Dean doesn’t know what to expect. Hell, he’s not even sure if there’s anything to expect; when angels start falling out of the sky like sparks from the butt-end of a cigarette, that’s when you know almost anything’s possible in this wide world after all.
Almost anything’s possible, he thinks in those gray hours before dawn, gunning the Impala down the highway and blinking through the fog across his vision, almost anything can happen now.
And he thinks about comets crash-landing inside vessels of skin and bone, stealing hands and hearts and eyes, angels crowding out each former soul and waking in the morning in a bed they hadn’t made. Almost anything’s possible, even once-infinite angels becoming slow-growing miracles that will rise out of the earth nine months from now, opening their eyes to the light of day as they are placed inside their mothers’ arms.
Almost anything can happen, but that’s the problem: Dean can see a new world rising up on the horizon, a world where every last truth he’s clung to in these years he’s spent fighting against the dark has disappeared between one heartbeat and the next, because angels are falling and his might be lost for good.
Dean falls asleep that night wondering if he will still have blue eyes the next time they meet.
A month goes by, and Dean wonders if he’d know Cas if he saw him again, and blue eyes and dark hair shouldn’t matter so much, but they do; Cas might be Cas without those things, but a Cas with brown eyes or silver hair might not be his Cas after all, a Cas that never touched his soul in hell or stolen his fries or leaned into his shoulder as Dean half-carried him to the car.
Anything’s possible, but Dean’s not going to hold his breath, he’s not going to hold out for the sight of a rumpled tan trenchcoat on the side of the street, or a static-lined phone call that starts with Hello, Dean and ends with Take me home. Anything can happen, and Dean knows this better than most, and he knows better than anyone that a world where angels fall is a world where happy endings just don’t happen.
But because anything’s possible, he finds himself reading the newspaper every day, scanning the personals because what if? And because anything can happen, anything at all, he makes the calls and steals Sam’s laptop and checks each voicemail every day.
The hardest part is knowing that anything could happen, and that’s what drives him up the wall, knowing that there might be a Cas out there somewhere for him to find, a Cas that still exists somehow, a Cas that still has Dean’s heart revolving around the very idea of him the way the earth turns around the sun.
The hardest part is not knowing if searching is stupid or sensible, the most frightening part is the thought that Cas might have been under his nose the whole time, and Dean hasn’t found him because Dean never knew what he looked like in the first place; that Dean only knows Cas by those silly half-smiles and the wild hair and the set of his shoulders, that Dean doesn’t know him well enough to recognize him if he sees him, that Dean just plain doesn’t know Cas at all.
But anything can happen, and it usually does, and Dean spends afternoons in coffee shops, trying to catch a glimpse of every stranger who walks through the door, staring into every pair of eyes just in case he feels something, anything. He doesn’t know what to expect, but he thinks he’d know the feeling once he felt it, so he gets a box at the post office in Lebanon, Kansas, and for weeks he runs an ad that only says I still pray to you every night.
Months go by and nothing happens, and Dean’s left waiting and hoping and not-hoping and he wonders sometimes if this isn’t faith after all.
Anything’s possible, but Dean doesn’t expect to know him in a heartbeat; he’s spent so much time worrying he wouldn’t recognize Cas if he saw him that he’s not ready for the gut-punch reaction of having Cas’s arms crawling tight and desperate up between his shoulders or Cas’s beard whisking across his cheek.
Cas breathes in his ear, gravel and grit and road-dust weary, I looked everywhere for you, and Dean wonders how he ever could have thought he wouldn’t know Cas if he found him again.
But he says it anyway, dizzy with that feeling he’s always known he’d recognize and stupid with relief, Your eyes are still blue.
dedicated to iva, belatedly for her birthday <3
Considering that for most of their acquaintance Dean had known Cas in only one outfit, and only because it kinda came with the whole vessel package, he had a strange amount of preconceived notions about what kind of clothes Cas would actually wear were he ever to put thought into dressing himself.
- #omg this is such a shameful excuse for a fic but bre told
- #e you loved suspenders and i couldnt resist
- #otp: the greatest love story ever told
- #i do heartily recommend eveyrone go check out that inspo link at the very least
- #because damn
- #also yes this is absolutely named after a jt song oops
It’s Kansas, or it isn’t; there are no wheat-lined horizons or open-wide blue skies in this corner of the world, and that’s what makes Dean worry, because he knows Kansas in a way he’ll never know another place, and his heart says this isn’t Kansas, not even a little bit.
He’s tough, says Sam, he’s like a weed, you couldn’t get rid of him even if you tried, and Dean tries to think of Cas like that instead, as something that’s getting better, not worse, no matter how many nights Dean steals into his bed and tries to pull him apart.
Dean can’t quite think of what Cas does as gardening, even though technically it meets all the requirements: Cas goes outside, rain or shine, and that’s part of it, and he buries his hands in the dirt, and that’s another, but that’s where the similarities to gardening end.
There’s a spot just outside the bunker, and that’s where Cas goes, but it can’t be called a garden because there’s been no real attempt to guide nature here. it’s just a patch of Kansas’s most notorious evils: sowthistles, carpetweed, cockleburrs; pigweed and purslane; bitterweed, snakeroot, Devil’s beggar ticks.
There’s a patch of ragweed, and that’s what keeps Dean away most days, even though he’ll watch from the doorstep every afternoon, waiting for Cas to come in for the night.
Weeds is a relative term, Cas says to him, once. Humans, he says, you humans place such importance on labels. There’s no difference between a weed and a flower, really.
Dean tells him he wishes Cas would do something other than sit around talking about weeds. He tells Cas that Kansas soil isn’t bad for growing vegetables, and doesn’t Cas think tomatoes would be a damn sight more useful than crabgrass?
Weeds are simply plants no one has found a use for yet, Cas tells him, and Dean sits beside him and stares up into the slowly-splitting river birch that’s growing far too close to the bunker for his peace of mind and thinks this isn’t Kansas.
Mid-July, and the weeds begin to look more appealing: black-eyed Susans and Queen Anne’s lace, rocket and yarrow.
Sam wanders outside once and starts pulling up dandelions, marveling at the strength of their taproots, and Dean thinks this isn’t Kansas. Kansas is sunflowers and cornfields, the weather-beaten boards of the farmhouse where his mother vanished in the night, and this place is abandoned cement and steel, electricity provided by the river on the other side of the bunker’s concrete stacks, the quiet spaces underneath the willows, among the rushes and the clover and the bird’s foot violets.
This isn’t Kansas; Dean knows that Kansas is where things grow, and then they die; Cas is less and less every day, and he knows that it’s roses one day and the next day it’s over and this can’t be Kansas because one day soon all this will come to an end.
November, and whether they’re weeds or wildflowers the fact is they’re gone, withered and brown shapeless things after three weeks of frost, and while Cas stares up at the stars without recognition, he falls asleep in Dean’s arms and every night Dean thinks this isn’t Kansas, but his license plates and Sam disagree.
It’s not Kansas, he keeps thinking, but then one night Cas crawls into his bed and folds himself into Dean’s arms, gives back every one of those heart-felt kisses Dean’s always thought he’d taken no more notice of than the feel of dust blowing against his face and maybe, Dean thinks, Cas warming him inside and out, maybe this isn’t Kansas, but maybe it’s close enough to count.
4x18 reaction fic
I know everybody is writing the klaine phonecall that should have happened, but I thought what would Blaine’s dad think about this. so this came out. i’m sorry if Blaine’s dad’s name ends up being something different, but I had to write this. This is in Blaine’s dad’s POV so i hope you all don’t mind *u*
and a big thank you to my angel Rachel for encouraging me to write this.
William Anderson was never the type of man to sit down and watch the news, always preferring to read them in the paper. He liked it way. He didn’t like to be kept on the edge of his seat wondering what was going to happen next. Call him unusual, but he liked it better that way. Except this isn’t everyday. This isn’t a day where William Anderson can sit back and read a book while he waits for the paper, because his son is one of those people in danger today.
The Herondales- CP2 Spoilers
William, he said, his voice echoing through her mind but her mind wept for the voice she would never hear again. Tessa, he is beautiful. A strong shadowhunter he will be like his Father. Brave like his Mother.
Fic: Catch My Fall
Word Count: 10.4K
Warnings: light drug use, brief mentions of bullying, light comeplay, bottom!chris, barebacking
A/N: this is the longest thing i’ve ever written and i’m pretty sure now i need a nap. i wrote this for the ccauw this week and i probably got a little carried away, but whatever. title is from foxy shazam’s killin’ it.
Summary: Chris is a sophomore, Darren is a senior, and this is the best year of their lives.
A letter from Jem to Will-Clockwork Princess spoilers
I shall say it again, how could I ever say farewell to you?
a selfish wish
i want you to imagine me holding your hand.
i want you to picture us on a couch
reading, your feet propped up
on my thighs. i want you to imagine my fingers in your hair,
my smile against your scalp, ghosting across your cheek,
my breath near your ear, saying “i love you” loudly
because it is no secret.
i want you to imagine us
tired, frightened, but together,
arguing over petty things, serious things,
the stuff of life and death that love is made of.
imagine us apologising after, crying after,
curling up after, with my palms
lain across your hips, where i hold you close to my heart
because its pounding only settles
when it can hear the beating of your own.
if i could, i would give you the memory of all these moments
we’ve never had.
i would give you my laughter and my graceless mistakes,
all my follies and worries because i would crave every one of yours
in the same way i crave your grins, the way the skin
around your eyes crinkles, the way you turn
mundane syllables into a song.
if i could, i would build you a home with these bare hands
that wish they could miss your touch.
Nicole’s tags on this post inspired me.
“Oh, we’re not back together,” Kurt states, looking pointedly towards Blaine as he corrects the assumption for roughly the eighteenth time since he’d arrived back in Ohio. Mercedes eyes them dubiously, clearly not believing him as she takes a sip of her coffee.
“Yeah, no we’re…we’re just friends,” Blaine says to Kurt’s surprise. It’s the first time Blaine has actually said it rather than just nod along in agreement with Kurt.
He doesn’t like it.
At first he was adamant, they weren’t back together, he was happy to just be Blaine’s friend. He really should have known that being just friends with Blaine is something Kurt simply can’t do, has never been able to do.
Then it had started to become a test. He knew he wanted to get back together with Blaine but he wasn’t entirely sure how to bring up the topic. Whenever someone would assume they were together, Kurt would still deny that they were, hoping that maybe it could put the idea into Blaine’s head and maybe he’d ask him out.
But hearing Blaine say it allowed hurts in a way Kurt hadn’t predicted it could. Hearing Blaine sound so resigned to the fact that they’re not a couple leaves Kurt with a bizarre feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“Just friends, huh?” Kurt says as they leave the Lima Bean, having just said their farewells to Mercedes. Blaine gives him a confused look.
“Yeah?” Blaine says slowly, questioningly.
“Oh come on!” Kurt whines, looping his arm around Blaine’s and pulling him close, right where he belongs.
“Kurt, what – ”
“Just ask me out already, we both know I’m gonna say yes!”
“You…you will?” Blaine says, voice rising with hope. “But you keep telling everyone that we’re just friends and…” he trails off, looking towards his feet. It’s then that Kurt realises how much it must have hurt Blaine every single time he assured anyone that they weren’t together. It had hurt enough when Blaine finally said it aloud and Kurt is sure he hasn’t stopped saying it since he got back. Placing his hand on Blaine’s cheek, Kurt forces him to look at him again and pauses only briefly before bringing their lips together, kissing him with everything he has and making up for the months spent without him.
“Do you wanna go out some time?” Blaine asks after pulling away a fraction. Kurt can hear the laughter in his tone and kisses him firmly once again before replying,
“I’d love to.”
but dean and cas would be so gross because they just wouldn’t be able to not sit right next to each other and lean closer to the other and always shift towards each other ok. and when they’d kiss they’d always do it until they were out of breath and they wouldn’t even notice their friends rolling their eyes because they’d be kissing again and asdfhkj so gross ;u;
Happy Birthday, B!
So I uhh, wrote a thing?? Because it’s Gavin’s birthday? And yeah, this is a thing that happened. Also shoutout to writing like, half fluff half smut, whatever this was. And shoutout to Drae because she asked for this like months ago and I was lazy.
Pairing: Danvin (Dan/Gavin)
Summary: “And that was just one of your presents, B. You’re going to love the rest of your birthday.”
to build by
If I had to use the word belonging,
I’d rather say belonging with than belonging to,
it makes love sound so much more like a home, don’t you think?
it makes this sound like something shared, or that if
we get caught outside beneath heavy clouds
at least we will get drenched together.
so when I say, whispering into your neck,
I knew all along you were mine, I’m saying
I still don’t know.
I’m saying my doubt comes in shudders and in terrifying storms
but then I perceive the curve of your mouth and the lines of your hands
intersecting with mine, and I think
I still don’t know anything.
I’m saying all I know is that the hammer in my heart when my eyes
meet yours is an unfathomable but unmistakable journey into a knowledge
that as much as you have gifted yourself as mine
I have been yours,
I am yours,
I will be yours,
I am saying, here, at the crest of our connecting fingertips,
our roof keeps out the rain.
delayed, but not forever stayed
vaguely post-s8 dean/cas fluff
Dean thumbs the worn photograph from its place on the desk. He thinks that idea alone is a strange one, that he has a place to keep this now, that his mother’s face may always look back at him from that same place every time he enters his room.
That notion too will probably be a novelty that never wears off, but the unbelievable thing is, is that it could, in time, if they stayed here long enough. If they stay alive long enough, really, because under any other circumstance Dean can’t envision a scenario anymore in which he’d want to leave. For the first time, in a long time, he’s got too much going for him in one spot, standing still right here.
He tries to explain it like this: he is not, nor has he ever been a star, but he wears stars in his eyes and when he weeps, the dust of comets trail down his cheeks instead of tears.
This is what it is to be an angel, he explains to Dean, long afterward: paint sweeping across the canvas, spread thin by the tip of a brush, moved by the Painter according to His design; moving inside the horsehair bristles as he moves inside a vessel.
He is only the medium; never the art, never the tool.
Dean doesn’t understand, so he tries again.
He is a thousand colors mixed together, verdigrislilacturquoisesanguine, and he blurs around the edges, and even as his form takes shape between the colors and the blank void of white, he, like the paint, will crack apart as he dries; the lines that create him streak and curve and dip and sway, brushed to the top of the page, and melting down halfway again before he hardens: impermanence shaped into something solid.
He will dry like this, and he will crack apart, his figure chapped and raw, and even as a form emerges, one layer over another, and then another, he will remember being shapeless.
This is what it is to be human, he says, and Dean looks at him with those watercolor eyes dripping wet and moss-green, India ink running down his face and staining through his skin almost like sadness.
The First Time Aaron Makes Carson Blush
Carson doesn’t get complimented very often. Not that it bothers him at all, he just doesn’t really think about it or notice it. The only reason he does care to get complimented is when it’s academic or about his writing. He’s smart and talented and he takes a certain level of pride in that. He doesn’t need for others to notice, but he’s human and he’ll never admit it, but it’s nice to get the recognition.
He thinks back sometimes and the last time he can remember being complimented for his appearance was by his grandma. She told him he has a cute nose. And ever since then, it’s been his favorite physical feature.
Then Aaron comes along and… well…