listen i’m never gonna shut up about the look on Cas’ face after Dean said “we don’t leave family behind” because THIS is exactly what Cas has struggled with for so many years. He always gets left behind, either by the angels or by the Winchesters, and he’s never quite felt like he belongs anywhere. But for Dean to straight up tell him that they won’t leave him behind, that they would rather die trying to save him, is such a powerful moment. It was important for Cas to hear that and I hope he keeps getting these affirmations because he desperately needs them.
Dean in "The French Mistake":
Here you've got a pretty good life. Back home the hits been coming since you were six months old. You gotta admit, being a bazillionaire, married to Ruby, the whole package it's no contest.
Sam in "The French Mistake":
We just don't mean the same thing here. I mean we're not even brothers here, man.
Sam in "Regarding Dean":
Just, you know the things we've done, we've had this weight for- forever. Seeing it gone, you looked happy.
Dean in "Regarding Dean":
Look was it nice to drop our baggage? Yeah, maybe. Hell, probably. But it wasn't just the crap that got lost, I mean it was everything. It was us. It was what we do, all of it. So if that's what being happy looks like? I think I'll pass.
i forgot to mention here! the next portion of The Swaingels has been sketched out! i actually just have some intro stuff, filler feature pieces, and cover stuff to work on–and i posted the sketch for the cover with this part, too! (ALSO, if you couldn’t tell, this is based on Jason Manns–this is pretty much how i imagined Station Breaks was formed)
so i have about 60 pages i need to clean up already?? my original goal was to have this finished by nashville, but now i’m keeping my fingers crossed for seattle. i’ve come to the conclusion that with this one i’ll probably try to sell digital versions of it, and have a pretty small physical stock
Sam hasn’t been blackout drunk for a couple of years, not since the night that he got Dean back from demonhood and put away nearly an entire bottle of Jack. That time he woke up face down in his pillows, fully clothed with his dislocated shoulder shooting violent bolts of pain down his spine. This time, he comes to with the sky wheeling white above him, his clothes damp and his knees muddy and twigs and leaves in his hair. He sits up, hauls himself to his feet and staggers forward a dozen yards or so to emerge onto a jogging track, a woman in bright lycra thudding past with headphones in her ears. His legs are bruised and aching and his mind is… fuck, so foggy, a great roiling cloud of nothingness, and he has to stop thinking about that right fucking now if he wants to stay calm. He runs his hands through his hair, dislodging a beetle and a shower of debris, tries to straighten up his clothes. He finds his phone in his pocket, the screen shattered and dead. Great. But the next woman down the track has a guy alongside her, a personal trainer maybe, so Sam steps forward hoping that he won’t intimidate them both away.
“Hey,” he says, hoarse. “Can I – I’m sorry. Can I borrow your phone?”