Around the age of seven is when I actually started to ~notice~ my face. I have a mole dead-center, under my bottom lip. I was so self-conscious about it, I was close to tears because, hello, there is this thing on my face. So, to soothe me, my mother said ‘You know the story that freckles are angel kisses? Well, that is not true. It is moles. That is why everyone has only a few, or even one. That is why they are special.’
Sam: Freckles are angel kisses.
Dean: Yeah, Ok, enough with the chick-flick shit, Sam.
Castiel: Hello, Dean.
Sam and Dean: DIFJAPIFJSIDJFODIJF!!
Dean: Uh… Hey… Cas… Remember that talk about personal space?
Castiel: Also, it is not freckles that are angel kisses. It is moles.
Sam: So I guess that massive mole that showed up on your ass last week is a kiss from Castiel. Or something.
Dean: Shut the hell up, bitch.
Sam: Jerk.angel kisses castiel dean sam spn supernatural my art
spn supernatural castiel dean winchester team free will monty python and the holy grail sam winchester my art ?
CASTIEL: Dean Winchester! Dean, Best hunter of demons! Oh, don't grovel! If there's one thing I can't stand, it's people groveling.
DEAN WINCHESTER: Sorry--
CASTIEL: And don't apologize. Every time I try to talk to someone it's "sorry this" and "forgive me that" and "I'm not worthy". What are you doing now!?
DEAN WINCHESTER: I'm averting my eyes, oh Lord Castiel.
CASTIEL: Well, don't. It's like those miserable Psalms-- they're so depressing. Now knock it off!
DEAN WINCHESTER: Yes, Lord Castiel.
CASTIEL: Right! Dean, Best hunter of demons -- You, your moose of a brother and the old drunkard shall have a task to make them an example in these dark times.
mary, john, ellen, jo, ash, gabriel, adam, cas, rufus
now they’re gonna take bobby?
They are killing everyone off because they know this is it. They are in the FRIDAY NIGHT DEATH SLOT. Might as well stick it true to the name by killing off every character we love one by one.
Well excuse me while I cry Supernatural SPN
“Check this out.” Sam turns the laptop toward Cas, who blinks at it curiously. “The ESO’s got some incredible photos. They just uploaded a series of open clusters, and some of them are mind-blowing.”
Dean snorts from the bed, the remote control pointed at the TV like a weapon. Fifty channels, plus free HBO, and nothing’s on? How is that even possible? “You wanna show him mind-blowing? Look in my bookmarks under ‘pole dancing championship’.”
There is a moment of silence, tense enough that even Dean manages to tear his eyes away from what must be Telemundo. They’re speaking Spanish and just broke out into a dance routine. This is why the American media sucks.
“Cas? Dude, you okay?”
“This image,” Cas says quietly, eyes clouded with weariness and a thousand sleepless nights. Adapting to the routines of humanity hasn’t been kind to him. “It’s —”
“It’s…” Sam cranes his neck and squints at the monitor. “The Pleiades. Probably the most recognizable cluster there is.”
“Why do you even know that? No, seriously, how does that shit affect our lives at all?”
“Shut the hell up, Dean.”
Cas stares at the screen, eyes soft, lashes dipping with what can only be pain. He reaches out to touch — something Sam’s yelled at him for doing countless times — and gently places his fingertips upon it, treating it like the most precious gift he’s ever received. And it might be. The Winchesters have never been much for gift-giving, which is a shitty life to introduce Cas into. Normal people get gifts all the time. The last thing Dean gave him was a stick of gum.
Dean rolls out of bed and pads over, resting an arm carelessly over the back of Cas’s shoulders. “Say again?”
“Sandalphon, my old general,” Cas says, tilting his head. “This is… She was a brilliant tactician. She led the first battalion against Lucifer during the First War.”
Sam exhales softly. “What happened?”
“She… decided that Lucifer’s way was right. She Fell.”
An awkward silence stretches between them, an eternity before Sam clicks on the next picture. Cas expels a breath like it physically hurts him to hold it in.
They go through maybe forty pictures of open clusters, which Dean still really doesn’t understand, Cas naming each of them as a brother or sister — “Penemue, Amaros, Arkas, Kochab…” — before they come to an image that is, admittedly, breathtaking. Dean lets out a low whistle and nudges Cas’s neck with his arm, fingers brushing the worn fabric of Dean’s old ACDC shirt, a bit too big over Cas’s thin shoulders.
“That one fucking rocks,” he says, and nudges Cas again. “Who’s that?”
Cas sucks in a shuddering breath and leans to rest his head on Dean’s stomach, fingers reaching out once more for the monitor.
Nothing I ever do again will be this impressive. 2000+ notes. I love you all. <3