"dean and cas? together? no they’re just really good friends."

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okay,

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well I

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beg to fuCKING DIFFER

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cas literally said

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that he and dean had a profound bond

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dean looks like he has a boner half the time he’s talking to cas

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and they spend half the show

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having intense eye sex

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AND WHEN CAS CHOSE TO LEAVE DEAN BEHIND DEAN LITERALLY COULD NOT EMOTIONALLY DEAL WITH IT SO HIS BRAIN COMPLETELY REWROTE THE SCENE IN HIS MIND 

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not going to get started on that nice little shoulder touch there

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and to top the fucking icing on the cake of gayness, there’s this scene. 

whICH BY THE WAY IF YOU DIDN’T KNOW THERE WAS A SCRIPT CHANGE. DEAN WAS ORIGINALLY SUPPOSED TO SAY I LOVE YOU. 

"omg no you’re wrong they’re basically brothers ugh whats wrong with you"

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4

"Do…do you think (Y/N) is flirting with Cas or something? Look at his face."

Requested by: @your-average-nerd

This is for yourfriendlyneighborhoodbitch who requested a happy ficlet to cheer her up. I’m not actually sure that this is as happy as I meant it to be, but I hope this helps.

People always comment on Cas’ display of little origami figures that he showcases on the mantel over his fireplace. Everyone who visits always asks him how he learned to make such beautiful creations, and Cas always stammers out that they were actually a gift. That inevitably leads to elbowing about sweet girls that are good with their hands. Cas is shocked that his 93 year old neighbor actually phrases it just like that as she winks at him.

The truth is that Cas doesn’t know who leaves him the little paper figures. He can’t even tell you what the first one was. That’s because he stepped on it in his haste to leave for work one morning, shortly after moving into the neighborhood. It had frightened him at first, but when nothing else happened Cas came to accept the small tokens. 

They aren’t there everyday, but they appear frequently enough that Cas anticipates them, and even finds himself guessing what animal or object the next one will be.

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2

search and destroy; standing between a bullet and a target.

a dark and chaotic fanmix for the perfect weapon.

i. the winter soldier henry jackman // ii. when they come for me linkin park // iii. hysteria muse // iv. night of the hunter 30 seconds to mars // v. sound of madness shinedown // vi. carnivore starset // vii. counting bodies like sheep a perfect circle // viii. mr. self destruct nine inch nails // ix. run boy run woodkid // x. the bird and the worm the used // xi. seven nation army the glitch mob // xii. the ruler and the killer kid cudi // xiii. trenches pop evil // xiv. this ain’t no hymn saint saviour

[ l i s t e n ]

Dean is seated at the dining room table, surrounded by his family and a Thanksgiving spread that would make the Pilgrims green with envy. Sam sits on his right and beside him is Jessica, their fingers interlaced beneath the table. She’s smiling just as big as he is—blond hair cascading over her shoulders and swollen belly— and though her laughter is muted from the outside looking in, it apparently doesn’t lack in contagion. 

John and Mary, albeit a few years older than remembered, sit across from them. Mary is beaming with happiness and adoration, watching on as John and Dean hunch over the table and lock hands for an apparent arm wrestling contest. There’s some silenced name calling among the clapping and laughing but they remain evenly matched for the most part. The two don’t separate until Castiel emerges from the kitchen, balancing a large tray with both hands and playfully rolling his eyes at the domestic display of threatened masculinity. 

Cas places a rather impressive looking turkey in the center of the table and wipes his his hands off against his apron, turning with the intent of going back into the kitchen to retrieve the stuffing but halting once Dean catches his wrist. Dean gives him a little tug and leans up to peck his lips affectionately, smiling into his mouth and probably murmuring something along the lines of, “it looks great, babe,” or some cheesy line about kissing the cook.

"We need to keep moving," Dean says after a long silence, catching a glimpse of another one of Zacariah’s searchlights off in the distance. 

"But Dean—" 

"Let’s go, Sammy," Dean interjects, reluctantly peeling his eyes away from the window just as Castiel tosses his apron over the back of his chair and joins the rest of the family at the table, sitting in the previously vacant seat beside the projected Dean.

After a few more moments of lingering, the two of them head back the way they came. However, it isn’t until they are back in the Impala that Sam speaks up again. 

"What was that?" The younger Winchester asks, peering over at his brother from the passenger’s seat. 

"Heaven," Dean states stoically, green eyes focused on the dark, winding road ahead, "it’s uh…my Heaven." 

The Littlest Winchester (Part 1 of 5)

(Note: I’ve never done mpreg before but my friend has been having a hard time, so I’m doing it for her because she likes mpreg stories and friends do nice things for each other. There will be five parts to this story. Enjoy!)

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Dean realized they weren’t going to be able to hide it much longer when Castiel stretched for a box of convent artifacts and a subtle swelling poked out of his shirt. That was also the day it became all too real.

Angels bred.

They had no gender, of course. They evolved into reproducing among themselves and with humans, they thought, because God abandoned them so long ago that the species would have died out if it didn’t begin to breed. Only the old standard ultraconservative angels still referred to each other as siblings. Most of them grew to realize centuries before that they weren’t, in fact, siblings and many of them paired off into profound bonds.

Profound bonds.

Dean had to chuckle whenever he thought of Castiel describing their relationship that way, conveniently leaving out the fact that a profound bond was the angelic way to describe deep and abiding romantic love. Castiel had been telling Dean “I love you” for years but it all got lost in translation.

"What are you looking at, Dean?" asked Castiel, his voice dragging Dean back to reality.

"Lemme carry that thing," Dean answered as he grabbed the box from the angel.

A head tilt followed, of course. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying a box of artifacts up to the library.”

"Not while you’re knocked up." Stone tablets tugged on Dean’s arms and he knew he was right. He had to keep an eye on Castiel and the … the … baby-thing.

"Knocked up? I don’t understand tha—Ohh.” All of the wheels in Castiel’s mind worked together and understood the odd expression. He trailed after Dean through the labyrinth of the bunker’s basement toward the stairwell. “Dean, I’m not as … delicate as humans, I suppose you could say. Angels wage war and keep life flowing in humanity, all while expecting their fledglings.”

"Yeah, well, they’re not carrying my fledgling,” Dean muttered through the bunker. “I’m supposed to take care of you. It’s what I do. And you’re not that different from pregnant women anyway.”

"How so?"

Lugging the box into the library, Dean kicked a chair out in passing and hoped Castiel would take the hint to sit down. “Number one, I saw you getting weepy at the movie last night.”

"It was a moving story," retorted the angel.

"Uh-huh. Cas, you don’t cry." He shot Castiel a skeptical eye as he dropped the box on a table and pointed at the chair to make him get off his feet. "Number two, you don’t eat but you polished off my whole bag of sour cream and onion chips two days ago, not to mention the snack shelves in the pantry keep coming up empty this week."

"I like the salt taste. It’s simple. Not too many molecules," Castiel said with a bit of an injured look.

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