window lattice

Silence in the Bakery

prompt by the very, very lovely destieloverlord: can you please write a fic where Dean, Sammy, and Charlie work at a bakery? Castiel would always come in and just stare at Dean until one day Gabriel or Charlie walk up to Dean and say something and then Dean and Castiel get together at the end?
I added a fairy-tale twist! I hope you like it, tesoro :)))

Dean took a deep, deep breath, his eyes closed and a smile on his face. He was standing by the half-open hallway window, letting the lattice cross-stripe his face into diamonds of light. The early-morning sun brushed over everything, sweetening the street smells to a cream cleanliness and draping soft lights across roof tiles and eaves, like newly-washed linens. Behind his eyelids, Dean’s world was a gentle miasma of pastels. The growing hubbub of the road beneath was a low symphony of catcalls, clankings and animal noises.

“You smell that, Sammy?” Dean called over his shoulder. He heard his brother approach, heavy footsteps creaking the wooden boards of their cottage. Standing slightly behind his brother, Sam gave a cautious sniff.

“What am I supposed to be smelling?” he asked doubtfully. “Did next door’s pigs get into the street again?”

Dean turned around to face his brother, his smiling face half-haloed by the rising sun.

Possibility, Sammy!” he said, pushing past Sam as he stepped away from the window, heading down the hall and thudding down the stairs. At the bottom, he swung himself around the wooden upright and headed for the kitchen, his brother following him with a grin. “That is the scent of possibility!”

Sam watched his brother moving around the tiny, low-ceilinged kitchen, making his morning tea with a haphazard, bombastic cheeriness that set the pots a-clatter. The coppery racket made both brothers wince, but Dean’s spirits weren’t dampened; he started whistling a little song to himself, as far off-key as was possible without coming back into tune. His tunic today was light green, belted a little more tightly than usual, Sam thought.

“What’s got you in a good mood?” he asked, reaching behind his back to make sure his apron was still tied securely. Just recently, the strings had started to feel a little too short, and his head was starting to brush against the ceiling, too.

“I told you, Sam,” Dean said, waving a teaspoon at him – the effect somewhat diminished by the way the teaspoon was misshapen, probably melted slightly when Dean had used it to stir a pot of thickening caramel or crystallising fudge. “Possibility. Today is just full of it. It’s all around us, it’s in the air.” Dean’s wide eyes and lopsided, self-aware grin took the edge of ridiculousness off the statement, and Sam smiled back. “Can you smell it yet, Sammy?”

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School Grade: Junior high school

This character is a combination of刂 sword/cut and 开, which derives from 井 (here not “well,” but rather “lattice window”). Here 井/开 is a phonetic element expressing “injure,” and may also be suggesting “shackles” or a similar punishment. Together with刂 this gives “injure someone with a sword,” which came to refer to cutting someone with a sword by way of “punishment.” Over time 刑 came to mean “punish” in a more general sense.

One Step at a Time - A CS Ficlet

A/N: This is a (much belated) birthday gift for the lovely and talented @msgenevieve447 – I had wanted to do something to honor her special day, but it took me a little bit longer to finish than I’d thought (work got in the way, ugh). It also got a little angstier than originally planned, but there’s definitely plenty of fluff in there too. Set in a vague post-5B speculative future where the Darkness has been defeated.

Hope you had a great birthday, dear, and that you enjoy!!

The kitchen of the small seaside cottage was bathed in the warm glow of the pendant lamps hanging above its central island. Outside, occasional snow flurries swirled through the deepening twilight that was visible through the lattice-paned windows over the sink. Emma moved quietly about the cozy space, her socked feet barely making a sound as she put a saucepan of milk on the stove to heat and retrieved a pair of thick ceramic mugs from one of the cupboards.

She glanced towards the living room, the cottage’s open floorplan allowing her a clear view of the large stone fireplace beyond the sofa and the flickering orange flames dancing on the hearth. Killian’s ruffled mess of dark hair was just visible over the top of the sofa’s squishy cushions, and she caught the barest glimpse of his profile when she crossed the kitchen to grab the cocoa powder, sugar, and cinnamon from their customary – rather, their assigned – spots.

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The Story We Know

by Martha Collins

The way to begin is always the same. Hello,
Hello. Your hand, your name. So glad, Just fine,
and Good-bye at the end. That’s every story we know,

and why pretend? But lunch tomorrow? No?
Yes? An omelette, salad, chilled white wine?
The way to begin is simple, sane, Hello,

and then it’s Sunday, coffee, the Times, a slow
day by the fire, dinner at eight or nine
and Good-bye. In the end, this is a story we know

so well we don’t turn the page, or look below
the picture, or follow the words to the next line:
The way to begin is always the same Hello.

But one night, through the latticed window, snow
begins to whiten the air, and the tall white pine.
Good-bye is the end of every story we know

that night, and when we close the curtains, oh,
we hold each other against that cold white sign
of the way we all begin and end. Hello,
Good-bye is the only story. We know, we know.