How To Reference Romantic Attraction Between Your Characters:
Person A’s inability to make eye-contact for long periods of time while Person B is constantly looking into A’s eyes. (extra points if Person A looks away and blushes)
Interest Copying (When interested in another person, humans tend to copy that person’s movements, stature, etc)
Cute nervous ticks while around one another (Dont just use blushing and stuttering! Other ticks exist! Shuffling, fiddling their thumbs, scratching the back of their neck, bouncing their leg, nervous laughter, picking at their palm, biting the inside of their cheek, etc!)
Remembering little details about one another (How person A never eats the beans on their plate, or person B’s favorite color, the color of their eyes, where their birthmark is, are they a morning or night person? Bonus points if they figure this information out by observation, not by being told!)
Constantly smiling or laughing around their love interest
On Thursday, Dean grabbed a shovel from the garage. It was of the old reliable breed, with a strong wooden handle and a sharp metal spade. He slung it over his right shoulder and trudged out into the woods behind the bunker’s main door.
He walked for a long while, not really knowing where he was going until he saw the small clearing. The trees seemed to part for him and he looked up as the sun shone down: a sign, surely, from Jack.
It took him two days to clear the plot. He dug away the weeds, tore at the grass with his bare hands, moved a few logs back into the tree line. Once the greenery was gone, he set to turning the soil, digging down deep and chopping at the ground to remove any roots. He really didn’t know what he was doing, but he’d watched enough HGTV on the road to know that this was how you did things. You had to start fresh, with clean earth.
It seemed strange to him that he was digging with no intention of finding a coffin below, and even startled once or twice when his shovel hit a large rock, thinking it was bone.
On Monday, he dug fifteen holes in three separate rows, keeping them as even as he could. When he was satisfied with the placement, he carted out five flat beds filled with flowers. He planted sunflowers and indigo, impatiens and marigolds, all under the advice of the woman at the garden center the next town over. She had helped him find the most beautiful blooms and most importantly, the ones that would attract bees.
With dirt under his nails and an aching back, Dean sat down on the nearest log and watched as a honey bee fluttered by to inspect the offering. It danced over orange petals and pink buds, finally settling on the darkened brown center of the tallest sunflower. It stayed there a while, doing whatever it is that bees do, and Dean felt a pang in his chest so profound that he thought his heart might be giving out.
He took a breath and looked up into the late afternoon sun as tears began prickling behind his eyes.
On Thursday, Dean grabbed a shovel from the garage. It was of the old reliable breed, with a strong wooden handle and a sharp metal spade. He slung it over his right shoulder and trudged out into the woods behind the bunker’s main door.
He walked for a long while, not really knowing where he was going until he saw the small clearing. The trees seemed to part for him and he looked up as the sun shone down: a sign, surely, from Jack.
It took him two days to clear the plot. He dug away the weeds, tore at the grass with his bare hands, moved a few logs back into the tree line. Once the greenery was gone, he set to turning the soil, digging down deep and chopping at the ground to remove any roots. He really didn’t know what he was doing, but he’d watched enough HGTV on the road to know that this was how you did things. You had to start fresh, with clean earth.
It seemed strange to him that he was digging with no intention of finding a coffin below, and even startled once or twice when his shovel hit a large rock, thinking it was bone.
On Monday, he dug fifteen holes in three separate rows, keeping them as even as he could. When he was satisfied with the placement, he carted out five flat beds filled with flowers. He planted sunflowers and indigo, impatiens and marigolds, all under the advice of the woman at the garden center the next town over. She had helped him find the most beautiful blooms and most importantly, the ones that would attract bees.
With dirt under his nails and an aching back, Dean sat down on the nearest log and watched as a honey bee fluttered by to inspect the offering. It danced over orange petals and pink buds, finally settling on the darkened brown center of the tallest sunflower. It stayed there a while, doing whatever it is that bees do, and Dean felt a pang in his chest so profound that he thought his heart might be giving out.
He took a breath and looked up into the late afternoon sun as tears began prickling behind his eyes.
On Thursday, Dean grabbed a shovel from the garage. It was of the old reliable breed, with a strong wooden handle and a sharp metal spade. He slung it over his right shoulder and trudged out into the woods behind the bunker’s main door.
He walked for a long while, not really knowing where he was going until he saw the small clearing. The trees seemed to part for him and he looked up as the sun shone down: a sign, surely, from Jack.
It took him two days to clear the plot. He dug away the weeds, tore at the grass with his bare hands, moved a few logs back into the tree line. Once the greenery was gone, he set to turning the soil, digging down deep and chopping at the ground to remove any roots. He really didn’t know what he was doing, but he’d watched enough HGTV on the road to know that this was how you did things. You had to start fresh, with clean earth.
It seemed strange to him that he was digging with no intention of finding a coffin below, and even startled once or twice when his shovel hit a large rock, thinking it was bone.
On Monday, he dug fifteen holes in three separate rows, keeping them as even as he could. When he was satisfied with the placement, he carted out five flat beds filled with flowers. He planted sunflowers and indigo, impatiens and marigolds, all under the advice of the woman at the garden center the next town over. She had helped him find the most beautiful blooms and most importantly, the ones that would attract bees.
With dirt under his nails and an aching back, Dean sat down on the nearest log and watched as a honey bee fluttered by to inspect the offering. It danced over orange petals and pink buds, finally settling on the darkened brown center of the tallest sunflower. It stayed there a while, doing whatever it is that bees do, and Dean felt a pang in his chest so profound that he thought his heart might be giving out.
He took a breath and looked up into the late afternoon sun as tears began prickling behind his eyes.
Dean takes his time, running his fingers over the banister of the porch. The white paint is chipping and worn down, but the wood, he can tell, is quality. No splinters, no cracking, no warping. It’s nice. He drags in a deep breath, his senses flooding with the scent of pine trees as the warm early-autumn air blows through them. The sky is clear, save for a couple little puffs of cloud here and there. And as his eyes scan the sky, he waits for it – that impending sense of doom and dread. Even when he’s trying to relax, it’s always there, bubbling beneath the surface. There’s a reason he’s slept with a gun under his pillow for three decades.
But he’s struck with the sudden realization: it’s not there. All he feels is calm and peace. Something he’s never really known.
Well, that’s not true, he silently amends.
He felt peace with Cas.
Frowning, Dean drops his head and closes his eyes. Cas… Fuck, he misses him. He misses everything about him. He misses telling Cas jokes that land like a fucking brick in front of him. He misses the tie that’s always askew. He misses that mess of hair. He misses those eyes Dean can, and often has, get lost in. He misses that trench coat. He misses Cas, plain and simple. And while he feels calm and peaceful here… it does feel like a piece of him is missing. It’s probably not supposed to. Not here. But it does.
It’s comforting to know he escaped the torment of the Empty… but, “Damn it, Cas,” he breathes, wrapping both hands around the banister.
“Hello, Dean.”
Standing suddenly, Dean opens his eyes and whips around. Cas is standing beside the battered screen door, smiling warmly at Dean. “Cas,” he breathes, his eyes wide as he looks him over, like he’s taking inventory of all his favorite things. Messy hair, check; crooked tie, check; trench coat, check; breathtaking eyes, check… Cas, check. “It’s–”
“Yes,” Cas nods. “It’s me.”
Dean surges forward, throwing his arms around him in a crushing hug. He buries his face against Cas’s neck and closes his eyes, breathing him in. It’s another thing he’d previously forgotten to add to his list of things he missed. That clean, earthy smell that was somehow distinctlyCastiel.
When he pulls away, his hand slips down Cas’s arm to his hand, his thumb brushing the inside of Cas’s wrist. He heaves a breath, the line between his brows deepening. “You’re a dick, you know that?” He says suddenly.
Cas blinks in surprise and tilts his head. “I– what?”
Dean purses his lips and shakes his head. “You drop somethin’ like that on me and then just fuck off to the netherworld?”
“I wasn’t in the Netherworld, I was–”
“In the Empty, whatever. You’re still a dick.”
Cas lifts his eyes to the ceiling of the porch, as if the answer to Dean’s outburst is written there. “I still don’t underst–”
“You drop that on me and then you die, and you didn’t give me a chance to say anything.”
“I didn’t think there was anything for you to say.”
Dean scoffs, incredulous. Didn’t think there was anything for him to say? “What show have you been watching, huh?”
“I haven’t been watching television.”
Though outwardly, Dean appears frustrated, he fucking missed this. But something suddenly occurs to him. “Wait.” He shakes his head, those lines between his brows growing deeper. “You really didn’t think I’d have somethin’ to say? You didn’t think I–”
“Reciprocated?” Cas says. He frowns, casting his glance downward. “No, Dean. I didn’t.”
“Well you’re dead wrong.”
One corner of Cas’s lips turn up in a smirk. “I believe we’re both deceased now.”
Scoffing, Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “Did you just make a joke?”
“Yes,” Cas’s smile widens, “I believe I did.”
“Alright, listen.” Dean grasps the back of Cas’s neck, his fingers brushing up into his hair. There’s no sense of fear or uncertainty welling up inside of him anymore. He’s in Heaven. He gets what he wants. There’s no fear of judgment or self-sacrifice anymore. He’s just gonna fucking go for it. “I love you, Cas. I shoulda said somethin’ a long time ago, but I-I-I was scared, okay? I’m sorry. But–” He cuts himself off and glances out over the farmhouse’s property; the sprawling lawn (that he can’t wait to mow) surrounded by lush trees; the path that leads to the garage that houses Baby. The house he’s always imagined for himself, but always knew wasn’t a possibility. “This is about havin’ peace, right?” His gaze turns back to Cas’s, and he swallows the emotion rising in his throat. “We get forever here.”
“That is the idea, yes.”
Dean licks his lips and takes a step closer. His shoes bump Cas’s, and his hands slips further into the back of Cas’s hair. “Then that means I get forever with you, right?”
Cas is smiling, and he pulls his free hand out of the coat pocket. He grabs a fistful of Dean’s jacket and Dean watches his Adam’s Apple bob as he swallows, Cas’s eyes roaming Dean’s face. “Of course, Dean.”
Dean breathes out in relief. All at once, that feeling that a puzzle piece was askew; the feeling that something was missing dissipates. Forty-one years of sacrifice and loss earned him this: a life of peace with the love of his life – the love that had come completely out of left field and left him breathless. Forty-one years of sacrifice and loneliness and loss earned him the love of a millennia-old angel who thought he was worth something. Worth everything.
He kisses Cas then. It’s soft and slow and gentle. There’s no sense of urgency or fear or desperation behind it. It’s being lovingly handed what he’s always wanted; what he’d always been missing. And, well… he’s in Heaven, so that makes a whole lot of sense.
When they part, Dean keeps his forehead against Cas’s, and they’re both smiling. Finally, Dean rocks back enough to meet Cas’s eyes. He tips his head toward the house and raises a brow. “Wanna come in. Stay a while?” He presses his lips together and shrugs. “I’m thinkin’ maybe forever?”
“I’d like nothing more.” Cas smiles, and Dean feels warmth flooding his chest. In Cas’s smile, Dean feels content. He feels like he’s home. He’s waited his whole life to feel like this. He tried, with Lisa and Ben, but that piece of the puzzle just wasn’t there. He tried with the Bunker, and while he loved that place… there was always just something not quite right. But here, he has Cas. He feels calm. He has no feeling of cosmic obligation or the feeling that he’s running the clock. He has everything he’s ever wanted.
For the first time, and for the rest of time, Dean Winchester is at peace.
Hello, beautiful people, I just hit 700 followers!
To celebrate, because I’m back on my DeanCas bull shit and #cantstopwontstop, send me asks with your headcanons or mini prompts, and I’ll write you a drabble!
Bringing something “full circle” is a great device for thematic elements over the course of a story. Bookending can be great.
However, years of rigorous, detailed, painful character development and movement of stories should not, under any circumstances, be destroyed for the sake of bringing something “full circle.”
That’s not a satisfying ending. That’s saying to your viewers; your readers; your fans, “Remember all that time you invested? Eh, didn’t matter. Train’s right back in the station. Hop on off. Sorry for bumpy ride around the block.”
The cause and effect is negated. If you start a story, throw in a bunch of emotional, situational, and personal development in the middle, you should end up further down the road than where you began. But if you start a story and are able to take away all of the middle and you still end up right where you began with no betterment or differences save for the age of your characters… that’s not a good ending.
It’s like you make a sandwich just to remove all the filling and eat the bread. Why make the sandwich if you just wanted bread?
Why create meaningful relationships and focus large portions of entire seasons on them, only for them to be completely erased in the end? Why focus so much on free will and finding who you are and being happy despite everything, only for him to die unfulfilled, alone, and co-dependent… right where he started?
I saw a post somewhere and if I find it, I’ll tag the OP, but it went something like this:
Sam, if the last 15 years never happened: White picket fence, wife, dog, kids, etc.
Dean, if the last 15 years never happened: Dies alone on a hunt gone wrong.
Sam, after 15 years of character development: White picket fence, wife, dog, kids, etc.
Dean, after 15 years of character development: Dies alone on a hunt gone wrong.
No matter what the issue was and how or why that was the ending we got… it was deeply unsatisfying to someone who has been on this journey since day 1. Since the absolute beginning. I’m not discussing this through the goggles of a ship. I’m speaking as someone who appreciates well-written stories. As someone who invested twelve years (eighty percent of the entirety of the show) in a character and the development of a deep, meaningful relationship (whether or not you view it as romantic).
There was a lot missing from that finale. A lot. I can make jokes about it all day, but overall, I’m deeply disappointed and hurt by whatever went down behind the scenes for that to be the final product (something, I’m certain, we’ll never know).
I’m done beating the dead horse. I’ll carry on (heh) with my fic writing. Because no matter what happened with that finale, I will never not love these characters. They’re in my heart and under my skin (literally, I have Cas’s tattoo on my arm) forever.
Hello, beautiful people, I just hit 700 followers!
To celebrate, because I’m back on my DeanCas bull shit and #cantstopwontstop, send me asks with your headcanons or mini prompts, and I’ll write you a drabble!
Reblogging if you want to send me fix-it headcanons, fix-it prompts, Heaven prompts, etc.
