BLATANT SELF-ADVERTISING: DCBB ASPHYXIATION

I did a thing for this year's DeanCas BigBang, and I'll post it somewhere around this Fall. And since I'm, like, totally unpopular and what not, I decided to promote the said thing a little, since, honestly, so far it takes the crown of being the opus magnum of my 23 year life.
Meanwhile, I also discovered that I love making covers, so I'll post them too beacuse they make me very happy :flower:

*
Asphyxiation </i>- a heavily canon-rooted story with a certain twist, starting in 6.22, ending around mid season 7. Eleven chapters total, but consists of two bigger parts. I’m giving away too much. I’ll shut up now.

There’s one thing I really need to say, though.

I’d like to thank humanlovesfreckles for putting up with my crap and whining and all that jazz and of course, for crashtesting the story. Without your support I wouldn’t make it. Thanks, mate. You’re the best.

Summary:

There is this human little proverb that says “you are what you eat”. Castiel was too desperate to pay attention to something this unimportant. He was at war. And Dean had to be saved. Castiel swallowed more from Purgatory than he thought he would. And Dean didn’t like being saved, nor did he like his new God.

On the other hand, the Leviathan liked their suit very much so they took their time to prepare it for their reigns and the head of their host seemed to be the perfect place to start. They too, did not think about that proverb when they should have. Everything that lays a hand on Dean is lost, in the end.

And Dean? He doesn’t cope with his friend’s death or with the new sea-monster kids in town thing very well. He doesn’t cope at all, though he tries.



a teaser excerpt:

He grabs the glass viciously and tries to swallow whatever is there, his eyes wide, hands shaking like thin trees on a tempest. So he fails, choking on his thoughts, on the whiskey, on the entire universe altogether and he releases the glass which shatters itself on the floor with an alarming noise.

“Fuck!” Dean’s mouth goes off on autopilot, offering the possibly most precise commentary on everything that just transpired.

“Dean?” He can hear Bobby call from the room, but he doesn’t reply. He’s too busy trying to calculate what is worse: that Cas stared at him as if he was some very fuckable box of chicken nuggets or the fact that it’s happening again, but Mister Stalker here is dead and Angels don’t do ghosts anyway, so whatever it is – it’s impossible, it’s fake, it’s him. This is crazy. Maybe it’s Sam’s crazy and it just happens to be contagious. Maybe it’s the Croatoan getting to his dick. Dean blinks. Why would he even bring his dick, in any context, into this one, is a holy mystery. Something is very non-peachy in the state of Deanmark, he thinks, trying too hard to focus on the pun, but not its subject.

Why would he be thinking about Cas thinking about fucking him, anyway?

Dean catches his mind actually willing to figure out the answer to a question he obviously intended as rhetorical and sarcastic.

It’s only half past eleven am in Sioux Falls, South Dakota and he’s already done with the rest of his life.

He cleans up the mess because this is the only one he’s fucking able to and he storms out of the kitchen, telling Bobby that in the end he wins this one and that he in fact, finally is going to knock himself out for an hour or two cause he can’t even get a drink done right.

Bobby thinks that it’s actually a good thing he can’t but he doesn’t share the thought, he just nods, not really buying a pound of Dean’s horse shit.

When Dean reaches the bed, he aggressively smashes his face flat against the mattress and proceeds to cocoon himself to the point of nonexistence. He wants to shield himself from the false eyes, from his own head, from everything. He doesn’t want to be seen. Right before he drifts away into heavy slumber, he knows.

It caught up. A foreign weight sinks into the mattress beside him. The bedsprings don’t make a noise but he can feel in his muscles and veins that sudden burden pulling him like an avalanche that takes everything with. He dares not to look behind but the weak reflection coming from the window tells him the bed is otherwise than him – very empty. Maybe it is his mind, maybe it is the window or the mattress, but one thing is certain: something in this room is lying to him.

He awaits a blow or a touch or the death.

Nothing comes but the sleep.

So this would be it, my entry for this year’s Big Bang, claimed by labluekatt1721

Coming to your home this fall if you let the crazy in.