dirtyovercoats:

Part of him always believed Castiel would come back.

There was no logic in it, no conceivable basis to this pounding and resilient feeling—small, but unrelenting in its spark. He tried to surpress it, because what could hope do but bring pain, what could faith provide that wouldn’t wilt under the weight of reality.

But it endured.

It was a part that sat in the trunk of his car, curled up in its beige sleeves and never cleaned; a part that kept a disconnected number in his speed-dial, that left him to never pile anything in the back seat, simply waiting for someone to fill it. It didn’t matter that someone never would, that the words bare and empty came to describe this hole as much as it came to describe the bottom of the glass he tried to fill it with.

None of it mattered, except—except there was this part. This part that harkened to a memory, a memory of barns and graveyards and other impossible places, where life was renewed and he was taught salvation by the open face of a friend who once said “I gave everything for you.

Including this part, that won’t stop singing despite itself, of all the things I never had faith in, I could never seem to lose faith in you.






This is the way you left me  I’m not pretending  No hope, no love, no glory  No happy ending

This is the way you left me
I’m not pretending
No hope, no love, no glory
No happy ending