iamthemagicks:
You’re not a screamer by nature. When you fight, you go the passive-aggressive route, because that’s how it is with your mother. You don’t fight with your father, and your brother is dead. But you’re standing in the bathroom of a shitty motel, water spots on the ceiling, stiff hand towels. A shower head that’s always dripping and a toilet that’s always running. And you’re trying to whisper, because Sam is finally sleeping in the room, lying on his back, taking deep and long breaths and you don’t want to wake him, but Dean is standing across from you, leaning against the sink, a glossy look in his eyes, tired and pink.
You know why he drinks, the shots have been coming particularly fast and hard as of late. His best friend is gone, his father figure (actually, anyone he’s ever considered a parent is dead at this point), something happened with the woman he sort of married and the kid that may or may not be his, and his brother is crazy and slowly going even more crazy. You get it, drinking helps. But he goes over that line. You smell the liquor and beer on his breath at night when he crawls into bed hours before sunrise and exhales softly against your ear as he holds you tight, you smell it when you’re in the shower with him as he holds your hips and presses you against the tile. Tonight you couldn’t wake him up when he passed out at the desk and you were afraid he was dead, and the night before he drove the car from the cemetery to the motel, lit.
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You’re not a screamer by nature. When you fight, you go the passive-aggressive route, because that’s how it is with your mother. You don’t fight with your father, and your brother is dead. But you’re standing in the bathroom of a shitty motel, water spots on the ceiling, stiff hand towels. A shower head that’s always dripping and a toilet that’s always running. And you’re trying to whisper, because Sam is finally sleeping in the room, lying on his back, taking deep and long breaths and you don’t want to wake him, but Dean is standing across from you, leaning against the sink, a glossy look in his eyes, tired and pink.
You know why he drinks, the shots have been coming particularly fast and hard as of late. His best friend is gone, his father figure (actually, anyone he’s ever considered a parent is dead at this point), something happened with the woman he sort of married and the kid that may or may not be his, and his brother is crazy and slowly going even more crazy. You get it, drinking helps. But he goes over that line. You smell the liquor and beer on his breath at night when he crawls into bed hours before sunrise and exhales softly against your ear as he holds you tight, you smell it when you’re in the shower with him as he holds your hips and presses you against the tile. Tonight you couldn’t wake him up when he passed out at the desk and you were afraid he was dead, and the night before he drove the car from the cemetery to the motel, lit.
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I’m well aware that I need to do some more research for logistics and how a ship sinks, and this was written rather quickly, so, keep that in mind.
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[not much of a plot, but here you go]
The light cuts through the blinds and over their bodies. Castiel squints towards the sun, the window opened a crack to let in the cool breeze off the back of the dusty field they’ve set up camp at. Castiel tastes the dust on the back of his tongue, the crispness of morning. Dean sleeps next to him, facing the wall. A sheet separates their little alcove bed from the rest of the trailer.
Castiel stretches and rolls towards Dean, sticking his nose in Dean’s hair, tracing the freckles across his bare shoulder. When Dean spends hours out in the sun digging, he tans, more freckles bursting over his skin like galaxies, and his hair gets lighter. If Castiel doesn’t remember sunblock, he burns. He turns pink and Dean has to rub aloe all over his body (though he doesn’t complain about that).
Some of the other crew members have already gotten started. Castiel smells breakfast from the portable grills, the instant coffee. People are chitchatting, some of the students are studying over the bones from yesterday’s dig.
“Make them shut up,” Dean groans.
Castiel chuckles. “Time to wake up.”
“No.”
“You’ve picked the wrong profession for sleeping in.” He kisses along Dean’s neck.
Dean grunts and pulls his pillow tighter against his chest. “The bones have been there for sixty-five million years, Cas. They ain’t going anywhere.”
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i can’t remember
but one of us is a vampire
because
i only see you at night
and i have to be invited over.
iamthemagicks:
The ship moved so quietly and smoothly, that Castiel didn’t believe they were really moving. He lay in bed, staring out the window, watching the black sky dotted with stars like diamonds. The ship groaned a bit, sometimes Castiel heard some children run by his room. They were chased by a maid trying to yell a whisper.
He ran his legs back and forth under the sheets, revering in the freedom. No corsets in bed, no lace or stockings. No fake bosom, his gentiles hung free against his leg. He still had to wear a long, white nightgown, and a see-through, black robe hung on the bedpost, just in case. The window was open a crack, just letting in the salty breeze, cold nipping at the very tip of his nose, his lips. He thought about the water, cold, deep, how he almost stepped off the back of the ship, and how terrified he was when he actually slipped and he thought he was going to die. Of Dean Winchester, his warm hand and his green eyes. He looked like he cared.
The ship moved so quietly and smoothly, that Castiel didn’t believe they were really moving. He lay in bed, staring out the window, watching the black sky dotted with stars like diamonds. The ship groaned a bit, sometimes Castiel heard some children run by his room. They were chased by a maid trying to yell a whisper.
He ran his legs back and forth under the sheets, revering in the freedom. No corsets in bed, no lace or stockings. No fake bosom, his gentiles hung free against his leg. He still had to wear a long, white nightgown, and a see-through, black robe hung on the bedpost, just in case. The window was open a crack, just letting in the salty breeze, cold nipping at the very tip of his nose, his lips. He thought about the water, cold, deep, how he almost stepped off the back of the ship, and how terrified he was when he actually slipped and he thought he was going to die. Of Dean Winchester, his warm hand and his green eyes. He looked like he cared.
The wind picked up and as Miranda lit a match, she wished she’d grabbed the pea coat instead of just the army coat. She dropped the match in the bowl on top of the ouji board. Filled with herbs, chicken legs, fresh dirt from the grave of a child, and blood from her palm. The flame flared up, red and white and the dial spun.
“You’re either very stupid, or brave,” a voice, thick as syrup, called over the rising smoke.
She went for her gun. “Maybe I want to make a deal.”
He chuckled. “No you don’t. you’re not desperate enough. That gives off a sweeter smell.” He walked around, waving his hand to clear the smoke. His eyes raked over her and her gun. “Well, you are smart.” He ran the toe of his shoe along the runs she had carved into the dust. “Most people who summon me don’t come prepared.”
“I’m not here to fight or anything. I just want some answers.”
“Then you must know exactly who I am.”
“I have a gander.”
The demon walked along the runes, in the circle of salt she had around her. The smell of smoke itched at Miranda’s nose, but she kept her eyes on him. He walked like a businessman, someone important. He checked his pocket watch, he glanced up at the sky to count the stars. “I’m a busy man, Ms. Dawson; let’s get on with this shall we?”
She eased her stance a bit. “You know who I am?”
“You have my mark, darling. Right down in your bones, carved into your marrow. You’re welcome, by the way.”
Her hand finally drooped down by her hip. She swallowed. “So…she made a deal.”
His eyes flickered, going white, then black, before stopping. He tilted his head and grinned. “Ruth Dawson. A deal for her young daughter, Miranda to be cured of cancer, and any chance of a recurrence, in exchange for three conversations with her son, Sebastian. Dated and signed. All nice and tidy.”
Miranda balked from the line, but mindful of it, not stepping out of bounds. The air seemed to leave her lungs, her throat dried right up, her grip loosened on the gun. “I’m alive because of you?”
“Afraid so.” He checked his watch again. “Is this really all you wanted? I am on a schedule.”
“Is that why my mother is dead?”
The demon shrugged. “Accidents happen.”
“Where is she?”
“Only three places she could go. But I’m not betting on the pearly gates.”
Tears down her cheeks, but she kept talking. If she could talk through it, she’d be okay. “How can I get her out?”
“Way above my pay grade and yours. Glad to see that you’ve been doing well.” He tipped a hat that appeared on his head. “Cheers.”
“Wait.” She put the gun back in her jeans. “What…what am I supposed to do?”
He laughed. “You’re asking a demon for advice?”
“I don’t have anyone else.”
His eyebrows perked his mouth twisted into a wide, Cheshire grin. “Just this one time, because I know what’s in store for you, Miranda Dawson. You won’t be alone, not always. Your mother did a big thing for my side, and we’re winning. Gear up, keep your gun loaded, make sure draw the salt at night.” He walked away. “This is the last time we’ll meet, Ms. Dawson. I wish you the best of luck.”
iamthemagicks:
tonight is the last night that i will think of you.
when i come to you while you sleep, floating above your bed, on a cloud.
just watching at first,
and then i will reach out and brush the side of your face,
up to your hair,
softly waking you.
and you’ll reach up,
pulling me by my wrist,
down and out of my cloud right onto your lap.
your mouth on mine,
your hands on my hips.
this is how we wake,
this is how we sleep.
and you’ll kiss down my neck and i’ll pull your hair,
and afterward,
you’ll lay on your side and i’ll lay on my side and i’ll stroke my fingers through your hair again,
down your neck,
over the breadth of your shoulders.
i’ll pet and stroke, and you’ll kiss my palm and then my wrist.
i’ll keep touching you just as you’re on the edge of sleep and i’ll climb back to my cloud and you will try to grasp my fingers until the sun comes up and we both wake up alone.
Huck woke up to cold and almost near darkness, only the desk lamp glowed. He’d fallen asleep with Hatter at his side, warm and sated, his mouth planting kisses along the pulse of Huck’s neck and a hand clutching at Huck’s bum leg. Huck yawned and rolled over, facing the desk. A figure sat, leaning in the chair, reading.
“Did the light wake you?”
“No.” Huck sat up. “Hatter?”
He raised his eyebrows and turned the page. “What do you think?”
March.
“Sorry.”
March shook his head. “Don’t be. I would have gone back to our room, but he’d be upset waking up without you.” March usually took over the body at night, when Hatter was passed out, unaware. It was easier, March often said, to get the body that way. No fighting (and if they fought, March usually won, but after the fight, they were both pissy and unpleasant, even when Hatter got the body back, he’d start counting grains of sugar and listen to techno to irritate March even further), no bitter feelings. March just wanted to read and drink tea, or have discussions with Jane.
Huck ruffled his hair and popped his back. Down the hall, they heard Bertha screaming, both pausing to stare at the door as if she was going to come running down and banging on the door like she had done before, but Jane usually stopped her.
After the sobbing started, March went back to his book. “Go back to sleep,” he said. “I won’t be much longer, I just want to finish this chapter.”
“Alright.”
“I’ll put him back where I found us.” March grinned.
“Thanks.” He settled back into the sheets and rolled over to face the wall to get away from the light. A year ago, Hatter had carved their names into the wall, H loves H.
Huck was back on the brink of sleep when he heard March whispering. “You’re supposed to be asleep. I promise Hatter, just a few more pages.” He sighed. “I promise, just like I promised him, I will put you back, okay? Okay. Go back to sleep.”
Huck had a bum leg, but at least he didn’t have to share his body with someone else.
i’m the weird looking one in all the pictures
standing in the back smiling, holding my breath.
with a big nose and a wide smile (my hair usually looks pretty good though)
i can land a guy for a night, maybe two or three, possibly four
(but never one night right after the other. it’s all spread out
over months, when he is in the mood, and when i have the time)
they don’t want to love me for more time than that.
i’m chatty.
i like going to cemeteries and leaving flowers on the graves of unknown soldiers and babies.
i’ve never been pretty, except for that small amount of time in my early twenties.
i get very lonely. i’m afraid of being forgotten (because it’s happened so many times already)
i love my cat.
if i could i’d live underwater, and eat bacon and chocolate all day every day.
i have brothers, but i’m still the heavy one, the ugly one. i can make people laugh though. and sometimes i write pretty things.
Lip and Nate’s lives have been intimately entwined since they were kids, but living in Arcadia (the former United States) makes things difficult. Mental illness is heavily monitored and fixed, and being anything other than heteronormative is considered deviant, as well as an illness, and is also corrected.
Between procedures, arrange marriages, and Nate’s own almost debilitating mental disorder, Lip desperately clings to his best friend as they both try to white knuckle it through existence.
(Source: iamthemagicks)
Lip and Nate’s lives have been intimately entwined since they were kids, but living in Arcadia (the former United States) makes things difficult. Mental illness is heavily monitored and fixed, and being anything other than heteronormative is considered deviant, as well as an illness, and is also corrected.
Between procedures, arrange marriages, and Nate’s own almost debilitating mental disorder, Lip desperately clings to his best friend as they both try to white knuckle it through existence.
Spoilers for “The Born Again Identity”
~
“Isn’t this what you always wanted, Castiel?” Lucifer purrs into Castiel’s ear, real close and Cas can feel his brother’s breath. “For the Dean Winchester to undress you.”
“Come on, Cas,” Dean says. “Lift up.” He tugs at the hem of Castiel’s shirt.
He didn’t want to look down, because it couldn’t really be Dean. Not since Lucifer had been whispering in his ear, all the things that Dean had ever said to him, screamed and yelled, in Dean’s voice, but with his own face. So Castiel doesn’t look down, just away, and he lifts his arms above his head and lets Dean pull off the sweatshirt and the green t-shirt underneath.
In a different time, a different life, maybe this would have happened. He won’t lie, he pictured it during his fall from Heaven, rough fingers on his ribs, soft mouth on his, stubble dragged along his collar bone. But it doesn’t matter now, because all he can hear, see, and feel, is Lucifer grinning, laughing.
“Isn’t he just the sweetest?” Lucifer chants from next to Dean. “Taking care of you, but leaving you at the same time.”
“Jesus, Cas,” Dean says, running his fingers along the marks on Castiel’s chest. Roughly carved marks, shiny and pink, from the box cutter, with that sigil. Still there after everything, after falling and dying, of being an angel again, being a god, then walking out of that lake. Daphne had marveled at them, traced them over with her blue-painted nails and awed, oh honey who did this to you? “I had no idea.”
Castiel feels Dean staring at him, at his chest, the same sadness that Daphne did.
Lucifer cranes his neck and kicks his shoes against the chair by the desk. “I suppose as far as humans go, he’s okay looking. Your wife was pretty. What do you think will happen to her? Does she even know you’re gone?”
Dean takes his hands away and pulls a white t-shirt over his body. “Can you do your pants?”
Castiel finally looks. “Yes.”
Dean smiles. “Atta boy.”
Behind him, Lucifer continues to taunt and laugh, he calls Castiel a faggot, he calls Dean pathetic and a mud monkey. He laughs and he sets the books on fire and blows up with trashcan. Castiel flinches with each word and tries to brush ash off his hands.
“Hey.” Dean stands in front of him after Castiel changed his pants and shoes. “We’re not going to be gone forever, okay? It’s not gonna be like last time.” His voice cracks and he places his hands on Castiel’s neck, soft and warm. “I know that you’re here, and Meg is gonna be watching you.”
A large burst of laughter erupts from Lucifer and he grabs at his ribs. “Meg? My little Meg is going to be watching you? Oh this is going to be so much fun!”
Castiel closes his eyes. “I know, but it’s the best option for now. I promise we’ll come back, okay? Cas just let me know that you can hear me. Please.”
Castiel looks up. “I hear you.”
He sort of smiles. “Good. We’ll be back as soon as we can okay? We’ll fix you.”
“Okay,” Castiel says. He closes his eyes. When he opens them Dean is still there, still leaning against him.
“You mean the world to me,” he says.
Castiel jerks back. Dean laughs and his eyes glow yellow. “This is going to be so much fun,” he chuckles in Lucifer’s voice.
Castiel softly drops himself to sit down and stares at the door that he sees the real Dean just walking out of. Lucifer starts setting fires again and quotes Dante.
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