#castiel loves dean winchester
“When did you know?” Dean asks, his voice whisper-soft.
For a moment, Cas wonders if this question is a question at all, or if it is a thing that is meant to melt into the night, fated to join the half-formed pleas that spell stay and disbelieving self-assurances of you’re here that Dean allows himself only under the cover of the darkness.
He doesn’t know. So, he doesn’t answer.
Instead, he watches through their bedroom window as a lone grey cloud drifts across the sky, as the silver light of the moon slices the shadows of the room, and waits, the silence settling around them, thick and stifling. Cas almost squirms under it. Almost.
“Cas?”
Dean’s voice is quieter this time. Tentative, almost. Unsure. Cas doesn’t like the way it wavers.
He looks over his shoulder and finds that Dean is already watching him, silver-green eyes soft, shadows settling into the crow’s feet at their corners.
Cas wants to touch them.
He blinks, and Dean smiles, and Cas thinks of the mundanity of miracles.
He turns over so he is facing Dean, presses the palms of his folded hands under his cheek, and waits.
Dean props himself up on his elbow, his free hand coming to rest in between their bodies. His fingers drum a silent rhythm against the sheets.
“When did you know?” he asks again.
Cas knows what he means, of course. Still, he cannot help himself. This is something he has now, something Dean has given him. And, oh, he loves it, this freedom of saying it.
So; “That I loved you?” he asks.
He smiles, because he revels in the taste of the words, because he feels like something of himself settles into this once-borrowed body of his every time he does.
Because the tips of Dean’s ears turn red.
A sigh, then, from Dean. His fingers curling almost shyly in the sheets. A nod.
destiel shrike amv WHEN. i couldn’t utter my love when it counted…ah but i’m singing like a bird ‘bout it now…i couldn’t whisper when you needed it shouted…
REMEMBER ME LOVE….WHEN I’M REBORN….AS A SHRIKE TO YOUR SHARP AND GLORIOUS THORN
the purgatory prayer scene where everything is the same except shrike by hozier plays in the background
NO I AM NOT FINE I CANNOT BE NORMAL ABOUT THIS
Strike Three For Dr. Sexy
For@emeraldcas happy birthday bestie!Read below or on ao33.3k | Part 1/3Twelve years of barely concealed pining, heartsickness and the terrifying ordeal of vulnerability aside, turns out falling in love with the angel was the easy part.
Happiness is in just being, my ass, Dean thought, as he tore out another page etched black with ink. He’d been sitting in the diner for hours now, scratching out every dumbass idea he’d had so far to approach The Cas Problem.
Cas was back. Cas was gay? And CaslovedDean.
Even now, the weight of those words hit him fresh every time like a Looney Toones acme ton that left twittering birds circling the comically sized bump on his head. And when the shock dissipated, well, Dean had seen stranger things than anatomically incorrect hearts beating out of his chest, but that’s exactly how it felt. His best friend was back, and he loved Dean and it was far more than Dean could ever hope for.
He tried not to think about life before Cas had come back to him. How Dean had tried to barter his own life – his own brother’s life, for fuck’s sake – to get his angel back. To tell that adorable, stubborn ass dork that Dean loved him, too.
Always had.
Dean took a sip from his mug, hardly noticing that the coffee had long gone cold. Balls of paper littered the diner table, and his small notebook of big dumb ideas was wearing thin. Dean tapped the pen rhythmically against the blank page with no Sam around to tell him he was being obnoxious. He stared at the lines on the page, chewing on his bottom lip as if that would give him any other ideas.
holding close to my unsteady heart.
The apocalypse is drawing nearer and nearer. Everything hangs in the balance. And in Room 312 of the Harmony Hills Motel, an angel appears in Dean Winchester’s bedroom. read under the cut or on ao3 here
Castiel is aware of how late it is. Dean has asked him before not to show up like this, not to just appear in the middle of the night with no warning. He wanted to wait—he tried to wait. But Castiel is weak, and every day, he grows weaker.
At his arrival, the sudden displacement of air, Dean stirs in bed. He’s the only one in the motel room tonight; Sam is at a woman’s apartment, sharing an encounter Castiel didn’t want to spend too long looking at. Dean and Castiel are alone in this place, Room 312 in Harmony Hills Motel, together.
“Cas?” Dean’s voice is rasping, low in the darkness. “That you?”
“Yeah,” Castiel says. “It’s me.”
“What’s wrong?” Dean sits up all the way, already sounding more alert. Through the dark, Castiel sees him reach for the knife under his pillow.
“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”
Dean groans. “Then what the hell are you doing here? It’s, like, three in the morning.”
“I…” Castiel looks at Dean’s form in the bed, the blankets pooling around his waist. His soul is soft in a way Castiel has only seen it in very specific moments: moments of calm and safety, of contentment. “I apologize. I shouldn’t—I don’t know why I came.”
“Woah, hey.” Dean’s voice reaches out at the same time his soul does. They both curl around Castiel, imploring and gentle. “Whatever’s wrong, it’s fine. Just—c’mere. Tell me what’s going on.”
[some other time]
Why didn’t he say it some other time?
The question won’t leave Dean alone. It descends on him like a suffocating fog, then it takes a shape and sits by his bed every night, follows him down the hallways of the bunker and finds him in all the corners where he tries to hide.
Why didn’t he say it some other time?
It shouts at him under the spray of the shower.
He wipes the condensation from the mirror and wonders, Why didn’t he say it that time on that hunt? Fighting and running and catching their breaths. They had come so close to death and now they were covered in blood, smeared in mud, their chest heaving, but safe. Cas had pulled him up from where he was lying on the ground, his warm hand and searching eyes, always making sure he was alright.
“I’m fine, Cas,” Dean had said, laughing a little, “Let’s get out of here.”
It had been a good night, a fun hunt. He could have said it then, as they walked back towards the Impala, just the moon to tell them where to step. Dean with his arm around his shoulders, teasing him about the way he’d swung the machete. He’d said he wished his job was always like that and he’d seen Cas smile, even in the dark.
He could have said it then.
Why didn’t he say it then?
It demands his attention when he stops at a red light.
Dean taps his fingers on the steering wheel waiting for the green and wonders, Why didn’t he say it that time in that diner? Five in the morning, grey skies beyond the windows, a few sporadic cars in the distance and a lazy dripping sound coming from the coffee machine. No one else.
Sam had been in the restroom for three, four minutes. He could have said it then.
They were sitting across from one another, and they stayed in silence, listening to the old song coming from the old radio. They stayed in silence in the coming of a new day. Cas had kept his hands on his side of the table, his legs tucked under his seat as the shadows had changed and disappeared over his features.
The world had been still and quiet. It was just them.
Why didn’t he say it then?
It whispers to him while he’s having breakfast.
He rakes his scrambled eggs with his fork and he thinks, Why didn’t he said it that time Dean had caught him climbing the iron stairs?
“Going somewhere?”
Meeting his eyes all the way from the landing, Cas had been reassuring, “Just out for a walk. I’ll be back soon.”
“’Kay”, Dean had said and added, like a fool, “Making burgers tonight.”
Cas hadn’t pointed out the information was hardly relevant to someone who didn’t eat, but he’d said, “I wouldn’t miss it.”
Stayed by the railing a little longer before turning his back, just to watch Dean nod and fumble for words that he didn’t have.
He could have said it then.
Why didn’t he say it then?
Why hadn’t it happened on the countless rides, the movie nights? Why not in a graveyard, lighted by a burning corpse? Why not in Purgatory, why not over the phone?
He could have said it in the middle of a fight, after a laugh, above the music of Dean’s usual tapes. As he held his gaze, as he healed his wounds, instead of goodnight on his bedroom door.
So many moments, the perfect moment. It seems so clear now.
He could have said it anywhere but there, anytime but then.
Everything would have been different.
Why didn’t he say it then?, Dean thinks.
Dean thinks, Why didn’t Isay it then?
sweet fucking mercy
my favourite possible reaction cas could have to finding out dean is actually in love with him is indignant rage
cas hates himself and he loves hating himself because it’s a fun activity he can do whenever and wherever he wants. he’s the angel who screwed up so bad that even the guy who sleeps around with everyone won’t fuck him. he destroyed his life and garnered a worse reputation than lucifer for the winchesters and dean doesn’t love him back . funniest fucking joke he’s ever heard in his life and he’s the punchline. the day dean finally turns around and lets it slip that he’s quietly been in love with cas for years cas’s first response is going to be how dare you do this to me. this is going to ruin my fucking life all over again
i’m imagining a very tearful sobbing hug where they’re clenching at each other’s clothes before cas pushes him away for the empty to come UGHHHHH
chins resting on shoulders, with cas’ face out of dean’s view, cas finally lets his face fall as he lets out a sob.
they’re both holding on, fabric bunched up in their fists, holding on so tight, cause this is the last time cas will hug dean. and dean, confused, but knowing cas is leaving won’t let him go. if he holds on tight enough he won’t go
cas is hugging goodbye but dean is holding on trying to get him to stay
and the force cas has to use to pull dean off despite himself not wanting to let go
“Why does this sound like a goodbye?”
“Because it is.” Cas blinks the wetness from his eyes, and offers him a shaky smile. “I love you”
“Don’t do this, Cas”
after countless millennia or twenty-nine years, they were both born in flashes of electric one thursday in fall.
he had seen every galaxy oin the black, but none of them were as beautiful as pale freckles forming constellations on gilded skin. he knew each monster in the blue and on the green by face and by name, but he was fearless until he stood in the shadow of great wings. the unknowing tasted so sweet on their tongues.
he didn’t know that lifting could make him fall. despite the time he’d spent watching, he never understood the sunrise of a smile or the sunset of intimate touches until his holiness began to fade. his dying grace was like a band t-shirt washed too many times with the kind of harsh soap found on an endless highway.
he didn’t know that being held could make him rise. despite a lifetime of burning his belly with drink, he didn’t know what it was like to be warm all the way into his marrow. all it takes is a voice the texture of rust on the other end of a telephone line to ease his shivering heart.
i need you. i love you. i cursed god for you, and i prayed to you. i prayed. i prayed. don’t do this. anyone else can leave, but not you, because we’re not the same as we were back when we were born together, and i never learned how to do all the flying and the stumbling and the loving during the days you’re not here.
This is gorgeous
