#sloppily worded stuff again . i meow

[spookythesillyfella]

HELLO :DD <3 peaking my head in today to let you know i am going to always be here for you if you need someone to talk to and need a shoulder to cry on. i also want to ask you what inspired your AU or perhaps what inspired the stories you've been putting together? everything feels so emotional to read at times and i really enjoy when artists/writers put FEEELING into what they create. i know you've got things going on so take your time replying! no rush to getting back to me by any means but sometimes distractions help ease the mind even if it's only a few minutes. TAKE CARE!! SELF CARE. put your mental health first always

hi doll ! im happy to have you checking in ! truly . it means so much to have you waste some of your time thinking about me ahaha

back in early-mid 2023 . while i was still in like a terrible headspace because of recent losses i underwent in rapid-fire succession . i was chatting with my partner about how it would be nifty if electracey was in a band ; then . because we were both super into prjsk at the time . i said "you know . brendon already has like a hobby for writing – imagine that he was a lyric writer or something"

i started casually working on a "short" au fanfiction that was supposed to be just a one off thing

.... as you can see . it wasn't the case – that uncompleted first main hv fic sits at 40k words and im planning on rewriting it once i get done with my other projects

id say what mostly inspires a lot of my au is past experiences – struggling through so many things . i had no real choice to project all my feelings onto different characters

im somewhat embarrassed to admit all this but . at the same time . i feel like itz very important to state the fact that this au is purely self-indulgent and is also just one big coping mechanism for me

ive always hoped to have my work connect with others – itz always been a priority of mine to uplift others or at least make them feel seen and validated . so frankly im very happy to see that you appreciate my creations :]

please take care . dear !! remember to take it easy and ill kick anyone who's mean to you to the curb . i promise !! <33

[wanderingcas]

@trenchcoatandfreckles prompt: “bucolic” or “bungalow” in other words: cas moves to the idyllic countryside and meets dean winchester, who owns a garden shop down the road. destiel. 1.7k. fluff. undercurrent of a quiet desperation to escape one’s life.

“So, where you gonna go?” asks Cas’ nosy, but well-meaning, landlord, holding out his hand.  

Cas drops the keys into his open palm. “Somewhere bucolic,” he replies.

Frank wrinkles his nose. “What is that, some kind of sickness?”

Cas picks up the remaining box off the floor, rendering the tiny apartment officially empty. “Sure,” he sighs.

“Well, good luck,” Frank says, wiping his hand on his jeans. “You were one of my best tennants. Hope the next tenant is as dead quiet as you. It was like a tomb in here the whole ten years you were renting, you know.”

“Well. Thank you. I think.” After a tentative handshake with Frank, Cas sees himself and his box of records out.

Two weeks ago, it seemed like a good idea. He was on his stiff couch, wine glass in hand, browsing available bungalows to rent in a rural part of New York that he’d never heard of before. His eyes scanned an available cottage: the honey wood floors, the tucked-in ceilings, the herbs dangling from the kitchen ceiling, sunlight streaming. He looked around his sterile, hyper-modernized studio apartment and there was no contest.

He sent an application for an available house to rent in the same breath that he sent a move-out notice to Frank.

The commute to his current job, of course, would be an hour’s train ride, compounded with the fifteen minute drive to the station. His sister Anna called him last week to inform him that he was possibly having a mid-life crisis.

Now with his apartment all boxed up, and sitting on a train with his box of records and the moving truck a day in front of him, Castiel is beginning to agree with her.

The bungalow Cas rented is nestled between two cherry blossom trees. He feels like he’s read about it in a book somewhere. There’s a daily farmer’s market a mile away, with another empty and unrented bungalow in between. Apart from that, he’s alone but for the birds and fields and sunshine.

He loves the isolation more than he should. He calls in sick to work the first week. Then the next. It morphs into him writing a truncated email to his boss announcing his resignation. He deactivates his email after that.

There’s enough in his savings to get him by, he assures a hysterical Anna over the phone after he breaks the news, and he’ll find a job closer to where he lives. (He again refuses to tell Anna his new address, knowing it’ll only end up in her showing up with a small army to drag him back to the city)

With his self-imposed free time, he starts a garden. The lofty dreams of cooking with fresh herbs and vegetables fill his mind for days, until he’s greeted morning after morning by empty soil with no sprouting green.

He gives up after a week. Googling nearby garden shops points him to the only one within a forty-mile radius: Winchester Hardware & Garden. He rides his bike a couple of miles down the dirt road, past the farmer’s market, to the small, unassuming green building that’s only slightly bigger than his own bungalow.

A bell obnoxiously announces his arrival as he pushes open the rusty screen door. He’s greeted with shelves upon shelves of sloppily organized garden supplies, seed packages, and planters. There’s a counter tucked into the corner with a cash register valiantly craning its neck up from the cluttered mess that surrounds it.

“Just a second!” calls a voice from somewhere amongst the shelves. There’s a crash that follows.

Castiel cranes his neck around one of the shelves, looking for the source of the commotion. “Do you need help?” he calls back.

“Nope, should be good,” assures the disembodied voice, “just this goddamn—” There’s no elaboration as another, louder, crash punctuates the end of the sentence.

Castiel stands awkwardly in the door frame, unsure of whether to help or flee a potential crime scene, when a tanned and dirty-blonde man rounds the corner. He’s clutching something white and pissed off in his arms.

“Sorry about that,” the man says, breathing heavily. He locks his arms tighter against the cat struggling in his arms. “Can I help you with something?”

Castiel stares at the cat. “Was that what all that banging was?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah.” The man playfully jostles the cat, eliciting a low meow. “She gets into the back of the shelves where all those dangerous tools are, and I have to make sure she doesn’t cut her own head off.”

Castiel doesn’t point out the issue of housing a cat in a store with dangerous tools in the first place. Instead: “I see.”

“Her name’s Fluffy,” the man offers.

“But she has no fur,” Castiel says as Fluffy proudly swishes her naked tail.

“Yeah. It’s hilarious.” The man grins. “My brother picked her up from the side of the road. Kid has a bleeding heart for helpless animals.” Fluffy is deposited on the counter, where she sits and glares; the man turns and crosses his arms. “So, anything you need?”

Castiel rips his gaze from the man’s very piercing, very green eyes. “Yes. I’m having a problem with my garden. I think it needs fertilizer.”

“Elaborate on your problem,” the man says.

“Well, nothing’s growing,” Castiel explains, trailing off uncertainly as the man once again disappears around a corner.

“Any pets?” he asks.

“Excuse me?”

“Any pets,” the man says impatiently behind a shelf, “any pets that would get into your garden and eat stuff when you’re not looking.”

“Well… no. No pets. Although I was thinking of getting a cat.” Castiel glances at Fluffy, who is grooming a naked paw. “One with fur.”

The man barks out a laugh. He comes around the corner, holding a large box propped on his hip. “And you’ve been watering them? Pulling any weeds around them?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re sure that you’re not pulling the plants accidentally instead of the weeds?”

Castiel fixes the man a look. “I’m not that stupid.”

Raising a hand in surrender, the man says, “Hey, you’d be surprised the stories I get from other customers.” He deposits the box onto the counter. “Well, this should help—good old fashioned plant food. Works for most things you’re trying to grow.”

After doing a quick calculation of measurements in his head, Castiel decides, “I don’t think I’ll be able to take that today. I rode my bike here and I’m not sure I can fit the box anywhere…”

“Relax, the bags are inside.” The man pulls apart the box’s top and hoists out a much smaller bag, one that will undoubtedly fit into Castiel’s backpack. At Castiel’s confirming nod, the man rounds the corner and types a number into the ancient cash register. ‘Fluffy’ rubs against his hand, slowly the process. The register inexplicably dings. “It’ll be 25.50,” he announces.

Castiel fishes his wallet from his back pocket. “Do you take a credit card?”

“Yeah.” The man chews at the bottom of his lip, frowning down at Castiel’s fingers that are fumbling to get the credit card out of the tight wallet’s pockets. “You said you biked here?”

“Yes,” Castiel says amidst the struggle, “why?”

“Nah, just that… you can’t live very far from here, then?”

The credit card finally emancipated, Castiel hands it across the counter. He notes the dirt caked underneath the man’s fingernails as their hands brush. “I just began renting a house a few miles down the road. Just a week ago.”

The man grins. “You’re one of Benny’s tenants?”

“I think that was his name.”

“I know him. Nice guy. Runs a diner when he’s not landlording way too many properties.” The man slides the credit card through a small attachment on his phone, frowning again in a thoughtful way. “This might not work, you know.”

“The credit card?” Castiel asks.

“No, the plant food. This whole area used to be a swamp—so the soil sucks.” He pets Fluffy’s head distractedly. “So you might have to come back anyway.”

“I did notice that the soil was sandy,” Castiel agrees. “Should I… Buy anything else in lieu of this?”

The man rubs the back of his neck; Castiel is momentarily distracted by the way his fingers leave imperceptible tracks in his tightly trimmed blonde hair. “Well, if this doesn’t work, I’d have the examine the soil. See if the acidity is right, if the plants are getting enough sun, that kind of thing.”

“So you’d have to come over?” Castiel asks, taking the card that the man hands back to him.

“Well, yeah.” The man clears his throat. “To examine it, and everything.”

“That wouldn’t be too much trouble?”

The man sweeps his arm in the air to gesture to the quiet shop. “Well, I suppose you would be taking me away from my customers that so obviously need me.”

Castiel huffs a laugh. He tentatively holds the bag of plant food in his arms. “Then I’ll come back and ask for your help if this doesn’t work.”

They smile at each other, a beat too long, a beat too delayed to notice a shift in the energy between them. “Who should I ask for?” Castiel is somehow able to miraculously ask, after the moment that is a beat too long.

“Huh? Oh. Dean. Ask for Dean. That’s me, I—” The man, Dean, shakes his head as if to get himself to stop talking. He reaches out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you, uh—”

“Castiel. Cas.” Castiel holds Dean’s hand and shakes. It’s warm and softer than he’d expect a gardener’s hands to be.

“Well, great. Cas.” Dean drawls Castiel’s name out thoughtfully, carefully, like tasting a fine wine. Castiel suppresses a shiver. “I’ll see you again soon, then. Maybe.”

“Maybe.” Castiel adjusts the bag in his arms. “Goodbye, Dean. Fluffy,” he adds, nodding at the cat who is ignoring the situation, and instead is stretching to great lengths in order to lick her backside.

Castiel steps out into the warm air; the bell on the door that announces his departure is less obnoxious now. He unlocks his bike, adjusting the kickstand, wincing at the creak of the rust on the metal.  

Placing his backpack carefully onto the bike seat, he opens the zipper and deposits the bag of plant food into the backpack. Very sternly, he whispers to it, “Don’t you dare work,” before zipping up his pack, and riding on the dirt road back to his new home.

↳ prompts are open for mowripro, send one to my askbox.