Wanna meet up and get bladdered? :D

How do you think the whole immortality shebang would impact Dean and Sam’s ability to gank demons? Would the morphic field apply to possessed bodies? Would the initial blow force the demon to evacuate, but leave the possessed victim alive inside, with the memories of everything they did, trapped in their body and ‘mortally’ wounded? How could they cope with that? How would Dean and his uncontrollable guilt complex cope with that? Would he try to help them? Where would they put the category threes? Wouldn’t one of them eventually become a category three themselves, what with their legendary injury rate and all?

Would Castiel, previously immortal, become mortal? And in becoming mortal, would he lose his grace? Would the grace of every angel be forced back to heaven upon the emergence of the morphic field? How would heaven, hell and purgatory deal with the complete lack of new souls? Would a demon cease healing? Would Crowley become completely vulnerable? Would he throw a shitfit at the lack of soul-supplies? How would those recently inducted into hell feel about just having missed the cut off point? How the fuck would Death feel? And the Reapers? Essentially made redundant? Would Death come to Dean for help, to cash in a favour, as it were? 

SO MANY QUESTIONS. Oh, Superwood. You bring me such mind pickly joy.

Shameless PWP for braincase

Dean’s frantic. Jack kinda guessed he’d be a tiger in the sack but this is something else. It’s biting and bucking and so hard it physically hurts. Not that good, nearly-there-on-the-edge-hurt, but a dry burn, a deep, bone-rattling, irritating ache as Dean ruts against his thigh and licks into his mouth like he’s trying to crawl inside him and stay there. Jack should try to still him. Soothe him. But he’s old and tired and impossibly worn and he wants this too. He knows what it’s like to want it to hurt, to claw beneath someone else’s flesh and wear their skin because your own’s too tight. So he lets Dean rip at his clothes and struggle with his braces, let’s him shove him down on the bed with a hand around his throat. He lets Dean’s palm grind against his Adam’s apple, rocking up into the smooth, solid bulk of his thigh as he scores lines into his shoulderblades. 

It’s hot and squirming and uncomfortable, sweat burning in his eyes and hair sticking to his nape. Dean rubs against his sunburn and bites his nipple a little too hard and holds his cock too tight but it’s not clumsy. It’s intentional. It’s punishment. And when Dean sinks down onto his dick, barely lubed, mostly dry, salty tears squeezing outta the corners of his shut eyes Jack knows it’s not meant for him. It’s not his benediction. It’s Dean’s. Dean offers the sacrifice of his body up to every God he can fucking think of and when he groans it’s not pleasure but a prayer. He chokes low and gruff in the back of his throat, holding onto Jack’s slick shoulders with shaking hands. Jack holds his waist, presses his cheek against the brand on Dean’s shoulder and Dean shudders violently, insides clenching and shivering around the girth of Jack’s cock. 

The mattress squeaks and the headboard slams into the plaster so hard a framed watercolour print of a barn in Kansas drops to the floor and shatters. The sheets are tangled around their ankles, fabric pulling and tugging, and Jack’s pants aren’t even all the way off, binding his legs at the knees. Dean squirms against him, every muscle in him so damn tight it’s like holding a brick wall. He fucks himself against Jack’s body like it’s the only thing keeping alive, like it’s oxygen, like it’s blood letting, fingers cramping in Jack’s hair and breath hot and wet against his neck as he bounces a rhythm into his hips. Deep breaths escalate into choked little whimpers, into throaty moans, into grunts as he slams down hard, his cock slippery slick between their sliding stomachs. And then, toward the end, when his muscles are bound like wire beneath Jack’s hands, when his ass tenses beneath his fingers, he sobs. A dry, desperate lttle sound in the back of his throat as he mouths at Jack’s temple and writhes into him, shooting wet, sticky strings into the hot, empty space between them. He sobs, and he shakes, and Jack fills him to his core, emptying into him with shameful little thrusts. 

He’s barely finished before Dean’s pulling off of him, flinching, his face pained and flushed and sweaty, pink from stubble rash. His lips aren’t swollen and Jack realises they kissed once, barely, before Dean started focusing on clothes and skin and cock. Dean dresses quickly, leaves Jack to wipe himself off on moth-eaten motel sheets, his back to the window, shadowed in the yellow glow of a streetlamp. He clears his throat when he’s done, wipes his damp hands on the thighs of his jeans and stares at the floor. Like he’s waiting for Jack to say it. One of them to say it. Like he’s waiting for him to ask. Who. Who did you lose. Whose name did you bite into my neck. Whose vengeance are you seeking. Who do you want to hurt you. But instead there’s silence. Silence and two guys catching their breath in a room that reeks of sweat and semen and lost, broken things. So Dean picks up his keys, and he walks out, and Jack doesn’t even watch him go.

Anon asked: Also, I can see Ianto and Cass, after a while, finally opening up to eachother and gossiping so there’s that as well.

“It must be difficult,” Ianto concedes, holding a steaming mug of coffee out to Castiel. Castiel stares at it suspiciously, cocking his head to the side.

“I’ve never had… ‘coffee’ before,” he admits, rolling the richness of the word around in his mouth. “I’ve had many types of liquor - all the types the store possessed. And something Bobby calls ‘gut rot’, which tastes a little like your Earthly petroleum. But never coffee.” He takes the mug with a nod, wrapping both hands around it even though it’s scalding hot. Ianto flinches for him. “Thank you.”

“Well, if you want to know about coffee, I’m your man,” Ianto smiles, sitting in the chair opposite him, holding his own mug gingerly. He takes a sip and licks his lips. “I’ve been successfully brewing coffee for a while now. It’s not as intimidating as one may initially assume.”

Castiel wrinkles his eyes at him, “I don’t think I understand.”

Ianto takes a slow breath, recounting the things he’s wanted to say to Castiel ever since he first saw him. Ever since he noted the way he watched Dean, with such a familiar, wide-eyed, nervous yearning.

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Mark Sheppard