actually this bugs me a lot too
sorry but i’m going to turn this into a destiel rant
NO NO I LIKE YOUR DESTIEL RANT (and wow that’s not something I’d ever thought I’d say). On occasion, although rarely, I will read Destiel, but, yeah, pretty much only if it’s the way you say. Because, yeah, like literally the entire point of the show is “screw destiny,” especially in the first five seasons. To me, Destiel works much better within the context of the show (and is ultimately a more poignant pairing) if it’s going against destiny.
Totally agree with this!
Trying to bring destiny or fate or whatever into the equation just kind of…ruins the point? Of everything? Not just of the relationship, but like you said — the entire show, really. The point of the show is literally “fuck destiny; get free will.” I don’t understand the appeal of the “destined to be together” thing at all.
plus I think the whole idea of “making it up as we go” is far more romantic anyway but maybe that’s just me
“Well,” Dean says, as he pulls into Cas’s driveway. “We’re here.”
Cas snorts. “You don’t have to be so dramatic about it, Dean,” he says. “You’re three houses down from mine.”
“No,” Dean insists, parking the car and turning the engine off. “This is a date, our first real date. Which means I’m gonna walk you up to your door, and I’m gonna kiss you goodnight, and I’m gonna keep my hands strictly above the waist, alright?”
If I say that this is WIP I’ll probably never finish.
… I like uniforms.
Careful there, man, Cas will wipe that smirk off from ur pretty face even with tied up hands.
I want Dean and Cas to have a little girl who adores her Uncle Sammy and she tells him how much she loves him while braiding his hair and putting it in pony tails.
Her little skinny arms wrapping around his neck and saying, “You’re my favorite uncle!”
and he’d laugh saying, “I’m your only uncle.”
and then Dean would hear that and drop whatever he’s holding and say, “Shit, we forgot Adam.”
What if instead of by the shoulder Castiel raised Dean from hell by the scruff of the neck and instead of a handprint Dean had Cas’s teeth marks on his neck
i am pissing on your entertainment post but i was kind of thinking about it and the way i think i always took the handprint was that it wasn’t so much where cas grabbed on and held, but the last spot finished when he was remaking him.
sort of an achilles’ heel type of thing— he builds from the bottom up, from the outside-in, and as he’s reshaping he has to have his hand on him, keep that connection tethered, side effect being that when he had remade the rest of him, set the bones and knit the vessels and wove the skin, his hand was still pressed against flesh that the rest of him couldn’t reach during the shaping process. flesh molded to the risen shape of castiel’s palm because he couldn’t smooth it over.
Everybody is reblogging that poem and tagging it as like
DeanCas, etc. but.
It’s kind of got sassy in there too.
in heaven there were rumors
of the way the earth
you never believed them.
you’ve ruined yourself.
there’s a boy
who whispers dirty Latin
when he’s draped over your back,
holds your hand
when you come
there’s a boy
with engine oil under his fingernails
who traces scars no longer there
and pains half remembered
when you let him inside you.
you were never trained for this
for family and sensation and the feeling
of temptation when you’re waist deep.
you were never trained for it
so you let the world take you.
you never understood
how the earth ruined itself
until you let the ruin touch you
poison the soul
destiel pirate!au with a young cas trying to join a pirate crew because he wants to get away from his family and dean is hesitant to take him and makes fun of him but cas sneaks onto the ship anyway and they find him after they left the harbour and he makes cas run the kitchen and scrub the deck on his hands and knees and dean likes watching that sweet little ass move inside his thin linen pants from the bridge and knows he’s gonna take him to his cabin tonight and make him scream
He’s tossed to the deck without ceremony. The way the boat rocks hims ends him skidding across it, and when he sits up again, there’s a rash of reddening skin streaked across the side of his face.
The other men laugh. Dean crosses his arms.
“Go on, then,” he says, and he’s pleased to see the way the boy’s breath catches, the panic in his eyes. Walk the plank, he’s probably expecting. Throw him to the sharks. Dean wants to laugh, but he thinks the boy might cry. It’d serve him right. “You’re gonna stow away on my ship, you’re gonna do your bit of the work.”
He can hear Sam muttering something about power trips from behind him, but he’s passed a bucket, full of filthy water and a clump of dirty rags. Dean sets it down on the deck and shoves it towards the boy. He tries to scramble out of the way, but he’s too slow; some of the water sloshes across his clothes, drenching his thin white tunic sheer with gray, silty water and god knows what else. Dean grins.
“Get on with it,” Dean says, as gruffly as he can manage, before turning away. “I want everything spotless. You hear me?”
He doesn’t turn around, but he hears the quiet, solemn, “Yes, sir,” and he’s not expecting a voice that deep from a boy so slender.
“What’s your name?” he calls over his shoulder, head half-cocked to catch the answer.
“Castiel,” says the boy, and when Dean turns to look at him, his eyes, too large and too blue, blink slow back at him.
“Well, Castiel,” Dean sniffs, staring resolutely at the leaking pail— not at the way his shirt clings in the sun, definitely not at that— “Get on with it.”
“Aye aye, Captain,” Castiel says, and he’s taking the piss with that, but Dean doesn’t comment, just waits for him to wring out the first bunch of rags and stretch them across the wood.
Castiel has never had to clean a day in his life. He’s never done hard labor, he’s never spent this long under the sun, he’s never really struggled, and Dean can tell all of that in the way his body bends forward. He stretches his arm too far with the rag, spreads his knees apart for balance, has his bottom lip caught in his teeth like he’s concentrating, like he isn’t doing it on purpose, and Dean has better things to do than look at the cabin boy doing his duties, but Cas arches his back a little deeper, ass in the air, and Dean can’t for the life of him remember what those better things are.
Word Count: 4,333
Summary: Dean and Cas are at a house party on a Saturday night, and Dean notices that maybe there’s a type of dancing he’s cool with.