Emms, 30 yo, she/her. I ship Destiel and THAT will never change. Since I've watched Supernatural I'm not the same anymore. You'll witness me rambling about Destiel (and Cockles sometimes). I discovered that I love writing, so yeah, here's my AO3 account: youchangedmedestiel
I'm glad you ended up here. Basically, you'll see me: lose my shit, write fics, share thoughts and reblog others' amazing posts.
✒️To find my fics: my AO3 account
🗨️To talk about Supernatural, Destiel or Cockles, my ask box is open (here's a little help with some asks ideas)
🗓️To keep up with the fandom lore: Know your Destiel/Cockles history: a calendar
🔎To find your way around in all this mess that is my Tumblr, here's a little help:
Before the destiel tag below, you can find all the specific tags I use on my posts to sort them the best way possible. I hope it'll help and you'll enjoy what I post. (It'll probably evolve in the future). Here's Dean winking, just because why not.
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I'm trying to find a b - e - t - a r e a d e r (without being annoyed by bots) for my already posted fics, except for The light he's gonna keep and Summer Paradise.
If you're interested, please let me know in dms or comments.
In this scene, an arrow “shoots” out toward Dean from the TV screen, followed by Cas walking in and sitting down next to him. Moments later, across the bar, a Cupid (an angel often shown to use an arrow to make couples fall in love) connects two men.
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Tutorial on how to install the floating commenting box on AO3
So for those of us who love live-commenting fics, there exists an amazing script tool created by @ravenel and described on this post. Basically the commenting box is floating as you scroll down the text so you can quote/write as you read without incessantly going and returning to/from a text editor.
I made this tutorial on how to install it on either Chrome or Firefox for @missmaxime but then I figured I might as well share it here so anyone else who’s interested could use it.
If you’re using another browser than Chrome or Firefox but know how to add extensions on it, then you can still follow part 2 of this tutorial since Tampermonkey is available for other browsers as well.
#kids are allowed to be selfish #in order to create their own healthy personality #they are allowed to demand anything you want and don’t want to give #but dean is no parent #he isn’t the mother that is supposed to be selfless and giving #he is a child himself sam’s brother #under normal circumstances you can’t expect from dean to give into sams begging #yet he does exactly what you expect from a mother #giving up giving in #he did it since he was more or less four year old #to give sam anything that resembles a normal life for him to grow up and become the adult he now his #dean had to neglect his own childhood #he never grew up to be healthy #he was john’s caretaker in a really disturbing way #he was sam’s sort of parent #he is a soldier #he is tortured and traumatized and made into a tool more than one time #he is a human shaped mess of trauma and guilt #a hero a brother a friend a saviour a protector a caretaker #but you know never just dean #because ‘dean’ little precious dean burned alongside his mother on a ceiling all those years ago (via godkillinghimself)
I saw a post not too long ago that said they didn’t feel as though young!Dean was written/portrayed as kind enough to young!Sam, that we’re told things but that we don’t get to see them, and there’s some merit to that as a flaw in certain writing and, likely, in the directing chosen with the young actors, but in THIS instance, I think the edge of impatience is justified. it’s not actually about Sam. there’s some frustration with Sam in that big-brother-annoyed-with-younger-sibling way, but he’s an angry, lonely kid here because of John, because their father has left them on their own for days, at the ages of roughly nine and five. a nine year old child is not equipped to flawlessly parent a five year old. nine year olds aren’t allowed to babysit, they have babysitters (I babysat as a teenager, there’s no way I’d leave a nine year old alone for any extended time. I left a nine year old alone for five minutes to tend to her baby brother and she decided to eat dog biscuits to find out what they tasted like, which wasn’t a big deal and didn’t hurt her, but still, like…kids! they don’t always have the best judgment or impulse control. when I myself was nine, and my mom was at work, I was with my grandparents, not left to my own devices). it is neglectful, considering even grown adults make mistakes with their five year olds. yet John puts the entire weight of that burden on Dean before he leaves - it only takes one mistake, you got that?
one mistake is all it takes, and Dean himself is not seen as a priority or as a vulnerable kid.
John: Lock the doors, the windows, close the shades. Most important–
young!Dean: Watch out for Sammy.
an instruction which literally colors his entire life.
further, John says, That’s my man. to his child. as a way to force his child to be a parent, but also as a sort of compliment - c’mon, now, Dean, you’re so grown-up, you can handle this, you’ve already had a gun in your hands, you KNOW what’s out there in the dark, you know there are monsters that rip people to shreds, you know the heat of the fire the smell of the smoke your eyes burning from the blaze, you’re not a kid, you never were one. it infuses it with a sense of importance - he’s entrusted with a task, he has to do it right.
so Sam asks for cereal, and Dean may slam the box and the bowl down with annoyance, but the point is that he still gives it to him. because Sam is just a sweet little kid, he’s allowed to be. and Dean is his protector and caregiver and, alone in that motel room, mother/brother.
Dean leaves him to go to the arcade and this sometimes gets treated as a reckless, selfish decision, but again, he is a child. a child with no normal socialization, cooped up in a motel room, no idea when - or IF - his dad is coming back, having to parent his little brother. of course he craves some time for himself. of course he wants the simplicity of playing a game. of course he doesn’t think that one action could endanger his brother. of course he gets blamed for it. and in that withering glare from John, he internalizes that guilt.
he looked at me different, you know? Which was worse. Not that I blame him. He gave me an order and I didn’t listen, I almost got you killed.
at the age of four, we don’t have complete verbal skills. it’s when we begin using more complete sentences. we can count, maybe a little greater than ten, and recognize certain letters. possibly we learn to write our names. we start developing finer motor skills (like using utensils, brushing our own teeth, buttoning clothes). we are malleable and full of possibility that has yet to take shape, because we’re still closer to when we were infants than we even are to adolescence.
at the age of four, Dean ceased being…whoever that little one was, whoever Dean was going to be. we know that for a while he stopped talking. the tag above that says: ‘dean’ little precious dean burned alongside his mother on a ceiling all those years ago <- it’s true. that Dean didn’t make it out of the fire. baby Sam was put into his arms and Dean became something and someone else altogether.
I pulled this post up from my old old blog months ago, and have had it in my drafts for a while, and I would’ve reblogged it without extra note had I not in passing seen the commentary about young!Dean’s portrayal and wanted to remark on it here, but now I also keep thinking about this post. “Dean’s WHOLE role in the family which he thought he was filling he was actually creating. MARY is not even mary. ONLY dean is mary.” which is also true. the Mary we’re told burned on the ceiling wasn’t really the Mary who existed. beautiful, silken, white nightgown Mary was always an ideal, and later a figment, and later (for better or worse) proven false altogether. John takes Dean and tries to fit him into the mold of something that never existed, Dean tries to fill a mold that never existed - he is the mold, he creates the mold. only he embodies it. he can never be her, but she was never her. she can never be him. only Dean is mother Mary.
I had to be a father and I had to be a mother, to keep him safe. And that wasn’t fair. And I couldn’t do it.
“I couldn’t do it” is the theme all the way back to this episode. the shtriga nearly drains Sam and that’s put on Dean. he wanted a bowl of cereal and was slightly impatient about it, and that’s a failing unless he relents, so he relents (which is not Sam’s fault, Sam is also an entirely innocent child who has no concept of what’s happening or why he shouldn’t simply ask for what he wants). Dean is nurturer and nourishment, savior and soldier. he’s the one who’s there to give comfort in the dark. some part of Dean was always dead, and another part of him was always a ghost, and he eked out his space in echoes of a revered mother and shadows of an absent father, and somehow, remarkably, he still also unflinchingly became himself. his trauma and his capacity for love were fused together in that fire, molten pieces that cooled and can’t be separated. he was never again only Dean.
Carry On, Author presents: Podcast Episode #2: Cheesecakekiss
Do you love fanfiction? Are you curious about how some of your favorite authors make the fics you know and love? You're in the right spot!
In this interview on Ao3, or Spotify, Cheesecakekiss discusses the intricacies of her fic, Walk A Broke Line, her writing process, and how she got into fanfiction and fandom in the first place!
Find Cheesecakekiss on Ao3 and here on Tumblr
Interested in having one of your fics featured on the program? Send a message, or an ask, here on Tumblr to request a slot on the show.
If you are over 18, come join the Discord to discuss the interviews and episodes, or drop a link to one of your fics in the recs and promotions tab!
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the other day I saw a post wondering how Dean might've spent his birthdays during Stanford Era so i went through the semi-canon John's Journal to look at those....and then ended up compiling every Dean birthday entry for "fun" (cue the emo heart-wrenching sadness)
I don't send many asks but I really need more of this: https://www.tumblr.com/tlakhtwritesdestiel/817626839071801344?source=share
Because this was so delicious! Please give us more!
I have so many questions about what happens in this universe and I really need answers!!!!!! Like why Cas is trapped here by John? How did John managed to do this? How will Cas get out? And more...
No pressure though, if you don't want to write it. Don't feel obligated to do it. But if you do, please tag me!
It was only ever meant to be a ficlet, I'm afraid. I hardly ever have enough time or inspiration to write anymore, so when I do write it's either going to be ficlets (which I might actually have a chance of finishing) or working on one of the WIPs I hope to maybe finish someday. But I'm happy you liked the ficlet!
Thank you so much for your answer! I am already really grateful for the ficlet and I totally understand, as I also struggle to find time to write sometimes, but know that if you ever write more about this idea I'll be here. By the way, if you do write more someday, please tag me :)
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Castiel opens his eyes—normally he wouldn't need them to see, but the sigils on his collar and on the cell walls have dulled some of his senses.
The person standing outside the bars is Dean, his tormentor's son. Castiel already knew by the sound of his voice—by the warmth that is as absent from John’s voice as it is from his soul.
“I wish you ate,” Dean says, gripping the bars and staring dolefully inside Castiel's prison. “Wish there was something I could bring you.”
Castiel doesn't answer. Doesn't know what he'd reply, even if the collar hadn't taken away his voice. While Dean is a far better man than his father, he is also complicit in Castiel’s imprisonment.
Maybe Castiel would make his ears bleed.
“God.” Dean's head bows. “I don't know what Dad's thinking, keeping you locked up like this. It's not right. I—” His chest expands, and he looks around as if checking to see if John might overhear. “I'd set you free if I could,” he murmurs, eyes shuttered, and he reaches a hand inside the bars as if he doesn't even mean to do it—as if his soul is simply reaching out for Castiel's grace.
It's careless. Dean is close enough that Castiel could tear his arm off if he wanted; he may be shackled to the wall by his collar, but his hands are free.
The same thought seems to occur to Dean. His breath hitches, but he doesn't pull away when Castiel slowly raises his own hand to touch another living being for the first time in the five years since he was imprisoned here.
Foolish. Dean is a fool to trust Castiel like this.
Castiel is a fool not to maim him.
“Wish I knew what you were thinking,” Dean says softly. “The way you look at me, I swear sometimes it feels like you want to either smite me or fuck me.” He glances down at the place where Castiel's vessel's penis rests, soft between his thighs, and smiles ruefully. “Probably smite me, huh?”
Castiel should want to smite him. Dean is hardly free of guilt; he could unlock Castiel's cell and his collar anytime he wanted, and he continually chooses not to. And yet… Dean is just a son duty-bound to his father, like Castiel used to be—before his father proved he didn't care enough about Castiel to release him from captivity.
“Would you?” Dean asks, eyes searching Castiel's. “Smite me? If I set you free?”
Castiel does no more than drop his gaze to their joined hands, but Dean still nods as if he can gather Castiel's answer just from that. Perhaps something in his expression gave him away, some softness he didn't intend to show.
“And… what about Dad? Would you smite him?”
This time, Castiel offers only a hard stare, and Dean sighs and scrubs his face with his free hand.
“Look, I get it, I do. God knows he'd deserve it for what he's doing to you. But I—”
Castiel hears the end to the unfinished sentence—I can't be the cause of my father's death.
It is not a disappointment. Dean has not set Castiel free thus far, and he was under no illusion that he would do so now. Hope will do him no good in this place where even God has forsaken him.
He regards Dean, sees the regret on his face, and squeezes his hand out of some inexplicable impulse. It pleases him when it makes Dean gaze into his eyes.
“Cas,” Dean says, voice raw with some emotion Castiel cannot decipher. “Can I—is it okay if I come in?”
Dean is a well of surprises. Every time Castiel thinks he's beginning to understand the man, he proves him wrong—like the first time he received a prayer from Dean, showing him images of the world outside this prison and telling him about his day and the state of the world. Keeping him company, even when he couldn't visit.
Castiel releases Dean's hand and stands back, giving permission to enter. He's not stupid enough to think this represents an opportunity to escape—Dean will hardly be carrying the collar key with him—but it is something new and different, and he welcomes it. Welcomes Dean's presence.
“Hey there,” Dean says again once he's inside, his back pressed to the bars—a little afraid, perhaps, his pupils consuming most of the green in his eyes. “This is stupid,” he says, licking his lips, and it’s hard to tell if he's talking to Castiel or to himself. “I'm being stupid. You're a frickin’ A-bomb with a collar and you don't even talk, I don't even know if—I mean, it's probably sacrilegious of me to think that we have some kind of… connection, right?”
It probably is.
Castiel doesn't care much about sacrilege anymore.
He reaches out again, stopping short of touching Dean thanks to his chain, and Dean's eyelashes flutter and cast shadows over his cheekbones. “I really hope you're not going to kill me,” he mutters—and takes a step forward.
Trust.
Castiel has never known trust before. He has known faith, devotion, obedience, but not trust.
Castiel's hand—the one he now touches to Dean's chest, where his heart is beating wildly underneath layers of fabric—could easily crush him.
And yet.
Dean trusts.
Castiel marvels at it, and at the warmth and the pulse of life underneath his splayed fingers.
He explores further, moves his hand up until it encounters skin at the base of Dean's neck, and he presses his thumb into the spot where he once again can feel the rhythm of Dean's blood pumping through his veins.
“Cas,” Dean gasps, leaning into it rather than away from it—trusting again—and letting his eyes flutter closed.
Perhaps Dean is not foolish for trusting him after all; Castiel cannot find within himself a desire to harm Dean, only to feel him, know him.
Dean's lips, when his fingers move there next, part on a shaky exhale. His breath, warm and humid, brings unfamiliar sensations to Castiel's fingertips, and sensing no resistance from Dean he lets them dip inside.
Softness is a foreign thing for Castiel after spending years in this dungeon. His collar is steel, the floor and the walls of his cell cold, unforgiving stone.
Dean's tongue is velvet.
It flexes and gives under Castiel's fingers, shaping itself to them and sucking them deeper, and Castiel feels something—something in between sensation and emotion. Dean is beautiful like this, eyes closed as if in prayer, and his eyes blink open slowly when Castiel withdraws his fingers.
“Cas,” Dean says, looking as entranced as Castiel feels—and then the heavy clang of the dungeon door makes him jump back, eyes wide with panic.
“Get out of there, Dean.” John's voice is a steel blade, and Castiel can see the moment it cuts into Dean. Still, he remains where he is, helplessly staring at Castiel until—
“Dean! You deaf, boy?” John barks, and finally Dean slinks out of the cell and closes the door behind him, head bowed.
“Out. I'll deal with you later.” John doesn't even offer his son a look as he stalks toward the cell, which means only Castiel sees the forlorn look on his face before he turns away.
The dungeon door announces Dean's departure, and John steps up to the bars.
Castiel wants to kill him. Wants to say, Your son's saliva is still drying on my fingers.
Thanks to the cold metal around his neck, he can do neither.
“I don't know what the hell kinda mojo you used on Dean,” John says icily, “but he won't be coming down here anymore. This is the last time you've seen him.”
And then he turns on his heel and marches out and leaves Castiel in his cell—chained and alone and colder than he has felt in a long time.
