Supernatural Preferences & Imagines

→ Reunion

Not the sequels and not the requested one shot I'm sorry, I've been super busy lately and there's been some drama so I'll try to the request next and then the part twos after.

Cas:

Two years alone in the hunting world, 35 wounds, 3 trips to the hospital, 5 near death experiences, 50+ monsters killed, 5 friends killed, 3+ hours crying, 6 weeks traveling, and 8 hours fixing yourself up. And 0 angels to answer your pleading calls at night. Zilch.

Today was the first day you've had contact with an angel in two years. "Poor, poor, human." The angel tsked, gripping your jaw and staring into your [E/C] eyes as theirs gradually turned blue. Squirming, you clawed at the angel, snapping your eyes shut and ignoring the fact the angel was inhabiting a fellow person. Wearing them to prom, like Dean would grumble when they met anyone besides Cas. Your clawing grew futile as the angel used the other hand to crush your throat. The pain was blinding, and you slowed with your attempts. Castiel, you asshole, my last words will be to you: fuck you. The thought rang clear in your rushing head, and the pressure abruptly released on your airway, leaving you to crumple to the ground and lay still.

A man in a trench coat stood before, an angel blade glistening with fresh blood latched tightly in their grip. Their tie ruffled slightly and his blue eyes scanned your lump body. He stooped low and scooped up your body, carrying you gently and comfortably in his arms. His deep and rumble voice resonated throughout the surrounding area, rendering everything else powerless to him. "I don't want to hear your last words yet."

Dean:

The motel room was dusty and not as good, since it was the cheapest you could get with your limited amount of money. You tossed your rashly packed duffle bag of belongings onto the stiff bed and sat on the edge, pressing the heel of your palm into your forehead. Another fight, but this time you weren't going back. Tom was a douche, and you were always too blind to see it. You laughed humorlessly, thinking that if Dean was here, he would tell you he had been right about Tom all along. "Well, I don't need anybody to tell me that!" You lashed out at the empty space before you. "I'm perfectly fine not going on long hunts with two other people and a couple angels because I'm independent! I don't miss having someone to talk to late at night on beer runs, I don't miss laughing and teasing a tall person, I don't miss teaching a clueless angel, and I certainly...don't miss...green eyes..." Your angry rant trailed off near the end, leaving you to suffocate alone and in silence.

Everything you've said lately was a lie—including your rant.

After an hour of silence, your phone buzzed on your thigh, relentlessly. One call would end, and another would pick right up where the last one left off. Motherfucking Tom. You thought venomously, snatching the phone and opening it.

H

E

Y

Baffled, you stared at the texts. Who the hell was sending you one lettered texts?

15 missed calls: 175-555-7092

By now, you were intrigued. It's been awhile since your phone had any action of calls or texts. It was just a waste of space most of the time. A call broke out in front of your screen and you were quick to answer it. The number was unfamiliar, but you had the sense in your gut that told you otherwise. "Hello?" You spoke, and recoiled. Your voice was scratchy and hoarse, the screams of the fight still leaving its mark on you. Nobody answered. Your motel door got knocked on hard and quick. Whipping your head to the door, you say up cautiously, pressing the phone between your ear and shoulder while you grabbed your pistol and cocked it. "Hello?" You asked again, creeping to the door.