intention of exercising at all, ever.

“Imagine if he’d actually walked in on whatever he thinks he saw,” Dean snorts. Lots of people—Sam included—have made comments about them over the years, but it’s not like that. It might be for Cas, but Dean’s always been a ladies’ man, a Don Juan, a confirmed bachelor.

Cas goes still. “Imagine that,” he says stiffly, no longer laughing.

Just like that, it becomes immensely uncomfortable, like the atmospheric equivalent of getting thrown sixteen feet off a steel cage and onto the announcer’s table. Dean swears sometimes that Cas must still possess an angelic aura, because even though he physically takes up the normal amount of space, the guy can project moods and intensity like no natural-born human Dean’s ever met.

Cas sits up and stands. Dean sits up with him, following his body heat. Cas’ jaw is set the way it gets when he’s pissed but his expression is otherwise carefully neutral. Dean wants to ask him what’s going on, what happened, but he doesn’t do heart-to-hearts. If Cas wanted emotional intelligence, he picked the wrong best friend.

Cas is a mess. His hair’s pointing everywhere, he’s sweaty, his face is flushed, his clothes are rumpled, and he has an obvious erection tenting his pajama pants. Fuck, it looks like he’s been fooling around. He wants to reach out and fix the guy’s hair, straighten his clothes. Cas takes a moment to adjust himself while staring at the doorway before addressing Dean.

“Thank you. For the lesson on professional wrestling.” Then he walks out, leaving his flannel, boots and beer behind.

The cooling sweat makes Dean's hair stand on end. He sits with his own frustrated erection, buzz fading into a persistent throb in his head, uneasy ache in his chest from whatever tonight has become.

He has half a mind to follow Cas—for what? For those sky blue eyes to bore into Dean again when Dean demands what this shit is between them? For that grumbling voice to deliver an explanation for what happened just now, for his sudden weird behavior?

Yeah, like because they're both such forthcoming guys.

Dean tries to rake a hand through his hair, but that hand is trembling, so he lets it drop. He must have screwed something up here, but doesn’t know what he did. His mind chases answers he doesn’t have and his stomach churns with the certainty that he and Cas are on opposite banks of a new rift in their friendship, both analyzing the fissure. Difference is, it’s like Cas still sees with a thousand eyes, and Dean just has the two.

He has no answers. It makes Dean feel like the dumbest heel alive.

He falls back onto the mat with a loud smack.

cannot watch the return of the king without thinking of that bad bootleg with the fucked up subtitles that said “this will be the end of Gender as we know it” instead of “this will be the end of Gondor as we know it”