winchester.

                            CASTIEL DOESN'T PAY A LOT OF ATTENTION. He's white-knuckling his backpack, hoping that they'll get to whatever accommodations they're promised soon, so he can at least smoke a joint to calm down the shaking and the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He also doesn't particularly care about half of their camp ending up in another place. He never had a deep connection with any of them, despite having had sex with multiple other members of their group. As long as Dean is here, he's fine.

                             Turner seems genuinely nicer than Garcia, though. She makes a little note on her clipboard as she guides them through two more guarded barriers into what looks like a residential zone. Apartment blocks of about 5 stories line the street with little businesses on the ground floor. Flower shops, bodegas, shoe stores — the signs are still all there, but when they look through the windows, most of them have been turned into workshops. One outdoor store is now a kindergarten, apparently. But everything is as clean as it can be, and when you ignore the soldiers on patrol, it's almost like before.

                             "I'll look that up for you," Turner says now. "Most likely, they were brought to St. Louis. We regained control of most larger cities, and we need people to help us rebuild them into safe spaces for everyone. I know it can look like a prison. But as soon as we get a shred of normalcy back, people are allowed to wander again. But there are still violent gangs out there, and we need to deal with that first. The mess hall is over there," she adds then, pointing at what seemingly used to be a diner. "You'll get breakfast and dinner. Lunch at your workplace. If you have any questions, just ask your neighbors. Your team leaders will pick you up at 7 AM tomorrow. Here's your new home."

true gratitude shows on dean's expression when turner treats him like a fucking person. head dips in a slight nod. "i'd really appreciate that. spent a lot of time making sure we made it through this. together. just like everyone else around here. m'sure. but.. i lost enough along the way. again. just like everyone here. i just wanna make sure they're gonna be safe and okay. we haven't been apart since.. well. since settlin' down."

listening as she guides them through the whole process of their surroundings and what is expected. seems to suit him, for now, though he's not mentioning nor will he make a promise that they're gonna stick around this place forever. the more rules thrown on him after the shit he's done? the less he's going to tolerate. though--he'll give it a go. least til they figure out what's going on. makes a mental note to catch up with her later. won't say why. not when he sees cas out of the corner of his eyes white knuckling his bag like he's about to crawl out of his skin.

dean knows what that means.

hates it to the pit of his fucking soul.

but he knows. doesn't know how to get it thorugh to cas that he needs him. isn't sure if it'd matter. dean's begun to accept that since losing his entire sense of self? this is how he copes. ain't any different than booze and sex. just nastier. more dangerous. more severe.. he misses the cas before the drugs. isn't sure he'll ever get him back. hiding it here's gonna be fucking impossible and he doesn't think cocaine's flowing freely. pot is somewhere. where there's people, there's weed. since the dawn of time. here's to hoping this idiot doesn't go huffin' aerosol or some shit.

dean mouths an i'm sorry, he's still working through shit to turner before giving her one final nod and parting ways to walk after cas and see what's about to be their new home.

ＲＯＣＫＳＴＡＲ☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆: an absolute murderer of the mood, the whiskey whips Lestat's wits out of him as the vampire pauses. His rushed need to spit curses and fight against the Winchester after suddenly pauses as he feels the dizzying backlash. He is a man possessed by indecision: to kill or to kiss, to drain or to simply drink. He is infuriated that Dean vanished when the vampire has been looking for him. Perhaps, it is not just the birthday absence that makes Lestat this way. What's a birthday celebration to an immortal? At some point, the passing month of November is just a month, something in the cradle of autumn. Lestat grits his teeth and shakes his head to part ways with the haze that licks a this temples. The deep-rooted pur in his ear coaxes the vampire to squeeze his apex predator in his arms. For a moment, he lets the melody of Dean's voice rolls through him he almost forgets just how enraged he is with his counterpart.

"Bastard." Lestat whispers, licking the hunter's blood from his lips. He has bitten and battered him enough, and he wants more from the intoxicating touch. They find each other in this state more often now. A vampire who likes to shove at the hunter, and the hunter who enjoys igniting a dangerous fire with all the tools under his belt to snuff it out. Lestat advances against his counterpart, very much intending to break the door of this shack Dean calls a fortress for the time being. The bloodsucker nuzzles against the neck he has just butchered, and as it heals, he prods Dean with questions. He could invade the man's mind. He could command him to reveal the secrets of his isolation, but Lestat doesn't wish to find himself in that ugly, beguiling cradle. Fuck.

The glare at each other. Lestat holds the hunter's chin. A chilling silence descends upon them. Lestat doesn't like where Dean intends to take it. States away. Countries away. The hunter becomes hunted, but they are barely connected with a taste of blood alone. Lestat could hire trackers. Dean is a memorable face and an unforgettable fraud, no matter how many times he flashes a fake ID and fucks around to make others find out. This is not going to fly with a rockstar who has been searching for something his entire life. He spits a puff of cold air directly into Dean's face. He wants to laugh at the solemn woe sheepishly confessing before him. He nods, however, no stranger to agreeing with the Winchester.

"Yeah, ah-hah, you are pathetic. The worst of the company you like to keep. The kind that doesn't want you, unless you stare at them across the bar to fuel a fantasy." Hateful Lestat fronts his pearly teeth now stained with a smudge of blood. "Forget whoever is calling. And calling." Lestat sneers as he shoves at Dean's shoulders. The door rattles. He should just kill him for it, but that would be a waste of flying all this distance and catching a driver to get him to this ugly fucking place. "Sitting in filth," Lestat casts his eyes sideways to encompass the abode. Dreadful sight of the ugliest shit he has ever seen. His speech is pause by a thumb swiping over his lower lip. He slaps Dean's hand away from his face by swatting at his forearm. He sees those eyes, but he can read the bastard's mind. "Stop playing around." Lestat sneers. "Next time, I am not going to call. And I hope you rot here in the company of solitude you seek." The vampire nearly hisses as he presses his index finger squarely against Dean's chest. He hammers it to make each point clear. To drench it with a pitched voice that cracks his resolve.

"That is what you deserve for ignoring me." Lestat grits his teeth, turning the shoving hand into a fistful of Dean's shirt. The vampire's white-knuckled hold nearly rattles against the other man. Lestat is on a brink of something ugly. His eyes dance around Dean's face in search of an answer to a question he hasn't even come up with. "Fuck. You." Lestat forces out with the kind of venom that melts through bone and metal.

arm flung away with the first attempt doesn't mean he isn't prepared to go back for seconds. or thirds. whatever it takes--dean's fingers curl around lestat's wrist and blunt, white tipped nails. those dig against flesh that is unbreakable to a mere squeeze of human strength. the hunter isn't foolish enough to think he could, actually, make him bleed like this but he's merely making a point. the taunting, the spark in dean's eye that was more brattish and challenging moments earlier.. ..shifts.

PATHETIC. THE KIND THAT DOESN'T WANT YOU. FILTH. ROT!

darkened eyes lay bare the man that had only recently clawed his way out of his own coffin. bloody fingered and gasping for air once his mouth could swallow more than grave dirt hasn't slept a night without hell swallowing him right back up since. forty years spent in the pit. forty. give a few more odd numbers if we're counting seconds or minutes past days and months. alastair twisted parts of him that he swore were untouchable. made them the worst of the worst to be used against an unraveling mind that was begging, begging, begging for someone to save him. shitty hope that he clung to for thirty of those forty to keep himself from becoming what he was, eventually--just as predicted by the demon cunt he never once saw here--, broken and shattered and flayed into. made raw and tattered with every exposed nerve and haunted, neuron a livewire straight to his gored soul turned into the devil's arsenal. disconnected gaze flatlines. muffled. slow-motion voice damns him further and further.

THAT IS WHAT YOU D E S E R V E !

dean's brain is a ticking time bomb he lacks the skills or coping methods to neutralize. booze and sex? doesn't do a damn thing. a splash of water in his face? and he's covered in blood, tasting rot and rust and hearing the screams of souls like his being ripped apart.. either by the hand of their own torturer--or by him. teeth bared by lips that pull back as he's jabbed at. his fist is jarred loose. the door keeps howling and slamming in protest. dean barely connects the fact that his back is what's making the noise. isn't til he jerks his head backwards and cracks it against the wood that he remembers it's even fucking there!

lips open and the hunter doesn't recognize the noise that gets torn from the pit of his stomach and shoved violently into his throat. a scream. a yell. a demonic growl that would put the being who marked his shoulder with a scar in the shape of a mortal hand into a frenzy thinking hell just burst through the floor and drowned him right back into what he'd become. primal in a way humans shouldn't understand unless they've seen the unthinkable. war. war will do that to a man. scar parts of his eyelids so they can't shut without seeing it. coil itself around a throat that can't stop choking on terror. that's is close as what could be used in human terms to match what leaves him as he lurches forward (barely moving under the grip on his chest but the effort's there. blind effort. not give a fuck kind of effort!)

fuck you. shards of composure are ground to dust. dean starts swinging. fruitful or not in his efforts? he doesn't give a fuck. all he can do is spit the words, "YOU FUCKING THINK I DON'T KNOW THAT? PATHETIC? IS THAT ALL YOU GOT? IS THAT WHAT IS SUPPOSED TO HIT BELOW MY BELT? THINK THE FUCK AGAIN! I'M FUCKING WORSE THAN PATHETIC! i broke, i fucking broke! i'm not supposed to BE HERE!! I DON'T DESERVE TO BE HERE!"

guarded memories flood his mind, flood lestat's. meat hooks through muscle and bone. an infinity of chains from all directions stuck into his frame. gaping holes that tore and tore. all his weight, dangling off. blood and blood and blood. his skin peeled back, healed. then peeled off again. his soul under the knife while he screamed and begged, sometimes gurgling with so much blood in his mouth the only one who knew what he was saying was him. eyes burned, torn, plucked out. limbs severed. reattached. severed again. arteries pulled through skin and laced through his own teeth. a pale hand forcing him to bite through just cause it was his turn to make himself bleed out. and then.. a woman's last whimper for him to stop as he eased the knife into her throat just to see what shape her voice box was and if the memory of his own on the surgical table matched.

and no one LISTENS. i can't just GET OVER IT, the thought--so random--bubbles in..

horror rounds out his eyes as if he caught what happened seconds too late. panic. he doesn't know what to do. frantically searches lestat's face like he's gonna give him the solution. a rushed, "get off me. let me go. you hate me so much? kill me. end me. just. stop. telling. me. what i already know. what everyone else is thinking.. i get it. i GET it."

Seeing red. Dean doesn't even have to elaborate any further, for Cain knows exactly what it means, from experience. Time and time again. It hardly matters anymore how many stains the hunter's vest got, sure, but the line between vengeance and villainy is thin. Cain considers it his responsibility to ensure Dean won't go down the road he had taken felt eons ago. To get off of it is nearly impossible. The demon ambles past that fellow murderer, no need to ponder the question rounded off with denial on Dean's end. But putting his answer into words resembles sharpening knives— Cain halts a few steps behind the other, then turns to look at him again.

"As much as it pains me to say, although I'm sure you already know the solution yourself", he starts, a pinch of compassion keeping his mien soft in contrast to the level matter-of-fact tone he addresses Dean with.

"You need to get over it." Stop chasing dead ends, stop spiralling and becoming a man Castiel wouldn't be able to behold if he ever returned. "Let go." The inevitable spoken into that bleak night's chilly air, Cain expects an outburst of some kind. Perhaps aimed at him ; he can take it. Wouldn't be the first time. His attention flitting down to the knife and then back up, the demon opens his arms. "So, are you going to stab me too, now?" Seeing red again, most likely. "Go ahead."

dean doesn't turn to follow cain's footsteps and keep facing him. not right away. instead, he uses the moment where the scenery ahead is flecked headlight beams dancing with little wisps and floaties of dirt to steady himself. remind his fingers to stop gripping the blade so tight. they loosen. not by much but some. a tuft of hair rolls away like a tumbleweed the faint breeze picks up. one long inhale lifts his shoulders. thinner than they used to be. from lack of giving a shit or allowing himself to stop. more than it takes to get a few glimpses of shut eye, drown himself in some liquor and maybe stuff enough food in his system that he won't puke up the second.

cain's voice draws him out of disassociation, brings him back to the question he'd asked the demon. what did cain expect him to do? turning, he's greeted with a wash of compassion inside sternly set eyes. dean knows him enough to recognize both. knowing damn well what he's about to be told--there's a sudden urge to swing up his hand and tell him to never mind. he doesn't. instead? the hunter waits for the inevitable. we'll ignore that part about what cas would or wouldn't want. cas isn't here to WANT ANYTHING, remember?

...and there it is. let go. move on. christ. is he the only one that's not ready to just accept the fact that cas is stuck in not heaven. not hell. not anything? a vast nothingness that sucks your soul so dry that sleep is the only relief. "let go.. you're fucking kidding. aren't you?" lips twitch up into a sardonic, broken smile that never brings any life to pale green eyes that are suddenly reddened and wet. "you.. you of all people should know he doesn't deserve to be aban--wait what?" a look of abject horror slams into dean's entire being. features crumple and the knife hits the ground. "i don't.. huh?? no. i'm not stabbing you. why? why would i think of doing that? jesus.. that sonofabitch was celebrating.. mak--," words fail, his lips attempt to wrap around some and he visibly stammers. "wh--what the fuck?"

// idk where to start tonight. my brain goes uhhhhhhhh. then again. that's what the public does to ya. amirite?? so yeah! that's where i'm at. oof! how y'all doing??

MALUMXSUBEST ― rough translation : evil lies beneath. INDIE & FANDOMLESS PRIMORDIAL VOID ENTITY WITH VAMPIRE-LIKE QUALITIES OC : amelia hart. with a small roster of canon test muses and two test oc muses : amadeus hart & myrkos vormek.

" i'm older than you think. older than those whose footsteps are long vanished. "

selective. QUEUE BASED ACTIVITY. mutuals only. crossover, multi-verse, multi-fandom, multi-ship & oc friendly.

DNI if the following troubles you : mature & potentially triggering themes will be present such as, but not limited to : body horror, cosmic horror, cannibalism, torture, pregnancy, obsession with child bearing; having children, child loss. do not interact if you are under the age of twenty-one ( 20 ) and/or particularly sensitive to these topics.

promo created by : jjcre8

❝ It seems I must do the job myself. If you weren't already dead, I'd make you pay to have my outfit dry-cleaned.❞ Just as he was about to grab the shovel. The scent of blood caught his attention, as did the sound of a heart beating, black veins already webbing up under his eyes, vamp speeding his way over to the side of the ceremony it was coming from. Now he's standing a few feet behind the human, watching his newfound prey in the dark, intrigued. Why was this bloody up human seemingly dozing off in a place such as this?

"don't you fuc---," is all he manages to choke out as adrenaline hits and his breath's gone. dean's entire sense of gravity jerks upright and the gun he almost had directly in his fist dropped from the force of the impact sending off a misfire that shot directly at a grave behind the hybrid shooting sparks and flecks of marble in the air. as the fangs sink into his throat, the hunter lets out a sharp cry he would've rather bit his tongue off than let escape. pain swallows the world right up. first, in a flash of brilliant, blinding white. then dark mottled with twinkling silver as eyes roll towards a cloudless sky and an inky blanket of stars above.

knees threaten to buckle and henrik ends up with most of dean's weight in his arms when they do. if he wasn't already so damn weak, the fight would've been harder. worse. but the idiot'd been convincing himself he wasn't bleeding out enough to the point of passing out only a few minutes before awareness was smacked upside his head with a fanged blur shooting right at him.

even before all that will come to him in the future. before hell. before heaven. before sam even dies and dean damns himself to hell to save him--the blood in his veins is marked holy. worth saving to a faith healer who saw his soul. worth salvaging from the brink so many times that what's in him may be dormant. waiting. but it's there. faint but strumming with every increasingly fast rush of his thready pulse. trembling fingers reach up to push against the mouth clamped to his throat. one heel attempts to dig into the ground. leverage searched for and missed.

dizzy, his face crumples with another pull. bloody mouth parts in a weak yet, somehow in that human way of just being human. stubborn as hell. defiant growl, "stop. stop," then fainter like it slipped out of a cage he attempted to lock the word in, "please.."

                          IT'S ALWAYS IMPRESSIVE HOW EASY THE LIES ROLL OFF DEAN'S TONGUE. Castiel could never tell falsehoods so quickly and straight-faced, but Dean learned to do it from a very young age, and anyway, they hold a certain truth. He is pretty adept with his hands. Castiel's thoughts are briefly derailed by memories of said hands around his penis, but Garcia pulls him out of the sweet daydreams with a grunt. "Well, would you look at that," she says, grabbing a green pen to scribble mechanic/handyman next to Dean's name. "The gays are useful, after all."

                           Before either of them can respond, she waves at a soldier behind herself, who stalks over with a clipboard. Her name tag says Turner. "Welcome to Kansas fucking City 2.0," Garcia says, putting two bracelets with numbers on the table before them. "Wear those at all times. Turner will get you settled in. Together," she adds with an eyeroll toward her colleague, "guess we got the queers helping us rebuild this damn shitshow."

                           Turner's smile looks a little strained. "I'll take care of it, corporal. Gentlemen," she adds, waving them over, so Garcia can interview the next arrivals. Castiel grabs his bracelet but fails to put it on because his fingers are trembling too much. 

patience is something dean doesn't have a lot of anymore. the constant fucking gay shit is starting to grate on his last fucking nerve. there's never been many times dean's ever imagined what a woman would look like reeling back from a punch to the mouth--unless they were swinging first and he wasn't left with many options--but this is starting to lead right towards that. gritted teeth, he swallows down the fuck you, bitch on the edge of his tongue and pivots his attention towards the other woman approaching.

this better not be a fucking repeat of the same god damn situation. i fucking murdered my brother for all you dicks so you could keep breathing. stop making me almost.. almost REGRET IT more. dean doesn't realize how white knuckled his fists are until his hands are cramping and he forces them to relax.

not paying the woman much mind other than dips of his head in acknowledgement and twitches of a jaw that strains due to his back teeth grinding together, dean subtly helps put the bracelet on cas's wrist and gives him a worried look. breathing in deep, his attention swings back to the soldier once more and.. in the nicest way possible, he simply asks in a neutral tone. "what is this? a prison? sounds like one.." thumb jerks over his shoulder. "really sounds like one." all that bitch behind them has to do is toss in a cunt, fag, or other slur and she'd fit right on a cellblock.

"yeah. we'll make due. we've been making due with a lot less. for a long time." another glance at cas's profile. he's measuring, calculating. don't fucking break down on me, cas. tonight's been enough. "one last thing. i had an entire camp. what was left of it. they took some somewhere else.. they gonna be okay? or do i gotta worry about them?" trust level? fucking ZERO and that much.. is painfully obvious.

　　breath  catches  at  the  sight  of  him.  the  moment  hangs  there,  suspended—  dim  light,  dust  in  the  air,  the  sense  that  moving  too  fast  might  snap  everything  in  half.  the  figure  across  the  room  looks  too  solid,  too  familiar.   ( gives  hope  a  shape.  gives  it  a  face. )

“ dean— ”  the  name  comes  out  rough,  worn  down  to  the  bone  by  silence  &  misuse.  speaking  it  feels  like  pressing  on  a  bruise,  like  daring  the  moment  to  collapse  in  on  itself.  a  step  forward  follows.  then  another.  muscles  stay  coiled,  hands  clenched  tight  at  either  side,  as  if  bracing  for  the  ground  to  give  way.  “ shouldn’t  be  here. ”  the  words  aren’t  sharp.  they’re  stunned.  relief  knotted  so  tight  it  hurts  to  breathe  around  it.

( weeks  bleed  through  in  fragments—  concrete  floors,  restraints  biting  into  skin,  the  certainty  that  no  one  was  coming  because  no  one  could.  the  lie  had  been  easier  that  way.  safer. )

christ!!

dean's been searching for weeks. leaving no stone unturned. doubling back and kicking fucking rocks on the ones that were empty underneath when anger and frustration took over, even. nothing. nothing. NOTHING!!! everywhere was nowhere and nowhere was eating him up inside! cause that nowhere was just-where sam seemed to be stuck at. always an arm's length way from the last lead. the last clue. the last stop before coffee spilled down his throat to keep him going. deny what little sleep panic told him he needed.

blurry white dotted lines turned solid more times than he can count. pedal to the metal and half-dozing behind the wheel of a car that could drive herself to wherever his mind told him they needed to go. otherwise? his ass would've been dead a long time ago.

trepidation filled dean's entire frame as heavy steps carried him towards the faintest sound. gun in hand--forest hued gaze narrow in the dark. lungs froze as he turned the corner. SAM. "sam??" immediately, dean's features buckled as relief flooded in momentarily replacing anxiety and the building rage panic laces itself with on repeat. "sammy," he breathes. voice barely anything.

tossing a stare around them to confirm they're alone--far as he can tell--the elder winchester then makes a bolting rush towards his brother before stopping halfway seeing sam backing up like he might evaporate or turn into some monster. "sam. it's me. c'mon. you think anyone could pull off this good-lookin' face the way i do?" picking up volume, he pleads for his brother to tune the fuck in. "we--we gotta go. you gotta trust me. but we need to get the hell outta here. now!"

positioned now on his side, the faint flush still lingers across freckled features as he does his best to keep himself propped up on one elbow. green hues narrow toward the angel on the chair, trying to bring both castiel and his own thoughts into focus at the same time. for a moment, the seraph falls silent ─ something subtle shifting within that stare of his, brief and vague enough that most would've missed it. hesitation. a flicker or uncertainty. he lowers his gaze.

it's no surprise that heaven questions his judgement. no surprise that they have for some time. an angel compromised by humanity now walking the earth. making decisions without permission. loyalty divided.

. . . and whose fault is that ? the thought comes uninvited. the man currently lying before him has in many ways become the very distillation of everything humanity is. defiance. compassion. hope. utter and complete mess. the realization is unsettling. the faint smile that tarries on dean's face is not mirrored. ' dean, you . . . often assume responsibility for things that originate in the choices of others. it's rarely justified. ' a pause, as he looks at his vessel's hands resting upon his lap. he wants to deny what dean says. he can't. and although castiel's own statement is true, it's not the whole truth.

because castiel didn't appear into that bar because heaven commanded it. he didn't escort him back here, nor remain after making certain he was safe, because someone ordered him to. those were his own decisions, and his alone. because he cares. too much. and perhaps, that is precisely the problem.

he can feel the other watching him. so he looks back up. and almost reluctantly, ' . . . but they are not entirely wrong. '

' they believe attachment clouds judgement. i cannot determine whether what's happening to me is . . . growth, or    ' corruption. the word lingers. he doesn't say it aloud. instead, ' or simply evidence that i have spent too much time away from heaven. ' sometimes, it's easier to pretend than to believe. ' i know that when i remain here, my priorities change. ' blue eyes stay on dean's features. on the freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose. the glassy green eyes struggling to keep themselves focused. his lips, still a bit damp from the water. slightly ajar. ' i become . . . less objective. ' the angel offers a small, manual blink when he catches himself. eyes drifting away.

dean's head slowly tilts. only a fraction but it's enough to be noticed. he's thinking. wondering why cas's gaze dropped from him the moment he took him up on the offer to talk about anything he wanted to. if regret could be an expression, dean thinks, it'd be the one written all over cas's face right then and there. the hunter's heart sinks a little in his chest. disappointment that shouldn't be there. has no real reason to be other than an idea you've been building up towards not quite panning out the way you expected. sort've like the anticipation for a big drop of a roller coaster only to be tricked by a small one that doesn't send you off your seat. only settles weird and a little wrong. still laced with the idea of holding your breath to prepare for the fall.

did he say something he shouldn't? probably. dean's known for a long damn time that an open door to conversation needs to be treadedthrough lightly. sometimes the one inviting you in--regrets the boot tracks you're leaving just inside the doorway.

castiel points out the obvious. something dean knows about himself but accepted that he can't dig it out or cut it off. that notion that he's responsible for everything. even stuff he knows he isn't? wired into the fiber of his being by now. long time ago, too. just how he is. there's no changing it. probably wouldn't anyway. knowing he's become used to the weight? why chalk it off onto someone else. his shoulders are strong enough to carry it. no problem.

the curve of dean's mouth falters. one twitch at a time, til the tip of his tongue darts out to snag his bottom lip where the small strip of flesh gets jammed between his teeth. it's gone entirely by the time their eyes meet. for a second? dean looks like he was caught doing something he deemed wrong. gaze flares rounder, wider. before he nostrils flare with an exhale and he steadies himself. then, releasing his lips they hand slightly open as he listens to the angel further explain himself. there's the big drop. right there. watching the eyes of someone confessing something they're so unsure about--someone who has existed for longer than the planet suddenly questions priorities and objectivity and.. gets lost on why. i did that to you. not sam and me. not plural. i did that. i know i did. wouldn't dare say that out loud.

lips are made wet again. one sweep of his tongue. struggling to figure out what he should or shouldn't say. should or shouldn't think--dean searches cas's eyes like he might find the answer written there. instead? there's only cas's own bewilderment meeting his. "..but you keep coming back more and more. so. it's not a bad thing. is it? you know.. whatever it is that's got you questioning priorities. or keeps drawing you here. doesn't feel wrong, does it? confusing. but.. not bad?" me. i'm talking about me.

why though. why am i talking about me? that's just.. yeah.