The above image is by ravenno. my favorite fan artist on Tumblr and universes beyond, and is posted here with her permission. I asked her to draw Benny and Andrea as the “couple on the cover of a cheesy historical pirate romance novel”, and boy, did she deliver! Look at that tension between them, that enigmatic smile — DAT HAT — I mean, this just looks so deliciously old-school romance novel that I feel like should be stealing it from my mother’s bedstand and sneaking giggly peeks at it before she notices it’s gone.
What’s more, rav pulled this off while apparently sick with the Croatoan virus, which only goes to show she’s not just an incredible artist but also a superhuman, in which case, I for one welcome our new artist overlords.
Anyway, the above image and the following ficlet were originally intended for the February #spnartchallenge (Valentine’s Day themed, naturally), but illness and work and other real-life stuff just got in the way of me posting this before now. Alas. C’est la vie. Better late than never, and I hope you all like our pic n’ fic. Enjoy! :)
I.
On the prow of the Calypso’s Call, Captain Andreaniki Maria Kormos cuts a dashing figure. With her long velvet coat, silk stockings, and boots as tall as a mast post, she looks more like Benny’s namesake than he does. Certainly old Jeanny-boy would’ve approved of her jaunty tricorne, which she cocks at an impossible angle, like the swashbucklers of old. She is painfully, sinfully beautiful, and it’s a good thing she’s in love with him, Benny thinks, because if she weren’t, he’d be even more damned than he already is.
Like any good pirate, she keeps a wickedly-curved dagger – not for defense, Benny learned soon after joining her crew, but for biting between her teeth at dramatic moments just like these.
“You look ridiculous,” he reminds her.
She removes said dagger with a long-suffering sigh.
“Appearances, my dear man,” she says. She tugs him close, slipping her hand below deck for a quick squeeze. “How else should I terrify my enemies into giving up their booty?”
He wriggles invitingly. “And here I thought it was already yours.”
“Don’t you spoil my fun,” she says, her gaze heavy-lidded and fierce. “when I’m in the mood for plunder.”
II.
Andrea plunders treasure the way she raises sail or drinks whisky: freely, joyfully, as if nothing in the world could matter more, or at all.
Together they move according to ancient rhythms, with hungry mouths and hungry hands, hips rocking like ships in a storm. Bare fingers seek hard muscle. Fists tangle in sweaty hair. Sweet shivers. Arched spines. A triumphant cry, then another, and another – however many it takes to call her back and to call him home.
When they’re done, Benny thinks idly that he would give anything, everything, just to be the X that marks this spot forever.
III.
They lie intertwined, tangled like fish in a netting of sheets and discarded clothing. In his arms, she’s warm and soft in all the right places, and alive, so very, very alive. He strokes her neck and watches in fascination as her pulse flutters against his fingers. She lets him, even though she must know what this look, and all of this, means.
“You really think I should be free,” he murmurs.
“Everybody deserves freedom,” she replies, “Not just pirates.”
That makes Benny laugh. “Not everybody’s a monster.”
“Yes, Benny,” she says, her gold-flecked gaze holding his, “we are.”
For a moment, he is silent. Then he pulls her close.
IV.
The following morning, they play cards and drink the last of the ouzo for breakfast. They’ll have to dock today, for Benny is out of calf’s blood and Andrea wants another paperback, and it’s been months since the hull had her last good scrubbing. But there’s no rush. Today, as with all days, they’re free to take their time.
“Your problem is,” she continues, as if the past twelve hours hadn’t interrupted their conversation, “you get too caught up in labels. Human. Monster. It’s not the word that matters. It’s the choices.”
He quirks his eyebrow at her. “You’re saying I’m free to not drink blood?”
“I’m saying,” she puts her hands on her hips, “we all deserve the chance to sail our own ship.”
“Or to sink it,” he adds.
She nods. “Now you’ve got the right of it.”
V.
On the endless ocean, Andrea is his compass. Or, maybe, she is his choice. He could drink her, but he does not. And every day he wakes up, smells the sweet lemon-and-oregano scent of her blood, and makes the only decision he’s ever made that meant a damn.
She gave him a ship, and by holy hell, he intends to sail it.
Maybe one day, choices won’t matter; maybe the compass needle will swing, and the monster will win over the man. But when Andrea poses on the prow like that, like a pirate, like a hero, it’s not hard for Benny to believe that she’s got the right of it too, and that one’s true nature is a predator that can be outrun.
After all, if the water and the sky can go on forever, stretching towards each other until they become one, why can’t he? Why can’t they?
He follows the line of the terrified boy’s arm. The woods are dark and alive, and for a moment it’s hard to remember where he is - but then his arm throbs, and he inhales the smell of evergreen and leafmould, clenches his hand on the ridiculous backpack.
Three hours gets him to the road, just as the sun is peeking over the horizon. The smell of the blacktop is almost dizzying, the carbon ghost of exhaust thick in his nostrils. He crouches in the tree line, watching. He catalogues the contents of the backpack by touch. Shirts, energy bars, a couple of books. Three cars pass by before he hears the rattle and cough of an older vehicle and stands, fighting every instinct. He stretches his spine, pastes on a smile.
Lookit them pearly whites. Ain’t as impressive as mine, brother, but mighty pretty all the same.
The truck pulls over. “You look in need of a helping hand, son.” The driver is older, in plaid and a farmer’s cap, eyes sharp but kind.
“That I am,” says Dean. “Got a bit lost. Was camping.” He hikes the backpack a bit.
“How far you headed?”
“West. As far as you can take me.”
“Alright, hop in.”
The door swings open, and Dean puts on hand on the edge of it, lifts his foot, and then can go no further. Den! his mind screams at him. The truck smells of the man, strongly, cigarettes and beer and a hint of shaving cream and sweat. It’s dim, and close, and once in, there will be nowhere to go. Not in fucking Purgatory anymore, he thinks, and forces his foot to the footwell, climbs in, shuts the door. He breaks out in a sweat immediately.
(Follow the link to AO3 for the full drabble.)
Jesus Christ, cake. If this is what I have to look forward to from you for the rest of the season, my feels will be in a puddle by 8x05. (Just in time for the vampirates to sail right over them.)
Something sweet for my wall.
—also super thank you to both Euclase and Quickreaver for their awesome crit help with this.
n_n
Some things are worth falling for.
Like a well-worn coat, a constellation of stains faded around its collar. It still smells a little like mud and cheap fast food, and all the other things Dean stowed away in his stolen cars. There’s still a crease along the belt from where it was folded that just won’t fall out, because Cas keeps it there. Maybe it’s an indulgent use of angel mojo, but Cas tells himself it’s okay, because after all, it’s the blemishes that make it beautiful.
Or the bracelet with “WINCHESTER, CAS” stamped in tiny bold letters. Two names, neither of which he asked for, neither of which he’d give up. Underneath scrolls his admittance date to the hospital like a birthday, or a baptism, and it means more now than his years or his rank or the number of tours he’d spent in that foxhole called Earth. It means more than how many apocalypses he can avert, or how many demons he can fell with a single swipe, the black blood spattering into his mouth, Anna crisply saluting, the pride in her eyes, Cas finally feeling like the soldier he was created to be.
The first cheeseburger, the first beer. The first dream of his own making—not someone else’s, which he stomps through like so much underbrush, but his own private sanctuary, one with a nebulae of flowers and the sunset slanting across a lake unending. The first nightmare, and the hand on his shoulder that wakes him. The first time Dean slips and calls them both my brothers.
Like watching the stars in a hopeless place, and realizing that’s all they are anymore: distant lights, fading memories. Brilliant, beautiful things that once seemed so small, and so close. But now Cas is the one who’s small, and the space between the stars and his memories threatens to swallow him up, and maybe he’ll let them; maybe this time he’ll just close his eyes and let go.
But then a pair of strong, scarred hands fold across Cas’s belly, so sure, so presumptive, as if an angel of the Lord even needed the support—as if knowing that of course he does, and maybe he always did.
Like the weight of a man, his bones sharp against Cas’s flesh, so frail, so breakable. But the flesh is as warm as the core of stars.
Stars fall, and empires fall, and resolves fall, each dragged down by the weight of inevitability, and yet, Cas thinks as Dean’s ribs press heavily against his own, some things are worth falling for.
Drew this in today’s stream. I like this, especially the folds in in Cas’ coat and the background.
They never stopped to sleep anymore.
“Waste of time,” Dean had said, as if he could bluster his way past biological need with the same bravado he once used to muscle his way past coroners and receptionists. “Who needs sleep when there’s monsters to run from?”
And it was true that the longer they stayed in Purgatory, the less rest Dean’s body required; but the truth of it was, Dean didn’t think he deserved it anymore. After all, it seemed the height of selfishness to demand sleep when Cas’s grace writhed in pain nonstop, his agony calling out to every creepy crawlie they’d ever ganked, and even a few they hadn’t. It was time, Dean knew, for him to man up; to put his machete where his mouth was and stay on his feet for Cas’s sake. After everything, it seemed the least Dean could do.
Most days, that was enough. But sometimes, the spasms would overtake Cas, and the angel could no longer refrain from screaming, and that’s when Dean found staying on his feet in fact meant sitting on the ground, arms draped like armor over a lapful of shaking angel.
“You sound like a lullaby by James Hetfield,” muttered Dean, not knowing where to look. Eventually he settled on the battered hospital bracelet on Cas’s wrist; “WINCHESTER, CAS” were the only words still legible under all the wear and grime.
Cas moaned loudly, sounding utterly wrecked.
“Watch your mouth, dude,” Dean said, brushing back a lock of wayward black hair. “I know St. Anger was bad, but Hetfield’s still a genius.”
In response, Cas merely shuddered.
“Heathen,” replied Dean, rolling his eyes. He adjusted his seat to offer Cas a better angle, and, before he could think too deeply about it, took the angel’s hand in his. “Exit light; enter night. Take my hand,” he sang softly, running a thumb along the back of Cas’s hand. “We’re off to Never Never Land.”
Cas had slim fingers and slim wrists and slim everything, yet the angel still sagged into Dean’s legs as if he were plummeting from a great height, gravity flattening him to earth with such urgency it couldn’t be denied. Under such weight, was it any wonder that Dean felt himself sinking to the ground as well?
“No,” he muttered, shaking the drowsiness from his eyes. “Sleep with one eye open, gripping your pillow tight.”
But lullabies were still lullabies, even if hunters sang them, and the next thing Dean knew, he was jerking awake, pushing himself up to his elbows under Cas’s still-warm trenchcoat. His vision swam, and his mouth felt cottony and raw; he’d apparently been snoring, like the asshole he was.
Next to him, Cas looked pale and weary in the feeble moonlight, and very, very awake.
“I can’t believe you let me fall asleep,” Dean grumbled.
Cas looked down at Dean, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.
“Anything to stop you from singing,” he said.
draw ALL the versions of destiel
hopefully it’s obvious which dean this is (hopefully it’s obvious that it’s dean, since his face is giving me problems rn)
edit: this was intended to be 2009 dean but it could be viewed either way now that i think about it. so… yep
Your name is simple. Strong. Dean. Just the tip of the tongue at the back of the teeth, and a short hiss in between. Dean. It’s a good name. A hunter’s name. Sounds like a warning shot or a war cry—whatever keeps the ghoulies shakin’ in their boots.
Cas, though, he’s always said your name wrong. The sounds are right, you guess, but he screws up the inflection, makes it sound like poetry, not power. It’s like—it’s like a birdcall, almost. Like, sometimes, he says your name just to hear it, like it’s a sound worth repeating simply for its own sake.
It’s weird and uncomfortable, and it takes you a long time to get used to. You never really do, of course, but eventually you stop minding as much.
But this Cas – not yours, never yours –when he says your name, it’s goddamned obscene. It’s low. Soft. Sensual. He lingers on the consonants, rolls them around like smoke on his tongue, or a pill he just can’t swallow. He stretches out the vowel like he’s forgotten what comes next. You hate him for this. You hate that he even has the same voice.
You hate that he exists.
“Dean,” he purrs luridly, and nuzzles his stubble against your lips. He does not beg permission as much as invite you to offer it, telling you in no uncertain terms: He’s open to this if you are.
But he has to know you’re not. He has to know.
Your Cas would.
But this is not your Cas. And the hand that slides up and around your jaw does not care how wide your eyes are or how your arms shake. He cups you anyway, gingerly, and his palm warm and dry and rough, so rough. He’s like an anchor, except he doesn’t keep you in place, he just keeps you from falling. And it’s the only reassurance you need to sink against his touch, because even if this isn’t your Cas, it is still Cas.
You can’t return his kiss, though. Because even though it is still Cas, this isn’t your Cas.
“I always liked your name.” He smirks against your mouth, and you taste whiskey and sweet smoke and unwashed skin. “So sure. So human.”
What can you say to that? The only thing that comes to mind is, “I was named after my grandmother.”
To his credit, Cas does not laugh. He merely looks at you as he always does, intense and earnest, as if your words were some sort of psalm, or something. He brushes the hair back from your temple with his thumb. You begin to ache with the effort of restraining yourself.
“I always liked my name too,” he continues. His breath is hot and still too close. “You gave it to me. Remember?”
Swallowing, you nod dumbly.
“I know you have to go back soon.” His fingers tense ever so slightly – if you weren’t leaning into them, you likely wouldn’t have noticed – and a bit of that old, raw gravel returns to his voice. “You might not even remember this when you wake up. But before you do, Dean—ssh—before you do, let me return your gift.”
His hand drifts down, his fingers light and playful along your neck, then your collarbone. He palms your shoulder, fits his fingers to the familiar scar faded there.
“I may not have another chance,” he whispers, suddenly unsure.
“Cas,” you say, because it’s the only thing you can.
“Dean,” he answers, as his hand drifts lower, and lower still. “Dean.” You wish he’d shut up already. You also wish he’d never stop. “Dean. Dean.”
more “Meanwhile in Purgatory” - final version
Dean had always been a magpie of memories: What others discarded he held close, and carried with him wherever he went. Trenchcoats. Flasks. Lynyrd Skynyrd mix tapes. It didn’t matter so much the object or its use, only that it had once been important. After all, Dean knew what it was to be left behind, and he also knew, better than anyone, that these things could still have power—even if only what he alone gave them.
But in Purgatory, sentiment was no luxury. What you carried with you was often your greatest weakness. Even Dean understood that here, there were only two objects worth a damn: Your knife and your coat. How to kill, and how to hide.
And apparently Cas had left both behind.
“Cas,” Dean shouted. His voice came out high and reedy, but he didn’t care. “Cas! Where are you, man? Cas?”
But the angel did not answer. The only sound was the tie on his stuck blade, flapping like a half-mast flag.
Dean yanked the angel blade from its purchase and peered between the trees, looking for a flash of skin, a flutter of white. But the underbrush offered nothing—only fog, vast and thick, and studded with fireflies.
“Dammit.” He heaved a ragged sigh and picked up the trenchcoat, because he didn’t know what else to do, because some habits were hard to break, because he’d only just returned it, after all, and wasn’t that rude, to leave such a recent gift behind?
Part of me always believed you’d come back. The words rattled around in his mind like something caught in Baby’s engine. As soon as he’d said outside the hospital, Dean knew he’d jinxed it. Good luck never lasted. Good luck was always just a curse in disguise. And right now he couldn’t help but remember what else he’d thought that night but hadn’t said: Part of me always knew you’d leave for good.
“Dammit,” Dean muttered again and drew the machete from his coat. He stared down the trail, searching, but a diffuse light from somewhere high above made the path before him hazy and hard to follow. His fist clenched in the trenchcoat. He tried not to scream.
The fireflies didn’t seem to care about his panic, however, and nor did the fog. It moved closer, curling around him – it even seemed to sway, and dance. It seemed alive.
Dean frowned down at the vaporous glow for a long moment. Then, in a rush, it dawned on him.
“You’re a wavelength,” he breathed, “of celestial intent.”
A swirl of fog suddenly somersaulted, sweeping high up to the treetops, and Dean’s shoulders sagged. He turned away to hide his relieved smile.
“Cas, you jackass.” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “You could’ve warned me, you know.”
The fog swirled again, all colors and none. Then it parted, revealing a muddy trail that disappeared into the dark gloom of trees. Dean smirked.
“Apology accepted,” he said, sliding the angel blade into his jacket and balling up the trenchcoat. “Even if I’m still stuck carrying your shit.”
a thing I owe Erica (:
Trying out some speed writing here. Takes place in S5 sometime? Whatevs, I don’t even know.
Things flutter before they fall apart, and it’s as easy as this: a shudder in his shoulders, a moan caught in his throat. You try to hold him together. You ache to repair. But your long fingers find no purchase against sandpaper stubble; already you are called away.
“Stay with me,” he begs. “Please. I need you.”
“That is a lie,” you answer, because it is.
“Then—fine,” his voice is barely a growl, “I want you. Okay? I want you.”
Squeezing his eyes shut, he noiselessly scrapes the shape of your name against your own mouth. Deep within your borrowed chest, your grace hums. It unfurls.
So you return the favor. You catch his breath and release it back against his lips, giving it your grace, your desire, everything that matters. And you want to believe that you are doing him kindness. You want to believe this is something holy and sure.
But you know as well as I how the apocalypse begins. Not with a bang, but a flutter.
“I want,” you say, but the rest of your words are lost in the firm snap of wings. You hover for a moment, hanging as if balanced, lost in his breath, and you let yourself wonder: In the space between your lips, what rough beast shudders off sleep and slouches toward daybreak?
“I want,” you repeat, and it’s the only thing that’s true.
(via jaimelannisterror)
Source (debonairbear on tumblr)
The storm would come, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t about the gales or the rain, but windswept hair and rain-slick lips, and two warm bodies sliding together. It was about the lightning: a messy flash carved against the sky like a signature, energy and matter sharing the same space for one brief moment before parting, as they always must.
“Don’t you think we’re a little old for this?” Dean whispered against wet, plush lips.
“Just the opposite,” growled Cas.
Life was first forged in storms, and Dean thought it showed in how violently they fit together now, man and angel, collapsing against each other like wind-buffeted branches. Lips and teeth collided; hard muscle rubbed back against calloused palms. Yet still they strained toward each other like two tongues of lightning, never quite reaching, never quite able to even get close enough.
The storm would come, and all too soon it would end, leaving only soaked mud and burnt sky behind. But for the moment, there was only this: furious noise and murky horizons, and two souls struggling not to drown.
“That was awesome,” Dean sighed afterward, drenched and spent.
In the distance lightning flashed, and Dean could see that Cas’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“This thing is strangling me. It’s obviously evil.”
Samael chuckles and continues to struggle with his own tie a lot more gracefully, and Dean growls in frustration, twisting the fabric in his hands and accidentally pulling it through his shirt collar once more. He’s glaring at the damned thing like he’d smite it if he could, and that’s when Castiel sighs and sets down Gabriel’s laptop and gets up from the motel room’s table. He pushes right into Dean’s personal space—which is fair, because he’s always saying that Dean doesn’t understand the concept—and he takes the tie from the angel’s hand without comment. It’s embarrassing, because Dean can stop time with a thought—well, he used to be able to do that and a lot of other things—but he can’t manage things as simple as dressing up like an FBI agent for a hunt. Then again, he thinks he should have more fashion malfunctions if it means Castiel’s warm, dry hands snaking the fabric through his collar, sharp hips inches away from Dean’s vessel’s, and those intelligent blue eyes focused on him.
Castiel finishes the knot, tightens it snugly around Dean’s throat, and then arches an eyebrow up at him. ”Think you can handle your belt?” he asks, voice quiet and low and almost teasing.
Dean blinks and tilts his head to the side. ”If I say ‘no’ will you do it for me?”
The hunter’s lips quirk at the corner, barely a smile, and Dean feels a weird sense of accomplishment bloom in his chest. Castiel rolls his eyes. ”Put your pants on, Dean.” Then he’s walking back to the table, focus diverted to the computer again. Dean looks down at his vessel’s bare knees sandwiched between boxer briefs and dress socks, then to the ironed and pressed black slacks thrown over one of the room’s chairs. He decides that shoelaces and button flies are very, very confusing human things that angels don’t understand. Castiel will have to help him with those, too. Dean is the craftiest angel in the garrison.
From behind him, Sam barks a laugh and goes to the bathroom to kick Gabriel out of the shower.
That belt moment is straight up Bogie and Bacall, circa “You know how to whistle, don’t you? Just put your lips together and blow.” It just crackles.
Loving these reverse!verse drabbles almost as much as your regular college!AU.
Because I have a weakness for Cas in Dean’s clothes.
The briefs were Dean’s, but the t-shirt wasn’t, and that was a surprise in and of itself: that a man who looked so handsome in a suit as Cas did could have a thing for downhome, dirty rock. But it was always the quiet ones, Dean supposed – or the not-so-quiet ones, in Cas’s case.
“Speak up a bit,” Dean said between thrusts. “Not sure they heard you in China.”
Cas had a face like an angel but a voice like sin, and when he buried himself in Dean, he bared his teeth and let loose like Bon Scott himself. That scream could shatter glass and start car alarms; and it sent Dean’s beloved spaniel Sammy cowering under the bed in terror. It carried so much power, so much heat—as if Cas were enraged that something so messy and brief could ever feel this good.
Cas was so loud that it took Dean a few rounds to realize exactly what Cas had been screaming, and when he did, Dean couldn’t help but respond with a very un-rock-and-roll-like blush.
“Do it again,” he whispered against Cas’s ear the next time he got close. “Sing my name.”
And Cas did, again and again. It was the kind of refrain a man could lose himself in, the kind that needed pounding percussion lines and dramatic pyrotechnics, which Dean was only all too happy to supply.
The morning after, Dean felt like he would after any good rock show – exhausted, sticky, aching limbs sporting bruises in curious places. He poured himself a cup of coffee and smugly hummed the last few bars to “You Shook Me All Night Long”. But when Cas appeared in the kitchen doorway, rumpled and half-dressed, Dean suddenly lost track of the melody.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Cas’s voice was hoarse as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “You look confused.”
“Nope,“ said Dean, grinning. “Just thunderstruck.”
There is a God and her name is flutiebear. Amazing, as always.I think you might have to go dirtier next time.
(Also… I can’t seem to put in read more thing-y. I sorry!)
I’m working up to the dirty! It’s a process. Can’t just auto-porn right out of the gate, I gotta get my head in the game. Maybe I need more research. TO AO3!
(via pandasintheimpala)
Because I have a weakness for Cas in Dean’s clothes.
The briefs were Dean’s, but the t-shirt wasn’t, and that was a surprise in and of itself: that a man who looked so handsome in a suit as Cas did could have a thing for downhome, dirty rock. But it was always the quiet ones, Dean supposed – or the not-so-quiet ones, in Cas’s case.
“Speak up a bit,” Dean said between thrusts. “Not sure they heard you in China.”
Cas had a face like an angel but a voice like sin, and when he buried himself in Dean, he bared his teeth and let loose like Bon Scott himself. That scream could shatter glass and start car alarms; and it sent Dean’s beloved spaniel Sammy cowering under the bed in terror. It carried so much power, so much heat—as if Cas were enraged that something so messy and brief could ever feel this good.
Cas was so loud that it took Dean a few rounds to realize exactly what Cas had been screaming, and when he did, Dean couldn’t help but respond with a very un-rock-and-roll-like blush.
“Do it again,” he whispered against Cas’s ear the next time he got close. “Sing my name.”
And Cas did, again and again. It was the kind of refrain a man could lose himself in, the kind that needed pounding percussion lines and dramatic pyrotechnics, which Dean was only all too happy to supply.
The morning after, Dean felt like he would after any good rock show – exhausted, sticky, aching limbs sporting bruises in curious places. He poured himself a cup of coffee and smugly hummed the last few bars to “You Shook Me All Night Long”. But when Cas appeared in the kitchen doorway, rumpled and half-dressed, Dean suddenly lost track of the melody.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Cas’s voice was hoarse as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “You look confused.”
“Nope,“ said Dean, grinning. “Just thunderstruck.”
…I will follow you into the dark.
(open in new tab for bigger view)
“Go on,” Cas said, motioning forward. “I will follow you into the dark.”
“Oh sure. Follow the tasty, unarmed human.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Great plan.”
“Do not be afraid.” Cas laid a hand on Dean’s shoulder, the fingers gripping tight, pressing new shapes into the old scars, and the angel looked so earnest that Dean was sure he was about to say something they’d both regret. Dean shifted uncomfortably in advance. “They will smell your fear on you.”
Dean let out a puff of relief. “Reassuring, as always,” he grunted.
But it was reassuring, in a way. Cas’s eyes were always so cold, except when they weren’t; his smile non-existent, except when it was. He didn’t coddle. He didn’t push. He just said what he needed to and let his blade speak the rest – something Dean had always appreciated.
Sometimes, Dean let himself wonder if John would have appreciated it too.
“Well,” he said, without looking back. “Are you coming?”
Behind him Dean heard the familiar rustle of Cas’s trenchcoat. “Of course.”
And suddenly it didn’t matter that a dozen red eyes peered back at him from the shadows, or that on one nearby tree crawled a spider that looked suspiciously like a hand. Dean squared his shoulders and stepped into the underbrush, and was unafraid.
well, you know me. always happy to bleed for a winchester.
i actually can’t tell if i should be embarrassed about this
When you push all day, every day against the same boulder, eventually you get to know the shape of it: its crags, its pits; that smooth patch where the wind abraded the quartz down to glass. Your hands learn its jagged edges and anticipate them, like the end to some familiar story. In turn, you are polished. You erode. Eventually you forget that there was ever anything other than you and this boulder, and this hill; and this moment. You push, and you push, and you know only the feel of the boulder pushing back.
Until one day, your foot slips, your strength fails, and all that resistance you spent so long exerting comes back on you in an instant, crushing you feet first, then hands, then ribs, where your heart still thuds against its cage, still pushing, always pushing, always straining towards its goal.
But as all lovers know, the tragedy of Sisyphus was never the hill, but the gravity. The boulder comes, and we do not dodge. For we have forgotten how.
(via octopifer)
Some more “Trueform Castiel.” May have overdone it with the textured brushes, but regardless I like this thumb a bit more than the others on which I was working.
“Lost. Again.” Dean let out a frustrated sigh and holstered his gun. “Too bad one of us isn’t the size of the Chrysler Building. Maybe then he could see where we were going.”
Cas didn’t answer. Instead, he sagged to the ground, impossibly quick, his massive torso curling behind him like a snake’s. His mask face slowly drooped onto one forearm.
Dean made a rude noise and threw up his hands.
“C’mon, man. We already took a break, like, two hours ago.” But Cas did not get up. No, the angel did the exact opposite, of course, shifting his weight and pawing at the dirt until he carved out some measure of comfort. For all his size and power, thought Dean, the angel really was nothing more than an overgrown puppy—especially when he glared up at Dean with those big moon-eyes. “Cas. We gotta keep moving.”
“Blow me,” replied the angel, without so much as lifting his head.
“Well, when you say it like that.” Dean slowly dragged one hand over his face, as if he could physically tug the irritation out through his cheeks. Then he fell unceremoniously to the ground next to the angel. “So. You ever gonna tell me what’s eating you?”
Cas averted his gaze to somewhere far off in the underbrush. “I am finding it difficult,” he said eventually, “to remember.”
“Ah. Heaven stuff.” Dean grimaced. “Clouds ‘n shit, right?”
“Rain,” Cas said quietly.
“Rain?” Dean snuck a quick glance at his friend. Lines, like little furtive cracks, had recently begun to form on the mask face, under Cas’s eyes and around his chin, and Dean noticed a new one now, a hairline fracture right between the brows. He had the sudden urge to hurl himself at the mask and hold it together, with his arms and legs, if he had to. “Seriously?”
“Yes.” One long finger idly toyed with Jimmy’s tie in the dirt. “Being wet, generally. But I especially liked the rain. All those little drops, in random patterns. Well, not random, you know.” He looked over at Dean and frowned. “Well, I guess you don’t.”
Dean rolled his eyes, but said nothing.
“In this form,” sighed Cas, his finger falling still, “it is easier for me to grasp the greater pattern of the forest, yet harder to still see the weeds.”
“The trees, you mean,” said Dean. Cas stared at him blankly. “Hard to see the forest for the trees. That’s how the saying goes.”
“I know what I said,” Cas mumbled irritably.
Dean thought for a moment, forcing himself to remember the feel of cool droplets as they slid down his skin; the smell of ozone hanging heavy and electric in the air; the soft, soothing patter of rain against the Impala’s roof. No matter how loud it ever got, it could never completely cover up Sam’s heavy snore.
Sighing, Dean kicked out his feet and leaned back against the angel’s forearm.
“For me, it’s whiskey,” he said softly. He lifted his hand and held it there, unwavering, a few inches above his knee. The shakes had long ago stopped, along with the nightmares, but Dean knew right now it was the principle of the thing that mattered, and not the reality. He chuckled to himself sadly. “Man, I used to drink like a fish. Now I can barely remember the taste.”
Cas’s gaze lingered on Dean’s hand before moving back to the underbrush. “I’ve forgotten how a bee’s legs tickle when she tells a dirty joke,” he said. “Only that they do.”
“You got me there.” Dean smirked and folded his hands behind his head. “Remember the smell of the Impala?”
Cas nodded. “Or how it felt to go over a pothole. Like flying, but not.”
“Cheeseburgers. All that grease and ketchup.” Dean smiled wistfully. “Hell, road food in general, am I right?”
“Sex,” Cas offered.
Dean’s half-smile evaporated. He sat up, shaking his head as if dispel a bad dream. Then he noticed Jimmy’s tie, dirty and still flattened under one long, claw-like finger. He reached for it. “Can I?”
Cas hesitated before nodding.
“Here.” Dean picked up the tie and carefully wrapped it around the angel’s wrist, double-knotting it. He patted Cas’s arm once, briefly. “So you don’t forget.”
Cas stared at him as if he were stupid. “I hardly think—“
“Just,” Dean inhaled sharply, catching himself and restarting in a softer tone. “Just do it. It’ll help. I promise.”
He didn’t add that this was something his mom used to do, that it was one of the only things he could still remember about her, even though he could no longer remember her actually ever doing it for him—just a memory of a memory, really, an impression long since faded.
But the way Cas looked at him then, Dean suspected the angel already knew.
Dean cleared his throat.
“Do bees really tell dirty jokes?” he asked eventually.
Cas smiled down at the tie on his wrist.
“Oh yes,” he replied with a chuckle. “Filthy little hedonists. It’s all sex and road trips with them.”
“Sounds like my kind of species,” laughed Dean.
“Why do you think I like them so much?” Cas agreed.
(via destieliscanon)
Today I wanted to really practice with colours and make some headway towards a type of colouring style that I’d like to pursue. Of course Castiel is my target for this little project because I love him and he’s the best thing since sliced bread to me :)
AUGH. SO GOOD. That desert piece especially really grabbed me and gave me all the feels. So, I dunno, here you go, have some Purgatory fluff:
At what point Dean’s life had become a love letter to Blue Oyster Cult, he wasn’t sure. It was so hard to remember anything that came before the dehydration and the heat-stroke, and the unyielding weight of Cas against his ribs. But he was sure it could be worse. Or better. Or something.
“Burn out the day,” he half-sang, half-croaked, his parched voice difficult to modulate in the relentless heat. “Burn out the night.”
“You are not helping,” snapped Cas.
“Old sea shanty,” Dean tried to explain. His head lolled about spinelessly; for a brief second, it rubbed against Cas’s temple, until the angel jerked his head away. “It’ll help us get over this dune.”
Dean knew he had a deeper point in there, somewhere, about Purgatory as an ocean of sand and they its sailors; maybe something too about old Greek heroes lost at sea. But it was just so hot. Too hot for a man to think, or joke, or make sarcastic literary allusions. Dean considered it a victory that he could even still manage song lyrics.
It wouldn’t be so bad if Purgatory had rocks, or cactuses, or anything offering the slightest bit of shade, but that would’ve required the kind of divine favor Dean knew he didn’t have and had never possessed. Not that it would’ve mattered much, of course, as there wasn’t any sun in the sky to hide from. Just an endless canopy of blue that collided far, far in the distance with a featureless horizon undulating in the heat.
“Just stop talking,” Cas murmured, slick fingers slipping along their purchase at Dean’s side. He re-adjusted his grip and tugged Dean closer. “Save your strength. And mine.”
Dean side-eyed his friend with as much nonchalance as he could muster, but the mere sight of the angel’s sunburnt cheeks and glassy, unfocused eyes made Dean’s heart skitter wildly against his ribs.
“How’s this getting to you, anyway?” said Dean, putting in renewed effort to shuffle forward on his own legs and lean less on Cas. “I didn’t know angels even could sweat.”
“Purgatory was designed to affect all who enter, even angels,” Cas replied, not dropping his hand from Dean’s waist. His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, as if searching for something that waited just out of reach. “The point is to burn away the monster and leave only the grace behind.”
“Real dick move on your dad’s part,” said Dean, glowering up at the sunless, cloudless sky. “Seein’ as how he made the monsters in the first place.”
Cas pursed his lips but did not disagree.
“At least we can’t die,” Dean offered.
“What a relief,” replied Cas, rolling his eyes.
Panic unfurled once more in Dean’s gut. The last time he’d seen Cas this hopeless, he’d at least been drunk. With his dangling hand, Dean tapped Cas’s chest, right above his heart.
“C’mon.” He licked his split, bleeding lips. “Sing with me.”
Cas glared at him.
“I can’t see no reason to put up a fight.” Dean’s voice cracked a little as he sang.
“Dean.”
“I’m living for giving the devil his due.” Dean chuckled, despite himself. “See? It’s like Big Buck wrote it just for us.”
Next to him, Cas’s mouth twitched.
“I’m burning, I’m burning, I’m burning for you,” Dean sang, beaming as widely as he could manage.
Cas sighed and, hesitantly, smiled back.
“I’m burning, I’m burning, I’m burning for you,” he answered.
