“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
Twelve 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.
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.”
In theory, if Cas ever did realise he was in love with Dean pre-deal with The Empty and actually decided to shoot his shot, I’d imagine a string of hilarity and miscommunication would ensue. There’s no way Cas would try to flirt with Dean if he thought it’d be received badly, but every now and again, Dean gives him just enough hope he thinks maybe it’s possible Dean likes him back.
Say Cas shows up unexpectedly and Dean’s doing their movie night alone since Cas was away, on some plot-relevant side quest. Cas arrives back unannounced because it’s movie night and what he’s doing can wait a day. Dean’s too thick to realise Cas has come back for him, and royally puts his foot in his mouth by asking why Cas is there, making the angel feel like he shouldn’t be because the course of true love never did run smoothly and when given the opportunity Dean will screw himself over when it comes to affection.
Cas isn’t sure where they stand and wonders if he should stay and watch the film or leave. After awkwardly standing beside Dean’s armchair, watching the screen for longer than what would be deemed socially acceptable, Dean lets out a huff and says, ‘Just sit down,’ meaning, of course, for Cas to sit beside him in what Dean’s deemed ‘Cas armchair’. Cas takes Dean’s words literally and plonks down on the arm of Dean’s chair, smacking their shoulders together and settling in.
The thing is, Dean lets him. He might grumble, but he doesn’t get Cas to move. He’s had a long night, having also returned from a hunt hours before and he’s beat. Before Cas knows it, Dean’s face is smooshed up against his shoulder and he’s open-mouthed snoring. Cas still thinks he’s the most beautiful human he’s ever seen and is in awe because Dean’s being vulnerable with him. He knows the man has trouble sleeping, plagued by dreams of Hell and hunts. Cas knows Dean doesn’t sleep with just anyone, even when he has casual sex, he rarely stays long after the act, so Cas looks down at the sleeping man and for the first time he thinks, ‘maybe’. Maybe Dean likes him back. He has no idea what to do with that possibility. He sits there quietly for the rest of the night because Dean’s an angry sleeper (like a bear) and Cas isn’t going to wake him up.
He decides to tread lightly and toy with the idea of trying to flirt with Dean, without overtly flirting with Dean. He has no idea how to do this. After all his years on earth, there are still a lot of things that confuse him. While he and Dean are on a hunt sometime later, they pull over to a gas station. When Dean’s paying Cas mindlessly flips through the magazine stumbling on some shittyCosmopolitanarticle about romance and flirting. They mention one way to show you are interested in someone is by showing curiosity in their likes and dislikes.
So for the rest of the journey, Cas becomes almost insufferable with questions. He knows Dean’s top 13 favourite Led Zeppelin songs, but is Led Zeppelin Dean’s favourite band? What are Dean’s top 13 favourite bands? What is Dean’s favourite number? Does he have a favourite colour? Why is that his favourite colour? He rattles off questions for the entirety of their 14-hour trip cross country and Dean is confused as hell but decides to humour Cas because he does love talking about bands and movies, plus it’s not like anyone’s ever taken so much of an interest in him.
Sometime towards the end of the trip, Dean realises he has no clue what Cas’ favourite anything is- do angels even have favourites? Wasn’t that meant to be the whole thing about angels? All men are created equal and all that. Still, Dean asks. For the most part, Cas doesn’t have answers. He’s not sure who his favourite band is, though he can hesitantly say a few songs he likes better than others. It’s like they discover his favourite things together, unearthing them. Cas says with conviction his favourite colour is green and when Dean asks why he simply says, ‘Because it reminds me of you,’ and moves on. Dean goes silent for a long time after that but Cas is still left thinking that maybe Dean could love him. After all, he showed interest in Cas’ likes and dislikes as the magazine suggested.
Something Cas learned from Dean’s movies was that humans showed affection through nicknames, strange terms of endearment that reminded them of sugary foods or woodland animals. Dean reminded Cas of neither, so he was unsure what kind of word to use to show his affection. Dean shortened his name. Perhaps this was his way of using a term of endearment, maybe Cas had missed some sign and should have given Dean a nickname of his own. In the end, he settles for something in his mother tongue, because he’s better at expressing himself in Enochian.
He uses a word for Dean which is both very intense and oddly specific, something that translates roughly to ‘Evergreen lover, formed of star ash’. Like a golden retriever, after having the stilted cacophony of consonants and vowels thrown in his direction for long enough Dean simply shrugs his shoulders and answers to the name. I’m talking a name that trembles like a sub-bass and causes stray dogs to howl and Dean just looks up of a morning from his bowl of Fruit Loops and goes, ‘oh yeah that’s me. Mornin’ Sunshine’. Bonus points if others around him know exactly what the name means, other angels, demons, maybe even Sam when he gets curious and looks through the bunker’s archives for an Enochian Dictionary.
After all this, Cas is no closer to working out if Dean harbours affection towards him or not. So after some exasperated brainstorming, Cas decides to meet Dean where he’s at and attempts to express affection the way he knows Dean does. He cooks Dean’s breakfast and makes his coffee every morning because Dean expresses his love through security, caring for others and he especially loves food. It should be noted the bacon is burnt, the egg is raw and the coffee tastes like dishwater, but each morning Dean gives Cas a goofy, lopsided grin and thanks him. He’s grateful, Cas realises but he still has no idea if Dean’s in love with him.
With his one last-ditch effort, Cas decides to try physical touch. Dean’s a tactile creature. He loves touch. So Cas tries to give it to him. He rests his hand on his shoulder or his side as he walks past Dean. If they are parting ways Cas pulls Dean into a hug. He’s stunned at first, but he lets it happen and even gets used to it after a while, so Cas gets more brazen. He wraps his foot around Dean’s ankle when they sit together at the map table. He pushes his palm into Dean’s when they’re sitting alone in their armchairs for movie night and that’s what finally pushes Dean over the edge.
“Look man, I know you’re not human and you don’t get how stuff works but you can’t do junk like that. It’ll give people the wrong idea,” Dean would warn because his self-loathing, self-deprecating, still very closeted self would never in a million years dare to let himself think Cas knows what he’s doing.
“And what is the wrong idea?” Cas would ask.
“You know, dude. That you like me. More than a friend like me,” Dean would explain and Cas would give him the most world-wearied, withering look and sigh, “That is very much the idea I’ve been trying to get across,” He’d explain.
And Dean would need about an hour for his brain to stop short-circuiting, long enough for him to reply,
Motherhood is a huge burden. It is. It’s years of your life devoted to little or nothing else. Many primary caretakers I know got to a point where their kids didn’t need them 24/7 and realized that they no longer had any idea who they were. Some of my friends are reinventing and rediscovering themselves, and it’s painful and difficult and takes years. Others, I think, never manage, never have the support or the self-awareness to break free, and spend the rest of their lives living for others, being what they believe they are supposed to be.
A lot of people don’t have the emotional capacity or maturity to do what needs to be done, to love like a child needs to be loved, and children get hurt. A lot of others maybe genuinely adore their children, but don’t know how to break free from the incredibly harmful parenting messages our culture is absolutely soaked in, and perpetuate that damage without ever understanding that it’s damaging.
Parenthood is a huge financial sink and liability. It all but condemns a single parent to live in poverty, at least in the US. My mother worked most of my childhood in a job that paid a fraction of what it should have, because I could come straight there after school. Childcare is fucking expensive. Bearing and raising a child is, much more often than is discussed, damaging to a person’s health. It was to mine. Quite a lot, actually. Birthing can be dangerous, especially without access to good care (this by the way 100% includes access to non-mysogynistic care and midwifery and compassionate care, so actually MOST people in the US don’t have that).
So, this Mother’s Day, let’s let it be about a person’s right to choose to bear a child–or not. If we are to recognize the huge emotional and practical difficulties of the job, from beginning to end, then we really need to recognize that it should be chosen. It should be a vocation. You shouldn’t have a child because you wanted sex and accidents happen. You shouldn’t have a child because anyone else wants you to. I’m not saying you shouldn’t have a child you’re not ready for, because no one is ready, but you should want it more than you fear it, certainly.
You should have a child because YOU WANT TO RAISE A CHILD. No other reason.
Keep abortion legal. Make it more available. Make it easier. Make it cheaper. Everyone should have access to affordable, safe abortion. It makes society better. It makes lives better. It matters.
“You okay?” Dean asks. Cas looks at him, startled.
“I’m fine,” he says. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Dean lets himself into Cas’ room, closing the door behind him. Cas is just standing in there, looking at the bed. Would it kill him to sit down, once in a while?
“Um, because your dickbag ex-boss almost killed you today?”
“He didn’t almost kill me,” Cas says. “He almost killed you.”
“And you’re cool with that?” Dean asks. Human weakness, Ishim said. God, Dean doesn’t want Cas to be tied to him like that. Doesn’t want Cas’ weakness to be a scumbag like Dean. But at the same time, if Cas has to have a weakness, and it has to be human….well, selfishly, Dean doesn’t really want it to be Sam.
“No,” Cas says. He doesn’t look at Dean. “I should go.”
“What?”
“The more I dawdle, the farther Kelly gets from my reach. I need to find her.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Yes, I just said that,” Cas says. He finally turns to look at Dean, rolling his blue eyes skyward.
And yeah, Dean’s not brain-dead. He understands that Kelly escaping is a bad thing, that they need to get a handle on this Rosemary’s Baby stuff, but–the words cosmic consequences keep echoing in Dean’s head. What if Cas leaves and never comes back? And Dean would never know if Cas finally wised up and bailed on the tangled, fucked-up Winchester mess, or if he died. And Dean can’t keep an eye on him if he’s always galavanting off who-fucking-knows-where.
“Don’t,” Dean says, mouth moving without permission.
“Don’twhat?” Cas asks, narrowing his eyes.
Don’t go, Dean almost says. “I’m tired, man,” he says instead. “All of this bullshit is so tiring. What if instead of going after Kelly and Satan Jr, we just went and laid on a beach somewhere, huh? Just let someone else handle it. I hear Hawaii is nice this time of year.”
Cas’ whole face shifts, softens. He steps closer to Dean and lifts up his hand, cupping Dean’s cheek. Dean doesn’t lean into it, no matter what anyone says later.
“Oh, Dean,” Cas says. His voice is feather-soft and warm, no longer annoyed. Dean isn’t sure what he said to make Cas’ voice go like that, but it’d be nice if he did so he could do it again, and again, and drape himself in that soft Oh Dean forever. “I would like nothing more.”
“Let’s go, then,” Dean says. “You and me.”
Cas smiles, soft. “You’re afraid of airplanes,” he says kindly, and now that softness has turned sad, too, and Dean kind of wants to cry.
“I can handle it,” he says, pleads. Come on, Cas.
“I know,” Cas says. He smiles again, and lifts his hand from Dean’s cheek. That was a mistake, Dean thinks, ‘cause that hand was the only thing keeping Dean together. Human weakness, cosmic consequences.
Cas leaves the room. By the time Dean recovers enough to follow him out, Cas is gone, and that angel-sized hole he always leaves in the bunker seems even bigger than the Chrysler Building.
i’m thinking tonight about masterpieces. michelangelo looked at the sixtine chapel and saw; nothing to preserve. virgil wanted his aenid burned and forgotten; only to be saved at the behest of an emperor who thought it flattery. kafka instructed his friend to burn everything he’d ever written - too personal was it, too unfinished.
they were ignored.
instead, their work was taken and held and published and thrown to be gawked at. instead, an emperor, a pope, a friend, took from within the cavities of them their choices; their art.
tumblr rolls out post+. twitter rolls out tip jars. youtube takes half of what creators earn. on social media, there is a ko-fi or a patreon and a polished face in every bio. i show my poems to my mother and she asks if I will publish them before she says anything else. emily dickinson instructed her sister to burn her poetry.
her sister did not listen.
we are a community, says tumblr, we should give back to creators. my last poem had 50 notes. six of those were reblogs that weren’t mine. i lie in bed at 2am and stare at my bright phone screen and the way netflix’s library grows thinner and thinner. the first ad on tumblr that i can reblog is for amazon. amazon takes more than half of what authors earn.
kafka’s friend took barely finished work and hammered it into structure. he is the only reason we know of him.
my father wrote a book and a play when I was barely big enough to reach his knees. when i try to talk to him about writing, he shrugs.
no one wanted to publish it, he says. so i don’t write anymore.
i am filled with poems I have never published, books I haven’t written. There are little snippets of them scattered throughout my life. I link to my ko-fi on my tumblr.
-
asked capitalism of the artist: what is art, if not for consumption? who does art benefit, if it is not consumed? why create at all if you do not market it? who are you, frothing at the mouth about someone publishing someone else’s poems? who are you to hate your magnum opus? what is art, if not in relation to its reception? if no one sees it, how is it art?
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.
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
