angel-in-a-laundromat

anonymous asked:

prompt: you meet an angel in a laundromat

the angel sits on top
of one of the washers, kicking
their not-feet in time
to the laundromat muzak,
humming along with
their guttural half-here
half-off in a distant
otherworld voice.

you’ve been watching
the angel for some time,
as they put their bloodied
robes & ragged sandals
on a spin cycle for delicates,
as they poured in soap
& counted out quarters,
but it’s only as you fold
your now dry duvet
that you realize their wings
are covered in a thousand
red eyes. you look at what
should be their face
& find the swirling
of the stars instead.

‘good morning,’ you say
as you pass them on your way
out. the angel grabs your arm.
their touch burns like ice
& makes you ache. ‘your son,’
the angel whispers, ‘tells me
that he is so so proud
of how you got sober. i placed
one hundred forty four
red roses in a vase
by your door. i will be back
next sunday should you need
to talk to someone.’

Prompt filled for @fallen-angel-in-a-laundromat

something fluffy between Alpha Cas and Omega Dean? Maybe Dean or Cas has the sniffles and their mate needs to take care of them?

“I told you that going for a midnight swim in the ocean would be a bad idea, Dean,” Castiel sighs as he wrings out the damp cloth and dips it into the bowl of ice-cold water.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grumbles, sounding more pathetic than angry, with his voice being all small and his world endlessly tilting and burning up. “And yet, for my mate to never have gone skinny dipping is not just a shame, but a crime.”

“I still don’t see how this would be a ‘crime’. Neither do I see how my inexperience would rank in any way higher than your health.” For a moment there, he looks as if he just wants to drop the wet cloth on Dean’s forehead, then probably yank up the covers and cruelly start on the leg compresses already, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sighs once more, carefully arranges the cloth and slowly puts it on Dean’s forehead. His fingers linger as he straightens it out and steals one small caress down Dean’s cheek, the touch of it as reassuring as the smell of his mate. 

“There is nothing more important than your health,” Castiel quietly concludes as he leans back again, probably in an attempt to reach the other compresses.

Fortunately, Dean can blame the sad little sound that he makes when Cas tries to pull away on the fever. Unfortunately, he is not so sure how much of the way he is happily sighing and nuzzling into his mate’s hand when it stays after all and cups his cheek on the fever as well.

But he pushes the thought of this to the back of his mind; he is still too hot and too achy from his fever to deny himself the attention and affection of his Alpha. To let his pride run wild and take this away from him. To not accept this little respite that his mate brings.

“Do you feel very unwell, Dean?” Cas asks, softer now, his voice as soothing as his hand. He leans closer down to him, making the edge of the bed that he sits on dip some more. “Is there anything that you would like me to do?”

“Can you– can I maybe scent you? You already said I’m non-contagious and I would really like to– uhm–” He swallows; he knows how it would come across to any outsider, to have a sick Omega begging for their Alpha. It’s so stereotypical, would make him feel needy and even weaker, and he would never ask for this. Not anyone else, that is. Not anyone who isn’t Cas.

“Of course, Dean,” Castiel is quick to reassure, making little shushing noises as Dean keeps to struggle for the right words and turn his head away in at attempt to stave off embarrassment. But Cas keeps him still and quiet, doesn’t mock him or prod him for his request. He just lets him relax into his touch once more, has him get comfortable before he speaks again.

“Would you like me to lie with you for a while?”

Dean licks over his cracked and fever-hot lips and clenches his eyes shut, the cradle of Cas’ hands not allowing for any other way to evade the nonetheless surfacing tingle of shame. “You don’t need to. I must smell terrible right now. Sick and unwashed and all kinds of gross. Just repellent.”

“No,” Cas protests gently as he strokes one last time over Dean’s cheek and then coaxes him more to the other side of the bed, helping him along. It’s just enough space for him to lie down too without crushing him, for him to kiss the tip of Dean’s nose and softly murmur into his skin, “the opposite is true; you don’t repel me with your smell but call me closer to you. After all, it’s the sweet scent of my mate soured in pain. It wishes me to be near you even more. It wishes me to tend to you, to do nothing but take care of you until you feel well again.”

“So it does smell gross, after all. You said it smelled sour.”

“No,” Cas hums and shuffles above him, just enough for him to prop himself up with the help of his arms and for him to still comfortably tilt back his head, offering up his throat to his Omega without any apparent hesitation, “because it’s still your scent, Dean. And it will never be ‘gross’ to me or in any way less than utterly appealing. It will always be the most wonderful scent in the world to me.”

“Sap,” Dean mumbles out, the embarrassment voice muffled by the way he presses his mouth and nose up against his mate’s throat, right where his scent is the richest and most welcoming, where it will soothe him the most. It’s intimate in a way that leaves Dean feeling more vulnerable than any of their matings. And if his neck and face weren’t already ruddy from the fever, they would surely be now.

“So you keep saying,” Cas hums in amused agreement as he cradles Dean’s shoulders and the back of his neck, supporting his head and everything inside it, warm and calm, holding him as close as he can.

“How are you?”

The question had become annoyingly familiar in the last few months. Not that he hadn’t been asked before; but it seemed that every single member of his family, as well as his friends, had decided to begin conversations like that.

Apart from one exception.

“I’m fine” Dean said gruffly, putting the folder he’d been carrying in his hands on the desk with more force than strictly necessary.

“I can see that” was Charlie’s only comment as she put a coffee-to-go in his hand, one from the good expensive shop not far from the school, and the English teacher smiled at her, feeling guilty.

“Sorry”.

“No problem, my friend. So, you up for a girl’s night out?”

Charlie had always invited all her friends to a “girl’s night out” because she “didn’t judge”.

Another wave of guilt crashed over Dean as he realized he hadn’t gone out with her in at least three months, but he shook his head.

“I’ve got plans”.

He turned away because he didn’t want to see the pity in her eyes.

Keep reading

I’m so fascinated by laundromats. They always stir my imagination to life, because laundromats, more than most places, are about people in their truest state. People go to restaurants with a mask on. But people wear their real faces to a laundromat; and a real face is a glimpse of a real past. The spectrum of human emotions thrives in laundromats; they are the vaults for all human stories.

This one is located on Rose Avenue in Venice, Los Angeles. 

There are angels at the laundromat and aliens on the school board. Everything will probably be okay as long as you don’t look up.
—  sometimes i write poetry in simulated neighborhoods, L.C.W.