You have blond hair, he has brown hair. You always have blond hair, he always has brown hair. You dye your hair brown, but suddenly his hair is blond, and you feel as though maybe you are him, and he is you, and you have blond hair again, and he has brown hair.

His gaze is impossibly fond, his eyes are impossibly blue, he pulls you impossibly closer, your heart beats impossibly fast, the bulge in his pants is impossibly hard, he should maybe get that checked out.

You don’t remember ever working out and yet you look down and see you have a six pack. When you next see yourself in the mirror you have an eight pack. When he takes of your shirt you have ten, twelve abs. You’re scared to look again in case there are more.

His eyes change colour depending on his moods. At first you thought it was a trick of the light, but now you’re not so sure. They switch between blue, green and grey. Once you thought you saw a flicker of red. You make sure to kiss with your eyes closed now.

You’re white, and so is he. Sometimes he’s your enemy, but you still love him, don’t you? Of course, it makes sense. You’re not sure what you like about him, exactly, but there must be something, right? There’s this intangible thing between you, isn’t there? You feel like you may have more chemistry with your non-white friend, but that can’t be right.

You don’t remember taking your clothes off but you’re naked now. Well, all you remember is toeing out of your shoes. You always toe out of them, although you don’t quite know what that means.

Your pronouns mix into a blur and you no longer know where you end and he begins… You reach out your hand to his hand on his arm… your arm… his… You are sitting and he straddles you but is facing away… There are hands everywhere…

-You ship Cockles. You are not sure when you started to ship Cockles, and you are not sure you want to ship Cockles, but this is irrelevant. You cannot remember a time when your happiness was not inexplicably tied to the interactions of Jensen Ackles and Misha Collins.

-There is a convention this weekend. There was a convention last weekend. You cannot remember a weekend when there was not a convention. You are not sure when they find time to film the show. It does not matter. Nothing matters as long as Jensen’s hand remains on Misha’s shoulder.

-Jensen and Misha have no scheduled panel together at this convention. You are not worried. You know they will end up sharing five panels, and you know they will flirt outrageously through all of them.

-You log onto Tumblr. At the top of your dash is a picture of two men clearly in love. You are sure it is a Destiel manip. It is not. It is a picture of Jensen and Misha, and it is real. You feel yourself sink further into a hole of confusion and despair.

-Jensen and Misha are making eye contact. You know it is unnecessary to tweet about this for the tenth time in five minutes, but your emotions overwhelm you. The sexual tension can be felt thousands of miles away. It must be lethal to be present in the room.

-You read your first piece of Cockles fanfiction. It is oddly, suspiciously detailed. It must surely be written by somebody with insider knowledge.

-You read that Sam and Ruby were originally supposed to get married on the show, but that this plan was halted when Jared and Genevieve married in real life. You are sure this applies to Destiel and Cockles. There is no other explanation.

-There are pictures of Jensen and Misha taken at sunset. They haunt you through your days. When you close your eyes, you see the Cockles sunset picture. It does not matter where you are or what you are doing. The picture is always there.

-Jensen has called Misha Dmitri. The world will never recover. This is the end of times; you are sure of it.

-You see a trash can in the corner of the room. It feels oddly, disturbingly, like home.

• you load your dash. it’s about to be canon. not this episode, not the next episode, but in a few episodes. you feel lost in time. what year is this, you ask. what season.
• you believe with all your heart. you don’t believe anything. maybe this is all just a dream.
  
• the distant cries of wankers draw nearer. do their wails mean your happiness is nigh? could their tears be a sign of the times?
  
• you long to find a casual viewer. yet you’re also repelled by them. what if they speculate endgame lisa? perhaps best not to look…
• you do not ship cockles. you. do. not. dammit.
  
• “you can’t spell subtext without text.” you write this on the chalkboard. you write this on the wall. you write this in your notebooks and in your blog and in a fan letter and in 10,000 tweets projected out into the digital void. but what is the point of communication even
  
• will dean like cas’s scones? will cas like dean’s car? it’s all very important. bakery fics: you’ve ascended to the highest level. 
• it is canon, you realize. they did it in idaho. they did it in purgatory. they did it right after purgatory. they did it in the bunker shower. they did it in dean’s room. they did it a worn down motel room. this is so obvious
  
• you are done. lay your weary head to rest. peace. fandom fandom: this was always your fate