I feel like I've said this already but they just didn't make Dean the way fanfic authors do—and in the context of destiel, it's him trying to work through the anger, it's finding peace within himself and killing the storm always raging in his veins, it's reciprocating Cas' soft touch outside of him dying on Dean. It is Cas readily forgiving most of Dean's mistakes and Dean doing his damnedest to be worthy anyways. Because listen.
Listen.
I am one half a Deangirl I will gladly spend my last days tinhatting and nerding out about the nuances of his character—but come on, he has crimes that should not have been skimmed over (ahem S9 Steve arc ahem S15 divorce arc ahem Mary's death ahem) that I know within my soul he would feel absolutely shitty about, post Cas confession. He may have done everything for love but he was also an asshole for a lot of it and they should ‼️ be‼️ able‼️ to‼️ work on that‼️‼️‼️‼️
And I'm not talking about Dean coddling Cas or whatever, I'm talking about Dean working past his issues to let himself have soft things and fully connect with someone. Healthy communication, healthy relationships, health coping mechanisms—that shivering wet cat of a man deserved therapy (news flash: they all did) and that kind of healing.
And that's something fanfic authors just understand better than the big name execs or whoever deemed it climactic to end Dean's story by dying.
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APPEARANCE MATCHUP FOR @dottores
DOTTORE
it’s cold—bitterly so, as it always is in snezhnaya, and dottore seems unfairly indifferent. it’s almost aggravating, watching him walk around as though the frigid air isn’t enough to keep him bundled up in a corner much like it is for you.
it’s cold, and you’re shivering, and you think if you have to do something about it, you will—whether he likes it or not.
“what is this?” he asks, not looking up from his papers as you set a mug down before him.
“hot chocolate,” you say like it’s obvious. perhaps you’re the only person who can talk to dottore like that—like you know something that he doesn’t.
“i see. well, i didn’t ask for—”
“no, you didn’t,” you huff, “but i’m telling you you’ll drink it with me. and scoot,” you push the chair away from his desk, climbing onto his lap and curling into his chest. it’s warm—and it’s even warmer when an arm wraps around you to keep you in place even as he lips are flat and he seems almost unhappy at the intrusion.
but you know better. you always do, so you grab the mug and happily take a sip before holding it to his lips, grinning as you wait for him to take a sip of his own. it’s an uncanny sight in itself—the second of the harbingers drinking from the hands of another, willingly letting work be on pause for something as pointless as seeking out the warmth of another body.
but your head tucks under his chin, giving him a perfect opportunity to rest it over the crown of your head, and when your hand rubs slowly over his chest, seeping some warmth back into the skin, dottore can admit maybe the cold does bother him more than he likes to show.
and you’re kind when you murmur, “see? it’s nice. enjoy it.”
“it’s a distraction.” he says it blankly, but he knows you hear something close to fondness when you chuckle and take another sip.
and because you choose to love him, because you look for that part hidden under the blood on his hands and the sins that cling to him like a second skin, you hold the mug back up to his lips, letting warmth and sweetness trickle past his lips and down his throat. like a taste of the summer sun on a harsh day of winter—like a taste of you.
“you will like it,” you huff, “you’ll drink hot chocolate with me and keep me warm—because it’s nice,” you add gently, “and you deserve nice things.”
for my beloved catnip because you’ve had a hard week and you deserve to always be paired with your number one fav so if i have to do it myself i will 🤞🏽
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What a freak. You're disgusting "Basil".
It's only further provoking him... fueling the hatred he feels towards himself for causing such a terrible tragedy...
"Yes.. I.. ď̷̪͚̲̞̽̑̈́̊̈́͋̌͌̌̃̈͗̈́̕ê̷͎͎͊̊́̈́̏̽͛͑̓͌̉̃͝͝s̶̨̛̠͉̗͚̣̥̝͕̪̺͙͉̒͊͂̓͘͝͝͝e̴̬̮͑̓͑͆͛̿̅̄ř̷̝̎̽̀́̈́̐̑̍̈͐̿͌͛͠v̴̝̾͝ë̴̫̝̭̞̲̗̊̓̚ͅ this..."
The more he speaks, the more distorted he sounds... his figure seems to be twitching, and is that... something growing from behind him?
It's hard to tell right now...
His sobs are eery, and the more he cries, the more blood drips down his cheeks.
"Į̷̼͎̳͇̥̆ͅ ̴̨̳̬͕̹̹̹̰͉̝͚̺̞̇̏̀̈́̑͌̀̈̄̒́̎̈́̈́͘͜ͅD̶̥̺̱̭͍̝͇̲̗̯͕̮̖̼͇̈̓͗̍͘Ẻ̵̘̯̾̃͊̍̄̒͗́͌̆͆̕S̶͚̙͙̖̞̳̠̮̃͑̃͌̄E̵̛̫͚̥̹̳͈͓̟̥͇͎̭̺͑͋̒̔̍̽̓̅͑̈́͂̎̚Ŗ̵̛̜͎̥͖̥̱̘̳͔̰͙̣͉̏̐͑̆̄̈̀́̓̅͊̔̕̕V̴̖̹̞̜̀͗̔͋̐͒͘E̷̡̛̯̞̪͎̗̩̹̤̰̣̓͋́̑̾̀̊̓̽͊̑̕ͅͅͅ ̸̛̜͖̗́͗̽͑͆͛͘A̶͍͌̿̿̀̈́̍̊̉͗͑͘͘L̶͖͚͕̙̦͍͂̊̓͊̈́̏̉̚͘͜͝L̸̻̈̓̏̔̽̒̂͒̅̆̍́͝ ̶̘̼̻̘̖͍͔͈̜̠͙̺͕͔̚O̸̺̪̥̘͙̱̪̫̒̍̑̈́͝͝F̸̤̫̦͉̿̊͋͌͗͛̉̇̇͐̃̏̐̏̚ ̵̢͖̺͈̲̳̗̥͚̙̩̗͔̠̱̀̏̚I̵͓͐̉̄̔̂̑̔̋T̸̻̭̳̳̞̪̪͚͒̂..."
His figure changes, the park behind him bloodied and red, mixed in with the darkness from the swarming tentacles behind him...
One of the vines is holding his garden sheers, daring to plunge it into his already opened wound.
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