#a stubborn old man in a trench coat to be exact | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

webcricket · 7 years ago

Text

Catch a Falling Star

Characters: CastielXReader

Word Count: 2264 (Part 2)

A/N: Part 2 of a Soulmate AU mini-series. I’m uncertain how many “parts” will make up this mini-series – the original outline is for 5, but my muse has a sordid history of adding more plot twists, turns, and verbs than I initially anticipate and/or know what to do with. Thank you ALL for the overwhelmingly KIND and POSITIVE feedback thus far! I hope/strive not to disappoint. Enjoy the ride. (P.S. Still on vacation mode and taking advantage of a quaint coffee shop with wifi on this rainy afternoon – will respond personally when I have normal internet access.)

Summary: What if angels didn’t end up just anywhere when they are banished by sigils…what if sometimes they end up exactly where they need to be? Turns out you are Castiel’s grounding stone, and it’s more complicated than either of you realizes. Cue the hurt/comfort and mandatory associate angst (be warned, it gets heavy). Angels are a damned stubborn lot, and in this regard Castiel is no different from his kin.

Completed series Masterlist:

webcricket.tumblr.com/post/165166387163/catch-a-falling-star-masterlist

Man seemingly drops out of the sky. With an absolute disregard for common sense given your lakeside isolation, you invite the peculiar stranger into your home. You convince him to disrobe and shower. Obviously his common sense could also do with some fine tuning – what sensible person follows a random stranger home and immediately consents to getting naked? Alright, it wasn’t immediate, he put up a gallant protest and you routed his muddied multi-layer modesty at every turn until he acquiesced and passed his trench coat, suit, and shoes through the barely cracked door of the bathroom. Perhaps you’ve underestimated your powers of persuasive speech all these years. Perhaps you should consider a new career revolving around this superpower. Lawyer? Lobbyist? Nah.

Hissssssssss. Beep!

You serve him tea in a proper porcelain cup and saucer because it seems like the civilized thing to do, and also because it gives you something to do and him something to do because right now you’re wordlessly stealing furtive glances of one another and questioning every life choice you’ve ever made that led you to this awkwardly silent fête. He did look awfully good in those borrowed pants. And what was it about those vivid blue eyes of his that fascinated you so? Was it the way they reflected and refracted the star light? One look into them and you were certain you could chart the infinite depths of those luminescent blue cosmos forever and not stumble twice upon the same breathtaking hue. Man proceeds to vanish, stealing your car and taking it on a joy ride into town, ditching it there in such a manner as to ensure you won’t receive a parking ticket. How…polite? Must have been the tea.

Hissssssssss. Beep!

It’s the kind of unbelievable zany tale you share with friends over drinks so they can laugh at your expense and reproach you for being a total nincompoop with zero regard for personal safety – classic fodder for them to dredge up out of the blue at a party years later to embarrass you in front of your date. There it is again, the inescapable blue. Shake it off, move on. He’s long gone. Where were you? Right, being hypothetically painted a fool in front of your date. You laugh. If you’re being completely realistic, it’s to embarrass you in front of their date. “Let me tell you about this time Y/N invited some strange guy…” Not that you’re sharing.

Hissssssssss. Beep!

At this point, despite the clerk at the bus depot informing you a man fitting your exact description purchased a one-way ticket to Lebanon, Kansas this morning, you’ve persuaded yourself the whole experience was the result of a bit of indigestion and an over-active imagination. Kansas! It practically reeked of Oz. Blue gingham dress, blue post office logo, clear blue skies – everywhere your thoughts tread twisted into a titanic blue distraction. Throwing your head back, dallying outside the car door, you lost yourself in the uniform cozy blanket of blue atmosphere stretching overhead. Somewhere someone sat behind a curtain having a grand old belly-jiggling guffaw about your life while you sang your off-tune songs on cue and skipped down a yellow-brick road. Brakes squealed. A horn blared. A delicate ivory patina teacup embossed with a pattern of blue periwinkle shattered upon the floor.

Hissssssssss. Beep!

The sage green curtain hung around the bed meant to instill an ambiance of warmth in the otherwise icy cold hospital room swooshed aside. Castiel’s steely gaze roamed over the myriad of tubes and wires trailing into and out of your stone-still form, frowning regard settling on the white tape crudely clamping your eyelids shut. Like everything else he touched, he defaulted to the presumption this, too, was his fault. As it so happened in this particular set of circumstances, he wasn’t necessarily absolved of all blame.

Hissssssssss. Beep!

The ventilator bellowed another gush of life sustaining oxygen into your lungs. He shouldn’t have fled. The angel was no coward, but when your skin touched his you shocked him, literally and figuratively, to the very core of his existence. He felt the spark in the deepest part of his being, in the pure angelic heart created especially by his father to fiercely love humanity above all else and without limits that set him so starkly apart from his kin, the unique element of his creation that doubt and regret had not yet sullied no matter how unforgivable his past actions or how epically he failed in the skewed summation he maintained regarding himself. Nothing and no one had affected an influence there, until you – and he yearned for more.

Hissssssssss. Beep!

As a steadfast rule, Castiel wanted nothing for himself. Averting the apocalypse, the multiple falls, the grabs for power, the sacrifices, each and every enterprise set in motion in the name of helping others – humanity, his kin, and above all the Winchester brothers who redefined his notion of family. He viewed himself as useful, but ultimately expendable – the tinder wood to ignite larger fires. Auspiciously, someone sympathetic above his pay grade viewed him in a far more indispensable light, resurrecting him from the ashes time and again. Unsurprisingly, when threatened with the prospect of selfish desire kindling in his own heart – a great and terrible unknown burning want of something solely for himself, the need presenting as utterly foreign, abhorrent even, to his abstaining nature – he ran for the hills.

Hissssssssss. Beep!

At the bus station in Cleveland, he disembarked – the action not so much born of a cognizant plan to buy a return ticket to Seneca Lake to see you again, but more out of a precipitous and overwhelming need for breathing space to lessen the tightness seizing his chest. He found the acute need for oxygen bizarre since he didn’t need to breath in the first place – the involuntary rise and fall of his chest thus far a mere remnant of muscle memory tickling at the neurons of his vessel. Entertaining and committing to the act of boarding a bus back to New York seemed to ease the unrelenting vice grip on his ribcage.

Hissssssssss. Beep!

Now that he stood at your bedside and saw the machines keeping you alive, now that he had time to objectively examine and interpret his impressions – now, it all made sense. As an angel, with his abject history of imperfect and pitiable glory, he never ventured to hope in all of his father’s creation there existed a heart cast expressly for him, least of all a human heart. Even amongst humans a match such as this was so exceedingly rare as to be the stuff of legend. He daren’t think the word for fear his suspicions were wrong…or right.

Hissssssssss. Beep!

“Friend or family?”

Castiel angled his neck to acknowledge the young woman in the sterile white coat with a black stethoscope slung around her neck positioned at his elbow. “Neither,” he answered, focus gliding again to your frame. His frown deepened at observing your limp fingers jammed uncomfortably through the side rail of the bed, the result of a nurse’s haste in changing a dressing. He badly wanted to reach out, move them, wake you, apologize. A combination of apprehension and wonder incapacitated him.

“Oh…well, such a shame,” the doctor followed the target of his furrowed brow to your crumpled hand, taking it upon herself to gently reposition it to lay flat, “hit and run in front of the post office this morning. Witnesses said Y/N just stopped in the middle of the street to stare up at something in the sky. Massive head trauma. Terrible tragedy.”

Hissssssssss. Beep!

“Y/N,” your name spilled from his lips as a reverent whisper. It dawned on him he hadn’t learned your name until now. It hadn’t occurred to him to ask you – he knew you by the dazzling glow of your soul in a universe beyond names and that was enough.

“I was hoping you might know the next of kin. We’re having difficulty locating anyone. You’re the first visitor.”

“She has an uncle,” Cas murmured, disbelieving the insinuation you could possibly be alone in the world, “he has a place on the lake.”

“He passed years ago.”

Hissssssssss. Beep!

“Do you mind if I spend a few minutes?” Cas spoke hoarsely, collapsing into the chair beside the bed, knees feeling weak.

“Of course, take all the time you need,” the doctor strode over to the door, pausing to look back pensively. If Castiel had the inclination to read her mind just then, he would have heard her musing as to whether or not he was one of those angel of death characters she’d been hearing about in the news lately. Privately, she thought in your hopeless case it would be a mercy – if no next of kin emerged, it was only a matter of days before they pulled the plug anyway.

Hissssssssss. Beep!

Cas enviously watched the last rays of the setting sun reach through the window to warmly caress your cheek. You might be on life support, but your soul still outshone anything in his recollection including the sun itself.

Other souls in your quandary would have accepted the open summons to escape their physical pain and soar to the blissful embrace of Heaven. You obstinately clung to your shattered body, reliving the night and day on endless loop, floundering in a sea of blue. Your eternal happiness wasn’t in Heaven – he was no longer welcome there.

Hissssssssss. Beep!

Cas meditated on the large calloused fists resting uselessly upon his lap, determining his grace still too drained from the banishment by sigil to fully heal you at present. He reached out, palm hesitantly hovering over your pale hand. The strain of resisting the longing to twine his fingers through yours to comfort you trembled every muscle in his suspended arm. He desperately wanted to lose himself in your electric touch. He flinched, afraid that once he submitted to the desire, he’d never be able to let you go. He blockaded his objecting heart inescapably behind all the reasons why he must not be in your life. He wasn’t safe for you, beholding your languishing body that much was clear. He couldn’t protect you, not from himself. He was a storm from which you would find no shelter. He would destroy you. He resolved to touch your skin only once more when the time came to heal you.

Hissssssssss. Beep!

He stoically waited for his grace to rally, wincing through a thousand plus a thousand whirring actuations of the ventilator accosting his ears, avoiding the anxious stares and well-meaning inquiries of the nurses and doctors on rounds – wasn’t he thirsty? Hungry? Tired? Despite their best efforts, your condition was rapidly worsening. Was he certain he didn’t know a next of kin? Your kidneys were failing, fluid regurgitating into your lungs, he should think about saying goodbye. Would he like to speak to a grief counselor? There is a chapel on the second floor if he is a praying man. A priest offers last rites as the angel numbly waits.

Hissssssssss. Beep!

On the third morning, his silent vigil concluded. He rose purposefully to his feet. Without looking at you – for he’d ceased being able to look at you the night before without weakening his resolve, unable to bear the agony of observing the flickering ebb of your soul as you clawed to hang on against forces grown insistent upon tearing you asunder – he closed his wetly glinting blue eyes and pressed two fingers to your forehead. “I’m sorry Y/N,” the golden glow of his grace flashed bright, bouncing off the glossy white finish of the walls, surging throughout your body, repairing, soothing, rectifying the mortal injury indirectly resulting from his fateful plunge into your peaceful world, “forgive me.” His fingers lingered, heart thrashing wildly against the self-imposed barriers he’d erected, a shaky sigh rattling from his throat, “And please…forget me.”

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep…

The hospital staff tittered amongst themselves, giddy with the miracle of your complete recovery. Congratulatory backslaps and fist bumps resounded here and there in the halls. Miracles have a way of generating a shockwave of infectious hope in their wake.

A lone nursing assistant remembered to ask you in passing during your discharge about the dark-haired man in the tan trench coat who stayed by your side for three days without leaving. Handsome. Hardly said a word. In possession of the saddest blue eyes she ever saw. With a show of such selfless devotion, surely you know him?

No name for this remarkable man stirred in your memory, your tongue poised immobile between your teeth.

“Must have been your guardian angel,” she smiled, ferrying your wheelchair down the hall toward freedom.

“Must have been,” you mimed, chasing a fleeting indigo shadow of memory just out of grasp of your awareness.

Safely home, leaning over the sink, your fingers attached to a favorite ivory colored teacup left to dry in the dish rack. You twirled the cup around and around, mesmerized by the repeating pattern of blue flowers adorning the rim. You thought tonight you would devote a few hours to stargazing – the idea sent a quiver of exhilaration coursing to your limbs.

Castiel failed to eradicate himself from your mind as he intended. After all, how could he erase the cosmic void in your heart which came into existence on the day of your birth – an emptiness prevailing long before you met him, and that he alone was equipped to fill? Even an angel can’t purge something that was never there.

Part 3:

webcricket.tumblr.com/post/163231161990/catch-a-falling-star

#castiel x reader #castiel x you #castiel x y/n #castiel angst #castiel fluff #castiel series #castielxreader #castiel reader insert #spn reader insert #spn series #cas #castiel #cas x reader #cas x you #cas x y/n #castiel imagine #castiel fanfic #cricket writes cas

223 notes · View notes

caffeineivore · 7 years ago

Text

For RaeRae

This is for @antivanonmytongue as the start of a cheer-up-emo project, as it were.

Title: Bourbon

Author: Thalia

Rating: PG/PG13

'Ship: R/J for RaeRae!

Notes: This is dedicated to our RaeRae because we love her and she is going through hell. Stay strong, lovey! There may or may not be a homage to living in a bar...

As for the fic itself, it does not belong to any ficverse I have. Also, there is a town called Brave, Pennsylvania. However, there is probably not a bar called Hope's Landing in said town. I don't know, have never been there XD!

Thanks much to @antivanruffles for the help with plotting and stuff!!

*-*

It's a slow Sunday on a windy autumn day at Hope's Landing, and so when she walks into the place, looking a bit lost and forlorn underneath the bravado of a stubborn chin and a cherry-red designer trench coat and perfectly applied makeup, she stands out like a flame in the darkness. A dive bar in the tiny town of Brave, Pennsylvania, is definitely not the natural milieu for a young woman such as her, and Jesse Wilson pauses in between polishing a stack of rocks glasses and stares, just for a minute.

She walks in slowly, taking in the scratched and faded green baize of the pool tables in the back, the jukebox in the corner, the dark wood of the bar scarred and grooved from countless glasses rolling towards countless hands. Hair the glossy black of fresh ink spills down her back straight as rain. Manicured red nails clutch a buttery oversized leather handbag with a white-knuckled grip. The black stiletto heels she wears click on the worn floorboards, the sound over-loud in the bar's quiet. She selects a stool at the very far end of the bar and perches on it, and Jesse makes his way over with a faintly curious smile.

“What can I get for you?”

At a closer distance, her eyes are fabulous, a dark blue-violet like a twilight sky. “Maker's Mark, neat.”

He asks for ID, and she pulls out a New York license. The address is uptown Manhattan. “Raeanne Haley. Nice to meet you. My name is Jesse Wilson.”

Her hand is small and delicate and warm, almost swallowed by his, but she nods in thanks when he places the drink in front of her.

“You're far from home.”

“It's about a three hour drive,” she replies, and there's a veiled hint of escape written all over her features. Jesse, to whom Hope's Landing has been home for almost as long as he can remember, is good at getting a read on people, but Raeanne Haley is a very complex book open only a crack and written in very small letters that can't be deciphered at a glance. He's patient, though, and leaves her to her bourbon and thoughts.

The door to the bar opens to reveal a familiar diminutive figure. Earl Flynn is spry for his eighty-plus years, and moves to the bar only after he makes the rounds with all the regulars. He'd once upon a time fought alongside Jesse's grandfather in World War II, part of the same squadron, and he still wears his tags even now, over an ancient Steelers shirt. He accepts a beer from Jesse with a gracious smile and sidles over to the mysterious Raeanne Haley.

“What's a nice girl like you doing at a dump like this, then?” The question would have been rude on a lot of levels coming from anyone else than Earl, but the girl Raeanne does not seem offended, and returns his smile with a tentative one of her own.

“Resting, for the moment.”

“Well, this place on a Sunday surely is restful,” Earl tells her, even as he lifts his beer in a toast. “Now, it's almost too quiet. Not like a Friday or Saturday night, though. But our Jesse can deal with the riff-raff, so don't you worry.”

Raeanne nods and slowly sips her whiskey, and Earl keeps up a steady stream of conversation about the football game playing on the television screen, the prospect of taking his grandkids trick-or-treating on Halloween, coming up later that month, and how long the fine weather would last before it would take a turn for the worse.

“... And we should have some music in here, shouldn't we?” Earl stands and makes his way to the jukebox. “None of these crotchety fellas know how to entertain a lady. Not used to having one hereabouts.” With a wink which must have been rakish once upon a time and still full of charm, he grins at Raeanne, then feeds coins into the machine. Even as low guitar notes come on, Earl calls out for Jesse quite a bit louder than the music.

“Jesse, why don't you have a dance floor in here? Maybe we can get some more customers that way. Especially pretty ladies like her. What do you think?”

The song that Earl selected is 'Lady in Red' by Chris DeBurgh, and the old man couldn't have been more obvious if he tried. Jesse glances at Raeanne Haley in her red trench coat, and smiles wryly. “I don't think that pretty ladies like places such as these, for the most part.”

“Well, you could always change her mind. Come on, come on,” Earl is not to be deterred once he is dedicated to a set path, and apparently his mind is made up. “There's nobody here to bother you. Walter and Frank and Barry don't need anything, and neither do I. You should dance with the girl.”

Jesse glances at Raeanne, who has set down her half-finished whiskey, and even as she stands, he comes out from behind the bar. “He's harmless,” he finds himself telling her, even as she lays her hand in his, impulsiveness warring with what seems to be innate aloofness on her beautiful face. “You don’t have to. But I hope you don't mind.”

She doesn’t seem to, and when he puts his other hand on her waist and pulls her in just a little bit closer, the top of her head reaches his lips. He only has to bend his head a little bit to whisper so that no one else can hear them.

“What brings you here to Brave, Pennsylvania?”

“Oh, just… stopping for a bit,” she answers softly. Her lips curve up in a tremulous smile as those amethyst eyes meet his blue ones. “I’m on an impromptu road trip. My best friend from college lives out in LA. I could just fly, of course, but I hate both LaGuardia and JFK, and… this way I can take my time.” Maybe the whiskey has relaxed her a little, or maybe it was Earl’s somewhat one-sided conversation. “I paid a cabbie a good amount of cash to just drive… drive until I told him to stop. And here I am.”

“You told him to stop here?” Earl, the sly bastard, has another slow song playing even as the first one draws to a close. But Raeanne doesn’t seem to mind, or notice. She’s soft in his arms and smells faintly like expensive perfume.

“I liked the name. Hope’s Landing.” She ducks her head and her hair brushes his jaw. “That sounds silly, doesn’t it?”

“This was my grandfather’s bar, back in the day,” Jesse tells her to the background music of Elvis crooning ‘Love Me Tender’. “Hope was his mother’s name. He named it after her because she was not really a showy type of woman. Homey, I guess. Sort of like he wanted this place to be.” Jesse smiles wryly as their eyes meet. “This is definitely not a showy type of bar, I’ll say that much. Nothing like New York City.”

“New York is overrated,” Raeanne huffs out a breath. “I’m escaping, if we’re being completely honest. Mina’s okay with putting me up indefinitely in LA; I’ll probably have my stuff shipped there soon. I just needed a change.”

Jesse wonders for a second if Mina in LA is Mina Averill, the rising supermodel and actress, then dismisses the notion as preposterous. “Well, you are well and truly not in New York City any more, Dorothy,” he says gently. “I’m not quite sure what the exact population of this town is, but I’m also quite sure that the population of Manhattan itself is greater.”

“Yeah, and when everyone you know is either a lawyer or a politician or a Wall Street exec or some horrible combination of the three…” Raeanne wrinkles her nose, then shakes her head as Elvis finishes and Sinatra takes his place. “I usually stick to wine. I’m not this chatty as a rule.”

“Maybe you just needed to talk,” Jesse says, and then pulls back enough to look her in the eye. “But if you don’t want to drink on an empty stomach, I could probably make you a sandwich or something.”

“Yes, you go do that, Jesse,” Earl chimes in, as though sensing that the dancing has come to a close, and winks again at Raeanne. “Our Jesse is a good boy. His grandfather and I were friends since we were young. Charlie might have passed five years ago, God rest his soul, but he made sure that our Jesse was raised right.”

Jesse leaves the old man to extol his virtues and takes the stairs in the back of the bar up to the apartment on the second floor. Hope’s Landing doesn’t boast a kitchen or serve food beyond beer nuts and pretzels, but he lives right above it, and while turkey and swiss on rye is probably not typical fare for one such as Raeanne Haley, he returns with the sandwich shortly.

“Thank you.” She accepts it, seeming to know that it’s the exception rather than the rule, and gives him a real smile before tucking in. She’s dainty in that ladylike way while eating, but doesn’t seem to care about crumbs or the fact that she’s only got beverage napkins to wipe her mouth and hands.

The night draws on; more regulars mosey on in, including a pair of ancient, tattooed bikers who offer to teach Raeanne how to play pool. She declines, graciously, but seems to have relaxed as the time draws on. In any case, she watches the game with interest, and when the shorter, skinnier biker wins, claps politely amidst the raucous cheers of the rest of them. She’s still there, unaccountably, her whiskey long-gone and her plate empty, when the clock strikes midnight and the lights come on.

“We close early on Sundays,” Jesse tells her as he finishes cashing out. Under the bright lights, she’s even lovelier, with pale skin and flawless cheekbones. She pays for her drink with a black American Express and signs the slip with flowing, finishing-school script. He doesn’t charge her for the sandwich, but even after the last stragglers make their way towards the door, she remains seated, and he cocks his head to the side. “Do you… do you have a place to stay for the night?”

She shrugs, pulls out a cell phone. “I could Uber it to the closest hotel, I guess. I’m sorry. I was having fun.”

And all of the sudden he feels like he’s on the precipice of something-- something a lot bigger and more important than small talk with a pretty stranger on a random Sunday night. He swallows the surge of nerves and clears his throat. “Well, and please don’t take this in a creepy way, but�� you could crash here if you want. I live upstairs. There’s a spare room.”

She stares at him for a moment without speaking, so he hurries on. “You don’t have to, of course. I’m not sure if Uber is available out here, to be honest with you. But if you’d like, I could probably also give you a ride somewhere if you have a place in mind.”

And then she smiles. “You sure I could just crash upstairs? You barely know me.”

“Yeah, and you barely know me. But… yeah, I’m sure. I don’t mind. I just have one question.”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Do you like cats?”

*~*

Jesse’s apartment is accessible through the back of the bar, up a flight of stairs, and it is a tidy, open-plan space with two bedrooms, one of which seems to be used as an office with a futon. A small-ish tabby cat darts out from under the coffee table and heads straight for Raeanne’s legs, winding circles around her ankles and staring up with wide, green-and-gold eyes.

“That’s Jim Beam, or JB for short,” Jesse tells Raeanne with a chuckle even as she stoops down to pet the cat. “He’s usually not this friendly. I found him a few months ago as a kitten, hiding out the rain under an empty Jim Beam carton out by the dumpster, hence his name.” Jim Beam apparently finds Raeanne to his liking, because in very short order, he is butting his head against her hand and purring. Raeanne takes a seat on the sofa and the cat hops into her lap, curling up in a ball and blinking slowly in an attitude of contentment, and Jesse grins at her. “He likes you. Anyway, do you need anything? Water? A tour? A t-shirt to sleep in? All of the above?”

She finds herself agreeing to ‘all of the above’, and smiles to herself when she sees the bread bag on the kitchen counter, left untied from when he’d made her that sandwich. Jesse pulls out the futon in the office, but insists that she takes his room instead, fetching fresh sheets and pillows out of a small linen closet and a plain white t-shirt out of the dresser drawer. Jim Beam follows Raeanne into every room, then hops onto the easy chair in Jesse’s bedroom, curling his tail around his feet.

“Shower’s through that door down the hall. And you can probably kick that cat out of that chair to put your stuff,” Jesse says as he efficiently changes the bed-linens. Raeanne exchanges a glance with Jim Beam, and sets her handbag on the bureau instead. She walks up to Jesse just as he finishes straightening up the sheets.

“You don’t have to do any of this for me, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says with a smile. “But, I also know not to subject a lady to a futon.”

That’s not at all what she’s referring to and she’s sure he knows it, but something in his dark blue gaze causes her to acquiesce. She stands on tiptoe, and the jaw that comes in contact with her lips is warm and scratchy with stubble.

“Well, thanks. And good night.”

He lays his hand on her shoulder for a moment, nods, and quietly walks out. Raeanne quickly gets ready for bed and curls up underneath the blankets. The sheets smell like him-- plain soap and detergent, no overpriced cologne, and the pillows are soft. This was not quite what she’d planned when she left New York, but… a smile crosses her face and she stares up at the ceiling and says nothing.

Halfway through the night, Raeanne wakes up briefly to Jim Beam hopping on the bed and curling up on the pillow next to hers. She sleepily runs her fingers over the cat’s soft fur, and lets the purring lull her back to the best sleep she’s had in months.

*~*

Raeanne wakes the next morning to the smells of coffee and bacon and the sound of Ruby Tuesday by the Rolling Stones playing faintly on the radio. Jim Beam meows at her from by the bedroom door, and she follows the cat to the kitchen, padding in barefooted and still wearing the borrowed t-shirt. Jesse’s back is turned towards her as he flips a piece of bacon in the skillet, but he turns with a smile before she even says a word.

“How do you take your coffee?”

“Black,” she replies, and at his gesture, helps herself. Within a few moments, they’re seated across from each other at the cheap dinette set and eating scrambled eggs and bacon as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Jim Beam cannily positions himself at the optimal spot to beg from both of them, and Raeanne is sure that between herself and Jesse, the cat gets away with a good two slices of bacon. Raeanne eats her fill and watches Jesse from underneath her lashes. His hair shines golden in the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window, and when he smiles, he has a single dimple in his left cheek. She, on the other hand, looks vastly different wearing no makeup and his t-shirt than her norm, and yet, he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Want me to do the dishes?” She gathers her plate and mug and walks over towards the kitchen sink. Certainly it is not a task that she has ever needed to tackle. But even-- or perhaps especially-- a Manhattan socialite knows that something cannot come from nothing.

Jesse says nothing, but before she can reach for the sponge, gently takes both of her hands in his, and pulls her away. His fingers are callused and rough against her manicured ones, and he doesn’t let her go even when they’re a few feet away from the sink. She finds herself staring up at him in wonder and a little bit of consternation.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

The smile warms his whole face, including his ocean blue eyes. “Because you need it.”

Raeanne’s next breath hitches in her throat, and she stares down at her bare feet for a moment because the kindness radiating from his whole being is warm and almost unbearable, like being a shade too close to a hearth fire. Her toenails match her fingernails exactly, and she takes a deep breath before glancing up again. “Why do you say that?”

“I just know.” A wry, slightly cheeky smile crosses his face. It’s not stubbly like last night, but he still smells like plain soap and detergent with a hint of coffee thrown in now. “You don’t owe me anything, Raeanne.”

Her name sounds smooth and low on his tongue, and when she frowns at what he says, he chuckles. “Well. I wouldn’t say no to another dance. But don’t tell Earl, or he’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

“I won’t,” she answers, and even as Queen’s ‘Someone To Love’ starts playing on the radio, she lets him draw her close. Without her heels, he sort of dwarfs her, and in this tiny, sun-lit kitchen, it’s even closer and more intimate than last night downstairs at the bar. But Raeanne lets her eyes fall closed as they sway infinitesimally to the rhythm, and her face fits perfectly into the crook of his neck. Underneath her lips, his pulse isn’t completely steady, and that gives her courage.

“Jesse?” Her voice is muffled against soft cotton and warm skin. “How long can I stay?”

The hand at her waist pulls her just a little closer, and his breath stirs tendrils of her hair. “How long do you want to stay?”

She draws back just enough to look up into his face, and lets herself wonder, only for a moment, why it seems so familiar-- why everything from the moment she’d stepped out of the cab until now seems like destiny knocking. But she still manages a quip. “Until Big Bill and Marty teach me how to shoot pool, maybe.”

“Mmm, and are you a quick study?”

She’s close enough to all but count individual eyelashes, close enough to taste that he drinks his coffee black, just like her, but leans in even closer. Suddenly, she knows that she’s not going to LA after all, though Mina would probably squeal over it later, much later, on the phone once she got through the army of assistants and minions. Raeanne smiles, and answers his question just before she lets her lips brush his as though coming home at last.

“Yeah.”

#R/J #antivanonmytongue #senshi/shitennou #sailor moon #fanfiction #fanfic #The RaeRae Project

16 notes · View notes

xwubzxbubzx · 7 years ago

Text

Summer of Stancest - Mindscape

Well this thing got away from me. Warning for memory manipulation, dark Ford, unreliable narrator and blood magic. (approx 3k and sfw-ish)

Structural Integrity

i. Cangiante

The Renaissance art style Cangiante is characterized by the painter's changing to a different, lighter, hue when the original hue cannot be made light enough or, on the converse, changing to a darker hue when the original hue cannot be made dark enough.

The fall is endless. The swooping sensation of a hypnic jerk stretched out into eternity. He lands gracelessly, knees shaking as he falls forward with a soft splash. His arms are stretched out before him, fingers digging into the soft sand; water slithers over the back of his hands. His eyes are clenched shut. He heaves: once, twice. Nausea pulses in his skull and sinuses before he takes a deep breath and reorients himself. He feels loose and untethered; a floating phantasm. The water is a boon, salty and cool, dribbling off his clothes and palms leaving him completely dry as he pushes himself up gingerly.

Stan's mindscape is slowly healing devastation — the remnants of a seaside town after a hurricane. A ghost grey ocean laps at his boots, tugging him forward into its depths. Even the salt in the air is heavy with something he cannot identify, thick and cloying like hopelessness. It reminds him of Glass Shard Beach.

He shouldn’t be here. This is an invasion of the most intimate and primal form. But Ford has always been a little selfish, he’s self-aware enough to admit that, and this — this is for both of them really, this is for the best. He's wanted Stan to himself since he was young, has wanted him helplessly devoted to him alone.

Joy bubbles in his chest, making him feel lighter. Finally after all these years—

He's had this spell in the corner of his mind for a very long time, it's a refinement of the possession curse he'd documented so long ago, when he wandered the forests of Gravity with naive temerity, when he was still a wet behind the ears boy purporting himself as a scientist. He's rather proud of what he's created, it is an elegant marriage of sorcery and science — and is it bad that he's proud? He had to worked for hours, amalgamating neuroscience with the occult until he'd finally found a way to alter a mindscape permanently. He feels almost like Bill, but no, that is not a line of thinking he wishes to follow and even so, Bill couldn't change you from the inside, couldn't reform you into the image he wanted. What Bill Cipher did Stanford Pines did better.

And it is different. He loves Stan, he always has and he has dreamed of this for decades. He's entitled to this. Surely after 30 years of suffering on the other side of the portal he deserves this? It shouldn’t even be a question. It was Stan, after all, who had pushed him into a literal hellscape and Ford has forgiven him. He truly has, but only an idiot would ignore the pattern of behaviour Stan was exhibiting. His brother was always so stubborn and bullheaded, so destructive. He has always needed a guiding hand. He has always needed Ford.

The others wouldn't understand, they hadn't seen what Ford had. They hadn't lived the way Ford had. And though he loves the twins, they are burdened with a very planetary mindset. They fail to see the bigger picture, which is unfortunate; yet he cannot find it within himself begrudge them their youthful innocence. No matter, they would never know anyway.

He can see the vague shape of the Mystery Shack, twisted and broken. He walks to it, wet sand crunching underneath him, it shimmers slightly, a mirage that solidifies and gains detail as he moves towards it. There are gaping caverns in its side as though it was the gouged out corpse of some broken creature, corridors lead off into the dark abyss of the sea — nothingness, the roof and walls bend and sag under an unknown yet ever present weight.

What is more corporeal is the boat he can see off into the distance behind the shack. Shrouded in fog as it may be, the dimensions of the Stan-o-War are perfect. Their relationship made physical in the gnarls of old wood and red paint. Even the fluttering sail is patched up in the same exact places he remembers from his youth. This pleases Ford on a fundamental level, he enjoys being the singular point of his brother's existence, his true and unwavering north. The only thing worth remembering.

He thinks for a moment that perhaps the relative tangibility of the Stan-o-War may be due to their constant contact and interaction before dismissing the idea. It is more romantic this way.

Ford had considered using some bastardized form of the memory gun. The technology is all there, merely requiring fine tuning and tweaking, but he can't; he can still feel his fingers shaking as he presses the trigger, white light engulfing his kneeling brother's downturned head, the picture of a man facing a firing squad. He can't do that to Stan again and isn't that such a testament to his love?

And if he is grateful to the machine, it is only because amnesia makes his brother the perfect canvas. He could not do this when Stan's memories were firm and worn smooth and hard, but now they are malleable little things that mold beneath the pressure of his hands. Besides, technology was so clinical, so cold. Magic had a certain charm to it — an attitude, an aftertaste. It would allow him to embed his signature into the very depths of Stan's psyche, carve his name into the building blocks of his brother. He cares so deeply for Stan, and he's only ensuring the right kind of reciprocity.

He goes inside the Shack first. The door swings open with a pained creak and just like in a dream, its external construction play no role in its inner dimensions. The inside is not as dilapidated as he'd imagined. Dark and dusty perhaps, mired in years of futility and anger but there is a certain lustre in the wood, a gleam in the burnished metal of the door handles, the faint scent of tenacity and success and hope. His brother is such a resilient man.

He knows where he must go, down the corridor into a room that is littered with glass, broken snow globes everywhere — the gift shop. He bends and picks up a glass shard, placing it in his pocket. The shelves have all tilted to the side, angry slashes on the wall; the souvenirs form an indiscernible heap on the floor. Crossed out words, question marks are strewn across the room, remnants of 30 years of half-remembered oddities and curios. The vending machine is silent and empty, looming up in front of him. It is impossibly large, and reaching it takes an unimaginably long time as though each of his strides are an inch long.

He taps out the code, muscle memory causing his fingers to dart across the pad, and it slowly shifts to the side, a jarring screech echoing across the room as it moves. The stairs are old and rickety, but they have always been so. It is the elevator that different, it is smaller than he remembers but he does not care. The ride down fills him with an unfathomable excitement; he begins making his final preparations — he is so close.

When the door opens again, it is 1982 and Stan and Ford are fighting, his brother is gripping the burnt skin of his shoulder. He watches, just for a moment, and admires the smoothness of Stan’s skin under the sickly glow of the portal, the heart rending desperation of his sobs after he pushes Ford into oblivion.

Stanford presses his palms against the border of the memory, sigils carved and bleeding on his hand, and everything rewinds, changing ever so slightly as the original memory is rewritten and remade. Ford’s demand for Stan to sail away is more poignant — a rejection of the highest form. The way they grapple is now mired in a sultry, erotic tension; each move a subtle caress lost in anger. Even his fall through the portal is different, their eyes meet and what passes between them is a lover’s farewell. He does not need to alter the desolation Stan feels when he realises he is alone, that is deep enough.

A small rivulet of blood traces its way down his finger, collecting at the tip before wobbling faintly and dropping to the floor. His job here is done.

The next place he visits is Stan’s safe. The iron monstrosity trembles as the light from the hall way is cast on it. It is barely tangible, shivering and unlocking as he touches it, falling open in rapturous recognition. He does not expect to see the deed with his name lying inside, the ink in his name still fresh and spreading. He tries to move it to the side but his hand falls through. The bottom of the safe has disappeared and he has an eagle’s eye view of his return home.

Stan looks so hopeful, his arms spread out to welcome him. He wants to step inside and gather him in against his chest, hold him close but he can’t. His past self walks through and their meeting is as painful as he remembers.

This time as the drop of blood falls, the world below him reforms into something softer. When he holds Stan’s hands behind his back, the tremble Stan had repressed now shudders through him, electric with something that was not there before. His lips graze Stan's ears longer than they should, whispering I was scared for you. And when Stan falls forward, Ford’s knee heavy on his back, his brother doesn’t struggle against him but melts, putty in his hands. His eyelashes fan against his cheeks as he revels in the sensation of Ford against him in the space between heartbeats.

Ford feels like a voyeur, just watching this, but this was the reunion they both deserved. He closes the safe again, the numbers etched into the dial glow a livid scarlet before darkening back to black.

His hands in his pockets he turns his back to the Shack and leaves without a second thought, the Stan-o-War awaits.

The walk is colder than he imagined it would be, the wind is sharp and unyielding. His trench coats whips behind him. The Stan-o-War is large and it looks almost faded from up close, as though the sun and sea air have bleached it. He traces the wood with his fingertips, searching for an opening, leaving strokes of red in his wake.

He’s adding a special touch to all of Stan’s childhood memories by doing this and in some ways he thinks this is fitting; Stan was him for so long that perhaps it was time for Stan to truly be something in his image. It’s only a faint trace of a charm, a spice in the air; the kind that would have one close their eyes, just to focus on the aroma, to try and grasp the delicate strings of a long forgotten but exquisite memory. He breathes out, magic permeates the air in front of him before disappearing, absorbing into the ship. The wood is darker now, richer and toned with burgundy, his brother is redesigned before his eyes.

As he moves to the other side of the boat, he sees it. A small rocky outcropping. He scrabbles up it, careful to keep his bloody hand inside in his coat, close to his beating heart. From there it is child’s play to reach the deck.

He observes his surrounding quietly, nostalgia curling a loose grip around his heart. The sail catches a gust of wind and flutters, there is no darkness in its shadow: it is him and Stanley, shimmering like they are in a painting, unbearably young. He presses the fabric into his palm and the summer days he’s observing from 40 years in the future are hotter. Sweat drips down Ford’s back and Stan is watching him, his face unreadable but hunger in his eyes.

It is easy too, Stan was always the tactile one, who sought physical comfort as a refuge from his fears. There are hundreds of moments that he can recall, Stan’s warm body pressed close to his. His larger frame trembling like a leaf as he cried about their father or, if he remembers correctly, when they were very young and still foolish enough to fear nature more than man, thunder. The memories are sweeter this way, syrupy with the heat between them.

He’s wanted Stan for so long it feels like he was born like this, that his desire was written into his DNA, into his genes. It stands to reason, then, as identical twins, Stan should feel this way too.

In each plank of wood, there is a story but he focuses on only the most important ones. The ones where he barely has to change a thing, so that the light falling on Ford is just this shade of warm and romantic, so that their hands brush against each other for a shade longer than brothers do, so that blushes bloom across Stan’s skin as often as bruises. So that the ache in Stan’s chest is not just overwhelming fondness and protectiveness but unrequited love. He edits a thousand days like this, dribbling blood all over them. He edits a thousand nights too, making them laden with fear, hope and bone-deep yearning.

Even though it does not seem like any time has passed, there is a rising expectation in the air; the sky is still covered by dark, brooding clouds but they look closer, burdened down by something. It will rain soon.

He is tired but he is almost done. There is only one more place he must visit — the swing set. He has only the barest inkling of where it could be, but Ford trusts himself, trusts in the knowledge he has of his brother.

He walks far into the land, until he can no longer see the crest of the sea against the horizon. Until the Mystery Shack is a dark smudge against the grey scale. But he knows where he must go.

When he finally sees the metal outline of the swing set glinting in the half-light, he runs. It is broken and rusted but that means nothing. His hand has stained the inner lining of his coat, the blood is thick and congealing. His fingers are stained red.

A drop falls. It is not red.

It has begun to rain. Ford knows he must hurry.

He places his bloodied hand on the metal, relishing its coolness. Each bump drags against the barely formed scabs on his palm, drawing fresh blood in its wake. In between the chains that hold the seat up Ford can see Stan sitting, his head bowed. He is translucent, water falling through him onto the seat, or perhaps those are tears.

It is the day Stan was kicked out, Ford is sure of it. He looks pitifully small, curled up in the swing like that, shoulders racked with heaving sobs as he cries. His arms can barely support his weight and he is slumped against the chains, needing them to stay upright. He is borne down by the events that have transpired. Ford moves closer, seeking to comfort him, and places his hand on Stan’s shoulder; the boy looks up at him, face swollen with unshed tears. Reflected in his eyes are a kaleidoscope of emotions: the panic Stan must have felt when he realised Ford's project was broken, the plea for Ford to forgive him, the betrayal as Ford turned away from him and closed the curtains.

The blood seeps into his clothes, it mixes with rainwater and clings to his skin; it is now so much worse. The self-hatred that Stan has always felt is rawer, a barely healed wound. Stan believes he has been cast out by the only person he could ever love fully. And Ford feels guilt, a hollowness in his chest; it hurts to put Stan through this, but he feels relief as well, as though he can finally breathe after 60 long years. Stan has now suffered with him, the same way he has since they were children.

He is done here, done with mess of Stan’s mindscape. His brother is made anew.

He’s never thought to imagine that perhaps Stan has loved him all along, and while not exactly in the way that Ford wants; Stan would try for him, he would follow him to the end of the earths if he was asked. That he was broken enough to accept whatever Ford requires and enjoy giving it to him — for any scrap of affection — because he has been tearing apart at the seams without his brother and he needs Ford too much. Far more than Ford needs him.

Ford comes back to himself with a choked gasp. He is dizzy and his heartbeat hammers in his ears, hummingbird fast; his body protests upon his return, preferring the lax comfort of being soul-void. He feels heavy and wooden, his head is slumped back and his neck aches. He is damp. He clenches his fingers and they twinge painfully before he pushes himself to sit upright, his coat shifting around him.

There was Stan, just as he’d left him; lying soft and supine in the darkness, safely nestled under the thick duvet. His face is slack and his brow is unlined. Little huffing breaths escape from his mouth, condensing in the cold winter air.

Ford shifts, a draught passes through the house, ruffling Stan’s grey hair, which is spun silver in the winter moonlight. A shiver of anticipation sparks through him, but he quells himself. He must be patient. He rises from the couch next to his brother’s bed with some effort, the chill leeches the elasticity from his tendons. An audible crack rings through the air as his knees straighten. Stan stirs slightly.

Ford watches him, breath caught in his throat.

Stan opens his eyes. “Sixer?” His voice is heavy with confusion and sleep and something deeper.

A pale shaft of moonlight trickles across his face, highlighting his features in haut-relief; he seems dreamy and warm, a light blush staining his cheeks. He turns to looks at Ford, his pupils dilating, ink spreading in water.

Ford smiles.

it’s also on my ao3 here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11618865/chapters/26123268

part 2

#summer of stancest #summerofstancest #stancest #3 #4 #5 #tw:memory manpiulation #tw:incest #dark!ford #stanford pines #stanley pines #my fic #gr/av/ity f//alls wb

26 notes · View notes

endrynthedruid-blog · 8 years ago

Text

.:When It All Goes Down:.

I keep trying to understand why my mother had her secrets and why she did what she did. I try to put myself in her place but the situation never ceases to appall me. Her and my extended family were all I had growing up. I know it sounds greedy, but I wish more than anything that I had the chance to know my father more. I didn’t even know he was my father until my mother’s last conversation before her passing. Let me explain further so that if by chance anyone finds this...you can try to return it to me by using one or both of my family names.

My Mother, Xylia was an independent and stubborn woman but underneath all that she was kind, loving, and smart. She taught me to be similar to her, though I feel I’ll never live up to her. She was the best mom one could ever want or need. She was born into a wealthy and quite large family (four older brothers-two of them were twins); their surname was Kenrick. They were well-known amongst everyone as they were Gilnean nobles. They always insisted that despite the fact they never wanted for nothing....that all of their children, grandchildren and so on get educated and work. Typically, nobles are stuck up and snotty creatures built on foundations of coin, greed, and privilege; not the Kenricks. They gave any chance they got and were better for it. They tried to make the world a better place.

They say that when two people are together their whole lives, that they pass close together when they die. Roughly six months before Gilneas was unleashed from its isolation...pun totally intended there... my grandparents passed away. My Uncles and their wives instantly turned greedy and ended up eating each other alive metaphorically speaking. My mother wanted nothing to do with the bickering. She took was bestowed to her in their deed and kept to herself. She took really good care of me. She was a hard working alchemist and sometimes fell back on nursing. She often collaborated with Dr. Sterling Fitzgerald. I feel like I knew him since I was born because he helped bring me into this world when my mother was in labor. He often came around with gifts and candy and spoiled me. My mom didn’t like it but I always thought fondly of him. The older that I got, he even began to give me advice on my alchemy studies since mother was teaching me.

My life was pretty boring and bland which is something I find pleasant in my “older age”. Perhaps life’s effects on us brings experience and knowledge thus bringing us to the conclusion we are old.

Anyways...

In retrospect, I should have known all along....

He was the father figure I always felt was missing and I couldn’t help but in my heart feel he was always my father. Now, I did not find this out until my mother’s last conversation with me before her passing. The night that the city was in complete mayhem, my mother was gathering as much of our vital necessities that we needed. We did not run out like the others but rather stayed behind as the helpless patients in the hospital would inevitably die. We were all they had and we’d defend them. My mother told me that if things started to go bad, that I was to run. Run? She wasn’t running with me, so why should I? I was a stubborn pre-teen; eleven to be exact.

One of her patients was my best friend, Declan. He was a sickly boy and she often aided him. What he had was incurable and the time she invested into his care...well...to put it in the best way I could...he was the son she never had. He was a couple years older than I but I remember playing ball and other games with him as I grew up. He wasn’t on his death bed, but he was weak this time around in the hospital. My mother rushed to him. She began building blockades with beds, tables, chairs, anything she could to seal the doors and protect the ten to fifteen patients that were in...including Declan.

The forsaken were relentless but it wasn’t just the forsaken. The banging on the doors, shattering of the glass windows, the splinters of broken wood flying through the air...I remember it all as if I were there once again except in a slow motion only to be understood by those with a post traumatic issues. Large furry beasts that resembled wolves rushed in. They took off with some of the patients and mutilated and killed others. My mother tried her best to fight them off but it wasn’t enough; they reached Declan and bit him! One of the beasts caught me by my left arm, but my mother managed to stab him with a syringe in the struggle. Whatever it was killed him. My mother opened her long black trench coat to reveal what looked like two small guns that had a syringes in them. Every time she shot one, she had to reload the “guns” with another syringe so it was a slow reload time. Some of the beasts ran off but one....one was persistent. The fight was brutal. It looked good for her for awhile. In retrospect, I feel awful for not defending her enough. I was trying to calm Declan...it’s what she told me to do. I could see it wasn’t going well for her as the turn of events quickly took on a dire need for me to intervene. So I did. She was sliding across the floor, her blood streaking across the wooden planks. She had the oversized alpha’s attention, so I got him from behind with two of her syringes. I never pushed on a syringe so hard in my life! The contents drained into the body of what inevitably killed my mother. I rushed to her side. She was bleeding too badly for me to do anything at that point. Had she lived...she would’ve been like me. She told me about my father, who he was, the affair, and of my half-siblings, Jasper and Mallivia. I was a child of an an affair. She explained that Dr. Sterling and her were in love since they were young but that Dr. Sterling had an arranged marriage and she was a piece of work being a drug addict. I could tell her breaths were getting slower as I held her in my lap. Eventually her eyes glazed over and had no pulse. I couldn’t help but lose my mind as my cries filled the grotesque walls of the now empty hospital. Once I got my composure enough to stand I picked up my mother’s supplies she packed for us and turned to get Declan. My arm was on fire! I looked down to see the mangled limb and decided it was best to tourniquet it. I too was losing blood.

I don’t remember how much time had passed. The day or days were a blur.

When I came to get Declan, his bed was empty. He was nowhere to be found. Suddenly, an elderly man’s voice simply said, “Let us go. There’s no time to dawdle here.” I didn’t see his face just yet or get his name but he sounded similar to my grandfather; raspy and weary. I was picked up and in my tired state I didn’t fight back. Perhaps I could join mother in whatever afterlife that awaited us.

I woke up, I was not exactly feeling myself. Onyx fur with grey accents replaced my medium tan skin. My cyan eyes were now grey. I smelled EVERYTHING. I heard EVERYTHING. My sight was clearer. I had the urge to run. I went to sit up but I couldn’t. I was strapped down to a hospital bed. I went to yell but instead loud whimpers of a dog were emitted from my mouth. A group of Night Elves rushed to my side and were actually happy I was awake. I’d never seen Night Elves, but if I were to be dead...I would have been. They were here to help and I felt that in my heart. Erias Nightheart, the one that carried me off from the hospital, explained to me that he is a healer and the first place that he wanted to check in the city was the hospital. I was fortunate he did. I do want to add that just as I suspected, he was indeed old; and a Druid to be exact. He looked young which threw me off though! Elves live a very very long time. He notified me that Declan did not make it through his transition and was laid to rest. It was just another thing I had to mourn through. And I did.

To make a long story short, Erias took me under his wing. I continue to train under him. I feel I am becoming a well-educated Druid (healing to be exact) and I feel I am doing exactly what my family would be proud of. Most of all, I am doing things that I love to do.

In the end, when it all went down...if it weren’t for my mother’s protection...I would have been dead. I pay my respects to her each day by living my life to the fullest and with a smile and warm heart to go with it all.

Currently, I have gotten into contact with Jasper Fitzgerald...my half-brother. I actually have siblings out there. He was warm and welcoming. He had showed me a letter he wrote to Jasper once that mentioned my mother and I. He knew everything. I have yet to meet my sister. I am nervous by the sounds of it. I can only hope I am excepted in my hopes to build relationships with my remaining family members.

#world of warcraft #wow rp character blogs #wow rp #world of warcraft roleplay #wyrmrest roleplay #wyrmrest rp #wyrmrest accord

0 notes

webcricket · 8 years ago

Text

It’s Only Castles Burning

Pairing: CastielXReader

Word Count: 4745

Summary: Established CastielXReader. Powered up with the souls of purgatory, Castiel forsakes his friends, exacts punishment upon his foes in Heaven, and begins to do God’s work on Earth. Feared by everyone he encounters, he seeks out the only person who ever seemed to truly understand his motives as hitchhiker leviathans progressively overpower his will and corrupt his vessel from within.

A/N: One-shot written for @roxy-davenport / Lexie’s SPN Birthday Challenge with prompt pairing Leviathan!Cas X Fem!Reader (see also Godstiel and Dom!Cas), claiming, biting smut, movie Amityville Horror 2005 (in which Cas’ vessel is the metaphorical evil house), and quote “Get your hands off her!” Written erotica content warning – specifically, oral (male receiving), pinned spooning, and mentions of cowgirl/denied orgasm. Italicized quotes are direct excerpts from SPN episode 7X01 Meet the New Boss and 7X02 Hello, Cruel World and are not mine – fic is set during the time period of these episodes with canonically dark themes and descriptions of physical violence consistent with Cas’ character arc and the leviathans. All things considered, I think I managed to keep it a tiny bit fluffy (you know, considering what happens in 7X02).

Scanning the pallid faces of the Winchesters and Bobby Singer, Castiel perceived only fear. These humans he once called friends did not love him, did not respect him.

“Stop, what’s the point if you don’t mean it. You fear me, not love, not respect, just fear.”

Castiel won – victor in the battle for Heaven and Earth against Raphael. In affront to the misgivings of his so-called friends, he also managed to out-maneuver the King of Hell at his own manipulative game. Castiel deserved this power – this glory, and they had the audacity to deny it to him. The betrayal disappointed him, but the frustration of utter terror radiating from their souls rather than awe of his newfound authority infuriated the seraph turned God. However, Castiel was a just and merciful God, and although disloyalty demands justice, these men were one-time allies - flawed men deserving of mercy.

“Be thankful for my mercy.”

Despite their indiscretions, he spared their lives with a warning he knew they were not likely to heed.

“I hope for your sake this is the last time you see me.”

“Bobby, slow down,” woozy from a precipitous rush of adrenaline, you sat on the edge of the musty motel bed, worn springs creaking in recoil.

“That idjit opened purgatory and drank every last soul. Now he’s juiced up and calling himself the new God,” Bobby’s exasperated voice exclaimed over the tinny speaker of the phone held in your wobbly hands.

You absorbed the news, the beginnings of a relieved grin sprawling across your features. Cas told you of his plan, and you supported him however you could, even splitting alliances with the brothers and the old hunter on account of your romantic involvement with the angel. Sure, you had doubts about him acting behind the backs of Sam and Dean, but this was about the greater good, and the brothers were a stubborn lot - leaving out certain details saved valuable time, and stopping the next apocalypse was infinitely more important than the Winchesters’ hurt feelings. Amorously skewed loyalties aside, Cas presented the best game plan and you backed him.

“You hearing me, girl?” Bobby’s tone rose an octave, snapping your awareness to the present.

“Yeah, got it, new God. What about Raphael?” You queried - after all, eliminating the archangel was the whole point of the crazy endeavor. If he was still out there, inciting the angels to rise against humanity, the danger hadn’t yet passed.

“Bloody writing on the wall,” the old hunter grumbled.

“And Crowley?” You wondered, already gathering Cas must have duped Crowley too. You’d anticipated the scheming king double crossing him, reminding the angel he had a tendency to be too trusting and that the former crossroad’s demon always had a loophole when it came to power grabs.

“In the wind,” Bobby answered.

“Damnit Bobby, he did it! I knew he would!” You didn’t attempt to mask the unleashing of joy - you were proud of your angel. Silence answered your triumphant exclamation and celebratory squeals. Rolling your eyes derisively, you muttered into the phone, “Bobby, look. I know you and those boys don’t agree with the method, but what’s the problem? All’s well that ends-”

“Y/N, he’s got to be stopped. You didn’t see him, it’s not Cas anymore,” Dean’s gruff voice interrupted.

“Dean,” you spoke his name through gritted teeth. “Stopped?” You instantly realized where Dean was going with this - he intended to use you to get to the angel, “So you’re calling me ‘cause you think I’m the chink in his armor, right?”

“I wouldn’t put it like that, but yeah, if the shoe fits,” Dean replied. “He might let his guard down with you, even now. I know how you feel about him Y/N, but-”

“What do you expect me to do Dean, bat my lashes, say come hither, and stab him in the heart with an angel blade?” You spat, vitriolic.

“Sam already tried it. Didn’t work,” Dean stated flatly, without remorse.

Bristling with fury at his nonchalance, you jumped to your feet, stomping across the dank carpet, snarling into the receiver, “You tried to kill him? Castiel? Our Cas? You tried to kill him and now you’re asking for my help to do the same. After everything he’s done for us, for you. It wasn’t enough for you to refuse to support him when he needed you the most, when he begged you for your help, now you want him dead. No Dean, I can’t...I’ll never help you hurt him. I’d sooner die!”

“That may be exactly what happens the next time you see him, sweetheart.”

“He left you alive after you tried to kill him. Makes him a better man than me,” you retorted with a snort. Dean was wrong. Castiel’s heart perpetually dwelt in the right place, why couldn’t Dean understand? You picked absent-mindedly at the peeling wallpaper beside the window, inhaling a quietening breath, intent on winning the hunter over to your opinion, “Come on Dean, it’s Cas. He’d never hurt us.”

“Wouldn’t he? Try telling that to Sam. His mind’s broken,” Dean groused. “You didn’t see him. All that power. Y/N, it changed him.”

“He’d never hurt me,” you murmured, knuckles tensed cold and white around the phone as your hand slumped to your side. You felt sorry for Sam, you sincerely did. But the angel would never harm you, he loved you – he’d told you as much before the eclipse when he tucked you safely away in this warded motel room in case he failed - in case Raphael sought vengeance or Crowley got vindictive. You knew power could change people, but Cas wasn’t people. If he was calling himself God, if he didn’t fix Sam, then he must have a very good reason. Dean was biased, judgement clouded, he would always choose his brother over everything else. Embracing free will, Cas chose you. Exercising free will, you chose Cas. You trusted the angel implicitly, reiterating under your breath, “Never.”

Dean’s defeated warning pierced the quiet, “Yeah, well I guess we’ll see about that. I suggest you lay low, stay off his radar. Find somewhere safe, ward it for all the good it will do. And Y/N, when he shows up, when you finally understand, you know where to find us.”

Lip twitching indignantly, you swiped the screen of the phone, ending the call - as if you would ever hide from the angel to whom you’d given your heart. Gaze rising to the water-stained ceiling, directing your longing heavenward, you prayed, “Castiel?”

The new God first restored order in Heaven. If the demonstration of his righteous leadership and consequences for insubordination required the sacrifice of thousands of disloyal angels, he could only view those brethren as inconsequential collateral damage in the grander scheme.

“Be obedient children.”

With this stern cautioning, Castiel sensed a resounding shudder of angelic trepidation. Here he was, assuming the vacant role of their father, selflessly accepting the responsibility to guide and nurture them, something they’d yearned for – and where love and fidelity should reside, there existed only a thinly veiled terror. It didn’t make sense, his brothers and sisters should be exultant, not ungrateful. Tone tempered, attempting to allay their doubts, he decreed.

“Rejoice.”

Three full days, a tad beyond 72 hours since Bobby’s phone call, a dozen ignored calls from Sam and Dean, and still Castiel failed to answer your litany of prayers. Dithering betwixt fitful slumber and anxious wakefulness, you tossed uncomfortably on the worn mattress, flinging off threadbare sheets, skin sticky and sheened with sweat on account of the air conditioner having broken the night before. The manager offered you a new room, but you refused to leave – this is where Cas left you, and here you would remain.

“Y/N.”

Eyes popping open, legs flailing, you scrambled backward in alarm, shoulder blades knocking on the headboard, which, being screwed into the wall, was the only thing in this Godforsaken roach nest that didn’t creak when you touched it.

Castiel lingered in shadow near the window, passively observing as you blinked the sleep from your eyes.

“Cas? Cas!” Leaping off the bed at the angel, you draped your arms about his immovable frame, peppering his mouth and jaw with relieved kisses. So overcome with elation, you didn’t notice his failure to return your affection, “I was so worried, Dean said-”

Cas’ eyes narrowed at the mention of that name, roughly grabbing you by the upper arms to peel you off his body. He wondered if he had dallied too long in his return, if Dean had already poisoned you against him.

You wriggled in protest at the loss of contact, clutching the lapels of his trench coat, imploring, “Cas, what’s wrong?”

Brow furrowed, he cocked his head almost imperceptibly to the left, austerely regarding you, eyes glinting dangerously red in the harsh light of the neon motel vacancy sign bleeding through the paper thin curtains. “Kneel,” he commanded, the subtle tensing of his stubbled jaw suggesting he expected you to refuse, to disappoint him as all the others had.

Focus locked on his dark gaze, legs weakened by awakening arousal, you did not hesitate to comply, dropping to your knees, suggestively trailing your fingertips down the front of his body as you did so. Staring up in expectant silence, your heart pounded, every beat resounding with adoration and love. Dean was wrong. Cas stood before you, your Cas, peering at you through those same expressive sapphire eyes – not a single facet of color shined upon you with malice. You held no fear in your heart of the angel.

The lines of his face softening incrementally, he reached out. Extending long fingers to brush your cheek - he felt no recoil from his touch, recognized no anxiety in your features, and distinguished only devotion toward him dwelling within your soul. He would never tell you he intentionally avoided you these past few days, unaware himself that he was petrified of your potential reaction, of seeing the same fear he saw in Sam and Dean and Bobby and his own kin mirrored on your face – knowing your rejection would kill the only part of him that mattered, the part capable of love. A pleased smile impressed upon his mouth at your open acceptance of his authority.

“Cas,” shutting your eyes, you exhaled his name, leaning into his caress, “I missed you so much.”

“I know,” he tenderly traced the bowed edges of your lips, “but there was and is much work for me to do.” The calloused pad of his thumb parted your pink lips, “Still, I think you’ve been patient enough, my love.”

Your heart fluttered at the term of endearment, eyes flickering open to search his lust-darkened pupils, a flood of heat gushing in your center at the domineering way he gazed down upon you. You swallowed a whimper, fingers kneading his thickly muscular thighs, “Would you like to know exactly how much I missed you?”

A low growl erupted from his chest as he tangled his fingers in your hair, bending to crush your mouth with a needy kiss – lips rough and insistent, sucking and bruising your own, tongue invading to devour your taste.

Blindly fumbling with his belt buckle, you grazed his already hardening length.

He emancipated your mouth with a groan, tightening his grip on your hair, snaking an arm around your waist to haul you to your feet, teeth ravishing and marking the delicate sweat-salted skin of your collarbone, claiming you as his own.

You stifled a squeal at the pleasurable sting of his bites, palming and squeezing his clothed arousal in retaliation, nipping at his earlobe, whispering, “Castiel, let me worship you.”

He angled away from you, freeing his fingers from your hair, a gratified smile curving the corner of his mouth and conveying approval at your choice of words. Nodding once, he assented to a demonstration of your veneration.

Sauntering around the angel with a simper, you tugged at the collars of his trench coat and suit jacket, stripping him simultaneously of the burdensome garments. Pressing your heated body to his broad back, hands delving beneath his arms to travel the landscape of his chest, you loosened and yanked free his tie, unfastening buttons as your fingers happened upon them in their wanderings, nails raking the exposed planes of flesh.

His muscles went rigid in anticipation beneath your touch.

Yanking off his shirt, laving his shoulders in a meandering line of wet open mouthed kisses, your hands journeyed ever lower – unbuttoning and unzipping his trousers, you slid them and his boxers to his ankles, liberating his straining cock.

He groaned, peering back at you, kicking off his boots and the puddled fabric around his feet, compelling you with hooded eyes to continue.

Grasping the base of his cock, you stepped around the angel, stroking him excruciatingly slow, standing up on tip-toes to nibble the prickly angle of his jaw, biting and drawing his lower lip through your teeth. Twisting your wrist, spurring a swell of knee-wobbling pleasure to course through him, you flaunted a sultry smirk, “Do you have any idea how much I adore this perfect vessel of yours Castiel? This temple?”

“Show me,” he growled, hardening in your grip.

You knelt before him, not needing to be commanded, licking and wetting your lips as you admired his perfect cock. Maintaining eye contact, you dragged your tongue over his slit, spreading the beaded pre-cum around the smooth tip with a widening swirling motion.

Blue eyes snapping forcefully closed, he raggedly panted your name mingled with praising words of Enochian.

Diverting your attention lower, you fondled his balls, massaging with increasing pressure the hypersensitive patch of skin behind them. Steadying his strained lurch forward with a palm flattened to his thigh, you licked a broad glistening stripe up the fleshy ridged underside of his cock, stroking him vigorously with clamped fingers in the wake of your tongue, kissing his purple engorged tip dotingly. Blowing puffs of cooling air teasingly across his saliva coated tip, you glanced up innocently for the pure indulgence of beholding his wanton reaction.

His fingers flew to snarl in your hair, blackened pupils fixed upon you, countenance wrecked, growling through clenched teeth, “Continue.”

You grinned, amused at his persistent illusion of control, content in the knowledge he was all yours in this moment to do with as you pleased. Flicking your tongue across his tip, provoking a series of small needy groans from his throat, you wrapped your lips around him, cheeks hollow and suckling as you sank him further into the inviting warmth and wetness.

He involuntarily bucked deeper into your throat, head dipping back with a rumbling growl, fingers twisting locks of hair as he fought the urge to impatiently pound into your gullet and take what he needed.

Bobbing up and down his cock in a steady rhythm, fingers enclosed around his shaft to stroke what you could not comfortably take into your throat, you alternated the sucking pressure of your lips around his girth and feather-light scrapes of your teeth with the twirling caress of your tongue at his sensitive tip. Feeling his cock swell and jerk against your tongue, you hummed - the vibration overwhelming the angel.

Muscles rippling involuntarily, abdomen tensing concave at the climax of blissful surrender, fingers scrabbling at your scalp, he cried out your name.

Moaning around his cock, you drank the hot spurts of his release. Shaking subsiding, you slid his softening length from your mouth with a sated sigh, clambering up his still unsteady naked frame, you cupped his cheeks and scattered his face with dainty kisses.

Winding his arms about your waist, hugging you closer, accosting your mouth with a passionate kiss, he closed his eyes, groaning at the taste of himself on your tongue, intoxicated by your absolute reverence. Desiring to reward your piety, he banished your clothing with a thought and scooped you into his arms.

Giggling, you bounced when he tossed you on the squeakily protesting mattress. Squirming to the middle of the bed, you skimmed a finger through the drenched folds of your sex, beckoning him closer with the arousal glossed digit, “My God Cas, I’m so wet for you.”

Crawling to hover over you, bending your knees together to the side, cock again rigid and prodding your ass, he growled, “What did you say?”

You smirked knowingly, goading his lust, “My…God.”

Planting an arm firmly behind your uppermost knee and the other at your waist, caging you in, limiting the potential for your movement, he nudged his cock at your sodden entrance, breath hotly ghosting over your neck, “Say it again.”

“M-my,” you moaned as sank into you with a single powerful thrust, “God!”

He bit his teeth into your shoulder, nearly hard enough to draw blood, the contrasting tingle of pain serving only to heighten your pleasure. Withdrawing completely and plunging deeper than before, stretching you with a singe of white hot ecstasy, he growled, “Again.”

“Oh God,” you keened, fingers digging into his biceps, desperate for purchase as he relentlessly drove into you, “Cas-Castiel!” Whimpering, unable to move within the secure restraint of his arms, you arched your back as sparks of pleasure ignited in your core under the merciless thrust of his hips setting your whole body aquiver. Salacious moans, fervent grunts, the weary creak of the old bed, and the sinfully lewd sound of skin slapping skin intensified the steamy atmosphere of the room.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered, breaking breathlessly from your lips to lavish your breast with his tongue.

Every nerve ending aflame, you obeyed, slipping quivering fingers between slickened thighs to rub circles over your engorged clit, gasping, “Cas, I’m so close.”

“Then come for me Y/N,” he snarled in your ear, altering the angle of his hips to directly strike your sweet spot.

“Oh, God!” You screamed, body engulfed in a blazing release of bliss, nails clawing into the muscles of his arms, pussy convulsing around his thick cock.

Hips faltering, he tensed and juddered, head burrowing into your neck with a groan, cock twitching to fill you with warmth. Collapsing on you, your bodies shook together for some time with small aftershocks of pleasure as he tenderly kissed your swollen lips. Rolling to cuddle you from behind, cock slipping from your center, combined releases leaking hotly down your thigh, he anchored your spent figure snug to his heaving chest. Affectionately nuzzling your sweat soaked hair, he realized he had been wrong to ever doubt your love for the simple fact you were the one human in all of creation who never doubted him.

Hypocrites, bigots, motivational speakers – no one was immune to cleansing under the reign of Castiel. Mitigated by your love, he worked in equal shares of miracles too - healing the infirmed and afflicted, restoring sight to the blind, feeding the famished. As he exercised his seemingly boundless power, something wicked began to stir in the darkest recesses of his vessel, attracted instinctively to surface by the scent of fear which seemed to surround the angel wherever he journeyed. Castiel first heard their voices and felt their dreadful burden in a church after smiting an irreverent reverend.

“Castiel? Cas.”

Castiel paid no more head to their cries than he would the buzz of a fly - yet some part of him acknowledged the very same fly as a harbinger of ill. That evening, when he returned to share your bed and indulge in the carnal pleasures of your company as he had done every night since your demonstration of faith, he seemed different – distant, hesitating to meet your questioning eyes, unwilling to boast about the day’s accomplishments, flinching under your loving touch. Bodies tangled together in the dark, mind spiraling from the sensory overload of intense orgasm, serenely combing your fingers through his soft dark curls, you had no way to know it was the beginning of the end.

The rebelling darkness Castiel harbored nourished and strengthened itself on the unacknowledged fear within himself triggered by fracturing control, finally cracking the surface of his vessel after a confrontation with Crowley wherein he dictated in no uncertain terms the demon’s newly perfunctory role in Hell as a figurehead king answering to God. Disconcerted by the minor outward lesion on his vessel, but nonetheless emboldened with power, Castiel discounted their scraping merely as a passing itch – there would be time to deal with them later, when the work was done. That night, deeply undulating your hips against the angel as you rode his cock, mewling, pussy throbbing and close to orgasm, his fingers dug into your ass, abruptly shoving you from his body. He rolled from the bed, staggering into the bathroom.

“Fraud. Charlatan!” The voices screamed ominously inside him, “Too weak. Mistake. Let us out.”

Cas buckled over the counter with a pained groan, blinking into the hazy mirror, running cool water to splash his perspiration beaded skin.

Dazed at the precipice of release, you crept to the edge of the mattress, calling out shakily after him, “Cas, what’s wrong?”

Scrutinizing the newly deteriorating flesh of his vessel’s cheeks in the mirror, he lied, “Nothing. Just-just stay in bed. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Let us out!” The voices insisted, stretching and clawing out from his abdomen.

“No.” Cas growled under his breath.

Easing out of bed, unconvinced and alarmed by his strange affect, you padded softly barefoot toward the open bathroom door. Crossing the threshold, you found the room empty, clear cold water overflowing the sink to splash the tiled floor, “Cas?!”

The meddling Winchesters, as expected, were unable to leave well enough alone – unwilling to acquiesce to a simple request in exchange for their mercifully permitted existence, ever ready to forfeit their lives to save the world from what was it this time - order? Peace? God’s love? Stupid little ants, Cas sneered even as his vessel decayed before them, as control slipped from his tenuous grasp. Why couldn’t they be more like you? Love him? Or at the very least, trust him?

“You look awfully like a mutated angel to me. Your vessel’s melting. You’re going to explode. You think you’re simply under the weight of all those souls, yes? But that’s not the worst problem. There are things much older than souls in purgatory, and you gulped those in too.”

Death, summoned by the hunters to kill Castiel, named the ancient evil corrupting his vessel – leviathans.

“Irrelevant. I control them.”

Fists clenched, muscles straining with exertion, Cas did not fear Death. Death was ancient as his father, present at the dawn of creation, and if he could control Death himself, why should he fear leviathans? No matter. The Winchesters weren’t a threat. They failed, and he had work to attend to in the form of a corrupt politician spreading lies in his good name.

“Cas!” Just as unexpectedly as he vanished days ago, the angel appeared before you now, battered, bruised, and bloody.

“Help me,” he stumbled weakly to one knee, panicked blue eyes pleading.

Tucking his arm over your shoulder, you helped him to stand, guiding him to the bathroom, leaning him against the edge of the counter. Hands trembling, you wrung a wet washcloth over the sink, wiping carefully at his face and neck and hands, towel rapidly staining crimson, droplets of red speckling the white porcelain of the basin. Rinsing the washcloth again, you swiped the blood-matted hair from his forehead, “Cas, there’s so much blood, where are you hurt?”

Pivoting, he gripped the edges of the counter, pitching forward with effort, the volume of the laughter inside of his vessel’s skull overpowering your voice.

“Cas, whose blood is this?” You stared at his haggard face in the reflection of the mirror, realizing none of his wounds could produce this much blood. Something churning maliciously behind his wearied eyes caused you to shrink away, forgotten washcloth splattering to the floor, heart seizing with fear, “Cas, please, say something. You’re frightening me.”

“I-I blacked out. I don’t know what happened,” he sobbed, vessel shaking. Collapsing into folded arms, he hid his face, unable to bear the fearful gleam in your eyes.

You stepped closer to rub his back, to comfort him, to assuage the disquiet feeling surging within yourself, “Okay, it’s okay, we’ll figure it out. Just-just tell me the last thing you remember.”

“I, they’re all dead. Innocents. Slaughtered,” he mumbled, “I only went to talk. I-” His body convulsed and went silent.

“Cas?” You squeezed his shoulder.

“Try again,” the creature that leered up at you wasn’t Castiel. The fingers that snatched at and compressed your neck, cutting off the air to your lungs, dangling your kicking feet uselessly off the ground weren’t Castiel’s. And the laughter springing from its throat as it garnered enjoyment choking the life out of you resonated of pure evil, “Or, you know, don’t.”

“Get your hands off her!” The fingers at your throat slackened.

You crumpled into a gasping heap on the cold tile floor. The last thing to register before you blacked out were the horror stricken blue eyes of your angel brimming freely with tears.

“I’m sorry Y/N. I’ve made a horrible mistake. I can’t control them. Forgive me. Please, forgive me. I-I love you…”

It was your love shrouded in fear that turned the tide for Castiel and made clear the errors in his judgement. He had determined to return the souls to purgatory the moment he saw the fear reflected in your eyes. Being alone, losing your love, it terrified him. It was in that instant of weakened resolve that the leviathans gained the upper hand. Helplessly witnessing the life ebb from your body, he wrenched control back from the ancient beasts by harnessing the raw power of his love for you to stun them into submission - a thing so purely evil is incapable of breaching such devotion. Now, clutching your unconscious body to his chest, listening to your wheezing struggle to hold onto life, he understood the profound danger. Gently laying you on your back, he rolled a towel beneath your neck. Pressing blood-stained fingers to your temple, he healed you, not with the ungodly power coursing poisonously through his vessel, but with angelic grace. Heartened by your strengthening respiration and the pink flush returning to your pale cheeks, shaky fingers brushed the shock damp hair from your brow and he placed a tender lingering kiss on your forehead.

You roused many hours later when a beam of sunlight stretched from the window to tickle your closed eyes, the familiar gravel of Cas’ voice murmuring a morning greeting in your ear. Moaning softly, you reached to the opposite side of the bed, your fingers grasping at the empty space, finding only rough sheets where the angel should be. Bolting upright, everything came flooding back. Grabbing your phone, you paced the room as it rang, “Damnit, Dean! Answer!” It went to voicemail. You tried again.

He picked up on the first ring this time, “Y/N?”

“Dean! It’s Cas, he’s in danger,” your words frantically slurred, “I don’t mean the God thing, he’s possessed or something. Whatever it is tried to kill me, but Cas stopped it. He-”

“He’s gone, Y/N. Cas is gone.”

Your stomach flipped at Dean’s words, stunned to silence as you rode a wave of nausea.

“You okay?”

“G-gone?” You didn’t understand - you heard the angel’s voice, felt his presence only moments ago.

“Last night, he showed up just in time to send those souls back to purgatory. The thing that tried to kill you - leviathans, they managed to hang on. And Cas, he couldn’t hold them back without all that extra purgatory power. They marched his vessel into a municipal water reservoir and scattered.”

“I need to see him,” you refused to believe Dean, needing to see the angel’s lifeless vessel with your own eyes as proof. It didn’t feel like Cas was gone, there was no pervading sense of emptiness in the corners of your soul where his love resided.

“There’s nothing to see Y/N, all that’s left is that stupid trench coat of his.”

Your heart soared with hope, knowing without a shadow of doubt that your angel was out there somewhere. Not gone – lost. Lost and alive. And for as long as your heart continued to beat, no one would convince you otherwise.

#Lexie's SPN Birthday Challenge #castiel x reader #castiel x you #castielxreader #castiel reader insert #cas x reader #cas x you #castiel oneshot #castiel fanfic #castiel x y/n #godstiel #my edit #cricket writes cas #flagged

215 notes · View notes