I need a scene like this in Season nine.
Dean is laying on the ground, still, unmoving, blood caked on the left side of his face, left eye swollen shut.
Three demons look up, growling at the approach of the former Angel of the Lord, angel blade firmly grasped in his hand.
“You can’t help him Castiel,” one of them hisses, “you’re not an angel anymore. You’re useless.”
Cas’s body shifts, shoulders tossed back, head tucked, every muscle on alert, and he strides forward confidently, the demons retreating slightly on sheer instinct, and he puts himself between them and Dean, raising the blade slightly as he moves, a fierce, hard look in his blue eyes.
“Care to test that theory?”
“Dean, you’re being ridiculous. I can hear your teeth chattering.”
The thing about having a best friend is that you have to put up with a lot of nagging and badgering.
Your jacket is ripped, Dean.
Your shoulder is dislocated, Dean.
You have shifter blood in your hair, Dean, and that was just today.
The thing about having a guardian angel best friend is that you have to put up with a lot of nagging and badgering, and if you ignore him for too long then he just grabs you and forces you to comply with his unspoken requests to take better care of yourself, giving you that holier than thou, I’m an angel, you ass look the entire time. Cas is an overbearing mother hen on the best of days, but Purgatory has warped that sense of responsibility for your safety, that general air of caution and wariness, into this strange new brand of fierce protectiveness that both annoys and humbles you.
“I’m fine, Cas.” But you’re still Dean Winchester, John’s son through and through, and you’re too hard-headed for your own damned good. Maybe Cas will give up on it tonight like he hasn’t done every night for the past three weeks, and maybe tonight you’ll get to huddle under your jacket, alone and let the cold seep into the marrow of your bones. You doubt it, but it still feels like comfortable habit to put up a token protest.
From across the small clearing, you can practically hear Benny rolling his eyes. “Stubborn as mules, the lot of you. Just cuddle with ‘im so he quits pacing around and attracting attention.”
Cas hisses under his breath and glares at Benny with enough fervor to spark a small forest fire, but he doesn’t speak out against him. The angel and vampire have entered a mutually antagonistic and uneasy truce. You’re under no delusions that they trust—or even like—each other, but if Cas doesn’t smite Benny, and Benny doesn’t stab Cas, then you’ll call it a win.
“We don’t cuddle,” You snarl, and Cas rolls his eyes, ignores Benny entirely to grab your wrist and bar your arm behind your back in one swift, effortless action and bear you somewhat roughly to the ground. Then the wrestling starts. It’s pedantic and more than a little ridiculous, but you aren’t going to give in without some type of tussle. That’s just how you were raised. Cas is all gentle strength, efficiently exerted pressure in strategic points along your limbs and the considerate shift of weight to pin you to dirt, fallen leaves, and tree roots that dig into you cheekbone where you’re pressed into the ground. “Cas, what the fuck?!”
You’ve changed your mind—guardian angels are thankless dicks with personal space issues. He is pretty warm, though. Cas presses up against your back and curls his body into yours like a well-tailored suit—luxury you’ve never allowed yourself, comfort you’ve never been able to afford. His voice is a rumble through your ribcage. “Go to sleep, Dean.” It’s tired but firm, and who the hell are you to argue with that kind of power? Dude’s still got your wrist chicken-winged behind your back. He’s putting out heat like a wood stove; the chattering in your jaw has dulled to an occasional nervous tick.
“You fucking suck,” You mutter, but your eyes are closing, and if you press back against him more insistently, disguise it as a stretch, then who the hell is he going to tell? You’re surrounded by things that want to rip his wings from his shoulders and make your insides meet your outsides, and there’s a vampire whistling a quiet, jaunty tune a few yards away in the course of his nightly vigil. Cas huffs in exasperation against the shell of your ear, relaxes his deathgrip on your wrist to rub his thumb apologetically over where he’s maybe left some bruises. You don’t really mind, but you won’t tell him that.
“You’re an ungrateful and recklessly asinine human being, Dean,” Cas growls, but that’s definitely his arm sliding around the curve of your waist to splay his hand out over your sternum, possessive and stuntedly affectionate and nine other things that angels aren’t supposed to be. “When we get back to Sam, you’re going to shower and sleep for a minimum of three days before we go chasing down a single hunt, or so help me…”
Benny chuckles and it sounds suspiciously like fondness. There’s something underlying Cas’s words, some promise of ‘when’, not ‘if’, some intent laced through his gruff demeanor that means he’ll stay once you’re topside, but you’re not going to overanalyze that. It’s a simple truth. Of course Cas is going home with you. Of course you’re all getting out together. Of course he’ll stay. You relax back into the ridiculous way he’s spooned up behind you and a smile plays at the edge of your lips. Cas has never left you behind. Why would he start now?
(for keyofsarcasm, who wanted some Quidditch!Destiel - I tried!!!)
Dean and Cas are best friends everywhere but in the game. They’re on different teams, and Chaser Dean seems to make it his life’s mission to get as many goals on Keeper Cas as he can. Cas usually rises to the challenge, though every now and again a few slip past him. He is, after all, only human, and sometimes he gets distracted by Dean’s agility on the broomstick or his wide smile as he enjoys the game.
Dean catches a pass from one of his teammates and zooms in toward Cas, getting ready to throw a shot. He’s concentrating hard, and not noticing the Beater hovering behind him, nor the bludger that gets smacked in his direction.