Morris A/W ‘12 lookbook
This is the one where Dean thinks maybe, maybe, what if he didn’t give a damn, if he leaned in, tried to learn the shape of Castiel’s mouth, the soft intake of breath and that first oh like he hadn’t known, hadn’t realized, that same look of honest wonder and something so strangely beautiful Dean wanted to, wanted to hold it in his hands and try to keep it there with him, tried to make it his. Like maybe they had something other than death and demons and their lives and humanity to worry about, like maybe they could be normal people where Dean could wake up in the mornings with Castiel curled in his arms like something precious he could hold onto and not lose.
Dean doesn’t tell Sam, but it’s not like his little brother can’t read it in the set of his jaw- years and years of knowing Dean- the way Dean looks around sometimes like a phantom reaction, hoping it Cas would come out of nowhere the way he does, and Dean could say you stupid sonofabitch and reach out for Cas to ground himself, to ground them both to this. Late nights sometimes Sam finds Dean drinking and Dean doesn’t say anything, not when Sam comes over to hug him, not when Bobby shoves his hands in his pockets and sighs and pretends that he hasn’t seen Dean’s eyes.
This is the one where Dean wakes up and Castiel is still gone. He learns the haunted slope of his own face in the Stations of Bereavement, the same blank stare in each bleak frame, and Castiel fades. Cas is vanishing down to the last of his scent in the dirty old trenchcoat, and it’s all Dean has left.
Dean holds onto it like he did his mother on his first day at preschool. He’d clung to her like his life had depended on it, held on to the hem of her blouse like it was life itself and, and Dean remembers her eyes. The way she’d pried his little fingers open and said- I have to go now, Dean, and how years later Dean was always afraid he’d see the same look in Sam’s eyes, how he thought he almost did, so many times.
Castiel never got to say goodbye, not really, and Dean’s never let go of things willingly before. He doesn’t get to be selfish often because he hasn’t allowed himself that luxury, but when he gets something he wants he holds on to it fiercely, fiercely, and he doesn’t let go unless he has to. And Dean replays the lush softness of Castiel’s mouth, the way he looked at Dean sometimes, like he didn’t know, like he didn’t know what he wanted except that he wanted, and how Dean thought that maybe- maybe he could allow himself this one little bit of selfishness one day. He’d thought- he’d thought he could.
And this- this is the one where Dean holds onto all that he has left, all that he has left of Castiel, the way he’d held onto all he had left of Sammy back then. This is the one where Dean curls his fists into tight-knuckled grips and thinks that it’s not impossible, nothing fucking is, and this fucking isn’t. This is the one where Dean is alone and in love and this is the one where Dean tells himself he’ll find a way to get Castiel back.
Every year I have done a mistletoe pic now. Every year it’s these two…
I have drawn way, way too much of them.
Have an eventful weekend! I will be studying constantly…