This once was a safe for work blog.
It’s apparently “Steffi reads bottom!Dean by mistake” weekend which results in things like this picture.
Bonus: “Meanwhile Sam gives in to insert person of choice’s romantic advances”
I got bored, went to draw an innocent hug and got this instead. No regrets. Not sure if I am done though. #Destiel #Deancas #Supernatural #SPN #Castiel #myart #fanart
“Of Souls and Grace”
This was an adventure. Turned out different, but better than expected. Also thanks to all the new watchers! This one goes out to you~.
(via destielbiteme)
CHRISTMAS IS COMING (18)
Gabriel decided to literally drop presents on everyone he knows
(via destielbiteme)
Day Twenty, Solstice Eve~
On January 24, 1978, the 5,022,008th Marlowe Collection coat rolled off the line at the plant in Corpus Christi, Texas: A tan, double-breasted trench.
There weren’t any ceremonies or speeches. The lieutenant governor did not show up. And three days later, the plant was shut down, its production outsourced to Mexico. Nobody gave two craps about the coat. But they should have, because this simple, 42” trench would turn out to be the most important coat – no, the most important armor – in pretty much the whole of existence.
The trench made it into the plant’s final shipment to J.C. Penny, where it was purchased by one James Novak, an atheist with a Carl Sagan haircut and a brain tumor the size of his fist. On weekends, he’d take Junior out back to show him the stars and the planets, the “stuff you’re really made of”. Castiel knows about this, because he’s visited James’s Heaven. And he still does, from time to time.
After James died, the trench ended up in the back of his son’s closet, in a dusty box of forgotten things. Until one day the movers came, and young Jimmy saw the belt sticking clasp-end out of the flap, as if waving hello. On impulse, Jimmy shrugged on the old thing. His new wife rubbed her belly and said that he “looked like Bogie”. From that day on, Jimmy never took it off.
I guess that’s where this story ends.
And here’s where it begins.
**
The trench, of course, has all the things other coats have… and a few holes they don’t.
But none of that stuff’s important.
This is the stuff that’s important. The Barbie shoe in the left pocket: When Cas sits, it still sometimes jabs into his stomach. A faded, water-stained Kodak of two boys right on the cusp of manhood: All Cas has to do is stick his hand in the pocket and immediately, his fingers find their lopsided smiles. Even when Dean fished the trench out of the reservoir, he made sure all these little things stayed, because he knows better than anyone that it’s not just the cotton that makes a coat warm.
Raphael, Dick Roman, Crowley… they don’t know or care what’s in the trench’s pockets, or even that there’s a trench in the first place. All they know is that the flash of tan makes Cas easier to find.
**
In between apocalypses, Cas would sometimes take a day for himself, sometimes a week. Sometimes longer, if the Winchesters didn’t need him around. He’d pass the time seeing the world and its splendors, too numerous to describe. He’d doggie-paddle with puffins, trade dirty jokes with bonobos. Meditate with Tibetan monks. Buy sugar dates in Marrakesh. He’d pay his respects to the forgotten Incan queens, their mountain-top graves still undisturbed. He’d read poetry with Korean schoolchildren.
And when it was clear, sometimes he’d find a cornfield and look up at the night sky, his fists in his pockets, and watch the stars for hours, the corners of his mouth tugging upward of their own accord.
It never occurred to Cas that, sure, maybe he didn’t have his own body or a circulatory system, but he was never, in fact, heartless.
**
Smiles are hard. Any rookie wearing his first human prom dress can squeeze out a halfway decent frown, but true smiles? They’re impossible. You try to crook your lips at just the right angle, show just the right amount of teeth… but you never can. The humans can always tell. And since it’s a smile, it’s supposed to communicate something. It’s all supposed to add up to some greater punchline bigger than your words.
I’m telling you, smiles are a raging pain in the ass.
This is the last time Cas will put on the trench for a long time. And for the record, at this point next week, there will be a new apocalypse brewing, this time on the south-side of Shanghai.
Cas won’t be there.
Cas didn’t want Dean to save him. Every part of him, every fiber he’s got, wants to protect and to serve. But he’s not going to do that either. Because he made a promise. And now it’s time to keep it.
So what’s the secret to a good smile? It’s hard to say. But me, I’d say it’s in the lines around your mouth, the wrinkles around your eyes. Your dimples, like little pockets. And I think Cas does alright.
Up against good, evil, demons, angels, Leviathan, and destiny itself, Cas made his own choices. He wore his own trench. And, well, isn’t that kind of the point?
No doubt, smiles are hard. But hearts are harder, for a heart is a heavy burden.
But not as heavy as a coat.
Oh man, this is gorgeous…
The art AND the fic OMG
(via destielbiteme)
Day Twenty, Solstice Eve~
On January 24, 1978, the 5,022,008th Marlowe Collection coat rolled off the line at the plant in Corpus Christi, Texas: A tan, double-breasted trench.
There weren’t any ceremonies or speeches. The lieutenant governor did not show up. And three days later, the plant was shut down, its production outsourced to Mexico. Nobody gave two craps about the coat. But they should have, because this simple, 42” trench would turn out to be the most important coat – no, the most important armor – in pretty much the whole of existence.
The trench made it into the plant’s final shipment to J.C. Penny, where it was purchased by one James Novak, an atheist with a Carl Sagan haircut and a brain tumor the size of his fist. On weekends, he’d take Junior out back to show him the stars and the planets, the “stuff you’re really made of”. Castiel knows about this, because he’s visited James’s Heaven. And he still does, from time to time.
After James died, the trench ended up in the back of his son’s closet, in a dusty box of forgotten things. Until one day the movers came, and young Jimmy saw the belt sticking clasp-end out of the flap, as if waving hello. On impulse, Jimmy shrugged on the old thing. His new wife rubbed her belly and said that he “looked like Bogie”. From that day on, Jimmy never took it off.
I guess that’s where this story ends.
And here’s where it begins.
**
The trench, of course, has all the things other coats have… and a few holes they don’t.
But none of that stuff’s important.
This is the stuff that’s important. The Barbie shoe in the left pocket: When Cas sits, it still sometimes jabs into his stomach. A faded, water-stained Kodak of two boys right on the cusp of manhood: All Cas has to do is stick his hand in the pocket and immediately, his fingers find their lopsided smiles. Even when Dean fished the trench out of the reservoir, he made sure all these little things stayed, because he knows better than anyone that it’s not just the cotton that makes a coat warm.
Raphael, Dick Roman, Crowley… they don’t know or care what’s in the trench’s pockets, or even that there’s a trench in the first place. All they know is that the flash of tan makes Cas easier to find.
**
In between apocalypses, Cas would sometimes take a day for himself, sometimes a week. Sometimes longer, if the Winchesters didn’t need him around. He’d pass the time seeing the world and its splendors, too numerous to describe. He’d doggie-paddle with puffins, trade dirty jokes with bonobos. Meditate with Tibetan monks. Buy sugar dates in Marrakesh. He’d pay his respects to the forgotten Incan queens, their mountain-top graves still undisturbed. He’d read poetry with Korean schoolchildren.
And when it was clear, sometimes he’d find a cornfield and look up at the night sky, his fists in his pockets, and watch the stars for hours, the corners of his mouth tugging upward of their own accord.
It never occurred to Cas that, sure, maybe he didn’t have his own body or a circulatory system, but he was never, in fact, heartless.
**
Smiles are hard. Any rookie wearing his first human prom dress can squeeze out a halfway decent frown, but true smiles? They’re impossible. You try to crook your lips at just the right angle, show just the right amount of teeth… but you never can. The humans can always tell. And since it’s a smile, it’s supposed to communicate something. It’s all supposed to add up to some greater punchline bigger than your words.
I’m telling you, smiles are a raging pain in the ass.
This is the last time Cas will put on the trench for a long time. And for the record, at this point next week, there will be a new apocalypse brewing, this time on the south-side of Shanghai.
Cas won’t be there.
Cas didn’t want Dean to save him. Every part of him, every fiber he’s got, wants to protect and to serve. But he’s not going to do that either. Because he made a promise. And now it’s time to keep it.
So what’s the secret to a good smile? It’s hard to say. But me, I’d say it’s in the lines around your mouth, the wrinkles around your eyes. Your dimples, like little pockets. And I think Cas does alright.
Up against good, evil, demons, angels, Leviathan, and destiny itself, Cas made his own choices. He wore his own trench. And, well, isn’t that kind of the point?
No doubt, smiles are hard. But hearts are harder, for a heart is a heavy burden.
But not as heavy as a coat.
Oh man, this is gorgeous…
(via destielbiteme)
Dean bites at his lip while he watches Cas undress, slipping his trench coat and jacket off, draping them over the back of the seat. He’s already out of his jacket, the only thing between them now two layers of thin shirts and denim and years worth of nervous energy ready to burst.
Cas doesn’t move for a moment, just taking in Dean, sprawled and breathing hard beneath him on the seat of the Impala. Normally, Dean would be annoyed coming to a stop when everything’s finally starting to move, but with Cas, he understands. He stares back, just as amazed, until Cas finally drops his hand to his waist and slides it up his shirt.
Dean’s head presses back into the car door as Cas’ fingers trail over his skin, pinching lightly in just the right spots, making him hiss. Dean hears the clink of his belt, Cas trying to undo it one-handed, and immediately reaches between them to help. The layers are quickly disappearing, nothing but Cas’ clothes left when he slips Dean’s jeans and boxers down out of the way and wraps a hand around his cock. It feels good—fuck, it feels good—but Dean grabs Cas by the wrist and makes him stop, breath hitching and his stomach feeling like it’s floating.
“Dean, what—”
“Wait, Cas, just. Wait.”
His eyes are still slammed shut, but he can feel Cas looking at his face curiously. He takes a few deep breaths, waiting for the shaking sensation in his belly to go away, but it just gets stronger, especially when Cas’ thumb strokes against his skin absently.
“Look, this—with us and everything—if you don’t want. I mean, I won’t be—”
“Dean, are you trying to give me an out?” Cas interrupts, sounding amused. Dean peeks an eye open then and gives Cas a half-glare, because yes he is, and he doesn’t need to be made fun of. Cas’ hand tightens and moves around Dean’s cock, making him gasp and his entire body arch off the seat, eyes closing again.
“I won’t let you go. If we do this, I won’t,” Dean warns, his arm reaching up to wrap around Cas’ shoulder, fingers digging into his shirt at the back of his neck. Cas ducks his head forward, pressing a smile against Dean’s lips, and strokes again, making Dean moan.
“I’ve been waiting a long time to hear you say that,” Cas laughs quietly against his mouth, working cool hands over Dean’s hot skin in steady, loving strokes.
I love this very much.
(via destielbiteme)