@winchester-cas / winchester-cas.tumblr.com
Kindness is often mistaken for softness and let me tell you, friends….that is a mistake you don’t want to make.
Kind people are not born that way, they do not stumble into it, kind people are forged in fire and darkness and imploding stars…they have steel cores. Throw a punch and you’re going to break your hand.
Kind people are kind because they know firsthand that life isn’t.
Forever one of my favorite things about Destiel, is that Dean was encouraged by his mother from the very start to believe in angels and to trust that they were valid and probably the most important creatures to ever exist, while Castiel was encouraged by his father from the very start to believe in humans and to trust that they were valid and probably the most important creatures to ever exist.
Both may not have believed it right away, but eventually they got there.
You are born with the ability to see whether people listen more often to the angel or the devil on their shoulder, based on the opacity of each- if they listen more to the angel, it’s more solid and the demon is more transparent, and vice versa. You recently met a guy online and you’re finally going to meet. You go in for a handshake and glance at his shoulders, but you can’t see the angel. Only a solid demon.
Run. That’s my first thought and it keeps playing in my head over and over again. Run!
“You OK?” asks the man before me.
I realize I’ve been standing frozen, probably looking spooked. “Yes,” I fake what I hope is a convincing smile. I look back at his right shoulder, there’s nothing there, then to his left shoulder where a solid colored devil rests.
As he turns to our table I glance over the restaurant to make sure my powers are still working. There’s a woman one table away with a transparent devil and a translucent angel, she listens to the angel more. The woman across from her has a devil that’s translucent, she listens to it a little more than she should.
I’ve had this power my whole life, to see which side one listens to, but never before have I seen a completely solid devil, never before have I seen the angel completely gone…
Run!
Turning back to him I seen he’s pulled my chair out for me, watching me expectantly.
I could run now but what if he follows? Maybe it’s best I don’t tip him off, assuming I haven’t already, and sneak out while he’s not looking.
“Thank you,” I sit down.
He sits across from me and looks down, pulling on his long sleeves. “Order whatever you want,” he mumbles, “don’t pay attention to the price.”
“Oh, OK thank you.” I can barely pay attention to the menu. I glance over the restaurant, planning an escape route from the restroom.
“It was at 5:50,” he says, picking right up from where our last conversation online left off.
“I watched that video a dozen times and couldn’t see it.”
As we talk he seems just like the shy sweet boy I met online but then I glance at the devil on his shoulder and remember to be scared.
I’m looking at his shoulder so often that he glances back to see what I’m looking at. Worried about it I glance down and gape; on his arm a cut peeks out from under his sleeve.
He sees me seeing it and panics, pulling his sleeves down.
My gaze falls to the table and we sit there in silence.
This whole time I’ve been avoiding the people with the more solid devils because they listen to them more, I never questioned what the devils were saying. His devil isn’t telling him to hurt me, it’s telling him to hurt himself, that he’s worthless and doesn’t deserve me; and me acting scared of him isn’t helping.
“Don’t listen,” slips out before I’ve finished getting my thoughts together. I take in a long breath and speak slowly. “Don’t listen to the voice that tells you you’re useless, that you’ll never make a difference… You’ve made a huge difference to me.”
I risk looking up and see him teary eyed. “Thank you,” he whispers, and beside his head a barely visible angel fades back into existence.
The last one though, whenever someone asks me for proof, I show THAT gif and say, “I dare you to find me anyone else who looks at their best friend like this and isn’t totally, completely in love.”
Totally Platonic Hearteyes: A Lesson For Straight Dudebros.
Edition IV of the For Straight Dudebros series, after Fell For My Dudebro, My Heart Leads To My Straight Dudebro, and Last Night On Earth With My Dudebro. Upcoming release scheduled: Totally Heterosexual Platonic Wedding Gifts for Dudebros: Have You Given Him A Mixtape?
@intelligentshipper “Totally Heterosexual Platonic Wedding Gifts for Dudebros: Have You Given Him A Mixtape?” 😂😂😂
I think edition six in the works is “The Married Life of Dudebros: What to Do If Your No Homosband Is Hanging Out With Other Dudebros.”
but the draft is rough because there’s a few editions including “Help, My Brother and His No Homosband Are Fighting Around Me” from an external perspective.
Please check out the accompanying podcast What To Do When You Panic About Your Platonic Dudebro For Absolutely No Reason Really with episodes like “Why the Fuck Did He Leave Again”, “I Am Totally Fine With Other People Finding My Dudebro Attractive,” and “I Wonder If He Even Listened To The Mixed Tape.”
Epilogue:
“Sitting on the beach wearing matching Hawaiian shirts sipping cocktails with little umbrellas with my brother and no homo dude bro best friend”
Even though you used to say umbrella cocktails were stupid but now have enough character development that you admit you like them but still have to add in hula girls cos all this is a little too blatantly homo otherwise given you just spent 9 years building up how no homo dudebro friend is actually your full homo Disney love story endgame, your faith, your family, your everything.
- or am I confusing this with canon Supernatural again.
The most hilarious thing about the fact Buckbeak had a trial and lost is that later on JKR resolves the issue by having Hagrid take him in again and renaming him Witherwings. That’s literally all it took. What if in POA, Hagrid simply said, “Sorry, Buckbeak flew away.”
“There’s a hippogriff right there, Hagrid.”
“A different hipprogriff.”
“I’m… pretty sure that’s the same hipprogriff.”
“Prove it.”
no dna tests we die like scientifically underdeveloped societies
Prisoner of Azkaban continues to be the most frustrating book
Someone should have just adopted Sirius and started calling him Gerald.
Remus: Erm… this is our new order member, my… cousin Gerald. Gerald White.
“Mr. Lupin that is Sirius Black with glasses!” “Oh come now Minister, Sirius Black doesn’t wear glasses. That wouldn’t make sense.” “Well have Mr. White take off his glasses then!” “He can’t he needs them to see.”
it got better
It’s honestly a miracle to me that wizarding society doesn’t collapse every other week because like
You’ve got this world full of people who can destroy whole buildings or turn people into beetles or make vehicles fly just by waving a stick at them
And there is literally no common sense
Anywhere to be found
Voldemort would never have had anyone find out he was back if he just went around calling himself Steve
Okay, see, I thought I saved this post to comment on it but I’d like to bring up
The Minister would NEVER EVER disbelieve in Gerald White. He’d buy it hook line and sinker. The wizarding world would buy it hook line and sinker. The GOBLINS wouldn’t but wizards have been shown to be pretty blindingly clueless. Still, Gringotts would grudgingly give Sirius access to the Black fortune.
But, but, but, you know the one person
the one person
who Gerald White would drive AB-SO-LUTELY FUCKING BATSHIT?
Severus Snape.
Snape would do everything, EVERYTHING, to get people to believe that it’s Sirius. But the Order would ignore it (they accepted Sirius as Sirius before anyway) and Remus would just be so… so affronted.
‘Severus, he is my cousin.’
And Sirius would love it. He’d love the fact that Snape just hated it. He’d be the BEST DAMN GERALD WHITE EVER b/c Snape is doing everything from dropping veritaserum into his firewhisky to capturing a dementor in a box and releasing it on Sirius when he least expects it
That one causes problems for a bare minute because SHIT A DEMENTOR ATTEMPTED TO GIVE GERALD THE KISS MAYBE SNAPE IS RIGHT except Harry comes forward and is like ‘excuse me, I’ve never committed a crime and dementors are ALWAYS attacking me, I think they’re attracted to glasses’
and the magical community is like ‘shit, yeah, you’re right’
and just
Spare. Snape goes spare.
Now I’m imagining Fred and George sneaking extra Weasleys into Snape’s class manifests every year.
Annnd I wrote the thing. Sort of. It kinda got out of hand.
-
The first year they’re just Fred and George, except when occasionally they’re Gred and Forge, but it’s not too long before Snape just stops trying to tell them apart and just treats them as the joint entity “Weasley,” who happens to be in two places at once.
The next year they take turns attending first-year Potions class as Barry Weasley, the glasses-wearing Weasley cousin who missed the Sorting Ceremony because he tried to swallow three chocolate frogs at once on a bet from his twin cousins and got sick.
Snape has a choice between asking questions about Barry and punishing Fred and George for tormenting their cousin, and punishing Fred and George wins out. At this point, it’s not really that weird–the Weasleys do tend toward large families–and any excuse to give the twins detention is basically the sort of thing you could put under a box propped up with a stick on a rope and a “TOTALLY NOT A TRAP” sign to catch Severus Snape.
So he figures Barry Weasley is real. He comments on the boy’s resemblance to Fred and George, and Barry nods and says “Everyone says that. I could fool everyone but them, except eventually people figure out there’s only one of me.”
Snape doesn’t have much cause for complaint. Barry is not a difficult student (the twins are, at this point, quite happy with the joke for its own sake and so don’t risk the Barry persona on tormenting him), perhaps a bit prone to letting his mind wander (it helps that George is actually interested in Potions, and uses the second run as an opportunity to experiment), but there have been no outright disasters centered around his cauldron, which is a lot more than can be said for the twins.
The next year is Fred and George’s third year, Barry’s second year, and Ron’s first year. They don’t take Ron entirely into their confidence … but they do let on that they’ve invented a fictional “Cousin Barry” to mess with Snape a bit, in case Snape asks, but Snape doesn’t ask.
He does mention Barry Weasley to Barry’s supposed Head of House, but by pure luck he manages to do so when Minerva is sufficiently preoccupied by that late night with four first-years sneaking out after curfew, and she hears “Harry and Weasley,” and nods, and asks him something about a Gryffindor fifth-year she’s concerned about, and, well, that basically settles it.
Fred and George run into a minor difficulty in that they don’t have a free period coinciding with “Barry’s” potions class, but they get lucky enough to have History of Magic during that class, and Binns wouldn’t notice if Fred or George set the classroom on fire, much less if Fred or George is always absent.
Fred and George are at this point quite satisfied with getting “Barry” through seven years of Hogwarts without Snape realizing he’s fictional, but then at the beginning of their fourth year Snape is absent from the Sorting and the Welcome Feast and … well. Opportunity beckons.
Since Fred and George are pragmatic about which elective classes they take (they’re much more interested in independent study directed toward magical jokes and pranks), they have several free periods and it only takes a significant look between them to agree that, yes, they can absolutely handle being one more person just for Potions class.
They’re a bit more advanced at their magic now, and a bit of diluted Shrinking Potion and a Freckle Charm create Barnaby, Barry’s younger brother. There’s a minor concern with Ginny being in the same class, and more importantly, Operation Barnaby is still in the planning stages when McGonagall hands out the schedules and they realize they have Transfiguration during the requisite class period and McGonagall will definitely notice if a twin is missing.
Thus is is that Barnaby Weasley, Hufflepuff, is born.
Snape doesn’t give away anything more than a mild frown at another Weasley showing up on the class roster, but he does raise an eyebrow and inquire, “Hufflepuff?” after reading his name.
Barnaby (Fred, at the moment) turns red with the help of a Blushing Charm and looks hurt and defensive, which makes the Hufflepuffs, upset at the perceived insult to their House, accept him without question. Nobody ever asks either twin why he only shows up in Potions class; they get that it’s some long-con joke focused on Snape and they don’t interfere.
Barnaby is not quite as hopeless at Potions as Neville, but he is prone to the same wandering attention span as his brother, only more so. His potions regularly fail and occasionally explode, usually in a way that to Snape indicates carelessness with the ingredients and tells Fred or George something useful about the what happens when you do that.
The next year there are no new Weasley children, officially, but when Fred plops himself down next to George on the train and says “So what about a girl?” George knows exactly what he’s talking about.
They mix a hair-growing potion on the train, and have to hide it quickly when Draco Malfoy comes running into their compartment, frightened of the dementors.
George takes the hair potion and the shrinking potion and the pair of them use the Marauders’ Map to intercept Snape on his way to the Great Hall. Fred hides behind a pillar and casts a Duplicating Illusion Charm on himself and tries hard not to burst out laughing as George plays Nasturtium Weasley, little sister to Barry and Barnaby, who’s somehow managed to get lost on the way to the Great Hall.
Snape’s not the slightest bit pleased to be getting yet another absent-minded Weasley cousin, snarls, snaps something vaguely cutting, and leads her towards the Great Hall, intending to hand her over directly to Professor McGonagall; instead he runs into Fred and George (actually Fred and his charm double); Fred explained that they saw their cousin wandering off and went to go get her. Snape lectures the pair of them on wandering, accuses them of being up to no good, and stalks off to direct evil looks at Professor Lupin.
Which, luckily, takes up so much of his attention that he doesn’t pay attention to the Sorting. Fred and George decide the next morning, after careful consultation of multiple students’ class schedules, to put her in Hufflepuff along with Barnaby.
They strike it lucky again, in that first-year Potions only conflicts with Care of Magical Creatures, to which only one twin is going (they don’t see much point in both of them taking the same class, figuring that one of them knowing something is as good as both of them knowing it and they can teach each other more effectively than anyone else can teach them, an argument that failed to impress Professor McGonagall into letting them each out of half their classes back in first year); Hagrid won’t be expecting to see two of them.
Nasturtium Weasley, it develops, has quite a lot of bright red hair and a tendency to hyperfocus on ingredients or processes, leading to a lot of ruined potions when she keeps stirring too long or spends the whole class period shredding the shrivelfigs or gets lost examining the lobes of a dirigible plum leaf. Fred and George, taking turns being Nasturtium, are happy to spend the time just thinking through some interesting research they’ve been doing or contemplating a problem with their latest invention or just brainstorming new joke ideas until Snape appears, bellowing about melted cauldrons and the people who don’t even notice them because they’re too fascinated by the down on a downy mage-thistle.
But they’re being run just a bit ragged at it and decide that three is enough–until they wander past the Hospital Wing at just the right time to hear Snape bellowing apoplectically about Harry Potter, and Dumbledore’s more reasoned tones making light of the idea that Harry and his friends were in two places at once.
Fred and George look at each other and a light goes on.
They’ve heard about time-turners. They’ve also seen Hermione Granger run herself ragged studying textbooks for every subject available. They know how many subjects there are, and how many class periods in a week.
As one, they reach out and lightly smack each other on the head for not putting it together earlier.
Snape comes raging out the door just in time to see them and gives them detention. Fred and George scowl after him and turn and look at each other. And nod.
It’s on.
Fred “accidentally” bumps into Hermione when she’s on her way to McGonagall’s office, pretends to lose his balance, and falls hard to the floor. It gives him bruises, but sometimes sacrifices must be made for the successful theft of major, highly-regulated, top-secret magical artifacts. Hermione turns to help him, and George switches the time-turner with an elaborately crafted fake, a Confundus Charm and a Diversion Charm giving it the correct density of magical energy signature and ensuring that anyone who tries to use it will find an urgent reason to put it off. (George is super pleased with that one; it’s a time-turner, so quite naturally anyone who can use it has plenty of time to use it later.)
Next year is their sixth year, which brings enough of a drop in courses (there are definite benefits to getting only two OWLS each, though they doubt their mother would agree) that they only need to use the time-turner once, when Barry has Potions when Fred has Transfiguration and George has Herbology. They’re almost disappointed by this, until Fred gets a devastatingly diabolical grin on his face and says, “what if there were two of them?”
George’s face mirrors the grin in an instant, and he responds with his own suggestion. “Cousins.” A pause. “And they hate each other.”
And so come into being Gentian Weasley, younger sister of Barry, Barnaby, and Nasturtium Weasley, and her cousin from yet another branch of the Weasley family, Bilious Weasley the Second.
This time they give themselves some insurance, and make very good use of the time-turner, by charming Snape into seeing the new arrivals be Sorted. For a diversion they let Peeves the Poltergeist into the kitchens and assist him in creating havoc (testing out a potential product, tentatively named the Souper Swimming Pool, in the process); the amount of commotion takes three Professors to sort out, one of them Snape, and it’s surprisingly easy to hit the distracted Potions Master with the prototype of a Daydream Charm, highly modified to suit the occasion.
Once they’ve finished the time loop, they blast themselves with Aguamenti charms to make it look like they’ve just come out of the rain and sit down. Snape sees Weasley, Bilious and Weasley, Gentian be sorted into Gryffindor one right after another and summons himself a bottle of firewhiskey.
This is a mistake, as he has the keen and ignoble joy of being hungover for the worst Potions class he’s ever taught, including that one time when somebody (Potter) threw a firework into the Swelling Solution.
Gentian snickers when Snape reads Bilious’ name. Bilious calls Gentian “freckles.” Slytherin students from accross the room (the both of them are Gryffindors this time) look on in obvious amusement. Snape looks constipated. Their own supposed housemates eye them, looking confused, concerned, and generally bamboozled but none of them vocalize their curiosity.
Fred and George share a secret, gleeful smile, and escalate.
They spill things on each other: water, pigeon milk, stinksap. Gentian breaks a salamander egg on Bilious’ forehead; Bilious stabs Gentian with a knarl quill. They drop the wrong ingredients surreptitiously into each other’s potions. Bilious’ cauldron spews copious amounts of green smoke, gaining a lecture and losing five points for Gryffindor; his retaliation recreates Neville Longbottom’s disaster a few years prior and melts Gentian’s cauldron. Gentian shrieks at Bilious, Bilious dumps the whole jar of puffer-fish eggs over Gentian’s head, and Gentian launches herself at him, punching and clawing and screaming her head off.
Snape separates them with a wave of his wand and threatens them with a month’s worth of detention collecting bubotuber pus. Gentian says, “You can’t do that, I’ll tell McGonagall on you,” which neatly puts Snape off telling Professor McGonagall himself, because honestly, she probably will take issue with it. Bilious smirks loftily and sneers, “Baby. I like bubotuber pus. It smells like petrol.”
“How,” Snape asks suspiciously, “would a wizardborn young man like yourself know about petrol?” and Gentian (secretly Fred) hides a wince; their father’s particular fascination with Muggle things might be their undoing. But George recovers, saying proudly, “My dad’s an accountant.”
The Slytherins laugh. Fred catches the reference and Gentian says, “Oh, right, your dad’s the family Squib.”
Bilious grabs his cauldron and makes to empty it over her head, only to find that the contents are basically a solid baked into the cauldron’s bottom. Snape casts it away and tells them they’re more of a disaster than Neville Longbottom and deducts fifty points from Gryffindor, and they spend the walk out of the dungeons trying to convince their housemates that the points don’t actually matter that much.
Snape goes straight to McGonagall to complain, but refers to them as “Those two damned Weasleys,” and McGonagall nods and makes sympathetic faces and promises to speak to them. Fred and George get a detention with McGonagall at the same time as Gentian and Bilious have one with Snape, which makes them as happy as a time-turner can make two mischief-minded teenagers in possession thereof.
That year is a delight. They have a Triwizard Tournament to watch, a small multitude of visiting students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, many of them attractive, to interact with, and five alter egos with which to torment Professor Snape. Moreover, with the time-turner and the extra Potions classes, they’ve made significant progress on their product line and are turning a brisk business with the student body.
Snape learns quickly and the first time is also the last time he schedules Gentian and Bilious for a detention together. Fred and George take it in turns to run certain of their inventions past Flitwick and Sprout to gain back some of the points they lose in the first-year Potions class. By the time summer rolls around, Fred calculates that they’ve used the time-turner enough to have come of age and potentially erased the Trace on them.
They pay Mundungus Fletcher a galleon to come somewhere out-of-the-way with them and lend them his wand to cast a few spells. When no owls show up carrying Ministry warning letters, they head to Diagon Alley and celebrate by buying a storefront and the flat above it, and spend most of the summer there, fixing it up and getting things ready for a product launch next year. NEWTS, schmoots.
There’s of course that annoying business about Voldemort returning, and their mother decides the best way to keep them out of the Order’s business is to turn them into house-elves, but they come up with a few charms to do housework slowly by magic, and adjust the illusion spells, and put in just as much of an appearance as necessary.
Then September rolls around again, and their new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher is even worse than Snape and Lockheart combined, and just like that, Barry, Barnaby, Nasturtium, Gentian, and Bilious all add themselves to Defense Against the Dark Arts classes.
This largely sucks, because the DADA classes are utterly useless this year, but Fred gets the idea of substituting their alter egos and eventually themselves with illusion charms (”She doesn’t actually teach, she’ll never notice”), which makes George laugh hysterically because they’ve progressed from attending classes multiple times as different people to using doppelgangers to avoid going to class at all, and the two tactics are completely at odds with each other. But they do it.
Umbridge doesn’t notice, and pretty soon the only class they show up for is the one where second-years Bilious and Gentian are forever hurling hateful looks, creative insults, badly-aimed spells, and improvised projectiles at each other.
Umbridge starts taking points from Gryffindor off at the first “blast-ended walnut” from Gentian and assigns the first detention at Bilious’ elaborately-detailed Muggle catapult. Fred and George add a line of Magical Model Muggle Major Munitions to the product array at the soon-to-be-hatched Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes, and make copious notes on how to use them as actual weaponry once Voldemort makes his appearance.
Fred writes “I must not fight in class” with Umbridge’s quill for six hours and then steals it. George listens to Fred’s description of the evening, takes one look at Fred’s hand, and breaks into Umbridge’s office and takes a generous crap on her desk. “Crude,” says Fred admiringly, “but deserved.”
The next time Barnaby has DADA, Fred goes as him in person and tests out a Skiving Snackbox. Throwing up on Umbridge is satisfying. He gets detention and writes “I will be more careful with how I am sick” some nine hundred times with a completely normal quill, charmed to write in red ink like a Muggle fountain pen, and mimes innocence when Umbridge expresses confusion at the lack of redness and swelling on his hand.
Gentian and Bilious get into a full-on wizards’ duel in their next DADA class, and aim so terribly that Umbridge gets hit more than they do. They both get detention, and Fred and George send illusions in their stead.
Next week they do it again, and Umbridge spends half the afternoon in the hospital wing, getting tentacles removed. Colin Creevey, confined to bed rest for a case of Exploding Hiccups, sneaks a picture and later trades it to the Weasley Twins for a Pygmy Puff, two Daydream Charms, and a promise to look into developing Extendable Eyes.
Umbridge goes to complain to McGonagall, who listens to the entire rant about a pair of students she’s never heard of with a reasonably straight face. Then she blandly tells Umbridge she’ll look into it, and turns back to her essay-marking.
McGonagall wanders down to the staff room the next morning and relates the whole conversation to the other teachers. Flitwick and Sprout are practically rolling on the floor by the time she finishes, but Snape is standing there looking Stupified; he makes the biggest miscalculation he’s made in years, and asks, “You mean they’re not real?”
McGonagall looks at him, calculates what all it would take for him to be asking that question, and promptly laughs herself sick.
Snape waits, looking like he might catch fire, until she recovers. “Yes, Severus. I have never heard of a Gentian Weasley, and the only Bilious Weasley I know is my age.”
Snape says, “There’s two Bilious Weas—who names these people?!”
“There’s one, Severus. I can assure you that there is no such person attending this school at this time.”
Snape thinks. “Barry Weasley? Barnaby Weasley? Nasturtium Weasley?”
McGonagall’s staring at him. “No.”
He grimaces, then tries, “I don’t suppose Ginny, Ronald, and their siblings are fictional?”
“No such luck, Severus.”
He closes his eyes. Opens them. “Fred and George.”
“Most assuredly real, Severus.”
“No, I meant–they did this. They’re responsible for this, aren’t they?”
“I would imagine so,” McGonagall says, a hint of a smile hovering about her lips.
He eyes her. “Shut up, Minerva.”
She claps a hand to her mouth to hide a giggle, and he turns and sweeps from the room.
As it turns out, he has Gentian and Bilious the next period.
Fred and George, blissfully unaware, are launching into their standard pretend fight—in this case, swordfighting with Transylvanian Lesser Pseudoporcupine quills—when Snape arrives at their table and claps a hand on their near shoulders. He’s smiling like a dragon.
“Fred. George.”
Shit.
They have a moment of sharp dismay, but it doesn’t last. They are the Weasley Twins, they’ve been fooling Snape for years with this prank, and they have money hidden in multiple places and the deed to a shop in Diagon Alley and all the official education they’ll ever need.
They turn and grin back.
“Well done, Professor,” says George. “How’d you find out?”
“Professor McGonagall told me.” His smile was a thin, sharp blade.
“No way.”
“Really?”
“How’d she know?”
“She wouldn’t.”
“I’m afraid I did, Mr. Weasley,” says McGonagall from the doorway. “Although admittedly without knowing you were pranking Professor Snape as well as Professor Umbridge; I thought I was merely sharing a very amusing anecdote with the other teachers.”
They’re drawing curious looks, though fortunately Fred-as-Gentian’s cauldron is hissing like a teakettle and drowning out the conversation; Snape snaps at them to pay attention to their cauldrons before jerking his head at his office door.
Once they’re ensconced within what Fred once called the Snape Museum of Slimy Things, and Fred and George have undone the spells and potions that make them Bilious and Gentian, McGonagall turns to Snape and says, “I forbid you to expel them, Severus.”
He’s about to respond when Fred says, “Go ahead, expel us.”
That gets them two very surprised professors. George shrugs. “Everything’s ready to go. We’ve got a shop in Diagon Alley and enough stock to fill it and enough expertise for a lifetime of success.”
Snape frowns and asks, “Do I want to know what you’re planning to sell?”
George says, “No” at the same times as Fred says, “It’s a joke shop.”
McGonagall looks like she’s trying not to laugh. Snape looks like he’s swallowed a sea cucumber. He opens his mouth, closes it, and then says, “I would have never imagined an argument that could convince me not to try to expel you, but you’ve just provided it. I will not be assisting you in selling pranks to the student body of Hogwarts on a retail level.”
George says, “Actually, we’ve been doing it since the middle of last year.”
Snape turns to McGonagall. “I quit.”
“No.”
“Hey, let Umbridge expel us,” Fred suggests. George snickers.
Snape looks at them, and then at McGonagall, and then back to the twins.
“No, you’re going to stay here,” Snape says, a look in his eyes that makes them wonder what all Umbridge has said to him. “You’re going to continue to be Gentian and Bilious—and Nasturtium and Barnaby and Barry.” He looks to McGonagall as if for confirmation, and George considers that both professors were young once, and were quite possibly as complete and utter hellions as him and Fred.
Snape smiles like a knife. “Give her hell.”
He’s never felt so much respect for a teacher before.
“Mr. Weasley?” Snape adds, almost as an afterthought, his eyes shifting from one to the other as if unsure which of them he’s addressing.
“Yessir?”
“Fifty points from Gryffindor.”
Fred and George smile at each other as they follow McGonagall into the hall.
Worth it.
They follow orders. Bilious and Gentian hit Umbridge with so many “accidental” hexes that she finally bans them from her classroom. Barnaby functions as a sort of a Patient Zero for Umbridge-itis. Barry uses his status as the quiet one to construct elaborate spells that have Umbridge’s classroom warping itself into odd shapes or growing spines out the walls or puffing up like a balloon and trapping her at the bottom. Nasturtium stands up in class one day and slams an epic poem about how teachers who don’t teach are useless and a sea sponge would do a better job of earning the salary.
Between them, they work to set up elaborate pranks and position Umbridge to catch the worst of it. After Dumbledore’s removal, Fred and George set off the best fireworks display Hogwarts has ever seen, and McGonagall gives Gryffindor one hundred points; Gentian and Bilius, usually the only ones still played in person by the Weasley twins, play Umbridge beautifully the next morning, fighting each other as usual and then turning ally, working together to attack her with flurries of squawking birds and flying, shitting replica nifflers.
When Umbridge twigs that they’re all working together she stands up in the middle of the Great Hall at dinner and demands that every Weasley in the place stand up.
Four Weasleys, all siblings, do so.
“Where are the rest of you?” she hisses to Ron, who looks clueless. Ginny cocks an eyebrow and looks to Fred and George speculatively. Umbridge turns to them and they smile like sharks.
Fred climbs up onto the table, George right on his heels. “Ladies and gentlemen, a performance by myself and my twin!”
George produces a potion, downs it, and becomes Gentian.
Fred narrates as George shifts between the various fictional cousins, ending by restoring his own appearance, putting on a pair of glasses, and becoming Barry. Snape slaps his face down into his hands. George finishes by announcing that these new appearance potions, and the fireworks, and a multitude of other products, would be available at 93 Diagon Alley, home to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.
“Not so fast,” says Umbridge, holding out her wand. “The pair of you are going to be expelled—but first you are going to find out what happens to troublemakers in my school.”
“We’re not,” says George, “But let me tell you something: this is not, and will never be, your school.” He looks around at the students, at the teachers, at Snape and McGonagall standing a short distance away, and he and Fred wave their arms in a mirrored gesture to take in the whole student body, and they say, the pair of them together, “This is our school.”
The cheer from around them shakes the rafters.
Then they raise their wands and say, again in unison, “Accio brooms!”
The brooms make holes in the walls on their way in, and Fred and George mount them and soar up among the floating candles, and Fred has to cast a Sonorus Charm to make himself heard over the cheering.
“Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes, number 93, Diagon Alley: Our new premises!”
And George waves to Peeves, who’s floating up there along with them, attracted by the promise of mayhem. “Give her hell from us.”
Peeves salutes, and Fred and George fly out the front door to freedom.
When they return to Hogwarts almost two years later, their time spent as the fake Weasleys serves all of Hogwarts well: the muggle munitions devices, some elaborate magical shielding, judiciously-applied daydream charms turned hallucinogenic means of luring the Death Eaters to shooting at false targets, and projectiles that created all manner of interesting effects, save the day for many people in the Battle of Hogwarts.
Fred never knows he came close to dying. George never knows he came close to losing his twin. They go back to Diagon Alley, afterwards, and as the world puts itself back together, they help people laugh.
Okay, but
Picture the following year
Fred and George are out of school now, as are Barry, Barnaby, Billious, Gentian, and Nasturtium Weasley.
That should be the end of it
And then in comes Floribunda Weasley
And no one knows who she is
And then the next year there’s Reginald Weasley, followed by Horace Weasley and Hogarth Weasley (also twins)
And every year there’s one or more Weasleys, even when there are no Weasleys enrolled in Hogwarts at all
One year there’s a class where all of the other students have disappeared and only Weasleys show up in their place
That one sends two teachers fleeing into the night, screaming
And this is how Weasleys become cryptids
Everyone knows about Weasleys and has stories about Weasleys, but everyone knows they aren’t really real
And future generations of actual Weasleys find themselves in the odd position where everyone knows that Weasleys aren’t actually real, so they can get away with anything
And Fred and George have an entire wall full of detention slips under the names of various Weasleys over the years that they love to show off
They’re proudest of the ones they had nothing to do with
My day: MADE
This has gotten even better since I last saw it.
AHJNBV GYXUYUBVIBUHNBJKHPHMUJBVIYGUIBUHNOYGUJHKBJK GUV YXFSYUUIYFHM
Today, 2nd may, is a good day to remember that somewhere in a parallel universe Eileen and Cas stayed up last night preparing a cake for Sam’s birthday and a little surprise party for today, while Dean was thinking about a good excuse to get Sam out of the bunker and a great brothers plan for them, and distracting Cas all the time making him laugh.
Dean falls in love with Cas everyday.
When Cas appears in the kitchen doorway, his hair a crazy mess, an ugly yellow t-shirt that says “ save the bees”, Dean’s old pajamas pants and a grumpy expression on his face. When he sits down and smiles softly at Dean when he gives him coffee in his favourite mug.
Dean falls in love, he can’t help it.
When they do research and Cas has this focus expression, his brown furrowed. When Cas looks up and their eyes meet and Dean can feel Cas’ feet touching his leg softly.
He falls in love then, too.
Just like when he can hear singing Cas in the shower, sometimes songs he knows by heart too, other times ancient songs probably nobody has heard in a really long time.
He stops and listens, and he falls in love again.
When night comes and Cas lets out a soft “ good night” pressing his body impossibly closer to Dean’s. When Dean just kiss the top of his head.
And he can’t do anything else, just fall in love and wait for a new day to start all over again, because he will never stop falling in love with Castiel.
My name is Courtney, and I was born at 5:15 AM on October 26th, 1988. When I was born my parents didn’t ask the doctor if I was a boy or a girl, or if I was healthy. Instead they asked, “what’s the number?”
The room braced for the doctor’s answer. My parents held each other close, both openly crying as they prayed for good news. “Her number is…” started the doctor, flipping my right wrist over and reading the black numbers that spread across it. “152310232048.”
My parents cried in relief.
I would live a good life.
I had a good number.
You see, in my world, everyone is born with a 12-digit number on their right wrist. What does the number mean exactly? Well—the number gives us the day we die. We don’t know how we will die, but we will—at that exact time. Think of it like the expiration date you see on a jug of milk. After the expiration date, you throw away the milk, right? Well, that is what the marks on our wrists mean. We obviously don’t get thrown away in the trash, but we cease to exist after that date. And just like that jug of milk buried in some landfill, we too will be buried in the ground.
My number is 152310232048.
Which means that at 3:23 PM on October 23rd, 2048—I will die.
I will live to be 59 years old.
I have a good number. It isn’t the best number. My brother is going to live to be 88. My parents, couldn’t believe it when the doctor read his number out loud. He will live 29 years longer than me. He will see so much more than me, experience so much more than me. He might even live to see his great-great grandchildren—I’ll be lucky to see my grandchildren.
I sometimes get jealous when I see his number.
But this is my life.
I can’t change my number.
It is permanent.
Medicine, money, and miracles do not change your number. You can certainly die earlier then your number, but to die before your number is rare. People just tend to be more careful. After all, when you are constantly walking around with a literal reminder of your time left on earth on your wrist, you tend appreciate the life you have a little more.
I have a good number.
I’m reminded of this when I see other people’s number.
The first time this happened was when I was 5 years old.
On my first day of school, I was in kindergarten and I’ve never really interacted with any other kids besides my older cousins. I was nervous, so when recess was called, I decided to go to the swings. Anyone who liked swings as much as me—well, they were cool in my book.
On my way to an open swing a wild boy with a dinosaur shirt, and brown eyes full of mischief, performed a back flip off the swings and nearly knocked me over in his crash landing. He jumped up, dusted off his pants and smiled at me and said, “My names Devon, and I am going to live to be 57.”
It was such a typical kid way of introducing themselves. Adults tended to be more secretive of their numbers. Wearing watches, or long-sleeved shirts to cover up their numbers, but five year olds—we didn’t understand the concept of subtlety.
Clearly.
Another body quickly landed next to him, this one thankfully on their feet. It was a red-haired girl, with two perfectly braided pig tails. “My names Fiona, and I’m going to live to be 62.”
Another body landed next to her. He stumbled a bit on his landing, and his glasses fell down the bridge of his nose as he found his balance. “Hi, I’m Oscar,” he smiled, shaking his long brown hair out of his eyes as he pushed his glasses up his nose. “I’m going to live to be 17.”
Mind you—we were in kindergarten. We were literally learning our ABC’s, learning how to tie our shoes, and zip up our coats, but the concept of numbers—that we didn’t need to learn. Our parents made sure we knew what our number was, and what their number was, and what grandma’s number was—numbers were literally ingrained into our minds, much like the literal numbers that adorned our wrists.
Which meant even at 5 years old, I knew that Oscar—well Oscar, had a bad number.
It must have showed on my face because the boy—a boy who I didn’t even know, hugged me. And as he squeezed me, he said, “It’s okay,” before pulling back and smiling. “My dad’s say that seventeen is plenty of time. They said it is isn’t about how high your number is—but it’s about what you do with the number you get.”
Looking back now, as an adult thinking about having my own child—I’d probably say the same thing to my child if they were born with a bad number. What else can you do? You can’t change your child’s number. You can’t give your child more time, no matter how much you wish you could take the numbers off your wrist and place them on your child’s—you just can’t. Your job as a parent is to protect your children, but you can’t protect them from the inevitable, so instead, you give them something else.
Oscar’s dads gave him hope.
His dads were great people. I grew close to them as we progressed through school because obviously, Oscar, Fiona and Devon and me—we became best friends after the day on the swings. We called our group “The Swingers,” much to the embarrassment of our parents. We didn’t understand why they didn’t like our group nickname when we were young, but we finally understood when we were 15—and thanks to the internet, we learned exactly what “swingers” were. But even after learning the sexual nature of our group nickname, we still kept it, because honestly, what teenagers didn’t like tormenting their parents?
“Courtney where are you going? It’s late!”
“Dad said I can go to Oscar’s house!”
“And what will you be doing at Oscar’s house?”
“God mom—we are just having a swinger party, can I go now?”
The look of embarrassment on my parent’s face was always perfect—especially in public.
Speaking of Oscar’s house. His house became the “hang out” spot for us four. Mostly because his dads had an awesome basement, and his dad Jerry was professional Chef, which meant we ate good there. But back to Oscar’s dads—they were awesome. They adopted Oscar when he was just an infant. His mother gave him up when she saw his number. It was an epidemic in our world. Foster homes were full of children with bad numbers.
But Oscar’s dads, they didn’t see his number. They just saw Oscar. This happy, intelligent, beautiful blue-eyed child who just so happened to be destined to die young. They didn’t see his number—instead they just saw Oscar.
Devon, Fiona, and I—we only saw Oscar too.
Most of the kids in our class didn’t really attempt to get to know Oscar, because honestly, what was the point? He wouldn’t be around for long. So, it was the four of us—for as long as we had the four of us.
We laughed.
We cried.
We fought.
We experienced our first kisses.
We loved.
We had our hearts broken.
We got drunk once—never again.
We got high—more than once.
We just lived.
“The Swingers” lived every day to the fullest—until the day came when four was about to become three. Oscar’s day would land just a few weeks before our Senior graduation. We always knew his number, but it never seemed real until it came so close to the actual date on our calendar.
Oscar took accelerated courses so that he could graduate before—his number came up. The school planned a graduation ceremony just for him the day before his number. His dad’s and his extended family fills the stands, the rest of his class sit in the chairs, the very same chairs they will soon fill in a couple of weeks when the class of 2007 would all walk together. The principal called out Oscar’s name, and he stepped up to the microphone.
Oscar was the schools valedictorian. He stayed late after school, he studied well into the night, he worked hard—so hard, that his dedication to his studies really got in the way of “swinger” time. One day, after another late night of not seeing Oscar because he was studying for a Chemistry test, I yelled at him. “It is just a Chemistry test Oscar! If you get a B, it won’t be the end of the world!”
Oscar barely blinked an eye at my outburst, instead, much like that day in front of the swings—he pulled me into a hug. “Look, this is the only time I have to be great,” he said. “I don’t get anything after this. So, if this is all I get—I’m going to be the best.”
And he did.
He became the best.
A 4.0 grade point average
An SAT score of 1560.
And he never filled out a single college application.
Oscar cleared his throat in front of the microphone, garnering everyone’s attention. “Thank you for everyone who came today. It means a lot, to me. Very much like my life, I’m going to keep this speech short.”
Gasps echoed through the gym and Oscar smiled.
“That was not meant to be a joke. Please don’t think that I am making light of the fact that tomorrow is my number. Instead, I say that I will keep this speech short—because I think the world tends to greatly underestimate the power of something short.”
“My mother gave me up for adoption when I was only 1 minute old. As soon as the doctor read my number, she signed over custody of me to the state. I always wondered, how can I be judged of my quality of life, before I’ve even taken my first shit.”
Laughter echoed from the students, gasps echoed from the parents, and grumbles of disapproval echoed from the teacher’s and administration. But Oscar just smiled, as he looked back at the principal. “Feel free to give me a detention this weekend for cussing,” he joked, earning another chuckle from the students.
“She was wrong—by the way,” continued Oscar, his gaze going back out to the gym. “Anyone who ever stared at my number, and looked at me with sadness—you were wrong. I have lived—not as long as our parents and not as long as you all will live—but make no mistake, I have lived. My life may have been short, but it doesn’t mean it has been any less significant as someone who lived well into their 80’s.”
Taking in a breath, he gave his parents and then the swingers a shaky smile. “Every second of every single day for the past seventeen years—have been lived to the fullest because simply, I didn’t have the time to waste. Every moment of my life has counted, cherished and loved—can you say the same thing about yours?”
Oscar died on 2:13 PM on March 16th, 2007.
Like his number said, he lived to be 17.
He had a bad number
But he didn’t let his number define him.
Instead he lived every day, until his number was called.
This story was adapted and turned into a 50 page short story, and is now available for purchase through Amazon!
The Kindle format can be purchased here for $2.99
The Paperback format can be purchased here for $5.99
It is also free with Kindle Unlimited!
Thank you for reading this story, and for your support if your purchased the book!
I’m in love and I’m buying it right now
“I’m sorry it’s… It’s too weird,” said Dean, taking a step back.
“Weird how?” frowned Cas.
“You’re, well, a guy, for one thing. Man, you’ve got stubble. I mean I’ve kissed some girls that kinda felt like they had stubble but it wasn’t like this…” he said, attempting a chuckle.
“If it helps, I am not really male. Angels do not have a gender as humans do. I am a celestial wavelength in a male vessel.“
"No, no, that doesn’t help, thanks.”
They frowned at each other. Dean shifted nervously.
“I am somewhat attached to this one, but I could find a female vessel if you would prefer…” said Cas eventually. His uncertain eyes met Dean’s before darting away.
“No! I mean, er, no. I’m attached to this one, too. I like it. It’s you. Don’t change.”
Dean sighed heavily and sat down. Cas sat beside him, leaving a gap between them large enough for a third person.
“Look, I know it’s gonna be hard for you to understand, but I’ve been hiding this part of me my whole life, even from myself. I… It was always easier than trying to understand, to admit it out loud. It worked when it was just a cute guy smiling at me in a bar, or a crush on a guy I knew I’d never see once I drove on to the next town. I could push those away and not let it get to me. But this… This thing between us… It won’t go away. I can’t… I can’t do that any more…”
Cas listened intently, his eyes never leaving Dean’s face. He saw the pain there, and the lifetime of hidden feelings. His heart broke a little for the child told to stop hanging out with ‘that queer kid’, for the teenager who asked out the cheerleader but whose eyes strayed to the quarterback, for the man who denied himself a vital facet of his being. He frowned but said nothing, sensing that Dean needed to talk himself out.
“I’m b…bisexual,” Dean said aloud, for the first time. When the world didn’t end he allowed himself a small smile.
“Congratulations, Dean,” Cas said sincerely.
Dean laughed, and breathed out a long time. He took a deep breath and slowly let that out too.
“Yeah. So. It’s not about you being a dude. I… I like dudes. I like chicks and dudes. But I… I’ve never… It’s all new to me.” He gave an awkward laugh and a shrug, then cleared his throat and looked away, anywhere but at Cas.
“We can take it slow,” offered Cas.
“Thanks,” said Dean. He shuffled awkwardly.
“But it’s not just the bi thing. It’s… Well, it’s you. You’re my best friend. My brother in arms. Family, really, even though that sounds gross. It’s like, crossing that line with you into ‘more than’… It’s weird.”
Cas paused. He looked intently at Dean, subtly inching a little closer.
“We have always been 'more than’, Dean. Perhaps you did not realise it for what it was, but it was there. Our bond was strong from the moment we met and it has only gotten stronger. ”
“When we met? Did you forget that I stabbed you?” Dean said, with a chuckle.
“Even as your blade pierced my flesh I was marvelling at your bravery, and your beauty,” said the angel.
Dean stuttered, and swallowed, and looked intently at Cas’ lapel. His cheeks warmed.
“Can you cut that out? This is hard enough without you being all poetic and angelic and crap,” Dean said, gruff.
“And another thing-” he began, but his sentence was quashed as Cas’ lips gently brushed his own. They didn’t kiss, not yet. Cas simply hovered, and waited, eyelids trembling but shut.
Dean’s eyes remained open as he drank in every inch of his best friend’s face. The gentle slope of his brow, the crinkles around smiling eyes, the rough stubble upon flushed cheeks, the jawline to make a sculptor weep…
It took a moment for Dean to realise what he had done; feeling the soft skin of Cas’ face beneath his fingers felt so natural, so right. He traced every line of that familiar face with calloused fingertips, fearfully watching the gentle expression on it for any change. But Cas was still, a faint smile upon his full lips.
Dean’s hand slid back and into Cas’ hair, softer than he would have expected, thick. He ran his fingers softly through the angel’s dark tresses, coming to rest on the back of his neck.
And then there was nothing for it. His uncertainty melted away as the draw of Cas’ lips overwhelmed him, and suddenly he was kissing them. It was soft, and sweet, and lasted only a moment, but it said everything.
“I love you too, Dean,” said Cas.
“I-I never said that, you ass-“ stuttered Dean, but he stopped short as Cas fixed him with a knowing look.
“Oh, screw you,” said Dean, and kissed him, saying everything all over again.
set up // part 2 (part 1)
Dean had to admit that Cas was doing the best on his part.
He acted like the perfect boyfriend, which did little to soothe Dean’s aching heart.
They were both dressed in fitting tuxedos- Dean in a grey and black combination while Cas wore a blue shirt under, which bought out his gorgeous eyes. Everytime Cas glanced at him, Dean felt his stomach flip.
He hated that he was so hopelessly in love and what was worse was that he could do nothing about it. If Cas could pull this off so easily unlike him, maybe he didn’t feel the same way.
“All these years, Dean,” Mary said as she hugged Dean, “You could’ve told me it was our Cas?”
a weird kid who was bullied all throughout school because he was chubby and wore funny clothes and his family was really poor and so he figured out how to use humor to avoid getting beaten up
another kid who was an athlete and won a senior superlative for most attractive and probably had a lot of friends but still had a lot of insecurities and was shy and didn’t really like sharing himself with other people
and somehow these two wildly different people from completely different worlds end up opposite of each other on a television show and are so grossly cute together and supportive of each other that you’d never guess how unlikely of a pair they are
cockles is already its own fan fiction
When Cas moves in, he doesn’t stay still.
It drives Dean up the wall. Cas is in, Cas is out, at all hours of the day or night. Maybe he’s walking in the woods nearby for four hours. Maybe he’s in a nice little old lady’s house, helping to screw in a lightbulb, because he’s tall enough to do it without a ladder and she saw him walking past and asked nicely. Maybe he’s baking at three in the morning, not for the taste of the food (of course), just because he saw a recipe online and wanted to try making a freaking bundt cake.
Eventually, Dean just says, “Look. You can do whatever. Come and go as you please, no complaints from me. But just text me now and then, alright? Tell me what the hell is going on with you and I’ll stop calling you with questions. Stop freaking me out.”
And so Cas does.
His texts start simple. I’m going out. I’m walking. I’m shopping for food. But they gradually become more detailed. I’m watching the sun go down, it’s beautiful. I am having a discussion about particle theory with this professor I met in Starbucks, who is inviting me to guest-speak at his college. I wanted to know what a light saber was so I went into a toy store and now I have bought three because they are very satisfying to swing around.
Dean reads every one of the texts with a specific look on his face, that Sam comes to recognise.
I’m out in the woods because I needed a walk.
I’m out in the woods because I needed some air.
I’m out in the woods because I needed to think.
Those are the ones Cas sends most often. Dean doesn’t know that Cas needs a walk because his hands ache when he’s around Dean, god how they ache, just to be touched. Dean doesn’t know that Cas needs some air because all he can breathe around Dean seems to be the word please, in and out of his lungs. Dean doesn’t know that all Cas thinks about is him.
But one day, when Cas texts I’m out in the woods. I wish you were here too, Dean starts to guess.
When Dean texts back I’m on my way, that’s when Cas starts to guess, too. Starts to guess that he isn’t the only one - not alone in aching hands and breathless lungs and thoughts that are magnetised. Not alone in wanting.
And when Dean finds him - not alone in the woods.
Their eyes meet, and Cas stands perfectly still.
When they come home, their hands are not aching.
Today is not a fighting day. I remember - I don’t know why, I have forgotten so much - the month: it is February. And I have counted the days - it is the 14th. So a very sappy, kitchy thing I remember. This was never my jam. But now, when it is getting dark, a day of running, of hiding comes to an end, you, my angel, lying next to me - I remember Earth’s Valentine’s Day.
I remember that case a long time ago, you and me working together. Not scruffy, no dirty clothes, not worn out and full of monster mud. Me talking to you on the phone, the awkward angel on mobile and flap!flap! you were next to me, looking at me with those eyes … so full of light … I would give anything to see you laughing again, smiling, not worrying, to see life in your eyes.
We are hunters here, working together, two guerilla soldiers trying to survive. Your scrub is grey from sweat, torn. I would die for the opportunity of making a joke about your backwards tie.
We must move on. We cannot lie here longer. We can’t be longer than two hours at one place. They sniff our scent, they know where we are, where we’re going to. We are always running, always fleeing, always homeless.
But you are my home and I am yours. Isn’t it so? If we survive this- if we ever survive this shit; can I pull all my strength together and tell you that I love you? And kiss you on those soft pure cracked lips?
If I kiss you know … would you mind? Would you feel it? Are you asleep? Do you even sleep?
You changed. So much.
I love you even more.
My angel. My everything.
I love you.
You’ll never know. Because fighting in hell, fighting in purgatory is still a thousand times easier than … saying … I love you, Cas.
I’m sorry.
You deserve better than me.
Some more “Trueform Castiel.” May have overdone it with the textured brushes, but regardless I like this thumb a bit more than the others on which I was working.
“Lost. Again.” Dean let out a frustrated sigh and holstered his gun. “Too bad one of us isn’t the size of the Chrysler Building. Maybe then he could see where we were going.”
Cas didn’t answer. Instead, he sagged to the ground, impossibly quick, his massive torso curling behind him like a snake’s. His mask face slowly drooped onto one forearm.
Dean made a rude noise and threw up his hands.
“C’mon, man. We already took a break, like, two hours ago.” But Cas did not get up. No, the angel did the exact opposite, of course, shifting his weight and pawing at the dirt until he carved out some measure of comfort. For all his size and power, thought Dean, the angel really was nothing more than an overgrown puppy—especially when he glared up at Dean with those big moon-eyes. “Cas. We gotta keep moving.”
“Blow me,” replied the angel, without so much as lifting his head.
“Well, when you say it like that.” Dean slowly dragged one hand over his face, as if he could physically tug the irritation out through his cheeks. Then he fell unceremoniously to the ground next to the angel. “So. You ever gonna tell me what’s eating you?”
Cas averted his gaze to somewhere far off in the underbrush. “I am finding it difficult,” he said eventually, “to remember.”
“Ah. Heaven stuff.” Dean grimaced. “Clouds ‘n shit, right?”
“Rain,” Cas said quietly.
“Rain?” Dean snuck a quick glance at his friend. Lines, like little furtive cracks, had recently begun to form on the mask face, under Cas’s eyes and around his chin, and Dean noticed a new one now, a hairline fracture right between the brows. He had the sudden urge to hurl himself at the mask and hold it together, with his arms and legs, if he had to. “Seriously?”
“Yes.” One long finger idly toyed with Jimmy’s tie in the dirt. “Being wet, generally. But I especially liked the rain. All those little drops, in random patterns. Well, not random, you know.” He looked over at Dean and frowned. “Well, I guess you don’t.”
Dean rolled his eyes, but said nothing.
“In this form,” sighed Cas, his finger falling still, “it is easier for me to grasp the greater pattern of the forest, yet harder to still see the weeds.”
“The trees, you mean,” said Dean. Cas stared at him blankly. “Hard to see the forest for the trees. That’s how the saying goes.”
“I know what I said,” Cas mumbled irritably.
Dean thought for a moment, forcing himself to remember the feel of cool droplets as they slid down his skin; the smell of ozone hanging heavy and electric in the air; the soft, soothing patter of rain against the Impala’s roof. No matter how loud it ever got, it could never completely cover up Sam’s heavy snore.
Sighing, Dean kicked out his feet and leaned back against the angel’s forearm.
“For me, it’s whiskey,” he said softly. He lifted his hand and held it there, unwavering, a few inches above his knee. The shakes had long ago stopped, along with the nightmares, but Dean knew right now it was the principle of the thing that mattered, and not the reality. He chuckled to himself sadly. “Man, I used to drink like a fish. Now I can barely remember the taste.”
Cas’s gaze lingered on Dean’s hand before moving back to the underbrush. “I’ve forgotten how a bee’s legs tickle when she tells a dirty joke,” he said. “Only that they do.”
“You got me there.” Dean smirked and folded his hands behind his head. “Remember the smell of the Impala?”
Cas nodded. “Or how it felt to go over a pothole. Like flying, but not.”
“Cheeseburgers. All that grease and ketchup.” Dean smiled wistfully. “Hell, road food in general, am I right?”
“Sex,” Cas offered.
Dean’s half-smile evaporated. He sat up, shaking his head as if dispel a bad dream. Then he noticed Jimmy’s tie, dirty and still flattened under one long, claw-like finger. He reached for it. “Can I?”
Cas hesitated before nodding.
“Here.” Dean picked up the tie and carefully wrapped it around the angel’s wrist, double-knotting it. He patted Cas’s arm once, briefly. “So you don’t forget.”
Cas stared at him as if he were stupid. “I hardly think—“
“Just,” Dean inhaled sharply, catching himself and restarting in a softer tone. “Just do it. It’ll help. I promise.”
He didn’t add that this was something his mom used to do, that it was one of the only things he could still remember about her, even though he could no longer remember her actually ever doing it for him—just a memory of a memory, really, an impression long since faded.
But the way Cas looked at him then, Dean suspected the angel already knew.
Dean cleared his throat.
“Do bees really tell dirty jokes?” he asked eventually.
Cas smiled down at the tie on his wrist.
“Oh yes,” he replied with a chuckle. “Filthy little hedonists. It’s all sex and road trips with them.”
“Sounds like my kind of species,” laughed Dean.
“Why do you think I like them so much?” Cas agreed.
The new QoTD :)
@magnificent-winged-beast @helianthus21 @starsinursa @naruhearts @amwritingmeta @super-sootica @jemariel @bae-in-a-trenchcoat @babyinthetrench @cas-essence @casgirlat221b @gneisscastiel @deaneatscake @sactownbrowns3 @saawek @silvie111 @bend-me-shape-me @postmodernmulticoloredcloak @margarittet @tinkdw @weathergirl83
And everyone who wants to join this party
Yo ok what if there was a Cinderella story where Cinderella is a trans woman and that’s really why her stepmom treats her like shit and won’t let her go to the ball and when the prince and his men come around looking to try the slipper on every woman in the land her stepmom tells the prince there aren’t any women left in the house because she insists that Cinderella is a man, but Cinderella comes out and the prince recognizes her and says something along the lines of “well I’d say that’s a woman if I ever saw one”
“Ella is transgender. She’s known since she was young; being a woman just fit better. She was happier in skirts than trousers, but that was before her stepmother moved in. Eleanor can’t stand her, and after Ella’s father passes she’s forced to revert to Cole, a lump of a son. She cooks, she cleans, and she tolerates being called the wrong name for the sake of a roof over her head. Where else can she go? An opportunity to attend the royal ball transforms Ella’s life. For the first time, strangers see a woman when she walks down the stairs. While Princess Lizabetta invited Cole to the ball, she doesn’t blink an eye when Cinderella is the one who shows. The princess is elegant, bold, and everything Ella never knew she wanted. For a moment she glimpses a world that can accept her, and she holds on tight. She should have known it wouldn’t last. Dumped by her wicked stepmother on the farthest edge of the kingdom, Ella must find a way to let go of the princess and the beautiful life they shared for an hour. She’ll never find her way back. But it’s hard to forget the greatest night of her life when every rose she plants is a reminder.”
Excellent!
Seasons Greetings my dudes!
