“This is interesting,” Sam said, flipping through the pages of the thick book. The pages make a soft shuffling noise as they landed, the creamy paper protesting the landing. Sam, Dean, and Castiel were researching for a case, all of them searching through the old texts. Sam and Castiel were enjoying it, but Dean was huffing and slapping around the pages. Finally, it got to the point that Sam became so annoyed that he took the book away from Dean. Dean sat there, arms folded, stealing glances at Castiel to keep himself preoccupied. Both Castiel and Sam knew not to mention it, Dean was very adamant about his heterosexuality, even more so now that he wasn’t sure of it. “What’s interesting?” Dean asked. “Is it relevant to the case?” Castiel asked, not even looking up from the book. Sam expected nothing less of the angel. Efficiency always. “No, but it’s interesting.” Sam said, smirking slightly. “Nerd.” Dean commented. Sam rolled his eyes. “Listen to this: ‘In some cultures, freckles are considered signs of good luck’” He said. “Well that’s utter bullshit. I’m covered in freckles, but I’m about as lucky as… fuck.” Dean thought for a moment, trying to think of a metaphor and coming up with nothing. “Whatever. Point is, I’m not lucky.” Sam felt his expression change into a smug smile as he read on. “It says: ‘Freckles were considered lucky because they were thought to be angel kisses.’” Dean grinned. “What can I say, I’m irresistible. So, tell me, Cas, who’s been kissin’ me all over? Was it Anna? I bet it was Anna.” Dean looked down his own shirt, checking to see if there were freckles there. When he saw and was satisfied, he lifted the waistband of his pants, checking there too. “Jesus, she didn’t miss anywhere, did she?” Sam looked over at Castiel, finally noticing how red the man was turning. Castiel shook his head, “It wasn’t Anna.” Dean stopped. “God, don’t tell me it was Zachariah. If you tell me it was Zachariah, I’m going to hurl.” “It wasn’t Zachariah.” Castiel said, the blush reaching to the tips of his ears by this point. He was looking at his book pointedly, trying to keep his head ducked so the brunt of his blush would be hidden. “Then who was it? Don’t tell me it was you.” Dean said with a laugh, clearly thinking that was out of the realm of possibility. Castiel didn’t respond though, his jaw just clenching and he turned more red. “Cas?” Dean prompted, awaiting the angel to deny his accusation. “Oh my god.” Sam gasped. “Oh my god it was.” He whispered. Dean shot Sam a murderous look. “No, it wasn’t, obviously. Tell him, Cas.” Castiel swallowed and looked up. “Dean.” “Oh god. You’re joking, right?” Dean said softly, looking intrigued yet terrified. “It… it was me,” Castiel said. “But what you have to understand is-” Castiel was cut off by Dean pressing his lips against Castiel’s. The kiss was chaste, but when the two of them pulled back, Sam couldn’t tell who looked more surprised. They stared at each other for a moment before Castiel grabbed Dean by the collar and pulled him back in for another kiss, this time open-mouthed and passionate, full of emotions neither of them had the guts to say. Dean sighed into the kiss and carded his hands through Castiel’s hair, tugging him even closer. They kissed languidly for a minute longer until Sam got fed up and started making gagging noises. They separated with an unhappy sigh from Castiel and an eye-roll from Dean. “As glad as I am to see that you guys have resolved your sexual tension, I would prefer not to see you sucking face. I am still trying to work on this case.” Sam deadpanned, holding up the book he was reading. Dean stuck out his tongue and grabbed Castiel’s hand, pulling him down the hall in the direction of the bedroom. Before he left though, he said, “You’re just jealous that you don’t have any freckles-” Dean was going to continue making fun of Sam, but Castiel pressed his lips onto Dean’s, efficiently shutting him up. That was the angel, efficiency always. They stumbled to the bedroom tangled up together, leaving Sam scowling alone in the kitchen. As soon as he heard the door click shut, Sam quickly stripped off his shirt, inspecting for freckles. There were none on his chest, and as far as he could see, none on his back. Cautiously he looked in his pants and winced. “CAS! WHY IS THERE A SINGULAR FRECKLE ON MY LEFT BUTT CHEEK.” Sam shouted. “IT’S FROM… Dean stop it. You’re distracting me. No, that’s very nice, but very distracting. Yes, it’s- oh. Oh. That’s… nice… um… mmm… it’s… I-IT’S F-FROM G-GABRIEL.” Castiel answered, voice stuttering. “FROM WHO NOW?”
I know that I already posted the first gif and that the second one has been done by others, but here you go anyway. Have Kwan being very excited to read his goth poetry titled “The Fluffy Clouds All Look Like Footballs” and Sam realizing that she is doomed.
My mother once told me that trauma is like Lord of the Rings. You go through this crazy, life-altering thing that almost kills you (like say having to drop the one ring into Mount Doom), and that thing by definition cannot possibly be understood by someone who hasn’t gone through it. They can sympathize sure, but they’ll never really know, and more than likely they’ll expect you to move on from the thing fairly quickly. And they can’t be blamed, people are just like that, but that’s not how it works.
Some lucky people are like Sam. They can go straight home, get married, have a whole bunch of curly headed Hobbit babies and pick up their gardening right where they left off, content to forget the whole thing and live out their days in peace. Lots of people however, are like Frodo, and they don’t come home the same person they were when they left, and everything is more horrible and more hard then it ever was before. The old wounds sting and the ghost of the weight of the one ring still weighs heavy on their minds, and they don’t fit in at home anymore, so they get on boats go sailing away to the Undying West to look for the sort of peace that can only come from within. Frodos can’t cope, and most of us are Frodos when we start out.
But if we move past the urge to hide or lash out, my mother always told me, we can become Pippin and Merry. They never ignored what had happened to them, but they were malleable and receptive to change. They became civic leaders and great storytellers; they we able to turn all that fear and anger and grief into narratives that others could delight in and learn from, and they used the skills they had learned in battle to protect their homeland. They were fortified by what had happened to them, they wore it like armor and used it to their advantage.
It is our trauma that turns us into guardians, my mother told me, it is suffering that strengthens our skin and softens our hearts, and if we learn to live with the ghosts of what had been done to us, we just may be able to save others from the same fate.