Gavotte & Plants

salternates:

joanwatson:

season!9 cas should be like THE REVENGE OF CASTIEL: HE’S BACK AND THIS TIME HE’S ANGRY where he goes on a storming grumpy rampage against metatron and rounds up all the fallen angels and they wage war to get their grace back and then he finds god and punches him in the face screaming FUCK YOU DAD!!! and like you know if cas happened to be shirtless and have holsters and guns filled with angel-sword bullets clinging to his limbs during all this i mean i’d be okay with that

grabby hands

(via partofmealwaysbelieved)

longlivetheatre:

for one single second i thought the doctors name was “please” and was incredibly confused.

(via estelex)

angry feminist ranting behind the cut

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cadignan:

“Could you, uh… could you find someone?”

Dean barely sounds like himself. His voice is a low rasp over the phone. He didn’t introduce himself in any way, didn’t say hello, didn’t call her “your highness.” But Charlie knows it’s him all the same. She can picture him standing in the bunker, holding the phone to his ear, rubbing his other hand across his forehead.

She hadn’t been waiting for the call, but it’s not exactly a surprise to hear from Dean. She saw that “meteor shower,” the one NOAA hadn’t predicted, same as anybody else. She’d looked into it but hadn’t found much—a spike in the birth rate, but that seemed more coincidental than anything else. Then again, when is anything ever a coincidence?

She senses that now is not the time to joke with Dean, so all she says is, “Yeah, probably.”

“He might be—he might be going by Jimmy Novak. Or Emmanuel. He—,”

“Cas? You want me to find Cas?”

Dean is quiet for a moment. Maybe he forgot that she read all Carver Edlund’s books, even the unpublished ones. Charlie hears him swallow before he speaks again. “Yeah.”

“You alright?”

“No. Not really.”

Clearly no more explanation is forthcoming. Back to business. “You got any pictures of him?”

Dean doesn’t say anything, but a moment later her phone buzzes. It’s a scan of a small photo, a face shot, probably left over from one of the Winchesters’ many fraudulent collage projects. The man in it is dark-haired, blue-eyed, tired. He doesn’t look like an angel. One of the photo’s corners is very slightly creased, as if it had been folded and then flattened out again, restored. Charlie wonders if Dean had kept this photo aside, tucked into his wallet, a secret icon.

“Good,” she says. “This will help.”

Dean is quiet again.

“Do you… need something else?” Like someone to talk to?

“Just find him,” he says, and hangs up.

(via piesexualhunter)

notbecauseofvictories:

[made rebloggable by request]

no but like

there’s a seraph who sleeps in the pews of the city’s churches because it’s the only place she feels comfortable stretching out her wings, feathers nearly blocking out the stained glass windows. At night, the prayers embedded in the stonework whisper to her, a litany of please and help and need, as inexorable and unceasing as the rattle of the subway beneath her.

and there’s an angel of the third sphere who plays pickup basketball with a young prophet—a young man who walks through metal detectors each morning to get to a high school where only fifty percent will graduate, but loves calculus and singing in church every Sunday. “Your jump shot’s insane, man,” the saint-to-be laughs, clapping the angel on the back, right between the wings. And the angel, who can see how the light catches on the young man’s halo, laughs too.

and there are ophanim sitting on the girders of half-built skyscrapers, unafraid of falling; passing sandwiches and thermoses of campbell’s soup between them, speaking in tongues about the traffic on I-90 and last night’s Bears game.

and Israfel sneaks away from celestial choir practice to attend concerts in the park, but he usually ends up absently sketching equations modeling the wavelengths into the grass. There’s an adjunct mathematics professor who sometimes attends, and afterwards they discuss hyperharmonic series in the gathering dusk.

angels in the public libraries, reading children’s books and touching the illustrations with just their fingertips, like beholding a sacred text.

angels moving along the cracks in the pavement and between the alleyways; going without fear into the worst neighborhoods, because they have walked in the valley of death and fear no evil—not even the mastery of it that humanity demonstrates through abject poverty, ignorance, social immobility.

angels glaring at potholes  and rolling their eyes at delays (the work of the Deceiver, no doubt) and running to catch a subway that goes not even a hairsbreadth of the speed their wings could carry them.

angels looking up at the statues made in their image, grey forms on grey pedestals with granite wings, and snickering to themselves. (The artist missed a few hundred eyes, they think; mouths and limbs and grace and song and fire and flight—)

but then they gaze up at the brutalist skyscrapers with windows reflecting the flame-colored sunset and low-hanging exhaust, spindly radio towers forming a winking blue halo if you crane your neck just so. And the angels think maybe the humans caught a glimpse of the divine after all.

~*~urban angels~*~

(via valontuoja)