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In Baldur’s Gate, Dragons Dungeon You! | Art Master Post

An SPN/D&D mashup that can be read on its own or part of the greater series The Way Things Ought to Be.

On a quiet afternoon a week shy of Christmas, Dean is interrupted while poking through the news for a case. Someone is pounding on the Bunker door. After a brief huddle with Sam and Castiel, they investigate to find Charlie on the other side, a box of books at her feet. She needs to use their archive for research and a place to stay while she does it. Of course, she's always welcome at the Bunker. And when Dean discovers her trove of Dungeons & Dragons books, she offers to run a quick campaign.

But the mysteries aren’t just in Candleekeep. Charlie seems to have one of her own. Except no one can put their finger on it. The campaign unravels--along with Charlie’s secrets--as she tells the story of The Scrivener’s Tale.

Chapter 4 - Cult of Personality

Summary: Five threads of fate, weaved together. Warnings/Tags: More D&D, some combat stuff, mystery, Charlie Is Weird Characters/Pairings: Castiel playing Castiel, Dean Winchester playing Rawridan, Sam Winchester playing Mephisto, Eileen Leahy playing Fechin, Jack Kline playing Comet Shadowpool, Charlie Bradbury Pop Culture Reference Count: 12 Word Count: 6186 Song: Cult of Personality - Living Colour

Once upon a time, he would have heard her. But since the showdown with the Illithid just over a year ago, Castiel often found himself preoccupied and sleep deprived. Such was the human condition; perpetually oblivious and infinitely exhausted. So when he rounded the kitchen threshold at five in the morning, Castiel barreled directly into Charlie at full speed.

At least he still had his reflexes. Castiel caught her before she toppled to the floor, but he hardly had a second to help her to her feet. She twisted wildly out of his arms in a maneuver that would have impressed Neo. Freed, she jerked her flannel sleeves down her wrists, then tugged at the collar and hem of her t-shirt. Though he despised prying, it all compelled Castiel to ask.

“Are you alright, Charlie?”

Without raising her head, Charlie’s glare snapped to him and she froze in the middle of yet another adjustment. A long moment lingered before she straightened and said, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He scanned the kitchen and spotted a large bag on the counter. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked as he headed for the coffee pot.

“Something like that,” she said, then offered, “figured I’d go grab breakfast. Maybe try to catch a few more z’s. You want anything? There’s donuts, bagels, a danish…”

Dark circles hung heavy beneath her bloodshot eyes. More sleep. Sure. He would eat his left shoe if she could prove she had slept at all last night. And why had she bothered acquiring breakfast? Surely she knew Dean cooked.

He was about to interrupt her rattling list when Sam entered the kitchen from the north door. His skipping steps slowed to a halt at the bottom as Charlie finished her list. She smiled then and said, “Morning.”

Sam regarded them both in turn, then asked, “Did either of you sleep?”

“You know I require little rest,” Castiel stated.

When he and Sam turned to Charlie, she shrugged. “Seriously, I’m fine… wait, what?” she stuttered as she shook her head and turned to him.

“I am still getting used to sleeping straight through the night.”

Charlie squinted at Castiel as if to see him better, and he shot a cautious glance at Sam who merely shrugged. “Kinda like a baby?” she asked.

“If that analogy helps you understand, then, yes. Except without the inconsolable crying and limited diet,” Castiel said. “This is the longest I’ve ever been human, and I am experiencing some… regression.”

“So a lot like a baby,” Charlie mused as she backed towards the eastern door. “Huh. Well, I hope that improves. I’m gonna hit the sack. Pick up D&D tonight after dinner?”

When they both nodded, she darted through the eastern door and disappeared. Castiel contorted an eyebrow at Sam who shrugged again. “I dunno, dude. Charlie’s always been eccentric.”

“I’m worried something is wrong,” Castiel said, but the thought faded as he shook his head. “I wouldn’t mind being an angel again. Just for a minute.” When Sam attempted to apologize, Castiel waved him off. “No, I don’t mean like that. I… want to be more helpful. I still feel useless at times.”

“You’re not,” Sam insisted. “You’re as good a hunter as any one of us.”

Hah. Hunter. More like third wheel. Castiel shook his head and rolled his eyes. “If you say so.” He nodded towards the bag then. “I suppose I should eat if I’m going to be awake.”

“I can’t disagree with that,” Sam said, laughing. As Castiel withdrew a large bear claw—the bag blessedly void of any crazed weasels—Sam winced, shook his head, then headed for the eastern door. “Actually, I think I’ll pass. Need to hit the showers anyway.”

And just like that, Castiel stood alone in the kitchen, bear claw in hand. Though the thought still troubled him, Charlie’s behavior soon faded, the diffused backdrop to his confusion. Maybe, he thought as he bit into the bear claw, some more sleep would help. Help what, he wasn’t sure. But ever since becoming human, Castiel felt he could think better, clearer, with proper rest. Despite the surrounding examples of sleeping as little as humanly possible, he knew better. And since Dean would still be stone cold asleep, he could slip back into bed unnoticed and never missed.

With the bear claw finished, Castiel wiped his hand clean on a nearby towel, then headed back to his room. Yes. Sleep would help for sure.

Sleep had not helped one bit. Castiel found himself dozing off at the library table and gladly accepting a fresh cup of evening coffee from Dean. “You look like death warmed over. Getting enough sleep?”

“More than you,” he retorted after a sip. “But it seems I might be going through a more severe adjustment period compared to the first time. It feels… different. Final.”

“And that’s…”

Trepidation quavered Dean’s unspoken question. “I do not regret it. Not for one second. Have I wished I were of more help at times? Yes. Given the chance to do it over, I’d still make the same decision. But being human has had its challenges.”

“That’s what D&D is for.”

Behind Dean, Charlie ascended the library steps and set her stack of books on the table. “What do you mean?” Castiel asked.

“Being human in D&D is way more fun,” she said, then turned to Dean. “There’s also not being human.”

Far too proud of his choice, Dean grinned his smarmy grin and nodded.

Charlie handed him a box of dice and he passed it on to Castiel. “Looks like you get… fuchsia tonight.”

Dean snorted a laugh through his nose as Castiel snatched it from his hand. “Fuschia is a good color.”

“Yeah, for gir—”

“You get periwinkle blue,” Charlie said as she handed a second box to him. That shut him up.

Two more boxes followed, one set before Sam’s chair and the other before Jack’s, leaving an empty space between the two seats for Eileen and her dice bag.

As if on cue, the northern library door near the telescope opened and Sam strode through. With a folder and pencil in hand he took his seat at the table and unboxed his dice. Another minute later, Eileen and Jack joined them, both carrying similar folders.

“I thought you weren’t going to take this very seriously?”

Like a child caught misbehaving, Sam froze and stared first at Charlie, then his folder. “I’ve… changed my mind.”

“Good, because having only one DPS on a team sucks,” Charlie said as she pulled her chair in close and sat. “Now, we left off last night just outside The Restricted Section tavern. A man each of you have met before has just appeared at the door. And he begins…”

“I owe you all an apology,” the scholar said.

“I’d accept an explanation,” Rawridan started. “You summoned my compatriot and I across Faerun to help you pick through books. But we weren’t the only ones. Who are you really?”

The man nodded and bowed ingratiatingly. “A proper introduction is in order. I am Ramilir Belark, Avowed Acolyte of Candlekeep,” the man explained. “In my letter, I said I was seeking information. Books, yes. But books are not the only repositories of the knowledge I require.”

“Can I determine if this human is preparing to lie?”

Charlie blinked once, twice, considered Castiel for a beat, then shrugged. “Roll perception.”

His bright pink twenty-sided die clattered across the wooden table, rolled from his right to left. “Twelve. I’m not the most perceptive character.”

Dean snorted and immediately attempted to cover it with a cough. Castiel elbowed him and said, “You try then if you’re so observant.”

“It’s fine, Cas, you rolled fine.”

Charlie’s assurance fell well short of his concern. “So is he lying?”

“You don’t think he is,” Charlie replied.

Great. “Please continue.”

Castiel’s vision narrowed to a tiny pinprick of light as the world pitched violently. Distant bones rattled, reverberating in his teeth, and he shook his head to clear the refuse. Ramilir’s introduction matched that of his letter. As far as Castiel could tell, he hid nothing from them.

But that did not explain why he had requested their aid. “We were excruciatingly clear that our skills lend better to literal strength,” he added.

“And yet, that is precisely why I summoned you,” Ramilir declared as he neared them. He turned to the others. “All of you. Some are gifted in the ways of magic. Others excel at pilfering the truth. And yet others will recall this adventure for prosperity by the time it’s all said and done.”

“Adventure?” the half-elf asked.

Ramilir nodded. “I’m afraid so.” He began rolling up his sleeves, stopping at the elbow. “My search began not with a simple need for information. I require a solution.”

In the dim lamplight, Castiel had missed it at first. But then Ramilir held his arms aloft. Ink dark as night whorled from his wrists to his elbows, disappearing beneath his heavy robes. Castiel hardly had a chance to read the text as it took shape before Ramilir shrugged his sleeves back into place.

“Can I make an arcana check? Or a history check?” Sam asked.

Charlie glanced at her book, then peered over her screen. “Both. Arcana from you, history from Jack.”

The twenty-sided die rattled across the table. “A fourteen for arcana,” Sam said.

Jack’s D20 joined Sam’s as it skipped and hopped. “A thirteen.”

“You would recognize this curse…” Charlie began. “ Sam for its possible effects and Jack for its context. It’s called… ”

“Is that—”

Thunder rumbled between Castiel’s ears, overpowering the tiefling’s words. He twitched, about to shake his head again, but froze. Someone might notice. And it appeared no one else had heard it. Personally, the last thing he needed was a suspicious group of adventurers keeping an eye on him.

“I fear I recognize that curse,” the tiefling continued. “But I thought it was a myth.”

“The Scrivener’s Mark is no mere myth,” the fey stated. “I performed the ballad of the Scrivener earlier tonight, Master Warlock.”

A clear, thoughtful look brightened the tiefling’s otherwise dark eyes. “Indeed, you did.”

“What could we possibly do to help you with a curse?” Rawridan asked, drawing their attention back to him. “Unless there’s a bookcase you need demolished, I’m afraid we are of—argh!”

A third peal of thunder clapped as the half-elf lunged for Rawridan. Far too slow, he reached for her as the others grasped their weapons. Castiel startled, too, only to understand at the last second. An arrow flashed out of the darkness, then ricocheted away with a spark as the half-elf’s dagger deflected it. Castiel drew his pike, the warlock his spear, and then the sharp song of steel rang out as the bard unsheathed his rapier.

When the commotion settled, Rawridan drew his gleaming sword, Moonbeam, its pearly white glow illuminating the shadows beyond the lamplight. Castiel hefted his pike and stepped into what should have been a familiar position beside Rawridan, but the fey and the tiefling crowded in behind him while the half-elf drew her wicked stiletto daggers at his elbow. Far too close for his liking.

They had come to Candlekeep for quick and easy coin. Assist the researcher, find odd jobs in the city, help those in need. A comfortable life for a paladin and his strategist. They had not bargained for another adventure. As far as Castiel was concerned, they had left that life behind years ago.

But adventure had found them once more. He squinted into the darkness, leaning on readied feet only to back away as two fomorians and two elves stepped into the lamplight. Wicked clubs dangled from the fomorian’s meaty fists, and sleek, curved bows twitched between the elves’ long fingers. Without word, they nocked arrows, drew, and released, their bowstrings thrumming against leather bracers.

The half-elf spun faster than lightning. A thrown dagger deflected one arrow, and she dodged the second in a graceful arc. Rawridan leaped ahead and the third arrow sparked off his milky steel sword, shattering the projectile. He pulled his blade back, then said, “Master Ramilir, I suggest you seek shelter in the tavern.”

“Duly noted,” Ramilir replied as he scurried between them.

On that cue, the fomorians shambled forward, their massive legs covering twice the ground as Castiel. For a moment, he worried that he and Rawridan would face down their aggressors alone as the tiefling, fey, and half-elf backed away. But just as one fomorian entered his reach, a whirling cloud of midnight manifested behind it, and the half-elf emerged wielding her glinting stilettos.

She struck in two quick slices across the fomorian’s hamstring, and a third incorporeal dagger appeared over her shoulder to embed in the other calf. Castiel capitalized on the moment and struck with his pike, golden light shimmering along the shaft as he channeled his holy oath. The fomorian screamed an agonizing howl, and swung its club in a wide arc aimlessly.

Castiel hefted his shield and braced for impact, but the blow never came. Shadows reached over his shoulders for the fomorian, and it stumbled backward screaming as the dark tendrils lashed its arms and chest. Behind him, Castiel spotted the tiefling wreathed in cold fire flickering black and indigo.

A familiar whistling triggered Castiel’s battle-hardened instincts, and he raised his shield just as a shower of arrows rained down from overhead. Behind the fomorians, the elves channeled together, beckoning arrows from the darkness. When the volley finally ceased, Castiel chanced a furtive glance and found the bard and Rawridan dancing circles around the other giant. The bard sang and slashed with his rapier, while Rawridan dodged and parried wild club swings with his moonblade. All together, the five of them made short work of the fomorians, and within moments the two giants lay in a crumpled heap.

Castiel took one step towards the elves only for them to vanish in clouds of silvery smoke. The half-elf appeared by his side, lip bleeding and an arrow protruding from her leathers. She wrenched it free, and to his surprise, no blood appeared. He offered her his hand and asked, “May I?”

She nodded and placed her hand in his. With one breath, he washed away her wounds, the cut in her lip healed. “Thank you…”

“Castiel,” he stated. “And you are?”

Ramilir cleared his throat as he emerged from the tavern. “Fechin, formerly of Candlekeep, now a high member of the Harpers of Waterdeep.”

Fechin’s wide eyes twitched. “How do you—”

“I know a great many things,” he interrupted. “Castiel, formerly of Candlekeep, now a Paladin of the Crown. While in service to your sovereign, you found yourself indebted to Rawridan, one of your sovereign’s Major Strategists.”

“That was two decades ago,” Rawridan grumbled.

“And yet here you are, returned to the home of your formative years,” Ramilir continued. “But Candlekeep was no place for a young minotaur to find his calling.”

Rawridan nodded with a wistful smile, then grinned when he regarded Castiel. “No, it was not. But it still feels like home.”

Home, Castiel thought, was wherever they were. As long as they were together.

“And then there is Comet,” Ramilir continued, turning to the fey. “Purveyor of Lore, you long lived in Candlekeep, once upon a time. You earned your pipes at the young age of seventy, and gained entry to the guest library by eighty. At ninety, you began traveling the land over, and in a century, you wrote as many ballads about Faerun and all her people.”

Comet quirked a brow at Ramilir. “Finally, some recognition.”

“Everyone but Jack roll performance for me, please,” Charlie stated.

Five D20s clattered on the wooden table, and after Dean and Eileen gave middling results, Castiel offered his. “Fifteen.”

“Twenty,” Sam added.

Charlie laughed as she shook her head. “Sam, once you take a closer look, you do recognize the bard…”

“You,” the tiefling began. “You are The Bard. You’re Comet Shadowpool.”

“In the flesh,” Comet replied with a deep bow.

“How?” the warlock asked. “How do you know The Scrivener’s Tale? You should be—”

“Cursed?” Ramilir interrupted. “Like me? That is an excellent question, Mephisto of the Hexblades. Despite your birth in Candlekeep, your family moved to Waterdeep when you were a child. There, you entered into the library’s services as a young man. Years passed, and Farideh whisked you away to the Hexblades. You found your calling as a fine warlock it seems.”

Castiel’s head swam, more bones rolling in the distance. “Are we all long lost children of Candlekeep?”

Ramilir clapped as he nodded. “And you discount your wits, Master Paladin. Come. It is apparently not safe for us to be out and about. We will reside in the keep tonight lest more agents of the Gloaming Court happen upon us.”

“The Gloaming Court?” Comet asked. “They wore no sigil of the Queen’s.”

Ramilir turned up a street leading to the keep and began walking. “As they wouldn’t when they’re on such a mission. Come, I will explain further at the keep.” With that, he strode in earnest up the hill.

Castiel turned to Rawridan who shrugged and set off to follow Ramilir.

“Rawridan,” Castiel pleaded. “What are we doing?”

Fechin, Mephisto, and Comet followed Rawridan, leaving Castiel alone. Over his shoulder, Rawridan shrugged once more and said, “He needs our help. That’s what we came here to do.”

He was right. Of course. Not that Castiel would ever admit it out loud. With a sigh, he hefted his pike and shield, hooking them onto his back. “Fine.”

The angular cobbled road climbed the hill to the massive keep, its walls towering overhead. Before they reached the gate, Mephisto asked, “Master Ramilir—”

“Acolyte,” Ramilir interrupted. “I am no Master yet.”

“Acolyte,” Mephisto repeated. “Does the phrase, ‘The shackle that is the key, the prison built by a prisoner’ mean anything to you?”

Ramilir laughed a belly laugh that echoed off the walls of the keep. “My dear boy, I do like the way your brain works. Unfortunately, that phrase means nothing to me, and I have been pondering it for a week. I, too, attempted a legend lore spell upon being cursed. I know not what it means.”

Crestfallen, Mephisto fell quiet once more as they approached the keep’s gate. There the guards paused to verify Ramilir’s identity—a crystal bound by a leather strap around his neck. Upon inspection, he passed, though Castiel knew not how. And though they appeared less than enthusiastic about guests, the guards allowed them through at Ramilir’s behest.

Smooth pavers lead from the entry to a wide open courtyard, the night sky’s starlight canvas soaring high overhead. Near the western wall, the full moon hovered amidst the great dark nothing and illuminated a gleaming fountain in the courtyard’s center. Unseen magic suspended a large marble carving of an ornate crystal in the fountain’s center. Water streamed in steady arcs from pitchers held by the stone hands of attendant elven statues. Fabric shaped in stone flowed from their towering frames, impossibly lifelike.

Beyond the fountain, Candlekeep Library’s moonlit silhouette towered, all spires and buttresses and parapets with their spiny pinnacles piercing the darkness. Castiel gawked as he gazed up at the magnificent structure, the closest he had ever been to it, and slowed to a shuffle as he marveled.

“Big place,” Rawridan mused.

“Is that your professional opinion?” Fechin asked.

Enraptured, Castiel had fallen behind the group, but Fechin’s sharp wit returned him to the present. Rawridan ignored her to ask Ramilir another question as they passed the fountain, and Castiel trotted along to catch them.

“So how did you acquire your curse?” Rawridan asked.

Wide eyes darted from one end of the courtyard to the other as Ramilir shushed him. “Nobody else knows about it.”

“You’ve told no one?” Mephisto asked. “Not even the Great Reader?”

Ramilir shook his head. “Master Ahvoste is exceptionally busy at this time and should not be troubled with such a petty matter.”

“Petty?” Fechin repeated. “You’re literally cursed. What does it do? And what have you tried to rid yourself of it?”

“I’ve tried everything,” Ramilir replied. When they reached a tall set of double doors on the opposite end of the courtyard leading into the keep, he pushed one aside and ushered them in. “Nothing has worked. If the curse progresses any further, I will be forced to remain within Candlekeep every night so an acolyte can dispel the… condition at dawn every day.”

“Dispel what condition?” Fechin pressed as she gawked at the soaring arches of Candlekeep Library’s main hall.

“I will eventually turn to glass every day at dawn until the curse is lifted,” Ramilir said.

“And how do we accomplish that? Lift the curse?” Castiel asked. “And how did this happen, anyway?”

“The book,” Mephisto muttered. “You read it.”

“I did,” he said as he motioned to a far flight of stairs to his left. “But I’ve hidden it away. Last thing we need is another dolt cursing themselves.”

At the stairs, Ramilir led them along beneath it through yet another door. Castiel checked over his shoulder, intent on remembering every twist and turn they took. When they ventured through a fourth door, he asked, “Where are we going?”

“Candlekeep has an entire wing dedicated to…” Ramilir paused as he motioned them through a fifth and final door. “Baldur’s Gate.”

All chins lifted reverently, but they praised no deity. Five stories rose to the heavens, each covered wall to wall with books. All the knowledge in all the world must exist there on those shelves. But to think they only contained that regarding Baldur’s Gate—Castiel’s jaw dropped once more.

“How many other wings are there in Candlekeep?” Rawridan asked, his muzzle gaping much like Castiel’s.

“Twelve,” Ramilir and Mephisto stated in unison.

A long low whistle echoed from Comet as he spun about. “This place has got everything.”

Ramilir then added, “I’m not sure how much time I have before…”

Mephisto offered his hand then and said, “I could check. If you don’t mind?”

Ramilir nodded and placed his hand in his. Mephisto closed his eyes and, for one moment, breathed deep. Then he shook his head and his eyes fluttered open. “It seems you won’t be turning into glass anytime soon. But you are correct in that there is quite literally no known cure.”

“That’s… technically not true.”

Castiel startled back as he turned about searching for the source of the voice. With no signs of life on the first floor, he looked up to the second and found a human man draped in fine robes leaning over the banister. “Ramilir.”

“Master Teles,” Ramilir said with a deep bow. “I was not aware of your presence.”

Teles Ahvoste, Great Reader of Candlekeep, descended the nearby staircase and crossed the space to stand before them. A shock of white streaked through his long black hair that accompanied a finely manicured beard and mustache. Mulberry and violet robes in many layers hugged his broad shoulders and draped down to his slippered feet. A deep sigh accompanied his thin-lipped admonishment. “Truly, Ramilir? The Scrivener’s Tale?”

“I was hoping to avoid distracting you, sir,” Ramilir stated.

“My dear boy, please,” Teles began as he placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “You need help.”

Trepidation furrowed Ramilir’s brow as his stare slid to the group, measuring, weighing. Then he returned to Teles. “What can you do?”

Teles ushered Ramilir to a nearby table and gestured for them to sit. Castiel sat at the end of the table, pulling a chair around the corner. When the others were settled, Teles began. “It’s not what I can do but what I can provide. And that, Ramilir, is knowledge. Curses are an area in which I am well versed. And in this case, I was present when The Scrivener’s Tale first came to the Keep.”

Ramilir’s jaw might as well have hit the table. “You… you were—”

“Here, yes,” Teles continued. “In fact, the book was handed directly to me by the previous… owner isn’t the correct word. Victim. Yes, that is much more fitting.”

“Who was it?” Mephisto asked “And how did they find it? Where was it?”

Teles laughed through his nose. “Master Warlock, you are an inquisitive one. I’m afraid I can only answer one of those questions.” He slipped one hand into his robes and from it withdrew a leatherbound book of average length. Embroidered gold filigree coiled about the cover and spine, and the title shimmered across the face. The Scrivener’s Tale shone with pearlescent fiber in the library’s yellow lamplight.

Ramilir shouted as he leaped from his chair beside Teles, backing away some fifteen feet. “Sir, permission to be frank.”

“Granted.”

“Have you lost your mind?!” he exclaimed. “Put it back!”

Teles tossed the book onto the table with a thud and Castiel startled. “I have not, and I will not. You will need to bring the book with you wherever you may go. The Queen of Air and Darkness has kept a careful eye on it for many years. And yet the previous steward found it. Somehow.”

“Who?” Mephisto repeated. “Maybe we can speak with them.”

Teles nodded in agreement. “Machil Rillyn of Baldur’s Gate. Alas, I do not know what became of him since he brought the book here. But his is royal blood and Masters of Rillyn still reside at the gate.”

An uneasy silence settled on the group, their path chosen for them. But something else the Great Reader had said piqued Castiel’s curiosity. “The Queen of Air and Darkness,” he said. “Of the Gloaming Court?”

“Yes,” Teles and Ramilir said together. Teles turned to face Ramilir who continued. “Having read the book—much by accident, although that is an entirely different story—I can tell you that the Scrivener was a real person, an elf named Zyrian. He was a follower of the Princess of the Shadow Glass. The book is almost a diary of sorts. It documents his time traveling with the Princess through Faerun. Then The Queen of Air and Darkness had the Princess imprisoned in an extradimensional plane. She had done something truly heinous. The book was used in that ritual, but… ”

As Ramilir droned on, darkness crept in at the edges of Castiel’s vision. Travel-weary and battle-worn, he slumped in his chair, chin to chest, and quickly succumbed to sleep. An acutely aware sleep. Disjointed images flashed before his mind’s eye in rapid succession, too fast for him to even consider contemplating.

A sweltering sun beat down on his back as he crawled towards a tumbledown tower. In the distance, a vast army marched across mud-churned farm fields, imminent death barreling onward like a ticking clock, and he sought refuge inside the tower.

In the darkness, he stumbled over a boar spear driven shaft-down into the ground. Three crowns dangled from the spearhead. From one arm of the crossguard hung a narrow silver circlet. On the other, a crown of adamantine shaped to be worn over a helm. And around the spearhead sat a golden crown adorned with gleaming emeralds. He reached out, compelled beyond his willpower, and then a scrape of wood on stone startled him awake.

“Cas?” Rawridan grasped his shoulder. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Castiel squinted against the fog, shook his head. “I… I’m fine. I saw something. Three crowns on the tip of a spear.”

“What were they made of?” Teles asked.

“Silver, a delicate circlet,” he began, then closed his eyes. “Adamantine, for a helm. And ah… gold. Gold with emeralds, for a monarch.”

“Phalorm,” Ramilir said. “The Realm of the Three Crowns. They were invaded nine hundred years ago by goblins.”

“Does that have something to do with the curse? Or the Scrivener?” Castiel asked.

“Of that I am unaware,” Teles said and Ramilir shook his head when the Great Reader regarded him. “The Realm of the Three Crowns is long lost to history. Most historians refer to it as the Fallen Kingdom, overrun in the Year of the Lamia’s Kiss, 615 DR. In the Year of the Trials Arcane, 523 DR, the kingdom was formed between dwarves, elves, gnomes, halflings, and humans. Then they called it Phalorm. Their army defended Neverwinter against an illithid invasion in the Year of the Normiir, 611 DR. Shortly thereafter, the kingdom suffered great losses in 614 DR against a massive orc invasion. A lich decimated both armies at Iniarv’s Tower in Urhtower. The cataclysmic powers he wielded flooded the area—”

“Mere of the Dead Men,” Mephisto interjected. “That’s who flooded it? A lich?”

“Indeed,” Teles stated. “But what any of that has to do with The Scrivener’s Tale is, unfortunately, beyond my knowledge.”

“I want to know one thing,” Fechin stated.

“One thing?” Comet asked.

Fechin shot him a steely glare, then returned to Teles. “Was Master Rillyn cursed? Did he, too, have the mark?”

“That, my inquisitive Harper, is an excellent question.” Teles stood then and began to pace. “When Machil turned the book into the library, he informed us he had indeed been cursed. But he had paid for a wish spell to remove it.”

All eyes fell on Ramilir who sank deeper into his chair. “Wonderful.”

“I don’t understand,” Rawridan said. “We can just find someone who can perform a wish spell.”

“I have nowhere near enough coin for that,” Ramilir stated.

Rawirdan’s fuzzy brow furrowed. “What could a wish spell cost? Ten gold pieces?” Rawridan asked.

“More like a hundred.”

“I imagine across the five of us—”

“Thousand. A hundred thousand gold pieces.”

Rawridan returned his coin purse to his traveler’s sack. “Alright, then. We have to end the curse and the book is its source. How do we destroy the book?”

“Not by conventional means,” Ramilir stated. “The book is indestructible. Flames do not touch it, frost does not break it. It is impervious to magic of any kind. As Mephisto also discovered, I was unable to learn much of anything with commune, divination, and legend lore. The book is well protected.”

“I suggest Baldur’s Gate,” Teles reinforced. “Master Rillyn may be able to provide more information.”

Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose. “Might we sleep on this decision? Does… do we have time?”

Ramilir deferred to Mephisto whose brow shot towards his horns. “All things considered, we have a modicum of time. One night’s rest is the most we can afford. From then on, we should not delay.”

Ramilir stood then and motioned to the door. As the group gathered, he said, “I will show you to the dormitories. You may stay in the keep tonight. In the morning, I will bring us to Baldur’s Gate.”

Before he took a single step, Teles called out. “Ramilir.”

The acolyte turned back, confused at first, then his face fell. Teles held The Scrivener’s Tale out at arm’s length.

Ramilir threw the length of his sleeve over his hand, then took the book. He slipped it between the layers of his robes just above the waist, then shook his head. “I do not like this one bit.”

“Neither do I, my boy,” Teles agreed as he floated through the open door. “Neither do I.”

Charlie paused there and tapped the end of her pencil on pursed lips. “I think we’ll call it there. We can pick it back up tomorrow.”

“But what about the book?” Sam asked.

Castiel considered Sam first, then returned to Charlie. She, too, appeared confused. “What do you mean?”

“The tale,” Sam reiterated. “Why did Teles think we’d need it?”

A small smirk curled the corners of Charlie’s lips. “I thought you were only going to play one night.”

“Oh no, don’t even try to avoid the question. Why—”

“Teles would explain that curses attached to objects tend to remain attached to said object,” Charlie interrupted. “But that’s it, and that’s the last time I’m giving you information out of character.” When Sam continued to press, she shook her head and spoke over him. “I’m not gonna answer any more out of character questions!” When he quieted, she stood and gathered her things, then patted him on the shoulder. “But I love the enthusiasm. G’nite, kiddos.”

Charlie shuffled off with her laden arms, disappearing down the steps towards the kitchen. Jack wasted no time disappearing, and Sam and Eileen eventually wandered through the southern observatory door for the dormitories. Left together, Castiel turned to Dean and found a giddy grin on his face as he gathered his things. Infectious, a smile of his own found his lips. “Having fun?”

Dean crooked a brow at him, though his smile never wavered. “Hell yeah. I knew Charlie would spin a great story, this is awesome.”

Castiel slipped his fingers into his hand. “Good. I’m glad. Things have been so crazy the last couple years… I don’t really know what I’m trying to say.”

“We needed a break,” Dean offered. “Not a win. A break. No real monsters. Fake ones, for once. At least…”

His stare drifted towards the war room. Castiel followed but saw nothing out of the ordinary. “At least what?”

“You notice Charlie acting weird?”

The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, a human sensation with which he had grown all too familiar. “I did,” he said. “Showing up unannounced was…. I suppose that isn’t quite so strange for her, but since her arrival, yes. I ran into her this morning in the kitchen.”

“At five o’clock?”

Castiel whipped his head back to face him. “How did you know I was—”

“I was awake,” Dean said as he waved him off. “Never mind, it’s fine. What happened with Charlie?”

What had happened? Castiel thought a long, quiet moment as he replayed the chance collision in his mind. “I bumped into her. She was about to leave the kitchen as I entered. And then she….” What was it about her behavior that had seemed so strange at the time but he could no longer recall it.

“What’s wrong?”

Castiel shook his head. “Nothing. She had breakfast. I ate a bear claw and came back to bed. I thought she was behaving strangely but I can’t remember how or… or what it was she was even doing.”

A grumble pulled Castiel up from the depths of his thoughts. Dean’s entire face scrunched, brow, nose, and mouth alike. “I can’t remember, either,” he said. “I noticed she was acting weird, too—weird for Charlie—but for the life of me, I can’t remember it. I dunno, maybe it’s just one of those things you can’t explain.”

“No, I can’t explain it yet.” Castiel stood then and Dean followed. “There must be something going on with her. Something beyond her usual… unusualness.”

“Maybe.” He nodded toward the kitchen and Castiel headed for it. “Hard to say when I can’t remember something that I know for a fact happened only yesterday.” He grumbled as they descended the steps. “Dammit, that’s annoying as shit. This was shaping up to be the best Christmas in years. And now there’s a… fly in the ointment.”

Castiel cast a sidelong look at Dean. “A… monkey in the wrench.”

“Heh… a pain in the ass,” Dean finished. “Yeah.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Castiel said. “You always do. Or one of us does.”

Dean nodded through a thin-lipped smile. “I sure hope so.” He jerked open the refrigerator and stuck his head inside “You want some pie? I picked up a blackberry cobbler from The Pig the other day, I think there’s some left—”

“Sure.”

Dean leaned back from the fridge and spoke when he spotted Castiel’s long face. “Hey, don’t sweat it.” The refrigerator shut with a nudge from his boot, and Dean returned to his side carrying two plates brimming with blackberry cobbler. He dropped onto the bench beside Castiel and slid one plate to him. “We’ll figure it out. Whatever it is. We always do.”

The plate jostled over the wooden table as Castiel pulled it close. The fork slipped through the flaky crust with ease and the berries dark as pitch pooled out and onto the plate. They sat there together, consuming that which Dean had convinced Castiel was one of God’s greatest creations. And with each bite, Castiel’s concerns ebbed until none remained.

Their empty plates clattered together, startling Castiel from his sugar-induced coma. At the sink, Dean spoke over his shoulder. “Go on ahead, I’ll meet you in my room.”

Weariness settled in his bones, his muscles, another feeling with which he was growing all too familiar. Charlie’s predicament, whatever it may be, could wait until tomorrow. The siren’s call from Dean’s bed beckoned him home and Castiel resisted not a moment longer. Minutes slipped through his fingers like water, and before he knew it, he collapsed on his pillow fast asleep.

Though he slept soundly, his dreams—especially those of pulling fabric and crowns—would rob him of the rest he so desperately craved.

This series is complete! Reblogs are loved and feedback is welcome!

#spn-mediabigbang #spn-mediabigbang2023 #spn-mbb #spn-mediabb2023 #spnfanfiction #spnfanfic #spn fanfic #spn fanfiction #dnd #dnd campaign #the scrivener's tale

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ofdarkestdesires · 2 years

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she didn't know if her mindflayer lover liked doing christmas, but the thought of giving him something to make him happy filled her with determination. she got a big present box and the lid. Then stripped down to her skivvies and wrapped herself up. she got someone to present the box with her in it to him.

@cursetopia

Khadamori was still unused to the concept of festivals and celebrations. The illithids had no need or purpose for such things—their only purpose was to serve the Elder Brain, so why should they be concerned with just frivolities. Despite that, winter-time festivities were in full-swing—he wasn’t about to revoke the rights and pleasantries of those he commanded, no matter how little he understood them.

Still, he found it curious when a certain servant arrived in his war room, while the other commanders were out enjoying the festivities, and left a massive box before him. [And, what is this?] the towering figure asked in surprise, before frowning. He could sense a mind present within the present…a familiar mind…

#cursetopia

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queen-scribbles · 3 years

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As a Wyll fan first and. Human second you should go here he’s really good. The best companion imo. I would wait until the game is out of Early Access to play it if I were you maybe but if you’d like to play it it’s available in EA. I don’t wanna spoil how you find him but 🥰

Ngl, while I don’t go here myself, a bunch of people I follow DO, so I see stuff for it on my dash a bunch(like, 60% Astarion, 30% Gale, 10% anyone else), and from what I’ve seen I’m pretty sure Wyll would be my fave if I played. (I may be a diehard cleric player, but I do love warlocks)I’m.... somewhat interested in checking it out. The graphics look AMAZING, and the character creator, and I love anything with a D&D feel to it. I got my brother the early access version for Christmas and he says it’s fun but that I should wait til that’s all done if I wanna play it myself. I’m just worried about body horror content bc that’s a pretty big squick for me and from my understanding with all the Illithid stuff there’ll be a good bit. So ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ we’ll see.

#if i like enough other stuff i'll just close my eyes for anything gross lol #i can be v stubborn when i WANT to like something xD #dumatsquiet

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thestoryweneededtowrite · 6 years

Text

Role Charisma

Modern AU where the Newsies play D&D!

“Alright, Thistlewyrd, what do you do?” Kath asked, turning to Davey with a grin.

She delighted in creating situations that required a great deal of clever thinking to get out of and she currently had the entire party surrounded by 30 Illithid with no visible way out.

“I…” Davey began, leaning forward to get a better look at where his little Druid figure was on the crude but functional map Kath had drawn out, and flipping through his folder of carefully organised spells to find one he could shape in the way he wanted. “I want to cast Fire Storm across them all,” he decided.

“Okay,” Kath shrugged. It wasn’t a bad plan. “Roll for damage.”

“I would like to inspire Thiss with a love ballad,” Jack butted in, sending a wink in Davey’s direction.

The entire group groaned. Jack’s constant in-game flirting with Davey’s character was constant and insistent. He defended himself every time on the basis of being a bard with high charisma, but Thistlewyrd never yielded to it.

“It’s not your turn,” Sarah pointed out, making Jack pout.

Davey fought a grimace. He was used to Jack flirting through Pete but that didn’t mean he was comfortable with it, even after almost a full year. As soon as the game ended, so did Jack’s affection and that was the part Davey hated. He was far too in love with his friend to be suffering through the fake flirting only to have it taken away so abruptly each week.

“Thiss is good without it,” Davey said, looking up from his decent dice roll. “Forty-six.”

Katherine nodded approvingly, rolling 30 saving throws and noting down which Illithid made them and which didn’t.

An hour later their party had survived their ordeal and reconvened at their camp, bandaging their wounds and counting their steals.

“I would like to sidle up to Thistlewyrd and proposition him to spend the night with me,” Jack smirked.

The familiar groans chimed in as Davey’s cheeks turned bright red and he sunk back into his chair a little.

“No,” he managed, strangled. “Thiss says no.” Then he climbed to his feet, almost knocking his chair back in the process. “Excuse me.”

He headed for the bathroom and locked himself in, willing the blush that was currently staining most of his face to dissipate. Everything Jack said to Thistlewyrd through Pete was something he wished Jack would just say straight to him. If Jack asked him to stay the night at Casa Del Kellitzer, as they’d all named his and Kath’s apartment, he’d say yes. He wanted everything that entailed, but instead his fictional half-elven druid got the opportunity instead. And it was slowly killing him.

It was ten minutes before he could walk back out into the living room, braced and ready to take more of Jack’s onslaught. But as he made his way out, everyone was already packing up.

Sarah kissed Katherine goodnight and made her way home to the apartment she shared with Jojo and Buttons, after making her usual teasing remarks about nepotism getting her nowhere even when she was dating the dungeon master. Spot left and Race immediately looked down at his watch, timing two minutes exactly until walking after him. They did it every week, trying to pretend they weren’t leaving together. Everyone was well aware they were but they’d all mutually decided to leave them to it until they were ready to admit to it. Only Kath and Jack were left, tidying up their dining table of all Dungeon and Dragons related paraphernalia.

“Are you okay?” Kath asked, looking up when she heard the door to the bathroom click.

Davey nodded mutely and, just before Jack could speak up he moved over to Katherine and mumbled something close to her ear. Drawing back, she looked at him with surprise but squeezed his arm reassuringly.

“Of course,” she agreed, leaving the rest of her D&D papers and dice on the table as she retreated into her bedroom to give Davey and Jack some privacy.

“You sure you’re alright?” Jack tried, concerned and confused. “Did I do something wrong?” “I need you to stop flirting with me. Or Pete to stop flirting with Thistlewyrd, I mean,” Davey sighed. “I can’t take it anymore.”

“What?” Jack blinked. “I…”

“Please,” Davey begged. “It’s too much.”

“I… I had no idea.” Jack was devastated. He’d never meant to hurt Davey. What he was doing had been selfish, for sure, since he’d been using it as an outlet for his feelings for Davey, but it has always been innocent fun. Or so he’d assumed. “I won’t do it anymore. I’m sorry. Did I… Push too far?”

“It’s…” Davey didn’t know how to explain without admitting to his crush. But he looked over at Kath’s door and it was firmly shut. He trusted her not to listen in – nothing he said was going to leave this room. And he trusted Jack not to judge or hate him. “It’s…” He searched for the word. “Painful. To have you say those things to Thiss. And not… to me.”

By the end of the sentence he was trailing off quietly, half wishing he could take the admission back.

Jack was stunned, staring at Davey with wide, hopeful eyes.

“You- Wait- Can we just-,” he stumbled over his words, unsure. “I just want to be certain I know what’s going on here. Put it in simple terms.”

“Jack, please don’t make me-”

“I need to know,” Jack begged.

Davey’s lungs has tightened and his heart was echoing in his ears and he wanted no more than to get away, but he had gotten himself into this mess and he couldn’t cut and run.

“You want me to tell you that I’m in love with you?” he asked, forcing himself to be bold. “That I have a crush on you? That I wish you’d talk to me like Pete talks to Thiss? There. There’s all of it.”

Taking a deep breath, Jack steadied himself against the table. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch, but he didn’t have permission and he wouldn’t take without first being given.

“Yes, I want you to tell me that,” Jack confessed. “That sounds amazing.”

“What?” Davey froze.

“You really think I don’t love you, too? Dave, I’ve been flirting with you, with your character, every moment I can. If I knew… If I thought I could say those things to you straight out and you wouldn’t hate me for it, I’d have been doing that the whole time,” Jack explained, trying not to stumble over every word.

They were at a stalemate. Neither of them wanted to make the next move first, not wanting to fuck up everything they might be laying the groundwork for. Davey searched for a response but his mind was empty and he looked around for inspiration. The only thing his gaze fell on was the dice that were left on the table. Okay. He could work with that.

“Roll charisma,” he decided, gesturing to the dice.

Blinking for a moment or two, Jack was jolted into movement. The dice left closest to him on the table were Davey’s, still resting in the ashtray Les had made at school and gifted to him for his birthday many years ago, and usually Jack would have rolled them without thought. They tended to share dice a lot. But this really mattered, so Jack forced himself to take several steps back and grabbed his dice box, flipping the lid open and scrambling around for the little velveteen bag that held his favourite d20. It was beautiful swirled metal, a present from Kath for the first Christmas they’d lived together, and he tended to never roll it unless it was a life-or-death situation in a campaign. It was still smooth and crisp and he didn’t want to wear down the edges if he didn’t have to. But this was the most important roll he’d ever had to contend with.

He shook the die, gripping it tight and praying the dice gods would be on his side, and let it go across the table with his eyes closed. When he forced them open, he found a 1 staring back at him.

“Critical fail,” he said through a bitter laugh, his hands shaking.

Davey stepped forward to meet him, steadying his hands gently and meeting his gaze.

“You have advantage,” he says softly. Considering Jack already had his heart, it would be unfair not to let him take a second roll.

Eagerly, Jack reached for the die again and rerolled. When he checked the score it was far better and he managed a sigh of relief, as if Davey was actually going to rely on the dice to make his next decision.

“Eighteen.”

He wasn’t sure what to add. Pete had a plus four charisma modifier, but this wasn’t Pete’s roll. This was Jack’s roll and he didn’t know how to categorise his own charisma. Luckily, Davey didn’t seem to care. “My saving throw never stood a chance,” Davey mumbled, letting his hands drift up to Jack’s t-shirt and pull him close into a kiss.

It was something Pete had never gotten from Thistlewyrd and probably never would – Davey didn’t want to roleplay his affection with Jack if he got it in real life. Whilst Jack would almost certainly keep up his in-game characterisation, Davey was going to keep up his too. But when they put the dice down, Davey was going to do more of this kissing thing.

“I would like to sidle up to Davey and proposition him to spend the night with me,” Jack mumbled against the corner of Davey’s mouth, crossing his fingers behind his back and hoping he wasn’t pushing things too far too soon.

Davey laughed, giddy and grinning.

“You’re such a nerd,” he said fondly, brushing back a lock of hair that had fallen across Jack’s forehead.

“Hypocrite,” Jack shot back, equally as affectionate. “So, will you?”

“Yeah.” Davey nodded, biting his bottom lip. “I will.”

#newsies #newsies fanfiction #javid #Jack Kelly #Jack/David #david jacobs #katherine pulitzer

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alleiradayne · 2 years

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A Touch of Evil | Art Master Post

A Destiel Series Sequel to Innuendo

When Dean and Castiel are left to clean up a mess in the archives, they accidentally release an incubus from his 1000 year imprisonment. To regain his power, the incubus takes up residence within Dean and Castiel, influencing their most intimate moments. But they quickly learn that the incubus is draining their lives from them, and if they do not satisfy the demon soon enough, they will die. Do they sate the incubus' lust? Or will they find a way to exorcise him in time?

Chapter 1 - Little By Little Summary: Castiel and Dean are relaxing in the Dean Cave when Sam calls with an emergency. Characters/Pairings: Castiel, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Eileen Leahy, Rowena, Jake (OMC, mentioned), Woody (OMC, mentioned), Venintus (OMC) Word Count: 6,143 Song: Little By Little - Alice Cooper

Time. With what felt like so little left, Castiel craved the indelible moments, liminal though they were. Those brief bouts of peace, of rest? It had all been worth it. Not that he had ever thought otherwise. But as Dean’s head lay in his lap while they watched yet another horror film, Castiel counted his blessings well beyond those he had ever received in his holier days.

Love, Castiel had learned, encompassed more than compassion and compromise. Interest, genuine and undivided, strengthened that profound bond. Whether it was a new horror film or an old classic, a new burger joint in town or an old favorite spot, a new rock band or a good oldie, Dean spoke love through sharing.

At the same time, Dean received love quite viscerally when he shared. Castiel had witnessed it so many times over the years. But not until last month did he understand. And it wasn’t because Dean simply enjoyed giving—in oh so many more ways than one. It was because, in giving, he received as well. Castiel returned Dean’s love two-fold. With unparalleled consideration and contemplation, Castiel devoted his complete attention to him whenever Dean shared. And Dean lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. Every. Single. Time.

Which was why Castiel found themselves lounging in the Dean Cave for an entire day. Last month, the Illithid case seemed to have put things into a new perspective for Dean. And himself, if Castiel was honest. With his grace completely fried and wings burned to ashes, he had finally chosen. Not sacrificed. Chosen. He had picked a limited lifetime with Dean and his human family over that of the angels and their obligations. Selfish, yes, but in a way, Castiel thought, he had always been a little less angelic than the others. A little more indulgent. Dean had a way of teasing those traits out of everyone around him. Especially those he loved.

So, ever since the Illithid, the grueling pace at which they typically operated had all but ceased. Sam spent several nights away each month, staying at Eileen’s. And they had only researched one other case. Nothing but a couple of kids pranking folks in the forest outside of town. With the help of an abandoned radio tower and its outdated equipment, they’d convinced the village that a witch lived in the woods in a cabin that walked on chicken legs.

A scream sliced through his thoughts, blasting through the speakers and wrenching Castiel’s attention from Dean’s smiling face. Castiel had neglected the movie despite his best efforts and instead stared at Dean, enraptured by the absolute serenity glowing in his eyes. There was no resisting him. How he had held back so long, Castiel could no longer imagine. He carded his fingers through Dean’s golden-brown hair grown a little longer than usual, then glanced at the screen. That distraction lasted a mere second—despite the catharsis of watching the murders of idiotic college kids at the hands of urban legends—and returned his gaze to Dean’s beautiful face, lost once more in those emerald eyes.

And then Dean’s phone rang.

Liminal, indeed.

“Hey, Sam—”

“Dean, we got a bleeder, I’m five minutes out.”

Dean bolted upright, leaving Castiel’s lap cold in his wake. The snarling engine of Eileen’s Plymouth nearly drowned out Sam’s voice, but Castiel detected a sense of urgency. Dean glanced at him before he asked, “You guys okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, Jake and Eileen are good, but Woody’s in rough shape. Some sort of vengeful spirit slashed the shit out of his leg,” Sam rambled. “Can I meet you in the archives? Cas knows where the Sumerian section is, he can get a head start, and Rowena has a plan...”

“Wait, what—why does Rowena have a plan?!” Dean stuttered. “And what do you need that’s Sumerian?”

“I’ll explain when I get there, five minutes.”

A perfunctory click ended the call, and Dean reared back from his phone as though it had bitten him. “Sumerian? What in the hell is in the Sumerian section that could help with a vengeful spirit?”

Castiel stood as he said, “Mesopotamians had various terms for vengeful spirits. Sumerians referred to them as ‘alu’.”

“Alu…” Dean mused. “I’ve heard that before. Read it somewhere. Maybe,” he added, voice trailing to nothing. “We better get down to the archives before they get here.”

Castiel opened his mouth to speak as they passed through the doorway, but a wicked whip-crack rent the air before they had managed ten paces down the hallway. Rote, the occurrence of such a visit phased him very little any longer, so when Castiel looked over his shoulder, he slowed not a single step. “Rowena.”

“Castiel,” she drawled. “Samuel has informed you both?”

“Yeah,” Dean grunted. “Thanks for knocking, by the way.”

“We don’t have time for pleasantries,” she retorted as she started at a trot, heels clicking on the cement floor. “Sumerian tinctures are mighty complicated, and I’m putting a good man’s life at risk by wasting time in your archives. But Sam sounded quite confident that you would have everything for the spell to mend Woody’s wound, and I trust the boy.”

Another grunt sounded from his throat as Dean nodded. But the conversation ended there, and within a minute, they rounded the hallway into the archives. Castiel strode directly toward the nearest door, grasped the handle, and swung it aside.

“Thank you, dear,” Rowena breathed as she glided past.

Castiel nodded with a small smile, but that look vanished the second he met Dean’s dark glare. “What?”

“You think I don’t notice?” Dean grumbled as he nodded toward Rowena.

Castiel lingered by the door as he glanced at her. She had wasted no time and pulled a box off a low shelf in the first row and a stack of books. Set aside, she continued to dig. When Castiel turned back to Dean, he asked, “Are you jealous?”

He bristled at that. “She fucked your brother, dude.”

“I think we interrupted them before they accomplished much,” Castiel said through a snort of laughter. “Not to mention the fact that she continues to sleep with yours. And I don’t blame her. Gabriel has an attractive vessel, you cannot deny that. Sam and Eileen seem to agree quite thoroughly with my assessment.”

The gears churned a beat before Dean frowned his sturgeon’s approval and shrugged. “Yeah, I get it. But we’re not—you’re not interested. Right?”

“I was going to ask you your opinion eventually,” he replied. “She’s made a few advances. I’m surprised she’s still interested despite my lack of grace.”

Together, they both considered Rowena from across the room. She had emptied her first box and was leaning as far as she could reach, but her tiny frame extended well short of the top shelf. Castiel shot a surreptitious glance at Dean and found the hint of a smirk tugging at one corner of his lips and an eyebrow quirked ever so slightly.

But then Rowena turned to them and said, “Could one of you lads stop gawking and come over here to put your damned height to good use?”

Dean rushed over in a scurry of steps, and Castiel headed in after him. Dean retrieved the box she sought, but Castiel already knew its contents.

“There are only books in that one.” He pointed down the aisle. “Anything that looked like a ritual component was stored in the back of the room.”

She dropped the box on the table beside her, then smiled at Castiel as she thanked him. But before they took a step for the far wall, Sam and Eileen rounded the corner, faces flush and chests heaving.

“Alright, what kind of container are we looking for?” Sam asked as he signed.

Rowena turned to face them and replied. “Something akin to a hex bag. But older. And larger. Might not be intact, but that is no matter. We only need its contents.”

Sam signed once more to Eileen, and she nodded. “I’ll start on the right,” she said as she headed for the far right corner.

“I’ll take the middle.” Sam strode down the center aisle in a rush, boots thumping along the way.

“I guess that leaves us with the left corner,” Rowena mused as she turned on her heel and left Dean and Castiel by the research table.

“A hex bag?” Dean repeated. “Did you find anything like that when you were cataloging?”

Castiel followed Rowena and picked out a space to search. “We found many things that could be considered a hex bag. But I don’t recall anything larger.”

Dean took up his spot to search between him and Rowena but asked no further questions. And over the next half hour, every box, jar, vial, flask, bowl, chest, and any other oddity that impeded their search had found their way to the research tables. The shelves slowly emptied, relinquishing their contents without success, and Castiel’s hope dwindled.

Then Eileen leaped back from the wall with a large burlap pouch cradled in her hands. “I think I got it.”

Rowena raced to her and gently opened the bag. The drawstrings crumbled to dust, and the fringe of the burlap disintegrated at her touch. She hissed through her teeth, then grabbed an empty beaker on a shelf nearby. “Pour, dearie, this bag isn’t going to survive much longer.”

Eileen upended the bag, and its contents rattled against the glass. Castiel squinted as the beaker filled, unsure he believed his eyes. They looked like—

“Grains? Is that… is that barley? And oats?” Dean asked.

“From Mesopotamia, yes,” Rowena stated as she held the full beaker aloft. “Old as dirt, as the idiom goes.”

“You’re telling me we just spent an hour looking for an ancient bag of horse feed?!” he spat.

“Yes, now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said as she strode through the aisle and out the door, not another word from her lips. Sam and Eileen followed expeditiously, signing as they went.

In their wake, Castiel regarded Dean, and together, they shrugged. He then turned to the research tables and sighed. After so much careful organization over the last year, the entire Sumerian section of the archive looked as though a tornado had torn through it. He dropped his chin to his chest and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let’s start cleaning this up. I’ll get the logbook.”

“Why didn’t we use that to find the ‘ancient grains’ in the first place?” Dean asked.

Open boxes covered the tables, myriad contents scattered between. With the book retrieved, Castiel dropped it on the table and sat at the nearest end. “I doubt it would have helped. There are no hex bags or burlap pouches listed in it.”

Dean grunted as he grabbed an empty box and shuffled through items scattered on the table, then deferred to the book. Again he quieted, focusing on the task at hand, so Castiel, too, directed his attention to the mess.

An hour had passed before Castiel realized Dean had said nothing and, in fact, had not moved in the last few minutes. He turned to the opposite side of the room and found Dean standing beside the other table, hunched over something he held. When he asked Dean what he was doing, he received no response. A second and a third repetition of his name resulted in the same. So, Castiel crossed the space to get a closer look. As he neared, Dean turned into him, pressed close, and Castiel asked, “What is that?”

“I’m… not sure,” Dean muttered. In his hand, he cradled a polished statue of dark walnut. Fine details sculpted an attractive face with a rather seductive smile. But from there, the allure mutated, and Castiel squirmed with discomfiting arousal.

Long, curling horns protruded from the figure’s forehead, and a whip-like tail snaked from the base of its spine above a shapely backside. Thin leathery wings hugged close to the body where their hands cupped voluptuous breasts that sat high on a broad chest with finely detailed, pert nipples standing stiff. What shocked Castiel the most was what hung between its thighs. Though flaccid and sheathed, a well-endowed penis reached its knees, and its girth left little to the imagination; the long glans flared beneath its foreskin stretched thin.

“That’s… interesting.”

Dean scoffed as he shifted on his feet. “You sure have a way with words, Cas.”

“It’s a very fascinating statue. But I don’t... is it not—” Castiel took it from him when Dean handed it over. “It’s not labeled. That would explain why I don’t remember cataloging it.”

“Are… are we looking at the same statue right now?” Dean squawked.

“What do you… oh. Yes, sorry,” Castiel mused as he turned the figure over. “Awkwardly arousing?”

“Again, that’s one way to put it.” He took the statue back and sat down at the table. “What… do you know what it means? Who is it supposed to be?”

“Many cultures have various representations of intersex people in their histories and art,” Castiel rambled. “If this is indeed Sumerian, it could be one of the first people created by Ninmah, the mother goddess. But this is well beyond any of the descriptions I’ve read in that creation story. Those beings lacked genitals entirely, so this is the absolute opposite.” He paused a second, then continued when a new thought occurred to him. “Given its demonic appearance, I’m assuming it’s Islamic, Jewish, or Christian. In fact, it could be a likeness of both the early-Semitic masculine lilu and feminine lilith.”

“Lilith?” Dean asked. “Like… the Lilith?”

“Yes and no,” Castiel said as he handed the statue back to Dean. “The Lilith we fought? She was the real thing. The biblical story is… much less impressive. There’s little literature about the Sumerian lilu and lilith. But in Judeo-Christian culture, the individual named Lilith was Adam’s original wife, and she later turned into a succubus after betraying him. But the source of her demonic nature is most likely the Sumerian lilith spirit. This was their way of explaining… nocturnal emissions.”

“Wait a minute,” Dean interrupted. “You’re telling me that a people made up a literal sex demon to explain wet dreams?”

“That’s… an astute conclusion. But it gets more ridiculous,” Castiel said as he laughed. “The rumor is that she ran away from the Garden and slept with one of my brothers, Samael...”

He quieted when he saw Dean’s attention had drifted back to the statue cradled quite lovingly in his hands. The intent with which he gazed upon the figure spoke volumes, and it reminded Castiel of their recent nights together. He had grown intimately familiar with Dean’s lust-addled stare, and he longed to see it every day. And as Dean ogled with much the same look in his eye at the statue as he so frequently gawked at Castiel, he understood.

Castiel loosened his tie a little further. His voice rattled in his throat as he spoke. “Dean.”

He made no effort to hide it; Dean adjusted his erection, straining against his pants. “I can’t…” A heavy breath heaved his shoulders. “It’s… I have to—”

At first, Castiel thought he had imagined it. But he closed the space between them and leaned in to get a better look, one hand placed on Dean’s shoulder. Violet light, tiny twin flames, had ignited in the statue’s eyes. Closer, he had to get closer, to see everything Dean had seen, feel what he had felt. By then, it was too late.

Purple tendrils seeped from the wooden grain, curling and coiling like a lazy snake. They drifted as though wandering, searching, seeking. For what, Castiel did not wonder long. Those alluring wisps found their mark in the two of them, lancing out with sudden purpose. It slithered up their noses, their ears, drew open their mouths, and ran down their throats. At first, Castiel feared the worst, expecting pain and misery and death, but he felt much the opposite. Pleasure and desire and exultation coursed through his human veins, and he opened himself willingly for more.

And more it gave. But not to them. Racing cords of purple mist shot out from the statue, twirling and twisting into a figure that stood three feet in front of them. Another whip-crack split the still air, and the mist coalesced into a corporeal figure. Tall, he towered over them as he stretched his leathery wings and lean arms. Though he bore no breasts, the hard planes of his muscled chest and broad shoulders were no less alluring. Pale purple skin appeared to glisten in the dim light of the archives as though flecked with the finest diamond dust.

Castiel drank him in, eyes guided down by subtle grooves in the muscles to his hips. Angular obliques supported chains that draped translucent layers of violet silk to the floor. And there was no mistaking the bulge between his thighs, shaped much like the statue. The creature stretched further, his wicked tail extending as he arched his back and then settled, arms folded beneath his chest.

Eyes black as night flicked wide, staring at Castiel, then Dean. Confusion knotted his brow for a moment, then he shrugged. “I was not expecting mortal men to release me. But you will do nicely.”

Dean shot a glance at Castiel, then asked, “Who… what are you?”

The creature pressed a hand to his chest and asked, “Me? Although I am flattered you asked, I am but a lowly imp, an incubus.”

“And we… how did we release you?” Castiel asked.

Those dark eyes darted to Dean’s groin, and his bemused laugh hummed a sultry song. “Between the two of you, there is enough lust to release thousands of us. But I’m a selfish creature, so I’ll be taking all that energy for myself.”

He took one step towards them, and Dean backed away, flinging an arm across Castiel’s chest. “Energy is a strange way of saying ‘murder’.”

Again, the demon laughed, so melodic it drove Castiel mad with want. And if he had any say, Dean breathed a little heavier, struggling to resist. “Murder? That’s the last thing I want. You will die, but not for a good long while. I require a source after so many years asleep, something to reinvigorate my power. That is obtained through your…” His eyes dropped again to Dean’s groin, then flicked to Castiel’s before returning to their stares. “Lifeforce.”

“And lifeforce is… what exactly?” Dean stalled.

“Oh, you know… the most pleasurable kind.”

The whip-crack shot through the air once more, and the incubus returned to dust. Again, those coiling tendrils of violet mist searched, snaking through the air until it plunged into them. It filled their noses, their lungs with its enticing aroma. As quickly as it had all started, the encounter had ended, and they were alone once more.

“Are you alright?”

Dean patted his stomach, his chest, his face. “I think so. I don’t… feel like I’m dying. And I’m not possessed. What about you?”

Castiel took inventory of his own state, then said, “Yeah, I’m… fine? Although I…” He paused to breathe, but no amount of air soothed the fire in his lungs. “I am… is it hot in here?”

He turned to Dean to find rosy cheeks and a flush that plunged to his collar. “Yeah,” he croaked, then licked his lips. His eyes darted to Castiel’s lips as he did the same, tongue wetting the dry skin. “It’s… really warm.” Dean dropped the statue on the chair, kicked it aside, and turned into Castiel. “I uh… usually I’ve got a quip ready for this sorta thing. But my head’s not… I’ve got one thing on my mind, and I can’t shake it.”

“Good,” Castiel declared. He met Dean halfway, and their bodies connected, chests flush as Dean grasped his hips. He pulled Castiel impossibly closer, melding together as he pressed his lips to Dean’s for a long, lurid kiss. It felt brand new all over again, somehow so fresh yet so familiar. Dean teased his lips with his tongue, and Castiel opened to him invitingly. But he wanted more.

One hand smoothed up Dean’s chest, caressed the pulse in his throat, then cradled his head at the back of his jaw, just below his ear. The other hand sought his deeper desires, ripping apart Dean’s belt and unfastening his pants. Without question, Dean followed suit, and Castiel’s pants fell to his ankles in another breath. Flannels and shirts tore from their bodies with greedy hands, then fell aside, discarded and forgotten in a heap on the floor upon which their boots thumped.

Scalding skin seared his own, branding an indelible, new memory. The archives had not been on Castiel’s list, and he had not imagined it on Dean’s either. But that hardly seemed to matter, given their committed states of undress and stiffened cocks rubbing against one another. So Castiel pressed harder, returning to Dean’s swollen lips for more. The backs of his thighs hit the table behind him, and he moaned into Castiel as he pinned him there.

Some drive, some instinct—more likely some carnal desire that had nothing to do with instinct, but Castiel was not about to blame his deviance on something so primitive—spurred him onward. He grasped Dean’s ass and hauled him up on the table. And Dean allowed it, sighing and moaning with every little thing Castiel did. So he continued, planting his palm against Dean’s chest and pushed. Their kiss popped apart, and Dean whimpered in frustration, though he grinned a wicked grin.

“What do you think you’re gonna do to me on this table?”

“I…” Castiel stuttered, his hazy brain unable to find words for the thing that drove him. In his silence, Dean grasped himself by the shaft and stroked, the other hand cupping his sac. That, for whatever reason, inspired Castiel so thoroughly, he committed to the act.

He grasped Dean’s wrists and flung his hands aside as he said, “I’m going to fuck you.” Castiel pried his knees apart and shoved himself between them. “And you’re going to beg me.”

“For what?”

That grin, that knowing gleam in Dean’s eye, outright challenged him. Are you up to the task? Castiel returned his hand to his chest and shoved Dean flat to the table. He leaned over him as he grasped both their cocks in one hand. “You’re going to beg me to let you come.”

“Why would I have to beg?” Dean breathed through a moan.

Castiel stroked them together, base to tip and back. He gave Dean no response but repeated the motion, again and again and again until Dean writhed beneath him. Pre-cum coated their heads, gathered and rolled over their foreskin, glistening in the lamplight.

“You keep that up, and I’m gonna come all over both of us,” Dean said as he reached for them.

“No,” Castiel said as he slapped his hand away. “You are going to do as I say. You are not allowed to finish until I permit you.”

Again, Dean grinned. “Yes, sir.”

Yes, sir . It shot a course of arousal straight to his cock, twitching in his hands. The room spun with that rush, and Castiel steadied himself against Dean. “That’s perfect. Now, knees up.”

“Please, Cas,” he sighed as he lifted his legs and spread himself. “I need you.”

Castiel teased at his rim with his slick head dripping pre-cum. “I know you do. Whore.”

“I am,” Dean moaned, “I’m your whore to fuck whenever you want, and I need it now. I need you inside me.”

“Oh, it’s that bad?” He pressed the tip of his cock against his hole ever so gently. “You want it that bad?”

“Yes! Please, Cas, I need—fuck, it’s so hard, I can’t stand it, just fuck me already, please!”

They had hardly been at it for fifteen minutes, and Dean was already a whimpering, quivering mess. Given all their nights together over the last month, Castiel had expected him to hold out a little longer. “Dean, are you going to be able to—”

“If I can’t handle it, I’ll tell you,” Dean interjected. “If it’s too much, I’ll say, uh—” He paused, thinking. “‘Redline’. Yeah, that’ll work. ‘Redline’. You don’t need to check in with me, don’t even ask. I’ll just blurt it out, and then I’ll probably blow my load in the next second. But this is hot as hell, I want more, and I want whatever you think you can give me. String me out until I go cross-eyed. And stop looking at me like I just grew a second dick, I’m serious—”

Castiel silenced him with a quick, tender kiss, then released him. “Tell me again how much you want me to fuck you.”

“Damn, Cas, that’s—sorry.” He hesitated, then cleared his throat. “I need you, I need your cock inside me, I need to feel you pound my ass.”

Shit. He knew Dean could be vulgar—Castiel had learned a thing or two the last few weeks—but that had been a whole new level of surprisingly arousing depravity. “Are you sure you can handle it?” he teased as he pressed. Though Dean opened his mouth to respond, Castiel rolled his hips, a subtle shift that slipped his swollen head in and out of his ass, and Dean’s muscles relaxed, softened, eased. Spread so wide—Castiel had also learned his girth very much pleased Dean—but not completely filled, Dean squirmed beneath him, hips rolling for a deeper penetration.

“You really are a whore for me.”

Dean moaned a sound Castiel had never heard before. “I love it when you fuck me, Cas. Christ, I’m so close, I—”

“Don’t,” Castiel growled as he withdrew. “Don’t do it. Hold on to it.” He grasped Dean at the base of his cock and held him still. “Keep breathing.”

“I’m trying,” Dean grunted. “Please, don’t stop, you feel amazing.”

“Flattery won’t save you,” Castiel teased as he pressed again. Though it had only been a moment, he had softened some. Nothing a few firm strokes couldn’t fix. And toying with Dean’s hole aroused him even further. As he slipped back in, a sigh of relief escaped Dean’s pursed lips, and he moaned a long drawl. “If you hold out as long as you can, I promise it’ll be worth it.”

“What do you—” Dean gasped as Castiel slipped inside him once more, inching ever deeper until wholly sheathed. A long low groan, so pleasurable, heaved Dean’s chest, and Castiel moaned with him. The sensuous muscles enveloped him, easing as he stretched around his cock. But what aroused him most was the sight of Dean, already so overstimulated, thighs quivering and cock twitching. Drops of glistening precum gathered at the tip, and Castiel submitted to his more profound urge.

“Not yet, Dean,” he repeated as he grasped Dean’s cock. Precum smoothed down his shaft as Castiel stroked in time with a roll of his hips. “I know you want to. I can see it on your face.”

“I do want to,” Dean whimpered. “I wanna—hng—fuck, I wanna come so bad it hurts.”

“But I don’t want you to,” Castiel said as he continued to stroke Dean’s cock. And Dean bit his bottom lip, coiled his fingers into white-knuckled fists, curled his toes to hold back. The image of Dean, aroused beyond any imaginable level, challenged Castiel. He wanted to give in to Dean’s desperation, to see the absolute ecstasy on his face when he granted him his release after so much pleasure. But he resisted. In mere moments, that mind-breaking crescendo of lust would pay off in ways Castiel could only dream. But he had a vivid imagination.

So he resisted. Pushed to the edge, Dean writhed his hips as Castiel stroked and thrust into him. Delectable vulgarity ran from his lips in a babbling mess as he begged for more, begged for release, please, Cas, I’m so close, fuck me, c’mon, fuck me with your big fat cock, I need to feel you pound my ass, harder, please, stop teasing me, fuck!

As Dean’s jaw dropped and his back arched, Castiel withdrew entirely. He took a half step back from Dean and watched the precum run in tiny rivulets from his ass, watched his cock throb with each beat of his heart, watched the swollen purple head drip. For a single second, Dean sat still, motionless but for his dick, and Castiel held his breath in anticipation.

At last, Dean collapsed to the table, gasping for his breath after the rush of impending release subsided. “You’re pushing five thousand RPMs.”

“That’s cheating,” Castiel said with a laugh.

“I changed the rules,” Dean sighed. “Wanted to let you know how much further you can push me.”

Castiel eased back between his thighs as he asked, “Are you sure—”

“I want you to redline the absolute fuck out of me, Cas.”

If that’s what Dean wanted, then Castiel would give him exactly that. No more holding back, no more practicing. As Dean would say, the gloves were off. So Castiel grasped him behind the knees, shoved them up to his armpits, and gave his first order. “Keep your knees here until I’m finished with you.”

Dean grasped his legs behind the knees and pulled them from Castiel’s hands. So fully exposed, Dean’s asshole spread for him, invited him in, and Dean echoed the sentiment. “C’mon, Cas, please, I need you to fuck me. Pound my ass with your cock.”

Again, Castiel wondered how he could ever resist him. Even if he could, why would he? He was in charge. He could come in Dean’s ass or all over his cock or wherever he wanted, as many times as he could. And Dean would have to hold his back. So he wasted no further time and obliged Dean’s pathetic whimpering.

In one swift thrust, Castiel slammed his cock into Dean’s asshole, pelvis to pelvis. Dean cried out, a shock of sound that lilted up into a high whining moan. Breath heaved from his chest, each carrying a lascivious moan that Castiel marked with a timed thrust. His hips slapped against Dean’s ass, skin on skin blessedly muted by the archive’s small space. And with each thrust, Castiel picked up his pace, nearing his own climax.

“Not yet, Dean,” he sighed. “I love seeing you like this, delirious with arousal. It’s… oh, fuck, I’m—”

Release, that divine rush, overwhelmed him at that moment. But he resisted, reserved. And it sounded as though Dean’s addled mind had surpassed words and was only capable of depraved moaning. Even the simple demands to fuck him had stopped. But that all combined for a heady rush straight to his groin, and Castiel split at the seams. That massive bundle of stimulation surged, expanded two-fold, then exploded in a shower of sparks cascading down his entire body. He grunted and growled like an animal possessed as he thrust into Dean’s ass over and over again until his hips stuttered and his cock flexed harder than ever before, unloading into him.

“Holy shit, Cas, I’m gonna come.”

“Don’t!”

Another cry burst from Dean’s lips, and tears streamed from the corners of his eyes. “Please,” he whispered. “I’m… I can’t.”

Castiel withdrew completely to kneel before him, to worship at that divine altar. With both hands, he spread Dean’s ass, then sealed his lips on him and sucked. The sharp salt of cum washed over his tongue, and Dean cried out again, sounding shocked and pleasured at the same time. From there, Castiel worked his way up, teasing his taint, sucking his balls into his mouth. Then he stood, his own erection still stiff, and he slid right back inside Dean’s ass with one smooth thrust.

And Dean damn near bellowed his moan, a hysterical plea for release. Castiel grasped his cock—hot and swollen in his palm—and stroked in time with his hips. Though instead of steadily increasing his pace, Castiel leaped right into furious thrusts, pounding into Dean with wild abandon. All along, Dean begged, but not like before. No, at that point, he was beyond delirious, beyond overstimulated. His mind had broken and turned to absolute numbness, so he merely whimpered his pleas, Cas, please, let me come, please, let me come, let me come, let me come.

“I need to hear it.”

Dean’s eyes burst open as though Castiel’s voice had reconstituted his mind. Lips quivered as Dean’s jaw dropped, but no sound escaped. He stared at Castiel, looked him straight in the eye, and watched as he continued to stroke his cock and pound his ass.

“Say it, Dean,” Castiel ordered. “I want to hear you submit.”

Liminal. That singular, interstitial moment suspended as though to give him more time to rail Dean and that perfect asshole of his. Castiel took every advantage of that second, hammering into Dean and racing headlong to his final release. Then time snapped forward like a rubber band, released at the perfect moment, the height of Castiel’s pleasure, and the world shattered.

“Redline.”

Castiel snapped his hips back and grasped himself by the shaft against Dean’s cock in both hands. Not a full stroke later, their mutual release surged through them both. Together, their cocks flexed, emptying their sacs on Dean, his stomach, his chest, even reaching his face. Long white ropes flung from Dean’s cock as the last of Castiel’s arousal dribbled from his to mix with Dean’s release. His groans and grunts and long gasps for breath matched each hard twitch, each shot of cum, each buck of his hips until he quieted, released his thighs, and collapsed atop the table.

Castiel had been right. The absolute used, drained mess that was Dean Winchester in that moment compared to little else. Beatific. Radiant. No words sufficed to describe such a glorious sight. “You really are a whore for punishment.”

Dean grinned as he dragged a finger through the pearlescent trails up and down his chest, his stomach. “If the punishment means I come that hard every time, you’re goddamn right I’m a whore. A filthy, depraved, needy whore.”

When he held his fingers up to Castiel, he leaned in and sucked them clean. Withdrawn, he scanned the room around him, realizing only then that they were still in the archives. “We picked a poor space for cleanup and aftercare.”

“No shit,” Dean laughed as he stood and began to gather his clothes. An awkward shuffle wedged his boxers between his cheeks.

“What are you doing?”

He shot an irritated glare at Castiel as he grabbed his boots. “I got an ass full of your cum that’s not gonna stay there very long. Everyone’s upstairs, I think we can make it to the locker room showers. No bedside table washcloth is gonna clean up this mess.”

Before Dean took a step, Castiel grasped him by the back of the head and kissed him hard. The impulse had come from seemingly nowhere, but he couldn’t resist it. And Dean seemed not to mind in the least, opening up to him like a flower to the sun. When they parted, Dean breathed a shuddering breath against his lips and said, “Dammit, I love it when you do that to me.”

“Do what?”

“Just fucking… grab me. You know…” He paused for a beat, then turned to the door as he spoke. “When you manhandle me. It’s hot. Like the edging thing, you take control, and I don’t have to think about a damn thing. I can kick back and let it all happen to me. It’s… oddly relaxing. I have to be in control all the damn time everywhere else. Letting go for a while is… it’s nice. Relieving. But hot as hell, too.”

“So you enjoyed… that practice?” Castiel asked as he followed. “Me inside you?”

“Bottom, Cas. You topped me,” Dean explained. He checked the hallway and, finding it clear, turned towards the gym. “And yes, obviously, I enjoyed it. But not just because of that. I could have fucked myself on you and still had control. I didn’t. You had all the power and used it like a pro. Kinda jealous honestly”

Castiel’s mind spun with the possibilities but pushed those thoughts aside for later. “Do you… do you think the incubus did something to draw that out of us?”

Dean shrugged as he turned down the next hallway for the locker room. “I’m not sure. Maybe we’re just… kinda kinky? I am pretty damn exhausted, though. What about you?”

“I am quite tired,” Castiel said.

“Well, let’s get that soak in, clean up, and head to bed,” Dean offered.

“And actually sleep?”

Dean’s boyish giggle said otherwise, but he agreed nonetheless.

“Yes, Cas. We’ll get some honest to god sleep tonight.”

This series is complete! Reblogs are loved and feedback is welcome!

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