#tfw plus

Dean and Cas hunting together: hunter husbands. standing 1.5 inches away from each other at all times. constant bickering constant eye sex constant rifling through each other’s pockets oh god they’re so fucking married

Sam and Eileen hunting together: extremely sweet together. heart eyes while discussing lore and/or tactics. pretending not to be worried about each other because they each really want to respect the other person’s independence and hunting skills.

Cas and Eileen hunting together: murder besties. taking turns beating the shit out of villains while the other person nods approvingly. roasting their boyfriends during stakeouts. mutual agreement not to tell dean and sam how many people they’ve blackmailed.

Dean and Eileen hunting together: sky-high levels of competence. kicking ass left right and center. off-the-charts wittiness. spn would only be 1 season long if it was about these two because they would immediately solve every apocalypse in the most practical way possible and then spend the rest of the season getting drunk together at dive bars.

my quest to map every spn duo dynamic continues

phenomena of note:

every chaos dynamic includes cas. there is no chaos without cas

dean is capable of being wholesome, competent, OR chaotic. versatile icon.

I’m talking about Dean’s scribbled recipe notes fixed to the corner of the fridge with a hideous souvenir magnet that Cas bought from a rest stop in Tampa. Spice rack showing up on the countertop one day. Jack leaving bunches of wilted wildflowers on the kitchen table. Jody’s and Donna’s favorite mugs set to one side of the shelf. One wall slowly getting taken up with the postcards that Claire keeps sending from different states. Sam making a smoothie every morning in an overpriced juicer that Dean shoots dirty looks at.

I’m talking shoebox of Sam’s ritual supplies in a corner of the library: the stubs of chalk he doesn’t want to throw out, the ceremonial dagger with the grip that’s just so, the bronze dish Rowena gave him after she caught him mixing a tincture in a brownie pan. Steadily growing record collection in an enormous glossy case in the archives: half of them albums that Dean insists are the pinnacle of humankind’s musical achievement, half of them unheard-of indie bands that Cas buys from used bookshops because he liked the album art. Eileen and Cas fussing over tiny planters of succulents that would have withered long ago from lack of sunlight if Sam wasn’t covertly maintaining a basic hedge enchantment to keep them all alive. 

I’m talking giant scratch on one of the library pillars from when Charlie and Dean had a swordfight that got out of hand. Shelf of Kevin’s books that nobody will move and that Dean quietly dusts twice a week. Sam on his hands and knees in rubber gloves sanitizing every surface that Lucifer's touched. Coat rack of Mary’s jackets still standing in a corner of the war room.

Kitchen cabinet carefully stocked with Rowena’s favorite teas. Half-empty decanter of the kind of whiskey Crowley favored. Nicks on all the furniture because no one can resist trying out the throwing stars that get left all over the place. Jack starting a snowglobe collection over Dean’s half-hearted protests (snowglobes in the infirmary, snowglobe on the map table, snowglobe in the kitchen that plays a tinny rendition of O Come All Ye Faithful when you flip a switch, [jesus christ cas when is it gonna end] [don’t be rude dean], snowglobe on Dean’s desk that he pretends not to notice but would kill anyone who touched).

“I’ll make popcorn,” says Eileen, and smiles at Sam. She nudges his shin gently with her foot—his legs are stretched so far under the table that she doesn’t even have to reach.

“Extra butter for me and Cas,” says Dean, who has his chin tucked over Castiel’s shoulder. He untangles one arm from Castiel’s waist to make a grab for one of the tokens. “Babe, c’mon—you should be the battleship—”

“No,” says Castiel, primly, as he continues sorting the colored bills, “I like being the thimble—and I don’t like popcorn, Dean, it gets stuck in my teeth—”

“You fucking liar, you always hog the bowl—”

 Eileen grins even wider at Sam, who rolls his eyes at her and signs, they’re going to be bickering for a while.

Follow me, she tells him, and heads for the kitchen.

Sam catches up to her just over the threshold and Eileen turns immediately and pushes him up against the adjacent shelving unit. The plates make a low ceramic rattle as she tangles her hand in Sam’s hair, nips at his bottom lip, sighs into it. Victory over Chuck means free will and triumph and the continued existence of the planet but it also means this, the people she cares about safe in these stone walls, the sweet luxurious feeling of unhurried desire, the sparking heat of Sam’s hand spanning against the line of her hip—

Sam twitches suddenly out of the kiss and looks up, his face comically guilty. Eileen turns over her shoulder and locks eyes with Jack, who is frozen by the stove, the jar of popcorn kernels half-open in his hands.

Shit, Eileen thinks, and has to hold back a laugh.

“Good idea on the popcorn, Jack,” she says. “We were thinking the same thing.”

“I can see that,” Jack says, completely straight-faced. He signs it, too, and Eileen feels a rush of affection for this kid that she’s already caught herself half-thinking of as hers, once or twice.

Sam shifts a little, so that he’s in her field of vision. His hand doesn’t leave her hip. “We can make the popcorn. You should...uh, probably go make sure Dean doesn’t take the train token.”

“What?” Jack yelps, all but throwing the popcorn jar on the counter before he makes a beeline out of the kitchen.

Eileen turns to Sam. You know Dean’s going to pick the horse, she says, quirking an eyebrow.

💜 to you as well anon!! and haha yeah I just like the idea of the Banes twins coming to visit the Bunker to shoot the shit and trade witch/hunter gossip, and every time they go they leave behind the latest protection spells they’ve found or developed. (Because obviously they and everyone else know that danger is inevitably going to wind up on the Winchesters’ doorstep, and there’s much general eye-rolling about it but also, like, a mutual pact among the whole extended found family to cram the Bunker as full of safety precautions as possible. The place is crammed to the gills with protective magic and only half of it was put there by the long-dead Men of Letters, the rest is Sam’s, or Alicia’s, or Max’s, or Rowena’s, or one of their other friends’—it's living magic, breathing magic, it encircles, holds, loves.)

so, you know—Alicia sticking little bundles of enspelled herbs behind the fridge, Max sketching his latest warding rune on a post-it and putting a raunchy drawing on the back, etc. Sam keeps thinking he’s found all of them and then he’ll dig a new book out of the dustiest corner of the archives and out falls one of Dean’s old grocery lists that Max has scribbled over with a luck charm in Old Occitan and a doodle of a winking mustachioed eggplant.