If you ask me, I don’t think Destiel is actually going to become Canon.
Singing? Loud and off-key.
He speeds along down some Midwestern highway,
His 1967 Chevy Impala reflecting golden light off of its glossy, black hood.
His rhythmic taps along the steering wheel are drowned out by that sound called “music”.
So much has changed between then and now: his eyes have wrinkled,
His voice had grown hoarse.
Another wave of pain snaps you into reality.
Purgatory, all of the souls, Leviathans.
Your head is washed in regret and desperation.
He and Bobby Singer are lifting you up,
Your ruined trench coat crinkles underneath their grasp.
Your hand instinctively flies to his right tricep, and
You feel your mark underneath his worn leather jacket.
“I gripped you tight and raised you from perdition”
Your blue eyes locate his, but you wish they hadn’t.
You wish that you were blind so you did not have to see the anger in his greens.
An overwhelming nostalgia bubbles up inside you.
You want him to clap you on the shoulder and remind you that everything would be okay.
You want him to laugh at your purity and taunt your naivety.
You want him to treat you the way he used to.
“Dean,” you croak, “Dean listen.”
You had sworn to yourself to protect him from anymore pain, from anymore disappointment,
Yet you had been the greatest pain and disappointment of all.
You had been his kryptonite and you needed to make amends before you died.
You needed to find a way to redeem yourself to him.