“When you try your best but you don’t succeed…When you get what you want but not what you need…When you feel so tired but you can’t sleep…stuck in reverse. And the tears come streaming down your face, when you lose something you can’t replace…When you love someone, but it goes to waste. Could it be worse?”
Cas gets, like, weirdly into sweaters when he’s human for good. Dean sort of blames himself. He sent Cas out with a list of groceries one afternoon only Cas apparently wandered into a thrift store “out of curiosity” and came home with six sweaters and exactly none of the things he was actually supposed to buy.
Some of them are okay. The plain blue one looks good on him. One of them is really soft which yeah, all right, Dean can get behind that even if it looks like it was knitted by a blind person. But the others are just varying degrees of awful. The purple sweatshirt with a glittery cartoon raincloud that’s probably been sitting in Goodwill since 1983. The yellow one spotted with bumblebees. The red and white striped chunky knit thing that makes Cas look like Waldo. The fuzzy grey one that makes him look like a koala bear. The slogan ones–oh god, the slogan ones.
Cas loves them. He pulls the cuffs over his hands and rubs his cheek on the shoulder and bundles up in like three at once when the winter chill gets into the bunker. He says he’s “creating his own style”, whatever the hell that means, but to be honest Dean just worries what he’s going to do in the summer when long sleeves aren’t an option. (Sometimes Dean has nightmares about Cas going into a Hot Topic and coming out looking like a 1970s punk rock groupie.)
But whatever, Dean can live with it. If it makes Cas happy, who the hell is he to put the kibosh on that? But then. There’s this time. This one time that Cas comes into the kitchen one morning and he’s not wearing the sparkly cloud sweatshirt or the koala bear fuzz or the multicolored zigzag catastrophe–
–he’s wearing Dean’s hoodie. Dean’s yellow hoodie that he kinda secretly kept from a crazy case what feels like forever ago, and damn seeing Cas all bundled up and soft and warm and comfortable in something that belongs to him just flips this switch somewhere in Dean’s chest and he drops his spatula and strides across the kitchen and Cas is saying something about how he hopes it’s okay he went in Dean’s closet and Dean shuts him up by kissing the ever-loving fuck out of him.
“Oh,” Cas says, breathless, as Dean pushes his hands underneath the layers of hoodie and shirt to run his palms over the hard muscles of Cas’s stomach and sides, “more than okay, then.” He smiles against Dean’s mouth.
Dean laughs, delirious. “You and your fucking sweaters, man.”
Is that it makes you want to explain love a billion different ways.
They make you want to talk about love in the form of simple kisses underneath foliage of trees but also in sprawling metaphors of the universe’s energy and celestial bodies.
They make you want to define love through the the written word, the spoken word, the sung word, the drawn word. And you write a hundred thousand sentences, and you sing their ‘i need you’s, and you immortalize their faces on paper, and you speak in the tongue of the greatest love story that has ever been told.
They make you want to find love in a monstrous world; or in classroom halls, or in warm coffee shops, or in a little house with a garden, or by the ocean or maybe sea.
And the greatest thing, really, is this:
They make you want love to happen. Not even to yourself. But to somebody else.