The Year Is 2025. My Brave Mutuals And I Have Finally Captured The Supernatural Convention Cruise Ship.

the year is 2025. my brave mutuals and i have finally captured the supernatural convention cruise ship. "where are the tapes?" i demand, poking jenson ankles into his back with a rubber angel blade. he jumps forward on the wooden plank. the crowd yells: "yeah, the tapes!" "give us the tapes, actor man!"

"just tell them, jensen," misha sobs dramatically. "this is the first time I've heard about those tapes. i'm gutted!" someone shouts from the back.

"if you don't talk... i'm gonna have to omit you. any last words?" the rubber blade wobbles angrily behind jensen's back. "what tapes," jensen asks texanically and tries to find his balance on one of his bowed legs on the narrow end of the plank. misha weeps wetly.

"you have chosen your fate then, actor man." with a final poke, the rubber angel blade snaps in two and jensen jumps into the pool-turned-ballpit like a spooked foal.

"nooo," misha howls, "the secret despair videos are on his phone!"

jensen pokes his head out of the ballpit and holds up his phone. "you mean these? you should have just said so," he spits out two or three balls before he presses play.

the screen is covered by a thumb. distantly, some crying followed by some wet smacking and slurping sounds can be heard. silence.

"this was exciting to watch, but bummed that sam winchester had no involvement whatsoever." someone comments, disappointed.

Art masterpost for the @deancashorrorfest for @fullvoidao3​′s awesome story Build-A-Boyfriend Workshop. You can read it here <3

fav s16 scenes <3

reblog for larger sample size :)

shake them from my troublesome mind

We should get a house, he thinks. Open floor plan. 

No doors. One bedroom. 

He grimaces, letting his forehead rest against the wooden door leading to Cas’ room. He’s not sure where that last part came from, but he’s also not particularly sober, and he’s pretty sure the pain meds he still takes for the rebar wound which would’ve finished him if the paramedics hadn’t arrived when they did are making him a little goofy. Sure would explain why he’s hovering outside his friend’s bedroom door at four in the morning, running on no sleep and an ungodly cocktail of shit in his system. 

The concrete floor is cold under his bare feet. The hallway is pitch black and unwelcoming, and he presses an ear against the door, listening for a sign that Cas is still alive in there, anything. Silence pushes down on him, suffocates him like the cold does. He hates how used to it he is. 

“Cas?” he mutters, half out of his mind. 

No response. 

He turns the doorknob and peeks inside, barely able to make out the silhouette of a bed and the person occupying it. A weight falls from his chest, relief making him weak at the knees. What did you expect? the voice in his head taunts. In the room completely void of personal touches he lies curled up on one side, but there’s a slight movement, a chest rising and falling under the duvet and additional blankets. Thank fuck for that. 

Castiel sleeps like the dead, and Dean should feel bad for perving on his friend like this, but he’s owed this. For all the times Castiel watched him sleep, and for leaving Dean like he did. Dean’s paranoia this time around is justified, and if someone asks he’ll say he does it to check that the guy hasn’t gone behind his back and made another deal that ends with Castiel dead and Dean alone again.

Tired and aching he goes to sit down on the foot end of the bed. His feet and hands have begun to go numb from the cold, and he feels underdressed in his PJs and a long sleeved shirt, but that’s fine – everything’ll be fine as long as Cas’s alive and breathing and under the same roof as Dean. Dean wonders again if Cas would even want to come with him if he decided to move out. Sure, Cas dropped the L-word, but he’d always been willing to die for Dean and Dean's always returned the sentiment. Willing to live for him? With him? That’s a whole nother question. Dean loves Cas, but the question isn’t how he feels, it’s what they’re going to do. What they’ll be, what this makes them. There are many ways you can love a person, and even more ways to let them down, and Dean hasn’t loved a person he hasn’t also let down. 

It’s stupid. It’s a pipe dream. But he feels like if he just gets it right this time around, if he’s good enough and plays his cards right then he’ll never have to lose anyone ever again and hey, maybe they can even have some peace while they’re at it. He has loved Cas for a long time, and sometimes it’s almost been like that, like they’re some kind of almost-thing. 

Castiel sighs in his sleep, and Dean feels a corner of his mouth tick up into a smile. Exasperated, even when he’s comatosed; that’s his angel. What does it matter that he can’t feel his feet when the core of him is warm and whole again, something he was so sure would never happen again. He’s still healing, from the physical injury and the grief, but there’s hope added to the mix now. He didn’t have that before. 

He’s not sure how much time has passed by the time Castiel wakes up, dazed and somehow not surprised. 

“Dean. What are you doing here?” he asks, voice grovel-rough as he sits up and rubs his face. 

“Just checkin’ on you,” Dean replies, trying to keep his teeth from shattering. 

“You’re freezing,” Castiel notes with a frown, then glances at the watch on the nightstand. “Why didn’t you wake me?” 

“You need your sleep.”

“So do you,” Castiel says. Dean smiles in the near-complete darkness, helpless to the crashing waves of fondness for the man on the other side of the bed. I love you, you know. He loves him so much it leaves no room for oxygen in his lungs, he suffocates on the affection and longing and want. Shit, this is what they’re all singing about, Plant and Hetfield and Van Zant, isn’t it?

“You’re freezing,” Castiel repeats. Like he’s pleading with Dean, begging him to stop being an idiot. “Sleep or coffee?” 

“Coffee,” Dean decides, unsure of how much he sounded like he just agreed to a marriage proposal. 

— 

It’s difficult to leave Castiel alone, but in Dean’s defence, he really goddamn missed him. It doesn’t help that every monster in the midwest seems to be on permanent siesta and that there’s literally nothing else for him to do. No distractions, nothing to drown himself in except Castiel’s voice, and even Sam would agree that that’s healthier than drowning himself in his usual booze. 

“I know what you’re thinking, that I should give him more space,” Dean mutters to Sam as Castiel leaves the kitchen to retrieve his phone. Sam looks up from the tablet he’s been hunched over for the past hour, half-empty coffee mugs and empty plates scattered around him. Huh. 

“What? I didn’t think that,” he says distractedly. Dean feels his ears heat up and picks up the knife he was using and resumes chopping his onions. (He’d been fully prepared to abandon his food prep and walk with Cas to his room, and then he realized that yeah, he is insane.) 

“I’m not insane,” Dean argues, staring at the onion, daring it to make him cry. “I’m fine.” He’s not doing that anymore. 

“Totally,” Sam agrees vaguely. 

“Good talk,” Dean concludes, slicing through the onions with a little more force than necessary. How far away is Cas’ room? Fifteen steps? He should be back by now. 

He takes a deep breath. 

“Are you in love with Eileen?” he asks abruptly, and that seems to get Sam’s attention for real. 

“Uh. We – I mean. Yeah.” Sam scratches his neck, looking flustered. “Yeah, man.” 

“How do you –“ Dean starts, but cuts himself off before his mouth decides to finish that sentence. “Nevermind.”

This is going to be the world’s most finely chopped onion. 

“How do I know?” Sam asks stiltedly, then sighs. “Dean…” 

“Nuh-uh. That’s not where that was going. Shut up, Sam.” 

Castiel returns, phone in hand, and just the sight of him is enough to loosen the tightness in Dean’s chest. He shoots Sam a warning look, and Sam just shakes his head and returns to his tablet. 

“Wanna help me with those?” Dean asks Castiel and nods toward the potatoes that still need peeling. Castiel hums and steps up to the counter next to Dean, taking the peeler in one hand and a potato in the other. “Man, one day I’d like to live in a real house again. With a nice kitchen.” 

Castiel glances at him, looking a little surprised. 

“You want to move out?” 

“Not – not just me, I’ve just been thinking about… well, we’re not gonna stay here forever, are we?” 

Castiel frowns down at the half-peeled potato in his hand. 

“Oh. No, I suppose not.”

“What, you wanna stay here?” The place definitely has its pros, most of them relating to the heavy warding and the mouthwatering garage, but especially lately, Dean hasn’t been able to shake the feeling of being stuck down here. Plus, it really is too large for three people. Definitely too large for two, if Sam decides to settle down with Eileen further down the line. Too much space and too much history. Some mornings he looks at the shower walls and all he can see is his own grief in the tiles, and he has to remember that Castiel is back with him again, living and breathing and sleeping in a windowless cell which is less than he deserves but he’s back and – 

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” Castiel mutters finally and despite himself, Dean goes cold. 

“Hey, you’re coming with me,” Dean says, and the fumes seems to finally have hit his eyes because they go itchy and god fucking damn it. “Fuck.” He rubs his eyes. “Shit, fuck.”

“Are you okay?” Castiel asks, turning to him immediately.

“Fine, it's just the onion,” he sniffles, and walks over to get some hot water running in the sink, hoping the steam will dispel the itchy fumes. He’s uncomfortably aware of Sam’s presence in the room – he doesn’t need an audience for this, but he’s apparently also incapable of shutting up. “Cas, if I’m moving out, you’re, uh. You’re welcome to stay with me.” He peers at Castiel through watery eyes. Hope flickers across Castiel’s face. 

“Do you mean that?” 

“Yes, of course. Of course, man.”

“Some place with windows?” Dean smiles through his itchy, swollen eyes at the hopeful note in Castiel’s voice.

“Yeah. Some place with windows.”

— 

He doesn’t cling to Castiel, except he totally does. He can’t help it, can feel his body get up from the couch whenever Castiel does, mirroring his every move, and he’s not hovering, he’s just… possibly related, he’s not sleeping, either, spending most nights awake obsessing over the angel fifty feet away. Over their past. Their future. 

I love you echoes through his head in what has to be one of the worst moments of Dean’s life.

Castiel wanted him. Somehow, inexplicably, Castiel still seems to want Dean, at least in some capacity. And all Dean has to do is turn into a better version of himself, one that’s worthy of being loved. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realizes that it’s probably pretty archaic of him to act like he’ll only deserve Castiel if he can provide for him, give him a house and some stability, but shit, it’s not like Castiel doesn't deserve it. It’s certainly not what Dean deserves, but fuck if he doesn’t want it anyway. 

He lies awake at night and thinks about how two bedrooms are definitely one bedroom too many for them, and his skin itches to be touched, and he imagines being held by Castiel. The thought makes his heart flutter. Causes him to groan into his pillow.

– 

Sam has been looking at him differently lately. And Dean knows he’s being so blatantly obvious, such a sappy piece of shit who's at Castiel’s every beck and call and in the background there’s always Sam, all Judgey McJudgerson. Dean’s cleaning his gun in the library in a rare moment of being awake and alone, since Castiel decided to get takeout for dinner and Dean choked down the words “I’ll go with you” because there's being overbearing and anxious and then there's being completely off the rails. So instead his .45 is getting some rigorous polishing. The handgun should consider itself lucky he can't actually scrub through the metal.

“Where’s Cas?” Sam asks, appearing for once without an electronic device in his hands. If Dean’s glued to Cas, Sam’s sure as hell glued to that dumbass portable screen. Talk about codependency. 

“Getting food,” Dean says, kicking out the chair on the opposite side of the table for Sam in an invitation to sit down. 

“Yeah? So how are things between you two?” Sam asks, taking the invitation. 

“Good,” Dean responds. “Awesome.”

“You don’t think you’re being a little suffocating? Your words, not mine.”

“I didn’t use the word suffocating.” Arguing with Sam is instinctive, a rhythm he couldn't fall out of even if he tried. 

“Whatever. But you’re aware you’re being really… obsessive.” 

“Yeah, when am I not,” Dean mutters, peering into the empty chamber of his gun. “Sorry I care, I guess.”

Sam sighs. 

“Look… this isn’t my place, but Cas is my friend and you’re my brother, so… I just want to know what you think you’re doing, I guess. I mean, you’re talking about moving out together? If that's happening, I'd appreciate a heads-up, I'm just saying."

A flush creeps up his throat. 

“It’s just talk. You know I wouldn’t be able to get a mortgage.” 

“But you wanna move in with him. Keep living with him. As friends.” Dean finally looks up at his brother, giving him a tired look. 

“No, Sammy. Not as friends.”

Sam frowns. 

“What, you have feelings for him or something?”

Dean puts down the gun on the table in front of him and rakes one hand through his hair. It’s still short, the same way he always wears it, but lately he’s been thinking about letting it grow out. He’s been imagining another set of fingers tangling through his hair, and he’s aching for it. 

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?” 

Somehow, that was the last response Dean had expected. 

“What do you mean? Of course I’m sure.”

Sam puts up both hands in surrender, but he’s still not looking entirely convinced, and that’s just… that’s bullshit. 

“Okay, alright. It’s just… he’s an angel, you know?”

“Trust me, Sammy, I know.”

“And he’s… you know. A dude.” 

“Yep.”

“And so are you.”

“Wow. You should be in Mensa.”

“Come on, Dean. You know what I’m getting at.”

Dean really, really isn’t. 

“I’m not,” he grits out. “He’s everything to me. I don’t have a problem with that. You shouldn’t have a problem with that. I mean, you’re the reason I keep going, but so is he. I want you to be happy, Sammy. But I want Cas to be happy with me. Do you get what I’m saying?” 

“You want to move out with him so you two can… what, settle down?” 

“Yeah, maybe. No, actually, that’s exactly what I want.”

“Huh. Well. As long as... as long as you're happy, I guess."

– 

That night, after their horribly domestic routine of dinner, TV, a couple of beers, Castiel dozing off against Dean’s shoulder and Dean’s heart bleeding warmth into the space between his ribs, he imagines going back to his own room and every single fiber in his being flat-out refuses. And when Castiel wakes up, a little disoriented and distressed over missing the last thirty minutes of the silly reality show they’re both inexplicably hooked on, Dean grabs Castiel’s hand and it’s not even – it’s not even a sweet, romantic gesture. It’s a dam burst. Dean will drown unless Castiel agrees to drag him out of the miserable pit of despair that is his own mind. 

“Please,” Dean chokes out. “Can I sleep in your room?” 

Castiel’s eyes are wide and blue and so, so beautiful. 

“Yes,” he says quickly, fingers curling around Dean’s hand. “Yes, of course.” 

They fall asleep wrapped up in velvet-smooth darkness and Dean’s got a knee pushed up high enough to nudge a thigh and it feels scandalous. Exhilarating, naked skin on skin. Castiel watches him with a gentle smile and Dean knows there’s no return from this. He can’t go back to his own bedroom after this; not when he knows what it’s like to drift off to the sound of Castiel’s peaceful breathing and the warmth of his body so close. 

– 

Breakfast is an ordinary affair. Sam is out running, Dean has free reign of the kitchen, and Castiel follows his every move like a shadow. They haven’t talked; haven’t cleared anything up, except the fact that Castiel is very much okay with kissing and Dean’s experiencing butterflies in his stomach for the first time in his adult life. 

Dean loves it. 

He’s flipping pancakes, glancing over to make sure Castiel looks impressed when he lands them perfectly back in the pan, and chews his lower lip. 

“I was serious, you know. About a house. Don’t know how I’m gonna wing it, but…”

“You’re right,” Castiel agrees. “We wouldn’t be staying here forever anyway.”

Dean glances around. 

“I need some damn sunlight.” He ain't afraid of the dark, but it’s about time they let some light in. 

“Doesn’t have to be big,” Castiel says. “I think one bedroom would be enough.”

Dean makes sure to put the pan down on one of the cold burners so he can abandon the stack and pull Castiel in by the lapels of his trenchcoat. 

“You,” he smiles, “are speaking my language.” 

------

oneshot fic prompt: dean is super clingy post-empty rescue but hasn't confessed his feelings to cas yet, leading to much confusion

@pinknatural thank you for the prompt <3