“Are you two done yet?” Jared moans, blowing out a tired huff, resting his chin on his hands as he feels his friends tugging at his hair. This was one of their ideas—Misha or Jensen, Jared isn’t sure which—and whatever they’re doing they don’t want Jared peeking; Jensen keeps a hand firmly over Jared’s already shut eyes just as a precaution.
“Almost,” Misha says, giving one clump of hair a hard pull just for kicks. Jared’s shoulder twitches just a bit, and then he hears a little laugh from the little devil of an angel he works with. Then a few whispers from Jensen he can’t quite make out—a hurry up, he guesses, or something of that like—then some minutes of silence.
Whatever they’re doing, should Jared regret this, he can always get back at them. There’s plenty more instances of pants-dropping and rug-burn up his sleeve in the case that Jensen and Misha collaborated on a grade A prank.
He feels a finger brushing behind both his ears coupled with a light pat on the back of the head before Jensen takes off his hand, “Open ‘em up.”
Jared’s eyes open to his own reflection, revealing his brand new hair style of a humble ponytail. Behind him he sees half of Jensen’s pleased smirk, while next to the mirror he sees Misha’s big, too amused grin.
Jared turns his head to the side, then shrugs with a slight smile, “You two should do my hair more often.”
Three of Swords; the trinity of the suit of swords piercing the sorrow of the mind, for the sorrow must be felt and experienced before closure and relief may come; often a reference to loss.
The Magician held the first Sword, the Sword of Intellect and Communication he received after, in presence of the Fool, called upon the powers and elements of the World.
The Emperor sat on the Throne of Stone, between his tightly clasped hands holding the Sword of Will and Order, which he wields to maintain the solidity of his organised Empire.
The Justice dwells within a body known to a Fair Soul, using Him as a Vessel so he may live on Earth and hold the Sword of Law and Virtue, Divine Strength and Cardinal Prudence flowing through Him.
The Storm pierces the Heart, and so The Swords let Crimson flow
Unto the Earth, flooding the Ground with its Sorrow, while the Trinity
Of the Major Arcana let their Sadness and Blood seep the Soil.
Dean presses his wrinkles nose to Castiel’s, whiskers twitching as he overcomes the hesitation. He takes Castiel by surprise, taking in the feeling of Dean’s nose on his, first response to remain motionless and blink, blink, blink. Then, before Dean doubles back and scampers to his hole, Castiel’s tongue flickers out from his mouth and licks Dean’s nose; he wants to do this again sometime.
Wordcount: 11 322
Warnings/Kinks: Purgatory setting, Mutual Masturbation, implied past sexual content (which includes implicated sub!Dean)
Summary: Dean prays to Castiel every night, but sometimes he needs to think of other ways of coaxing the angel into coming to him; which may also appease some more primal needs.
Notes: Written for the great Rach because she gave me the idea. PS this is just the AO3 link form the other one with the link and full fic on the post is here.
written for rachel. wordcount: 11342 rating: nc-17 (read here or through ao3)
The eternal night dominates the sky, the ominous blackness forever shadowing the overgrown forest, the paradise of pain, pen of those condemned by their paranormal natures. The only rips of light that leak in from the inky pallet are the stray, faint beams from Heaven, the pale white light akin to the earthly moon bleeding through the tiniest tears, those barely detectable from the grounds below.
Only so much can be seen from the ground, from the rocky and hard soil that expands endlessly in all directions, covered with slender, prickling needles—fragile as the pines yet piercing as sharpened metal—and rough, jagged rocks—the broken glass of Mother Nature embedded in the dirt. The splintering woods of Purgatory, those that go on and on, a standing army of so slim trees with brittle, creeping branches and slithering, swirling roots. The few sparse blessings of light scarcely penetrate the thick entanglement of woody arms, weaving together as they shed their browning leaves whenever the wind blows through the canopy.
A gust huffs against the crackling fire, raising the flames of orange and yellow and red, sparks coupled with clumps of ash leaping from the circle of stones locking in the kindling, starving to burn whatever dead blade of stiff and trodden grass or flat and crushed leaf they could jump for. The smoke dances with the fire, the two caught in a hot tango, one flicker of fire stepping one way, the plume of ash mirroring its partner’s move. Up and up the grey rises, dusts floating up in the cloud of darkness, carrying the scent of smouldering wood, reeking of rot and fungi festering for untold millennia, existing before Man or Monster.
Flutter, flutter, flutter; Castiel’s eyes flutter like a pair of butterfly’s wings.
The blue glows with surging pleasure, a stark contrast to the deep hue of red colouring his cheeks and face, the heavy flush revealing the overwhelming boil of his blood and the intoxicating bliss smothering him where he leans.
While his lungs starve for air, desperate for a single breath, a pant, a gasp, he keeps his mouth clamped shut, edges of his teeth digging into the chapped layers of fleshy lip. Every inhale is funnelling fire through his nose, each exhale the weakest expel of steam, never enough to prevent overheating, not when all the gears and pipes pump and turn so quickly, keeping his body tense and atremble.
“You’re an angel” he says
Relieved and beaming
Thankful and gratified and warmly kind br>
And he is met with a smile
One of modest and pride
But shadows by unspoken melancholy
Yes, he is an angel
The one in the dirty trench coat
Who’s in love with you
You don’t know how much I want you, how much I long for your touch, your tender eyes gazing upon me the way I do you, escaping endless dream by melding it with reality.
You don’t know how I crave we be together, holding hands and resting cheek to cheek, how I crave to hear you speak, hear you laugh, hear you speak the lovely words that run so frequently through my mind.
You don’t know how addictive your smile is, how just a curve of the lips can cause a heart to sing, beat rising and falling as it breathes a beatific language so indecipherable and yet so well known.
You don’t know how tempted I am to call you mine, to lay claim to your soul when I’ve no right, unworthy of summoning an angel who dare not hark back to the one poor soul which blends with the millions, with the billions.
You don’t know these thing and yet I still shame my own words by not knowing you, not in the ways I wish, not in the ways so fit to apply to those engaging in Aphrodite’s game, those frolicking in their own Eden as they laugh in the sun’s kissing beams and dine upon only the sweetest fruits..
You don’t know how much I’d love that, how much I’d love to be the one to love you and you love me; but so long as you know that I’ll be there with you, by your side as someone carrying infinite pounds of care, then I know it will all work out.
How it happened, no one is really sure. The Lord works in mysterious ways and sometimes miracles happen; but its only too rare that such a thing is put into practise. Especially to this extent.
The theme for Passions blares from the other room, Sam hearing that song so many times —breathe in breathe out, you keep me alive—that he subconsciously mutters it—you are the fire burning inside of me—under his breath every time—you are my passion for life.
It’s an addiction worse than the gallons of empty ice cream sitting in the trash can, scrapped bare of all frozen dairy goodness, and worse than the piles and piles of magazines discarded here, there, and everywhere, draped sloppily over old clothes.
And then, he hears it again: