THE SOLDIER above all others prays for peace, for it is the soldier

who must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war.

— Douglas MacArthur

Whenever you’re scared of oblivion, remember that it was always your love and your battered hands that wrote my history books. Remember that society will always get things wrong. It will always ignore what really mattered. So the next time that you wake up with that awful pit in your stomach and oblivion threatens to swallow you whole, stare it in the face and say: you are not insatiable. You will not beat me. And I will tear you apart.
—  this love, it has counted for something. (m.b.) insp.
But must it always be a tragedy?
Maybe suns are meant to love
boys who fall into seas.
—  Dear poets, it’s time to rewrite Icarus | p.d
i’m bracing for the moment that i blow this house down. 
alarm bells ring in my head like a gunshot too close to my face. 
and you,
you won’t take shelter.
high winds have always made for better sailing. 
you have such a gentle cause
and you’ve let me live so deep in the eye of your storm,
that i often forget it’s you who’s the hurricane.
—  you are so brave and quiet i forget you are suffering. (m.b.)

I. Icarus is a lonely boy sitting in a cafe, with ink blistered wings tattooed into his sunburnt skin. He falls into beds like they’re seas and loves suns who don’t give a damn. Wax coats his fingers and he laughs, not knowing why.

II. Cassandra lives in a room made of four windows. Strangers kiss her in dreams as she screams. She sees all, and none believe. “Unstable.” “Wicked.” “Tragic.” They whisper, protected behind planes of broken glass.

III. Achilles offers triumphant smiles as he holds up bloody knuckles. He fights wars on street corners and shares his victory with his beloved. He runs in the moonlight, until his feet ache and his legs collapse. He knows the world is meant to be his, and he will conquer it all.

IV. Pandora listens to the universe from the back of a philosophy class. She inhales chaos and exhales despair. Sweaters cover scarred wrists and misery clings to chapped lips. She worships with hollow, faithless eyes. They call her hopeless as she smiles, dried skin cracking. They know nothing.

V. Orpheus plays his music in cigarette haze filled bars. He swallows pills and wine and never dies. He sees shadows flicker when he looks over his shoulder, consuming him. He forgets.

—  Myths and heroes, they adapt too part one | p.d

He said “your eyes are much too bright”, the things you say are never right, the sins of all the world lie on your head. So when you see me look the other way, cause lately all I do is play. In a sin, considering my middle name is ‘shake my body’.


Just so you know, this is my favorite chapter. One more to go and then this section of the verse will be complete. Thanks for reading, lovelies. *smooch* – Beta’d by literaryoblivion

Previous chapters (on tumblr):

Or read the series at ao3.

Castiel curls his fingers around his mug, warmth seeping beneath his skin as steam curls into the air. His belly is warm, nearing full, and he feels content as he watches Dean rake up the leaves in their backyard. A smile alights on his face over Dean’s surprising knack for domesticity. When they’d first met, Dean had claimed to be about as domesticated as a sneaker; yet, here he was raking up leaves and downright gleeful about it, too.

Castiel shakes his head. Oh, how he loves him.

After a moment more, Castiel finishes his tea and steps out on the back porch. The back door closes behind him with a quiet snick, and he stands on the edge of the patio. It’s cool out, a violent shiver running up his spine, but the sun is still shining brightly down on their little corner of the world, so it isn’t too terrible.

“Hey, babe,” Dean says. He’s stripped down to just a t-shirt, and his face is flushed from working in the sun. He looks beautiful.

At Dean’s feet, Vincent is pawing through the leaves, leaping on ones that flutter in the breeze, and launching himself into the neat pile Dean’s just finished. Dean looks down and shakes his head.

“He looks to be having about as much fun as you are,” Castiel points out, stepping off the porch and meandering towards Dean.

“He’s making a mess,” Dean grumbles. There’s no malice behind the words, and Castiel smiles at Dean’s poor attempt at irritation.

“What are you going to do with all the leaves?” Castiel wonders, looping his arms around Dean’s neck and breathing in his earthy scent.

Dean shrugs, resting a hand on Cas’ hip and leaning in for a brief kiss. “Toss ‘em, I guess.”

Castiel nods. For a moment there’s nothing but silence, the two of them staring at one another, smiling for no reason at all, and then Castiel casts a glance over his shoulder. “We used to wrestle in them when I was younger,” he says, memories of being pinned down by his older cousins and buried in leaves creeping into his brain.

Dean cocks an eyebrow, and Castiel nods. “Yes,” he says, bending to pick up a handful. “We’d toss them at each other, and bury one another, and-” He snaps out a hand, grabbing at the neck of Dean’s t-shirt, and shoving the leaves into the opening. “Shove them down each other’s shirts,” he finishes with a sly grin.

Dean stares down at the stretched out neck of his t-shirt and the clump of leaves stuck beneath the cotton. Castiel knows that scratchy feeling all too well and only barely holds in a laugh at Dean’s expression.

“Did you just-” Dean bites out.

Castiel smirks. “Have fun with the rest of your leaves,” he offers over his shoulder as he turns from Dean and steps back in the direction of the house.

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