KKA: I know some of my readers, if you're even here reading these, are waiting for different updates. I've had a massive writer's block for months. This is really the most I've written. This is ALL that I've written give or take about 5000 words of an attempted giftfic for a friend. I HOPE and PLAN to write more in Hetalia soon. SPN is coming to the end of it's latest season, so I'll have all summer to get back into Hetalia and finish some of my old fics.

For any new readers, these are my first attempts at SPN fanfics. I hope you like them. I intend to write more here as well.

Chapter One

Tumblr drabble prompted by wherethecherryblossomsdance (a.k.a. Sakura-senpai). Set within canon, right after "Man's Best Friend With Benefits" (8x15) Self-Beta

They trudged back home from their latest mission, stiff, sore, a little bloody, and a lot sweaty. They high-tailed it out of St. Louis and didn't stop except for gas. Neither really wanted to talk, because there really wasn't much to say. Witch got ganked, friend got saved, and hot chick ended up being a dog. Nothing, really.

By the time they made it back to Lebanon, they were tired and a little smelly. Dean swung out of the Impala, groaning as he stretched and popped the kink out of his back. He left a lingering fond pat on the Impala's trunk, following after Sam with his bags into their "batcave." Dean stepped through the door, lips involuntarily lifting. He still couldn't believe that they really had a home to go back to. Sooner or later they'd have to leave, but not now. It's not like they could live forever in a friggin' bunker; it was supposed to be for emergencies and all that. Dean hated the idea that a monster or even an angel could track them here and put the Men of Letters' legacy in danger. There was a lot of really important shit that Dean didn't want to lose because they were the fuck ups. He just sorta wished he knew what to do with it all.

"Hey, Dean, toss your bag. I'll get laundry started," Sam called from across the room. The washing and drying machine were old, like, first ever made kinda old, and hadn't worked when they first arrived. Dean had been surprised when Sam had been the one to fix them, mumbling about some maintenance job he'd had while Dean was in Purgatory. At least he'd done something useful while Dean was trying not to die for a friggin' year- more like a century in happy afterlife times. Dean tossed his bag over, grinning.

"Thanks, Samantha."

"Har har. You know you'll be folding it. We split chor-"

"Yeah, I got it," Dean rolled his eyes and strolled over to the fridge for a beer. He'd never admit it but he liked finishing up the laundry. Besides, whenever Sam tried to fold clothes, he totally failed. Sam had no idea how to do it right.

"Dean, toss me the shirt you're wearing, too. You've been wearing it for like, three days. You even sleep in it."

"What? Dude, I change my shirts!" Dean protested, snapping the top off his beer.

"No, the one under your shirt, Dean," Sam rolled his eyes, exasperated. "I swear, you never took it off. It's gross. Just throw it over."

"I'll wash it some other time. I'm good."

"Dean, seriously? It's not like I haven't seen you wandering around here in only a bathrobe. Just give me the friggin' shirt."

"I didn't realize you wanted me naked so bad. Have you been in contact with Becky again?"

"Oh shut up and throw it over. I want to get the laundry out of the way if we get another call from Kevin," Sam snapped, gesturing with his hand.

"No."

Sam stopped and stared at Dean. The older man merely took a swig of his drink and leaned against the table. Sam frowned.

"You know, come to think of it, I really haven't seen you shirtless in a while. I'm not trying to say I miss it, 'cause I don't, but what's going on? It's just a shirt."

"Drop it. Now." Dean was almost growling, glaring at the opposite wall as if trying to make it burst into flames.

"Actually, you haven't even been fooling around like you used to. Jeez, Dean, I don't even think you've been with a woman since you came back from Purgatory. Did something happen? Dude, I'm your brother, some freaky ass scar or something-"

"Look, Sammy, you need to shut the fuck up and drop it." Dean pushed away from the table

"Dea-" Sam cut off as Dean stomped from the room. He stared at the beer Dean left on the table top, sighing and dragging his hand through his hair. "What was that?"

Dean slammed the door behind him, then, threw himself on his bed. His hands came up to rub at his face, cool metal of his ring scraping skin. Wearily, he dropped his hands to the bed and glanced around the room, calming as he took in his room. Guns and knives on the wall, a few empty spaces on the wall, a record player and a small stack of vinyls, the picture of his mother, the single lamp on the bare side of the room he never turned off. A heavy weight settled in his chest as he stared at the lamp in the corner. He should probably turn it off. It's not like it was really even needed, but there was something about that single lamp left shining that made him feel better. As long as it was on, it meant he could home to it. Absently, Dean rubbed his left shoulder and sat up. He cussed under his breath when he noticed what his hand was doing, then shrugged out of his coat, tossing it aside, before tearing his shirt off. Sam was right; the shirt was getting smelly and kinda gross. He'd meant to change out of it, but they'd been running around and he hadn't even taken a shower, let alone changed his undershirt.

The handprint wasn't noticeable anymore. It wasn't bright red and it wasn't quite as pronounced, having settled into his skin. It was almost as if it had been there his whole life. But recently it had been…well, aching. It was getting worse, steadily chafing in his own skin, like a wound being rubbed raw. He'd been careful not to touch it for the past couple days, worried it could tip the ache into outright pain. No one had touched that mark since Lisa, and after the first time she had, he started keeping it covered. The first time it had been touched, it had been Anna. At the time, he liked it because she had been covering it. He hadn't asked for some dorky looking angel to pull him out of Hell. He hadn't asked for a daily reminder of everything he owed the angel and Heaven. He hated the idea that for the rest of the life he'd have some dude's hand burned into his skin, like some trashy tattoo you regret the next day.

Then the angel was Castiel and it wasn't so bad. The dude had died for him how many times?

When Sam had been in the Cage and Dean had lived with Lisa, he'd been angry and hurt and grieving. After weeks on the couch, he'd finally followed her up the stairs to her room. And almost rolled off the bed to get away when she'd touched the handprint on his shoulder. It didn't feel right, covering it up with someone else's hand. He'd gone to bed wearing a shirt every night since. With Lydia, was that it?, he had gotten lucky. She wasn't about touching all over the place, just getting it done- which in hindsight made more sense. He'd been too frantic to remember about his shoulder, but luckily, by then, the print was already fading and the dark had kept it covered.

Jesus. It was just a handprint. It looked like a friggin' burn scar. What should it matter who touched it or when. Why was the idea of taking his shirt off and letting people see so unpleasant. It wasn't like he walking around with his junk hanging out. It would be awkward to explain it if anyone asked, but he didn't even like baring it at home. Sam had already seen it- what was the big deal?

Dean groaned again and rubbed his shoulder without thinking. He froze. It… It hadn't hurt?

If anything, he felt better, as if the ache had dulled. He looked down and pressed his fingers over the scar, shifting to cover it completely. He smirked a bit. His hand was bigger than a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent's handprint. Just a little funny. With his lips still quirked up in a half-smile he took advantage of the quiet moment, the same as he'd done every day since Cas had disappeared with blood trailing from his eyes.

"Hey Cas, it's me. We took down the witch. Some creep with a fetish for dogs. Weird, huh? I guess James and Portia were okay. Weird, but cool. I'll just try not to think about it too much. We're home again, though. You haven't seen our batcave yet, but it's pretty sweet coming home. Yeah, home. Still gets me, too. I didn't think we'd find something like this after Bobby's burnt down, but, well, here we are. And there's a place for you here. I leave the lamp on, cuz… you know, you like to sneak up on me. I won't wake up and have a heart attack the next time you pop in and loom over me like a stalker. I'm pretty smart, right?" Dean trailed off, brows contracting over his nose. He slumped over, tightening his grip on the handprint. It was weird, praying like this. It was almost as if…he could feel Cas for a second. There had been moments when he'd felt Cas before he'd seen him, and it kinda felt like this. Maybe it was the handprint. Maybe Cas would actually hear him this time.

"Damn it, Cas, where are you? Get your feathery ass back so I can kick it. You can't just disappear like that! You were fucking bleedin' out the eyes, man! What's going on? Damn it, Cas, you can't…after what you said…" Dean took a slight rattling breath and laughed dryly. "Right, like I could stop you if you thought you had to do something. Just… this time… wherever you are, don't be kicking yourself, okay? That's my job. You won't let me help you, man. Haven't you learned your fuckin' lesson yet? You fuck shit up if you do it by yourself, so let me help you this time. Come on, Cas. I'm waiting."

A slight pause and Dean peeked through his lashes. His shoulders slumped again and he shook his head, mouth twisting to the side.

"Right. Well, we're waiting for you, Cas. Just… hurry up."

.

On a shiny metal table the angel named Castiel jerked awkwardly, blue eyes widening. He coughed weakly, blood spilling from his lips. A voice was in his head-

Protect the Host. Obey the Host. The Angel Tablet is the most import-

He groaned, trying to push it away. He was sick of it. Every day, the same litany. This is what he came back for? This couldn't be the only thing that mattered. Those words couldn't be the only thing of importance.

Damn it, Cas, where are you?

He jerked again. The Host's voice was shrill, but underneath he could hear it. A single voice, rough, low, angry, and sad. A voice he knew well. He chased after it even as searing pain raced through his vessel and Grace.

Haven't you learned your fuckin' lesson? You fuck shit up-

The Angel Tablet must be found and protected. Your objective is to find the Tablet, Castiel.

-so let me help you this time. Come on, Cas.

Obey the Host.

I'm waiting.

A hand pressed to his, palm to palm, fingertip to fingertip. A rough hand covered in calluses and scars.

He's waiting.

Castiel smiled weakly and pressed back. The voice of the Host, for the moment, was tinny and distant and the pain wasn't anything worse than he'd endured before. For the first time, Dean was reaching out through their connection. He doubted Dean even knew what he was doing, but it made Castiel smile anyway.

.

Dean scooted up on his bed, kicking off boots before leaning up against the headboard. He should probably take a shower, make something to eat to pay back Sam for the laundry. Maybe do some research on trials and shit. But Dean didn't really care. He was tired and when he moved his hand, he felt kinda achy. So fuck it. He dropped his head back, bumping against the wall lightly. But he kept his hand over Cas'. There was a moment when he swore he felt a hand press against his, a gentle touch of Grace that felt so familiar it hurt.

So Dean kept talking. Joking about Sam being a good wife and bad porn innuendos he'd kept himself from saying in St. Louis that he knew Cas wouldn't get. A song that had come on the radio he hadn't heard in years. The dinner he'll probably make sooner or later and the secondhand Vonnegut books he'd found in that thrift store two days ago. I miss you in every word.