listen if you don’t think dean’s arms were made for rocking babies to sleep and holding them safe to his chest
and his hands for holding their little tiny ones and cradling their heads
and his mouth for singing lullabies and kissing away boo-boos
then i don’t want to talk to you tbh
as energy rolls out of us on golden horns of light: sillyoldwolf: think of the stupid domestic spats dean and cas would... -
think of the stupid domestic spats dean and cas would get in and how unbelievably dramatic and petulant cas would get !!
and the batcave isn’t really big enough for both of them to be simultaneously sulking so sam ends up forced into an awkward mediator role that cas doesn’t want any of so he just ends up insulting sam the whole time.
‘you won’t understand, sam. human perspective is so narrow, you rarely comprehend the full scope of tragedies. dean’s angry with me for removing all the unhealthy food from the kitchen but i only did it to help extend his life and our time together. he shouldn’t be mad at me and yet his is. it doesn’t make sense. so fickle, you humans.
#their entirely relationship is dramatic and tragic and i do not think it would lose that flare once settling into domesticity #the dying begonias would become the next apocalypse
and the thing Dean doesn’t seem to understand about the begonias is that when Castiel asks him to water them while he’s out he means actually water them. so when Castiel returns to water them himself a day later and finds their soil unusually dry, things turn very sour very quickly.
“They went a day without water, Cas, I think they’re fine,” Dean explains when Cas accuses him.
It does nothing to appease him. “It’s the principle, Dean. What if you ‘forget’ the next day too, all the way into next week?” Cas snaps heatedly, punctuating his anger with vicious air quotes in the way that he has come to finally master over the years.
Dean flushes, shoulders pulled tight and chest puffed out indignantly. “Then I’d buy you new flowers!”
“I don’t want new flowers! These will remain perfectly adequate if they are watered regularly!”
“… Are you guys seriously arguing over flowers?” Sam makes the mistake of interjecting.
“Yes!” they both growl at him at the same time.
“Okaaay… I’ll leave you to it then.” Sam gracelessly steps out of the room, shuffling away from the sounds of Dean and Cas’ continued argument at top speed. When he reaches the doors of the library, however, he can still hear their voices filtering down through the halls. When he hears Dean yell, “Well what if I wanted to buy you new flowers anyway? I fucking love you and shit!”, Sam idly predicts he’ll be subjected to a whole new host of unpleasant sounds shortly.
He is not wrong.
out past the moat: cadignan: “Do you know how to play?” Dean nods at the pool tables.... -
“Do you know how to play?” Dean nods at the pool tables. Castiel has never played before, but it’s a simple enough game: the goal is to shoot the cue ball so it knocks the other balls into the pockets. It’s just careful hand-eye coordination and geometry.
He could say yes to Dean’s question, but he notices the other players leaning over the pool tables, lining up their cues. No matter how simple the game is, he still might want Dean to teach him. “No.”
A slow smile spreads across Dean’s face.
The game does not disappoint. After arranging all the billiard balls within a wood frame so that they formed a triangle, Dean sends the cue ball hurtling toward them, scattering them across the green felt. Several of them plunk down into the side pockets.
“Okay, I’ll be stripes,” Dean says. “That means you want to hit the solid colors.”
It should be easy to knock the bright blue number two ball into one of the corner pockets. Castiel bends over and begins to line up his cue with the white cue ball. He smiles to himself as he feels Dean move behind him. Dean settles their hips together and leans over Castiel, lining up their arms and minutely adjusting Castiel’s grip on the back of the cue. His voice is low when he speaks next, and Castiel can almost feel Dean’s lips moving against his ear.
“You can decide how you want to hold it,” he says. “Some people like to steady it between their index and thumb, like this.” Dean’s right hand is covering Castiel’s grip on the back of the cue, and he uses it to direct the cue forward. Dean slides the narrow end of the cue against Castiel’s hand, the wood nestled between the bent knuckle of his index and the pad of his thumb. He moves it forward until the blue tip almost touches the cue ball, and then pulls it back into place. The cue cool and smooth against the skin of Castiel’s hand. “That’s an open bridge. There’s also a closed bridge. You make a little circle with your finger.” Dean bends Castiel’s index finger into an arch. His middle finger forms the bottom of the circle. Dean thrusts the pool cue through the small space and then draws it back through.
“Now you,” Dean says. Castiel expects him to move away, but Dean remains behind him. He removes his hands so that Castiel can guide the pool cue, and for a moment, Castiel assumes that Dean will rest his hands on the edge of the pool table. He’s wrong about that as well. Dean’s hands settle on Castiel’s hips, long fingers aligned with slight downward curve of his hipbones, thumbs angled against his back. Castiel can feel Dean’s hands pressing into him through the thin fabric of his t-shirt.
He resolves to ignore Dean’s presence in favor of making the shot, but it’s too late now, because Dean takes advantage of his hesitation and starts talking again, more low murmurs against his ear, all the words drawn out obscenely.
“C’mon, Cas, you can do it. It’s a straight shot. Just one long, smooth stroke…”
Castiel exhales through his nose. He adjust the angle of the cue slightly and starts sliding it forward experimentally. It should hit the cue ball right in the center. The two will roll straight into the corner pocket. It’s an easy shot. Concentrate.
Just as Castiel finally drives the cue forward, Dean rubs up against him and slots their hips together shamelessly. Castiel’s shot goes wildly off its mark, knocking the cue ball at entirely wrong angle. It cracks against a half-dozen other balls and disperses them across the table into new constellations.
“Dean,” Castiel grouses.
Dean shakes with laughter and then presses his lips against Castiel’s neck. Castiel can feel him smiling.
Gonna put this on kickstarter, any investors?
fluffy fic about mornings, for the lovely bre. happy birthday, my dear! i hope you like it! <33
inspired by/makes references to “crazy he calls me” by billie holiday.
So here’s the thing: I don’t know if he does it on purpose, or if it’s some kind of weird angelic-influence thing that just follows him everywhere, but for some reason we always wake up to I-kid-you-not old-time jazz music on the motel radios.
(Source: eggs-benedict-cucumber-patch, via crackedchassis)
Apparently my Benedict Cumberbatch name is Beezlebub Boppinstick.
out past the moat: pastrymisha: Before the apocalypse really starts rolling, Dean’s... -
Before the apocalypse really starts rolling, Dean’s actually got a lot to be thankful for.
He likes waking and getting on the road immediately; he likes the watery roadside coffee, the cheap beer. He likes trading insults with Risa as she needles him for his marksmanship; he even likes the long days on the road, trailing past abandoned towns, looking for survivors. It’s a dark existence, and a lot of it rends him bones from flesh – but some of it is good, too. Makes him smile, however briefly.
The run home is a strange thing, every time. The camp isn’t home – not really – but it’s the closest thing they’ve got, and it’s where everything Dean loves lives, now. He can swing out of the cab of the truck, hit the ground with both feet, and feel instantly somehow better – brighter – than he was on the road with dust in his eyes, squinting past housefires to see the horizon.