Tag: just lovely

Emoticons and How to Use Them — a Destiel ficlet

naruhearts:

amwritingmeta:

Hey, peeps! I sat down to write some meta yesterday and this came out instead! I hope you’ll enjoy it!

AO3: I need an ao3 account. Sorry, gals and pals, still don’t have one. 
Characters: Dean/Cas/human!Cas, Sam Winchester, glimpse of Rowena
Setting: Sometime in S13, post midseason finale
Category: Total fluffety fluff with heavy duty intimacy and non-explicit smuttiness. First kiss/first time. Honesty. Flirting. Handholding. insecure!Dean. soft!Dean. assertive!Cas. (god all these labels but) I just want them to get to be marshmallows melting in hot chocolate with each other so here’s a cuppa! 🙂 

Taster: Why was Cas winking at him? What the hell was this supposed to mean? Why was he winking at Dean at five-fifteen in the goddamn morning? Had something happened? Was this actually code for him being in real trouble? No. Cas wouldn’t have sent this of all things…

Dean gets a very unclear and confusing text from Cas. Dean doesn’t quite know how to handle it. Flashback fluff included with purchase, as well as general Destiel shenanigans. 

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It was an emoticon that started it all. A fucking emoticon.

Dean woke up and checked his phone and there it was, in a message from Cas, just some random-ass, early-as-all-hell message. It had been sent at five-fifteen in the morning. Five-fifteen. Cas the angel hadn’t slept and yeah, it wouldn’t have surprised Dean to have five random messages sent between midnight and dawn because angel Cas had sent him an Argentinian recipe for chickpea soup once at two forty-five on a Friday night and it had made Dean tap out a furious message in response right then and there, telling Cas the angel to stop fucking messaging him when he’s trying to get a few hours sleep in.

Cas had sulked for five days.

But the soup had turned out to be on this side of awesome, so Dean had kind of had to apologise for going off on one.

“Tell me when it’s okay for me to message you, Dean, and I won’t bother you when it’s an inconvenience,” Cas had said, testily, with that glare of his that could move Dean’s bones around in his body, and Dean had tried a smile, tried to placate, tried to charm.

Even though he knew perfectly well how it never worked on Cas.

“Look, you can text me anytime, alright, if it’s… important.”

“Right,” Cas said, stare not giving an inch, jaw setting. “Life and death is okay, but hold off on sharing interesting tidbits.”

Aw, fuck sake.

“Come on, Cas. It’s not like I’m on a set sleeping schedule here. I don’t know when I’ll get a chance to get some shuteye. It’s not that I don’t want recipes for… soup, it’s just… You know – timing.”

“Timing,” Cas had repeated, suddenly frowning softly, growing thoughtful, and Dean knew that the mood had turned from irritation to a whole new set of questions and that he’d averted a clipped conversation that never really amounted to anything, following the same pattern of unspoken things that they’d had for a few years now, skirting the issue of… something.

That simmering irritation not actually sitting between them like a bright-eyed animal, hoping this was the moment it got to pounce, because of anything to do with “tidbits” and whether it was alright to share them or not. This bright-eyed animal had everything to do with… something else.

So Dean had started texting Cas before going to sleep, simply writing Shuteye, so that Cas would know not to be in touch unless it was actually life or death, and texting him with an emoji sun once he woke up, which he did without thinking and then just got in the habit of, even though at first he thought it was pretty dumb and, honestly, he never was a fan of emojis because who the fuck communicates using pictures when they’re beyond the age of four anyway?

So yeah, the finer points of this mode of expression was more or less lost on him.

And now he’d gotten a text with an emoticon sent at five-fifteen in the fucking morning, not by Cas the angel, but by Cas the newly minted human, and Cas the newly minted human slept like a log – wherever the hell he put his head down – until nine am, unless his five alarms went off. The coffee maker and soft-and-thoughtful waker of Dean the sleeping bear was long gone.

Dean refused to admit he missed the barely established routine of coffee cup on bedside table, a pause and then fingers soft, soft on his cheek for just the breath of a moment before Cas’ gravelly voice would murmur “Coffee” and he’d be gone again. He refused to admit he missed the unbridled and daring show of intimacy, of understanding. And still, he missed it, with or without the admittance of it.

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***tears up***

tree-of-blue-squirrel:

bamf-castiel:

To be honest I don’t know, I found him in the wip folder, and I would love to lie to myself and the world that I will finish it but probably I won’t wah.
And since I like his face I decided to post it xD
I love Cas so much.

And since we are here, could you please help me with this thing? It’s just a question, and actually few people helped me aready… But I would love to hear your opinion, too! 😀 

this is beautiful, I didn´t even realized it wasn´t fnished until I read the description

Source: bamf-castiel

where i rest my head

cuddlebabies:

deancas
hunter husbands (PG, 2k)

“King and a
queen,” Dean says around a yawn, hand on the desk.

The clerk is
young, pretty, tired. Her eyes move over the three of them—Sam, pressing a hand
into his shoulder, face drawn tight in pain; Castiel, rumpled, with blood in
his hair; Dean, asking for two beds. Whatever her suspicions, she makes no
comment, except to flip over a sheet of paper and says, “No kings left. I can do
you two queens—with a pull-out.”

Dean rubs a
thumb into the corner of his eye. “Yeah, fine. Two queens.”

It takes her
a long time to take their payment and find their keys; Dean feels as though his
hand, propped on the desk, is the only thing keeping him upright. At his
shoulder, Castiel stands close, slips a hand under Dean’s jacket to rest on the
small of his back, and that helps. His thumb finds the narrow strip of bare
skin beneath the hem of Dean’s shirt, and Dean is too tired to even get fired
up by it. He passes a grateful glance over his shoulder, and then the clerk is
holding out their keys.

“Check-out
is ten o’clock,” she says. “Dirty towels on the floor. Clean ones you leave
where they are. Take your trash with you.”

Dean grunts;
he leaves Sam to be the one to say a warm, thank
you very much, and he leads the way back out to the motor court.

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