deathstiel:

flydestiel:

4.01 // 11.18

ok I reblogged this without saying anything but I looked back on it and fuck ok I have to say something.

Take notice in Dean Winchester, 29 years old. He’s confused and young and hell-bruised, but his eyes are still wide. When he says the name, each full letter tries to piece itself into the next, and all Dean had to figure out the puzzle–could he be a demon? A monster? Something even worse?–was a handprint.

Take notice in Dean Winchester, 37 years old. He’s older and tired, pulled through too much for too long, but his eyes are shining wet and straining with desperation. When he says the name, it’s a three-letter word that’s grounded itself in his heart, wedged a place into his soul where nothing can burn it out. No, it’s more than a word–it’s an anchor, it’s friendship, it’s a dirty trench coat, it’s a dorky smile, it’s gentle hands and deadpan humor and a gravelly voice matched with a pair of knowing blue eyes. It’s low chuckles and innocent quirks of the mouth, it’s life sacrifices and purgatory peach fuzz. It’s unspoken vows and “hey buddy, you okay?” “I need you” “You’re family.”

He gasps the name and his voice breaks because it’s love, it’s a faith nobody’s put in him before. It’s the best friend he’s ever had.

It’s Cas.