#otp: i'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition

[pzychojinx]

[sarahlizziewrites]

Wanted to find out what Tumblr thinks are the most important ingredients for a satisfying fictional relationship. Think about your favourite ship, your own OCs, books or movies you've experienced lately. What drives you crazy about them?

P.s. I'm well aware that most fictional relationships have multiple or all of these, but you have to pick the most important one mwahahahah

If you think I've missed something put it in the tags, but first check what I mean by each of the terms below.

Spread it far and wide for sample size!

Definitions/interpretations below cut:

Chemistry: These people get on so well it'd be a crime if they didn't hook up. They are basically already fucking with their words. Think Mulder/Scully

Attraction: these characters are unreasonably hot for each other, to the point where they ignore all sense

Narrative symmetry: covers everything from being narrative foils, contrasting archetypes (e.g. grumpy/sunshine) - think Ineffable Husbands (deep down spark of goodness/"just enough of a bastard to be worth liking") (ps yes this one is Mulder/Scully too)

Obsession/devotion: enemies-to-lovers, friends-to-lovers, I'd-go-the-ends-of-the-earth-for-you, I'd-die-for-you. Think Orpheus/Eurydice from Greek myth, or Wuthering Heights

Tragedy: the love story is beautiful because you know it has to end. The world will be cruel to you but you fell in love anyway. This one is Orpheus/Eurydice in Hadestown. (Also, the potential for this kind of tragedy - the threat of a happy ending ripped away)

Something forbidden: we're not allowed to be together/we have to be together despite the odds/our families would never approve - e.g. First Prince

Fate: star-crossed lovers, soulmates, destined to be together, exes who find they need each other. "I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition"

[4x02kitchenscene]

Impromptu fake dating au? They're each out running errands/at an event, slowly both pick up that everyone thinks they're together and they gotta roll with it bc it's Important™ and they don't wanna be rude or anything. Op you get so many bonus points if they kiss /at all/.

Okay I think I’m finally gonna come back to writing. So anyone have an fic requests??

[fangirlonamission]

To the Last Freckle

The first thing Castiel notices upon entrance to hell is the lack of sound. It’s much like a vacuum yet the silence seems to ricochet off the curved expanse of his armour, hitting the walls of the cavern and ringing in his body.

The second is the lack of color. As a fledgling, he had once stumbled upon the house of a graying man. He watched him in his last moments as the man fell asleep in front of his television, closing his eyes against the figures on the screen that danced and twisted in only black and white, bursting in shades of gray. 

—-

He had expected flames, shouts and pleads of salvation, but instead he is greeted with an uneasy quiet as he stands in the Great Hall, surrounded by walls of black, streaked with lighter gray. He is not lost; in his rib cage there is a tug he knows will lead him to where he needs to go. It is a new feeling, perhaps planted there by God himself, a medal bestowed by his father to aid him in his journey.

He is to rescue the Righteous man. He remembers how his lips curled around the “e” in the elder Winchester’s name the first time he had pronounced it. In truth, he does not need the man’s name, or the man’s image engraved beneath his eyelids. He feels his soul shine through layers of hell, brighter than anything Castiel had ever experienced before. The tug in his ribs seems to be attracted to the man’s brilliant light.

—-

He travels closer to the core of hell, wavelength just obeying the speed of light. The light of his grace leaves bright streaks across the walls surrounding him but his usual blue glow is gone, replaced by a dull white. 

As he gets closer, the streaks of grace are joined by shadows. Dark, looming; shadows of demons, their mouths open in one endless, soundless scream. He bundles himself in the warmth of his grace and sends out a shock, smiting any demon in his proximity. The glow is blinding and the shadows sink back into the walls.

He learns this is just a taste. He bursts out of the tunnel in a spark of light and assembles to his corporeal form in front of a pair of gates, his body shimmering against the dull glow of the smoky bars. Behind them is a mess of bodies, demonic and twisted in form. Castiel wonders if that’s what the man will look like when he finds him. He wonders if the Righteous man has yet been molded by his years in hell. 

He stretches out his hand and the gates explode before him. He is shielded from the blast yet he feels its warmth; the demons on the other side are not so lucky. They’re blown to smoke, evaporating into the air with piercing accuracy. Beyond the gate there are more, stronger and infinitely more devious, clawing at Castiel’s ornate breast plate. He draws his blade and they fall to chaos: snapping, hitting, and throwing themselves at his body in an attempt to make a dent.

He fights with a gentle smile on his face, arrogance marking his young, handsome features. He picks up a rhythm though his movements always differ, fighting style alters in accordance to the demon he is fighting. Dark smears stain his chain mail, remnants of old enemies who lay among his feet. His smirk does not falter yet he tires, grace draining and the blade in his hand finding its mark with less precision. 

The waves of demons seem to be endless, breaking against his body with silent howls. Castiel plows forward, his blade a scythe and his hands touches of poison. He is fatal and beautiful and an angel in the midst of demons; striking down those who stand in his way.

He feels something short of relief when the waves of twisted souls cease to strike upon him.

—-

Before his glowing body stands a single door, unsupported by walls or chains yet he senses that he cannot move around it; he must walk through it if he seeks his prize. The door sizzles at his touch and he pulls away, lets his grace reset his hand as he ponders. 

Entrance to the pit of hell must require payment, he thinks.

He holds his blade to his hand and in a flash of grey, his blood rises to the surface. He touches his palm to the door and feels the door siphon his hand clean and then open beneath his touch. He takes one step through it and he is falling.

—-

He spreads his wings in a graceful arc, catching himself in the dull air. He swoops down into the pit in a controlled drop and traverses the downward tunnel with ease. Soon he must pull himself upright and settle on the ground softly, wings sheathed behind him and arms thrust out at his sides. 

The tug at his ribs is almost irrepressible now; his awareness of his proximity to the soul is overwhelming, as though the entirety of his grace is rattling inside his tangible form.

—-

He does not need to walk long to find the man he seeks. He is easily spotted inside the chamber he occupies though he tries so hard to make himself small. His bright force is visible even through the putrid, foggy air of hell yet when Castiel approaches him, he lifts his head and snarls.

Castiel is taken aback for a moment, tempted to take a step away from the creature. He gives it a short second of thought and comes across the fact that the man suffered here in hell for 40 years. No touch was kind and no word was short of harsh; it is no wonder he is wary, Castiel decides. 

But he is beautiful. He sits in the corner of the room, yet Castiel can see smears of what must be blood play out across his naked, trembling frame. His arms are wrapped around his knees which are pulled tight to his chest and his shoulders are slumped but something inside of him still radiates softness and pride. Hell has not broken him the way it has done so many. Castiel can finally understand why this man of all others was chosen as the Righteous man. The thought of saving him from his torture makes Castiel’s chest swell with pride.

He kneels before him and stretches out a gentle hand. He can’t recognize himself; never before has he knelt in front of human nor angel, never before has his voice rang in such softness as when he speaks the man’s name.

“Dean?” his voice shakes slightly as Dean looks up at him, his bloodshot eyes meeting Castiel’s own.

“Got another couple poor bastards for me?” he growls, shifting away from Castiel. His eyes dart from Castiel to the door of his cell as if he’s planning an escape route he’ll never reach.

“No,” Castiel voices. He’s not quite sure what Dean means but he thinks this is not the best time to ask. “I’m here to help you. You are safe,” he intones firmly. Dean chuckles darkly, his laugh completely void of humour.

“Like hell I am,” he mutters and thrusts his hand towards Castiel’s. It’s not a cry for help, it’s the action of a man who has nothing to lose and no hope of rescue left. Castiel almost pities him.

Yet his senses are drained in different emotion. Dean’s hand touches his the same moment their eyes meet, and Castiel is thrust into a world of color and sound. There’s no doubt that Dean caused this reaction; it’s curious how the world lights up around Castiel when he touches Dean’s hand. For the first time since his entrance in hell, Castiel can see the red on the walls around him; he can hear the continuous roar of souls outside of Dean’s cell, screaming for salvation.

He’s surprised to find his focus elsewhere. He searches Dean’s eyes, cataloguing the mistrust and brightness in the green, red-rimmed orbs. They shimmer, even in the dark light of hell, just like everything else about Dean. He shudders and pulls Dean to a standing position, wrapping his wings around him on instinct when the man begins to fall from his arms.

He refuses to unfold his wings until he needs them to rise from the pit. He unfurls him gently, careful not to disturb Dean, and lets them flare out on both sides, pulling him and his charge into the heavy air. Castiel holds to Dean tightly, his hand around Dean’s shoulder, his body enfolding Dean’s in an attempt to keep him from harm. Dean seems to be falling apart, tearing at the seams and Castiel faces the possibility of having to put the man’s body together again as he reaches the surface. He wonders if he can ever recreate the phenomenon he holds in his arms, an exact copy to the last birthmark.

---

He settles Dean on the grass of an empty meadow in the starry moonlight. The man takes shallow breaths; whether he is trying to calm himself down or trying to ease himself into death, Castiel does not know. Dean clutches on to Castiel’s hand and coughs until his lungs seem to give out. He opens his sore mouth and squints in the darkness, trying to catch a glimpse of Castiel. Castiel dims the light of his grace, for if Dean was to see his true form, Castiel is not sure he’d survive.

“Thank you,” Dean manages to get out, before his tired eyes drift shut, closing Castiel out of the beam of their light.

---

Castiel set to work, his grace replenished and his fingers alight. He restores Dean’s lungs and sets his arteries and canals in place, tracing them like a maze through Dean’s still body. He seals his open wounds and scars and once he’s sure Dean’s body is sturdy enough, he brings a hand to rest upon Dean’s chest. With a shock of his grace, Dean’s heart sets to work, blood coursing through his body like medicine. With gentle touches, Castiel restores his liver and kidneys, checks for other damaged organs and heals all he can. It’s difficult to heal smaller scars; Castiel must find them before he can stroke the skin to mend the cuts. He does his best, setting his attention to each small tear until he’s satisfied to move to the next.

Castiel settles on letting his grace remedy the tears in Dean’s soul. He cannot fathom what kind of torture the man was submitted to, what kind of things would have left such deep laceration in the man’s soul. He feels pride, again, at the thought that Dean’s soul lit up hell so brightly despite his suffering. He lets his grace seep into the cracks of Dean’s soul and heal the gashes left there. His grace caresses the wounds and seals them together and Castiel can almost hear Dean sigh in relief.

There seems to be a blemish he cannot fix however. Upon Dean’s left bicep sit the form of a hand, grazing his arm like it is burned into his skin. Castiel settles his hand over the mark and wills his grace to heal the scar yet nothing comes of the action. Instead, he finds that his hand fills the mark perfectly and he considers the possibility that he burned this mark into Dean as he lifted the man from hell. He thinks, perhaps, that this is his mark on Dean’s soul. Involuntarily, he smiles at the possibility.

The longer he works, the less he has left to repair, yet he’s unwilling to finish just yet. He feels compelled to leave each hair, each eyelash, and each slide of skin as perfect as the man who possesses it.

Yet an ending is inevitable. When he is satisfied, he lets Dean float into the air supported by his grace. The man is stunning; his head is tilted back and his eyes are lightly closed, his arms are spread at his sides, palms facing out. His skin glows in the slowly rising sun and Castiel finds himself beginning to look at Dean as something holy. He is mesmerized, completely in awe of the man floating in the air before him.  There is a warmth in his chest that Castiel is sure is independent of his father’s ministrations.

---

He lays Dean to rest in the grave his brother had dug for him months before. It is roughly dug and in Castiel’s opinion, unworthy of the man it sheathes, but perhaps Dean would have been happy with it. He must remind himself that he does not know his charge.

This does not make his departure easier. He looks at Dean, floating over his coffin in his ethereal form, watches his newly repaired chest rise in deep breaths. There’s perhaps one more thing Castiel can do for closure.

He kisses Dean and then leans back, watching as constellations of freckles spread across Dean’s peaceful face. He lets himself savor the possibility that one day, he will see Dean’s eyes again.

   (there's always a lot of gorgeous fanart of Castiel rescuing Dean from hell but its so rare that i find a fanfic about it so i provided myself. hope its alright, hope the grammar and spelling is okay and everything makes sense because i cant edit shit at two in the morning okay. i think thats all i had to say..?)