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tsadde:

from dreamingstarkly: a fic where dean says nothing but shoves a bunch of flowers in cas’s face

“That’s the problem with Sammy,” John once told his son, fingers loose around a bottle, “he always wants what he can’t have. All this talk about school, about leaving- he’s always wanted out of this. Out of us. Always talked about ‘when this is over.’”

Dean doesn’t know what to do. He is young and impressionable and he nods half-heartedly because he thinks he ought to. “He doesn’t get it, Dean. This- this doesn’t end. It’s never over. There are just some things people like us aren’t meant to have.” 

Dean knows there are two types of pain. The first is the sort his father believed in- the sort of pain that bleeds, the kind that leaves you simmering in a burning home. The second is the sort his father was best at inflicting- the sort of pain that comes in syllables, the kind that makes a home out of the places where your insecurities fester, when the envenomation settles through. There are just some things people like me aren’t meant to have, Dean repeats in the darkness before he falls asleep. His father dealt him a life sentence, and it anchors in him on a hot, lonely night in the backseat of the car.

It anchored, and became him, and that is why he did not run to Castiel after they found each other again. He did not wrap his arms about him, or profess any golden words of love. He did not tell him about the dreams he had of him, or the emptiness in his bed. There are just some things, Dean knew, people like him weren’t meant to have. When he catches Castiel’s focus linger over a couple embracing in Colorado, or when he brushes his fingers across Dean’s palm when they walk too closely, side-by-side, Dean remembers what his father told him. When he wears one of Dean’s shirts like it belongs to him, or falls asleep against his shoulder when they watch Casa Blanca for the third time together on the couch, the phrase becomes his mantra.

There are just some things I’m not meant to have, he thinks to himself, laying in bed. He stretches his arms. He knows the angel would fit. He knows he would settle close to Dean’s side and sigh. Castiel is one of those things. The biggest thing. The only thing.

Castiel kisses him once. They are wet from the rain, holding their jackets over their heads as they run from a bar to the Impala. They laugh, together, out of breath, and Castiel watches him smile. There’s an age behind his expression. There are celestial experiences there that simmer. Dean leans back against the Chevy’s frame and allows himself to be kissed sweetly under a grey sky. None of it is fair. Dean is not allowed this, either.

But Castiel looks disappointed, and for an instant almost angry, when Dean seeks to make it better, assuring him he would’ve kissed Cas back. It was the shock, he lies. He doesn’t want things to get weird,  he says, convincing neither of them. The angel explains that the dampness he wipes away from the corner of his eyes is remnant from the rain.

“I’m not supposed to have you,” Dean almost whispers, breaking the long silence. “I’m just not cut out for these sort of things.” The apology comes with a bitter taste that lingers in his mouth.

A month later, late July, Dean and Sam are working a case, asking a florist a few questions about what sounds like a classic case of witchcraft. The woman is daft with age, her face has wrinkled from smiling. Her soft hands fall over Dean’s when he lays his fake ID on the counter. “I want to give you something,” she tells him, and she does: sunflowers tall enough to reach Dean’s waist. 

“Sunflowers are omens of happiness. Give them to someone that matters,” the old woman says like a slowly drawn plea. “Give them to someone you need.”

 Dean doesn’t subscribe to superstition. But he wraps his hands around the potted flowers and feels through the rest.

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ggghoul:

I recently bought a new camera so I  am giving away my nikon d3100

• you don’t have to follow me
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I will pick the winner on the 27th June, good luck! :)

(via seewhatsinyourheart)