*talking to myself in my dark room while Possibility by Lykke Li plays*
No you don’t understand. EVERYTHING is about Destiel.
*talking to myself in my dark room while Possibility by Lykke Li plays*
No you don’t understand. EVERYTHING is about Destiel.
i declare that we are on a 2 monthaversary lockdown for the next 24 hours. so anyway dean and cas got married 2 months ago and this morning they'll be nestled and waking up in their bed to the feeling of warm sun streaming in through their open windows, the smell of fresh coffee already brewing and the soothing murmur of the lake as she rolls on by.
L’s nightly spn time this evening and:
L: Mammmmma I want da one on your writin’ notebook.
Me: ..oh, you mean this one? [pulls out notebook from redbubble with art on the cover by @castyel]
L: Yeah! One where Cas has a moooooostache.
L: YAH. Cas got a beard.
I wish jarpad fans would bully him on Instagram like Lana stans do to her...
deancas because the night amv WHEN
dean & cas 9x10 road trip
the world if we got a destiel kiss
can some body supply me with a destiel line w/o a hook edit i know they exist i know they do. i just need one. SOS
Destiel // The Unabridged Journals Of Sylvia Plath
wishing Dean was real and had a tumblr dot com so he could just go onto the Dean Winchester character analysis tag and get free paralysis-inducing therapy
I finally got around to posting my first work on AO3, and I'm really excited for you guys to read it. It's a post 15x19 finale fix-it in which Dean goes to save Cas from The Empty. It's my own original tale with my own spin on what happens in the actual tv series, and hope you could check it out.
Here's the link, I hope you enjoy it. Chapter one is up now!
(reblogs are appreciated)
literally happiness hit her like a train on a track :/
dean made cas a taylor swift mixtape
flume - bon iver
15x18 looks a little... uh..... different.
Three times Dean Winchester cuts her hair, and one time she cuts someone else's (Girls AU 3+1)
Dean is thirteen the first time she cuts her hair short. For Dean, the worst part wasn’t the haircut. Not really. She felt no real attachment to the clumps of blonde hair falling to the floor. The floor which had turned vaguely blurry through the tears collecting in her eyelashes. It wasn’t the pain either, which throbbed numbly through her skull. It’s not like she hadn’t been in pain before.
No, the worst part was the look on her mother’s face.
Mary stood above her with the scissors, chopping quickly trying to even out the hasty job she’d made of her daughter’s hair. Her face is pale, stern, and she does anything but look Dean in the eyes.
It had been a dumb mistake, really, letting the ghost knock her back against the fireplace in the old manor. Dean had insisted on going with her mother, begged that she was old enough to hold her own.
Evidently, she wasn’t good enough to take the shot, even though training and instinct should have all kicked in.
Mary had brought Dean back to the motel room, waking Sammy up from where she had fallen asleep in front of the tv. She’d bled all over the carpet as she was carried to the bathroom. Probably ruining their security deposit even if they’d have time to attack the stains with bleach before checkout tomorrow. Mary had looked white in the mirror as she inspected the cut, which tore across the front part of Dean’s scalp and clotted her pale hair dark under the flickering lights.
“I’m gonna have to cut it” Dean heard her Mom say against the deepening throb of pain that had her dully picking at her jeans. She nodded glumly, at least there was time for it to grow back a bit before school started back up again.
Mary at first cuts off just enough to get at the wound. It stung with the burn of alcohol and the skin of her head looked shockingly pale once the blood had been wiped away. Mary worked quickly with her needle and thread, one skill of being a housewife which still came in handy, nearly 10 years later.
With the stitches in place the pain finally started to dull (after choking down some ibuprofen, because Mom wouldn’t let Dean share in her whiskey based pain management just yet). Mary meant to move Dean to the bed but Dean, in a rare moment of teenage petulance, brushed her off. Chosing instead to look at her bare head in the mirror.
Dean notices that she has a voyeur, seeing Sam. perched outside the small flickering bathroom. Her sister doesn’t look at her, instead picking at the carpet with tears in her eyes.
“It’s just a haircut Sammy” Dean says, trying to smile against the tension seeping into the room. Sam just shrugs, wiping her nose on the front of her teeshirt.
Dean keeps looking at herself in the mirror. Aside from the wound on her head, the haircut is striking. Her hair’s a short peach fuzz- almost military, like the pictures Mom kept of her Dad’s marine days. But the lack of greasy blonde hair makes her face sharper, more mature. She almost likes it, even though she knows it won’t make her anymore popular in the fall.
“I- “Dean turns to see Sammy staring up at her, glassy eyes still dark with an interrupted sleep. “I almost thought I was gonna lose you Dee- “
Dean looks at her kid sister, who on most days is more likely to ignore her than cry over her, except for tonight.
“Don’t worry kid” Dean says, reaching out to touch the braid falling against Sammy’s shoulder, the braid she put in her little sister’s hair just hours ago. “I won’t ever leave you like that.”
Dean Winchester is 22 when she’s in a shitty motel room. Of course it’s a motel room, when has it not been a motel room?
Sam is gone and has been gone for a few months now. It was Christmas and Sam was still in California. It wasn’t like Dean had expected her home or anything, Why would she? None of them had called the Campbell house ‘home’ since Sam graduated, when it was no longer a convenient address for school paperwork. Sam had called, at least, hitting up Dean’s cell after hanging up with Mom who was still out in Henderson finishing up a case. Dean had planned to meet Mary in Vegas for Christmas, but Mary had decided she didn’t want to drop all her leads just for some holiday that came around every year anyway. She’d be in by New Years at the latest. That, she promised.
Sam hadn’t had much to say on the phone. She’d made a friend, Jessica, who also wasn’t going home, so at least she wasn’t also alone on Christmas.
Dean could hear people in the background, singing Christmas carols, and the cheery voice of a girl asking Samantha when she’d be off the phone so they could eat.
“Go enjoy your dinner Samantha” Dean said, trying to end the call so Sam could go back to her life, even though Dean still desperately wanted to catch up with her sister.
“You’re such a jerk” Sam said, but Dean could hear a smile in her voice. At least that was the same.
“Back at you, bitch”
“Talk to you later.”
“Yeah, later” Dean said, ‘love you’ hanging on her tongue as the phone clicked off.
Dean looked at the hotel room around her, dingy and probably not updated since at least the late 70s. Outside she could see Christmas lights on the swinging ‘vacancy’ sign, but desert everywhere else. Just another normal night in the life of Dean Winchester.
She sat there, without urgency, when a memory of a sign she passed on the way into town resurfaced. On an impulse she was up, out of her seat and in the impala, already shifting gears. Bobby let her keep the car after she fixed it up- having sat in the junkyard for nearly a decade when Mary traded it out for something more practical after John died. Mary was happy for Dean, but she always looks at the car with the same sort of pained look. She was right about the gas mileage though.
Dean pulls into the parking lot of the barber shop. It’s already dark, but only five pm, so the door swings open when she pushes it. A larger man stands behind the counter, frowning at her at first. He gives her a once over, tall, and broad everything, still wearing her dad’s old leather coat. Dean knows she kind of looks like shit, but she hopes it looks at least purposeful.
“I have cash” she says finally, and the barber shrugs and guides her to the chair.
Her hair is darker now than when she was a kid, going from gold to a sort of wheaty blonde. She’s kept it in a low ponytail out of her face since it grew back and was long enough to do so. After that when it got too far down her back she’d just cut the ends herself. Dean really didn’t have much time to care what it looked like these past few years, with helping Sam get into college and holding down the fort while Mom was on hunts.
“Give me a number six” Dean says, pointing to the board on the far wall. Short sides, a little long on top.
The barber cuts her ponytail off in one foul swoop, no turning back now, and tosses it in the trash. It’s long enough she could probably donate it if it weren’t ruined by years of shitty motel shampoo and just enough brushing to get by.
Twenty minutes later the barber holds up a mirror and holds out a hand. Dean digs in her pockets for the cash, but she can’t take her eyes off the mirror. She looks different, but stronger. The sharpness of the haircut seems to match the sharpness of her, well, everything, and for the first time since Sam left, she feels like herself.
The next morning, Dean wakes up in some girl’s apartment. Picking her up had been easy with the new haircut and the new confidence, and she had been fun to dance with in the seedy Vegas club. It was fun, being wanted because she was tall and gruff and a bit rough around the edges, instead of in spite of it. Maybe the haircut was all she needed.
She almost stays for breakfast- almost, but she’s slipping out with a quick peck on the lips. She hates to leave her, in her silk robe and nice apartment, but something in her gut tells her she needs to get back.
Her gut was right, as it usually is, because she walks into her room to find Mary Winchester, staring at the dark tv with a cup of gas station coffee cooling on the countertop.
“Where were you?” Mary asks coolly, not even looking at her daughter.
“I was getting coffee” Dean lies, realizing she hadn’t prepared herself for her mother’s reaction to the hair.
“Since 1am last night?” Mary asks. She turns to look her daughter in the eye.
“And what did you do to your hair?”
Dean scrambles for something a reason, a lie, besides the truth that she likes it.
“I didn’t want it getting in the way on hunts” She says, and even she’s a little convinced by it. Because that’s easier, isn’t it?
“Oh” Mary says, “Well, good then, as long as that’s the reason.”
And the silent other reason sits there, hanging in the air, and Dean tries to forget that she smells like no perfume she’s ever owned.
Dean Winchester is 30 years old when she dies.
Dean Winchester is 30 years old when she comes back to life.
It’s strange coming back to life. Dean would say it’s like being born again, but she doesn’t remember being born the first time, and she’s also pretty sure she didn’t nearly suffocate on dirt the first time either.
Dean pulls herself out of the ground, one fistful of dirt after the other. She sees the sun for what feels like the first time in longer than she’d ever been alive and then there’s a gas station and a blinding screech. She makes it back to civilization and tries to call Sam, no answer.
She calls Bobby and he’s there picking her up (though she can tell he doesn’t believe it’s her).
She makes it to Bobby’s house, and he’s trying to call Sam too.
Sam- who buried her. Sam, who she died for. Sam, who hasn’t talked to Bobby in months.
Dean looks at herself in the mirror in Bobby’s bathroom and her fingers dance over the red hand marred across her shoulder. The handprint is smaller than hers, fitted neatly under where she lays her own palm so that for a moment, it seems like there’s no scar there at all. She looks whole, unnervingly whole. The scars that she’d collected over the years, bites, and burns and bullet holes, all gone, untouched. She wonders, jokingly, if the ‘restoration’ job applies to her virginity. Re-hymenated at 30, that’s what going to hell got her. She presses the pads of her fingers to her scalp, where there used to be a raised scar hiding beneath her hair. Her fingers trail across smooth skin. Whoever it was certainly didn’t miss a spot.
She looks at her hair, in two braids trailing down onto her shoulders, like she used to do for Sam.
Her hair wasn’t braided when she died. Sammy must’ve- Dean tries not to think about it.
She thinks about how she let her hair grow out when she was with Sam once Mom went missing. It was more practical, letting it grow out. She lacked the time to get it cut, and there was something comfortable about letting it get long again, like when Sammy was still a teen and Dean was still someone to look up to, someone to be proud of.
Someone who wasn’t fucking girls and selling her soul to save the sister she couldn’t save the first time around. Someone who wouldn’t let her Mom die like that.
Dean takes a look at the two braids in her hair, and at the knife she’s only recently re-sheathed in the side of her boot.
She’s not that girl anymore, if the wavering memories of fire and pain clouding in at the edges of her thoughts have anything to say about it.
She takes the knife to the edge of the braid, realizing as she begins to saw into the hair that this is a lot more difficult than Mulan makes it look. But still, she keeps sawing, feeling the matted funeral braid go loose in her hands. She lets the first braid drop fully into the sink and the hair falls to about chin length. It’s messy, choppy, but it’s honestly better than Dean expected (perhaps hairstyling is an unexpected perk of resurrection). She takes the knife to the other side, letting the blade that’s cut through more monsters than she could count slide itself against the strands of her hair.
When it’s done, she tosses the two braids into the trash can.
In the living room Bobby looks up at her with a stilted look but doesn’t say a word.
When they meet the angel, Castiel, she is shorter than Dean, with delicate hands wrapped around the knife Dean’s just lodged in her chest.
The angel looks back at her with bright blue eyes and a dark head of hair, cut in a chin length bob that mirrors Dean’s own.
Castiel is eons old when she becomes human.
It's a strange thing being human. There's so much that she had just never considered. Like how people smell, how she smells, being stuck on a greyhound bus to Lebanon for days on end.
She's still in the clothes from the laundromat, but now they're sticking to her like a second skin. Her stomach reminds her it's empty at regular intervals, like she somehow didn't already know. She doesn't want to hate being human, these are in fact the beings she rebelled for…
Well, Dean's the one she rebelled for, and Dean's- she's still hours away. But Cas isn't sure that even once they're together, the distance will feel any closer.
"Cas your hair's a mess"
Cas looks up at Dean, who's staring at her from across the table. She's showered now, and no longer smells like weeks old bus station, but she'll admit she kinda dropped the ball on her hair.
Showering is a process, Cas is learning, with a variety of steps that are supposed to go in an order? She attempted to use Sam's shea moisture shampoo, but quickly realized detangling it would be a lot more work than she was up to. Dealing with her hair wasn't ever a priority, not really. When she took Jamie Novak as a vessel, her hair just sort of stayed fine- her grace took care of maintaining the neat bob like it was the day she came down to earth. Sometimes it had gotten messed up, but with her luck it seemed like she'd die before it became noticeably a problem, and every time she came back her hair sort of reset to ‘manageably not messy’.
The only time she'd had really had to deal with it was when Dean brushed it out for her in Purgatory. In her time alone her hair had gotten long, drooping past her shoulders.
When Naomi pulled had pulled Cas out of purgatory, she apparently had opinions on Castiel's hair, and she showed up with it pulled back into a neat bun that again, her grace always seemed to keep in place.
But without her grace Castiel was rapidly realizing how easy it was for human hair to get disastrous.
"Did you even brush it?" Dean asks? Dean’s own hair she had cut short, apparently while looking for her in purgatory, and in the intervening year she’d kept it that way- high and tight after years of what Sam called “the apocalypse bob”. If anyone was going to be criticizing her hair Cas would’ve expected it to be Sam. Except Sam's well, she's still recovering- so maybe criticizing Cas' hair isn't her first priority.
"I didn't brush it" Cas admits, setting down the reheated burrito she had been focused on digesting.
"I don't know how? I mean I get how to do it I just-"
Dean looks at her for a moment with something just left of pity. Dean keeps giving her that look- like she's some useless child now, when just a week ago she was an angel of the lord, just a week ago she hadn't just cast all her siblings out of heaven- oh god.
"I'll go figure it out" Cas says, moving to leave, to retreat to the bathroom or to the room that's apparently hers now, anywhere where Dean isn't looking at her like that.
"Let me help you" Dean says, standing up.
"Hell, I helped Sammy plenty of times when we were kids, it's no big deal."
So then they're standing in the bathroom together and Dean's got a brush in her hands. Dean hasn't touched her yet, instead inspecting the mess that is her hair. Cas is just looking at herself- all she sees of herself now, just this face, trying not to freak out.
"Ok it looks pretty knotted, but we're gonna try and detangle it ok" Dean says, and Cas just nods.
Dean brings the brush to Cas' head, starting gently trying to undo a section of knots at the nape of Cas' neck.
"This might take a little bit" Dean says. Cas swallows, shutting her eyes to her own face staring back in the mirror. Why does it feel like she can feel the pull of every single hair on her head? Every move with the brush like pinpricks- she's died before as an angel why is this such a big deal? -
"Cas, take a deep breath" Dean's saying, and the hairbrush is no longer in her hair, it's at Dean's side. Cas takes a moment, breathes, and realizes she was breathing way harder than normal.
"I'm sorry Dean- I don’t know why it's such a big deal."
"It's ok Cas" Dean says, raising a comforting hand to Cas' shoulder.
"Ya know when Sammy was like 7 or 8, she hated cutting her hair right? She wanted to be like Rapunzel or something." Dean laughs a little, and Cas feels a smile starting to break across her face.
"But she hated brushing her hair." Dean's eyes drift off, like she's remembering. "Mom hated brushing her air for her, always told her that she was old enough to brush it herself. When Sam let me brush it for her she always cried a little, not as much as when mom brushed it because I tried to go gentle, but she always loved it when it looked nice."
"You were a very good sister Dean" Cas says, because it's all she really knows how to say right now.
"Ha, I guess." Dean looks at Cas again, making eye contact in the mirror. "So why don't we keep trying."
Cas let's Dean try and brush her hair again, and for a few minutes it seems to be going well, but then it just starts to seem like they'll never detangle it. Even the parts that Dean gets looking smooth still look ratty and unwashed, nothing like the smooth slick bun she had for the past year, or even in Purgatory. When Dean brushed her hair in Purgatory it wasn't like this. Maybe she still had some of her grace left, was the difference, and then she could just revel in Dean touching her hair, taking care of her in a way. But Cas can't seem to revel in that now. Instead it just seems like all her human sense are screaming at her, bundled with the guilt of all she's done bundling into what got here her, what got her human. Is she going to have to deal with this for the rest of her life?
"Cas are you ok?" Dean asks again, pausing from the monologue of random topics she had been keeping up to focus herself and try and distract Cas.
"I don't think I can do this Dean."
"Of course you can Cas, we're like, halfway done."
Cas stays silent for a moment before turning around to look Dean in the eyes. She wants to say something, anything, about them. About how she's the reason the angels have fallen, and about how guilty she feels for betraying them, again and again. Betraying their trust. She wants to say she doesn't know how to be human. Doesn't know why she rebelled when now it means not knowing how to take a shower and brushing her fucking hair. But it also means understanding that beef and cheese burritos are really good and being with Dean without the whole of heaven calling after her. She wants to say all this, all this and more, but instead she just looks down at her feet enveloped in borrowed socks and remembers that now she has to breathe.
"I have an idea" Dean says- and Cas looks up finally. Dean's eyes are twinkling and suddenly she's reaching behind Cas into the medicine cabinet.
"Why don't we just cut it?"
"What?" Cas is asking, like this simple solution is somehow the most insane thing either have done when they've both stopped the literal, biblical apocalypse.
"Hey, it's not a bad look" Dean is saying, plugging in her set of clippers and holding them up for Cas to see.
"And if you don't like it you can just grow it out, start fresh." Cas is nodding. She can do this, of course she can do this, just like she can eat and shower and breathe. In fact, she wants to do this.
"I mean, as long as you don't mind matching" Dean says with a smirk, gesturing to her own head.
“I wouldn’t mind that” Cas says flat but meaningfully. Dean looks at her for a moment, then clears her throat.
“Alrighty then” Dean says as the clippers start whirring.
Instead of hesitating, like Cas thinks she would if she were alone, Dean just dives right in to shaving Cas’ head. Around her feet Cas watches her hair fall to the ground in long stripes. Dean cuts it quite short all around. It’s not a professional haircut or anything, but Cas doesn’t complain. She instead feels weightless, one less thing to worry about when it comes to being human.
When the clippers go silent there’s a moment where Dean just stares at Cas in the mirror, her eyes tracing over the newly shorn head of an angel, before locking eyes with Cas.
“You look good Cas” Dean says, and Cas knows if she were still an angel she could count the heartbeats between them, but instead all Cas hears is silence. She wants to say something, doesn’t know what she was going to say.
Dean clears her throat.
“I’m gonna go grab a broom.”
Weeks later, Cas is no longer in the bunker. She’s on her own, she’s human, she’s a gas n’ sip employee. Why Dean kicked her out, she’s really not sure anymore, but seeing her through the window of the convenience store she looks normal, almost happy. At least Cas can could escape.
Why she goes in, Dean doesn’t really know. She sees Cas in her little blue vest, the nametag reading Sheila and Dean almost laughs. There are a million things she wants to say, wants to be sorry for.
“I’ll have some beef jerky and a pack of menthols” Is what comes out instead.
Cas looks at her with that signature squint, cocking her head like she always does and she’s asking, “What are you doing here?” but all Dean can seem to think about is how long Cas’ hair has gotten. It looks soft, a few inches long and starting to curl at the nape of her neck. It finally hits Dean that time has passed, that Cas is human, really human. Full of every fault and emotion that comes with it, the package deal.
There’s so much Dean wants to say, in the tiny Gas n’ Sip in the middle of nowhere, and Dean only knows how to say one thing.
“I thought you might need another haircut.”
Down, down in an earlier round And Sugar, we're going down swinging I'll be your number one with a bullet A loaded god complex, cock it and pull it
I was trying to save my money to buy books on Friday but I have to have this and can't take the chance of it selling out before then
When Dean gets Cas back from the Empty he looks at him just like he did when Cas was revived after the reaper killed him but instead of "Never do that again" he says "Never leave me again."
if you or a writer you know finds it way too easy to write in dean winchester’s pov, you may be entitled to financial compensation