anything and something

if you experience depression, reblog with your opinion on:

  • plain tortilla chips eaten with nothing on them
  • eating cereal by the handful, straight out of the box
  • cold, 4-day old leftovers
  • peanut butter straight out of the jar
  • eating two slices of bread

Castiel is staring again.

It happens every time they’re apart for more than just a couple of hours and, actually, it’s kind of comforting when you get used to it. A routine of sorts - a look that Dean understands to mean Let me check if you’re not injured, enveloped with a squint if he even dares to claim that he’s fine before Cas’s examination is over.

Nowadays, Dean just sits in front of the TV in his room and doesn’t complain about the pair of eyes fixed on his face. It’s not like Sam is there to see and tease them about it. As it is, he doesn’t mind.

“You’ve met another angel today,” Cas says then, out of the blue. That has never happened.

Dean frowns. What? “How do you—”

“The osculation residual.”

“The what?”

Castiel lets out a huff and squints harder. “They left a kiss on you.”

“Nobody kissed me.”

“I don’t mean your kind of kiss. The angel’s feather must have stroked over your skin. It left a mark on you.”

Dean rubs at his cheek but stops when Cas shakes his head. “What now?”

“It’s not something you can remove,” he explains, pausing to search for the right words. “I believe you call them ‘freckles’.”

No way.

“How can you tell, though? I have so many of them, I’d never notice a new one.”

Castiel simply looks at him and tilts his head. “This one’s not mine,” he says like it’s completely obvious—like Dean himself should have known this all along.

He hasn’t. And now he does. And he does not know what to do about it.

Unfinished Zevran scribble, three years post Blight.