xojo

[xojo]

supernatural season 12 is a comedy of errors about a woman who died during the reagan administration being resurrected over 30 years later trying to figure out whether or not her adult son is a queer but being too uncomfortable to outright ask

[xojo]

Omg yesss, like imagine Sam saying "The last time someone looked at me like that, I got laid" ???? Or even Sam saying "My devastatingly handsome friend" ???? " It totally wouldn't happen!!!

that post thats like “how do i know dean’s performing masculinity? because sam isn’t” except its “how do i know dean’s in love with castiel? because sam isn’t”

[xojo]

happy birthday, @irrlicht-ghostfront ❤️ i love you, and i'm judging you for this being your prompt, but i love you some more, so here <33 (warnings: car accident) [NO MCD]

It wasn't supposed to be this way.

Blink and a miss — accident — wrecked car, and fleeting on the painful side of barely conscious in a pool of his own blood. There was too much of it anyway. Castiel felt dizzy more than he felt the pain as time, almost tangibly, passed on.

There's no way he was going to live.

(It was supposed to end old — fingers crossed for painless. Featuring inevitably beeping monitors, and time to come up with last words. A goodbye to his family.

Not that he had much of one right now — he isn't sure if he can call Dean's family his, yet; Dean seems to insist on it but then he's always been a pioneer in giving Castiel more than he could ever deserve, starting with his own heart, so Castiel can't tell — but he'd finally started to have intentions to, in the future.

A dog, for Dean.

Children.

Intentions to beg his brother to come back, and not give up until he'd gotten his forgiveness and his only remaining family back. But that — well, it was a different alley than Castiel's thoughts swarmed to right now. And swarm they did, his head throbbing, and life thudding at its gates.

Castiel had also intended to marry Dean, misty-eyed and denying it. Intended to figure out flower arrangements, and guest seating. Intended to kiss him at the end of the aisle, with his hands cupping Dean's face, and Dean's around his waist.

Then, move out from their shared apartment into a house.

Yellow wallpapered bedroom.

Treasure, and keep Dean happy forever.

Fuck.)

His breathing is still ragged, and his head feels too empty, but the heaving has lessened. Probably the blood loss. Less pain, more haze. And the resultant thoughtlessness is perhaps the only thing that sparks the courage in him to do what he does next.

Castiel picks up his phone.

(A struggle, but he's determined.)

If he's dying, and he'll never get to live the life he'd finally started to dream of — never have a life to share with Dean, never get to see Dean again, then he'll take what he can get.

He's allowed this, he tells himself. Allowed to be selfish, one last time.

He's on his deathbed after all.

It's outstandingly painful to bend his neck enough to see he's picked the right number — but the mere idea of accidentally calling an acquaintance at a time like this brings a tensed sliver of life into his muscles, and straining, he looks. Right enough, he's got 'Dean :)' on the screen.

Pressing dial, he lets his head fall back on the seat, wincing again. Maybe that'll relent the floatiness, if his body circulates some goddamn blood into his brain — because he needs this.

He's dying, but he needs this. One last time, he needs Dean.

A thumb swipes the familiarly placed 'on speaker' button — he can't bring the phone to his ear right now. He's going to have to risk Dean hearing the still crackling ruins of the poor engine, strewn across the wreck in smoldering pieces.

He must make quite a sight, he thinks, waiting for the call to go through. Man found in car wreckage, trapped by the door, dead within —

"Cas?"

Dean's voice cuts through Castiel's morbid mental news report, and almost reflexively, he closes his eyes. There's a tangible relief in his head when he does it, and god, Castiel must've been doing worse than he's convinced himself he is.

Dean sounds beautiful as always, and so familiar its like home.

It's the last time he ever gets to have this.

"Hello, Dean." Maybe he manages to not sound weird, or Dean's just not listening for clues. The loud racket behind him, at Bobby (and Dean's) automobile shop, helps as well.

"Hey." There's a smile in his voice now. Fuck. He's smiling. He's smiling, and he's smiling at Cas, and it's the last time Castiel ever gets to hear it.

He loses himself trying to remember the last time he saw Dean smile — earlier this morning, kissing him goodbye before he left — no, down from their balcony, accompanied by a gleeful wave because Dean's shift started a couple hours after Cas's day in the office did — no, when Castiel checked the time, and the Dean on his lockscreen grinned up at him — and he doesn't realize he's fallen silent until Dean's speaking again.

"Babe, you okay?"

There's a tinge of worry. Only a smidge, and it still hurts. The last time Castiel hears Dean can't be laced with anything bad. And it can't be Castiel's fault.

There's a pause. "Cas, what's up?"

Castiel doesn't know what to say so he tries to hold on to the phone tighter, his throat fluttering as a tear rolls down his face.

"Wait," The worry dissipates, apology slipping in. "Am I forgetting something? Did we make plans for lunch, 'cause Bobby and —"

"N-no." Cas struggles, and it's getting harder to not pant. He sounds too breathy anyway. "We don't. Didn't."

He forces a smile into his voice while saying it. As if it doesn't break him that he'll never get to see Dean again. But he needs to smile, doesn't he? One last time. Just for Dean.

"Well, do you want to?" Dean sounds cheerful. Normal.

Perfect.

Castiel doesn't want to die.

"Not, today." He half-heaves, and another tear rolls down his face.

Not today.

(If he'd known, he'd have stared to his heart's fill this morning. Kissed him an hour longer. Held him in his sleep. Oh, if he had had any foresight at all.)

"Dickface-atron keeping ya busy?"

Castiel lets the air stuck in his chest out, and it probably makes up for a small chuckle. He doesn't want to lie, he just won't agree.

"Figures."

"Sorry." Castiel tells him, meaning it entirely.

"Nah, s'good. I love you." Dean adds, clearly smiling wider, because they've only recently added that to their vernacular instead of the pedestal it'd been on for the first eight months of their friendship turning into a relationship. Somehow, it feels grander though — or, that might also be because it's the last time Castiel ever gets to hear Dean say it to him.

Oh, he loves him so much.

(He doesn't want to die.)

"And I have my packed lunch anyway." Dean continues, filling the gap thankfully. Machines blare in his background and he braves on like a man used to not being able to hear his own words due to the racket. Castiel is grateful for it. He hangs onto every word, drinks it in. Makes himself hold on. "Pretty sure you'd kick me to the curb if I let a PBJ go to waste."

"Jelly?" Cas smiles, when he wants to sob. He's certain he sounds fainter too, he feels fainter, and it's a miracle it doesn't show.

The tears well up in his chest, for possibly the rest of time. Dead men don't cry, and Castiel can't.

(Can't be long now, can it?)

"Jelly." Dean confirms. "It's the curse of paying attention when you rant about jam, you know." He snickers. "I used to be normal."

"Yes, I'm very lucky."

Dean chuckles, and Castiel sighs.

He's yearned for Dean to be happy, tried to make him smile, longed to see him laugh, for so, so long it feels like a part of him now. And now, it goes back to Dean, without him.

Somebody else'll make him smile, somebody else will wake him up with a kiss on his temple, and somebody else will love Dean for exactly who he is because it's Dean, and there was never someone who deserved it more — so of course somebody will.

But it will never be him again.)

An untethered broken sound escapes his throat, and Cas winces, faking a cough with it.

That makes the blood gush.

"Oh, also — wait. Just a second." He interrupts himself, and probably covers the speaker with his palm before yelling blurrily to someone near him.

(Or perhaps it's not supposed to be blurry. Castiel wouldn't know. He can hardly make out his own breathing. It's a feat that he can make out the conversation, even if most of it is instinct memory, and all he's doing is holding onto Dean for as long as he can.

Somehow, it feels like he's been doing so forever. But the time left, had never been so little.)

When Dean returns, he sounds apologetically busy.

"Dude, that dick who yelled at Ash, remember? He's back. Garth went this time, 'cause douchebag brought a Sedan."

Castiel swallows again, and vaguely registers that it tastes like metal. Almost like there's blood mixed with saliva.

There's another morbid thought. What, in this wreck, is finally going to kill him?

"I should probably check on him. Garth sorta wears on you."

"Of course." He croaks, and slips — fuck, he slips — but for once, thank god for oversensitive customers and boyfriends with likeable personalities, because Dean's conversing off the phone again, his hand on the speaker.

"I'll call you back, babe." Dean comes back to add in a rush, and Cas sucks in a painful breath, slowly beginning to feel like the only thing keeping him conscious any more is the sensation of air in his lungs, in his mouth, in the back of his throat. "Still have to ask what you even called about, you know. Or maybe if you just missed me." He beams, he obviously beams, and Cas stifles a groan.

"I do." He wheezes. "I —"

"Me too." Dean returns, flirty, and Cas goes to add to it — because he has to, because he's not going to make it, he's not going to be able to hold on until Dean returns, and he has to — but there's a click.

Castiel stares at the screen, devastated.

(Or tries to, anyway.)

"I love you," He cries out, aware that the line's cut, but needing to hear himself say it anyway. Plus, his head feels too numb to keep words inside anymore. It's less a prison of thoughts, and more a canyon of loss.

More tears fall.

His heart is beating faster than it ever has.

"I love —" His voice trembles, tries again, and fails. His throat refuses to comply with the thousands of things there remain to be said, and the words slowly fade, neglected.

In more ways than one, it's like being administered anaesthesia before a surgery — Castiel was operated on for tonsils at age eleven, and he remembers it still — and it finally sinking in, and knocking you out, as the doctor says to count to ten, and you hardly graze six.

His hands clutch the phone tighter, neck rendering him incapable of looking anymore, so he has no idea what his thumbs are trying to type — but it doesn't matter, not really, because this is it. Completely alone, young, and desperately in love with Dean Winchester, Castiel closes his eyes for the very last time.

And everything fades to black.

*

When they find him, it's been at least four hours.

It's night.

The uniformed official stuck with the responsibility of calling the next of kin, Victor Henriksen, fishes out the wallet as the paramedics carry him into the ambulance and attach him to IV immediately, and steps away to dial his emergency contact with a crinkled brow of sympathy.

And as he waits for the guy, a Dean Winchester, to pick up, he can't help but notice that his number is exactly the same as the one the last text almost sent from the victim's phone had been typed to — clutched in his hand, an unnerving, 'I love'.

And well, he isn't particularly into romcoms, but he hopes the poor guy gets a chance to finish his sentence.

He was in pretty bad condition, Henriksen recalls, and the bloodloss had knocked him out for several hours, but he looked twenty five at most, more importantly healthy, and — he looks at the wallet again, and the picture of two men (one of them, the victim) smiling at the camera with their hands around each other — most importantly, seemed to have reasons to fight for.

(Plus, he'd been the one to call the accident in himself — albeit four hours after it happened, but Henriksen figured he'd been passed out for that long — so he had to want to live, right?)

"Hello. Dean Winchester, who's this?"

"Hello, sir, I'm Officer Henriksen, and I have you listed as Mr Castiel Novak's emergency..."

*

"You dick."

Castiel coughs, and gives up on squinting against the bright light. It's a LED. Like in hospitals.

"Jesus, Cas. You complete asshole, you —"

Castiel opens his eyes a sliver again. The walls do resemble a hospital. Plain, white tiled. Way too many AC vents. Is that something on his hand?

"So you'll open your goddamn eyes, and not even fucking look at me."

There's IV's on both his hands. And something stiff around his neck. Almost like a collar, but thicker. And when he breathes, his ribs start like they might hurt — but the pain is numbed as it registers. He must be running really high on painkillers; they never really worked for him.

"Fine. You don't gotta look at me." A pause. Then, more shaky. "I was so scared, Cas. So fucking terrified. They said they weren't sure, said it may be too late, and you were dying. And then they tell me the crash happened at three, and I feel like I'm going to have a fucking stroke."

His vision slowly unblurs, feeling returning to his fingers. He tries to fold them, and winces at the strain.

Immediately, there's a hand on his arm.

"Stop moving, dumbass. I'm going to kill you for this, you know. I am, but I need you to be okay first."

The words don't register, but the voice does.

(He sounds beautiful as always, and so familiar it's like home.)

"Hell, I just need you, Cas. Period. I need your ridiculous, stupid ass — and I need you to look at me when I'm begging you to be okay, and I need you to stay, with me, forever, and not call me first when you need a goddamn ambulance, you dumbass —"

"Hello, Dean." Castiel interrupts, a hoarse whisper, and he thinks he hears a sob from the general direction of the love of his life.

(He really can't move his neck — he's got to tell Dean that at some point if he's not understood already. It's the cast.)

"Oh, thank god." Dean cries, the words muffled by either him burying his face in his sleeve, or the lifesaving medications Castiel is alive on account of, but it's okay, right? Dean's here — and he's okay. It's fine.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm still going to kill you for this."

"Well, I'd deserve that." Castiel tries to joke, and almost pulls it off, except for the part where he can't see Dean's reaction until the latter lets out another broken sob, and grabs his hand. Castiel freezes, trying to squeeze back, tears welling up again. "I'm really sorry, Dean." Then, after a beat. "I'm going to make this up to you."

It feels like a strange thing to say, but it's exactly what he means.

"Yeah, you are. Although it can't stop my revenge being not texting you when I have a heart attack in aisle three when I'm eighty and you're buying eggs, but okay."

If Castiel could, he would've shaken his head at that.

(But at least, and this is what really matters — they made it. He's alive. He — he gets this.)

"I love you, you son of a bitch."

Castiel smiles slowly, a tear landing on his pillow. "I love you too."

[xojo]

U should make a fic based on cannibal hoodie love story. Even if it is just in ur head 👀 [also, you're great <3] -AmazingAnon

One completely regular afternoon in Lawrence, Kansas, Dean comes back from a milk run wearing a hoodie Cas has never seen before.

Which is strange, because Cas always believed he was prompt enough about going through Dean's stuff.

So, offended at this blatant disregard for his feelings, and subtle shade at his efficiency, he fixes a frown on his face and waits for Dean to enquire about it as he crosses him in the library.

He doesn't.

And that's when Cas begins to suspect something's wrong.

*

The hoodie doesn't come off all day.

Not when he's researching, and not when he's also wearing a kitchen apron with it, and not when he's washing dishes. Cas stays behind to help him with the latter though, and is determined to ask about whatever is up, but Dean leads the conversation in a different direction.

"You know what the best thing about being in love is, Cas?"

Cas has a few guesses.

Also, he shakes his head.

"It's that you," Dean obliges, a spark of something unusual in his eyes. "Can never get enough of each other."

Cas stills.

Did Dean know?

After all, he'd stayed back to find a way to bring up the hoodie in conversation, in spite of being — and he's quoting Sam here, easily the less prone to insulting metaphors Winchester — "the worst at washing dishes since a cat with a water hose."

Could this mean —

Oh, crap.

"Doing a really good job on that spoon there, buddy." Dean cuts into his thoughts — because when has he not — with an easy grin. Cas looks down at where he's been aggressively wiping the item. "Think you're ready for a second spoon?"

Cas blushes, not wholly cause of the spoon comment either.

Dean knew. Dean knew.

"Maybe even a bowl?"

Cas picks one up obediently, ignoring the pit in his stomach.

"And maybe if we're feeling adventurous, even a plate or three?" Dean adds, wiping his hands on a towel having finished washing the dishes. Cas tries to look for him wiping the remaining few drops after that on his shirt — but he doesn't.

Instead, he tucks his hands into his pockets — probably better to call it one large pocket, though. Those have always fascinated Cas — and flashes one last grin at Cas before leaving for his bedroom, and leaving Cas stranded with wet dishes and plaguing doubts.

Typical.

(But, was it?)

*

Later — actually, much later than the probably expected later — when Cas is passing by Dean's bedroom en route to his own, he hears a sound that makes him plaster himself to the door, straining to listen harder.

It's a giggle.

Then, for a long time, nothing.

And finally, right before Cas gave up being patient — he was only human now, wasn't he — there's another breathy voice. Definitely Dean, but unlike anything Cas has ever heard the hunter say.

"Stop!" More laughter. "It tickles!"

Cas blinks.

How —

"Oh, you."

There it was, the lyrics of Cas's despair. And apparently, the chosen phrase of Winchester endearment.

Cas sighs sadly, and walks away.

Dean has a visitor.

Dean knows, and he has a visitor.

Cas can just ask about the incriminating hoodie in the morning.

*

Turns out that's a bad idea.

Because next morning, Dean is nowhere to be found.

It's after eleven am that Sam starts to fret, complaining about Dean's sleeping (and bingewatching through the night) habits at Cas over a bulky book of witchlore — he just nods sympathetically for his part — and it's pushing noon when he gives in and goes to storm into Dean's room.

"Sam," Cas interjects, suddenly realizing he may have some information that helps. "Dean had had a visitor last night."

"A woman?" Sam frowns.

And Cas may have been gender neutral in his statement but Sam was probably right anyway.

"Maybe."

"In the bunker?" Sam bristled, mostly to himself, marching towards Dean's room with renewed irritation. Cas follows, somehow feeling responsible.

They barge in, expecting a passed out Dean, and perhaps a passed out another person — woman, he means woman — and find neither.

"But the Impala was in the garage." Sam sounds like he's leaning into the worried area on the scale of irated to anxious. "And he's not in the kitchen, or the gym, or the bathroom."

Cas shifts closer to Dean's bed, ignoring Sam's commentary.

"And I think he's past keeping hunts secret, just because they're 'risky'." Sam wonders aloud, putting on his worst Dean impression at the end. "So unless he's somehow busy allying with an old, all-powerful, morally ambiguous cosmic being, he'd have told —"

Cas reaches Dean's side, and gently pulls off the blanket.

"And it's not like he'd go anywhere without his car anyway," Sam keeps going, brow furrowed. "Also I've been home for a few hours now, I'd have seen him leave. Hey, you think we should check the —"

Sam freezes, mouth agape as he sees Cas sat on Dean's side with tear filled eyes, clutching a hoodie in his lap.

"...Cas?"

As a way of responding, Cas lifts the blanket and reveals his findings.

It's Dean's pyjamas, and what seems way too much like Scooby Doo boxers — rumpled, but laid on the bed as if worn by an invisible (bodyless) creature.

Sam clears his throat. "I — Cas, what is happening —"

"Don't you get it?" Cas bellows at him, with almost all the fierceness he's been lacking the past couple of weeks. "It's the hoodie! It always has been the hoodie!"

"Still don't, uh." Sam hesitates. "I still don't get it, Cas."

Cas looks up painstakingly and draws in a breath to compose himself. It works, apparently, because he has no trouble deadpanning the following to the younger Winchester. "Dean was in love with it. Also, it could probably tickle."

Sam blinks.

"Also, it ate him."

There's a pause.

"I'm not supposed to laugh, am I?"

"Sam Winchester, your brother has been eaten by a sentient cannibalistic hood —" Cas starts, but Sam's already dissolved into laughter before he's finished with his sentence, so instead he scowls darkly, and looks back at the (ridiculously soft) evil in his hands.

And starts to plot a save-and-avenge plan.

He wouldn't let the hoodie win.

[xojo]

Look at all my lil badasses!!!!!! 😆😆😆😆

11 jan 2021

[xojo]

Oh man, oh man, it's beautiful, heartbreakingly beautiful :')))))))

happy birthday, you angsty pie!!!! you ask, and i deliver - for the rest of our life ;-; warnings: mcd. i’m sorry enjoy your present!

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Blink and a miss — accident — wrecked car, and fleeting on the painful side of barely conscious in a pool of your own blood. There was too much of it anyway. Castiel felt more dizzy and less pain as time, almost tangibly, passed on.

There’s no way he was going to live.

(It was supposed to end old — fingers crossed for painless. Featuring inevitably beeping monitors, and time to come up with last words. Maybe a goodbye for his family.

Not that he had much of one right now — he isn’t sure if he can call Dean’s family his, yet; Dean seems to insist on it but then he’s always been the pioneer of giving Castiel more than he could ever deserve, starting with his own heart, so Castiel can’t tell — but he’d finally started to have intentions to, in the future.

A dog, for Dean.

Children.

Intentions to beg his brother to come back, and not give up until he’d gotten his forgiveness and his only remaining related family back. But that — well, it was a different alley than Castiel’s thoughts swarmed to right now. And swarm they did, his head throbbing, and life thudding at its gates.

Castiel had also intended to marry Dean, misty-eyed and not denying it. Intended to figure out flower arrangements, and church seating. Intended to kiss him at the end of the aisle, with his hands cupping Dean’s face, and Dean’s around his waist.

Then, move out from their shared apartment into a house.

Bee wallpaper in the bedroom.

Treasure, and keep Dean happy forever.)

Fuck.

His breathing is still ragged, and his head still feels too empty, but the heaving has lessened. It was probably the blood loss. Less pain, more haze. And the resultant thoughtlessness is perhaps the only thing that sparks the courage in him to do what he did next.

Castiel picks up his phone.

(A struggle, but he was determined.)

If he’s dying, and he’ll never get to live the life he’d finally started to dream of — never have a life to share with Dean, never get to see Dean again, then he’ll take what he can still get.

He’s allowed this, he tells himself. Allowed to be selfish, one last time.

He’s on his goddamned deathbed after all.

It’s outstandingly painful to bend his neck enough to see he’s picked the right number — but the mere idea of accidentally calling an acquaintance at a time like this brings a tensed sliver of life into his muscles, and straining, he looks. Right enough, he’s got ‘Dean :)’ on the screen.

Pressing dial, he lets his head fall back on the seat, wincing again. Maybe that’ll relent the floatiness, if his body circulates some goddamn blood into his brain — because he needs this. He’s dying, but he needs this. Needs Dean.

A thumb gently swipes the familiarly placed ‘on speaker’ button, because he can’t bring the phone to his ear right now. He’s going to have to risk Dean hearing the still crackling ruins of the poor engine, strewn across the wreck in smoldering pieces.

He must make quite a sight, he thinks, waiting for the call to go through. Man found in car wreckage, trapped under the roof, dead within —

“Cas?”

Dean’s voice cuts through Castiel’s morbid mental news report, and almost reflexively, Castiel closes his eyes. There’s a tangible relief in his head when he does it, and god, Castiel must have been doing worse than he’s convinced himself he is.

Dean sounds beautiful as always, and so familiar its like home.

It’s the last time he ever gets to have this.

“Hello, Dean.” Maybe he manages to not sound weird, or Dean just isn’t listening for clues. The loud racket behind him, at Bobby (and Dean’s) automobile shop, probably helps as well.

“Hey.” There’s a smile in his voice now. Fuck. He’s smiling. He’s smiling, and he’s smiling at Cas, and it’s the last time Castiel ever gets to hear it.

He loses himself trying to remember the last time he saw Dean smile — earlier this morning, kissing him goodbye before he left — no, down from their balcony, accompanied by a gleeful wave because Dean’s shift started a couple hours after Cas’s day in the office did — no, when Castiel checked the time, and the Dean on his lockscreen grinned up at him — and he doesn’t realize he’s fallen silent until Dean’s speaking again.

“Babe, you okay?”

There’s a tinge of worry. Only a smidge, and it still hurts. The last time Castiel hears the Dean Winchester can’t be laced with anything bad. And it can’t be Castiel’s fault.

There’s a pause. “Cas, what’s up?”

Castiel doesn’t know what to say so he tries to hold on to the phone tighter, his throat fluttering as a tear rolls down his face.

“Wait,” The worry dissipates, apology slipping in. “Am I forgetting something? Did we make plans for lunch, cause Bobby and —”

“N-no.” Cas struggles, and it’s getting harder to not pant. He sounds too breathy anyway. “We don’t. Didn’t.”

He forces a smile into his voice saying it. As if it doesn’t break him that he’ll never get to see Dean again. But he needs to smile, or Dean will pick up on it, noisy backdrops or not.

“Well, do you want to?” Dean sounds cheerful. Normal.

Perfect.

(Castiel doesn’t want to die.)

“Not, today.” He half-heaves, and another tear rolls down his face. Not today.

(If he had known, he’d have looked to his heart’s fill this morning. Kissed him a minute longer. Held him in his sleep. Oh, if he had had any foresight at all.)

“Dickface-atron keeping ya busy?”

Castiel lets the air stuck in his chest out, and it probably makes up for a small chuckle. He doesn’t want to lie, he just won’t agree.

“Figures.”

“Sorry.” Castiel tells him, meaning it entirely.

“Nah, s'good. I love you.” Dean adds, clearly smiling wider, because they’ve only recently added that to the regular vernacular instead of the pedestal it’d been on for the first eight months. Somehow, it feels grander though — or, it also might be because it’s the last time Castiel ever gets to hear Dean say it to him.

Oh, he loves him so much.

(He doesn’t want to die.)

“And I have my packed lunch anyway.” Dean continues, filling the gap thankfully. Machines blare in his background and he braves on like a man used to not being able to hear his own words due to the racket. Castiel is grateful for it. He hangs onto every word, eyes still screwed shut. “Pretty sure you’d kick me to the curb if I let a PBJ go to waste.”

“Jelly?” Cas smiles, when he wants to sob. He’s certain he sounds fainter too, he feels fainter, and it’s a miracle it doesn’t show.

The tears well up in his chest, for possibly the rest of time. Dead men don’t cry, and Castiel can’t.

(Can’t be long now, can it?)

“Jelly.” Dean confirms. “It’s the curse of paying attention when you rant about jam, you know.” He snickers. “I used to be normal.”

“Yes, I’m very lucky.”

Dean chuckles, and Castiel sighs.

(He’s yearned for Dean to be happy, tried to make him smile, longed to see him laugh, for so, so long it feels like a part of him now. And now, it goes back to Dean without him.

Somebody else’ll make him smile, somebody else will stare just as hard, and somebody else will love Dean for exactly who he is because it’s Dean, and there was never someone who deserved it more, so of course somebody will.

But it will never be him again.)

An untethered broken sound escapes his throat, and Cas winces, faking a cough with it.

That makes the blood gush.

“Oh, also — wait. Just a second.” He interrupts himself, and probably covers the mic with a his palm before yelling blurrily to someone near him.

(Or perhaps it’s not supposed to be blurry. Castiel wouldn’t know. He can hardly make out his own breathing. It’s a feat that he can make out the conversation, even if most of it is instinct memory, and all he’s doing is holding onto Dean for as long as he’s got.)

When Dean returns, he sounds rushed. “Dude, that dick who yelled at Ash, remember? He’s back. Garth went this time, 'cause douchebag brought a Sedan.”

Castiel swallows again, and vaguely registers that it tastes like metal. Almost like there’s blood mixed with saliva.

“I should probably go too. Garth wears on you.”

“Of course.” He croaks, and slips — fuck, he slips — but for once, thank god for oversensitive customers and boyfriends with likeable personalities, because Dean’s conversing off the phone again, his hand on the speaker.

“I’ll call you back, babe.” Dean comes back to hurriedly add, and Cas sucks in a painful breath, slowly beginning to feel like the only thing keeping him conscious any more is the sensation of air in his lungs, in his mouth, in the back of his throat. “Still have to ask what you even called about, you know. Or maybe if you just missed me.” He beams, he obviously beams, and Cas stifles a groan.

“I do.” He wheezes. “I —”

“Me too.” Dean returns, flirty, and Cas goes to add — because he has to, because he’s not going to make it, he’s not going to be able to hold on until Dean returns, and he has to — but there’s a click.

Castiel stares at the screen, devastated.

(Or tries to, anyway.)

“I love you.” He cries out, aware that the line’s cut, but needing to hear himself say it anyway. Plus, his head feels too numb to keep words inside anymore. It’s less a prison of thoughts, and more a wide canyon of loss.

More tears fall.

His heart is beating faster than it ever has.

“I love —” His voice trembles hoarsely, tries again, and fails. His throat refuses to comply with the plethora of things there still remain to be said.

(In more ways than one, it’s like being injected with anaesthesia before a surgery — Castiel was operated on for tonsils at age eleven — and it finally sinking in, and knocking you out, as the doctor says to count to ten, and you hardly graze six.)

His hands clutch the phone tighter, neck rendering him incapable of looking anymore, so he has no idea what his thumbs are trying to do — but it doesn’t matter, not really, because this is it. Completely alone, undesiring, and desperately in love with Dean Winchester above all, Castiel closes his eyes for the very last time.

And everything fades to blackness.

*

When they find him, it’s been at least eight hours.

It’s night.

('Might have been saved,’ the forensic expert deduces, shaking his head in sympathy. 'He didn’t die on impact. Probably even half-conscious for a few minutes, and then fully unconscious for longer.

His colleague sighs. 'Maybe if somebody had found him sooner.’)

And outside, the suited official stuck with the unfortunate responsibility of calling the next of kin, fishes out the wallet and steps away to dial his emergency contact with a crinkled brow of sympathy. And as he waits for the poor guy, a Dean Winchester, to pick up, he can’t help but note that his number is exactly the one the last text almost typed on the victim’s phone had been about to be sent to — clutched in his hand, poetically heartbreaking, an unnerving, ’I lov’.

B: how dare ;_;  and it was even ME who gAVE YOU THAT IDEA HOW D A R E

[xojo]

Do you think Jimmy had a running monologue in Cas’s head like “Shove Dean against the wall. Just do it. Trust me, he’ll like it.”

i think it would be more like this

[xojo]

Also consider -

[xojo]

Cas & Dean sneaking around and being #cutemarrieds

[xojo]

“Of Souls and Grace" 

This was an adventure. Turned out different, but better than expected. Also thanks to all the new watchers! This one goes out to you~.

[xojo]

thank you @bluefirecas for everything! (click for better quality)

[xojo]

[xojo]

jimmy when he finds out the gay angel let lucifer possess his christian body

[xojo]

Our World. Dedicated to @bluefirecas <3 (click for better quality)

[xojo]

Nooo, don't explode. You're too smol n adorable ahaha :)))

@xojo now knows how short I am irl and she keeps bullying me about it. She will die in 7 days.

[xojo]

My first graphic!

Thank you @bluefirecas, for helping literally every step of the way <3

[xojo]

heroes fight, and heroes fall, and heroes hope.