goosechases
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The thing is, he knows. He’s known.
Or: If someone tells you they love you and you don’t say it back, how much worse can a little sleeping with them possibly make things, really?
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So, the first thing that happens is Castiel comes back.
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"Right," Dean says eventually, gruffly. He looks down at his shoes. "I'm not gonna tell you how to live your life, man. It's—you know, yours. Do your thing, love who you love, whatever. I can't really stop you from loving me, if that's what you've decided to do, but I don't—I can't—"
"I know," Castiel murmurs, still just smiling a little, not looking heartbroken at all. "Don't worry about it, Dean, that's all I ask."
"So we're—" Dean risks a glance up, swallowing thickly. "We're good?"
Castiel hums. "We're good."
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While collecting research material for his dissertation on queer aesthetics and desire in the pre-Stonewall era - in a word, old nudes - Castiel comes across a set of photographs irrelevant to his research but very relevant to his own desires. The last thing he expects is to run into the model in those photographs or to find him even more captivating in real life.
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i want to do with you (what spring does with cherry trees) by sobsicles
Fandoms: Supernatural
29 Apr 2021
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Dean keeps going back.
When he arrives, it's always to blooming flowers and a windmill in the background, not too far from a brook, the sun painting the plains.
He likes it there. He likes to stand in front of the makeshift urn and check that it's still where he put it, switching out the flowers when they wilt. He likes to listen to the sound of birds chirping, insects singing, the faint sound of water trickling in the distance. He likes to turn his face up and feel the sun on his skin, wondering if Cas would do the same if he were here, somehow knowing that he would.
He likes to talk.
There's never a response, but Dean feels the breeze rustle through his hair and watches the flowers bob when bees come to them and stares as the windmill keeps turning, turning, turning. And he imagines that Cas is replying—the windmill is the tilted head, the bobbing flowers are a gentle smile, the breeze is whatever words Dean wants to hear at the time.
Sometimes, it's almost like he's there.
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Bookmarked by goosechases
30 Aug 2021
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He wants Yusuf to hold his hand again. Grab his ankle. Flick his ear. Thrust his sword into his chest and breath into his mouth.
Yet, they have the long ocean of eternity ahead of them. These whims are nothing but a swell under their ship: gone as soon as they come. Nicolo knows better than to jump overboard and drown alone trying to chase them.
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Alternate title: "You'd Feel Pretty Weird If You Developed a Crush on the Only Other Immortal You Know, Right?"
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Bookmarked by goosechases
13 Mar 2022