my hiatus begins today. i’m not going to be doing anything happy or fun, so think about me in the wee hours of the night and let a single tear trail down your face in memory of my righteous booty.
i’ll miss you all very much! leave me funny messages while i’m gone to replenish my morale when i come back! (i’ll understand if you unfollow from my idleness, but know that you do it breaking a woman’s heart. ;_;)
have a great June, see ya’ll in a month!
here, enjoy yourself some heart-wrenching Destiel feels:
Maybe I’m a crook for stealing your heart away,
And maybe I’m a crook for not caring for it,
And maybe I’m a bad, bad, bad, bad person.
Well baby, I know.
And these fingertips, they’ll never run through your skin.
Those bright blue eyes can only meet mine across a room
Filled with people that are less important than you.
Because you love, love, love when you know I can’t love
You love, love, love when you know I can’t love
You love, love, love when you know I can’t love you.
I’ve had no motivation or energy to draw at all these past few days
meeeep
found an old sketch i’m probably never going to clean of genderbent destiel
enjoy
(via cardboardcupcake)
when you try to stop but you don’t succeed
cause one more episode is just what you need
when all you ever do is sob to sleep
oh god it hurtssssss
and every actor is a great big dick
and their stupid faces you’d like to kick
when you love them so much it makes you sick
supernaturaaaaaaaal
(via i-like-it-in-the-slash)
life without cas
When John had dragged him out of his room - a king who could pick locks - and sat him at the table, demanding that Dean eat - well, no one thought it was going to go well. Another version of kicking and screaming, yelling insults and curses that the heir to the throne had probably just made up.
But Dean was listless, distant. Sam tried talking to him, and Dean nodded, said his usual responses, but he was a thousand miles away. Maybe imagining he was with Cas, John thought, signaling for pie to be served.
Dean stuck his fork straight into it. Not a single bite. He closed his eyes, propping his head on one hand, and just sat there, the smudges under his eyes prominent. “I’m denouncing my throne,” he said, point-blank.
“You are not.” John said automatically.
“You always said there was no point in being a king if you couldn’t think with your head on right and learn to let go for the better of your people, and I’m not letting go.” Dean said calmly.
“It’ll take time - you can settle down, marry Jo - you like Jo - and”
“I don’t want Jo. I want Cas. You don’t get it, Dad, but could you imagine if Grandfather Samuel hadn’t allowed you to marry Mom and sent her to a kingdom across the sea?” Dean breathes in deep, and finally, his calm exterior is cracked. “IT’S JUST LIKE THAT, I KNOW CAS IS THERE, AND I KNOW HE’S PROBABLY HAPPY, BUT I LOVE HIM, AND NOW HE’S GONE!” Dean stood up, nearly over-turning the table. Sam had started to cry.
“Dean-“
“I’m not letting go of Cas,” Dean said firmly. “There’s no way in Hell.”
(via astroize)
first meet… in hell
BRING HIM BACK
Furious tears well in Dean’s eyes, rage burning within the hot olive eyes as he glares at his father. His knuckles turn white, gripping John’s velvet cape so tightly that his hands cramp up and ache. But the pain isn’t that bad, and nothing like what’s in his heart. No, that’s a whole knew kind of pain, one that doesn’t compare to little things like tripping on a rock or being bucked from a steed or having a sword plunged into the chest. This is something much, much worse.
John snarls, firm hands grasping his son’s wrists, trying to fight him off. He expected some anger from his son—considering the blasphemous things he heard the other night, he isn’t all too surprised—but not something like this. Of this magnitude, of this proportion; it makes him realise that he really exhausted the angels’ stay. Castiel’s in particular; he really went outside his boundaries.
The king can’t get in a word, though, relegated to mere grunts and snorts as his heir lunges at him, crazed and devastated, driven by a maddening force that would make even the strongest of dragon’s a bit skittish. He’s always known of Dean’s power, but he’s never fully realised it until now, now when his violent emotion of upset and ire, now when he lost everything he loved. A voice in the back of John’s mind even questions his decision, even though he knows he did the right thing. (He did, right?)
“Bring him back!” Dean shouts, gruff voice hoarse from yelling, all his cries for the return of his beloved angel echoing in the corridors. Half the castle can probably hear them, but Dean doesn’t care. There’s not much to care about anymore, “Bring him back right now you bastard!”
“Dea—” John attempts to take a swing at Dean, not as an act of malice but as a way to calm him down, but misses, only provoking Dean more. Though he misses Dean’s face, braising Dean’s chest instead, the destructive emotion turns on itself, his son’s hands weakening, too overwhelmed with emotion to stay stable.
Dean keeps spitting out insults, like acidic venom, but all of them start stringing and slurring together, the memories of Castiel—the time they shared, the things he did, the way they felt for each other—blowing more holes in him than any catapult could. His armour clinks as his skin trembles, an involuntary action he damns to every corner of Hell, and soon the fabric of his father’s cloak slips from his fingers. But still, the pleas keep coming.
“Bring him back,” The commands digress to begs, desperate behests unheard of coming from his mouth before now, “Dad, just bring him back…Bring him back…Please…”
John heaves a heavy sigh, partially torn between giving in to his child’s cries, or turning a deaf ear and letting him shriek in his own personal purgatory. And, although it’s hard for him too, John must put the matters of the kingdom first.
“I can’t, Dean,” John tells him, almost soulless when he says it, “It had to be done.”
Before he could face any more of Dean’s abuse, he rips away from the boy, turning and marching down to his chamber. He holds himself high, upholding the regal stance, but his ears still catch the sounds of Dean groaning, of Dean shouting, of Dean nearly shattering to pieces. And as he listens to Dean’s wall crumble and the untamed sobs pour out, he closes his eyes. This is not a good day to be king.
Silence did not hang heavy upon the castle; it drowned all smiles the King passed by in a sea of stewing tension. They bowed in respect as is owed him, but his servant’s eyes hold warmth for their King no longer. Some, to be fair, held curiosity instead of disgust. The ones who glared would not have troubled King John, were they not his most favored subjects. He set his mouth and continued his walk as though he did not notice. John let his feet carry him past the stables, where Joanna had begun saddling a horse. When their eyes met, a snarl erupted on her face. She barely tamped it down to a void, though the mask could not disguise the fury in her eyes. She curtsied, bid him good evening with all the proper titles, and sped her efforts on in case he lingered. She begged his leave to ride, launched herself into the saddle and galloped out in record time, leaving the King staring at the hay scattered in her wake. John eased his clenched hands and took a deep breath.
Turning on his heel, he strode towards his own chambers with the single mind to finish what menial tasks needed be done before he could be free to destroy a practice dummy with his great sword. He hadn’t clearly thought, however, of what might be outside his heir’s door. He stopped at the archway upon catching Sam and Ellen amidst a soft conversation. Ellen had a hand on his arm as he gnawed on his worries with her, both pained as they stood outside the barred door.
“… hasn’t eaten in two days. I’ve tried and tried to get him to come out, if he doesn’t eat soon I’m going to port in.”
“Didn’t he punch you last time you did that, Sam?”
“I don’t care! Let him punch me! I need to know if he’s okay…”
“Give him some time, honey, he’ll-”
“Be perfectly fine.” John gruffed, their gazes snapped to him in alarm. “Don’t you have studies to attend to, Sammy?”
“I finished last night.” Sam’s nostrils flared as his jaw clenched, the cowed tilt of his shoulders evaporating as he squared them at his father. John wished Sam showed such determination when he’d put a practice sword in the boy’s hand.“In that case, I don’t get why you’re mooning outside of his doorway like a lovesick maid, you could be getting practice done with Robert.” John ignored the growing anger on Ellen’s face.
“Bobby’s busy.” Sam growled.
“Then get your ass out of this hallway and get washed for dinner. You can see Dean there.” That gave Sam pause, though it only softened his anger to trepidation.
“What are you gonna do? Dean won’t come out.”
“He’s going to listen to reason or the guards will drag him out.”
Fire flickered in Sam’s eyes, his temper doubling. “You’re so full of it, dad! It’s not even that you sent Cas away, it’s how you did it! Cas deserved better than that! Dean deserved better than that! You’re not thinking about the kingdom, you’re thinking about us obeying you like mindless golems!”
“You petulant-” Sam threw a vial down and disappeared into a spray of sparks, ghosting into Dean’s room judging by the clatter within. John watched his breathing lest he lose his composure in front of Ellen. The woman regarded him over a lifted jaw, her mouth tight as she gauged him. He gave her a steely glance, his own jaw clenching. He dismissed her with a wave, waiting until she had turned to leave to storm away. Half out of checking Sam on telling the truth and half out of hoping for the bastion of a friendship barely younger than his boys, John escaped to the tower library in search of Bobby.
The hope of a warm reception fell out of a tower window and liquefied on the battlements. Bobby snapped the books on the table shut one by one, returning them to their rightful shelves with the meticulous care only reticent anger could afford.“Sire.” He growled by way of greeting, the only resident of the castle who ever got away with such cheek. “What can I do ya for, aside from tellin’ ya to apologize to your son?”
“Bobby, I can’t waver in this, the kingdom is depending on him to take my place, produce an heir, and-“
“And be fuckin’ miserable? Last I checked, severely depressed kings don’t do too well.”
“What are you suggesting? That I just allow it to carry on? That I allow him to tear the kingdom apart with the lack of an heir? You’ve seen what that did to Ventemere, I will not put our people through that.”
“I ain’t sayin’ you didn’t have those interests in mind, but you didn’t exactly yank Dean’s heart out gently.” Bobby peered at him sternly from over his spectacles, his frown disappearing into his beard. John cast his hands out only to set fists on the desk and lean on them.
“Then what would you have me do?”
“The best advice I can give you is this, ‘A king must accept the consequences of his choices, for both his people and himself.’”
John watched him evenly from below furrowed brows, chewing his tongue a few seconds. “I said that.”
“Then maybe it’s time you lived it.” Bobby yanked the last book off the table and ambled out to his chambers, leaving John with no companion save a flickering candle stub.
(via astroize)
