2014!endverse; Castiel finally gives Dean a memento that he’s been holding onto for years, the Samulet.
I’m gonna miss you.
5x17 | 5x21 | 5x03 | 5x04
“Why should I give him a free pass”
“Because it’s Cas”
From Psy - Gentleman (x)
Then let’s make this non-Sherlock fandom thing. Very simple. Ahaha.
First, Majestic prince and his little hobbit
And then Star Trek. Problem solved. :D *laughs like a pretty child*
Number 23 calls him ‘Cas’, and the angel blade clatters to the ground from numb fingers. You have to kill that one yourself, and it takes three other angels to hold Castiel back.
Number 108 kisses him, hard and rough and possessive, and Castiel…
When Castiel dies for the first time, Sam watches Dean grit his teeth and mutter “dumb son of a bitch.” He watches his brother take out his anger in tense, vicious barbs against Zachariah, and then growl out “learned that from my friend Cas” like he’s dedicating Zachariah’s pain to the downed angel.
It’s the first time Cas dies, and the first time Sam wonders just when Dean started to care so much about that angel.
Pull my finger
See? This bit here makes me want to cry. The first thing he does when he sees Sam and Dean is do his little “Pull My Finger” joke. He wanted to try and fix everything and distract them with his little bit of humor. And he laughed at his own joke, all proud and pleased with himself. But here, you can see him getting more and more scared. His joke isn’t working, the angels aren’t laughing. And you can see him becoming more and more terrified. He’s backed into a corner, he can’t look them in the eye, he’s swallowing hard, and that last gif his face goes from confused and worried to begging and terrified. All Castiel’s ever tried to do is fix things for others. He tried to fix Dean, he tried to fix Sam, he tried to fix the world, and even now, when he thinks absolutely nothing of himself, he’s trying to fix things. That’s all he’s ever done, this poor selfless angel. And I want to cry.
This week on: Is this a fanfiction or the real show?
I swear, Dean was about .5 seconds away from actually talking about his feelings for Cas, and in the space of that breath you see him take in the last gif, he suddenly backs out. Too much, too soon.
But maybe later. Maybe the next episode.
…then he just seem scared.
“Hold up, hold up. Sammy, what are you doing?”
Sam pauses by the table, a vase in one hand, a trash bag in the other, expression incredulous. “I’m throwing away these flowers,” he says.
Dean snatches the vase out from Sam’s hands and holds it defensively against his chest. “I don’t think so, buster.”
Sam looks at him, patient. Also exasperated. “Dean, those flowers are dying. You need to get rid of them.”
Dean pokes at the flowers cautiously. They are starting to look a little ragged, he’d admit; the roses are wilting and the daisies are crumbling to dust on their stems.
But all the same, he protectively shields the vase from Sam’s waiting trash bag. “Nope.”
Sam makes a face. “Dean, the roses are rotting. Those flowers stink.”
“There’s nothing wrong with these flowers,” Dean snaps, but Sam just looks at him. “I’m not tossing ‘em out, Sammy. No way.”
Sam wads up the trash bag, rolling his eyes. “They’re only flowers, Dean,” he says, irritated. “If you want to play Martha Stewart does bomb-shelter-chic, we can go buy more.”
Dean shakes his head. “That’s not the point,” he says, gruff, and stops there, because the point isn’t about decorating the bunker, the point is that the flowers came from Cas.
The point is that whenever Dean walks by that vase and sees those sort of pathetic, half-wilted roses, he’s hit with memories: of the look on Cas’s face when he’d seen Dean, suited up and waiting by the door; of the way Cas’s eyes slid down to stare at his own feet; of the tiny half-grin Cas had aimed at the floor.
And each time Dean brushes a fingertip across a velvety petal, he remembers the way Cas had almost bashfully shoved the bouquet at him, saying, “These are for you, Dean.”
And Dean remembers how every last inch of pride had melted straight out of him, remembers feeling a surge of affection so powerful it left him almost lightheaded because it was so obvious that Cas had made such an effort, and all for Dean: his hair so carefully combed to the side, that always-backwards blue tie finally twisted right side round.
He’d tried, damnit, and it was all of a sudden completely beyond Dean’s ability to attempt to crack a joke, or poke fun at him, because the whole thing was just so fucking sweet.
No one’s ever given Dean flowers before. And he’s man enough to admit that he liked it. Except not to Sam - never to Sam.
“The point is, stay the hell away from my flowers,” he snaps at Sam, who holds his hands up in defeat. ”Whatever,” Sam grumbles, and stalks away with air of faint disgust.
When he’s gone Dean sneaks down the hall and into his own room, placing the vase on his nightstand. He carefully fixes the flowers, straightening out the tangle of roses, remembering how his hand brushed against Cas’s when Dean accepted the bouquet.
And Dean remembers above everything else how Cas had looked up from the floor, his whole expression lighting up with a beaming smile Dean had never seen on his face before, after Dean swallowed around the lump in his throat and finally managed to say, quiet and fond and almost hopelessly in love -
“Thanks, Cas. I love them.”