You can call me Machine. This blog is mainly a supernatural blog, but things that amuses me may occur. Feel free to talk to me anytime even though I am known for answering slowly or being an asshole.
More can be found under "About me"
Note that I don't tolerate any Sam/Cas/Dean hate at all. Of course you can have some you like better than others, but hate is just unnecessary and rude.
Warning: I ship destiel
Work and then Bon Jovi concert umu
i’m bACK
lets talk fallen angels
(click for big)
okay but
this is quality humor right here
Matt and Misha at Asylum 10 (:
Dean’s never seen Castiel’s wings in reality, and now he never will.
Castiel talks about them quietly, only sometimes, when he’s feeling morose and nostalgic. Describes their span, the way they’d unfurl; how they were brown-black, dark, shiny when he was at his best. How warm they were.
Now they’re ragged, desperate things, and they shed feathers everywhere Castiel walks. He’s not strong enough to lift them, anymore; they drift against his back, trailing along the ground – or so he says.
Dean can’t see them; no one can see them now, not even Castiel, but he can feel them; how cold they are, how brittle. He falls during a hunt and looks so shocked and grief-stricken that for a moment Dean thinks he’s been grievously hurt – but, Castiel tells him later, it was only that he’d rolled over, and his wing had snapped, as easily as breaking a twig.
Castiel bleeds invisibly; carries the burden of cold halo and listless wings like manacles fastened around his shoulders and neck; and there is nothing that Dean can do to help him, nothing to stop the tide.
Castiel copes, or he is overcome; it changes, day by day. Sometimes he is quiet, pensive, and gentle; sometimes he is fine.
Other days he sleeps for hours on end, and won’t talk.
Other days, Dean catches him standing naked in front of the mirror, hands probing the unmarred skin of his back, looking for something to hold.
Something to think about:
Companion to my demon graphic [x]
(Yeah Lucifer should have been on this one instead, but whatevs)
I love the idea that because of the way that Castiel has fallen, his grace is gone but his wings and halo remain; halo faded, heavy, a weight around his head like a crown of thorns, and it slips - wings dead and folded against his back, grey and listless, tattered more with each day that drags itself through them.
