they were doing this on purpose
they were doing this on purpose
“I’ll keep you safe.”
“Close your eyes,” Cas commanded. “Don’t look.”
“But I—“ Then suddenly Dean could say no more, as a pair of strong arms grabbed him from behind. Dean froze, throat tightening. One of the hands clapped firmly over his eyes. The other settled on his shoulder. The angel’s breath fell hot and heavy on the back of his neck, causing the little hairs there to stand on end.
“I said,” Cas murmured, “don’t look.”
Dean could feel his treacherous hands began to shake.
“Okay,” Dean gasped.
For a brief moment, Cas let his chin fall against Dean’s shoulders, fitting there easily in the crook between neck and spine. Then suddenly all was warmth, and power, and screaming.
It took Dean several seconds to realize that the voices weren’t his; that he wasn’t back in the Pit, surrounded by damned souls begging for misery. That he remembered this too, this voice, holy and beautiful, and the song it sang; the paean that once brought him home.
Then, just as abruptly as the song began, it stilled. Silence fell. The warmth subsided.
Slowly, gently, Cas lifted his hand away, smearing wetness across Dean’s cheeks. Dean did not open his eyes for a long moment. When he did, he wheeled around, noticed the bodies around them, and shuddered.
“Are you hurt?” said Cas.
Yes, Dean wanted to scream.
“I’m awesome,” he said, dragging a hand over his tear-streaked face. “Hell of a kick your voice has. Ever thought about starting a metal band?”
To Dean’s surprise, Cas beamed at him.
“You didn’t experience any pain,” he said.
“No. I guess I didn’t.” Part of Dean wanted to recoil from the admission, to flee into the Purgatory underbrush and take his chances with the beasts he found there. Instead, he forced a smirk. “What do you think that means?”
“It means we can change,” said Cas in a voice that made Dean’s chest ache. “Even us. Even here.”
“Awesome,” Dean managed eventually.
Cas nodded. “It really is.”
“You have a visitor, Clarence.”
Meg’s smile is lipsticky. All the other nurses are bleached and clean and transparent, but Meg’s demonic rebellion has been reduced to MAC Russian Red. Sometimes it’s Cockney, or Ladybug. Sometimes she leaves big sticky prints on his cheek, like bloody butterflies. He leaves them there. Another nurse comes along and wipes them off hours later, looking a little perturbed. He vaguely wonders why no one gets her to stop.
It’s Hang Up today. Purple and glossy. She smacks her lips as she looks up at Dean, and Dean just rolls his eyes. “Thanks, Nurse,” he drawls, like the whole fancy-dress facade pains him. She sashays out, and Dean shoots him a meaningful look. “She picked up everything she knows about nursing from porn, huh?”
He should’ve expected it, the great old bastard, but he’s never been great at doing the stuff he oughta, and Castiel’s cool shoulder against his still takes him by surprise.
Okay, Sera. Here’s the problem I have with you - you’ve just leapt from being a closed-minded writer to a closed-minded human being. Way to completely ignore and undermine the fluidity of sexuality. Way to ignore Dean’s casual flirtation with men. Way to ignore the significance of the masculine relationships in his life and the continual failure of his feminine relationships. Way to ignore Dean’s entire CHARACTER as a kid constantly striving to replace his negligent father with strong, fulfilling male figures. More importantly, way to eliminate bisexuality and pansexuality from the fucking spectrum!
You don’t understand the show you’re running. You don’t understand the characters you’re writing for. And, tossing my shipper’s agenda and slash goggles aside, if you genuinely believe that Dean’s past sexual relationships with women serve to eliminate the possibility of a future romantic relationship with a man, then you don’t understand life. Our understanding of sexuality has evolved in the last couple of decades to accept that ‘liking women’ and ‘liking men’ are not mutually exclusive statements. So thanks, Sera, thanks a lot for reducing something as wonderfully rich and complex as sexuality to naive binaries - it’s comforting to know this show is being run from such an informed and progressive viewpoint.
We still groped for each other on the backstairs or in parked cars as the road around us grew glossy with ice and our breath softened the view through the glass already laced with frost, but more frequently I was finding myself sleepless, and he was running out of lullabies. But damn if there isn’t anything sexier than a slender boy with a handgun, a fast car, a bottle of pills.
LITTLE BEAST by RICHARD SIKEN
He had green eyes, so I wanted to sleep with him
green eyes flicked with yellow, dried leaves on the surface of a pool—
You could drown in those eyes, I said.
The fact of his pulse,
the way he pulled his body in, out of shyness or shame or a desire not to disturb the air around him.
Everyone could see the way his muscles worked, the way we look like animals,
his skin barely keeping him inside.
I wanted to take him home
and rough him up and get my hands inside him, drive my body into his
like a crash test car.
I wanted to be wanted and he was very beautiful, kissed with his eyes closed, and only felt good while moving. You could drown in those eyes, I said, so it’s summer, so it’s suicide, so we’re helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool.
LITTLE BEAST by RICHARD SIKEN
An all-night barbeque. A dance on the courthouse lawn. The radio aches a little tune that tells the story of what the night is thinking. It’s thinking of love.
It’s thinking of stabbing us to death and leaving our bodies in a dumpster.
That’s a nice touch, stains in the night, whiskey kisses for everyone.
Tonight, by the freeway, a man eating fruit pie with a buckknife carves the likeness of his lover’s face into the motel wall. I like him and I want to be like him, my hands no longer an afterthought.
- LITTLE BEASTS by RICHARD SIKEN
SAM: You can’t begrudge Cas a little fun, Dean. He’s never really had friends before.
DEAN: He has us.
GIVE, TAKE AND PONCHOS: Castiel has a new trick, one Dean’s never seen, and when he starts using it on the Doctor Dean’s jealousy drives Sam around the bend.
Castiel and the Doctor have been gone for three hours by the time they both suddenly appear in the middle of Bobby’s living room, pink-faced and crazy-haired and sending a stack of papers sky high. The sheets flutter through the air like confetti and the Doctor’s still giggling by the time they touch the floor.
“Look what the Cas dragged in!” Amy catcalls from her place sprawled on the sofa, long limbs everywhere, fanning herself with a tomb on ancient Aztec mythology. It’s a hot summer’s day in South Dakota and she’s wearing as few clothes as are logically possible around a handsy Dean and a husband with a sword. “How were Adam and Eve?”
The Doctor sashays over to her, hands clasped and eyes bright, “I think you mean Adam and Steve.”