he’s empty. they’re free and he’s empty. he doesn’t want to tell sam, sam with his smile and his hope and his finger pointing directions to eileen’s apartment. but he is, numb and lost and empty and he doesn’t know what to do.
and sure they’re free, and they’ve got a helluva god looking after them, but he still doesn’t feel like this is it. their big win. their big, beat god, settle the score, save the world win. and so, when they park in front of eileen’s, and sam reaches for the handle, dean stills him with a hand on his arm. and sam looks back, goofy smile fading at the emotion dean’s sure is written across his face.
dean clears his throat. he doesn’t know what to say.
sam’s voice breaks the silence.
“dean?”
dean drops his hand, then raises it to touch his left shoulder in an unconcious movement.
“just....just give me a second.”
and sam, being sam, sits. dean can feel the impatience buzzing off of him, but he knows sam will wait.
“it’s...it’s...” he can’t choke out the words
sam fills in the blank.
“cas?”
dean purses his lips, nods, glances to his brother’s too understanding eyes.
“we’ll get him back.”
dean nods again.
“that’s the problem, sammy. i...i’m not sure we will.”
and he feels hot tears on his cheeks and he wants to will them away, push them down, but god dammit, they are free and so dean’s going to allow himself to cry. god knows he deserves it.
under his breath, “fuck.”
sam’s hand smoothes over his back.
“i love ‘im, sammy.”
“i know.”
“we gotta get ‘im back.”
“we will.”
dean steels himself then, gets out of the driver’s seat and moves to the back, let’s sam run inside to reunite with his love. dean curls up, cries into the leather like he did the time they went to the fair and he dropped his ice cream and mom drove him home because he wouldn’t calm down. and he sobs, deep heaving sobs, and now he doesn’t feel so empty, just lost, and he feels sad, and he feels sorrow in his bones and the emotion shivers through him like a thunderstorm and then, it calms, it calms because his eyes are puffy and he can hear the sound of eileen’s front door, and the unintelligible words spoken by his brother to her. and like a prayer, puts his hands under his ear against the seat and he curls his knees into his chest even further and he lets his eyes droop close.
he’s exhausted. war worn. just plain fucking tired.
so he lets his eyes close and he lets his breathing calm and he lets his hands stop shaking and he lets the tendrils of hope uncurl cautiously in his chest. and then he thinks, before sleep takes him,
BLACK SKY, BLUE WORLD, GREEN EYES - masterpost & update
by: tco
[part 5 of the All blessings counted, no countings blessed series]
update: pt 2 out of 4 is now up! Read here!
wip wordcount do far: 9,6k
Special special special thanks for @babybluecas for dealing w me and this thing!!! <3!!!!
Summary: Sentiments are harder to kill than cockroaches. Than Dean. Than God.
This is the Bible 3.0 - written by fingers, on water: Castiel makes laws and worlds from atop of his mountain. Dean puts his best armor on, cuts both ears off, and keeps casting stones. And it's very very cold when they meet in their own little Gethsemane.
tags & warnings: emotional and physical abuse including sexual abuse, unhealthy relationships, stockholm syndrome (trauma bonding), canon typical violence, canon compliant up until 6.22, gender!bending and pregnancy, discourse on pockets, dead dove don’t eat kinda deal
destiel first meetings, deancentric, potential for more story. cas is like barely in this
“death is promised to the bee whose sting protects the colony”
--
he’s 24, it should be gone by now, he needs to grow out of it but god dammit, there it is. a constant looming presence. the fact of the matter is, dean winchester has a severe phobia of wasps, bees—anything that buzzes past him that he can’t identify immediately— and he can’t help it. it’s irrational, he knows it’s irrational, in fact he kind of loves bees, he knows how important they are, how his mom used to love them, and dammit he’s an adult and he needs to get over it already. (it’s kinda why he loves hunting, they’re either in the car (dean keeps his windows rolled up) or out at night sneaking into some monster’s lair)
so it’s decided, dean’s gonna suck it up and find a therapist. he goes with the third one in the phone book, she looks kind (hot), and she specializes in anxiety disorders. dean sets an appointment.
he starts attending weekly, thanking the fraudulent card he carries that he’s not spending real money on this endeavor. his therapist, Lisa, is easy on the eyes, so it helps the sessions feel more palatable. he also ignores how, every time she asks him a question, he feels so vulnerable it hurts. he’s always on the verge of tears there, but he’d never admit it. he’s thankful his dad’s out on a string of solo hunts and he can keep grounded here, at least until he can wean off the sessions.
on a tuesday, dean finds a dead wasp on the windowsill of his motel room. he nearly bolts from the room, but something is keeping him grounded. he takes deep breaths like lisa recommended, he closes his eyes for a moment and just repeats “it’s dead, it’s dead, it can’t hurt you, it’s dead.” when he opens his eyes, and the wasp is still there, he feels a bit better. he doesn’t do anything about it, just cohabitates with it until his thursday session. he tells lisa about it and she quirks her lip up in a half smile. she has a glint in her eye that almost scares him, but after all this time, he trusts her, he honestly does. at the end of their time, she stands and tells dean she’s got homework for him. he almost groans, but he keeps it to himself. she pulls out one of her desk drawers and presents dean with a small mason jar. she places it in his hands and gives him a mission: get the wasp into the jar and bring it with him for next time.
he’s nervous already, but he nods, he wants this to work, he needs this to work.
when he gets back to the motel, he opens the door, peeking at the windowsill to make sure it’s still there before he pulls himself into the room. it takes him an hour of pacing, tears brimming, breaths shallow and panicked, before he finally gets the courage to do it. he grabs a pen from the side table and walks to the window. he holds the open mason jar under the sill, lines his pen up behind the wasp and squeezes his eyes shut as he sweeps his pen across the surface.
when he opens them, the wasp is sitting at the bottom of the jar and dean nearly drops it, but he convinces himself to get the jar top and seals it with frantic, shaky hands. when the wasp is secure, he sets the jar on the sill and collapses into bed. it felt terrible, but he did it. he fucking did it.
on his drive to the practice that week, he puts the wasp in the passenger seat so he can keep an eye on the jar. even carrying the thing is torture as he ascends the stairs to lisa’s office. when he gets to her waiting room, she’s already got her door open and he enters, trying to keep cool as he sets the wasp on the table between them.
she grins like she’s so incredibly proud and dean’s heart swells with it for a moment. she asks him to tell her about the experience, which he does, watching her taking a note here or there, or asking a clarifying question. when he finishes, they only have a little time left, but she asks him to lay down on the couch and close his eyes to relax. he feels her presence by his side. she tells him to keep his eyes closed as she explains what’s going to happen next.
“dean, with your consent, i would love to begin exposure therapy with you. all you’ll have to do today is hold the jar above you and observe the wasp.’
dean nods, his heart beat already quickening. he opens his eyes on her say so and she places the jar gently in his hands. he grounds himself, and then brings the jar above him. the underside of the jar is much more clear than the patterned sides. he can see the wasps body, dull with decay, but a wasp nonetheless. lisa asks him to describe it to her. he does.
when he walks out of her office that day, he feels a bit lighter. he leaves the wasp with her because it’s nearly rotted and she’ll dispose of it properly. when he walks the path back to his car, a bee buzzes by, he flinches, but that’s all. no tears, no running, just a flinch. he grins.
saturday comes and dean decides to go to the farmers market. he hasn't been in a long time, maybe not since he was a kid, but he figures he’ll show off his improvement to himself a little bit. when he gets there, the sun is hot and bright, baking down on the colourful tents out before him. his goal is to walk the whole thing, stopping to smell the roses along the way. it goes pretty well until he goes to pick out a peach for lunch and he spots a bee on it, basking in the sweetness of the fruit. he pulls his hand back fast and keeps his eye on it, his mind going blank with fear and silencing the sounds of everyone around him. suddenly there’s a buzz behind him and he’s running. it’s irrational, he knows it’s irrational, and yet he’s doing it, running back to baby. he makes it almost all the way until his adrenaline wears off a bit. he slows to a walk, but he’s on high alert. suddenly he can see everything. he can see the paper wasps floating above the grass, he can see the bee settling into a bunch of sunflowers, he nearly throws up when he sees one trailing behind a woman's leg, so close it’s nearly touching. he covers his ears, hoping that the loss of one sense will help deescalate the situation. it helps a bit, and when he’s finally at baby’s side and quickly getting in, he takes a breath. he lets himself cry then. head against he steering wheel. he was doing so well but suddenly he feels like he’s back at step one. he failed. his tears don’t let up until his energy is drained from the day. from the heat of the sun, from the rush of adrenaline, from the emotions pouring out of him.
until the next thursday, dean stays in during the day. he doesn’t want to fail again.
he tells lisa as much at their next session. she looks at him with sympathetic eyes. he hates it.
lisa says he is getting better, it just doesn't feel like it because its a process. she smiles. he frowns, trying to grasp that concept. it doesn't feel right to him. the validation, the praise, it feels unwarranted. he closes up a little bit and thats when lisa says it.
“i can prove it to you.”
he quirks an eyebrow at her, dejected face softening into interest.
when the day is over, they have a plan. next week they’ll be meeting at heaven’s hives (dean thinks it sounds more like hell).
-
it’s thursday and dean is driving, white knuckles showing from his grip on his steering wheel. he’s grateful the apiary is just fifteen minutes out of town, it means the anticipation can’t build up (not that it hasn’t been for an entire fucking week). when he turns onto the dusty road with an arch above it baring the apiary’s name and a few carved bees on the poles, he lets himself take in the sounds of the road below him. it’s like white noise, temporarily drowning out his fears.
when he reaches the end of the road, it’s at a small white house surrounded by flowers. he can see some structures out by the side of the home, but he looks resolutely ahead and stalks to the front door. just getting there has his heart racing, there are bees buzzing all around him and he feels himself wanting to crawl out of his skin as he knocks on the door. suddenly, it’s quiet. his thoughts pause as he stares at the man who opened the door in front of him. he’s tall, just a few inches shorter than dean, and broad. his hair is raven black and effortlessly tousled. he has this big gummy smile and his eyes are crinkling up at the sides. his eyes. his eyes are so blue, they look like they could belong in space, planets hanging alone, away from time. he clears his throat finally to say hello. the man, castiel, opens the door further and invites dean in.
lisa is already sitting at the table, drizzling honey into the tea she has in front of her. the first thing dean notices is that the window behind her is open, a soft breeze causing the delicate white cloth to blow into the house. he tries not the let it affect him, but when he takes a seat, he makes sure his back is towards a wall and his eyes can watch the window.
castiel sits next to him and brings him a cup of tea too. he doesn’t drink tea much, but it would feel rude to reject an offer from their host.
castiel reaches across the table to pull the pot of honey from in front of lisa. dean watches her observe the motion, but he’s pulled from her when he hears a low voice beside him.
“dean. lisa has informed me of your situation.” he smiles and keeps dean’s rapt attention. dean is holding his eyes, not looking away. cas breaks it first, and says, “look” with a nod to his hands. dean’s mind would go elsewhere if he weren’t so fucking amped up with anxiety, but he looks. castiel’s left hand is holding the tiny honey pot and his right is stirring the golden sweetness. dean’s mesmerized as castiel’s voice narrates next to him.
“this is honey. it is the product of bee’s hard work. it’s a beautiful thing, dean. pure honey can quite literally last forever. a bee works her entire life to produce this product that will outlast her tenfold, and that’s an understatement.” castiel huffs a small laugh and dean quirks a small smile, still watching the hand stir the honey. “your fear-- dean, look at me,” dean lifts his eyes, “your fear is valid. it is one of the most common phobias across the globe. however, your fear is unfounded. i would sacrifice myself to be stung a thousand times over if it meant we could keep honey. if we could keep the trees and plants that bees pollenate and tend to. even if we could live in a world without bees, i wouldn’t want to, because they are small, and determined, and fuzzy and they are god’s most pure creation.” his eyes sparkle as he’s talking, dean is fighting to hang onto every word instead of drifting into the fantasy that is the man before him. “bees have a stinger to protect their colony. they will die to protect their own. i have a very strong sense that you are much like a bee, dean. i have faith in your abilities to overcome this.”
dean doesn’t realize until it’s too late that he’s crying. tears are falling from his eyes silently, blurring the images of cas and then lisa as he turns his face from them.
not once in all of their sessions did he cry in front of lisa, but now he’s overcome with a tidal wave of emotions and it’s all because castiel (bees)waxed poetic and compared him to his greatest fear. god the analogy hits so close to home it hurts. he finally turns back to the table where castiel and lisa are sitting patiently, waiting.
Hey, do you think rabbits are Dean's favourite animals? 'Cause I just rewatched that episode where Dean lost his memories and it starts with Dean waking up next to a rabbit and looking at it and the first time they fought witches he complained about rabbits getting killed and I can't remember Dean ever saying what his favourite animals are.
i think dean’s favourite animal is fish. it’s very general, but he thinks it’s valid.
dean had a goldfish once. he won it for spelling ‘j e o p a r d y. jeopardy’ and making it the furthest of anyone in his english class spelling bee. he carried it home to their motel room in a little plastic bag and watched the thing the entire time (some guardian angel must have been watching over him when he crossed the street that day and was so enamored by the little orange flicker that he didn’t look both ways). he named the fish ‘baby’ because that’s what his dad called his own most prized possession and he wanted to be just like his daddy. his dad was out on a hunt that day, so dean was watching little sammy and decided to have him and his brother, newly a toddler, walk to the nearest pet shop to pick out a bowl. dean picked a small one and smiled at the cashier and promised their dad was right outside and then walked home, glass fishbowl in one hand, sammy’s little fingers tugging on the other. baby lived for a whole week, dean managed to keep him hidden when daddy came home, but when it came time to leave all over again, he found it under dean’s bed and yelled at him like baby was some sort of evil. baby got flushed away that day. that’s why he loves nemo so much as an adult, it gives him hope that maybe baby is out in the ocean somewhere, having his own adventure.
properly bringing this to attention - my story written for @spnshortstories fic anthology, “Seasons”, is already posted on AO3 for everyone interested to see.
Summary: You take the salt away from a man, you get a salty demon. Salty kinda scientist demon because Dean keeps experimenting with trying to get drunk.
Some fuckers, though, they just have no respect for science.
In the book you can find my piece on page 221,
on AO3 you can find it here :)
If you have a moment to spare, please give it a read, kudo or a comment!
his mouth is pale pink of a desert flower,
words piling up in his throat like countless grains of sand,
only for the select ones to be let through.
*
yes, he's the desert, with his sandy hair, constantly changing face,
and smile so easily lost in.
he stands tall and proud, deeply rooted into the rock bed,
hardly visible to most anyone.
*
he's the desert, thirsty for the gentle touch of rain,
spreading over anything in reach just to protect it
from the unwanted attentions.
*
he's the desert, the soft sand with unyielding backbone,
his mouth the lightest pink of desert flowers, for years not seen,
and his eyes, the eyes of rest and respite,
green, green eyes of cacti and palm trees,
awaiting the rain.
ines k, he’s gentle and silent and everywhere
Dean creations challenge
↳ colour pallete prompt: x
I've started a Supernatural ficlet (I really need to get writing again).
It's basically MomentarilyGoodDad!John, StarryEyedKid!Dean, and filled with Father/Son relationship feels. Because I like making myself weep.
Here's an unedited snippet for anyone who's interested:
“Is this for me?” Dean asked. He looked up at his Dad who was quietly shutting the door behind him. Brown eyes, tired and haggard and warm, focused on Dean with a smile—so rare and bright that it gripped Dean's stomach like a werewolf bite.
“It sure is,” his father said, clapping Dean on the back as the boy turned to look at the bike—sleek and black and just his size. “All for you, buddy.”
He urged Dean forward with a gentle shove and Dean didn't need any more incentive to approach the bike and touch its handlebars. They were chilly, but strong and beautiful and his.
I'm torn between it being rough and all tongue and panting or if it would be a tender moment where there are lingering looks and soft touches. Both wreck me equally.
