food: ceviche, beef lo mein, or garden salad drink: coffee or english breakfast tea book: so??? many??? i’m really loving misha’s book club suggestion (we are not ourselves by matthew thomas). also, catcher in the rye and anything by kurt vonnegut
movie: uM rn it’s probably guardians of the galaxy tbh although pacific rim will always hold a special place in my heart
tv shows: supernatural i guess lmao, orphan black, elementary, parks and rec, sleepy hollow, so many things band: uH hozier rn school subject: biology, psych, or english sport: soccer’s like the only sport i watch lmao male actor:. misha collins [slowly lies down and never gets up] female actor: tatiana maslany
siblings: one older sister dream job: actress fears: blah no this is depressing
religion: none tattoos: none piercings: double piercings on both ears languages: english, spanish, un petit peu de francais
reason behind my URL: misha collins = dmitri tippens krushnic = dtkrushnics why you joined: my friend was like “this site is cool check it out” first URL: nah son # of blogs: so many saved urls ;A; but i primarily use 3
In the wake of the modern decoupling of monstrosity from appearance, the monster can be anyone and anywhere, and we only know it when it springs upon us or emerges from within us.
Dean Winchester, surgeon turned sober companion, has been assigned his new client - the brilliant, if standoffish, Castiel Novak - for the next six weeks. What he expects is late night searches for needles and booze, playing chaperone to sobriety meetings, maybe the occasional stern talk or two. Instead, he finds himself working with Castiel for the New York Police Department. Feverishly helping to solve the case of the elusive M, an as-good-as-they-get serial killer who seems to be following Castiel around the globe, Dean and Castiel find themselves trapped in a cat and mouse game where the consequence of not being quick enough could be deadly.
'Til The Sirens Sound v.2: An Alternative 9.23 Coda
When Catholicism was young, when it was finding its footing as a newborn fawn learns to stand, Castiel would come to Earth. He would stand in the shadows of a barn or a home, listening in as persecuted crypto-Christians practiced in secret, spoke their vows, looking fervently over their shoulders. They exchanged faith in Latin, touching their hands to their foreheads in seek of guidance. And, occasionally, they would sing. They would recite hymns in low voices, off-key and afraid but together, in one voice, in communion.
At the door, Castiel would turn Roman soldiers from their meeting, deafen their ears so they would not suspect. All while listening to the psalms, closing his eyes against the melodies, struck in an area he never knew quite how to name. While the candles flickered and night fell across towns steeped in secret devotions, Castiel listened to hymns. Oh, how they filled him with being. Oh, how they tapped at the stone in which he had been built to be encased, how they could softly breathe on him and melt it all away. How beautiful the songs were, and how beautiful the hope the songs elicited on the practitioners’ faces.
There is a song on the wind tonight. Castiel hears it, as his car’s tires burn the asphalt of the road back to Lebanon. He hears it, whistling against the grill, humming through the engine and out the exhaust pipe. He sees the lines imprinted stark white against the otherwise empty night sky, rolling through like credits, and the sound of them should fill him with that wonder again, with that awe.
But this hymn just sounds like an elegy. It sounds like a funeral song.