#spn posting

[lazarrusrising]

Dean should have done more of those elder siblingisms like each time Sam disagrees with him he should have whipped out the "well I don't have to listen to a guy we found as a baby in a dumpster behind a Denny's in Wisconsin" or "that's rich coming from someone who was a toad until that witch made you a real boy" and grown ass man Sam would immediately revert to ten year old Sam and be like "THAT DIDN'T HAPPEN"

[enochianwardingsigil]

[entropyofnuance]

Dean: lol Cas is such a silly nerdy angel

Everyone else: dear god Castiel is heavenly wrath personified. He is filled with bloodlust and has killed more of his brethren than any angel who came before him. He can kill you before you even know you’re dead or he can torture you so effectively you forget your own name. He is the most deadliest soldier heaven has ever produced, even when his grace has been stripped from him and he is left as nothing but a human. Those who have tried to control him have paid dearly for their hubris. No one can keep him dead, not even God himself

Dean: lmao Cas come watch a cowboy movie with me in our matching cowboy hats

[saltcirclesigil]

Peak Castiel character design in fanarts is when they give him the slanted closed eyes, eye bags, and blocky eyebrows combo (feat a really bad artists rendition)

[neitherofusideal]

[violained]

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you pick up a drunk dean. he thinks you're everything. 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: gn!reader. fluff. slight angst. drunk!dean. he's soooo hopelessly in love with reader. accidental confession. requited feelings. mentions of alcohol and brief descriptions of a bar. close proximity, touching.

masterlist.

"are you an angel?"

dean is watching you with glassy eyes; vision blurry and feeling very drunk from five too many beers. he blinks at you, lashes fluttering, as you stand before him and the golden bar lights illuminate you from above.

the world is swimming just a little and his head gives a small tilt as you shake yours at him, looking much too concerned for his liking. there's a pinch to your brow, and your fingers find his sleeve of leather.

"it's me," you say, voice soft and then booming in his ears. everything is quiet and then loud, quiet again. until your fingers hook beneath his chin to make him meet your searching gaze, and it's all narrowed down to you.

and you are an angel.

"let's go back, dean," you murmur, helping him out of his stool. his boots scuff against the floor, and he takes your hand happily once your grip on his sleeve lessens. "you wanna go home?"

his brows furrow, because he thinks he already is. you are.

you are home; safe and warm and all that he ever needs. and you're here, with him. his glittering green eyes flit over your features, pink lips slightly parted as he lets out a soft breath. his hand lands gently on your arm as he stands.

"you came to get me?"

"'course, de. you feel okay?"

he nods. a second of silence and a bob of his throat. "m'drunk, pretty."

pretty.

"i know you are, tough guy. come on."

heat stews beneath your cheeks and with his hand in yours, you begin to weave through the crowds of people occupying the bar. dean stumbles slightly behind you, towering and flushed and looking a little like a lost puppy as he follows at your heel.

and he called you pretty. there's a part of him that really thinks so. maybe all of him, you hope.

the cool air outside hits you in a refreshing wave. dean squeezes at your hand gently and tugs you a little closer, walking in slower steps than usual as you head for the impala.

"sweetheart," he breathes from beside you. "i like holding your hand."

your heart pangs and you force yourself to keep your focus ahead. "is that so?"

he hums, still watching you. his teeth dig into the plush of his bottom lip and he leans down to press his forehead to your temple. a swarm of something warm and erratic flutters about your stomach, and the feeling almost keels you over.

your feet still and you turn to look at him once he lifts his head.

"y'smell good," he whispers, eyes half-lidded and boring into yours. his hands find your waist slowly, gently. you let them. "i like that you're here."

you ache. tender and melancholy, because you've always wished to hear his words. but not like this. not when you're unsure that he even means them at all.

"don't like being alone," he continues, so close that his nose nearly brushes yours. his breath smells like bourbon, but you don't care at all. "m'gonna- i like... you."

don't like being alone.

i like you.

you reach up to cup his face gently between your palms, and he leans greedily into the touch, cheeks a little rosy now from the cold. his eyes shine a little more than before, under the moon's silver.

"dean-"

"love that. when you say my name," his voice is so quiet, low and vulnerable. "your voice s'nice. safe."

his eyes close, dark lashes kiss his cheekbones as he nuzzles against your hands and presses on, forehead bumping yours.

everything is hot, despite the air. your cheeks and hands and face, it's all warm. and there's something golden blooming inside of you, an ache in your chest and a swell of your heart.

he won't remember in the morning, you think. so you'll say it just once.

"love you," your voice is barely a breath, but dean catches it. his brows pinch, eyelids fluttering open. he's staring at something within you that is usually guarded and secure. "very much. let's leave, okay?"

he's quiet and unmoving. a moment passes, and then several. before he straightens with a hesitant slowness and nods, hands smoothing up your waist before he lets go.

his touch lingers and brands into your skin, and that allows you to pretend it's still there. that this was all real and sober and for you. that he really does think you're pretty and an angel.

that you're his home.

you are.

and he'll most definitely remember in the morning.

[reallyunluckyrunaway]

The crossover would go crazy

TFW walked so they could run...

[rotinthebrain]

no drawings so take some winchester pups!