firelitcas:

Dean, 

There are a great many number of things I wish to tell you, but I will narrow them down to seven main points:

i) My life began in hell:
not figuratively as much literally (though one could argue that under the control of those who wish harm upon you heaven is just as bad as the inferno below) - it was a grey smear of battles for righteousness before you. I knew not of color before the ribbons of your soul painted the universe with greens and reds and golds. Words are so limiting. I wish I could fully explain through words how those colors have made the past seven years feel like an eternity, and how everything before just doesn’t make sense anymore. 

ii) Angel lives are fleeting:
we are celestial, but what are stars to humanity when not observed? It makes no difference whether anything beyond your solar system exists, as long as you have the essentials - your sun, your moon - you will thrive. This is how you will remember me: an explosion of light, Orion’s belt on a cloud-less evening. This is how you should mourn me: remember me as the galaxies that surround you. This is where I go when I die: I will fly among the stars.

iii) Take care of Sam,
for if I am the billions of planets and suns beyond your reach, he is your sun. He will provide for you what I cannot. You have been conditioned to need him in this lifetime, just as life on earth has evolved to require the sun. 

iv) It runs through your veins:
you are the dirt that buried you under a wooden cross, and you are the roots and leaves of the trees that hold you together. Your blood is the molten that burns beneath your skin, where the shadows of stars have left imprints of constellations. Those sepals are my green, that lava my red, and your heart is my gold. 

v) I love you.
Perhaps I should’ve opened with this, but the number of things I should’ve done surpasses the number of atoms in your body. These are the things I’m sorry for - all the words I could’ve, should’ve said whilst I could. I love you more than my mind can fathom. So much so I feel as though not even the universe is enough to hold my love. I love you, and I’m sorry you’ll never be able to hear those 3 words coming out of my mouth. I’m sorry I’ll never have the pleasure of knowing simple desires; how it would’ve felt to wake up next to you, to fall in love easily, without having to bury those feelings under layers of rock and stone in fear of being hurt, to be born human so we may grow old together - as lovers do. These are the things I’m sorry for: the things we may never have, but never what we got. 

vi) Never apologize for that.
Be happy because we did the best we could in our hell-ridden world. If you ever miss me, look to the sky. Wait for a cloud-less night and look to the sky and remember what we had: an almost, a half-made wish upon a shooting star, a love story half-written. You taught me so much; opened my mind to the insignificant importance of the human race, and the tiny grains of sand that would become my everything. 

vii) Know that your bones will one day be returned to the earth that gave you life, and when the time comes for the earth to shatter into gas and dust, when your soul is scattered into the incandescent galaxies around you, we may meet again. 

There are a great many number more things I still wish to share with you:
- How to grow an orchid of flowers from nothing but a petal;
- how the life or death of a fish can set the path of history;
- the 100,000 ways humans say I love you, and the billion more I’ve come up with myself, just for you. One day, in another lifetime, perchance, or another universe, I will be able to tell them to you. 

This is how I say goodbye. 

Until then, farewell.
Castiel

destieldrabblesdaily:

Anonymous asked: Prompt: AU in which one of them is a celebrity and the other wins a date with him like one of those ‘spend the day with your fave celebrity’ charities or auctions or something, and some friend/family member won the date for Cas/Dean (could go either way) as a present!

Author’s note: I’m such a sucker for this, don’t mind me. :’) 

Castiel was ready to pass out when he opened the door to his apartment. Almost midnight; as much as he enjoyed being a teacher, the parent-teacher nights that came with it were downright exhausting. A little terrifying even, considering that Becky Rosen’s mother, who was a single parent, had been hitting on him for twenty minutes straight. Castiel shuddered at the memory.

“Ah, there he is! You survived all the hungry singles, huh? Good on you!”

Watching TV on the couch was Castiel’s roommate Charlie, who was apparently still awake, shooting him a smirk as she shoveled more popcorn into her mouth.

“Barely.” Castiel huffed as he shrugged out of his coat and put down his briefcase.

Charlie passed him the bowl of popcorn the second he fell down next to her on the couch, and Castiel grabbed a handful, more out of habit than anything else.

“So, what is it we’re watching?” Castiel asked, glancing at the screen.

“Zombies, dude! No one lives!” She cheerfully informed him.

Castiel shrugged as he chewed his popcorn, never particularly picky.

When a commercial break happened ten minutes later, he was tempted to go to bed and call it a night. He was about to get up and do just that, when Charlie made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a screech, repeatedly smacking Castiel’s arm while doing so.

“Oh my god!” She exclaimed, pointing at the television.

Castiel’s heart skipped a couple of beats when he saw what she meant.

Green letters flashed across the screen, along with a picture of a familiar face. A face that Castiel knew quite well, because that right there was his favorite actor. Moss green eyes, freckles, and a confident smirk tugging at kissable lips.

‘Donate $10.00 and win a date with Dean Winchester!’

Keep reading

apocalypse-patisserie:

apocalypse-patisserie:

cliffnotesofanerd:

so are they EVER going to stop pretending Cas is spelt Cass or

Three weeks after Castiel moves into the bunker, Sam finally starts to look less frazzled. He’s sipping his morning coffee with his feet kicked up at the great table and casually scrolling through the news of the weird on his iPad when Dean wanders out of his room for breakfast. He only gives it a moment’s pause, while tying his robe closed, before he heads to the kitchen. He’s always happy to see when Sam actually looks relaxed in their home.

Cas is already sitting on the bench seat in the kitchen, he’s picking at a bowl of cereal with his spoon and looking slightly… pissed maybe? A little angry and a little sad.

True, it’s not his usual fare. It’s not banana bread, or eggs on toasted sourdough with tomatoes, or big fat muffins with coffee. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen Cas take breakfast so lightly.

“Can’t have it all, I guess,” Dean mutters.

Cas looks up. “What?”

“Well, I’ve either got a happy you or a happy Sam, lately. I can’t seem to get both at the same time.”

“Oh, yes,” Cas gripes uncharitably, “I’m sure Sam’s very happy with himself right now.”

Huh. That’s not like Cas.

Dean rubs the sleep from his eyes and moves into family counselling mode. As soon as he’s poured himself some caffeine and maybe started throwing together something to eat he can–

He opens the fridge to a flurry of color.

It’s packed, as always. They’re three big guys, they go through a lot of food.

But now there’s little post-its fluttering on almost every bag and container and bottle in the refrigerator.

They are neon orange and some of them bright blue, like Sam ran out of the first color half-way through labelling everything. It was definitely Sam who did it, that’s his scrawl across each of the post-its. Different items with SAM and DEAN and CASS stuck to the front.

There are more for Dean than anyone else. He does the shopping, after all, and is sort of self-appointed King of the Kitchen.

There are plenty for Sam and a lot of the post-its with his name are stuck to the frou-frou-tofu crap and light beers that only he would want in the first place.

The fewest are labelled for Castiel.

Dean starts yanking the ones with his name off. “Cas, you can eat any of my stuff you want. Don’t listen to him.”

Cas doesn’t comment. Dean glances over his shoulder to see that Cas is still poking at the frosted biscuits in his bowl.

The mood lightens over breakfast as Dean shares some of his waffles with Cas, but Cas gives Sam a bit of the cold-shoulder for the rest of the day.

Dean pulls his brother aside at one point and tells him that if he’s gotta pull this stupid shit, he should just put post-its on the things of his that he doesn’t want Cas or Dean to touch. Sam shrugs, agrees.

And then, a few days later, another flurry of color as Dean walks into the bathroom.

The bunker has this huge room with showers and sinks, in the style of a gym or something, so they share the space between them.

It seems Sam has been through already this morning. Unfortunately, the humidity from the showers has left most the post-its floating around, face-down on the floor, so the different shave gels and shampoos and hair products and– fuck’s sake, there’s even post-its on the different stacks of towels!

Most of the items are still anonymous since the labels didn’t stick.

Dean’s standing there rolling his eyes for a moment and adding “ban Sam from going to Office Depot” to his mental to-do list when Cas comes up behind him, curious.

He scoots by Dean and picks up a few of the papers – the last of the blue and some new bright green ones – from the floor.

His shoulders slump when he turns them over to reveal three that say DEAN and one that says SAM and one that says CASS.

“This is ridiculous,” Cas says, with real spite.

“Yeah. He’s going a little overboard with it,” he scoots close and admits in a low voice, “I think he noticed I was stealing his shampoo but it just smells really good.”

Cas sighs.

The final straw seems to come at the end of the week. Dean and Cas come home from the grocery store to find the library littered with green and pink and yellow and purple post-its.

Cas and Sam get into it immediately. It’s kind of disturbing. Cas and Sam are basically the best geek friends that the world’s ever known. They agree on a lot, if not most things, and it’s disquieting to see them chewing each other out over something they love so much.

Cas points at an area of purple post-its. “First of all, Bobby found most of these, and I found all the ones over here! You can’t possibly divide the books between us, Sam! We all need to do research!”

“There are ones I need to reference all the time and you’re always bogarting them in your friggin’ bedroom! I search high and low for ‘em and I can never find them when I need them! And then him!” Sam points at Dean, “getting potato chip grease stains inside the Bergell Charm Directory and stuffing his stupid Hunger Games books into the spell tomes like we don’t know he’s reading them!”

“Hey!” Dean shouts, defensive.

“If you need a book you can ask me where it is, Sam!” Cas yells back.

“I shouldn’t have to ask! It’s–”

They’re very silent for a sudden moment.

Cas glares daggers. “Were you gonna say it’s your library? Is that what you’re getting at Sam Winchester?” he hisses.

Woah. Okay. This is getting scary. Dean steps between them. “No, that’s not what he said. This is DEFINITELY everyone’s library and we ALL have to use it. Both of you just calm down.”

“I’ll calm down when we can find where somebody left the Eymerich Grimorie,” Sam glares through Dean like he wants to open Cas up and see if the book rattles out of him.

“I’ll calm down when Sam learns to respect the people he lives with and stops accusing me of taking his useless crap,” Cas snaps.

Sam’s spine clicks him up to his full height all of a sudden. “If it’s all so useless why do you keep taking it?!”

“Dean was the one who used up your sprouts in a sandwich! He just doesn’t want to admit to knowing what sprouts are!” Cas shouts.

“How did you know that?” Dean’s drowned out by the yelling.

“And I’m not the one who labels a pile of wet towels under some random name because they can’t be bothered to do the laundry until it smells moldy!”

“Random name?” Sam and Dean both echo.

“MY NAME IS CAS!” Cas yells in their faces. He turns and flips a book closed to reveal the last of the stack of purple post-its. “Here, I’ll spell it for you:” and he writes on the post-it in black marker, C-A-S.

He rips it off the stack, turns, and slaps it on Dean’s forehead.

“Sea-aye-ess,” Cas spells out, pointing to each letter as if Sam needs specific instruction. “One S. ONLY ONE S. I have no earthly idea where you’re getting that extra S from since there’s only a single S in C a s t i e l ,” he says, slow but loud, like he’s talking to someone who refuses to fucking learn.

“I don’t know any ‘Cass,’ he certainly doesn’t live here or I’m sure I’d have FUCKING MET HIM,” Cas snaps, throws the marker at the table so hard it skids off the other side, and marches away.

Dean crosses his eyes to look up at the post-it stuck above his nose.

Sam continues to look petulant but he knows he got his shit called out on the moldy towel situation. “Fine,” he shrugs stiffly. “One S,” he rolls his eyes like, wow, what’s the big deal.

Dean plucks the post-it off his face. “Hey, there really is only one S in Castiel, I mean, it makes sense.” He stares off in the direction Cas stomped off. “I’m actually pretty proud of him for, like, asserting his identity.”

Sam ticks a frown that would be agreement and admiration if he weren’t still being pissy.

He turns to leave the room, maybe go apologize.
But first he turns back.

“Cas labelled you for himself,” he says to Dean. And smirks. And leaves.

Dean turns around the post-it on his thumb. “Huh.”

the original posting if anyone was interested in that (also ao3)

sunbeamdean:

so soon dean will come home after a long-haul drive, feet sore and shoulders tense, and just slide in next to cas on the couch, and cas will just smile tiredly at him and hold up the blanket so dean can burrow in next to him, and he won’t even say anything when dean nods off and falls asleep with his head on cas’ shoulder as the next episode of house of cards starts

destieldrabblesdaily:

Loosely based on this text post: ❀ 

“Wait!” Dean blurted out as two of Castiel’s fingers came to rest against his bruised forehead.

The angel was about to heal a nasty cut on Dean’s temple, as well as the black eye that was the result of a hunt gone not all that smoothly.

Castiel frowned, confused, but dropped his hand, cautiously observing Dean. They were both sitting on the edge of Dean’s bed, Dean looking rather tired even though his eyes were still alive and curious.

“Is something wrong?” Castiel asked, unsure of what was going on inside of Dean’s head ever since he’d vowed to not read Dean’s thoughts unless absolutely necessary.

“Not wrong… It’s just that I know for a fact that you don’t have to do that. Touch me, I mean.” Dean accused, green eyes intently staring at Castiel. “I saw it, with Gadreel. Angels don’t have to touch to heal, do they?”

Dean Winchester had always been perceptive, and so Castiel knew that denying was out of the question.

“We all have our methods, Dean.” He replied evasively.

“Oh… So that means you can heal whatever way you like, huh?”

Dean’s question was a mere mumble, yet that mumble seemed ridiculously loud in the otherwise silent bunker.

“I suppose so.” Castiel admitted, defeated at the thought of Dean rejecting his touch. “If you don’t want me touching you in any way, there are less intimate ways in which I can heal you.”

At that suggestion, Dean appeared to be truly offended, plump lips pressed together in a disapproving line. Not much later, a warm hand was placed on Castiel’s thigh.

“In case you haven’t noticed, the last thing I need is less intimate, Cas.”

Before Castiel could look into that answer, Dean was already leaning closer and closer, until their lips were almost touching, their breaths mixing between them. Castiel forgot all about their conversation, about the purpose here -healing Dean-, and about everything else for that matter. He went in for that kiss that Dean clearly wanted as much as Castiel wanted it, and then their lips were moving together, hands cupping each other’s faces.

When they pulled back after a while, the first thing Castiel wanted to do was to apologize for getting distracted and abandoning the task at hand. Until he noticed, to his astonishment, that everything was gone; the deep cut on Dean’s temple, the bruises on his freckled forehead, the blood on his chin.

And then there was Dean, good as new, grinning widely at him. 

“Nice work, Cas. And hey, for future reference… I personally prefer this method.”

castielskeytotheimpala:

A blue eyed boy cuts Dean in line during lunch. “Castiel Novak,” Dean growls.

A blue eyed boy gets a better grade than Dean on a calculus test Dean had spent all night studying for. “Castiel Novak,” Dean curses.

Meg Masters, a blue eyed boy’s best friend, smirks at Dean in the hallways and tells him that his boy toy is waiting for him. “Castiel Novak,” Dean hisses.

An empty coffee cup thrown carelessly on the floor trips Dean but a familiar leather jacket clad arm belonging to a blue eyed boy catches him. “Castiel Novak,” Dean says.

Hushed sobs draw Dean behind the bleachers after a Friday night football game. A blue eyed boy with tears streaming down his face holds onto Dean for dear life. “Castiel Novak,” Dean shushes.

Alastair Carter, Lawrence High’s resident homophobe shoves a blue eyed boy into a locker between classes. Dean punches Alastair in the face. The blue eyed boy can’t stop thanking him. “Castiel Novak,” Dean comforts.

Bright light flashes and the arm around Dean’s waist presses tighter to his skin through his tuxedo jacket. Prom goers rush by them, all headed to meet up with their friends. A blue eyed boy presses a chaste kiss to Dean’s forehead. “Castiel Novak,” Dean sighs.

A golden ring glints inside a black, silk lined box. A blue eyed beauty kneels in front of Dean with hope in his eyes. “Castiel Novak,” Dean whispers.

A blue eyed beauty holds Dean close as they share their love on their wedding night. Never has Dean been so enamored by anyone. “Castiel Winchester,” Dean breathes.

boykingdom:

And in the silence afterwards, not even the sound of their breathing exists.

Cas didn’t mean to say it, Dean can tell—or at the very least, he didn’t mean for it to come out as abruptly as that. He can tell by the way Cas’ eyes have gone all wide with fear and shock, and by the way his hands shake when he slowly works them free from the lapels of Dean’s coat, holding them in front of his body like he has no idea what to do with them. He steps back, but only a little.

Although Dean is no longer being pressed up against the motel door by the curled fists of a pissed-off angel, he doesn’t relax his stance in the slightest. He keeps himself flat against it, stiff as a board.

This is the part he doesn’t understand.

Fighting he can understand. He knows fighting. He’s good at fighting. He’s never enjoyed it when it was with Cas—if anything, it’s always left him with a hallow and vaguely sick feeling in his stomach, accompanied by another feeling in his chest he cares not to examine. But he still knows it. He knows what words to say to make the deepest cut, knows how to ask all the wrong questions, knows how to speak with his teeth bared and with a growl lodged in his throat.

But this is the part that overwhelms him. This is the part he doesn’t even let himself think about. Cas is just staring him with his mouth parted open and looking like he’s about to take off the moment he can get his senses back, and Dean shouldn’t feel like prey who’s been cornered, but he does.

It’s so much. It’s too much. Dean doesn’t even know if he could possibly hear anything besides the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears, a constant drum against his temples as his vision turns to red. He squeezes his eyes shut tight and does the same to his mouth, having not even realized it was open.

Dean Winchester doesn’t get this. This doesn’t happen. Those words were never meant to be said to him, and they definitely were never meant to be said by Castiel. It’s blasphemy. The moment between them seems to stretch on endlessly.

Unable to gain complete control of his body and with so much emotion rising that Dean couldn’t stop it from escaping him even if he dared to try, he does the most girly, stupidest, most embarrassing shit he’s ever done: he fucking cries.

Keep reading

mishacoliins:

“And…cut!”

It’s the last take while they rearrange the set a bit, and Jensen looks around until he spies Misha, in full Castiel costume, leaning against a fake wall at the edge of the set until he’s needed for the next Dean and Cas scene.

Jensen doesn’t hesitate as he walks over to where Misha is scrolling through his phone, gummy grin in place. Needless to say, Jensen is intrigued.

He wonders what new meme Misha has discovered on the Internet. Twitter? Facebook? An email from his mother? Jensen never knows where Misha finds half the things he does, but if it’s funny enough to have Misha in a fit of silent giggles then he wants in.

“What you looking at over there, big boy?” Jensen teases as he joins Misha. Misha looks up, gives him a quick once over, and laughs. Body doubled over kind of laughter. Okay, this has to be good.

“You–“ Misha wheezes out between laughs, “You–”

Jesus, he can’t even get more than a word out.

“Let me see then,” Jensen says, reaching for Misha’s phone, but Misha shakes his head and holds up a finger in a ‘give-me-a-moment’ gesture.

Jensen raises an eyebrow, but he’s already smiling. Misha’s laughter is infectious.

Misha wipes a tear from his face and he looks like he wants to speak but his mouth is just doing that thing where it alternates between forming words and smiling like an idiot.

“Just show me,” Jensen says, reaching for Misha’s phone and this time Misha gives it to him easily.

He looks at the screen and sees them.

No.

Fuck.

Not this shit again.

“Where the hell did you find this?” Jensen half shrieks, and he’s sure a few of the crew look over.

Misha just bursts into laughter again, “The–those fans of yours are wonderful at digging shit up.”

“Who else has seen this?” Jensen can feel the tips of his ears burning up, and he tugs at Misha’s shirt, pulling him around the corner of the set wall. Jensen vaguely registers how easily Misha lets himself be manhandled, bur right now he really doesn’t need to draw more attention to this than necessary.

“No one, just all of Tumblr it would seem. And Twitter. The fans thought I needed to see this.”

Jensen groans, rubs a hand over his face like this will make the embarrassment go away. As if the brick pants wasn’t enough.

“Has Danneel seen these?”

“Please, just delete them,” Jensen says, hoping to avoid the question. Of course Danneel has seen them, she heckled him over them already. He really doesn’t need to go through this again.

“And deprive everyone of the glory that is this one?” Misha says, turning his phone so Jensen can see where he has zoomed in on the picture where a much, much younger version of Jensen is wearing a complete Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles get-up.

“Fuck you,” Jensen says, but there’s no bite in his remark and Misha just laughs, focusing his attention back to his phone and pinching the screen to zoom in.

“And you say I have personal space issues,” Misha chuckles to himself.

Jensen rolls his eyes, as if they need more character bleed. But it’s the perfect opening to get Misha back. And okay, Jensen knows that half the time his pranks border more on the line of shameless flirting –Jared has pointed it out enough times, thanks– but its the easiest way to get Misha to crack.

And right now he needs Misha to crack. Jensen steps closer, pulling himself up to his full height, and Misha steps back, back pressed to the set wall. Misha looks up, huffs out a laugh when he catches on to how Jensen now has his arm on the wall behind him, imitating the way he was standing in that ridiculous Ninja Turtle picture.

“We’ve talked about this, personal space?” Misha says, voice a rough whisper, and Jensen forgets why he decided this would be a good idea. He watches as Misha’s tongue pokes out to wet his lips, and when he looks up expecting to see blue he’s met with almost all black, blue reduced to a thin ring with how dilated Misha’s pupils are.

Fuck.

“My apologies,” Jensen replies, ready to step back but then Misha has a hand on his jacket and is pulling him close and he more or less feels rather than hears Misha’s next words.

“No one has to know.”

When Misha’s lips meet his, Jensen isn’t sure if he’s talking about the pictures or the kiss.

( ˘ ³˘)♥

submitted by yourfavoritedirector

deancasheadcanons:

florist!cas sort of based on this headcanon

Castiel forgot his umbrella. His phone battery is at 12 percent, and he’s been driving around looking for Mrs. Peters’ house for the past 20 minutes. His boss is going to kill him for getting back to the shop half an hour later than he was supposed to, and then he’s going to finish his shift soaking wet with a fake smile plastered on his face so that little old ladies will buy tulips from him.

Side note: he fucking hates flowers.

He hates his job at the flower shop, and he especially hates when people refer to him as a goddamn florist. 

“Here you are, Mrs. Peters,” he greets when he finally finds her house. He holds the bouquet of roses out to her, but she doesn’t take them immediately.

Instead, she begins to cry. “Every year. He bought flowers for me every year.” She takes the bouquet. “He’s been gone five years, and I still get the flowers…”

Well, now Cas feels like a dick. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Peters. Your husband must’ve loved you very much.”

She cries harder and drops the flowers on the floor in order to wrap Cas in a bone-crushing hug. 

He hates his job.

The second he steps inside the shop, his boss shoves a slip of paper at him and says, “One more delivery. Then you’re done.”

Castiel snatches the cheap bouquet and stomps back out into the rain with several long-suffering sighs. He plugs the address into Google maps and hopes that his phone’s 8 percent can get him there. On a whim, he checks out the note on the bouquet.

It says one word.

Jerk.

Keep reading

cuddlydeans:

“Hey.”

Dean knocks his foot against Cas’ under the table until he looks up at him. They’ve been up and researching for hours on end. Cas looks like shit. His hair is a mess, he’s got the worst case of 5 o’clock shadow anyone has ever seen, and he’s got some tomato sauce on his cheek from the pizza they ate.

The annoyed glare he gets in response makes his heart swell fondly. 

And Dean? He gets so caught up in staring at his best friend that Cas has to kick his leg gently to get his attention.

“Dean.” 

His eyes snap up from Castiel’s chest and he lets out a nervous breath, “Yeah?”

Cas rolls his eyes before rubbing a hand over his face, “You were saying something.”

Oh. Right.

Dean blushes and rubs the back of his neck, “I just… y’know.”

The blank look Cas gives him in response makes Dean roll his eyes and groan, “Today. The date. I - I saw the date. I just… you remember?” 

Castiel squints at him, “Do I… remember the date?”

There’s a few moments of silence before Cas sighs, “Dean, we’ve been up for close to 30 hours now. I have no idea what day it is.” 

He tries to pretend that doesn’t hurt a little bit when he answers, “It’s the 18th. September 18th.” 

Castiel blinks for a moment before his brain catches up and then his face softens. He looks down at the table with a small smile, “Yes, I… remember.” 

Dean grins like a doof despite himself and has to look down at the book in front of him to hide it, “Cool.” 

“Yes…” Cas huffs a laugh, shaking his head fondly, “I suppose it is.” 

“I mean…” He bites his lip nervously, not looking up, “I don’t know. Pretty good day for me.” Dean pauses for a moment to consider, “Well - aside from the whole ‘digging myself out of my grave’ thing, anyway.” 

“For the last time,” Castiel groans and can’t help but laugh a little, “I’m sorry. I was tired. My aim was… off.” 

Dean snorts and when he looks up their eyes meet across the table, both of them grinning.

It takes them a solid minute to snap out of it and Dean’s the one who breaks first, looking away to hide how much he’s blushing.

“I’m -” He says after a few beats, clearing his throat, “I’m. Glad.”

Castiel arches an eyebrow at him, smirking, “That my aim was off?” 

Dean rolls his eyes and half-heartedly tosses a pen at Cas’ chest, “No, you dick.” He lets his head roll back to look up at the ceiling, not sure why it’s so hard to actually say this.

“I’m glad that… that I met you.” 

He looks back at Cas after a moment, his heart hammering in his chest, “And not just because you saved my sorry ass.” 

It’s not sweet or romantic or any of the things that he wishes it could be but Cas smiles all the same, as if he gets everything behind it. It’s a gentle and pleased smile, the kind of smile you hope for when you tell someone that you love them.

“Me too,” Cas murmurs after a moment, still smiling. “And not just because you saved me as well.” 

puppycastiel:

Claire outwardly complaining about Dean and Cas, how totally sappy and gross they are, but inwardly she sort of loves it because they’re really a family now.

Claire taking selfies where Dean and Cas are in the background, usually doing a ton of staring and making heart eyes at each other. They don’t notice her taking these but Sam sees and joins in occasionally. There’s one where they’re making vomit faces while Dean has Cas crowded against the kitchen counter. There are pancakes burning beside them and when Claire posts it on Instagram, she puts, ‘Dads burned breakfast again! We ate cereal for the fifth time this week.’

Claire getting really sad when Dean and Cas argue because the bunker gets so quiet that it’s actually unnerving. Sam tries taking her out for mini golf, except it doesn’t help since that’s her and Dean’s thing. When Dean and Cas realize how she’s feeling, they apologize profusely and pull her in for a hug. (Sam goes for it too because, well, it’s a hug. They’re all making up for lost time.) Dean and Cas take a cue from the incident to not have Claire hear any future arguments. They resolve it right away or go for a drive so they can talk, while Sam and Claire find an activity that’s their thing, which turns out to be: going to craft fairs.

Claire being pretty skeptical at first because… a craft fair sounds kind of boring. But she quickly falls in love with browsing for trinkets and later decides to make crafts herself. She has a knack for jewelry and accessories, makes Cas a pair of bee-shaped cuff links. She also gives Sam a moose-shaped charm for his key ring and Dean a little put-put golf club that he hangs on Baby’s mirror.

Claire having a family to hug, to wish her sweet dreams, before she heads off to bed every night. One wall of her room is covered in selfies she printed out, and there’s a proper family photo on her bedside table, framed and all. She says hi to Mom and Dad up in Heaven and tells them about her day, how they might be adopting a dog (Dean’s nearly persuaded). She says “I love you, I miss you” like always and snuggles with Grumpy Cat under the covers. She drifts off to sleep with a smile on her lips, warm and loved by two hunters and an angel. She has peaceful dreams, knowing that Cas, Dean, and Sam are just a few doors down, protecting her, looking out for her, and giving her a second chance at family.

rjalker:

optimisam:

sam-winchester-admiration-league:

bbcbecausebenedictcumberbatch:

Why is Sam doing research so hot?

somebody needs to research why Sam doing research is so hot.

I move that Sam should research why Sam doing research is so hot.

Sam honestly had no clue why the fans of those damned “Supernatural” books found him so…hot.

Out of sheer boredom, he’d Googled his name, completely forgetting for a moment that he was famous.

He stared down at the laptop, his brow furrowed and his mouth forming a frown. What?

Apparently people found watching him doing research ‘hot’. His brow rose of its own accord. That was…strange, to say the least.

Conceding that he probably didn’t have anything better to do, he opened a new tab, and typed into the url bar, “Why is Sam Winchester doing research hot?”

For a few minutes, he just sat there, eyes scanning through the /multitude/ of discussions on the topic. Apparently, his fans weren’t sure, either.

When he got to a part where his fans voted that /he/ be the one to reasearch why him reasearching was so ‘hot’, his mouth twisted itself into a twitching smile of irony, and his hands reached forward to slowly shut the laptop.

He stood up from the table, and moved over to the bookshelf.

It was probably safer to read a book than to delve too deeply into his fanbase.

…Though, he had to admit…

He was flattered–and surprised–to see that so many of them were willing to stand up for him.

Not that he beleived any of the wonderful things they said about him….

…But still. He could pretend.

cxtstiel:

“What do you know about the darkness, Cas?” were the first words that Castiel had heard from Dean since he had watched his own weapon slam into the book, inches from his head.

Castiel didn’t reply immediately, taking a moment to let himself revel in the sound of Dean’s voice, subtly different than when he was under the influence of the Mark. Cas didn’t have to ask if the spell had worked, as it was evident, despite the distance, and the fact that they were only communicating through phone calls. After giving himself a moment to be thankful, his mind caught up to the question that was asked of him, and he flatly responded, “Excuse me?”

Cas could hear Dean sigh and he could practically see the look that the Winchesters shared.

“The Darkness, Cas. As in, pre-biblical shit storm that you and Sammy released? Got any info on it?” Dean asked, irritation and exasperation evident in his tone.

“Are you seriously asking me about the darkness right now, Dean?” Cas asked, allowing some of the shock he was feeling to bleed into his words.

“This is important, Cas, we need -” Sam had started to say distantly, alerting Cas to the fact that he was on speaker phone. Cas cut Sam off with a low growl.

“I don’t care what you need, Sam. You forced me to complete the spell with Rowena, which left me vulnerable enough that I was able to be affected by one of her spells. I told you I wasn’t comfortable with doing this, and you manipulated me by using my feelings for Dean.” Castiel said in a hurry, realizing how long he had pent up his anger.

“Hey, man, I’m sor -” Dean said gruffly, directly into the phone.

“And you, Dean. I can’t believe you have the audacity to call me and ask me for information. The last time I saw you, you tried to kill me. Just because I am no longer human, does not mean I am exempt from being treated with respect. I have always done what I thought was best for you two, and I have gotten nothing in return. I once thought I had received your friendship, but I can see clearly now that that is not the case. I am nothing more than a tool to you, for you both to use when you need assistance and to abandon when I am ‘broken’. As you have already said, the darkness is pre-biblical, meaning it was before my time. I have no useful information for you. I guess that means I am not needed anymore.” Castiel took a deep breath before whispering, “I had to watch the man I have given everything for try to kill me and then walk away without ever apologizing.”

There was a long beat of silence and Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, beginning to feel the effects of the spell creep in.

“Cas… I- we… I’m sorry.” Dean said. “We just need as much information as we can get in order to -” He began, speaking quickly, trying to get as much out before Castiel inevitably cut him off again.

“Dean, don’t.” Cas finally said, before ending the call and placing the phone on the table. Cas quickly removed the battery from the phone and crushed it between his hands before turning and walking out of the motel room.

The last thing Castiel remembers before the spell takes him over completely is wishing that he would never see the Winchester’s again.

lovefromdean:

in honor of our recent murdering cockles boys

for deanandhiscas

Jensen stood behind the glass windows, watching over the helm as Misha and his son dashed back and forth to either side of the boat. West’s eyes were bright, fingers pointing as he excitedly jabbered away. Misha wasn’t much different, equally egging his son on and explaining where they’d be going for the day. 

Jensen smiled and tapped his fingers on the wheel, waiting for their wives and other kids to come back. There was talk about fishing later, something Jensen always enjoyed. He was looking forward to showing it to JJ. She’d taken a liking to fish lately, but he was uncertain if she’d enjoy fish on hooks. 

He shook the thought away as Misha returned, West’s arms flailing as he ran over to the other side to wave at the ladies and his brother, now returning from the parking lot with the fishing lines and bait boxes. 

“Ready, captain?” Misha asked, patting Jensen’s shoulder as they switched places, Misha taking over at the helm and Jensen moving to check the navigator. 

“Pretty sure you’re the captain today, Mish,” Jensen laughed. He clicked on the machine in front of him, watching as it whirred to life and showed how deep they were by the docks.

“Guess that makes you my deck swab?” 

Jensen glanced over and spotted Misha’s smirking face. Jensen rolled his eyes and chuckled.

“You trying to say something?”

Misha raised an eyebrow, the infamous one that everybody talked about. Danneel liked to refer to it as his ‘dom brow.’ She only said it to make Jensen blush, the thought alone being enough to brighten his cheeks now.

“Of course not,” Misha grinned. He leaned into Jensen’s personal space, reaching over a hand to point at something on the navigator. “But maybe we’ll have some time for a swab after…”

They heard the sound of laughter to their right and looked up in time to see Vicki lowering Misha’s cell phone, a knowing smirk on her lips, only matched by one on Danneel’s. 

Jensen flushed scarlet, grateful that it was at least warm enough outside to blame it on the heat. 

He shouldn’t have been embarrassed. Their entire family had an open… relationship. It was nothing any of them were shy to, but maybe Jensen was just naturally bashful. 

He felt Misha smile against his cheek before he pointed at the machine again. “See that, deck swab? We got fish down there.”

Jensen laughed nervously and nodded, still uncertain about his new nickname. A thought occurred to him and he grinned, turning his head till his lips were by Misha’s ear.

“You know, I’d rather be your cabin boy.”

He didn’t miss the darkness that touched Misha’s cheeks. Misha sucked in a breath, audible, and the dom brow made a second appearance as he grinned slowly. 

“Well then, cabin boy, get ready to set the course.”

wordsinhaled:

i’m thinking about sam, a few months before he meets jess, running into dean at a bar near campus. sam’s there with some friends and he would know that swagger and that jacket anywhere, even across a crowded dimly lit room. and maybe they see each other, and sam makes their little coded hand signal for ‘meet you outside in 5’ (because you know, all the winchester codes, they gotta have one for that). and outside, he’s all, “what are you doing here, dean? you keepin’ tabs on me?”

dean tells him there was a case a few states over so he thought he’d drop by the area, see if he couldn’t hustle a couple college kids at pool. that’s a load of crap of course, they both can tell.

maybe sam tries to pry out what dean is really doing there but ends up talking to him instead–“things are going well for me, dean.”

“that’s good, sammy. that’s really good. i’m glad.” but dean’s grin doesn’t reach the rest of his face.

there are tears pricking at the corners of sam’s eyes because dean’s so damn familiar and welcome, and sam’s friends are inside talking and laughing, and all sam wants is to grab hold of dean and hang on for dear life so dean doesn’t go away again, doesn’t go driving out of town and get eaten up by miles of highway or by the monsters he’s sure to find beyond the horizon, whichever gets dean first.

he wants dean to see that too, to have a chance at this regular, safe life sam has carved out for himself; he wants dean to share that with him.

unbeknownst to one another they’re both aching in that alleyway outside the bar, staring as if they’re trying to drink each other in.

“sammy,” dean says, and sam says, “dean,” and maybe those are the only important words, right? maybe those are all the words they need.

“i fuckin’ missed you,” dean says, and his voice is rough like sam’s never known it to be.

“yeah,” sam says. “yeah.”

then they’re hugging, hard, sam bending so he can fold himself into dean’s arms and crush his face into dean’s neck; dean’s hands stroking up and down sam’s back–sam can feel them through his shirt like brands. they hold on for too long probably, longer than they both should, and when they pull back from each other dean’s eyes are shiny but sam doesn’t say anything about it.

“all the motels around here were full up,” dean says; rubs at the back of his neck, the only little tell that he’s nervous, maybe terrified. sam shuffles closer and dean’s hand drops back to his side. “tell you the truth, i didn’t really think this one out.”

“you can crash at my place,” sam says readily. “my housemates won’t mind.”