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kripke gripping misha tight and raising him from unemployment

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using a fabric study as an excuse to draw my beloved

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i hope he plays castiel

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“All That's Buried” 

Author: @haus_seeblick Artist: @magpiewithinternetaccess

Rating: Mature Archive warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Length: 21,663 words Tags: Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Slasher Fic, Peril, Dean & Castiel Falling in Love, Mystery Relationships: Dean/Castiel

Summary: It's been thirteen years since the worst summer of Dean's life.

Now he's back where it all happened — the tranquil lakeside Camp Eden — determined to find answers. What he doesn't expect is to reconnect with a blue-eyed friend, and he definitely doesn't expect the knife-wielding stranger lurking in the shadows.

It'll take all Dean has to escape this new threat... and maybe find some justice along the way.

Link to Fic | Link to Art

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ALL THAT’S BURIED

and here we have it, my art for @destielaureversebb

thank you so much @haus-seeblick for bringing this summer camp slasher au to life!!

go check it out on ao3, hope you all enjoy it!!

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if you haven't seen the boys idk how to describe how terrifying the prospect of not only misha collins but also jared padalecki portraying characters in that universe is like we are doomed end of days style

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beloved angel of thursday

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Cas, having lost Dean, falling ill from his failing grace but also with grief, like a Victorian with consumption, lying around in bed half-clothed saying "I miss him," and the ceiling fan in the hotel room spins sadly above Cas's melancholy gaze off into the distance. Things spn actually wrote and filmed.

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Here’s my piece for @supernaturalartbook ! Went with a bit of that old mystery novel cover feel

The final artbook is absolutely gorgeous and I love everyone’s works ;__;

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i think i drew this cas in heavypaint a million years ago and forgot

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season1

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happy late valentine, queers

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happy destiel wedding anniversary to all whom celebrate. this is the poem I wrote for @destielvalentineszine2025 and its abt how cas is down bad. and also living past your myth and how to love someone is to brave the grave anew each day

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by the touch of my hand

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i was tagged by the lovely @roublardise to share a WIP for WIP wednesday (except it's friday but who cares <3) alas i'm not working on anything spn-related atm, so what i'll be doing instead is browse my wip folder in search of some old abandoned project that i still consider somewhat passable :^)

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this was from a fic i started writing 'cause I had this image in mind of dean alone in bobby's place s4 circa, but tragically had to abandon it because i had zero idea where to go with it lol. but i still like how it sounds so i'm glad it can see the light of day even if for a second

Back then, Sam would put on some lousy old shorts and a Rolling Stone t-shirt he'd found in the back of some drawer or God knows where else, and in prehistoric trainers would stretch his legs and shoulders in some crazy yoga pose and go out for a run, the sound of the Big Sioux spilling inside for a blink when he'd open the door. He'd say he wanted to split for a while before the thunderstorm, that the hazy South Dakotan sky had been promising rain since earlier that morning. Dean would look him dead in the eye and tell him he was a fifty-year-old suburban mom with a Prius. That would make him leave quicker. Only there was no need for that now, because each passing day Dean noticed how he was faster and surer in his leaving. Fifteen years later and Dean was here now, alone and chainsmoking almost a pack, just because Sam had gone out and Bobby had gone out and so they couldn't possibly bug him about his health and his lungs and the house respectively.

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another failed work that i started because i was fascinated by the concept (some sort of outsider POV but with animals) and had to drop it because it felt like it was way too incoherent and i was running out of things to say anyway (sigh). posting a small excerpt from part 1 even though it works better as a whole i think

Paper plates and forks piling up inside the dirty kitchen sink and on the counter there are plastic bags and empty aluminum pans. The smell of garbage and rotting carcasses in the shadowed corners. We are not alone anymore. Many more are coming. At moon-time when we leave for food and water they are asleep on the floorboards, huddled close in their separate sleeping bags but under the same old blanket with holes and lice, fire dead next to them because fire is light and light is life and life is death, and by the time we are back with the sun they're not there anymore and the blanket left to dry on worm-eaten chairs. Then at sundown they come back again with mud at their feet and reddened fingertips. They know we're here but they don’t worry about us, so we don’t worry about them. For the house is small but we fit inside. Just like us they are cold and hiding and scared. They have no wings but they are our kin. When they die we will mourn them.

no-pressure tagging some beloved writer mutuals @magpiewithinternetaccess @angelsdean @nyc-pizza-rat

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Those brothers Supernatural will be like we know each other better than anybody and we are inextricably bound by the private trauma of our shared childhood that nobody else could ever understand and we have both sworn sacred oaths to each other. and not even realize that they are thinking of different childhoods. and have sworn different oaths. and there is so much that they have misunderstood about each other and that they can never go back to the way they were before because WE WERE NEVER THAT WAY BEFORE.