smoke cascade

Faded Memory - 12x12 Coda Ficlet

“That’s the man who is going to teach you how to love, Castiel.”

Hushed words were spoken close to the angel’s ear as he neared the end of his journey. He could see the ragged figure close now, covered in chains and blood and filth. Hidden within the depths of the darkest expanse of space. Fire blazed around the angel, in defiance of his actions, scalding his true form to it’s core. He could feel himself starting to burn up, to fade, to die. It wouldn’t be long now before he was just another puff of smoke in the cascades of darkness. But the mission - his one true purpose - pushed him forward, closer, closer, until his hand rested on a shoulder. Solidly grabbing as his touch seared into flesh, marking the man down to his soul.

Dean Winchester has been saved.


Nearly nine years later the miracle happened in a barn - as miracles are wont to do. He’d laugh at the irony if he wasn’t so busy dying. He could feel himself fading, his grace burning out like coals. Only small sparks remained, contained under bleeding and cracking olive skin.

He stared at the man before him, speaking in low tones with his mother and brother. A man who’s panic he could feel through the chill of the midnight air. Dean’s hands flexed at his sides as he spoke. He was going to miss those hands.

And suddenly Castiel remembered that small moment of Dean’s rescue. Or perhaps, he’d never forgotten but had let the memory fade softly as something of little consequence. Either way, it was a memory he’d not revisited in years. But he held onto it now like a precious jewel, examining it in his mind’s eye anew. Who had spoken those words? Was it his brethren?

Was it his father?

…did it really matter?

Because as he watched Dean nervously glance his way, lips pulled tight, back stock straight - he knew. Unequivocally. Undeniably.

It was true.

And he was suddenly overcome with the emotion it - the sheer beauty of the path he’d been sent on. He’d watched millenniums worth of human lives transverse like he’d experienced in his short time with the Winchesters - one mistake and fortunate happenstance after another, all blending together to push a person to their best potential. To teach them to be their best selves. And he’d envied their progression, how they could change and love and hurt and grow. Evolve.

But now here he was. A completely different angel, a completely changed man, from the one who dove into hell head first simply because he was commanded.

All because of knowing Dean.

Castiel hardly recognized himself and yet, he felt more himself than he’d ever been. Some might call him an abomination.

But in truth he was proud of the man he’d become - a man who knew what true love really is.

So he didn’t mince words, he didn’t stop them from flowing once they’d started. He told Dean he loved him with the conviction that moment demanded. With the sincerity that the righteous man deserved.

He wasn’t stupid - he could see the pain and the hesitation across Dean’s face when he spoke them. Knowing that they were as rare to Dean as anything in this world. Knowing he’ll toss this moment around his mind like a hot potato for a long time to come.

But mostly knowing that he will leave this world having given Dean the second greatest gift he could - the knowledge that he was undeniably, unconditionally loved.

Second only to the gift that Castiel was capable of it.

All I Need Is You - Chapter 2

Summary: Dan has always been a goody-two-shoes wallflower. He’s never gone out of his comfort zone once in his life, always living in his happy world bubble. Phil is a realist, a punk with an agenda, never one to settle down. When these two troubled souls finally collide, their lives just might change forever.

Paring: Daniel Howell & AmazingPhil
Genres: Teenage!Phan, Drama!AU, Fluff, Smut!
Word Count: 1,693
Warnings: Mentions of illegal drugs (marijuana) and swearing.

~

Dan

“You were looking in there for a while.” He said, going over to the fridge again, setting his drink down on the island where the fall took place. “Do you like sprite, or coke?”

“Cokes fine.”

Phil grabbed a coke can out of the twenty-four pack carton and shut the door, handing me the beverage.

“Thank you.”

“So I’m assuming because of your drink, you’re not a senior?” Phil asked, grabbing his glass cup which I can assume was filled with whiskey. My dad has that occasionally, and I can tell just by the slight caramel color of the liquid.

Keep reading

Consequence

Living long enough is not the concern
Wary indulgent self, on the fact
Living through the years, wilting naught
Got to face consequences of leading a lifestyle so.

Most every malady treated by a cask
Of one of the family of alcoholic beverages
Appeal to the palate at that moment which
Drunk and then go to sleep, wake up cured.

The headaches and stomach aches need
A puff of the potent sticks of hell
Rolled up and ready, waves of cascading smoke
Fill up the entire being.

On top of everything, platters of succulent meat
Stuffed down over the years
Accompanied by bouquets of dessert
To tingle all taste buds, excite the sensory nerves.

Thus await what is to come, what is to be
Relaxed grin, laid back attitude
Outstretched arms welcome an old friend
Journey through the end, towards beginning again.

Avec mes souvenirs (j’ai allumé le feu)

With my memories, I lit the fire–Edith Piaf (Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien)

A/N: yoongi scenario, nikita!au. this scenario contains mentions of previous drug abuse, violence (and perhaps the glorification of it as well).


He always finds you in the unlikeliest of places.

A maximum security woman’s prison. 3 hours before your execution.

Call it serendipity.

No one was supposed to come looking for you. Or miss you. You were supposed to go quietly, the same way that you came: unnoticed, and rather tragically. But when they held you down and pushed a needle into your shaking arm, his face was the last you saw. Aloof, sharp, inscrutable and unforgiving. In your delirium, you thought he was death who had come to take you. Cold with lyrical beauty, his face gave you a sort of calm even when the rest of your vision began to fade into darkness. Like a single point of focus in a hazy maelstrom, singularity of spacetime and the redoubling of latex stretching into mist, his face pressed against translucent ice.

“Where am I?”

He looks at you from behind a table. Alone, in a cube of sterile white, measured in constrained proportions of perfection. Perhaps this is what heaven looks like. But let’s be real here, there is no fucking way that you’d end up in heaven.

He doesn’t answer your question, instead he opens a brief case on the floor and pulls out a stack of files. Pictures of a funeral, your funeral he explains. Black and white pictures gloss over glib scenes of strangers standing over your coffin.

Keep reading

Scorch

Dean imagine edited for reposting and requested by anon. I no longer have the request, so I’ll just have to settle for a summary instead. “The reader relives a hunt-gone-wrong while she sleeps, waking to find Dean’s open arms ready to comfort her.” Hope you like it!

Shrill cries reverberated against your eardrums, bouncing from every crumbling wall with a painful integrity willful enough to shame the banshees from their bogs. You swung your head frantically as you searched in vain through the billowing curtains of near-transparent smoke, your vision blurring as the fire’s exhale brought tears to your waterline. Your world was consumed by heat, shrouded in a thick a veil of suffocating ash, and burning beneath your feet. Your lungs constricted against the unbreathable air, your body’s inability to thrive in such a hostile environment only servicing to further your panic as your eyes swept about the back-lit frame of a falling home. Moments before, you had been by the Winchester’s sides as they searched for an entrance untouched by the fire, but the child’s scream had torn through your reserve like a machete through butter. It was serrated, it was raw, it was on fire. The baby was in the fire. You could barely recall Dean’s expression, though fragments of your warped memory provided the widened emeralds reflecting the inferno’s amber glow, what features you could figure mottled with shock and terror. Sam was somewhere behind you, his expression unknown to you forever. One moment you were by their sides, the next you were en route towards the very gates of Hell, smoke belching through the broken door, the sole of your show kicking past what little wood remained in your line of entry as you darted through the front door.

Dean had shouted your name, fingers grasping at your shadow seconds too late as you printed out of his reach, searching frantically, unadulterated panic igniting the very marrow in your bones. The house was in shambles, crumbling and crackling and splintering beneath your feet like a bonfire. The fire had lapped at every flammable object, from paintings to portraits to photographs along the walls, cinders ate away at faces and landscapes as you worked your way through the obsidian smoke. Your path was blocked by a wall of what was once furniture, an obvious barricade the victim had created to keep your target away from the upstairs. Little did they know just how this monster bent the supernatural. Little did they know that the very creation of the makeshift fence would fuel the inferno that now ate at the remains of their home. The sand was slipping over the polished glass as your time wore thin on more fronts than one; your victim’s child would likely be consumed by the flames in a matter of minutes, and Dean’s pursuit would no-doubt result in your flailing limbs as the brothers dragged you from the burning home. You needed to move, and quickly. The burning barricade was an unwelcome hindrance.

Another terrified scream from the child above electrified your every nerve ending, a wordless cry for assistance in the smoldering emptiness. The shriek of fear switched a lever in your brain, shutting out all forms of caution, fueling your body with an overdose of adrenaline strong enough to revive a dying draft horse. Your hands reached into the fire before your body could retract your delicate skin from the heat, before your brain could rewire to acknowledge the very real danger of applying flesh to an open flame. Your fingers closed around a crumbling frame of what once held cushions, shoving at the shattering wood before your instincts overwhelmed your desire to pass the mass of kindling. You winced, gasping aloud as your eyes fell on the once-soft skin of your singed palms. All that remained of the calloused exterior was peeling away, glistening blisters erupting over fresh streams of blackened blood. What wasn’t burnt was bleeding, and what wasn’t bleeding was burnt. Hell blossomed over your palms, and the pain seeped through your mind with a merciful slowness, dripping like anesthesia through your veins despite the raw wounds staring back at you. The shock of your scenario numbed the worst of your injuries. You supposed no body would expect the brain to throw itself blindly into a fire. You lifted your gaze, now racing against the inevitable response, choking on acrid smoke as you climbed the stairs, your hands at your sides, the voice of the eldest Winchester calling your name somewhere below.

The uppermost floor of the crumbling house was in worse shape, as was evident by the crack down the last stair. This was the seat of the inferno’s power. The phoenix had burst into flames somewhere on this floor… you only hoped it wasn’t where you thought it was. Your feet carried you over another broken barricade, past the extended remains of a charred arm, wedding band glowing brightly within the glow of the fire’s light. There was your victim, but there was another still at risk, the unexpected target. You followed the cries as best you could, your lungs begging for the purity of fresh air, your vision hazing both with the waves of heat rising from every burning surface as well as the toll of the wretched ash floating about. Embers fell atop your cheeks, sizzling where they met skin. You threw your shoulder against the nursery’s door, charging inward to find the bars of a child’s crib already ablaze, curtains nearly engulfed, the rubber soles of a man’s boots bubbling in the corner. Damn phoenix went up in flames feet from the cradle. Dean’s screaming echoed around the corridor, trembling through the floorboards. You wheezed, throwing yourself against the crib, your vision warping drastically as you searched within the blankets, your hands smarting as you shifted the sheets. Bile rose in your throat, burning with an acidic twinge the fire could never accomplish. Your heart skipped a beat, staring down at the smoking black mound, ashes cascading over the crevices of the sheets to fall to the floor around the crib.

No.

Your knees hit the burning wooden planks as your consciousness began to fade, pressing your denim into the stove-top the flooring had become, tears providing a temporary trail of coolness down your cheeks. You heard Dean enter the room, choking and sputtering as if he was without lungs, his strong hands slipping beneath your arms to lift you from the floor. He heaved you upwards, dragging you away from the scattered ashes of the innocent child touched by a vengeful phoenix.

“Y/n, we have to move! Y/n, come on! This house won’t stand for much longer,” Dean coughed into your ear, his voice deprived of all fluidity, his dried tone spilling sand from between his lips. Your lungs contracted within your chest, pulling desperately for the absent oxygen your body longed for.

“Dean…” you rasped, your feeble voice fading as quickly as your conscious state of mind, falling beams blurred by the water and debris in your eyes crackling overhead as you were forcibly removed from the premises. Dean hauled you down the flaming steps, grunting in pain when the fire licked along his arms. He pulled you out through the front door, waves of unforgiving cold quenching the fevers burning along your brows.

“Y/n.” His voice was a sigh as you both collapsing to the dewy grass, smoke perfuming the air, tainting the purity of the world beyond the flames. He sounded so far away. There was too much smoke in your lungs. “Y/n, wake up,” you blinked, struggling to clear your vision. You were fading in and out of awareness, watching the roof cave from the force within, embers the size of volleyballs lifting towards the Heavens above. Your body heaved, chest lifting on its own accord as your lungs fought to dispense the smoke filtering through your throat, ruby droplets of blood caressing the blades of grass as you coughed. You looked at your trembling hands, open wounds stained by streaks of black dust. “Y/N!” His voice was far too close, too loud. Something was not right.

You woke with limbs tangled in the twisted cords of sweat-dampened motel sheets, your body stiff from squirming, muscles aching beneath healing skin. Your boyfriend was beside you, asleep by some obscene miracle, completely bare of blankets. Somehow, you’d gone without disturbing his slumber. When your eyes adjusted to the darkness, they fell on the bandaged burns that had lapped up his forearms. Your own hands, sheathed in cotton as they were, probably looked a lot worse than his scabbing arms. You would both emerge from your recovery scarred. Your heart pulsed loudly in your ears, the thudding blocking out all other sound from the rickety room; no radiator or pipe could compete with the tribal war drums hammering in your head. Your breathing was laboured, uneven, ragged. You were gasping for air as you had done when your supply had been limited, your body still wrapped in your dream like swaddling. It had all seemed so real, so vivid. You were reliving your greatest failure, only weeks before, in the supposed safety of your own mind.

You laid in relative silence (save the audible slither of air passing through your lips), staring blankly at the water-stained ceiling above, your mind rampant with the memories burned into the tissue of your brain. Moments passed, and you determined yourself incapable to handle the agony threatening to rip your chest apart on your own. You inched closer to Dean, your arms gently winding around his torso, wary of both of your various wounds. Dean started from his sleep, slowly coming to his senses, his hands lifting to your hair.

“What’s wrong?” He whispered, his voice groggy from lack of use, crackling like the unwelcome memory flooding your mind. A rogue tear fell from your chin, spreading across his shirt, leaving a damp, dark stain in its wake.

“Nightmare,” your quivering voice barely held volume, your fingers tightening on his chest as you spoke. You fiddled with the edge of your bandage, picking at the frayed cotton you found there. Dean was quiet, connecting the dots between your agitated state of consciousness and the images that plagued you subconscious, his thought process slowed by how abruptly he had been woken. Warm lips pressed against your forehead, his mouth puckering at your hairline. You screwed your eyes shut against the sweetness dancing on his lips, saltwater collecting beneath your eyes only to fall to Dean’s chest.

“Y/n… the kid…” he began, his voice trailing off as a sob slipped through your lips, his hands smoothing over your hair. “There was nothing we could’ve done. We were all playing with fire, and the phoenix could play better. That house would’ve gone down whether we were there or not, and that kid… even if we’d showed up an hour sooner, you know he wouldn’t have quit that easily. They’d be locked up somewhere in a bunker by now. That’s no way to grow up,” his voice was caring, gentle. You couldn’t bear it.

“I’d rather he grow up in a bunker than burn to death. I could’ve saved him, Dean, I could’ve done something sooner. He could still be here-“

“No, you couldn’t. We’re not superheroes, Y/n. There are limits to what we can do. Every once in a while, we can’t walk away with everyone in-tow. You have to take the failures for all the success. It’s part of the job. I’m not saying it’s easy, and I know it’s sad, and I know none of us signed up for this, but…” he sighed, his exhale carrying ghosts of other memories, stories he hadn’t yet told you, some that he had. “This job ain’t easy. All I know is that you did everything in your power for that little boy. You put your own life at risk for his. You’re not responsible, here. You were fighting fate… sometimes you have to lose.” Dean held you tighter as your body caved in, despite the pain it must have caused him to do so, and watched you soak his shirt with salt, his burnt arms holding every broken piece of you together as you wept.

Modern AU: Queer Romeo and Juliet

Gender neural lesbian romeo, who never felt like they quite fitted in. Who heard ‘can’t you just choose, darling’ ‘put on a nice dress, honey’ fifty times a day but instead snuck out of the window and ran to the run down gym. Every punch against the bag is a fuck you, fuck you, fuck you to their parents and to society for fucking them up and screwing them over.
Romeo sneaking whiskey out of their father’s cupboard and sharing it between whispers and drunken truths with Mercutio and Benvolio, cigarette smoke cascading from their lips and Romeo thinking that maybe this is the best they deserve. Climbing onto abandoned rooftops and screaming out into the wasteland about how they deserve to be loved and god dammit they want to feel something, anything. Feet dangling over the edges, hearts beating faster. Mercutio, always the daredevil, climbing higher and higher and Benvolio trying his hardest to hide his concern behind his pride.
The three of them, the three musketeers, sneaking into a party, a Capulet party, and the music is too loud and the drinks are too harsh but they swallow it all down anyway.

And then there’s a girl, there’s always a girl, but this girl, her eyes, her lips they call to Romeo and they can’t help going over to her. A nervous hand running through their hair, why didn’t I style it? I look so scruffy. But the girl, Juliet, she smiles so softly and Romeo could cry because they’ve never seen anyone smile so softly in one of these places and it’s criminal to see her surrounded by these people.
But when they’re alone on the roof and Juliet has a tongue like a whip and all the anger and hope and desperation is falling out of her mouth and Romeo can’t help themselves and they kiss and they both know they’re in it way too deep.

“Date a man Juliet” “it’s a silly phase” and Juliet puts on her war paint and curls her hair to perfection and tries to pretend that each little part of her isn’t breaking up inside. Her lipsticked kisses stay heavy on Romeo’s cheeks and the two of them kiss under sunsets and stars and every new part of her that Romeo touches feels alive, like fire could burst through her skin. And it’s the constant reminder that I made it, I can do it, I can survive

                there was something so incredibly AMUSING about watching
       someone scramble along ,  their arms packed with more
                        than they could carry .  there was the introduction ,  the tease ,  
             then the FALL  — a right brilliant show .  he watched the scene
take place ,  his peer dropping everything to the floor ,  an annoyed
                                 groan emerging loud as adie silently chuckled to himself .  taking a
               drag and letting the smoke cascade from his lips ,  he finally spoke . 

“ ya hear the one about the students who
                  had too much on their plate ?  they made
                                     fulls of themselves . ”

A Careless Concoction

I loved you on drugs.

When my veins pumped more alcohol than blood,

When shrooms sickened my system,

When acid had my soul singing,

When smoke cascaded down my throat,

You were a fabrication of everything I thought I should feel.

Sober, love soon faded to sadness.

Her menacing glare sent me spiraling into a world of self doubt; I was never good enough.

So I popped pills to make myself love you the way you swore you loved me.

Vicodin laid your body out onto your bed,

While Oxy slid my hands against your skin,

Vyvanse led my lips to yours,

as Xanax muffled an “I love you” between breaths

Lorazepam sent me crying for your arms at 3am,

However,  when 10 rolled around I awoke with heavy eyes and no longer high,

I realized your arms were not the escape, but what I was escaping from.

You caged me.

Locked me up in your heart and fed me whatever candy I craved so that I stayed,

Kept me high, so no goodbyes were ever said.

I was addicted to colored capsules and you were addicted to me. 

Benzos bent my brain waves,

Stimulants kick started my heart,

Depressants deemed me dependent on your affection,

So the Tranquilizers took me back into your arms.

I never stopped to understand what you gave me in your hands was more than what I wanted from your chest.

Your rash judgments and negative comments I would have never taken sober.

You told me you wanted to save me.

That I was your baby,

That when I’m with you, you could save me.

And in the same breathe you gave me a gram of whatever my constant pain craved that day.

You didn’t save me,

You enabled me.

Told me as long as I do them with you its okay,

But couldn’t let me go days without your face because that’s what you craved.

You let me destroy myself as long as it was by your side.

We were a careless concoction,

Made up of loneliness, lust, and misplaced trust, mixed with a slew of a thousand drugs.

We were exactly what Requiem For A Dream warned me about.

We were not infinity

And 6 weeks finally clean, 

I don’t need them, and you don’t need me.