pineappledean:

doctorweasley:

enochianrage:

deductism:

profoundlyunbound:

supermishamiga:

THIS!

#headcanon: they’ve kissed #it was almost the end of the world and they had nothing left so they kissed #but then it wasn’t the end of the world #and it all worked out for the most part because they’re still standing #and now it’s awkward

It happens in front of the Impala, outside Bobby’s, on an evening that’s not particularly special.

Dean’s leaning against the warm hood, sweat bead trickling down his jawline and the tip of his beer bottle encased around his lips. He’s alone, swallowing down humidity and dread, trying to pretend that it’s just a night like any other.

The gentle flutter of wings doesn’t surprise him, nor does the heat that radiates off of the new arrival. He doesn’t say anything, and neither does Dean. Dean glugs down the last, dry dregs of his beer and throws the bottle across the yard, listening to dull tinkling of glass shattering.

He turns his head, just slightly, to look at Cas. He’s all open-eyes and penetrating gazes, watching Dean solidly, staring at him like he’s a fucking revelation. It’s unnerving and exciting all at once.

“End of the world,” Dean says, more quietly and tenderly than intended, “What do you want to do?”

Castiel doesn’t say, but Dean can see his answer in the way his blue eyes flicker downwards towards his lips. They stay there, and Dean’s parts his mouth, watching as they flutter. Dean has no reason to hold back, and he’s lightheaded and fuck, he doesn’t show it, but he’s filled with this ridiculous need to pay back Cas for everything.

He’s not going to get another chance.

So he leans forwards, gaze darting between Cas’s lips and eyes, watching for uncertainty. There’s none, so he closes the distance and their lips brush together. He breathes in for a second, trying to mark it all to memory. Cas’s smell, his presence, his warmth. And then he pushes forwards, capturing Castiel’s top lip between his.

Dean lifts his hands, cups Castiel’s neck, and changes their positions, capturing the angel’s plump bottom lips between his instead. He doesn’t want to pull away. If he pulls away, he’ll lose him, he’ll lose everything.

But he does anyway, because he’s Dean Winchester, and Dean Winchester can’t have what he wants. He presses his forehead against Cas’s, fingertips digging into the prickly warmth of his neck, and an uneasy smile twitches around his mouth.

“Thank you,” Cas whispers, blue eyes striped with his thick eyelashes.

Dean swallows and pulls back his hands, his face, and his composure. He’s solid, firm Dean Winchester again.

“You’re welcome.”

-

Sam’s gone.

Dean won’t admit it, but – curled up on Lisa’s sofa in a ball, whiskey bottle pressed to his chest – the only thing that brings him comfort is the memory of soft, angelic lips on his.

#and you cry and your tears are man shaped blobs of angst and leather jackets #and you sob and your sobs are trench coats and wings

I cry and it’s like Niagara falls on my face.

#headcanon accepted!