(Reblogged from angelinthefire)

catboatventure:

hellanne:

(by ashley ree)

He’s the monster whispered about in quiet voices around slow-banked campfires, the tale told to keep family close, safe.  Word is passed between huddled groups, startled as they pass one another, each believing themselves to be heading in the safest direction. Their hearts pound in futility, not realizing they’re already cold and dead in the ground.

Away, they say to one another; we’re heading away from the last place it was seen.

The groups keep going in their chosen directions; they don’t dare band together for fear of attracting too much notice.  They bare teeth at one another; a warning, a grimace, a shared gallows humor.  See you on the other side, they’d probably say, if they weren’t already there.

A high-pitched noise rises over the treetops, sometimes, and howls ring out: a warning, the klaxon promised when the Mountain King comes.  

He has a soldier, goes the story; he has converted one of our own, he sings out the song of the Mountain King as he kills.  The story goes; and goes on for days, weeks, a year.  He took three of our kind yesterday, says a passing vampire.  The Leviathan search for him, but are never seen again.

Lives upon lives lost, gone forever.  Not taken; these lives are lost, as if they had never existed.  Souls reaped for destruction, empty shells left in his wake.

 

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down; the nursery rhyme that predicted their afterlife.

Death has come to Heaven in the body of a man; and they call him the Mountain King. 

Dean Winchester is here, they tell one another through bloody teeth and forked tongues.  It goes up like a prayer for a dead god from their scream-hoarse voices:  Dean Winchester is here looking for the Angel.  

Run, they say.  Run for the sake of your soul.

The Mountain King is angry.

(Reblogged from catboatventure-deactivated20130)
siterlas:

callowyn:

phytos:

Kiyo Murakami - Calling

  #when you’re walking through a world of monsters it can be hard to tell what’s real and what’s illusion #and if it is illusion it can be difficult to know if they’re a monster’s work or a projection of your guilt #the one who wore dean’s face was a monster who could read your thoughts #daphne was an illusion caused by hallucinogenic spores #(you found yourself missing her and her home and her smile #the careful way she touched you and the safety you felt in her arms) #meg was either a memory or wishful thinking #perhaps you dreamt her #perhaps you dream now #it’s hard to tell #to your surprise anna was real #’i am no angel nor am i human anymore. where did you think i would end up?’ #she confesses monstrousness suits her #’i never fit in with either world and perhaps you might find it strange that death affirms this #but to be honest i’m relieved #this is who i am’ #you stay with her as long as you can #telling her the things you never got the chance to tell her before #when it’s time to go you ask her if you’ll see her again #she says it depends on what you are when you die #she kisses your cheek; a very human gesture #and then she is gone (via siterlas)

#because if she were a living angel she’d be beholden to heaven #and if she were a dead human she’d be imprisoned in heaven #but she left #SHE LEFT #she didn’t want to be heaven’s anymore #so she went to this grey and bellicose no-man’s-land #(anna is no man) #and when she first felt castiel crashland on this plane with her #maybe she had a moment of pride #thinking ‘he understands. he’s like me.’ #thinking he must have chosen this too #but as she seeks her brother anna discovers she isn’t the only one who’s been asking #where’s the angel #and then she knows. (via callowyn)

siterlas:

callowyn:

phytos:

Kiyo Murakami - Calling

#because if she were a living angel she’d be beholden to heaven #and if she were a dead human she’d be imprisoned in heaven #but she left #SHE LEFT #she didn’t want to be heaven’s anymore #so she went to this grey and bellicose no-man’s-land #(anna is no man) #and when she first felt castiel crashland on this plane with her #maybe she had a moment of pride #thinking ‘he understands. he’s like me.’ #thinking he must have chosen this too #but as she seeks her brother anna discovers she isn’t the only one who’s been asking #where’s the angel #and then she knows. (via callowyn)

(Source: blue-voids)

(Reblogged from siterlas)

ilovehowyouletmefall:

After Dean leaves Castiel alone in Purgatory, the angel reverts to his true form. 

(Reblogged from angelinthefire)

The summer hiatus in Purgatory is over. And the production of pic-fics has slowed considerably. So I’m not going to search around for them anymore. If someone writes something, and I happen to see it, I’ll reblog it here, and of course you can still feel free to link me to ficlets. But I don’t expect there to be many more updates. 

I have to say, I’m impressed with the volume of fic that has been written, and the fact that there was still stuff to reblog on here right up to the season premier. The creativity in this fandom is amazing. Let this blog stand as a testament to that. :)

Have an amazing season gr8, everyone! 

gabbysilang:

Heaven, built of human souls, is a place essentially indefinite in nature. It melts before the senses like candyfloss. There is so little to be said about it. It is habitable. It is a couch in a warm, quiet room where you can fall asleep, your neck unsupported. Wake, and not leave.
Hell is like this too, it is habitable. Hell is accepting, it distends to encompass you. You can wander, and wander, and still be in hell. Mud sucking at your boots. Familiar.
And the living world, you know that well enough. The night when there are only diced tomatoes left in the cupboard, and you learn how they taste after three minutes in the microwave. The night after that, when you miss them. The envelope that sits unopened for months. Your father’s breath at your nape. The child, trusting, unaware, falling asleep against your thigh. There’s the rub: the company of others, that essential flavor of the earth. The nausea of immersion. Living, you are seen.
But this is nowhere, this is finally the existence of the presentient. Not even fear, not even hunger, nothing so articulate. Perfect, unfocused anxiety beyond the tyranny of conscious consideration. The tipping moment, forever at the top of the stairs, there is a skew to the gravity, to the vision.  
Wind slices the trees, serrated. Sound empties out: the bare space and the things dragging their bodies through it. Your own footfalls skitter with extraneous impacts, you breathe through the tips of your fingers, blood and blood and blood, the chambers of your heart unsynchopate.
You disassociate.
You hunt.

gabbysilang:

Heaven, built of human souls, is a place essentially indefinite in nature. It melts before the senses like candyfloss. There is so little to be said about it. It is habitable. It is a couch in a warm, quiet room where you can fall asleep, your neck unsupported. Wake, and not leave.

Hell is like this too, it is habitable. Hell is accepting, it distends to encompass you. You can wander, and wander, and still be in hell. Mud sucking at your boots. Familiar.

And the living world, you know that well enough. The night when there are only diced tomatoes left in the cupboard, and you learn how they taste after three minutes in the microwave. The night after that, when you miss them. The envelope that sits unopened for months. Your father’s breath at your nape. The child, trusting, unaware, falling asleep against your thigh. There’s the rub: the company of others, that essential flavor of the earth. The nausea of immersion. Living, you are seen.

But this is nowhere, this is finally the existence of the presentient. Not even fear, not even hunger, nothing so articulate. Perfect, unfocused anxiety beyond the tyranny of conscious consideration. The tipping moment, forever at the top of the stairs, there is a skew to the gravity, to the vision.  

Wind slices the trees, serrated. Sound empties out: the bare space and the things dragging their bodies through it. Your own footfalls skitter with extraneous impacts, you breathe through the tips of your fingers, blood and blood and blood, the chambers of your heart unsynchopate.

You disassociate.

You hunt.

(Reblogged from gabbysilang)

serricoj:

spoonandfork:

Cages Asylum Series by Heather Huey - New York, NY

“When I was alive, I kept a bird.” Castiel hears the siren clearly, even though her mouth is sewn shut. The stitches are small and tight and jagged, and blood blooms gently around the coarse thread as her lips do not move. “Wherever I stayed, I let it fly free. Let it eat the spiders in the corners of my rooms, the ants that ran along the baseboards. Let it flap against the windows and shit on the carpet. I liked to watch it fly, so I let it fly free. But I couldn’t trust it in the sky, so it had to stay inside.”

She leans down to where he cowers against the base of a thick, stunted tree; she brushes her bloody mouth against his, lightly, lightly. Her threads catch on his dry lips and part them. “I loved you at first,” she tells him softly. A drop of her filthy blood slips into his mouth, and Castiel tastes her. He tastes her, and sees Dean, and wants. “You let me out, and I loved you. But you were just another cage, angel. A smaller one.”

Dean kneels astride him, hand on his throat, fingertips digging hard along the line of his jaw. Castiel watches him fearfully, and tastes something bitter on his tongue. He thinks it’s shame.

“I don’t love you anymore,” Dean says.

(Reblogged from serricoj)
(Reblogged from winterqueenelsaa)
(Reblogged from cappyrogers)
(Reblogged from tomhannigers)