deancas boyfriends

Hey SPN writers, we just want them to be happy
I’m the type of person to pull late-nighters drawing destiel and not regret it in the morning a single bit.

12.07 Rock Never Dies
  • Dean: Ever thought of mixing things up? This is L.A *gestures to Cas's outfit*
  • Cas: At least I don't look like a lumberjack
  • Dean: *is offended*
  • Dean: *caresses flannel* *whispers* it's okay flanny
  • *Next Day*:
  • Dean: *waltzes in with bad ass black leather jacket, tight black jeans, shades, two layers of clothing*
  • Dean: This is totally me trying to blend in and not impress my bf
Game On.

a vaguely crackish shortfic for @deanismypatronass, loosely based on this post. 

There’s no more war between heaven and hell and things on earth are pretty chill. Cas is human and off doing his own thing, Sam has a date, and Dean’s getting pushed out the door to spend some time in the real world. He’s less than thrilled with how his night started, but more than happy with how it’s going to end.

“This is dumb, Sam,” Dean said for the fifteenth time. “I don’t need to get out.” He exaggerated the term with really big air quotes.

“Too bad, Dean. I already made you a reservation.”

“What kind of place takes reservations?” Dean asked, realizing how stupid that sounded a little too late.

“A nice place,” Sam answered, his words laced with sarcasm. “And maybe this isn’t about you. Maybe I need your sulking, cranky ass out of my hair for a few hours.” He took a step back and looked at his brother. “Here,”  he said, handing him a different tie. “Try this one.”

“Wait a minute,” Dean said, his tie hanging loosely around his neck. “Do you have a date?” Sam didn’t answer.  “Sam. Do you have someone coming over?”

“Shut up and put on your tie. Your reservation’s in two hours and you have an hour and forty-minute drive.”

“An hour and forty-minute drive. Wow, Sam. You really want me far, far away from you and your friend, huh?” Dean said with a smirk.

Sam gave a pained smile and muttered through his teeth. “I should’ve made it in Kansas City.”

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The thing that Dean really loves about Cas is the fact that Cas’s hands are bigger than his. He’s always liked the breadth and warmth of men’s hands, the sureness of grip. He loves the way Cas’s hands encompass his, wholly. He loves the calloused palms and fingertips, and the way they feel rough and real against his skin. He loves their warm weight on the back of his neck while they kiss, on the small of his back when Cas just softly holds him. He loves the way Cas twists their long, thick fingers together across the space of the Impala’s front seat, and he loves the solidity of Cas’s palm reassuring on his thigh under a diner table. He loves the way Cas’s thumbs stroke over his cheekbone, or run back and forth over the scarred hills of his knuckles, before Cas pulls his hand in to kiss the pads of his fingers, his palm. He loves the way Cas’s hands have such strength, to hold down his wrists when they fuck, to wrap around the hilt of his angel blade, to smite, to heal. He loves the way Cas’s hands will find his, always, in the dark, across the expanse of their bed, and they’ll grip him tight, and pull him in, to redemption.