#sacripent

what did i do to deserve you!

❛               your  wings     ...               ❜         it  is  delicate  ,     he  thinks  ,     to  be  speaking  of  such  a  thing  .     THE  FALL  AFFECTED  HIM  ,     DIDN'T  IT  ?     inquisitiveness     &&     curiosity  embedded  into  mind  ,     gifted  intellect  deemed  unknown  waiting  to  be  known  ,     for  emotions              who  is  he  to  have  a  say  in  that  ?              to  lay  bare  .     is  scrutiny  all  right  even  after  all  this  time  ?

rp meme // @sacripent​

considering my portrayal comes more from my own interprations of cas than fanon, because i literally only entered this fandom last spring, most likely yeah. i don’t even know what’s actually popular but… some things i’ve seen?

a big one most of my fandom friends disagree with: i think cas is a dom/sub switch (omg i made this sexual in three seconds… sorry). fans i talk to mostly hc cas pretty aggressively as a dom. but i have. thought about this a lot, and i think his sub side is important, and i’ve written a hc post about why.

i don’t think cas had any kind of a childhood, i think he was created ageless and pre-programmed. which is also why he… doesn’t really get older? he’s ageless, not old. even though i do use the word old in threads for convenience’s sake. i wanted some major things in his life to differ from how humanity generally experiences life.

the way i hc cas’s wings is more or less entirely my own hcs. i don’t think it actually is a thing that i disagree with when it comes to popular hcs, in the end? the main thing being that in their true form, they aren’t actually wings in the sense humans understand the word. he can manifest them on earth but that’s a three-dimensional manifestation and doesn’t even begin to reveal their true form. which is something that can’t even be talked about in any human language. his wings exist in more dimensions than just three and humans literally cannot imagine outside of three dimensions!

edit: also, i mean, most fans probably agree that cas is more emotional than the other angels? but i think he’s highly emotional on human standards as well. he just doesn’t always show it well. doesn’t know how to process it.

“where are my goddamn cigarettes?”

    the   night   is   cold   and   dry   ,    dead   leaves   scratching   at   the   asphalt   as   a   sharp   wind   drags   them   along   the   ground   .      there ’ s   a   heaviness   in   castiel ’ s   bones   ,    another   weight   he   knows   he   will   carry   with   him   until   the   judgment   day   .      beyond   ,    perhaps   .      and   he   know   dean   must   feel   the   same   .      cas   looks   over   ,    sees   the   way   dean ’ s   shoulders   drop   ,    as   though   invisible   hands   are   pushing   him   down   .     HUMBLING   HIM   .      he   blinks   ,    looks   away   .      the   concrete   of   the   curb   is   icy   ,    its   chill   seeping   through   the   fabric   of   his   pants   and   stabbing   frigid   fingers   into   his   tired   flesh   .      it ’ s   fitting   ,    he   thinks   .      it   would   be   harder   if   it   were   sunny   and   warm   .      at   least   the   weather   mourns   with   them   .

      dean ’ s   voice   is   brusque   ,    HARDENED   .      castiel   can   hear   the   pain   that   lurks   beneath   the   anger   and   frustration   ,    like   a   color   that   shifts   and   changes   when   held   up   to   the   light   .      wordlessly   ,    castiel   rummages   in   his   own   jacket   .      he   wraps   his   fingers   around   the   smooth   cardboard   box   ,    withdrawing   it   from   his   pocket   and   flipping   the   top   open   .      he   pulls   out   two   slender   cigarettes   and   wordlessly   passes   one   to   dean   .      the   other   he   sticks   between   chapped   lips   ,    pocketing   the   box   again   and   withdrawing   his   lighter   .     the   flame   is   warm   and   bright   against   the   darkness  ,    and   it   catches   on   the   paper   quickly   .      he   inhales   deeply   ,    passing   the   lighter   to   dean   without   meeting   his   gaze   .      the   smoke   scratches   the   back   of   his   throat   ,    his   lungs   .      he   holds   it   there   for   a   moment   before   exhaling   in   a   steady   breath   .      “     it   wasn ’ t   your   fault   ,    dean   .     ”

     if  it  wasn’t  dean’s  fault,    then  whose  was  it    ??    there’s  not  a  very  long  list  of  people  to  blame    —-    there’s  him,    cas,    and  then  the  big  man  upstairs.    only    HE    knows  the  blame  falls  on  anyone  else  besides   HIMSELF.    the  weight  comes  cascading  down  from  heaven,    landing  always    squarely    on  dean’s  back,    growing  exponentially  with  time,    to  the  point  he’s    frightened    he  might    break    in  half.    but  who  else  will  carry  the  pain    ??    who  else  shall  remember  the  look  of    TERROR    in  the  children’s  eyes,    that  split  second  before  a  demon  decides  to  rip  their  body  apart,    limb  from  limb,    inside  out,    without  permission.    tiny  bodies  uncomprehending  the  torture  they’re  put  through.    why    —-    they  haven’t  a  fucking  clue.  

     tonight  had  been  a  twelve  year  old  girl.    a  graveyard  of  photos  already  like  a  shinning  monument  on  the  way  down  to  her  room.    her  parents  had  tied  her  down  long  before  their  arrival,    and  when  bright  black  eyes  had  greeted  them,    filthy  demon  smiling  up  at  them  through  bitten  raw  lips  and  spit  out  teeth,    the  second  they  lost  her,    dean  had mourned  the  child  who  never stood  a  chance.    who  was    anyone,    child  of  god  or  not,    if    HE    allowed  such  monstrous  atrocities  to  happen.    a  cigarette  does  nothing  to  quell  the  pain  in  his  heart,    the  harrowed  sadness  grasping  dark  claws  in  his  heart  when  he  hears  the  child  had  never  been  baptized.    a  soul  bound  to  hell  that  they  couldn’t  save.    it’s  not  his  fault    —-    but   he    FAILED    anyway.            ❝     doesn’t  feel  that  way.     ❞      

@sacripent  sent in florence + the machine  ||  ACCEPTING !

               LABOR MARKED !        aching muscles crumbling bones  ,  the way a SOUL dies !    quietly  ,  softly  ,  tender silver mercies.   wind chapped skin    —-   there is a poetry in unrelenting efficiency.      EXHAUSTION      in the curve of a strong wrist, the line of a crooked knuckle  ,        YOU NEED NOT COMPLETE THE WORK !         but oh, oh !   that does not mean you are free to stop.      GIVING UP   /   GIVING IN        what’s in a name ?  that  which we call   winchester   would    FIGHT    as long.    exhaustion-lined !  creased with   carelessness  ,   CAVITY OF THE SOUL !     rotting away until they reach the nerve ending  ,  the live wire. caught in the amber of the moment, time stands     STILL.     the greedy thing it is    ——- what is there left to take ?  life given, life lost, life, life, living,  when last did you worship the warmth of the sun on your face ?   HOLY MARKED !    we do not go to church to pray   ——   but to daydream about god.      and what does he see behind tired eyes ?      (   tired smiles of family still breathing  ,   unable even in pretend to see peace.   )   

the way a star dies   !       CELESTIAL BODY      caught in the moment of    collapse   ,   the way the wind whips at the sands     —–    content to erode the ground from beneath your feet    one grain at a time.    your pain sounds like a coyote scream in the night   ,   YOUR PAIN   :   a primal animal savageness built up in the cage of your chest  ,   the way a man drifts.    eyes shut tight on hard-edged words  ,  fingers clenched in palms flushed red   —–     pressed white.      skin littered with the scars of a life lived  ,   mind littered with a pastel sadness.

 who you have become to survive is not all you are.      what you have created in grief is not your     legacy.    the sun is an angry   ,    blinding   ,   light and somewhere in hazy memory dean thinks of windows blown out.     BROKEN GLASS ON OLD TAR ROADS ,   sun bleached and weathered.      the way the mirage of summer had rippled in the stale air.       GRAVEYARD SOIL       stained history   ,   the way colored glass casts shadows in hallowed cathedrals.  

shoulders back  ,  chin up.   soldiers rest.   as if his last name wasn’t a mantle bearing him down to the floor.    ATLAS . SISYPHUS.   which is worse  ?   the weight or the climb  ?  which is heavier the world or it’s sins ?   fingers curl into a fist  ,  teeth grit.  a lifetime of bad credit and an empty wallet.   cards bearing names not his own.  his debts have a title.  emblazoned in bold.  FATHER.  o’ heavenly father hallowed be thy name.  MICHAEL or DEAN  did it matter ?  fingers spasmed as knuckles showed white.  

hadn’t he paid enough  ?

        sitting with a popped tired on the side of a long stretch of road, waiting.

they’re on the way to nevada,  of all places,  to answer the frantic call of a worried mother.  she’d left a message for them on both numbers during their last case  .  .  .  so wherever she got her reference from,  it’s legit.  the way things had been described,  the chill in her voice,  the dead silence of background noise,  he doesn’t think they’ve got enough time.  whatever’s possessing her daughter,  if anything at all,  will probably take hold long before they arrive.  that’s the worst part about it,  isn’t it though  ?  that half the time they’re there too late.  the soul of the innocent,  too past  corrupted  to be saved.