The rumble of the garage door closing is what gives him his first warning, followed by the creak of the door opening and the sudden excited shouting that rings through the house.
“Dad Dad Dad Dad Dad Dad Dad…”
poetrytofish asked you: jimmy/cas jimmy teaching cas how to paint~“I’ve been trapped dormant in my own body for four years Cas,” Jimmy mutters, as the hand that hasn’t been his for so long glides across the paper, “If I can’t go home yet I at need to do something.”I just do not understand the point, Cas grumbles in his head, lingering around the back of his mind where Jimmy can still sense the power waiting there to take control once more when Jimmy is ready to sleep again, You put colors on paper.Jimmy sighs and stares down at the watercolor on the table before him, all blues and greens and yellows—the colors, he realizes, he always imagines Castiel’s true being in his mind. “Some things don’t need a point, Cas,” he tells the angel in his consciousness, and dips the paintbrush into the green to leave a sweep of color across the paper.If you say so, Cas tells him, and settles in to watch—Jimmy smiles a little to himself, and wonders if Cas has any purple to him as well.
uA: Not a dry eye in the house.
pT: Terezi pumped tear-gas through the air conditioning.
pT: It’s an Alternian tradition.
uA: The point of an Alternian ceremony is to incapacitate anyone stupid enough to show up.
pT: Karkat notes with choky approval that it’s ‘classic’ and ‘tasteful’ while John coughs into a handkerchief.
that’s totally fine i know you have a lot goin on!! ♥♥♥ and we both know u literally could just write “dean played in front of one of cas’s pieces once and he looked so pretty cas had heart palpitations” and i woULD DIE
I AM CRYING ACTUAL TEARS YOU ARE PERFECT LOOK AT THESE BIG DUMBS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Some nights—that may or may not be Dean’s favourites—found them lazing on the collection of couches in the bunker’s excuse for a living room. Not every night could be a high-stakes death chase, of course, so sometimes they liked to take their respites where they could get them, and do absolutely nothing instead.
sometimes i think about what dean would see if he ever got a chance to look in the mirror of erised
maybe a gravestone with his name on it
His heavy boots echoed of the marble floor and his ankles cracked as he lowered himself down in front of the mirror, legs splayed out in front of him, arms braced behind his back. It looked the same as it had the last three nights, and Dean steadied himself, breathing in deep. When he focused in on his reflection, tense and pale in the low light, the familiar face materialized across the mirror like water dripping down the front. There was Sammy, tall and monstrous as ever, flexing his arms behind him. His face looked different somehow, and when Dean had first come back and broken into the museum Sam and him had been scoping out for evidence, it had taken him a moment to put his finger on what it was that looked so unfamiliar in his brother’s smile. He knew now though, that it was its simple presence. He watched as Sammy’s face hit up, noting as someone Dean outside the mirror’s scope approached him. Sammy laughed, and suddenly a squirming baby was placed in his arms and a soft pair of lips were at his cheek. Sam was smiling, all the deep lines of his face kissed away by the woman Dean couldn’t see.
He leaned back further, entranced and waiting patiently. He knew what was next, and he settled back. From behind him to his right, the familiar sure steps strode towards him, coat gently flapping at the knees. Castiel’s back was straight and tight, wound like the coiled muscles of a snake. He glowed, breathed power, and even from his solitary place on the floor watching the mirror’s reflection, Dean could almost feel the authority wash over him. Castiel was whole, graceful and magnetic, like before. Dean smiled softly. As his eyes began to droop, a long line of faces flashed before him. There was Bobby and Ellen, laughing and Ellen playfully punching Bobby’s shoulder, there was Jo bringing Bobby a beer and smiling from behind the Roadhouse bar, there was Ash lounging on the pool table, there was Benny, there was Pamela, there was Rufus. The line of happy faces went on, and Dean let himself drift to sleep, a small smile playing at the corners of his list. In his happiness, of course, he didn’t even realize his own was not among them.
Dean Winchester is a junior in the physics department, a handsome young man with a messenger bag always hanging over his shoulder and a pair of worn-down hiking boots always on his feet. He dresses like an 80’s nomad, surrounds himself with friends of all walks of life, tutors freshman on Monday nights, and complains about how nasty the campus coffee is at least three times a day.
In other words, he’s the bane of Castiel’s existence.
He just… traipses into their East Asian religions class day in and day out, hardly speaks for the majority of the day, then raises his hand at the very last five minutes to say something horrifically and unexpectedly poignant about the nature of the Dao or whatnot. It drives Castiel insane because Dean doesn’t even try. He’s clever, well liked, easy like Sunday morning— and Castiel is way too strung out on his double major and his three different off-campus jobs to be down for that kind of amicable shit, thank you very much.
Sam was woken by the noise of cabinets clanging, pots banging, and the sound of cursing coming from the kitchen.
“Shit. Fuck. Shit.”
Dean. But who else would it be, really? Angry kitchen-raiding at three in the morning was hardly Cas’ style.
“Dean?” Sam mumbled sleepily from the living room where earlier he’d been catching up with Jody, having immediately passed out upon hanging up the phone. Jody had a possible hunt for them a couple states over—ghouls, maybe—she’d explained, and they were set to leave in… oh, four hours.
“Goddammit fuck shit, motherfucker,” Dean continued.
Sam sat up, speaking slightly louder in the hopes of getting his brother’s attention. “Dean, either shut the fuck up and let me sleep or tell me what’s the matter—you sound like you just found a werewolf in the pantry.”
The clatter ceased. Dean groaned. “Oh god, it’s worse Sammy, worse.”
“Wendigo in the pantry?” Sam teased.
“Sam, I’m serious. Just—oh god you don’t want to know Sam.” A bang resounded from the kitchen. “Ouch.”
Sam sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Dean, get your ass in here.” The string of grumbles and curses drifted closer, gradually increasing in volume and relative proximity. Shortly, Dean stood in the archway, pajama pants dragging as he shuffled his feet, robe swaying with his movements, looking, on all counts, like a child who has done something wrong and just knows he’s about to get scolded for it. “I can’t find the whiskey,” he muttered to his toes.
Dean making up lewd easter egg pick-up lines like “you don’t need the easter bunny, baby, I’LL bring you some sugar” or “yeah, baby, I’ll put it in YOUR easter basket” and Sam is like “be QUIET Dean you are the worst you ruin every holiday” but Cas smiles and says totally seriously “you’re so hot, it definitely won’t take three days for ME to rise” and there’s a moment of silence and then Dean is like “YES” and drags Cas off to his room and leaves Sam at the table rubbing his temples and muttering bitterly
Dean gets back in the car – Sam remembers that, most of all – and wipes his mouth .
He calls his brother’s name. Just once. “Dean?” But Dean is somewhere else; he stares into the distance, starts the car. Backs out of the gas station without a word.
He had left the car – followed someone else’s beckoning, kissed Sam on the forehead, holding his face, and said, “Sorry, Sammy. I won’t be long.” A pause. “I love you.” Shutting the door of the Impala behind him, locking it to walk across the gas station (almost abandoned, at two in the morning – the kiosk is lit, casting halogen on the car.) and into the darkness, where Sam’s eyes couldn’t follow. He’d come back ten, fifteen minutes later. Different. Wiped his mouth. Drove away.
Sam sits opposite him in the booth at McDonald’s – Dean grins at him, jokes with him, making fun of his happy meal. He orders a coffee for himself, ignores the way the patrons stare at him, because he’s young and it’s too late (early) for him to be out at all, let alone with an eleven year old. Then halfway through his third sip he looks pale, grey; leaves the booth with an apology. When he comes back his eyes are red-rimmed, his throat raw when he talks. He looks, for a second, as if he’s going to run and throw up again, but he doesn’t. That’s the first time.
After, there’s no throwing up. No crying. There’s the silent car, Sam with his hands pressed against the cold, wet windows, peering out after where Dean has gone, unable to see where he is. Dean returns, silent. Takes him to the movies, sometimes, or for food. Backs out of where they’ve pulled up – gas stations, mostly, sometimes motels – and the street lamps bathe him in yellow flashes, slow streaking past the windows, lighting half of Dean’s face, then fading out again. After a while, he talks again. Always after a while.
It is only years later that Sam remembers, and realises what it was; what his brother, at fifteen, was doing. It’s something he hears by accident – a joke, from one of his friends, about the things people do when they’re desperate – and he laughs, forced. He says nothing. When they are together again, he and Dean, he’ll sometimes look at the side of his face when they roll along, and think What else did you do for us? For me? What would you do?
He doesn’t know whether he’s thankful, or not.