*insert Something To Say Here*

*insert something to say here*

I have a deaf dog and I felt like Cas earlier with the way I stood over her, silently watching her sleep and admiring how adorable she was, and she never woke up because she couldn't hear me.

Dean: * walks in wearing a shirt saying ""I'm Dean fucking Winchester"" *

Sam: What are you wearing?

Dean: Wait for it.

* a blushing Castiel walks in wearing a shirt saying ""I'm fucking Dean Winchester"" *

Sam: Oh... That’s... cute?

Destiel Pride: Featherlight

There comes a time in the grieving process when you run out of things to destroy. There are only so many colourful curses that can be screamed and muffled into the fabric of a trench coat. There are only so many people to blame before it becomes obvious the culprit is the person staring at you in the mirror each morning — or night. Time loses all meaning but before and after. There are no true mornings when mourning. Without Cas, there is no sun rising, only setting. That was how Dean lived in the weeks after Cas was dragged into The Empty.

He still hadn't used the word 'death', not even in the sanctity of his head. 'Death' was a slippery word when it came to the Winchesters, and Cas — whether the bastard liked it or not, was a Winchester by default. He was family. Goddamn family, with all the shitty hang-ups that came with the title.

The word 'death' didn't seem to encompass the grief. Cas was absent from any place that Dean could find him. Even in death, Dean would find him. The lack of him throbbed like bruised knuckles. It only hurt when he moved or thought about it, or stayed too still.

When two months had passed and all options Dean could think of had been explored to get Cas out of The Empty, he was left in the wreckage that'd once been his bedroom. The only things left intact fell into two categories, things that'd been too tough to break, and things that belonged to Cas.

In the silence that followed the carnage, Dean was left with what he'd been avoiding, a moment to think. He wasn't struck by a revelation. 'Revelation' wasn't the right word. He was struck instead by a sense of recognition. A long-hidden truth had stilled his hand and hollowed what was left of his body.

Cas loved him, he knew that. He'd known from the second the angel was gone. He knew what kind of love Cas meant. What he hadn't realised until he was hunched over himself, holding the splintered remains of his nightstand was that he loved Cas back. His loss had brought a torrent of rage because where the hell was all his love meant to go? When Cas left, he'd taken Dean's love with him.

And goddamn wasn't that the cosmic kick in the balls to bookend what he'd deemed a tragic existence? He'd been thinking about death and how useless death would be if Cas wasn't on the other end of it. He was thinking of life in much the same light.

Dean hadn't been raised to know what to do with a grief so all-encompassing it ran in the background of his existence like a mixtape on a road trip. If he followed his father's example, all that was left to do was to become an obsessed bastard, and destroy himself and everyone he touched in slow motion. The Winchester rule for dealing with grief? Become the gangrene in the wound. Make everything so much worse.

When Cas arrived at the door of the bunker a month later, Dean didn't know what to do. Everything in him pushed towards anger, towards utter annihilation of all that was good in himself. However, upon seeing the look of uncertainty on the angel's face decades of rage disappeared. What he was left with was the familiar ring of tinnitus and the thick pit of dread that'd settled in his stomach. What the hell were they meant to do now?

"Hello, Dean," Cas spoke, like nothing had happened. Giving Dean an out, he knew he'd never be able to take.

There was too much left unsaid between them to go tumbling back into cowboy hats and coffee quips like their last run-in with death.

Dean knew he was meant to talk but he'd never been much of a talker when it counted. His hands trembled as they moved unbidden to hover over Cas' shoulder. He needed to touch the guy, to make sure he was real but to do so felt too definitive. If Cas was an illusion, Dean didn't care. He wanted him to stay put for once.

Dean's hands hovered ghostlike in the space between them, haunted as the rest of his body by the loss of the angel. His fingers flittered around Cas' body, nervous birds on hot, highway concrete. They'd land for a moment, featherlight, before taking off again. They explored Castiel's arms, his chest, his cheeks. All the while, Dean remained silent as the saint he wasn't.

In all his imaginings of their reunion, everything had been intense, whether he was throwing curses or kisses at Cas. He'd never expected his lips to lock and his body to betray him by shaking like a goddamn leaf in the breeze. He felt like he was a kid again, lost, silent and looking for someone or something to hold onto with all his fucking might.

He wanted to find his tongue, to say something to wipe the look of absolute bewilderment and trepidation from Cas' face but what the hell was there to say? No words would be enough.

He placed his hands on either side of Cas' face, watching the angel's eyes swell. He wanted a grand gesture. Cas deserved it, but Dean was still tied in knots trying to work out if this was a line they could cross and walk back from. Dean didn't know what he'd do if he screwed things up, terrified Cas would be another home he could never return to.

His lips found the scrape of Cas' cheek. The familiar five o'clock shadow on the unfamiliar territory of his mouth. It was so unlike Dean to be any kind of tender. There was no way the action could be misconstrued for anything other than what it was. A promise? A confession?

His hands had landed on the small of Cas' back and the curve of his hip. He opened his mouth to speak but the words came out garbled, sounding embarrassingly close to a sob.

Still, his mouth wouldn't shape the words. He closed his eyes and prayed, hoping Cas would hear.

Don't you ever do that to me again.

It finally occurred to me that adult Sam’s obsession with healthy eating is his reaction to years of eating whatever Dean could steal and whatever he could warm up on a hot plate. Years of cereal. Years of canned beans. Years of greasy diner food. All because John was gone and child Dean did the best he could to make sure his little brother was fed. And Sam swears he’s not going to eat like that again because it reminds him of never having a mom or a real home other than the Impala. Of not having a dad stick around and raise him and his brother.

I wonder if Dean giving him a hard time about his smoothies and rabbit food comes from the guilt of not being able to give it to Sammy when he was little. I wonder if it’s why he so proudly sticks to his junk food and diner offerings, like it’s a salve to his ego. Sort of a, “Hey, it’s still good enough.”

One of my favorite Malec scenes has got to be after Magnus was swapped with Valentine and he tells Alec about his mom dying and killing his stepfather. Alec desperately tries to cheer him up and make things better, so he tells Magnus it wasn't his fault because he wasn't in control of his powers. But Magnus tells him that he was, and then Alec is at a loss because he's never had to do that before. The only person he'd probably have cheered up in the past is Izzy, and there's a very big difference between cheering up your warrior little sister and your centuries old warlock boyfriend that's carrying some serious family trauma. Alec treis so hard, and Magnus understands, but it still doesn't help much.

And probably the worst part of all of this is this is the first time Alec has ever seen Magnus cry. And then in the middle of crying, he calls him Alexander, which he usually only does during an emotional moment (sometimes not but usually).