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.
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.
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’.
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.
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.)
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.
Sappy cheesy tattoo au headcanon??? Dean and Cas would forgo the whole traditional wedding rings because Cas is terrible when it came to loosing stuff and Dean would hate the idea of having to remove his band when he needed to be in sterile environment so they decide on having bands inked onto their fingers instead with their initials intertwined :))
yes omg that amazing!!!
I have this headcanon where Cas and Dean both meet when they’re kids and become best friends. And when Dean has to move they give each other a red string of fate to put around their finger with the promise that they’ll meet again someday
so when Cas and Dean meet again years later they both show each other their red string of fate, now a pale pinkinsh-red due to age, still around their finger
and on the day they marry they don’t have rings, but both get a red string of fate tattoo on their finger to remember them of the promise they made on the day that Dean had to move
Dean stares through the window that outlooks the backyard, observing the trees whose leaves have turned to bright oranges, deep reds, and cheery yellows. He’s been watching them on and off for the past week, anxious for the leaves to start falling. It should happen any day now.
There’s still a little warm weather left in the year, just enough to push weak beams of sunlight through the clouds, their tired warmth landing in the kitchen and dusting over Dean’s toes. Pretty soon, walking around barefoot will not be an option. At least this year they’ll have adequate heating.
Behind him the front door opens and closes, signaling Castiel is home. The rustle of grocery bags accompanies his footsteps, and after a beat there are jacket clad arms wrapping around Dean’s waist.
“Just where I left you,” Castiel says.
Dean smiles even though Castiel can’t see it. “I moved,” he offers in his own defense. “Had to pee.”
The deep rumble of Castiel’s chuckle vibrates through Dean’s bones, the feel of chapped lips brushing feather light across the back of his neck rising goose bumps on his skin.
“They aren’t going to fall any faster just from your sheer will power, Dean,” Castiel mutters, nosing along Dean’s hairline.
Dean shivers. Castiel’s nose is cold. “They might.”
“You and your yard work fetish perplexes me.”
“Hey,” Dean says, turning in Castiel’s arms until they’re nearly nose to nose, “it’s not a fetish, it’s a hobby. And you just wait until you get to stand here and watch my ass while I rake. Then we’ll see who’s perplexed.”
Castiel shakes his head as Dean smiles down at him, knowing and cheeky. “That’s ridiculous. I would never watch you rake leaves.”
Dean snickers. “Yeah, just like you’d never watch me work on the car, or when I’m out in the shop?”
“I do find your backside inspiring. In the artistic sense, of course,” he responds, shrugging as if he doesn’t have multiple moleskins dedicated just to the curve of Dean’s ass.
Dean brushes his lips against Castiel’s. “Of course.”
The room falls quiet, the only sounds their mouths working together as Dean kisses the warm taste of autumn out of Castiel’s mouth, pumpkin, and cinnamon, and chai.
“How was coffee with Balthazar?” Dean wonders in a terrible faux British accent. He walks over to dig through the grocery bags Castiel’s set out on the counter, pulling out some of the things he asked Castiel to pick up, and ignoring the rest. Sure Balthazar is kind of helping Castiel build a sizeable career for himself, but Dean still thinks the guy’s an ass.
“Productive,” Castiel answers. “Someone who saw my art at Josie Sands’ is interested in commissioning a few pieces. We should have something in writing by the end of next month.”
Dean stops foraging for a moment to grin up at his fiancé, excitement rolling off of him in waves. Every time he thinks he could never be more proud of Castiel, he’s proven wrong. “That’s awesome, babe!”
Castiel nods. “It will be a nice commission if everything goes through.”
“By nice you mean big,” Dean clarifies.
“Yes, by nice I mean big.”
“I like the sound of that.”
Castiel lets out a small laugh. “I thought you would.”
Dean looks back down at the bags and frowns, reaching for a bulk bag of Smarties and holding it up for Castiel to see. “What is this?”
“Halloween candy. You said we needed some, though I doubt anyone is going to come here. We’re out in the middle of nowhere, Dean.”
Dean begins searching through the rest of the sacks for any other “Halloween candy” Castiel may have purchased. He finds nothing. “Okay, first of all, Cas, people are gonna come, okay? This house is going to go through a Halloween transformation that will blow your mind. And second of all, this?” Dean holds up the bag of Smarties again. “This is not Halloween candy. Nobody likes this shit. We need chocolate.”
“I like Smarties,” Castiel counters, frowning at Dean in the most adorable of ways.
“Yeah, well, you’re a weirdo. Now c'mon.” Dean crosses the kitchen, pulling his jacket off the stair banister as he goes and tugging on his boots at the door.
“Where are we going?” Castiel asks, trailing behind Dean with the bag of Smarties in his hands.
“We’re going shopping. If we’re going to be married, you’re gonna need to know how to do this right.”
Dean steps out onto the porch - ignoring the creak the steps make as his feet land on them - and walks along the dusty walkway down to where Castiel parked the Impala.
“This being?” Castiel inquires as he climbs into the car after Dean.
Dean looks at Castiel - his keys poised in the ignition - and smiles. “Halloween.”