bernalheights:

A little letter from Dean to Cas (post-12x23)

You know after watching everyone and every damn thing I love die over and over, you think this shit would sting a little less, but it never fucking does. Hell, it feels a little worse each time I see you die. Because you kept coming back, like those trick candles you blow out and they keep re-igniting… but even those eventually run out and all you’re left with is a vague disappointment and wax all over a perfectly good cake. Pain in the ass you were, you were my best friend. I haven’t really got much going for me in my life; it’s mostly just been me and Sammy against the world. You made it a little less lonely, a little more bearable. Now, look at me, writing a letter that you’ll never respond to like some kind of sentimental sap, dumbass is more like it. Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks… for everything. I don’t know if they got a special spot for dead angels, being soulless and all… but I hope they do. Hell, maybe I’ll even see you again. If they got Zeppelin in angel-heaven, I could introduce you to some more proper music and none of that Britney Spears bullshit you used to blast out in that trash pimp car. 

Cass. 

I’m sorry.

I love you too.

anastiel:

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heroicidean:

~ SPN 12x13 coda ~

The hinges on Dean’s bedroom door creaked as he pushed it shut. He paused mid-stride to toe off his boots, wincing as the action twisted his ankle this way and that. He should have undone the laces more. He should have done a lot of things…

Deep breath in; quick breath out.

She was his mother – there was no way he could fucking demand her to stay in the bunker. Mo…Mary was so much different from what he expected – the picture John painted for him on long, quiet car rides were all in rosy hues. He remembered the good things about her.

That was not to say – ugh…

Dean let out a whine of groan as he flopped into bed. He loved her; he loved Mom. How could he not? But this? Working with the Brits…willingly? After what they did to Sam, Dean could not even fathom her reasoning behind her decisions.

And so, the rose-colored paint began to chip away. If he was being honest, it had started a while ago. 

Dean closed his eyes. Deep breath in – his phone vibrated twice in his back pocket – quick breath out. Twisting around, he slid his phone out to check his new messages, both from Cas.

Cas

12:31am // I might have a new lead on Kelly

12:31am // Sorry if I woke you

Dean’s thumbs hovered over his screen as he stared at the keyboard. He caught a glimpse of himself in the screen and sighed at his deepening frown lines. Sighing, he tapped on the phone icon in his texting app and held his phone up to his ear.

The dial tone rang twice before he heard some muffled fumbling on the other end of the line. “You didn’t wake me up,” Dean said before Cas could greet him

“That’s good.” 

The tension in Dean’s chest unfurled at the sound of those two simple words. He tipped his head back to rest it on one of his two pillows as he stretched his jean-clad legs across the bed. Dean wiggled his toes, the tip of his big toe peeking out his sock. Was it already time to go clothes shopping again? The last time he and Sam went was at that Salvation Army in Muncie. Maybe the time had come aga –

“Something wrong?”

“No.” Dean blinked at the concern in Cas’ voice. “Well, yes,” he added after a second of thought.

“Anything I can do to help?”

“No.” Dean cracked a smile when Cas huffed on the other end. “Sorry to bother you, buddy. I – “ his speech halted and he adjusted his grip on his phone. “I guess I just would rather talk than text right now.”

“You’re never a bother, Dean.” He could almost hear it, the tiny hint of a smile that Cas adopted whenever something amused him, however slightly. It was gone a second later when he asked, “What’s the matter?”

So, Dean told him. He told him everything. About the day they had had tracking down the ghost of Crowley’s son’s fiance to Mary’s revelation mere hours ago. Cas simply listened as Dean vented, offering advice whenever he asked for it. When prompted, Cas went into detail about his day, including the fact that he was almost positive that Kelly and Lucifer’s nephilim were now in the hands of a powerful demon. 

Silence crackled over the speakers as Cas’ retelling of his day came to a close. “It’s getting late,” he said quietly. The declaration was punctuated with a yawn. Dean pulled his phone away from his ear to check the time. 3:25am. Well, shit. “I should let you get some rest.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He sighed, pulling his blankets over his jean-clad legs. It definitely was not the first time Dean had gone to sleep in his close, and it certainly would not be the last. “Thanks for listening, Cas.”

“Of course. You know I always appreciate our talks. I – “ his voice cut off with another yawn. This time, Dean joined in. “I’ll see you soon, Dean.”

“Yeah. G’night, Cas,” he said as his phone fell from his ear.

“Good night,” Dean heard as he hung up his phone. His face burrowed into his pillow as his arms curled into his sleeping position. For a split-second, he thought about getting out of bed to switch off the lamp on his desk. In the end, he thought better of it, instead deciding to sleep. 

Dean’s hand tightened around his phone as he closed his eyes. It was still a little bit warm by the time he drifted off to sleep.

stardvstcas:

Word Count: Appx 6.5k
Pairing: Dean Winchester / Castiel 
Rating: Teen + (for swearing)
Summary:  Fifth Grade teachers Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak manage to get sucked in to doing the same “Pen Pal Project” that their students are doing.
Note: Many thanks go to thepizzaseraph​ and ackles-likes-snackles​ for beta-ing and such. 
Also Read On: Archive of Our Own

When the idea was first suggested, Castiel didn’t know what to do with it. After his students started getting excited about it and continued to pester him, he figured he could at least take it to his supervisor and see what she had to say.

Naomi was a very strict woman, with hair always tied back in a slick, tight bun and lips that were always pressed together thinly. Newer teachers were always wary of her, walking on tiptoes around her and agreeing mightily to anything she said.  She’d been Cas’ supervisor since he’d started teaching seven years ago, so he knew her well enough to not be so frightened anymore.

“Apparently,” he told her, sitting comfortably in the leather chair in front of her desk, “the high school has some kind of affiliation with schools in Europe, and the language students get paired with a pen pal for the year. Daniel’s older sister writes to a girl in Italy - this was all his idea, you know. And once he mentioned it, everyone started going absolutely crazy… They are all very taken with the idea, and I think it would be a wonderful way for them to improve their writing.”

Naomi stayed silent for a moment, mulling it over in her head. She slipped her glasses off her nose and set them carefully atop a stack of manila folders. “I don’t see why not.” She said eventually, beginning to flip through some papers, “If the high school has affiliates, it shouldn’t be hard for us to branch off of that.”  

It took two weeks to sort out the rest of the details, and then Cas was standing at the front of his classroom, watching his students file slowly into the room, hanging coats on hangers and setting lunchboxes in cubbies before finally taking their seats. Winter Break was slowly approaching and he could tell they were all getting anxious to be done with school for now. He hoped that this new pen pal project would keep them subdued for the next few days.

“Okay guys, I’ve got some really awesome news.”

“Can we do the pen pals?” Daniel asked, as he had every morning for the past three weeks. The question had lost the enthusiasm it had once contained, now sounding like he was just barely wanting to hope for it. Cas grinned.

“Actually… Yes.”

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boykingdom:

okay but au where dean goes deaf in one ear.

it was due to angels, probably. sons of bitches had too many things to say and not the right types of voices to say them, and they blew out dean’s right ear drum. it sucks (especially on hunts) and he’s pissed, but he can deal. at least he didn’t go completely deaf.

and it upsets cas that the angels would do that to dean, but he discovers that it has it’s advantages, too. one day he’s sitting shotgun in the impala with dean driving and singing his music obnoxiously loud, and as he looks at dean he feels like he can’t possible contain all that he’s feeling. the way the sunlight catches dean’s profile and makes the edges of his hair look gold and his eyes shine like emeralds. how he drums along on the steering wheel to his favorite songs and sings like he doesn’t care who’s listening. 

while dean turns his head in preparation of making a left turn, cas leans toward him and whispers into his deaf ear “i love you, dean winchester.”

it goes on like that for awhile, and it helps cas cope with the thought of unrequited love. he’ll be sitting on dean’s right, or standing behind him so he can lean forward towards dean’s deaf side, and he’ll use these stolen moments to whisper the things he only wishes he had the courage to tell him where he can hear. “you’re beautiful.” “i wish i could stay.” “everything about you is perfect.” “you’re all that i want.”

but then one day, he slips up. it’s a stupid mistake, but it was bound to happen eventually. 

he’s sitting on a park bench on dean’s left, the two of them waiting for sam to finish up his research at the library, as they’ve already gotten done interviewing all the witnesses. dean is in a good mood that day; all chatter and “hey, do you think sam would let us order pizza tonight?”

and cas is all smiles as he listens to dean speak, more than happy to let the man talk. while dean in looking down at the notes in his lap he took from the interviews, cas murmurs “i would like to kiss you.”

when dean looks up, startled, he all too late realizes his mistake.

“what?” dean breathes. “what did you just say?”

cas curses himself in his head. dean’s left ear is his good ear. stupid, stupid, stupid.

“nothing,” cas says, willing his voice not to quiver. he looks at the ground and thinks to himself, this is it. he’s messed up and now dean is never going to want to see him again.

there’s a moment of silence in which cas tries not to shake and to keep his tears at bay as what feels like the weight of everything he feels for dean comes crashing down on him. a moment of silence before he hears dean say “cas?”

cas looks up, and suddenly there are lips on his, and he realizes he never knew what happiness was until this moment. dean’s lips are soft and slightly chapped and absolutely perfect, and cas has no idea how he spent so many years of his existence without this wonderful man here to hold in his arms.

that night, when they’re naked and tangled up under the scratchy sheets of their motel room bed, cas rolls over and whispers into dean’s good ear the same words he told him that day in the impala: “i love you, dean winchester.”

dean’s whole face softens before he says “i love you, too,” with a reverence that could only equal cas’. cas takes dean’s face in his hands and kisses him sweetly, and it seems as though all the stars in the universe have somehow aligned for the man and the angel, and this is it, this is heaven.

outpastthemoat:

Cas has a theory.  

He thinks it’s possible that Dean wants to kiss him.  

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slayertsetsang:

“I want you,” Dean murmurs into Cas’s ear. Cas mumbles something incoherently and burrows closer into Dean, shifting so that his head rests comfortably in the crook of Dean’s shoulder.

“You just had me,” Cas whispers, drawing the covers over their cooling bodies, still slightly slick with sweat and the taste of each other. “Multiple times, in fact,” he says, and Dean could hear the grin in his voice. “Which is actually amazing, considering you’re thirty-five today.”

Dean shivers and pulls Cas in closer, resting his hand on his back. “What do you know about the relationship between aging and the amount of times a guy can come, huh?” he asks teasingly. “You were human for about five minutes-”

“And I’m a human now again,” Cas interrupts softly, reaching up and pressing a simple kiss to Dean’s lips.

“Which brings us back to what I was saying,” Dean murmurs again, returning the kiss, his body too tired for anything more. “My birthday was great,” he continues, “the birthday pie, and Sammy, and Charlie, and the special edition of Lord of the Rings, it was all-” he kisses Cas’s forehead, then his lips again- “awesome.”

“But?” Cas crinkles his nose, confused.

“Marry me,” Dean says. Cas’s jaw drops open, and Dean grins. “I want you. For my birthday.”

Cas hesitates, and Dean tenses, his nerves thrumming, but Cas only smiles brilliantly up at him. “You’ll have to apologize for my lack of a bow and wrapping pape-”

Dean kisses the rest of the sentence away, and their bodies forget how tired they’d been just minutes ago.

frecklesandsky:

deancas drunk/fake relationship au

The first kiss is kind of a joke.

Castiel is at Charlie’s party and some guy is making fun of him for wearing a flower-print shirt, of all things.

“What are you, gay?” The guys asks, mockingly.

Castiel draws himself up and says, “Yes, I am.” He looks around and finds Dean, who he knows, but not that well, quite near him. He reaches out and grabs Dean by the elbow, because he’s had a few drinks and it seems like a good idea. “And this is my boyfriend. If you don’t leave me alone he’s gonna kick your ass.”

“This is your boyfriend?” The guys asks disbelieving, taking in Dean’s sturdy boots, his old jeans, his plaid jacket, his broad shoulders. 

“Yes!” Castiel insists, “Look, see,” He leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to Dean’s mouth. He knows it’s risky, he might get punched in the face. He’ll probably get yelled at, at the very least. He just hopes that Dean has enough mercy to wait until this guy is out of earshot.

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buticancarryyou:

Dean Winchester is not a murderer, but he could be.

It just depends, you see. Depends on the way the wind blows, the way the moon cranes her head in the sky, the way the grass sounds underfoot in the quietness of midnight. It’s not so much an itch that one has to scratch, but a switch that can be flipped with the pressure of the right circumstances.

Ones like:

Pale skin glowing in the passenger seat, knobby knees rubbing against the dashboard and root-like fingers aching around them like they just need something to anchor themselves into. That they just need to belong to something bigger than themselves, that they need to sink into someone else’s flesh and sprout like wildflowers along the spine.

Dean watches from the corner of his eye, his attention never tearing completely away from the road ahead of them. His fingers curl tighter around the steering wheel and he swallows a violent emotion down, wills it to dislodge and digest.

He is not a murderer–

But baby pink lips stain the back of his eyes, where they bruise and bite. They smear like blood against his throat and it’s got him cursing lethal obscenities to himself.

–but he could be.

**

The first time foreign hands put themselves on that stretch of holy skin, Dean feels something within himself shift. Hands drag across the cheek, down the neck, over those baby bird ribs–so easy to break, finally resting against the drum of life. Dean focuses in and his brain sizzles out, like an egg yolk sticking to the bottom of a pan.

Don’t touch him.

That candy apple bottom lip pulls around a smile, painting someone else’s face with the only sun Dean’s ever known. And it feels like his ziploc-bag lungs have been punctured, feels like his pulse is drag racing around his throat, feels like he wants to rip every star from the goddamned sky and overdose on their light–just to be worthy of that sun once again.

He sighs when he realizes that he cannot carve stars out of the sky, but smiles wickedly instead–because he can carve hearts out of chests.

**

When Baby Boy asks Dean later why he did it, his first instinct is to lie–to tell him he had no choice in the matter. But those summer eyes pin against his own, those butterfly lashes spinning webs to catch the lies that rest on his tongue. But Baby Boy just stares down at Dean’s crimson soaked hands, curling his own behind his back, like sunflowers turning their heads away when darkness comes.

Dean’s heart is a funhouse mirror and it reflects the atrocity of his heart, all gaping wounds and rotting flesh. And if one were to look hard enough, you’d see a sea of red–thick and pungent–as though it were still swimming through veins. Glinting in the seafoam of red, you’d see teeth, sparkling like stars in the sky–because maybe, maybe you can pull them from the sky after all.

“It felt like dying.” Dean whispers finally and it’s a truth as bold as the stolen life on his hands. “If not them–it would’ve been me.”

And there it is, the jugular–exposed.

**

Dean Winchester is not a murderer, not by choice–not by want.

But if you touch his Baby Brother (in love, in hatred–doesn’t matter),

–he’ll become one.

---

52 Weeks of Sam & Dean (Ao3)
buticancarryyou vs @whoaeasytiger
Prompt #21: Kill or Be Killed (Ao3)
See Rose’s Version  (Ao3)

elizabethrobertajones:

Oh no.

http://elizabethrobertajones.tumblr.com/post/146761508468/pastelroyalty-pastelroyalty-this-flower-shop

#I kinda want to do it :P

… I kind of did it because after a certain amount of terrible sleep my impulse control is non-existent

---

This is probably a trap, Castiel thought, looking at the sign.

“If your name is Castiel, stop in today for a free rose”

Winchester and Sons florist was not just part of his walk to and from work - it felt like part of his daily routine, somewhere along the level of importance as the stop to buy coffee a minute earlier. 

In the morning he passed by as the shop was still opening, and if he was running late, it would be in time to wave good morning to the taller of the brothers as he brought out buckets and trays of flowers to sit in the sun, exchanging the pleasant “hi”s of acquaintances who saw each other often enough for one word conversations and nothing more. 

If Cas made good time and got a better start, he could pass the shop as the elder brother was washing the windows and singing to himself off-tune, and that fleeting encounter could make any sort of terrible day at the office somehow bearable.

If he spotted Cas coming too soon he would stop singing before Cas could hear him clearly, but they shared an awkward smile that Cas would carry with him for the rest of the day.

Occasionally he wouldn’t be spotted at all, and he could walk right past, and catch the song that the sponge squeaked in time to on the windowpane. It always felt wrong to miss out on the smile and be mistaken for any old pedestrian, but the tunes Cas didn’t even know hung in his head and somehow everything would go right that day.

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thegentlemaninthetophat:

“Somebody called you my husband today.  When you were talking to the sheriff and I was speaking to the nurse.  I didn’t correct her,” Cas says quietly in the dark of their room. 

“You didn’t correct her?” Dean returns.  

“I liked it.  It was nice.  Are you mad?”

“No,” Dean answers just as quiet. “You- You liked it?”

“Yes.  Of course.”

Their room was quiet save the movement it took for Dean to kiss him.  Soft and urgent.  

“If-” Dean stops.  He kisses Cas again.

“If what?”

“If you had a last name I’d take it, you know.”