i love girls. theyre so sweet and kind they always have a painkiller or a chewing gum when u need one, they always give u a bite of whatever theyre eating, they hug u when ur cold, they hold ur hand so u dont get lost in the crowd. angels
Because like hell or high water, he was not going to wait another second.
“Dean, Dean!” Sam attempted to grab his attention, both hands on the handle on the ceiling in a small attempt to hold himself together at the speeds Dean was driving. “Who was that, Dean? Who was it?”
“We need to go, we need to go,” Dean only repeated instead. It was not until later that he realized he had never put his phone on speaker or that Sam had no idea why he was jolted out of sleep until they arrived at that empty alley.
There were no other souls around the alley, but the light just above the telephone pole flickered and sparked every few minutes. It was almost fitting really.
“Oh my God…” he vaguely heard Sam whisper in the background, but Dean wasn’t paying attention to that. He was paying attention to the figure standing in front of the telephone booth.
He looked the same, and yet the clothes he wore should be nothing but ashes right now. Or maybe they were slightly different. He always did like wearing a stupid trench over anything else.
When he turned, however, Dean knew. He didn’t need tests. He didn’t need blood to be drawn. He didn’t need a blade. Without realizing what he was doing, he began to close the distance. Right in that moment, that distance of a few feet felt like a few inches. He was done. So done with everything, prepared to not come back.
Dean spoke with every step. “You…”
Dean nearly tried to convince Billie before he was thrust back. “Son…”
Two feet. “ Of a…”
“Bitch” Dean collided with shoulder’s first, both arms moving to wrap around the other man’s form and hold on tightly. “You son of a bitch,” his voice finally broke.
He heard Sam’s footsteps get closer, but what made more of an impact was the other man’s arms match his own and pull Dean closer. He could practically hear the heartbeat underneath the other man’s chest.
“You son of a bitch,” he mouthed into the crook of the other man’s skin, fully aware his face was not wet because of any sweat or otherwise.
He still had yet to say something, anything. But his phone call had said it all.
Two words, simple words he’d never thought he’d hear again in that gravely voice.
Just a few hours earlier, Dean was dead in more than a literal sense, lost. And now, his angel pulled him out.
date an angel who’s lips always taste of honey and vanilla. who’s skin is pale and eyes are tired.
date an angel who’s words sound foreign. who speaks a language long dead in their sleep.
date an angel who will watch the moon with you. who will gaze at you with the same awe every night as you bathe in the moonlight.
date an angel with scars they can not remember, who’s suffered even now and who’s words of the Bible burn their mouth as they speak.
date an angel who runs with the demons at night, who always smells of smoke and sin but cradles you in a gentleness unlike any other.
date an angel who’s voice drowns out any other, who speaks for the broken and left behind, who refuses to let their words be silenced.
date an angel who burns with a desire of freedom, who gazed at churches with a longing and familiarity. an angel who burns brighter than any other, who speaks the words of the divine with a passion and who never lost faith.
date an angel who crumbled and fell. who felt abandoned and lost their faith long ago and now finds it in you and worships every step you take for you at their hope and home.
Each occupant of the bunker has their favourite spot. Sam spends most of his time in the library, Dean in his room, and Castiel, when he becomes human, in the observatory.
At first, neither Dean nor Sam question this: Cas gets a couple of books out of the library, sets himself up in front of the big telescope every night, and does his thing. Cloudy or clear sky, Castiel is in his nook with a cup of tea and his huge-ass telescope.
And then the observatory nook becomes a kind of nest.
Small, largely unnoticeable things end up making a home there first–a leftover mug here, a blanket there, but then pillows start appearing. And Dean’s sweatshirt. And another blanket. And a small collection of harlequin romance novels, alongside Hawking’s Brief History of Time (Castiel seems to get almost a vicious pleasure from going through the latter with a highlighter and pencil and scoffing at the majority of the text).
Pisces illustrates two drenched figures guarding her curved gate, signifying her constant entrance and re-entrance into the spiritual ocean. The Pisces symbol illustrates these winding gates, the entrance is of course obscured, and once she leaves there’s a possibility she will never fully return. When reality becomes static and threatening, she plunges headfirst into the sea to burry her ears with water and tune into another world. You see Pisces do this frequently with books, television, daydream, sleep, their creative work, sex, or substances. There are angels and devils that reveal themselves in Pisces, they are such a porous and diluted essence that any entity - immortal or not can energise from them. They have energy that vibrates well on the spiritual plane and poorly on the material plane. It creates an agitating conflict in the individual, she often feels alien in her own body and form. This is also why people suffering spiritual crises are unconsciously drawn to Pisces, they drink her nectar like they are drowning, but they so often leave her too exhausted to save herself. In her darker moments she submits to devils, luring her into false or fanatic belief systems, becoming hostage to delusion and escapism. There’s a valid reason that Dane Rudhyar refers to the Piscean temperament as a battlefield. But the angel also rides the energetic light of Pisces, and she frequently whispers cosmic messages in some form, tapping into her psychic functions and protecting her from a distance. She wrote a severe contract for earth before incarnating as Pisces. And God knows this, so her support system is rich and active. It’s ensured there are angels, guides, ancestors, and spiritual mentors always on call, this is why so many Pisces make natural spiritualists, healers, witches, and clairvoyants. The 6th sense is how she perceives, feels, knows, and understands the world. The ocean is vast and largely undiscovered, in a spiritual sense it symbolises everything. This is the experience for Pisces. The intensity of containing such spiritual mass is too harsh for a physical body. So the Pisces has many bodies she can swim into. She glides into new states of consciousness and adapts her form with the ease of her changing mood. In all of this mayhem, there is a very peaceful, silent space inside Pisces where she is held by her guides and cocooned in a dreamy coma. Her enlightenments are small but frequent, there are miracles waiting to reveal themselves to her eyes only. Pisces is ruled by Jupiter and symbolises the higher mind. The ancients taught us that imagination is the conduit to entering the higher mind realms. The Pisces imagination is her ticket to the cerebral spiritual kingdom, in her moments of daydream and escape she typically undertakes tremendous, internal spiritual voyages. Along the way lost devils and angels find her light and flicker by her side, energised like moths to a flame, and there are times when she fools us that she is one of each.