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Here’s an excerpt of this little idea where Dean is a police officer and Cas is a homeless man whom he befriends. :)
Dean knows he probably looks like a fucking idiot with his chin resting on his palm and his face tilted to get a full look at Cas’s clean-shaven chin, a little more filled out and healthy than Dean remembers seeing him last—which, Dean won’t lie, makes him so happy, it’s embarrassing. Like, he kind of wants to cry about that extra bit of flesh around Cas’s cheeks.
Again: he looks like a fucking idiot.
Cas stirs some cream and sugar into his mug of coffee and sips it gingerly, glancing up to smile at Dean once he’s taken his fill. Dean has to violently stop himself from grasping one of Cas’s hands in his own because there’s only so much he can stand of seeing that glowing smile before the urge to— to just touch Cas and reassure himself that Cas is real and in front of him again overtakes him.
The loss of his wings is, at first, relieving.
He never realized how heavy they were. Now, he feels lighter than he has ever felt in his long life, so light that he believes he can still fly. And the skin-tingling breeze that brushes his back every so often was cool and nice.
So, if his shoulder blades sometimes hurt, he passed it off as nothing. He was still adjusting to being human. There were bound to be a few things off at first. The ache would fade away, he reasoned.
It’s only when his knees hit the ground and his sweaty palms grabs for stability over the dirt does he give all his attention to the burning pain searing his shoulder blades.
Angels don’t sleep.
Celestial intent is unyielding and unresting, built intentionally to be an unending force, a constant soldier and never ending sentry. Vessels are powered from the nuclear reaction of angelic grace pumping through every vein, basic human functions of sustenance rendered unneeded.
Sleep is unnecessary.
Personally, Castiel doesn’t mind.
He finds plenty of ways to fill the hours spent in the dark bedroom, warm sleeping weight of the hunter curled beneath heavy blankets tucked up by his side. Sometimes he traces gentle, feather-light fingertips across the curve of Dean’s arm, feeling the ridges of banded muscle beneath tanned skin, the place where sinew binds to joint. Sometimes hours are spent observing the way Dean’s eyes shift beneath closed lids, the way sandy lashes flutter with the power of the dreams flickering unseen. When a breath catches and a soft sound is murmured out, Castiel will wonder about the images created within Dean’s subconscious marvel at the improbable wonder of the technicalities of it. The freckles scattered across Dean’s body have been counted time and again, but sometimes Castiel will spend a night re-counting, just to check. Often, the dark hours will be spent with nothing but listening to the measured, even breath passing through Dean’s lungs, the inflections of it as he shifts in his sleep.
So, no. Castiel doesn’t mind the hours of the night he spends alone in consciousness. He has too many things to marvel at, categorize and observe and love and adore. He could easily spend thousands of nights thus and still have more to do.
Castiel showed up on the Winchesters’ doorstep in the long hours of the night. The skies, which for so many hours had been flooded with the diamond-bright lights of falling angels, were dark once more; an endless layer of cloud obscured the heavens – but Dean supposed it didn’t matter now, seeing that they were empty. A light rain misted through the humming summer air.
Dean was pissed. He’d gotten home with Sam (hauled him up the stairs, clapped a hand on his shoulder, met his eyes with a warm smile and sent him straight to bed) and set to pacing across the war room floor. He paced for hours, until he swore he’d left a long, narrow divot in his wake. Then there was a dull tapping from the direction of the door – so faint he almost didn’t hear it – and Dean ceased his pacing, shoulders still tense as he crept, wary, down the hall.
His anger, a writhing, swelling flame in the pit of his stomach, went out with a hiss and a tiny puff of smoke the moment he opened the door. Amber light flooded the little stone covey surrounding the bunker’s entryway; there was no eave to provide the place shelter, and Cas lay folded in a small, sopping heap in the mud. His trenchcoat was so blackened that Dean could no longer tell what color it was.
The angel looked up at the deep groan of the door’s hinges. His hair lay flat against his head, black with mud and rain. The blue of his eyes was dim, blank.
Dean had been all ready, when Cas returned (if he returned, and wasn’t that always the question?) to tear him a new one, but the words toppled now like mortarless stones from his tongue. With lips pressed tightly together and hands forcibly wrenched out of fists, he leaned out into the rain and hoisted Castiel inside.
Have you ever had it where you read someone else's writing, and you think to yourself: I just really wish I could write that well? Have you ever had it where you really want someone to just recognize your writing and tell you if its even good, so you can find out if you actually have a talent and should keep writing? Because I'm feeling that way right now and I really don't know what to do about it.
I can tell you now anon, that I legitimately feel like this every single day.
Hah, every time I write something I stare at it and just want to rip it up because I never feel like the words are right. I always look at other people’s writing - people’s like Shristi’s and Jac’s and Jenny’s and Anja’s and Katie’s and Kyra’s and Mo’s and every other magnificent writer here on tumblr - and I just hope that maybe, someday, I’ll have a spec of their talent.
But the thing is anon — we’re always hardest on ourselves. We’re always going to think our writing is sub-par, because, frankly, that’s what writers do. We analyze and critique and nit-pick at things that other readers can’t even see - and honestly, this worry, this fear - it’s going to drive you into the ground.
So keep writing, because it is worth it. Remember that you’re not writing for others - you’re writing for yourself.
Can you suggest some really good (mostly Supernatural) blogs for me?
Heya. Oh, wow, I’m not sure I’m the one to ask about this. I don’t follow tons of blogs, and I’m sure there are other super quality ones out there beyond the ones I’ve found. And, really, it depends on what you’re looking for. Do you want gifsets or meta or fic or just random fandom love?
I’ll just post a list of some, not all, of the lovelies in this place
Chris, Zat ,Cadignan, WinJennster , outpastthemoat, pastrymisha , americanaintheimpala , Eliza, drownedinblissfulconfusion, Molly, cant-stop-the-moriparty, jimmynovaks, destielengineering, moonstiel, clotpoleofthelord
They’re all super lovely and quite different. Have fun!
[sorry for the delay, this took a while!]
A Profound Bond: An analysis through the lenses of C.S. Lewis' The Four Loves
“Dean and Cas do share a more profound bond. But what does it mean, this profound bond? Are Dean and Cas in love? Are they friends? Are they family?
The Four Loves is a treatise by C.S. Lewis about the four loves as defined by classical literature - storge, or familial affection; philia, or friendship; eros, or romantic love; and agape, or divine love.
Here I’m going to take a look at how Dean and Cas’s relationship appears through the lenses of The Four Loves. It’s my opinion that the nature of their relationship has, from the beginning, been set up as something fundamentally more than mere friendship and became more than family - even though that may have not been the writers’ original intention.
Disclaimer: I’m no philosopher, theologian, psychoanalyst or sociologist. I am, like always, just a girl who read a book once, and then went rambling about it.”
And these are the four links to her meta which is seriously awesome:
« The Four Loves »
“As it is in heaven, so it must be on earth.”
Imagine if the souls in heaven started to wake and become restless. Imagine if they started to realize things and started to feel discontent. Because there is no angels to watch and make sure heavens are in order. Heavens start to overlap. Souls become wild. No angels are there to supervise.
Imagine that after that night of the angels falling, humans start to become aware. They wake from their ignorance and start to investigate. Because those meteor showers that night was not just meteor showers. They are concerned. They are curious. Most of all, they are afraid. And they start to believe more of the supernatural.
Imagine that in heaven, riots start.
And below, on earth, it happens also.
outpastthemoat replied to your post: i have a secret!! i have mild sound-colour synesthesia and i have been laughed at more than once for reading your fic out loud to myself because it is just SO PRETTY and i don’t know if you do it subconsciously or!!! also ‘castiel’ is the prettiest colour!!!
Strangely enough, I also have synesthesia, and that’s how I write most of the time. I know I’m finished with a piece when every line is the right color and there isn’t any white left. and katie, your writing always has a lot of green in it!
oh my gosh jenny i never knew this about you, i’m fascinated! - especially about the green thing, i wonder why? this is really interesting oh my gosh ♥
It’s April 23, 2012. Dean and Cas are on leave from Camp Chitaqua, out chasing their tails (as usual) on the hunt for the Colt. They’re refueling the Jeep at a gas station in southern Ohio. It’s run-down and shoddy, Quik-Mart windows shattered, pump nozzles broken and busted, but the gas still flows. Good enough, said Dean, so they stopped.
The demons were waiting.
Cas sees Dean hit the ground hard, spluttering as the demon leans over him. Smirking, it grabs the edges of Dean’s coat, lifting him easily before thrusting down, hard. Cas hears the crack of Dean’s skull on the pavement, watches as Dean loses his grip on Ruby’s knife. The demon kicks it away, taking a blade out of its belt and raising it above Dean’s head.
One, two steps and Cas is behind the demon, pressing his hand into the back of its skull, fingers twisting in its short, blond hair, burning the creature out.
It used to be dramatic: the flare of his grace, bright and strong, cleansing the infected host. Now it’s a sigh, a quiet departure of the creature’s essence wrapped in the muffled song of the Host.
It’s still grace, though, unfiltered and pure if not as powerful. Dean knows to close his eyes. Castiel closes his, too, but for a different reason. He doesn’t want to watch as his grace dissolves with the demon. He doesn’t want to watch as he becomes a little more fragile, a little more human.
I don’t know about you guys, but The Great Escapist reminded me quite a bit of The X-File’s episode Milagro. Mostly, the Metatron scenes and the idea that writers are gods and whatnot. Probably someone else could write some meta about this if they saw the episode. I suck at writing so I’m not even going to try,