it's finally here, after ages of planning out and resketching, one of my all time favourite characters, with probably the best character arc in the entirety of spn, probably my favourite piece ive done so far.
[no reshares, ONLY reblogs!!]
more of my art processes [digital/trad] here, art requests open.
a small doodle because @prayedtoyou turned twenty-three!
happy birthday, boo. here’s some sawft, happy destiel <3
Sam is minding his own business, happily archiving through their backlog when Dean arrives on the scene. Normally, Sam could just ignore Dean, but Sam knows for a fact that Cas wandered outside twenty minutes ago and Dean is craning his head around, clearly looking for the once-upon-an-angel and Sam doesn’t have time to wait for Dean to ask the obvious question.
“He’s outside.”
Dean looks a little started, then relieved, then bunches his brow up like he’s confused. “Who-- What are you talking about?”
“Dean. You’re looking for Cas. He’s outside. I’m busy, I don’t have time to play Seven Degrees of Denial right now.”
Dean glares at him with depth before striding for the stairs. He calls Sam a bitch on the way out and ruffles his hair and waits on the landing until Sam replies, “Jerk” before going outside.
Cas is a few yards away, crouched in the clearing off to the right of the bunker. His head is bowed and concern stirs in Dean’s chest. Cas has been adjusting remarkably well to life as a human -- sleeping, eating, showering, changing his clothes. He approaches each new task with a sense of curiosity and interest. If Dean were in his place he imagines there would be a lot more anger and whining. But, then again, Cas has been a human before. The only difference this time is that it’s for good.
“Hey,” Dean intones quietly as he ambles up.
Cas doesn’t look back, only acknowledges him with the slightest lift of his head. And then, when Dean sits on the packed earth next to him, with an easy, “Hello Dean.”
Cas is examining his hand, or rather, the minuscule inchworm that is slowly working its way across his finger. Dean watches him watch the insect for a moment, taking in the tilt of Cas’s eyelashes, the bow of his lips. He’s wearing a burgundy, rough-knit sweater and jeans that were once Sam’s and he’s barefoot even in the late March chill. He looks soft at all his edges and familiar and like he belongs. Dean wants to tuck his nose behind his ear, into the mess of his hair, wants to draw him close or tackle him to roll in the just-sprouted dandelions.
Finally, Cas says, “I love this creature.”
Dean’s smile springs wider and he prompts, “Yeah?”
“Yeah. When I... It’s easier to focus, now. Before, I could feel and see and hear everything, it felt like. All the particles that made up the world, all at once. I suppose it would have been skull-shattering, were I human. But now that I am human and lack that awareness, I can hone my attention to singular things.”
“Like an inchworm.”
Cas nods and Dean’s heart lips at the care he takes to lower his finger, allow the tiny bug to make its way to a sheaf of grass. And then that singular attention is on Dean. “Did you need something?” he asks, but it’s not irate or exasperated. Just a question, a desire to be of service if it’s needed.
“No,” Dean answers and he does reach out then, fingers catching the frayed cuff of Cas’s sweater. “I just wanted to be with you.”
Cas’s smile brightens another notch and he takes Dean’s hand, runs his fingers over it to trace the lines of his palm, the faint glow of veins that trail along the inside of his wrists. Dean lets him, watches him, breathes through the hitches in his lungs.
“I love this creature,” Cas repeats, but he’s not talking about any inchworm and his voice is bright for all that it’s nothing more than a rush of air.
“Yeah?” Dean asks, again.
“Yes.” It’s simple and sure and Cas’s eyes are so blue in the rising Spring morning. He cants forward, onto his knees and into Dean’s space. His lips brush Dean’s and they both hold there a long moment, each cradled in the other’s singular attention.
“You want to what?” Gabriel asked, twisting around to look questioningly, and a tad bit incredulously, at the hunter standing in the doorway behind the archangel from his perch on the couch.
Back presses against rusted metal, snagging her hair as she drops to the ground in a low crouch, using it fir balance support as she reloads with weary fingers. Jacket rustles, concealed by pebbles rolling underneath her boots.
Her lungs burn, thighs shaking as she tries to catch her breath. She'd run hard; she isn't exactly sure how she'd made it to cover without taking a blow to the back, in all honesty. The gun in her hand rattles as she shifts her grip; she's gotta move.
Slowly, carefully, she edges her way to the edge of the old shipping container leveling her weapon and launching herself around the corner --
A click sounds behind her, followed by a whistle as she's struck in the back, directly between the shoulder blades.
"Ow --! Goddammit Dean!" She whirls, her own paintball gun leveled at him across the short distance in the abandoned shipping yard. Her mouth twitches, head tilting slightly -- mischevious. "Where the hell did you even come from?"
