Rated: R || Pairing: Dean/Castiel || Word Count: 95,000
Jesus Christ is dead. Somehow, this isn’t the worst part of Dean’s week.
it’s been 3 years since they’ve seen cas and it’s been 2.5 years since dean’s stopped talking, since he and cas disappeared behind the wall of hell and only dean came back.
Hello. My name is Jessica and I have a fixation with soul bonding Destiel fics. 19 fics in the list.
My Mate, My Bond: AU where humans and angels are bonded to one another. Humans who are chosen to be bonded are honored. Cas and Dean are, of course, paired.
Humanity Service: Not so much bonding as soul mates, but Cas needs one more credit for Heaven so he embarks on finding Sam Winchester his soul mate. With the help of Dean of course.
If all 4 companions got together for poker nights.
“I’ll take three,” Donna says, laying down three cards in her hand and taking three new ones from Martha.
“Weirdest obsession,” Amy throws out as she surveys her hand. All of them chuckle and laugh at the topic.
“Saying ‘what?’” Martha offers, handing Rose two cards. “It’s like he can’t imagine what’s happening to him!”
“Bets in, ladies,” Donna calls. “Rambling. I swear he rambles just to see how long before someone cuts him off.”
“What’s the record?” Rose asks and Donna grins.
“I popped to the loo once, never knew I was gone!” They all howl with laughter, the chips on the table falling into each other but no one really cares.
“His bow tie,” Amy declares. “He loves that thing. ‘Bow ties are cool’,” she mocks, straightening an invisible bow tie as she says it.
“Call,” Martha says, and they show their cards. Donna won the round and scooped up her winnings before dealing the cards.
“Licking things,” Rose enunciates but the other three look at her. “You’ve…you’ve never seen him licking things?”
“If it’s some weird alien thing you two do in the bedroom, I don’t wanna know,” Donna shivers slightly at the thought but Rose just rolls her eyes.
“He claims he can analyze things by tasting them. You’ve never seen him do that?” Rose asks, looking around the group.
“A few times but I wouldn’t call it an ‘obsession’.” Martha diplomatically answers. Rose leans back in her chair deciding to have word with him when they’re done here.
“You know one of us will eventually have to tell him we used his Sonic as a swizzle stick,” Amy says. They all look at the martini glass with the Sonic sticking out and can’t help the laughter bursting forth. They pick up their cards to begin a new game.
“We could always tell him it was an experiment,” Martha suggests.
“What, we were trying to increase the alcohol content?” Donna offers and Martha shrugs.
“He’d probably just be happy we were trying to learn more about science,” Amy retorts, laying down two cards. Agreements rose from the table and the inevitable was put off a little longer.
The voice. That voice. Warm and soft, running soft fingers through his hair, sliding into his ears as he listens, mouth agape and eyes wide. And there it is, just a whirling moment later, her scent. Strawberries and sweat and the silvery essence of another world (of so many worlds) soak into his system, engulfing his blood cells and riding the tides of his arteries.
He turns the corner.
“Rose.” It’s a prayer, dusty and cracking in his throat, but a prayer nonetheless.
(Once, he believed in only her. Perhaps she is still his absolution.)
It vaguely occurs to him that Rose Tyler should not be here, that she should be lying in bed with another Doctor, that she should be laughing or crying or screaming but not here, never here. And then he sees her clothing, and he knows.
It isn’t the right time.
“Don’t,” he gasps, feeling the debilitating ache inside of his hearts that cannot just stem from his dying cells. At her stricken expression, he smiles weakly. “It’s not time for you to find me yet.”
“How d—I find you, then.” Something awakens in her face. Something dies in his chest.
“Oh, yes.” He stares at her for a moment longer until the love in her eyes shifts to worry, and she begins to speak.
“Don’t you dare start, Rose Tyler,” he interrupts, not wanting to hear those words again. ”Go on. Go find me. And then, then things will be okay.”
She steps closer to him, and it’s all he can do not to run to her and take her and lock her away in the TARDIS, his forever, his always.
He sees the timelines quiver, and though it nearly ends this dying man, he shakes his head and points to the metal disk in her hands. “You’ll need to make the jump now, Rose.”
Her eyes burn as she nods. “I’m not with you, am I.”
Oh, she is so very, breathtakingly good. “Go save the universe, Rose Tyler.”
And she does.
Book Covers for Supernatural Fics [x]
Rating: NC-17 || Pairing: Dean/Castiel || Word Count: 76,500
Dean’s life at twenty-four makes him feel like he’s forty—he works two jobs to help pay bills for his house and put his genius little brother through private school, and has spent six years (on and off, let’s be honest) working on his mechanical engineering degree at KU. With so much of his life devoted to his family, Dean has little time in his schedule for class and no time for social interaction. Then, while getting his classes together for the fall, he finds himself in a do-or-die situation: He must take his last literature class now, his spring already filled with those left for his major … except that none of the English classes will fit his schedule.
This is how Dean grovels and begs Dr. Castiel Milton to make a special arrangement for him, and Dr. Milton does.
All I can see in this scene is Old Dean and Cas.
Sam continued hunting for a while before he broke away and got married and had kids. Dean kept hunting though driving across the country in the old 67 Impala, Castiel by his side. On Holidays such as Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Sam’s Birthday Dean and Cas would take a break from hunting and just spend a few days with Sam, his wife and his three kids Dean, John and Mary. Sam and Dean aren’t as close as they could be but even if it’s months between the two seeing each other, when they do it’s like those months never existed. Eventually Sam got sick and died, leaving his wife to raise 3 kids by herself. Dean was in such grief that he couldn’t bear to see the kids again. Still Castiel was always there watching him, comforting him, loving him. Dean was lucky yet unlucky at the same time to live a long long life. He missed his brother with all his heart but at the same time love the angel with all his heart. Eventually from years of hunting Arthritis set in the hunter’s bones and Castiel convinced him to retire into a nursing home. Dean lived there and all the employees thought that he never had visitors and was slowly losing his mind, that wasn’t the case. Castiel was still there but only visible to Dean. On his last day Dean knows that it’s his time and he’s ready to accept it. He’s sitting in an wheelchair just staring out the window when Castiel sits down right next to him. The old hunter can see the light slowly grow brighter out the window and Cas turns to look at Dean knowing that he sees Heaven. Cas reaches his hand over and takes Dean’s in his own letting him know he’s not going anywhere. Dean feels the life slipping out of him and he’s reliving all his happiest moments, Christmas with Sam, visiting the kids, singing at the top of their lungs in the Impala, his first kiss with Cas, everything before a big flash of light and he breathes his last breath. Cas knows that Dean’s gone and stands up for a minute before transporting Dean’s body to the cemetery his mother, and brother are buried. Castiel buries him right beside because he knows Dean isn’t going to become a ghost. Castiel engraves the tombstone “Here Lies Dean Winchester, A beloved son, brother, uncle and husband.” He smiles to himself as he engraves in Enochian, “Where you go, I go.” before he returns to Heaven for the final time to finally meet Dean’s family.
“Check this out.” Sam turns the laptop toward Cas, who blinks at it curiously. “The ESO’s got some incredible photos. They just uploaded a series of open clusters, and some of them are mind-blowing.”
Dean snorts from the bed, the remote control pointed at the TV like a weapon. Fifty channels, plus free HBO, and nothing’s on? How is that even possible? “You wanna show him mind-blowing? Look in my bookmarks under ‘pole dancing championship’.”
There is a moment of silence, tense enough that even Dean manages to tear his eyes away from what must be Telemundo. They’re speaking Spanish and just broke out into a dance routine. This is why the American media sucks.
“Cas? Dude, you okay?”
“This image,” Cas says quietly, eyes clouded with weariness and a thousand sleepless nights. Adapting to the routines of humanity hasn’t been kind to him. “It’s —”
“It’s…” Sam cranes his neck and squints at the monitor. “The Pleiades. Probably the most recognizable cluster there is.”
“Why do you even know that? No, seriously, how does that shit affect our lives at all?”
“Shut the hell up, Dean.”
Cas stares at the screen, eyes soft, lashes dipping with what can only be pain. He reaches out to touch — something Sam’s yelled at him for doing countless times — and gently places his fingertips upon it, treating it like the most precious gift he’s ever received. And it might be. The Winchesters have never been much for gift-giving, which is a shitty life to introduce Cas into. Normal people get gifts all the time. The last thing Dean gave him was a stick of gum.
Dean rolls out of bed and pads over, resting an arm carelessly over the back of Cas’s shoulders. “Say again?”
“Sandalphon, my old general,” Cas says, tilting his head. “This is… She was a brilliant tactician. She led the first battalion against Lucifer during the First War.”
Sam exhales softly. “What happened?”
“She… decided that Lucifer’s way was right. She Fell.”
An awkward silence stretches between them, an eternity before Sam clicks on the next picture. Cas expels a breath like it physically hurts him to hold it in.
They go through maybe forty pictures of open clusters, which Dean still really doesn’t understand, Cas naming each of them as a brother or sister — “Penemue, Amaros, Arkas, Kochab…” — before they come to an image that is, admittedly, breathtaking. Dean lets out a low whistle and nudges Cas’s neck with his arm, fingers brushing the worn fabric of Dean’s old ACDC shirt, a bit too big over Cas’s thin shoulders.
“That one fucking rocks,” he says, and nudges Cas again. “Who’s that?”
Cas sucks in a shuddering breath and leans to rest his head on Dean’s stomach, fingers reaching out once more for the monitor.
THIS IS FUCKING BEAUTIFUL AND ALL OF THE FEELINGS
He finds out that his nimble fingers are good for more than fumbling with Jammy Dodgers and fezzes. His hand fits around the brush and his wrist twists with each stroke and dip into the paint.
The canvas starts blank until there’s a smattering of blue and green and turquoise and he can see a flash of blonde hair disappearing behind his bathroom door and the sound of giggles echoing in the shower. He sees eyes, dark and light, filled with compassion and warmth and love and overwhelming passion. He dips a brush into the paint and with a few swipes he finds those eyes peering back at him from the canvas.
He feels the way her collarbones fit in his mouth, the way his tongue swirls around the jut of the bone, and the way she giggled and shied away when he pressed thumbs to the patch of skin just to the right of her collarbone. It was ticklish and she had batted his hand away with a shrieking, “Doctor!” before pouncing on him and searching out his own tickling spots.
The portrait of Rose Tyler was completed with new hands that had never touched her skin. He wondered if it would feel different in this body, if her lips would taste sweeter or bitter with the amount of earl grey she drank. Suddenly, the picture felt false and inauthentic. He observed the beautiful features of Rose Tyler with a desperation to remember how she tasted and felt and smiled and the way her voice filled the silences in his head. He couldn’t remember.
He was forgetting her.
He dropped the brush and staggered back, closing the door on Rose Tyler’s bedroom, encasing the dusty old room with it’s make-up and clothes and hairbrush and now this, a half-remembered image of her, in darkness.
He was forgetting Rose Tyler and that hurt most of all. He promised himself he’d never forget. Not you, never you. He really was getting too old.
photo source (x)
OVERALL RATING: NC-17
SUMMARY: My alternate take on how Dean gets out of Purgatory.
If you have yet to read the first chapter, it can be found here: Chapter One
Otherwise, enjoy Chapter Two, found below!
I still don’t see 60 notes on this~
Which means - sadly - that there will continue to be no smutty Chapter Three for you all; because as I’ve said before, I’m not starting it until this one hits 60 notes.
And here I thought you all loved sex scenes. WHAT IS THIS FANDOM COMING TO?!
Read and reblog so I can start writing the pretty smut I’ve been seeing in my head all day. Yes? Yes.
Enjoy if you hadn’t read this yet~
I really want a Big Bang-length fic that begins like
right after 7.10. Dean goes to the crossroads, desperate, and begs for Bobby and Cas back, and Sam to get better. the demon that appears is Bela (and there is a lot of excellent Bela and Dean interaction; of course Bela zipped her way up the demon hierarchy because she rocks), and she says that as much as she’d like them to finally have that angry sex, his pathetic soul isn’t enough to do all that - plus, it’s been claimed by a warrior of Heaven, and can never return to Hell anyway.
but she can do something for him, because she’s got a soft spot. she can give him one more shot. she snaps her fingers, and Dean’s back in Lisa’s backyard, his forearms and shoulders starting to ache because he’s been raking leaves for so long. he remembers the way the wind almost stuttered, and the back of his neck prickled - and not in a bad way. he remembers how he wanted to say it, but didn’t.
he says it.
(this could be gen or whatever but because it’s me I say that this should not be gen. and pls not to make Bela ~secretly super evil~ the whole time, thank you.)
The Most Gorgeous Book Ever Has No Words Or Pictures, Just Color
This is the RGB Colorspace Atlas by Tauba Auerbach. The 8”x8” hardcover tome is pretty much an encyclopedia of every color in the RGB index. It’s huge, it’s gorgeous, and I want one.
……oh my god
I KNOW WHAT THIS NEEDS
It’s like they were made for each other.
i swear to fucking hell if you fuckers start shipping a book and i pen i will forcibly shove you back into the pits of hell you came from
we need some fan fiction up in here yo
Sensors alight, the pen trailed itself sensually down the gradient shift from yellow to blue along ample curve of paper, dipping closer and closer to the book’s spine.
“Can you imagine it?” the pen whispered, whirring and selecting #00563F with practiced intimacy. “Just picture it. With your collection and my potential…we can color the world.”
I am 3489% done with this site
I am done with all of you omG
“This is so much more than a paintball game, Mr. Stark. This is a battle—last agent standing gets the prize.”
The Doctor writes the first note two days after he burned up a sun, one day after Donna turned him down. He’s standing alone in his console room, and there’s no one to chatter at, no distraction, nothing. His ship thrums around him, familiar and eternal.
Saying it aloud would mean he’d gone starkers, wouldn’t it? Talking to himself. He isn’t ready to hear his own voice echo emptily back at him, evidence of exactly how bleak things are.
The blank stack of sticky-notes is in a hidden compartment on the console, kept handy for the times he needs to attach a reminder to the display panel. Intergalactic coordinates, grocery lists, indexes of his favorite words, reminders about where he’s hidden his secret stash of biscuits so Rose won’t find them.
If this isn’t something he can say aloud, it seems at least something he should make note of. The Doctor pulls out a little square stack of yellow paper and writes the words in English (not Gallifreyan, maybe because he’s on auto-pilot, maybe because he thinks she’ll be back one day to read it).
Trainers making quiet noises on the grating, he navigates the halls of his TARDIS, and this path has been walked so many times there might as well be a groove worn into the floor. It’s gravity that takes him here, the way he’s come so many times before. Except this time the pull isn’t quite as strong, his stride is slower, because she isn’t waiting inside anymore.
He stops a distance from her bedroom door, staring at the warm bronze-colored metal. The note flutters in his hand as his fingers tap absently against the sticky bit on the top of the paper.
I’ll move on, he tells himself. I always do. Same old life.
With the reverence of someone approaching a shrine, he steps close enough to affix the note to the door. He doesn’t go inside — he doesn’t want to see it, her trainers under the bed, makeup table cluttered with tubes and bottles, the scent of her everywhere — but he rubs his finger across the place where the note sticks, making sure it’s secure.
He walks away and doesn’t look back.
It’s something his later companions — Martha, and then Donna — don’t understand, and even tease him about, his periodic stops at office supply stores in the past and the future, everywhere from Hallax IV to Surrey. The way he stands in the paper goods aisle and compares the adhesives on various brands, until he finds one with a chemical composition most compatible with the metal inside the TARDIS.
“I’ve only ever seen you use a handful of those, Spaceman,” Donna says, snatching the bag full of yellow sticky-notes away from him as they walk out the shop door into the green sunlight of an alien world. The Doctor stops, turns his face toward the star, and takes a deep breath. “I’m beginning to think the TARDIS actually powered by Post-Its instead of alien fuel or magic or” — she waves her hand — “whatever.”
He opens his eyes, turns to look at her, and smiles a little. “I knew you’d figure it out one day, Donna. Brilliant, you are! The TARDIS is, in fact, powered by Post-Its. At least for now. Someday she might not need them anymore — she’ll gobble up interstellar dust and rift energy and that will be enough — but for now, everything’s running on little bits of yellow paper.”
She puts her arm through his. “Now tell me more about this planet with the market on it — they have Post-Its there, do they?”
“Oh, Shan Shen’s markets are legendary,” the Doctor replies, his eyes sparkling. ”You’re going to love this.”
He’s got a to-do list in his mind, things he wants to make sure he crams into this new, finite existence.
It’s divided into little sections, or that’s what he tells her. Human experiences, non-Time Lord experiences, experiences he’d always meant to have but never got around to — he adds new sections constantly, announcing with a leer that “public indecency experiences” have just topped the charts.
He’s never written it down, but he’ll pause sometimes, right in the thick of things, and his eyes will go all unfocused and she fancies he’s just marked an item off.
They’re easy to miss, those moments, and she’s taken to checking often, trying to see what’s made the cut.
There are simple ones, quiet and unassuming things, crossing the finish line at a charity race, running out to pick up milk, planting a tree and watching it grow.
There are ones she’d rather skip, screaming rows in the kitchen, sleeping on the sofa, cleaning up broken glass from when the cup had hit the wall.
There are affectionate ones, forehead kisses before bed, waking up curled around each other as the sun peeks through the blinds.
And sexual ones, snogging in the back row of a movie theater, trousers around their ankles in a bathroom at a party, his hand skating under her skirt to find she’s not wearing knickers. Black stockings and blindfolds and so much trust — there are a lot of sexual ones.
There are ones she can’t know until he tells her, the first time he dreams in English, the ache in his bones when he gets up in the morning, forgetting for just a moment that this hasn’t always been his life.
There are ones on her list, too, a wailing baby in the delivery room, vows through grins and kisses to seal them, a passport full of stamps, and a place to come back to.
She watches him through all of them, lives them beside him, and one day, a day when they’ve done so much and have so little time left, he asks for a pen, and he writes.
To Do With My Life, it says, and underneath that:
Spend it with Rose Tyler.
He crosses it out and tells her to run.