60: If you could change just one thing about the series, what would it be?
my first thought was “dean and cas WOULD BE DOING THE DO, but honestly i think i would change the relationship between dean and sam, i would try to make them grow out of their codependency, especially dean..61: If you were at a Con, what would be a question you would ask?(can be any of the actors)
i haven’t thought about it but i would prefer to ask a question about maybe spn females in general to one of the writers, than ask the actors anything. the only thing i would wanna talk about with one of the actors is the issue of dean’s sexuality but that couldn’t be done at a con for obvious reasons. but if i could talk to jensen ackles, i would wanna know his opinion about that and if his thoughts affect the way he plays that character.62: Why did you start watching Supernatural?
i marathoned all 7 seasons right after season 7 ended and joined the fandom during that summer63: What’s your opinion on Sam/Crowley?
i think there are too many ships for which my opinion is rather neutral, this is one of those ships lol64: What’s your biggest fear for season 9?
that there will be zero character development for dean this time.65: What’s your favorite (or at least a memorable) pop culture reference that has been made on the show?
The fact that we got Jewel Staite as a guest star playing a character under the alias name Amy Pond :’) people should be more xcited about that. it was awesome. <366: Just a random confession you have regarding the show/Asker makes up their own question.
random confession? ok don’t hate me but i don't particularly like Garth
It takes exactly two mugs of eggnog and three kisses under the mistletoe for Dean to realize that Christmas turns him into a huge sap. He sits on the couch in the den, having long since melted into its cushions, and smiles as Cas covers their bare feet with a second fleece blanket. The moment is almost too perfect, really—with the stockings and tree and Cas’s somehow-always-cold fingers fitted between his own—so much so that, if he weren’t so afraid of losing the moment altogether, he would pinch himself just to make sure the whole thing wasn’t a dream.
"Where’d you go?"
Cas’s voice is quietly curious, gravelly from disuse, and the part of Dean’s brain currently flooded with bourbon takes a moment to fully appreciate the different ways in which it turns him on.
"I’m right here," is Dean’s eventual reply, and he wonders if that had sounded half as poetic as he’d meant it to.
Cas chuckles—a soft sound that Dean thinks could replace lullabies everywhere—and squeezes Dean’s hand, “I know you’re here, Dean, but where’d you go?”
Dean furrows his eyebrows; glancing up from where his head rests on Cas’s shoulder just long enough to give him a questioning look, “Did you even hear that sentence, Cas?”
"You knew what I meant," Cas rolls his eyes, a soft smirk on his face, and Dean figures that the sass probably would have been annoying if Cas hadn’t have kissed his forehead directly afterwards.
"Fine," Dean sighs, returning his head to Cas’s shoulder a bit faster than necessary (which in no way has anything to do with the fact that he’d blushed, of course), "I was thinking about some of the other Christmases that I’ve had. I mean hell, most of them time, Sam and I didn’t even celebrate it."
"There was this one year, though," he chuckles, "I was feeling pretty shitty about not celebrating the last Christmas before my big trip downstairs," Cas quietly kisses the top of Dean’s head here, a silent I’m Sorry pressed softly into his hair, and Dean has to tell himself that it’s just the alcohol making him emotional as a lump forms in his throat, “and anyway, that night Sam decorated the shitty motel room we were staying in with all of these even shittier, gas station-bought decorations. I mean, there was this tiny pine tree, hell, I don’t even know where he found it. Probably just ripped it out of the ground with his superhuman moose strength or something, I don’t know, but it had all of these fishing lures and car fresheners on it and dammit if it didn’t beat every fancy department store Christmas tree out there.”
Dean smiles fondly as he stares at their intertwined fingers, the memory of that Christmas sitting warmly somewhere inside his chest. He’d held onto that story for so many years—just boxing it up and hiding it away, saving it for the particularly bad days; afraid that if he shared it with someone, that he would somehow ruin one of his happiest memories. He breathes easier now that he’s allowed himself to talk about it—now that he has more happy memories and less bad days to worry about.
"Well—" Cas starts, but Dean cuts him off.
"Wait, I’m not finished yet," he interrupts, and he can feel Cas’s smile against the top of his head, "I was also thinking about this year. I mean, Cas, that Christmas with Sam was supposed to be my last. As in, my last happy memory. My last time breathing easy. My last time smiling and watching a sports game I didn’t care about just so I could sit and be happy with my little brother one more time. I wasn’t supposed to be rescued by an Angel of the Lord or get the chance to save the world or hug Sam or celebrate Christmas ever again. And I mean, I know it’s not over yet, but my life wasn’t supposed to get this fairy tale ending where I sit on a couch and drink eggnog with the same dude who pulled me out of Hell. I just—I was never meant to end up this goddamn happy, you know?”
Dean takes a deep breath as the last words leave his mouth—his chest rising easily with the removal of the second emotional weight of the evening—and he wonders if he’s starting to see why people like pouring their hearts out so much.
"Well," Cas finally says, and his voice sounds slightly strained, "if I’m being totally honest; I can’t really think of anything to say that will live up to either of those stories, so I’m just going to kiss you until one of us needs to breathe again, then I’m going to pick you up and carry you to our room and, hopefully, find someway of showing you just how unbelievably in love with you I am. Sound fair?"
Dean grins—surprisingly happy that the evening hadn’t taken the sappy, tear-filled turn that it had been about to—and tosses a leg across Cas’s lap, “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
And if being a huge sap means staying up until midnight just to say Merry Christmas and get creative with some mistletoe, then Dean and Cas figure they're both pretty damn happy being one.
Castiel has a perverse obsession with Dean's body.
The smattering of freckles across his shoulders, the faint scars that shine white in the darkness, the scrapes from recent fights. He traces them all with his fingertips while Dean snores softly, unaware.
It's cold in the motel room, the broken heater rattling and sputtering as it pushes around more cool air. The bed, though, the bed is warm. Just the two of them under the scratchy blankets, miles and miles of lovely, bare skin generating plenty of heat.
Castiel should probably dislike this more than he does. But the truth is, it's been a long while since he was able to spend so much time with Dean, and now that there's this... this moreness to their relationship, well. He certainly doesn't miss having to share a motel room with Sam.
His hand rises and falls in time with Dean's chest as he draws swirling patterns over the anti-possession tattoo there. He has one himself now, in the same spot above his heart. Dean had insisted once they started hunting together, and held his hand in the tattoo place despite Castiel promising that he was fine, that it wasn't even his first tattoo. But it had been sweet (disregarding the huff from the artist) and a big deal for Dean to make such a public show of affection.
Castiel presses his lips lightly to the ink, his hand sliding down Dean's side to palm his hipbone. His little finger slips under the waistband of his boxers, but Dean doesn't stir.
There's a bruise on Dean's bicep, blue and yellow where it heals. Castiel kisses that too, then drags his lips down the soft skin on the underside of Dean's forearm to his wrist. He tastes salty, earthy. It's familiar despite the fact that they've only been doing this for a few weeks. Castiel thinks it's his favourite flavour of them all.
Dean inhales deeply when Castiel moves up and presses his nose into the dip under his bottom lip. "Freak," he mumbles good-naturedly, tired eyes cracking open. He blinks a couple of times, then grunts when he catches sight of the glowing green digits on the alarm clock. "It's not even four. You'd better be wakin' me up for sex."
Castiel rolls his eyes but doesn't reply, choosing instead to lick lightly in that spot behind Dean's ear that he knows makes his knees go weak. It works. There's a hot puff of breath against his shoulder and Dean whispers his name, hand coming up to fist in the t-shirt Castiel had put on to ward off the chill.
He loves Dean like this. There's something about the early hours of the morning that soften him, make him sleepy and child-like. He's clingier and more gentle, a quiet catch in his voice that isn't there in daylight and carries a hint of vulnerability. He's lovely.
"Roll over," Castiel instructs and Dean winks at him, says, "That's more like it," with a leer.
But that isn't Castiel's plan. Once Dean is on his stomach, forehead resting on his folded arms, Castiel leans over him and kisses the spot between his shoulder blades. His hand rubs Dean's waist in a soothing, circular motion as his mouth maps the vast expanse of warm skin.
"What are you doing?" Dean asks, voice thick and muffled.
"Not having sex with you," Castiel replies and Dean chuckles.
"Smartass."
Castiel gets back to the task in hand. He kisses down Dean's back, fingers following in the wake, over the dips and curves of his spine and the smooth planes of muscle.
When he skips straight past Dean's boxers he gets a small whimper of disappointment from up near the pillows, but ignores it in favour of studying Dean's legs. Bowed they may be, it doesn't stop Castiel from worshipping them also.
The sheets have disappeared, bunched somewhere around their ankles, but the sting of cold has given way to something cosy and comfortable now. Whether the heater has finally started working or it's just the energy between them, Castiel isn't sure.
He starts just below the line of Dean's shorts on his thighs, alternately kneading the flesh of each one until Dean groans in pleasure. When Castiel presses a thumb into the crease of his knee, his lips landing next to it and tonguing gently at the clammy skin there, Dean goes completely limp and boneless beneath him.
"Holy shit, Cas," he breathes, making a noise of complaint when Castiel stops and moves on down his calves to massage his feet.
What's nice is that there's no urgency to it. It's sexual, yes, but only because Castiel is craving the closeness, the intimacy that sex brings. He knows they'll get there eventually, of course, they often do. But for now it's good to just feel. To remind himself that Dean is there; he's breakable but whole, healthy. Quivering and sighing happily under Castiel's careful touch. He's beautiful.
Eventually, in between pleased moans, Dean growls, "Will you get up here, please?"
Castiel ceases his ministrations on Dean's left foot and crawls up the bed, tugging the sheets back over them simultaneously. When he flops down beside Dean he's awarded with a kiss that's deepened immediately. Dean cups his jaw to hold him steady, tongue plundering his mouth sloppily. His every action is loose-limbed and uninhibited and Castiel only clings tighter.
"You," Dean murmurs when they break apart, foreheads touching, "are the fucking best thing to ever happen to me."
He pushes a hand through Castiel's hair, bringing him closer. Castiel smiles, small and easy, and rubs a thumb over Dean's cheek. "Likewise."
i would just like to make a post about the following stuff:
the point is i miss you all so much, talking to you and sending you messages and live-blogging with you and being on here all the time. i miss you like crazy but it's just really important that i take this time off, you know? for myself. for my amber. for my sleep lol.
this is kind of a rambly post but i just wanted to say that i haven't forgotten you and i am on here sometimes and i miss all of you and ugh yeah but well, life goes on.
P.S. If Sam ever sees this, with God as my witness, I will put it and everything else you love through a paper shredder without so much as a second thought. - Dean.
Sam was drunk, drunker than he had been in a long time and why the hell shouldn’t he be? He’d been under a lot of stress lately, and he finally got a fucking break.
Obviously, being drunk wasn’t new to Sam, but his drinking partner had a little less experience in that department, especially since he fell. “You okay, Cas?” Sam asked, his words slightly slurred.
“M’good,” Cas replied, “glad I’m back.”
“Glad to have you back,” Sam replied, clapping him on the shoulder.
“I’m glad you’re alive,” Cas said, placing his hand on his shoulder, “when Dean told me about the trials, I was worried.”
“I’m feeling good, Cas. Don’t worry about me. How are you? I mean the first person you sleep with tries to kill you and then dies. I’m no stranger to that kind of thing, so if you wanna talk about it…”
“I didn’t really care for April, not like I care for Dean.”
Sam nearly spit out his drink and wound up choking on it instead. “What!?”
“I think I’m in love with your brother,” Cas admitted with a sigh, “I think I have been since I pieced him back together. From the second I laid my hand on him in Hell, I was lost,” He recalled Hester’s words. “I don’t think I want to be found.”
“Yup, that’s love,” Sam said. “I always thought there was…something between you two, but it’s not my place to say anything. You should tell him though. But not now. You’re way too drunk for Dean to take it seriously.”
“Thank you, Sam.”
“You’re welcome, Cas. I think we should maybe lay off the booze for a while, don’t you?”
“I think that would be wise.” Cas agreed and they both dissolved into a fit of giggles that only got more intense when Dean came in.
“Dorks,” Dean smiled affectionately at them before leaving again.
