spn ficlets



Hi, I'm riley and every day of 2014, I will be posting something on this blog. (Usually deancas, maybe occasional cockles.) Length and quality vary widely. Please take a moment to check out my faq.

I don't accept prompts.

I track spnficlets and cherishedcastiel.

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In the seventeen days since Castiel last saw Dean, he’s thought of little more than this moment.  Pleasures of the flesh - once a curiosity to an angel of the Lord - have taken root in him, wrapped through his muscles and tendons and curled around his bones until the ache of not touching and being touched threatens to overwhelm him.  Seventeen days of being deprived of Dean’s presence has left Castiel feeling like there’s a tiger pacing behind his ribcage.

He wants to be gentle; wants to hold Dean as tenderly as he knows how and marvel at the scattered freckles across his nose and the endless depths of green of his eyes; he wants to handle Dean like the treasure he is, but there isn’t time. There’s never time when need is burning a hole through the middle of him like it is right now.  It’s a need like he’s never known, sharp and pitched and urgent.

They managed to get out of their shirts and shoes and halfway out of their pants before they landed on the bed, a tangled heap with Cas on top.  Dean’s breath, hot and damp on his skin makes it difficult to focus on dealing with the fabric that still stands between them, but he steels himself and does it anyway.  His hands shake as he grabs the waistband of Dean’s boxers and pulls them out of the way, more so when he roughly shoves his own down his thighs.

Even as their bodies push back together, bare chests and already damp skin colliding in their rush, Castiel wraps a loose fist around Dean’s cock to savor the hiss of pleasure it earns him.  He wastes no time, pulling from root to tip just the way Dean showed him, his body finding its own rhythm as he ruts against Dean’s hip.

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I just wanted to say I LOVE your writing style. Just like your cadence, & pacing with words flows beautifully <3
Anonymous

Oh, gosh.. thank you so much, Anon.  I really appreciate this.  <3 

destiel- "Could you repeat that?" <33333

inkblackwings:

It’s been on the tip of Dean’s tongue for three weeks; one short sentence, three little syllables, eight tiny letters.  It should be easy.  He could say it in less than the time it would take him to draw a breath.  But he waits for the right time, as though such a thing exists.  He bites his tongue when the urge to say “I love you” nearly overwhelms him, presses his lips hard to Castiel’s skin, swallows the words back down.

They’re just outside of Louisville, Kentucky and nearing dawn after an all night drive when the deer jumps out in front of the Impala.  Castiel sucks a quick breath and slams on the breaks as he wrenches the wheel - exactly the way Dean told him not to in situations like this - and the tires squeal on dew-wet pavement as the car fishtails onto the shoulder.  Dean braces one hand against the roof and grabs Castiel’s jacket with the other in the time it takes the car to come to a stop, the back end in the tall grass just off the shoulder, headlights framing the doe that is jumping over a low barbed wire fence across the narrow highway.

Fuck, that was close,” Dean grits between clenched teeth, his heart thumping wildly with fear.  His hands shake as he slides closer, still clinging to Castiel’s jacket when he asks, “Are you okay?”

"I never saw her."  Castiel’s voice trembles, his face ashen in the faint light.  He’s still gripping the wheel with both hands, white-knuckled and staring at the spot where the doe disappeared.  "What if I’d hit her, Dean?"

"Hey, shh," Dean says, "you didn’t, okay? Look at me, Cas."  He reaches up, trying to force his hands to stop shaking as he gently frames Castiel’s face and pulls his gaze away from the other side of the road.  "You didn’t hit her.  It’s okay.  We’re okay.  I love you."

The words slip before Dean has time to think about them; once they’re hanging in the air, he’s overcome with a mix of relief and terror.  Castiel’s breath catches, but he says nothing for a long moment, though his trembling fingers wrap around Dean’s forearms as they sit turned awkwardly toward one another in the limited space of the Impala’s front seat.

When Cas finally speaks it feels as though they’ve been staring at one another for a century.  His voice is still shaky, barely more than a whisper when he says, “Could you repeat that?  I want to make sure I heard you correctly.”

So I was sitting on my deck reading a bottom!dean ficlet on your blog, and as I was reading, out of nowhere, I experienced a... er... um... very lovely "finish." Gosh I hope that doesn't creep you out, it's just you're a very effective writer. I love all of your ficlets! (blushes and slinks away...)
Anonymous

I’m glad you enjoy the stories, Anon.  <3

Professor Harvelle locks the door of her music appreciation class at nine a.m. on the dot.  Castiel always slides through that door at 8:59 a.m.; half the time he nearly runs over her in his rush to make it before she locks him out.  She probably hates him, but he barely notices because every day he grins and shrugs off her disapproving look, then quickly scans the room to find the handsome baseball player with green eyes and freckles whose name he thinks is Dean Winchester.  

Once he finds his target, Castiel strategically seats himself two rows behind and a seat to the right.  He’d like to think he’s sneaky about it, but a month into the semester, their classmates don’t even bother sitting in the seat they know he wants anymore.  Without fail, he sits through Professor Harvelle’s usually lively lectures, struggling to pay attention and take notes instead of watching Dean doodle in his notebook or watch YouTube videos on his laptop.  

Every day Castiel tells himself that today’s the day he’s going to finally say hello and every day he manages to lose his nerve at the last second.  Today is no different.  Thirty seconds after class is dismissed, he’s packing his things into his overstuffed backpack when a shadow crosses the table in front of him.  Expecting another complaint from Professor Harvelle for almost being late, he snaps without looking up, “As long as I’m here before nine, when class starts; I’m not late.”

"Um," says a voice that is definitely not Professor Harvelle’s.

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i would like to thank not only god but jesus for your spnruttingfic tag
Anonymous

HEH

Thanks, Anon!  Just after kissing, rutting is probably my favorite thing to write about (and also probably the tag with the second most stories at this point).  *U*

okay, but, human!Castiel being determined to experience everything, so he makes Dean:

Just imagine Dean and Castiel at the end of a long, long, long, long, long day.  The kind of day that seems like it’ll never end.  They’re exhausted and freezing by the time they make it to their crappy little motel room with its crappy little shower.  One where the water only actually comes out of half the shower head and it still turns cold in three minutes flat.  

The hour’s too late to get something to eat in a town so small, so after taking turns scrubbing off the top layer of a generally unpleasant day, they fall into bed, hungry and still cold.  They curl up under the threadbare blankets, using one another for warmth, pressed together with their legs tangled and their fingers intertwined.  Within minutes, they’ve forgotten about the crappy shower and the long day and being hungry.  With soft kisses and gentle touches, they build a warm refuge from everything about the day that sucked and pretty soon, it all fades away as sleepy kisses turn to sleepy mumbles turn to sleep.

They’re in Kearney, Nebraska when Castiel sits down on the edge of the bed and refuses to budge until Dean agrees to take him on a proper date.  Dean blames all the television Castiel watches in their downtime, his fondness for romantic comedies, his trash romance reading habits (Cas sniffs indignantly at that one, blushes a little, stares at the floor); he makes a joke about chick-flick moments and Cas laughs politely, but crosses his arms over his chest.

"C’mon, Cas," Dean cajoles, "we can go out tomorrow.  We have stuff to do today."

"We will have stuff to do tomorrow, too,” Castiel says evenly.  ”And the day after that, and the day after that.”

It’s not that Dean doesn’t want to go on a real, actual date with Castiel.  It’s just that there’s so much to do to find the shapeshifter they heard about and there’s a case waiting in Iowa when they’re finished here and one in Kentucky after that.  They don’t have time to take an evening off to go on a date.  Dean considers pleading his case, but Castiel’s jaw is set the way it only ever is when he means business and Dean knows there’s no use.  Irritation flares in his chest, sharp and hot, but he quells it quickly with a deep breath.  

Five seconds later, honest-to-god nervousness takes its place.  They’ve been living in the same bunker for a year now and sleeping together for six months, but going on a date is something entirely different.  Going on a date is what you do with your boyfriend.  Dean turns the thought over in his head, Castiel continues to watch him impassively.  Boyfriend boyfriendboyfriend; my boyfriend, the angel. 

Yeah, okay, maybe that’s not so bad after all.

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