permortempatris-blog

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@permortempatris because I found it in my drafts

They’re on the clock. 

They shouldn’t be doing this period, because Dean’s got to make an appearance at some Queen Consolidated gala, a little right place, right time to stop a fake robbery. In front of a suspicious detective. 

It’s nuts, abso-friggin-lutely nuts and Dean is so on board. His life is demon deals and death, loss and agony. When’s the next time he’s going to get to pretend to be a super hero in front of a room full of rich douches?

Not that it matters. Not right now. 

All that matters right now is where Oliver’s big hand is smoothing across his chest, leather going taut against his skin. 

It’s the kind of tight that serves a purpose, a second skin and it feels all kinds of intimate to be wearing Oliver’s. Dean manages to croak out take my jacket into the slick heat of the other man’s mouth, rewarded with breathless laughter. 

He’s never been subtle about what seeing Oliver in his clothes does to him. It makes all his blood rush south of the border, just like it’s doing right now. The hood hides the way Oliver’s hand palms at the back of his head, and Dean groans into the kiss, hitching up against those hips where they’re pressed against him. 

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godforsakenthing:

His phone jitters across the leather of the bench seat, and Dean has to wait until he’s at a red light to grab it. It’s been raining for about an hour now, just long enough to pull the oil up from the concrete and make it slick, if you don’t pay enough attention.

(He still flinches sometimes, crossing an intersection. Remembering Dad and Sammy and the force that the truck slammed into the Impala’s door with.)

[text; Oliver] course

He’s got a bad feeling something is up, but he doesn’t want to put that weight on Oliver’s shoulders if he’s the good, fun kind of drunk. 

Hope for the best, plan for the worst. 

[text; Oliver] eta ten minutes

He’s pretty sure he can stay out of trouble for ten minutes.

Or at least, he’s pretty sure until a somewhat familiar bunch of silhouettes exit the bar. One of them spots him, and the group makes a veering turn. It’s obvious from the set of their shoulders that they still think they have a score to settle. Out here, in the rain and the dark, away from the gaze of bar patrons with camera phones, they might find it harder than they think.

   “What, you miss me?”

He quirks a brow for an answer, already straightening himself from where he’s leaned against the car. One shoulder rolls back. Stances widens just a fraction. Fingers curl.

And the lights of the Impala sweep bright across him as Dean turns into the parking lot. 

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@godforsakenthing

   Yeah, he’s drunk.

Not so drunk that he can’t get himself home, but drunk enough that he’s stubbornly sitting on the hood of his car in the gentle rain, waiting for Dean instead.

His cheekbone aches and the cut above his eyes stings and his mouth still faintly tastes of blood. ‘Punched a guy out’ may have been the highly edited version of event. The guy had friends, and Oliver had realised a little too late that there were enough people watching that he’d have to take some hits.

He twirls his phone idly between his fingers.

    [text; Dean] i want a burger. can we get burgers?

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@godforsakenthing

He’s not good at gifts, and he has the sneaking suspicion that Dean’s not all that good at birthdays, either.

But he calls, anyway.

Can’t go wrong with a perfectly cooked steak and a deep, rich red, and Oliver answering the door with a dish towel over his shoulder and a smile curling against his teeth.

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[insp]

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“You were never created to live depressed, defeated, guilty, condemned, ashamed, or unworthy. You were created to be victorious.”

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The box is hastily wrapped, and the only tape Dean could find was duct tape. But it’s sitting on the edge of Oliver’s bed waiting for him when he gets home, an obnoxiously large bow on top. 

Inside the box is a mishmash of items, most of them with a post it note and scribbled explanation. 

A bottle of water. - Holy water. Sprinkle it on somebody who doesn’t seem right. You’ll know if it works. 

A knife lifted from someone’s good china - Silver works on shifters. Can’t even hold it. 

A tupperware container full of dust. - Brick dust, blessed by a Voodoo priestess. Put it in the windowsills, it’ll keep things out. 

And at the bottom, a cassette tape with Oliver’s name written on it in permanent marker, and Dean’s favorite grey henley, soft and worn from years of wear. 

It ain’t much, but it’s for you. Merry Christmas, Ollie. 

                                                                Love,

                                                                         Dean 

It’s not exactly a traditional gift, this miscellany of items whose purpose carries a grim note. Demons and shifters and things not named, left to skitter across imagination like half-dim shadows cast against the backdrop of his mind.

He handles them carefully, almost reverently, each one examined and each label studied carefully. He sets them out in a row on his bed until fingers brush against something softer. 

The henley is familiar, and chases a smile across serious features. Wearing Dean’s clothes has become habit, some small comfort and reminder; he knows that Dean is just as fond of the habit, if not more so.

The cassette tape he taps with a knowing finger.

“I do have crappy taste in music. But, hey – I’m open to instruction.”

   He’s got his suspicions on that one.

To some, it might seem an odd collection of presents, far from festive.To Oliver, it’s much more than that.

      I want to keep you safe, Dean is saying. I want to keep you safe       and keep you mine.

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[ @ashxnfeathers yeah well I don't like anyone rn so share my misery, bitch ]

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you miss it, don’t you? the warmth of a star you don’t remember. (insp)

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“Little Red Riding Hood Addresses The Next Wolf,” Brenna Twohy.

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[ @nothowsynergyworks @ashxnfeathers if ur gonna steal the verse name u gotta share the pain of its origin c: ]

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[ I'm so late to head back to my parents house for the holidays, but also when ur eyebrows look this bangin', you gotta document that shit. ]

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ashxnfeathers:

Castiel understands it’s difficult to look past your own misdeeds. The pain you’ve been through, and the one you’ve brought to others. For men like Oliver and Dean, it creates an especially opaque wall of self-loathing to look through. 

But in rejecting salvation, in deeming themselves not worthy of it and deciding that they are not meant for Heaven, when what’s written on their souls suggests otherwise…it’s ironically self-absorbed. 

“The Heaven that Dean experienced was warped and corrupted by another angel.” He doubts even Zachariah imagined the effect his cruelty would have on Dean, in the long run.

“Since the beginning of humanity, millions upon millions of souls have reached Heaven, and found peace and happiness. Many have suffered more than you, and many have repented for greater sins than you’ve committed.” And this is important, because surely not even Oliver Queen could claim to have done worse than every other person who’s made it to paradise. 

“All of them have found peace.” Castiel knows his patience runs particularly thin on this subject, but he can’t find it in himself to care. “Are you really so arrogant that you’d believe yourself above redemption? Above Heaven?”

“You’re not that special.”

Give Oliver Queen one thing: he is self aware enough to let out a brief, staccato laugh at Castiel’s question.

“Aren’t all humans?”

Arrogance might be universal, but Oliver has become quite practiced in it. He was arrogant as a young man, in a superficial way. Something about taking on the responsibility of so many other lives -- of believing he is the one who must save them -- have matured it into something much more complex.

He tips his head.

       “Maybe you’re right. I’m not that special. Guess we’ll         just have to wait to see you prove me wrong.”

Or not.

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Memories do not always soften with time; some grow edges like knives.

Barbara Kingsolver (via quotemadness)

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godforsakenthing:

“Cas, please.”

It’s a prayer, and a panicked one, picked up by the phone when Dean doesn’t think to pull it away from his mouth. 

There’s the sound of beating wings, and they’re standing in Oliver’s living room between one breath and the next. Dean’s staring, stomach hitting the floor. “Jesus christ.”

But Cas, ever the soldier, ever following orders, is in motion. He strides across the room, expression still as marble. Two fingers to Oliver’s forehead and a pulse of grace and he’s turning away. He’ll be fine now is all that the angel says.

Dean catches him by the coat sleeve before he can take off. (He’s being allowed, he knows.) “Thank you.” It comes out hoarse, and he gives a tug on the sleeve, pulling Cas into a gruff, one armed hug. “Thank you, Cas.”

Something pained and sad flickers across the angel’s face, but he pulls away and nods, gone in an instant. 

Dean blows out a shaky breath, crossing the living room as fast as he can to get his hands on Oliver’s shoulders. 

“Hey. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

He hears Dean’s plea.

And then he’s not sure what he hears, but there’s Dean and Castiel, and he’s not ready for the way Dean looks at him -- broken, beaten, bloodied. Hasn’t prepared for this, hasn’t rearranged features to spell bravery and reassurance. His head is tipped back against the wall, his face drawn in pain and encroaching self-pity, the realisation of consequence hanging heavy above him.

And then -- and then --

It’s disorientating. He doesn’t know what’s happening, doesn’t understand. Arm still clutched to himself, hand still clawed in phantom agony. Castiel leaves, abrupt as he came, and Oliver’s lost but he’s not too lost to notice something not quite right between the two.

    “Neat trick,” he says, weakly, and curls his fingers. Head tips back      once more to hit the wall, a shuddering breath releases as eyes      slide closed. “He know the king of hell is looking for him?”

Fingers of one hand press to the palm of the other, not quite reassured that they won’t find smooth blisters of burnt flesh, jutting bone and torn skin.

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godforsakenthing:

Jesus Christ.

All the fear inside him crystallizes, and Dean is praying for Cas with all that he’s got inside of him, begging him, apologizing, because Oliver is hurt and it’s Dean’s fault.

All of this is Dean’s fault.

“I’m on my way. I’ll be there soon. Call an ambulance if you need it, we’ll work out an alibi later.”

He levers himself upright through pure force of will alone, every joint and every muscle screaming out vicious protest.

   “I’m fine,” he lies, voice hoarse from screaming and one arm clutched     limp against his chest. He can’t feel his fingers, he can’t move anything     from his wrist downwards. His shoulder is white hot, liquid pain that      grinds when it moves.

        “I’ll survive,” he says, and at least that’s a little more like the truth.          No hospital; he’s got too many half-healed and very distinctive          wounds that too obviously post-date the island. “I just --”

He cuts himself off, abruptly, as agony flares. When he speaks again, it’s through gritted teeth.

  “I could use a hand,” he says, and can’t help the humourless laugh that rises up his throat.

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category two; 7

Smut Meme: (Accepting)

‘you caught me masturbating’ sex

Dean knows a thing or two about stress relief. He knows what it’s like to be so worked up in knots that there’s no way out. Especially with adrenaline slamming through your veins.

It doesn’t matter if you popped the baddie with one easy shot. Your body is raring to go, all cylinders firing.

Just like he knows that picking a fight with Oliver right out of the hood is a bad freaking idea, but he does it anyway. Because this is too good, it’s too nice, and he doesn’t know what to do with having a home he can just show up to, a warm bed he’s welcomed in.

There’s too much truth between them, and Dean is desperate for distance. So he takes the cheap shot, and it ends up a screaming match in the middle of Oliver’s living room, until he throws up his hands and says I’m going to go take a shower. Don’t. Leave.

Of course, Dean shouts “Don’t tell me what to do!” after him, because he’s a moron.

There’s steam rolling across the floor when Dean steps inside of the bathroom, vision obscured in white for a few seconds until that blast of cool air from the living room clears it.

He can just see Oliver, head bowed and forearm against the tile, and damned if he doesn’t know what that other hand is doing.

Oliver freezes with the click of the door shutting. “Don’t stop on account of me.” Dean’s voice is all gravel, already tugging his shirt off and toeing out of his boots.

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