First of all, this site is a right bastard, sometimes. Each of these sentences are numbered 1-25, but this site doesn't like that, so just pretend the numbers are there, okay? And these links are an absolute pain in my ass. Literally the dumbest thing I've ever seen. It's deviantart. You all know that site, right? I've separated the link as best as I can but it's still not quite right but you should be able to find the prompt list if you really want to.

: / / undefined romance89 . deviant art art / 130 - Writing - Prompts - 81 9831 82
Those are the prompts I used, just the first 25. I've been dying to do this since I first saw this style in 2012, and I never found the right inspiration for it.
It's a lot harder than it looks, seriously.

edit: okay, to the guest reviewer who asked to translate my work, you have my permission. Log in next time though? It makes life a bit easier. Please PM me the link when you've finished.

Dean always kept his feelings under lock and key, in a safe, buried ten feet under the ground, unable to be found even in his darkest nightmares.

But paper cuts always hurt more than you'd think, and Dean should've remembered that, and if he had, he wouldn't be standing under this streetlight at three in the morning cursing his name, louder than ever before.

They'd - well, he'd made the stupid mistake of kissing Cas at sunset, a foolish thing, really, because then they'd had sex and now Dean is crying, crying, crying, and he knows better than to think that Cas is coming back, what with the way he'd not even said anything, before, during, or after it all.

He really does deserve the award for absolute stupidity; what had Sam called it - the Darwin Award, right.

The twilight sky is mocking, the way he can see all the stars even through the blur of his eyes, a combination of liquor and tears as he stumbles home, holding himself.

It's nearly dawn before he makes it home, and there's no one there to greet him but the silence and the echoing halls, where all he can hear are his own footsteps and his choking breaths because Sam and Cas are both gone and what does he have left, now?

Cas had found the safe and the key and popped the lock, leaving nothing in his wake, not even true grief, because, really, everyone leaves, and Dean has no idea what made him think that an angel would be any different.

He wonders if there's something, anything, that could bring him out of this pathetic state - a drive, a diner, a concert, a fair, the beach - anything, anything, but nothing comes to mind so he just slams his head against the side of the counter as he slides to the floor.

He brings the bottle of pure, raw amber whiskey to his mouth, clinking the bottle rim against his teeth and it shocks him into sobriety, just a little, and he hates it, hates it, hates it.

Cas actually comes back after several weeks, and while Sam is still chasing a phantom (as far as Dean is concerned, anyway - if that damned Archangel doesn't want to be found he won't be) Dean has been alone all this time, so he thinks Cas is an hallucination at first.

But the taste of Cas… that's real, so, so, real, like a tattoo branded onto his taste buds and the feel of his skin familiar as his own under his fingertips.

And the sex, oh, the sex is great, hot, angry, apologetic, and Cas beats him black and blue and when Dean wakes in the morning without even a note, if it weren't for the bruises and cuts all over his skin, he would have believed Cas was really nothing more than the hallucination he thought he was at first.

Sam coming home is life a gift, and Dean is somewhat ashamed to say that he cries as soon as his younger brother walks into the bunker, much to Sam's shock and alarm - Dean, Dean, what's wrong, what happened, you have to tell me, okay? - but Dean can't, he can't, so he just clings and allows himself to get the comfort that Sam always offers for the first time.

He wakes to the sunrise, still curled next to Sam, and it's the warmest he's been ages so he just takes a deep breath and wills down the panic and the instinctual walls and just lets himself breathe through it all.

Dean has been staring at the full moon for a couple of hours before Cas reappears, and this time - No, you don't understand, I won't survive this again, you can't keep doing this to me - I'm sorry, I am, but Dean - No! - and he manages to break his own heart this time.

Sam sits with him on the roof of the Impala and Dean just tries to remember what the stars look like without the lens of regret and heartbreak.

When Sam finally manages to pry the truth from Dean, he tries to bully he and Cas into talking about it, which is stupid and absolutely ludicrous and Dean tells him so, only to have Sam throw his arms up and cry, Fine, then, sit there and suffer, see what I care, I just want my brother and my best friend back, you assholes - and as always, the guilt starts to eat Dean alive.

That night he winds up sitting with his pictures in his lap and a bottle of something in his hand and the scene is just another snapshot of his life, really, Sam ought to take a photo of this with the camera downstairs, since it would sum up their lives more perfectly than any of these old still shots ever will.

The drive is long and arduous, and Dean has half a mind to say fuck it and drive into the nearest tree just to stop looking at the endless, lonely, powerful roads that never have any questions, because they go where they go and there are no other ideas about it, it's just the people that bother with the roads that get lost, and he doesn't want to be lost anymore.

Sam takes out the ghost and then starts screaming at him about carelessness and the worth of his life, and Dean doesn't even listen, too trapped in his own head to give a damn.

Alcohol is the only friend he has anymore.

Sometimes, when he's good and drunk, he'll take a look inside that safe, and now he also looks at the broken key and he wonder if a band-aid would be enough to fix it even though he knows better, and then he wonders the next morning why he thought Cas would be a good idea.

Dean tugs on his jeans and jerks back when Cas appears, and even though the fly is undone and the button not even touched yet, the pants low on his hips, he immediately snaps forward and slaps Cas hard across the face, and Cas, of course, doesn't even seem fazed despite the fact that he just literally caught Dean with his pants around his ankles and was violently received, he says he just wants to talk, and Dean just wants to never deal with any of this ever again, but he knows better than to think that could ever happen, so he finishes getting the jeans on and waits for the words, bracing himself for the metaphorical axe.

And if he was dazed when Cas first pinned him to the bed and they had fantastic sex, he is completely floored now, the rug pulled out from under his feet, when Cas says - I mean it, now, I'm done with running, I don't want to leave you anymore, and I'm so, so sorry, and I know it will never be enough because I heard you, all of it, and I can't even begin to atone.

Dean swallows and then pushes Cas backward onto the chair behind him, and Cas looks panicked for the half second it takes for him to sink downwards and Dean to settle on his lap, legs framing Cas' hips, and he says, You're a right bastard, Castiel, but I know from experience that I am too and maybe we're just better together - and Cas pulls Dean close and they both just breathe through it, together this time, and while the fog doesn't clear and the heartbreak doesn't mend, Dean begins to think that it could, maybe someday, especially when Cas pulls him into a kiss.