It was moments like this that Dean loved. The warm, fuzzy feelings he got after he Cas made love. It was that sense of completeness that let him know that Cas was the One. That, and how damn good his Cas looked wearing nothing but his old, worn leather jacket.
What could he say, he was an addict. There was no place he’d rather be than in Sammy Winchester’s dreams. Gabriel had no idea why they filled him with such serenity, maybe it was because of the lack of reality. Probably because he could be close to his Sam.
Michael kept seeing Lucifer’s face from when he threw him from Heaven. He was immersed in self-pity when one of his youngest brothers tugged his robe. Looking up, he came face to face with blue eyes and scruffy black hair. The little Angel smiled, before hugging his big brother tight.
Dean gasped and tightly squeezed his eyes shut at the feeling of Sam swirling his tongue over his anti-possession tattoo. He ached to pleasure his love back, but Sam had tied his hands to the bedpost. Suddenly, he felt his world spin apart, keeping only Sam as his anchor.
The chant of ‘please not be real’ repeated itself in Castiel’s mind before Dean slammed his fist into his already bloodied cheek. One of Lucifer’s tortures. It left Cas sick for hours to see that disgusted look on Dean’s face. But he’d endure anything to see his lover’s face again.
Dean was left alone in the motel room. He didn’t know what to with himself anymore. He knew his feelings of depression were rubbing off on Sammy, and didn’t blame him for going into town. He’d leave too if he could. Anything to forget those clear blue eyes he loved.
He was upset. No. He was goddamn fuming. How dare he?! How dare he jump?! That wasn’t part of the game. The great Sherlock Holmes couldn’t even play his simple game. And he wasn’t going to have that. He was going to pay for soiling the name of Jim Mortiary.
So I’m gonna write these little stories that are only going to be 50 words long or less.
Naturally they’ll all have homoerotic subtext
The worst thing for Sam was the helplessness. He wanted nothing more than to hold his brother and never let go. He didn’t care that the feelings he held for Dean might be wrong. That wasn’t stopping him. What was stopping him was how hard Dean was clutching that trench-coat.
Therapist tried to get me to talk about you today. Talking about it will just make it real. Rather those murders you solved, the running round with you, your fantastic moments be some happy fantasy than that day being real. I couldn’t bear it.
One more miracle? For me? Please?