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deancaspinefest · 8 months

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If Only You Return to Me

Author: arlingtonchamberofgay | Artist: sidewinder

Posting on Tuesday April 9

The world has been saved, yet again, but this time, Dean is forced to carry on without his best friend. His best friend, who loved him. In true Winchester fashion, Dean decides to shove down and bury his feelings about the last words that Cas said to him and the implications thereof, instead burying himself in alcohol, hunting, and stupid ass decisions. After a failed rescue attempt in the Empty, he’s forced to reassess what his life looks like without the angel. Until, one day, a run of the mill hunt goes wrong because of a small bit of rebar. Castiel somehow awakens in the Empty, much to the Shadow’s ever growing annoyance. After making a deal to return to Earth to find Dean in exchange for his grace, Cas finds himself in the same room he last saw the man. He’s devastated to discover that he’s too late, Dean is dead and in Heaven. Dean and Cas are desperate to find their way back to each other, but the universe seems to be working hard to keep them apart.

Keep reading for a sneak preview!

“Hey, I found a case close by, down in Corinth; it’s only a 35 minute drive. What do you say we go check it out?” Sam jumps at Dean’s question, considering they’ve been quietly sitting at the War Room table at their laptops for well over three hours now. Sam sips on a beer while Dean downs his 4th glass of whiskey. When Dean asks Sam about heading out on the case, his words aren’t necessarily slurred but they’re not fully coherent either.

Sam looks at his brother hesitantly. “Don’t you think you should sober up a bit?”

“‘M fine, besides not my first time drinkin a little on a hunt.”

“Have you eaten anything today? Or yesterday? Or the day before, for that matter?”

“Psh, yeah, I had a slice of pizza last night.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And what else?” Sam looks at him expectantly.

“That’s it. That’s all I need.” To emphasize his point, Dean begins pouring himself another glass.

“Dude, besides the fact that it’s noon and you’re about to be on your fifth glass of whiskey, you haven’t eaten an actual meal in days! You look like a goddamn ghost dude.

“Look, I know that something happened before Cas was taken-”

“Don’t you /dare/ say his name.” Dean bites out, his glare piercing into Sam. /Yeah, this is bad./ Sam thinks to himself.

Sam stares at him inquisitively, trying to carefully decide his next words. “Look, whatever happened … you can’t keep beating yourself up over it, okay? Mourning him is perfectly normal, but-” He motions to the bottle and glass in Dean’s hands, “drinking ‘til you’re blind isn’t the way to deal with it. And going on a hunt drunk is just a death wish.”

“Yeah, well maybe I’ve got one,” Dean mutters to himself, but Sam hears it nonetheless. The younger Winchester sighs, gets up from the table, and heads to his room to get his bag ready for the case.

(continue reading on Ao3 on Tuesday April 9)

#destiel #deancas #destiel fic #deancas fic #destiel art #deancas art #pinefest 2024 #pinefest previews #2024 Dean/Cas Pinefest #author: arlingtonchamberofgay #artist: sidewinder #angst with a happy ending #temporary major character death #grief/mourning

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take-it-on-the-run · 6 months

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Bridge Over Troubled Water

Dean Winchester, Reaper!Reader

Dean Winchester didn't want to know what life was going to be like without his brother, and he didn't intend to learn

Word Count: 2.5k

Tags: Suicide attempt, angst, major character death, minor injury, typical cannon violence, angst with a happy ending

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Reaper!Reader

Read it on AO3!

A/N: Simon & Garfunkel title. This has been stewing in my drafts since August, so I'm very happy I was able to finally finish it! This is set around season 5 (Dean is 30 and Sam is 26). PLEASE heed the warnings, and please don't read further if this story will make you uncomfortable. Unbeta'd and every single mistake is mine :)

Dean Winchester Masterlist | Supernatural Masterlist | Main Page Masterlist

Rain clung to a man as he peered over the rails of a bridge he couldn’t name. It was big enough to have a name, he was sure of that, but not big enough for people to be driving by at three in the morning.

His hands wrapped around the steel beams meant to keep cars from tipping over into the rushing waters below. They were cold to the touch, but he didn’t feel that. He could barely place one foot in front of the other, let alone feel anything besides the hollowed-out hole in his chest.

His car was parked just off the side of the road less than half a mile away, keys still in the ignition, lights blaring onto the tree trunks that ran on for as far as the eye could see. There was no one for miles, the only souls accompanying him in those moments being those of the rodents scattering into crooks and crannies to hide from the rain.

A heavy weight shifted in his pocket, nudging against his thigh, reminding him why he was standing alone in the rain. He couldn’t comprehend that in the morning, people would come looking for him, that he would be missed; that he would be mourned. He only knew the pain that was engulfing his very being, pushing him closer and closer to life’s edge.

He wanted to compare it to Hell, but he knew that in Hell he’d at least pay for what he’d done in the form of flames and pure, unimaginable agony, like he’d experienced all those years ago. Here, he could only wallow in the fact that he was alive, and the only person he’d give his life for wasn’t.

The first time he tried to pitch himself over the rails, his foot slipped and his head collided with the metal. Blood trickled down his forehead as he remained on the ground. Any other time, he’d be able to climb anything, anywhere; but now all he could hear was the sound of the river below calling for him.

Join me. It said, beckoning him to his feet once again.

Though he couldn’t see me, I was there watching him as he tried to will himself to take his own life. Standing a mere ten feet from him, leaning on the opposing set of rails, I watched as he clambered upright. In complete honesty, I didn’t know if he’d do it or not. I did, however, know that he wasn’t meant to be there. He was meant to pass in a horrible accident three weeks before at his own hands, leaving his brother the only survivor. His name was in my book, and I was meant to take him to the great hereafter, only to find him standing over his brother’s body.

The man didn’t know it, but his brother was there too, watching him on that bridge. He tried to get his brother to hear his pleas, but he couldn’t, so he turned to me.

He begged me and begged me to not let his brother take his life. This had happened many times since I started my life’s work, people trying to offer me their souls in place of a loved one’s, but my duties remained as they were. I’m a pathway to the afterlife. No more, no less. Never once had I prevented someone from dying, never once had someone slipped between my fingers, and never once had I stuck myself in Earthly affairs.

I leaned into the rails silently, letting the rain fall onto my bare skin. I could imagine how cold it was for him, shivering and bleeding as his world seemed to crumble.

His brother clung to my side, clawing and tearing at my skin as he wailed for me to let his brother live, that his soul should be enough for me to have.

I turned to him and looked into his widened eyes, and all I could do was wonder. Wonder why such a young man was content in his own death, and why he didn’t want his brother to die as he did.

“You Winchesters and your family bond. You know Samuel, there aren’t many people out there who aren’t pissed at the person who killed them.” I said as I acknowledged the youngest Winchester for the first time since he started our conversation.

“He didn’t-” Sam looked to his older brother, still oblivious to my presence, “-my death wasn’t his fault. You got your soul, now you can report back to your big boss and just leave Dean alone, please.”

I turned to him, ready to tell him that my kind didn’t deal in souls, but was interrupted when the click of a handgun made Sam and I turn our heads.

“Are you my reaper?” He asked, matter-of-factually, poorly aiming his pistol in my general direction. I took a step toward him, the rain beginning to fall more violently.

“We both know you’re smart enough than to try and use that on me, Dean,” I said, ignoring his question as I took more steps toward him.

“Answer-” Dean readjusted his slipping grip on the gun, eyes wearily trained at me. “-answer me.”

“I was your reaper, yes,” I answered, closing the distance between us, cool metal pressed against my chest.

His eyes were green and sunken; packed with tears, veins, and blood. His pupils darted around my face expectantly, begging me to do something, make his pain simply go away.

I felt a heavy pang in my chest, that hooked onto my heart and sunk to my feet.

I reached up to his face, gently cupping as I skimmed my fingers over untrimmed facial hair. He flinched as my hand made contact, probably expecting to get ripped from his body.

“Don’t be afraid, Dean. He’s safe.” I said gently. His eyes closed, and he leaned into my palm as he let out a heavy breath.

“He isn’t angry at you. You know, he practically begged me to come stop you.” I smiled, smoothing over the gash on his forehead. The deep cut disappeared as my fingers skimmed over it, offering him some relief.

“It’s not fair-” Dean choked out, coughing as the weather around us began to take its toll on his body. “-Sammy, he’s got a whole life ahead of him. College, a big lawyer job, a normal life. All I’ve got is hunting, and waiting to run into someone sharp enough to finally get me.”

His teeth chattered in his mouth, and the metal against my chest disappeared as he let his arms drop to his sides.

“Big talk coming from someone who’s barely thirty,” I said, watching as Dean pulled away from my hands, and returned to leaning on the rails.

“It’s the-” Dean starts.

“-the life, yes. So I’ve heard from a great number of hunters.” I finished his thought as I joined him on the rails. “Why is it that all of you think your lifespans are so short? Hunters back in, I don’t know,” I wave my hand as I’m trying to come up with the words, “the seventeen hundreds still lived longer than a lot your folk do nowadays.”

He creased his eyebrows, his eyes flickering over my face.

“All I’m saying,” I take a long look at the sun starting to crawl its way over the horizon, “is that ‘the life’ doesn’t have to be your life, Dean. I can’t believe I’m even saying this, but you don’t have to die in some horrific fight that finally puts you down. Hunters have died of old age, you know.”

He looked at me, the freckles on his face more visible now that the rain was calming down, “but Sammy… he deserved his happy ending more than I ever will. He got out. Got a full-ride scholarship to freakin’ Stanford. Had a girl. I didn’t even have the guts to tell him how proud I was. I’d stand outside his dorm room for hours, trying to figure out a way to come see him without Dad, or without him hating me. I shouldn’t have dragged him back into this, and now he’s dead. In my place.”

“It’s the natural order of things, Dean. If not him, then you, and if not you, then some other person had to die that day.”

“But it didn’t have to be Sam. I would’ve gone just the same way as he did, but at least he’d have something dragging him forward, to move on.” He looked at me again with those tired eyes, letting out a sharp breath as his hands clung to the railing again, leaning his torso off halfway.

“Dean,” I said cautiously, watching his knuckles turn white as his heart quickened and eyes shut, “Dean.”

His feet were moving fast, and in one swift moment, he was off the bridge. His body flung over almost effortlessly and catapulted him down to the rocky waters below.

I turned away, expecting him to appear next to me in a moment, but his voice rose through the air instead.

“What…?”

I looked over the railing, only to see Sam was holding his forearms, holding him from his forearms before he could drop.

I turned to the younger Winchester brother, who was solely focused on trying to save his brother’s life, his spectral hands losing their grip the longer he held on.

“Dean, hold on, please. Please, man, just hold on. Don’t give up on me.”

Dean’s head snapped up, looking straight at his brother.

“Sammy?” Dean choked out, his legs starting to kick frantically as if he were trying to walk on air.

“Help me, help me get him up. Please.” Sam turned to me, struggling to hold onto his brother.

I blinked and I was beside him, yanking up on an almost-limp Dean, and throwing him onto the road of the bridge.

Dean lay on the ground, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath. Sam knelt beside him, his eyes filled with remorse.

“I didn’t want to give up on you, Sammy,” Dean whispered, his voice barely audible over the gentle rustle of the damp morning breeze.

Sam’s heart clenched at the sound of his brother’s voice, filled with a mixture of pain and regret. “I know, Dean,” he replied, his voice choked with emotion. “It’s not your fault. You never gave up on me. You took all of dad’s crap, and I mean all of it. The yelling. The hunting. The abuse.”

Dean looked at his brother before he went still, not saying a word as he clutched his chest with pale blue hands. His breaths grew shallower, his body beginning to tremble from the exertion and the cold rain that drenched him throughout the night. Sam glanced around frantically, feeling helpless in the face of his brother’s suffering.

“He needs help. Help him,” Sam said, his voice urgent as he looked up at me, desperation clear in his eyes.

I nodded, my heart heavy with the weight of the situation. “I’ll do what I can,” I replied, my voice solemn. “But I can’t interfere with the natural order of things.”

Sam’s shoulders sagged in defeat, but he refused to give up. “There has to be something you can do,” he pleaded, his voice cracking with emotion. “Please, just help him.”

I hesitated, the pull that the Winchester seemed to have with the universe was something even Death couldn’t withstand; but who was I to interfere? As I looked down at Dean, lying battered and broken on the ground, I could hear the cracking of his ribs drowning out my thoughts.

With a heavy sigh, I knelt beside Sam and Dean, moving Dean’s hands away from his chest with little force. “I’ll do what I can,” I said, my voice softer.

I laid my hands on Dean’s chest, warmth spread through his body, chasing away the chill of the rain and easing his pain. His breaths grew steadier, his trembling subsiding as color started returning to his hands.

Sam looked on in awe, tears welling in his eyes as he watched his brother’s condition improve before his very eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice filled with gratitude.

I nodded, a small smile touching my lips. “Take care of him,” Sam said, his voice barely above a whisper, and I nodded. “He’s gotta lot of fight left in him, and someone has to keep him up and running.”

I chuckled, moving to the side of Sam as I waited for him to pull away from Dean. The two of them sat there in perfect silence, staring into the blankness in front of them. I could barely hear Dean’s breath through the wind that curved between the air around us.

“I have to go, Dean,” Sam said, turning to face them as they both sat on the edge of the empty road.

“I can’t do this without you Sammy, I don’t want to,” Dean said, catching stray tears with the back of his hand. He took his brother into a firm hug; it was as if he was holding him to Earth, and to life itself.

“I love you so much,” Sam said as he rested his head on Dean’s shoulder, Dean taking in a shuddered breath. Sam slowly pulled away from him, and stood beside me, trying his best to smile, “bye, Dean.”

Dean looked up at his brother, nose red and raw from the tears that coated his face, hiccuping as he failed to drown his emotions with a weak smile, not saying a word. He scooted away from the road, sitting himself up against the rails as he watched me and Sam walk down the bridge, and out of view.

I can’t say that I forgot that day, especially when I was called again for Dean. He lay on a hospital bed, his once dirty blonde hair replaced with silver tufts, complemented by wrinkles brought on from years of stories to tell, and different kinds of scars in new places.

He looked just as he did that day on the bridge when he came to stand by me, watching the woman beside him, hair just as gray as his, holding onto his hand. An anti-possession tattoo peaked out from under her long sleeve as she reached over to plant a kiss on his forehead, watching as his heart monitor ran flat. After a few moments of silence, nurses came into the room, looking over Dean’s body as the woman shuffled out of the room and walked through Dean and me with a shudder.

“Hello, Dean,” I said, smiling gently, preparing to lead him out of the room when there was a laugh from behind us. Two hands were placed firmly around Dean before I could realize who it was.

“You ready? We’ve got a lot to catch up on, you know.” Sam said as he pulled away from his brother, the both of them smiling like I’d never seen before.

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dessertbird · 27 days

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Daily Destiel 💙💚

The End. 😭💔😊❤️

#Destiel #deancas #destiel is canon #their love is real #the end #endverse cas #castiel #dean is so happy to get his angel back

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fuck-the-future-dude · 3 months

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on three hours sleep after reading Ninety One Whiskey and the first thing i wanna do in the morning is burst out crying

#they broke me #i am holding on to this fanfic like my life depends on it #supernatural #destiel #dean winchester #castiel #dean #spn #deancas #ao3 #happy ending but it overwhelmed me shit

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kerryweaverlesbian · 11 months

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How do you go from Wanting to Having? I think this transition would be hard on my man Castiel.

I was going to do a cute little nice Cas Returns fic - so convinced, was I, that this would be teeny tiny that I only wrote it out here in a tumblr draft and not on my notes app! Anyway I have no idea how long this is and it is...uh...there's elements of cuteness I'd say, but it's more significantly emotional comfort of mostly Cas, ft selective mutism Dean. (Implied offscreen alcoholism.)

Cas is spat back out at 2am on a Tuesday, staggering hard onto the cold dungeon floor. It's pitch black in there, but with Cas’s angelhood restored (though still patchy) he can see well enough to find the stairs. When he tries the door, it's locked from the outside. As dungeons tend to be.

On pushing it open regardless, he finds that a cabinet had been pushed in front of it too. He's certain a human would have a hard time with it, but he shifts it aside with ease. He maneuvers it softly, aware of the time. Angels are always aware of the time. He felt the 40 years of battle through Hell for Dean's soul, he'd known the year-and-change of fight-and-flight through Purgatory, he'd counted every precious second of Jack's beloved company. The only place time didn't exist was the Empty. Or it didn't, until Cas broke it further.

He hopes, briefly, that those he woke up for aid had made it out as smoothly as him. Meg had, as ever, proved invaluable, and it had been a (tempered) joy to find Anna again. He sends silent thanks to Billie, for Their part in his return; They had been as angry as the role of Death allows that They'd been forced into Chuck's narrative once again, furious enough to value sabotaging his ending over Their objections to letting people back. Castiel had sworn that this would be the last time and Billie had said "Yes. It will." though he's sure they both know it's unlikely to be.

It's been 3 weeks and 5 days since he'd sacrificed himself to save Dean. It's strange; he'd thought since making the deal that if he was stolen away at his moment of happiness, he would fall into despair himself. To be ripped away at the time he found what he so deeply wanted, that would surely have broken him, and left him ready to be subsumed. Instead it had galvanised him. The Empty had made a fatal error; it had forgotten that stored within happiness there is always, always hope. Hope is intrinsic to happiness.

He follows that hope to the cracked open door of Jack's room: he's in there, sleeping, curled around his pillow affectionately. Castiel knows there's a knife under his pillow, but he still sleeps with his back to the door. Cas lets him be. He isn't quite ready to explain his absence in a way that would be kind to his son. He has someone else to talk to first.

Cas stops outside of Dean's bedroom. Light shines out from the cracks around the door, but he can tell through reaching out through the ether that Dean is sleeping. With a touch to the handle the door opens silently, and Cas closes it behind him, equally quiet. Every light in the room is on.

There are significantly more lights than there had been when Cas had last seen it. A cluster of floorlamps clutter the footspace, and every flat surface bares as many of the Men-of-Letters flat-roofed table lamps as it can fit. Even some of Dean's guns had been excised in favor of wiring to attach extra overheads that hang somewhat precariously above Dean's supine body.

Though Dean sleeps, a deep frown mars his brow. He's on his side too, facing the centre of the bed, though his arms cradle a bottle of scotch - opened and hours since spilled on the bedspread. To see him again in such bright light is a privilege. He finds, as he does every time that he has been reuinted with Dean, that he is indeed just as beautiful and vulnerable as he had remembered. Sometimes, near the beginning, he had made himself almost convinced that his feeling was exaggerated, his devotion practical and their connection shallow. Every time he found himself in the same room as Dean, he found himself proven wrong.

Privilege though it might be to see him like this, Castiel also wants to see his frown alliviated. Without regret, he turns his hand in the air, dimming every light to a soft glow. He spreads his hand on the mattress and wills away the wet spot that's crawled under Dean's face. Balancing one knee on the mattress Cas maneuvers the bottle out of Dean's hands, gentle and smooth, then stretches back to put it on the floor since the lights crowd the bedside.

Turning his gaze back to Dean, he finds his efforts were for naught. Without the bottle, Dean's hand has balled into a tight fist, squeezing so strongly that it shakes, and his frown has, if anything, deepened. He must be having a nightmare, though its the quietest Cas has ever seen him in one. Typically he thrashes, shouts, fights against fear even in his sleep. Now he's so still with it he seems almost dead, rigor mortised in his own bed.

Castiel remembers a time, less than a decade ago, when he would watch Dean's nightmares run their course. It wasn't impassivity that stayed his hand, but inertia. It had been an as yet uncured habit to stay out of the affairs of the Earthly, to restrict himself to speech-when-spoken-to. In short; he didn't know he could. Now, he has no such reluctance.

He curls his hand over Dean's left shoulder, a mimic of his print on his right, and slides a tender calmness into him, which finally relaxes Dean's posture. His brow smooths over, his jaw goes slack, and his breathing deepens. He's beautiful.

Then he snaps awake. A hand clamps hard over Cas’s wrist, holding him firmly and frightened eyes catch his in the dimness.

"Cas?" Dean's voice is hushed and croaked, as if he'd been sleeping for a long time.

A gentle irony strikes Cas, that Dean was resting while he was fighting his way home. It makes him smile, and that seems answer enough to Dean. He's grabbed fiercely and pulled into a thick hug, one that would render him breathless if he were a human. He holds Dean right back, deliberately softer. It feels important to be careful with him right now.

"I'm here, Dean. I'm sorry that I-"

Dean shoves Cas back and claps a hand over his mouth. Cas is caught in his serious, troubled gaze, and it takes a moment to interpret the slow shake of Dean's head.

Cas nods, and Dean draws his hand back. "I understand. I won't apologise."

Contrary, Dean huffs and rolls his eyes, as if to say, when do you ever? He doesn't speak. It's more than a little worrying. Not one to go unheard, though, Dean takes one of Cas’s hands in his and laces their fingers together, giving Cas a defiant expression. Cas’s heart catches.

"You don't have to," he makes himself say, "It's alright, Dean. What I said doesn't have to change anything between us. I love you, and that's..."

He was going to say, that's all you need to know, but Dean had rolled his eyes again and pressed a kiss to the back of Cas’s hand. At Cas's trailing off, he smirks, which slides away quickly into indecision. Dean tilts their joined hands back and forth together for a while, clearly thinking something through, and Cas lets him, trying not to squeeze too hard from his mounting, perilous hope. His hope in the Empty had been merely to live. To exist in a world where Dean knew the truth; that he is both lovable and loved. Now he is hurtling towards - something else.

It's funny (in the human, unfunny sense): he'd spent so long tamping down his possible happiness in fear of the Empty that now that it can be accessed freely, the idea of great happiness is a little frightening. What does a world look like where he gets what he wants? It's unimaginable.

He tries to untangle their fingers, at that thought, but Dean holds him fast, both with his grip and with a raised, unimpressed, eyebrow. It seems his attempt at absconding has made Dean's mind up. He reaches past Cas and opens the top drawer of his bedside cabinet, and drops a notebook into Cas’s lap.

The notebook is spiral bound and cheap-looking, its cover merely denoting the word 'Notebook' and its A5 size. The plastic of the cover is rough under Cas’s thumb. It's a far cry from Dean's leather bound hunting journals.

Correctly interpreting Cas’s tactile investigation as cowardliness, Dean impatiently flips it open with one hand to a random page.

You can have it.

That's what it says, all the way across the double page spread. Written over and over again in ball point pen, uncaring for or deliberately defeat of the evenly spaced blue lines meant to corral the written word.

You can have it, and variations thereupon: You can have it, damn it; could have fucking taken me, asshole; what do you think is supposed to make me happy now, you arrogant, stupid son of a bitch?

The me of the last is underlined so harshly that the paper is ripped. This outpouring is repeated on every page but the first, which instead says only, Come back. Those two words have been traced over enough that the message is engraved over the next three pages.

"Dean, I..." Cas begins, then has to stop, overwhelmed.

The magnitude of Dean sharing this work of grief is not lost on him. Perpetually making themselves vulnerable; is that not the story of their relationship? He follows the lines of Come back with his finger until Dean taps his chin up. He's leaned in close, the ends of his hair tickling Castiel's forehead.

He opens his mouth, but this time only manages a click in his throat that Cas thinks is supposed to be the start of his name.

"I understand," Cas says again, because he does. He brings a faintly trembling hand to the back of Dean's neck to keep him from pulling away - and, more, to keep himself from doing the same. "Dean, I never anticipated this. This is frightening to me. My heart is-"

Cas presses Dean's hand, still linked with his, to his chest, showing him the dizzying speed of its beating. Then he laughs, faintly, at having dropped another sentence:

"I think I left all my words in the dungeon."

Dean answers with a swift smile, his gaze radiating pure affection. He brings their hands to his own chest, where his heart beats just as fast. Dean kisses him, then, on his left eyebrow, then the cheek when Cas looks back at him.

"Dean," Cas says, half-warning, half-encouragement when Dean ducks around to kiss the ridge of his ear, and then "Dean..." in a half-moan when his teeth catch his throat.

Undeterred, Dean kisses whatever point of Cas’s face that strikes his fancy, rendering Cas a trembling mess before their lips even connect (which they do only when Cas holds Dean still and kisses him himself. The noise Dean makes is almost a laugh, and Cas will remember it for the rest of his life).

It's only a few minutes, though, before Cas has to stop. He's progressed from trembling to shaking, and the pleasant tingling across his limbs had turned sharply into pins-and-needles.

"I'm sorry," Cas says on an inhale, pulling away from Dean, and clarifies quickly, "I don't think I'm ready for this. It makes me too happy. I'm afraid. I can't lose you again."

Dean is tender with him, brushing Cas’s cheek soothingly with his thumb. His mouth and jaw work, and this time he gets out a "Ss", and then a "Shh".

He keeps on shushing as he wraps Cas back up in a hug, tight enough that all the rattling parts of Cas feel like they're slowly compressed back into his body. Dean breathes deeply and deliberately, and Cas copies him, noticing for the first time the room's stale-sweat-stink, and the familiar scent of second-hand gasoline in Dean's hair. It takes time, but eventually Cas is able to clutch at Dean too, which earns him an extra squeeze around his ribs.

"I love you," Cas says, and it feels too loud for the room, so he whispers it instead, "I love you, Dean."

Dean buries his face into Cas’s shoulder, in what could be charitably imagined as a nod. Neither of them says another word for the whole night.

They're both terrified of what they want to give - terrified of happiness. But in that awful, devestating, harrowing joy is the glimmer of what is going to get them through it: always, always hope.

#destiel #deancas #I'm so fucking tired it's almost 3am i have class later #i needed these words written down though #nov 5th #5.18 #The Truth #is the ending line corny? eh whatever had to end somehow #cawis creates #selectively mute Dean Winchester #angst with a happy ending #fix it fic #spn fix it

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