SWOOSH by N.T.

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10.03 Coda

Castiel is leaving.

It takes Dean’s brain a few moments to catch up with what is actually happening, but when it does, he’s up and out of the room, telling Cas to stop. 

Cas turns around, confusion stitched into every line on his face.  “What is it, Dean?  Are you alright?” he asks, worried.

Dean is confused.  “Man I haven’t seen you for months, I’ve…I’ve been a demon, Cas.  A friggin demon.  You’re just gonna leave?  You don’t wanna stick around for dinner or something?” he asks, trying to keep his voice from cracking.  There’s an orange lodged in his throat, and every swallow is painful. 

Cas’ brows furrow together.  “Dean, I’ve already explained to you, Hannah is waiting for me, we’re…” his voice trails off. 

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Brainwashed assasins, unwilling experiments. A bit of both.

I just want to be an angel.

We’re the freaking Guardians of the Galaxy.

- rudy francisco [x]

"He’s had worse." Black Widow #006

Dean is not a morning person. Neither is Cas. But when neither of them has emerged from their room by noon, Sam is like, “Are they even still alive in there?”

"They probably woke up hours ago," says Kevin. "And now they’re just…" He gives Sam a look.

"Oh. OH.” And then, when they’re still in there two hours later, Sam sticks his head back into the library where Kevin is working and adds, “HOW?”

But they’re both wrong because Dean and Cas are actually still sleeping, and whenever one of them thinks about getting up he just looks at the other’s sleeping face for a while, smiles, and closes his eyes again.

#look at sam trying to keep up and steve’s pose just screams ”FREEDOM”

was tweeting at thelindsaytuggey this and learned that singing and twerking Juggey is a thing that happens.

for anonymous who asked for flower crowns

#but wait IT HAS MEANING #logic heart soul: #sunflowers are ‘pure and lofty thoughts’ (logic) #yellow roses are ‘everlastingly love’ (heart) and #phlox flowers are ‘harmony’ (soul)#yeah I just expressed my triumvirate feelings via flower crowns #don’t look at me (via anaeolist)

red right hand. (deancas, s9 au, angst, vague talk of depression)

The first hunt after- after being a kind of evasive politesse, a word you use inside your head sometimes when things seem overwhelming, a word you say sometimes out loud when other words don’t come- is an anticlimax, considering all of the preparations Dean insisted on. You spent a week firing the guns and taking them apart and cleaning them and practicing your draw. You got a cell phone with emergency numbers programmed into it, and a lesson on voicemail. Dean made you put on a suit jacket and tie and took your picture in front of a plain shower curtain and then made you new ID cards with the laminator he bought at the Wal-Mart in Lebanon. He talked through the interview process in the car, even though you tuned out for parts of it, watching the earth roll away beside you, the long low clouds and houses in the distance, perched on hills and strung with long wires that reached from pole to pole to pole to pole, forever.

"Hey," Dean had said, snapping his fingers. "Pay attention." You’d turned back to him and seen the worry in his face, bare and plain and obvious, for all his jokes and lecturing. It was endearing and also abjectly horrible: you did this, made him afraid this way. For you, newly useless.

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