#Turning red is over-hated it's just a cartoon and some of the critics are ridiculous

[mediacinemtographyartetc]

I have issues with "Turning Red."

Okay so I have some issues with Turning Red, but the problem is no one is bringing this up or pointing it out so I thought it's just me I'll just pretend the movie doesn't exist and let people vibe.

But the only critic is regurgitated bs about "It's about periods- Parents hate it- anti-feminists hate it- Racists hate it-"

like it's all BOTS and fake and not actually critising the film but if I say hey I don't like turning red it is hard to sit through and I just can't watch it I would be lumped with those guys when I have no problem with the film.

I see people like it, I've seen spoilers and think "Oh man that looks cool- but this one THING I just can't sit through the film."

THe actual critics are divided and it says nothing about the film.

[Read more for why I couldn't sit through it- but if you REALLY like turning red back away and don't read coz if you read the rest, then thats on you, you take responsibility.]

Truth is. I can see that this is a good film, the animation elements feel like anime came to cgi better than what ghibli's earwig witch could've done. So that gets a point!

it was able to convey so many messages for EVERYONE was it puberty or was it being diagnosed with a disability? Was it about how young girls have to mask?

I do think the film has charm- there are elements I want to see...

I just couldn't get past the first 12 minutes.

I'm just saying when your on the spectrum when others get representation others don't. as in, the beggining of the movie is a LOT of information packed with random colours, quick shots then theres the dialouge is just tossed in there to the point where it's a bit random and 'quircky'

There would be nothing wrong with that, if it wasn't for the fact that when it comes to boys cartoons everyone is unique has an archetype, the leader the clown the intellect, but with girls like Mabel [Gravity Falls] Lutz [Owl House] Adora [She-ra] Theres a continuing pattern of "I'm am so raNDOM the cake is a LiE- I'm so QURICKY LOL!"

With mei being...alot, I can see myself in this character and know I was just like that as a kid. So I don't dislike her at all. Its just I am getting a lot of information and becoming very overwhelemed to the point where I can't process what is even happening where I didn't even catch their names.

My family [And I] are dsylexic, one sympton is being unable to concentrate on multiple things at once. [So thats my brains fault, not the movie]

So the beggining of turning red is probably giving most people a dopamine rush which awesome, while myself, feel like I'm getting a headache.

And all those quick shot flashing images can't be good for people who are epiplectic [Incredibles 2 was also just as bad so I blame Pixar as a whole it's not just a criticism for this movie its at the company]

Mei is fine. I was able to watch majority because of her she was great and I thought okay I can sit through this.

But her friends feel a bit copy pasted of mei, all out there and random but nothing that seperates them and the only one who seems a little bit different is the one with the tone death voice like the girl from the office leading back to the whole.

Either your the goth or the prep girl like thats it.

So then theres the pacing- which means how the information is presented to you on screen is it fast paced is it slow paced- this isn't a problem with JUST turning red-

I noticed this in loki too.

quick example- current audiences of ALL ages are used to FAST. PACE. INFO. NOW.

Thanks to youtubes algorithim of post a video everyday- Tik toks/instagram CONSTANT quick snap of videos having to be conveyed in so many seconds for people to make a quick judgment to like the video to keep it going. So take current audiences and make them watch an old black and white movie.

Chances are...you're going to be bored out of your mind. So I've noticed tons of current cartoons are just getting a bit more fast and faster to the point where it feels as if someone is hitting fast-forward and everyone is speaking like a chipmunk.

With loki [another show with pacing issues]

There are opening shots of a mountain and it feels as if it's going on a bit too long where you are staring at a shot that is 10 seconds when it should've been five.

When the title screen appears of Mei I thought that was well done, and it gave me such ghibli vibes, but then it kept going of mei just randomly dancing and it was going on longer than it should've been.

Then theres moments in the beggining thats overly animated/over the top like the introduction of town 4 it feels as if the over the top animation should've started once it's established its characters first.

Introducing town 4 was for us the audience to know who the frick these guys were.

Meanwhile the girls already know who town 4 is, I wouldn't change/axe the scene just use the magazine and use the animation of having the town 4 models suddenly come alive of the page where you are transported INTO the magazine of them getting introduced- the transition wouldn't be jarring and having Mei fastly telling you who each one was as if even SHE was trying to keep up with the animation being overly ambitious which felt like a waste of time to the animators leaving the bigger stuff to the middle towards the end towards the finalle- I mean the beggining wasn't EASING us into this world of characters it felt like a slap to the face.

I'm saying as a media student, Mei is fast paced which fair enough it would've been a better juxtapisition to have the animation not as fast/jarring so you're able to hear her speak without trying to figure out whats going on half the time.

Then the dialouge of the girls holding mei back from getting her bus to do a quircky dance- it feels too random but if in the few mintues previous of mei explaining town 4 and the boys DID that dance it would make sense as thats whats keeping them together and a common interest for them all.

idk- it's awful because turning red isn't the only thing that does this- so many of disneys movies regugitate and spew out information in a dump then slow the pace down agonsiingly slow near the end.

I despice Disneys nutcracker, I can't stand Loki, and others movies I can't sit through because Disneys pacing is just atrocious.

Turning Red.

There is nothing WRONG with the information that is turning red being the characters, the animation and everything about it. Its how that information is presented in pacing-dialouge etc.

I have grown up on anime so I'm wondering maybe if I change the language and put subtitles on would that make it easier to watch, I watched spanish/Japanise and chinese dramas/shows animations etc.

The only thing I can think that would explain it [because to reititare since NO ONE is talking about it I KNOW IT'S just me and no one else feels this way about the movie]

Is that as a kid I would watch youtubers who were/are diagnosed with adhd- colourful and fast paced youtube channels like thomas sanders/jazza/jacksepticeye/smosh etc I would gravitate towards.

But as a 25 year old I noticed those channels would grow up appear more calmer and I noticed I have changed and gravitate towards more slower paced videos.

Current kids who've reacted, genuinly enjoy the film.

And thats the POINT!

IF you're a kid/teen whose reading this who cares what I think- if you enjoyed the movie thats IT- the movie did it's job. And with most of fans enjoying it and giving it good reception than thats a win in my book!

Do I think Turning Red is over-hated? Yeah. I think people should talk about the issues the movie has but also the good parts. And to me I do think the good outweigh the bad. Also the fanart fans have made is making me want to give the movie a second chance and try to watch it again *fingers crossed.*

Then theres the others thing [feel free to ignore this]

Okay remember I am 25 and I have watched...ALOT of movies.

So the whole turning red is a period analogy is off-putting to me-

As a women I'll explain- don't bite my head off.

But it just makes me think "Who wrote this stephen king?"

I am just tired of the whole, periods is a metaphor of being a monster or some sort of sexual awakening [carrie/beverly] So seeing a red Panda [monster] and period makes me tired because YES that is something that young girls face and YES good on the movie to make it normal thats okay thats fine.

But it kinda reduces girls to their bodies and some kids who may be transitioning don't get that and seems pretty exclusive [DO NOT take my word for this I am not speaking for trans/nonbinary as I have no right just pointing it out tho]

I have my own issues with it and believe that yeah periods are normal [I tease my dad about it every waking moment] but in media it feels very tired/overplayed to the point where I feel like I prefer if Turning Red was about puberty the line of being an adult acting your age and hiding elements of yourself while also being a teenager struggling with brand new emotions thats very overwhleming chipping away parts of yourself and trying to act like an adult- issues with feminity and either being overly feminie [slut] or rejecting feminity [tomboy or dyke] or maybe being on the spectrum and 'masking' trying to act neruotypical to 'fit in'

I feel like a period analogy is overplayed, but when it comes to neurodivergence, feminism, maturity etc thats something that feels refreshing so I lean more towards that personally.

Meanwhile others would find the period analogy perfect and refreshing so I'm not outright rejecting I am stating that I prefer one thing but I'm aware others would prefer something else.

So I am giving Turning Red another point for being able to convey something for everyone. Like we can all exist in this one space with our own thoughts/opinions without stepping on anyones toes.

My only question for the people who read this far and are either fuming and want to tell me how wrong I am- I will ignore.

My only question is- does the pacing get better later on in the film, should I give it another chance because some of the shots/scenes I've been spoiled seem to be paced very well so I was wondering is it a rushed opening but then sails on later on in the movie?

OR if someone does genuinly want to know and asks "Yeah I've read all of this and completely disregarded it because how can you not like the film I just don't understand."

I know you're probably thinking you're in the right place, but this type of response always puts me in a rage to the point where I can't think.

I have put evidence here and if you can't understand then any further in depth or response from me would just be wasting each others time.

And I would assume you were a troll.

And it makes me feel as if all of my thoughts/feelings was disregarded because someone was too busy being offended over a cartoon.

I have put in so many times how the issues I had was mostly pacing dialouge which means its not what there saying it's how someone edited the whole thing and put them all together thats all.

[wonderfulworldofmichaelford]

Is It Really THAT Bad?

I’m going to warn you all now. This one is going to get a bit angry at the end. Normally I would try and remain as professional as possible, but in this case, I don’t feel like I would be able to.

Batman & Robin is a film that has lived in infamy since its release in 1997. Upon release, it was critically reviled, and this hatred of the film continued long into the modern day, where it frequently tops “worst films of all time lists” to the point where it actually is listed on the Wikipedia page for “List of films considered the worst.” It was nominated for at least 11 Razzies but only won a single one, and it went on to be a frequent punching bag on the {REDACTED] Critic’s web show, where he would get irrationally angry at the mere mention of the Bat Credit Card. In contemporary reviews, Mick LaSalle of The San Francisco Chronicle stated “"George Clooney is the big zero of the film, and should go down in history as the George Lazenby of the series,” which is less of a criticism and more of a compliment, if I’m being totally honest.

Most of the stars would take a negative stance towards it as well, with legend stating that if you tell George Clooney that you saw the film in theaters, he will refund you for your ticket out of his own pocket. Chris O’Donnell likewise is not particularly fond of the film, stating "It just felt like everything got a little soft the second time. On Batman Forever, I felt like I was making a movie. The second time, I felt like I was making a kid's toy commercial." And, perhaps most depressingly, Joel Schumacher himself was apparently very apologetic for the film, though this may or may not have come about because of years and years of vitriol being directed at him for making this film.

In the wake of Mr. Schumacher’s passing, I decided to re-watch the film, as I am famously rather fond of it, and I am going to tell you all why the answer to the question “Is it really THAT bad?” is a loud, resounding, NO.

THE GOOD

There’s honestly quite a lot to like here, more than you might think. I think first and foremost what you need to understand going in is that this is a silly, cartoonish take on the Burton style, blending the silliness and camp of the West series with the drama and aesthetics of the Burton films, all while adding some over-the-top, colorful flair. John Glover, who appears in the film as a cartoonish mad scientist, even has gone on record as saying "Joel would sit on a crane with a megaphone and yell before each take, 'Remember, everyone, this is a cartoon'. It was hard to act because that kind of set the tone for the film”… the last sentence makes the statement very baffling, but at least even the actors were aware of what they were doing. If this doesn’t sound appealing, well, the opening is sure to warn you off, as it is a suiting up montage with various shots of the firm butts, large codpieces, and stiff batnipples of the Dynamic Duo. The movie is very upfront about what you’re in for.

On the subject of the infamous batnipples, Schumacher stated "I had no idea that putting nipples on the Batsuit and Robin suit were going to spark international headlines. The bodies of the suits come from Ancient Greek statues, which display perfect bodies. They are anatomically correct." It seems a very odd choice, but it’s pretty clear that he meant it as an amusing little design choice and nothing more. Of course, this hasn’t stopped everyone and their mother from spewing homophobic comments about how he was purposefully making the film gayer, even from star George Clooney, who has said that he played Batman as a gay man and was told by Schumacher Batman is gay. It’s so disgusting that people did and continue to do this, because honestly, the costumes are fine, and even if they are meant to be fanservice… so what? O’Donell and Clooney’s asses look nice, as does Alicia Silverstone’s when she dons a suit. The fact hers is just as form-fitting as the other two really shows that the whole idea Schumacher did it because he was gay is ridiculous; the man was very egalitarian about the fanservice in the movie.

Whatever else Clooney says, he does a pretty great job as Batman and Bruce Wayne. His speech at the end of the film where he talks to Mr. Freeze and reminds him that he is a good man and offers to help him is honestly one of the few moments in any Batman film where Batman actually feels like the one from the animated series, a man who fights crime but also wants to help the people he’s trying to stop. Clooney just has a very natural charisma that lends himself to playing a hero, and while there are a few awkward moments in the performance, he captures the fun and charm a more lighthearted Batman should. Michael Gough’s last turn as Alfred is also surprisingly poignant, and a lot of mileage is gotten out of his genuinely tearjerking subplot.

Of course, the very best part of the film is the villains. Uma Thurman is clearly having a ball as Poison Ivy, and she gets to have a ludicrous amount of costumes as well as numerous moments of fanservice. She also has the power to turn every man around her into a simp, which is absolutely amazing and leads to quite a few scenes of Batman and Robin slapping each other over her. But f course, there’s really no doubt that the best part of the film is Mr. Freeze. He’s a combination of the sillier Mr. Freeze from the West days and the more modern take of the character most are familiar with, the tragic anti-villain who wants to save his wife; such a character would take a talented man capable of comedy and drama in equal measure. And who better than Arnold Schwarzenegger? Joel Schumacher wanted a man who looked like he was chiseled from a glacier, and Arnold certainly fits that description. He spends the movie juggling some of the most corny puns you can imagine and a lot of truly powerful, understated drama, and it really does work. You honestly get the sense that Arnold really gets Mr. Freeze and what makes him a great character. Also, that suit he has is amazing.

As a final note: the Bat Credit Card is absolutely not stupid. Linkara has defended it in the past, giving reasons why and how it could actually work, but really, all that needs to be said is… is this any more ridiculous than Shark Repellent Bat Spray?

THE BAD

So don’t get the wrong idea here; this film is far from perfect. As is the case with any comedy, the humor can be hit or miss; not all of the puns land, not all of the jokes are great. You’re never going to get a perfect comedy no matter how hard you try, and this is no exception.

As for performances, I think O’Donnell’s Robin and Silverstone’s Batgirl are a bit wonky. O'Donnell has long been a source of derision for his whining, and while I think the hate is a bit overblown, he does spend a ludicrous amount of time in this film being snippy, miserable, and arrogant. I think he actually fights with Batman more than any of the villains! Still, his performance isn’t horrible, he just gets a bit too whiny at a few points.

Silverstone is a bit of a bigger problem, but she’s not quite as bad as even I remembered. She’s pretty much Batgirl in name only, since she’s related to Alfred in this, but she’s mostly okay. The issue really is that her arc in the film is relatively bland and feels a bit shoehorned, which comes to a head where she fights Poison Ivy in a designated catfight, obviously because they didn’t want Batman to punch a woman in the face I guess. There’s just one issue with that:

On the subject of Ivy, while she definitely does have plant powers here, they’re strangely underplayed. She rarely uses them even when it would probably be beneficial, instead relying on Bane to do most of the fighting for her. Ah, Bane… Bane is one of the few things about this film I can’t really muster up any sort of defense for. While his creation scene is rather cool, it doesn’t lead to much of interest, as this version of Bane is pretty much a mindless supersoldier lackey who serves Poison Ivy. Now, this was still relatively early in Bane’s existence, as he had only debuted in 1993 and was really most famous for his signature “breaking the Bat” move, but it still is baffling why, with that famous thing fresh in everyone’s minds, that they would just choose to go and basically make Bane into Evil Diet Captain America. Surely they could have either saved him for a sequel or utilized him in a way more befitting of the character? I think this Bane is kind of responsible for the negative perception of Bane as this big, dumb bruiser, something that works like The Dark Knight Rises and Arkham Origins have thankfully gone a long way to rectifying. Bane is at his best when he’s a cunning genius bruiser; here, he’s nothing but a glorified prop.

Is It Really THAT Bad?

The answer is no. No it isn’t. AT ALL.

I’ve always felt this film came out at the wrong time. It was towards the end of the 90s, during the Dark Age of Comics when everything was dark, gritty, and edgy. The world didn’t want a movie like this back then; they wanted stuff like Blade, who would come in shortly after this film and show us how to make that aesthetic work. I guess in terms of Batman they wanted something more like Dawn of Justice, which really speaks volumes to how awful the 90s were for superheroes. 

Look, I’m not trying to convince anyone this is the greatest Batman film ever. Even I don’t think that; Batman Returns, The Dark Knight, and Under the Red Hood are all much better films. But is this really the worst Batman film now that we have the deeply misogynistic and disgusting The Killing Joke and the relentlessly bleak and unpleasant Batman v Superman? Hell, it’s not even worse than Batman Forever! At least the Batman in this film has some kind of emotional range beyond “plank of wood!” And even calling it the worst sequel ever is just… so baffling. Again, this is definitely better than Batman Forever, lack of Jim Carrey notwithstanding. And can you honestly look me in the eye and tell me that this is worse than any of the Terminator sequels after the second film? Worse than Iron Man 2 or Thor: The Dark World? The almost half dozen Alvin and the Chipmunk sequels? This is only the worst sequel or even a bad sequel if it is the only sequel you’ve ever seen in your life.

A lot of the hate for it from back in the day carries a strong undercurrent of homophobia. Much like the infamous backlash against disco, it’s seriously uncomfortable, and it definitely is cruel how accusatory people were towards Schumacher’s intentions for the suits of the heroes in the film. The fact that even the two main stars have gotten in on it is a bit disgusting, though O’Donnell questioning why there needed to be a codpiece is certainly less offensive than George Clooney saying he played Batman as a gay man for… whatever reason. Was he implying that Batman being gay made the movie worse? I’m not sure what he’s on about there. Even The New Batman Adventures made a cruel dig at the film; notice the sign and the effeminate-looking boy. You could only get homophobia this good in the 90s!

The hatred of this film is absolutely overblown. It’s so ridiculous. #70 on the bottom rated movies of IMDB? #1 on the 50 worst films of all time list from Empire? Doug Walker’s personal punching bag whenever he needs to talk about a bad sequel, to the point where he literally said no one wanted a comedic take on Batman in his worst sequels video? Come the fuck on.

Joel Schumacher may or may not have ended up hating this film, but he certainly was made to feel like shit for making it… and it is honest to god not that bad! But he was just absolutely eviscerated, to the point where this was a fucking headline when he died:

Literally fuck all of these people. Fuck io9 for their insensitive headline. Fuck Empire for rating this as the worst film ever. Fuck Doug Walker for his constant bashing and his shitty old “chimp out over the Bat Credit Card” gag. Double fuck Mick LaSalle for shitting on George Clooney’s performance while also trying to say George Lazenby’s Bond was bad. In fact, fuck George Clooney for his weird idea that playing Batman as gay is a bad thing (sorry George, but I can’t defend this). Fuck the Razzies. Yes, it was nominated, but I just feel it’s always a good time to say “Fuck the Razzies.”

I will never say you have to love or even like this film, but the sheer amount of vitriol and hatred for it is absolutely beyond me. At worst, this film is just a bit too goofy, and at best, it is a fun tribute to the campy days when Batman just couldn’t get rid of a bomb. I didn’t take off my score this time. I’m proud to say I gave this an 8/10, personally. If I’m being honest, a 6.6 – 6.9 is more appropriate, because it does have quite a few issues, but god, this film is not bad at all. It’s silly, goofy, campy, and fun… but bad? Not by any stretch of my imagination. And fuck the critics for convincing an entire generation that this is Batman at his worst, when we have Batman fucking slaughtering his ways through criminals and fucking Barbara Gordon on rooftops these days. I will always take stupid ice puns over misery, murder and creepy intergenerational sex, thank you very much.

I hope you can rest easy, Mr. Schumacher. Maybe you didn’t love your film in the end but, wherever you are, I hope you know I loved it.

[forestwater87]

201X in Review: A journey of cringe and regrets

Realizing 2020 is really close and wanted to look back at the second (full) decade I’ve actually been alive for. I feel like either a huge amount of stuff has happened, or basically nothing’s happened, but there’s no middle ground.

2010: 

Cringy 2010 photo: High school prom (in middle, dark green dress and...a face)

Junior in high school. 

Had my first-ever Real Boyfriend(TM). (Pictured in above cringy photo.)

Had just ended an extremely toxic 12-year relationship and was still figuring out how to have friends. 

Chemistry fucking SUUUUUCKED and I don’t miss it.

Had a super intense love for Megamind. I saw it minimum of 4 times in theaters and had a major crush on that blue lil nerd. (Began a personal grudge against both Tangled and Despicable Me for taking away its deserved spotlight, a resentment I have not yet gotten past 10 years later.)

Most regrettable 2010 memory: Getting way too intense about a new boyfriend and lowkey abandoning my friends. Not cool.

Most awesome 2010 memory: I have friends from back then I still love and keep in touch with (despite my abandoning them for a bit there). That’s pretty dang awesome.

2011: 

Cringy 2011 photo: High school graduation with one of the most beautiful women in existence. (We’re still friends, and she’s still gorgeous.)

Graduated high school! (Gym fucking SUUUUUCKED and I don’t miss it.) 

Fell in love with the college that was supposed to be a “safety school” and didn’t apply anywhere else, which means I can brag about having been accepted into 100% of the colleges I applied to. 

Started at Ithaca College -- don’t say “it’s gorges,” it gets so old so fast -- and had a miserable first semester and an incredible second. 

Started getting . . . uncomfortably involved in religious groups. (I mean, I’d been doing that since I was a kid, but it got kicked up to 11 in college.)

Most regrettable 2011 memory: Dressed as a “g***y” for Halloween. Fucking yikes.

Most awesome 2011 memory: Figuring out what I want to be when I grow up.

2012: 

Cringy 2012 photo: Modeling first successfully completed knitting project. With bamboo needles because Ithaca is a hippie paradise.

Learned how to knit, entirely out of boredom in long lectures.

Technically started my tumblr experience, though it was only for a few months while I worked through some Shit by being in love with Loki from the Avengers (and THiddleston in general). Stayed on here just long enough to discover Achievement Hunter and Rooster Teeth, and never went back.

Broke up with first-ever Real Boyfriend(TM) and handled it so well I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety disorder.

Got very deep in a religious group at IC, which was . . . not very healthy and could perhaps not inaccurately be described as “cultlike.” (I owe a major apology to everyone who knew me back then; I was very much a major bitch.)

Despite the previous two bullet points, this was the best year of my life up until that point. I lived next door to my two best friends in college, loved my major, and pretty much was confident that I had everything figured out.

Most regrettable 2012 memory: Writing a fan letter to Tom Hiddleston, which included a photo of me and my phone number. I was convinced my charm and wit would totally make him fall in love with me.

Most awesome 2012 memory: Pretty sure this is the year my love affair with RiffTrax began, too. I had a posse and we’d go see live shows together.

2013-2014:

Cringy 2013 photo: A blanket that I made and sent to Jennamarlbes for her dogs, because it was too small for people. Pretty sure it showed up in a video at one point.

Cringy 2014 photo: My awesome college roommates and I dressed up to give out candy to people’s dorms on Halloween. Reverse trick-or-treating: very fun, always recommended.

HA. So much for having anything figured out.

I don’t actually remember much of this period in my life, because I was navel-deep in a major religious crisis that would continue until . . . a couple months ago, basically? There was a lot of freaking out and trying to reconcile culty fundamentalism with the freewheeling pinko that lived deep inside and was trying to break free.

Lots of therapy, though. And med adjustments. Eventually figured out something that worked. Free campus counseling was the bomb though.

I do remember living in an apartment and cooking for myself for the first time, and also playing a lot of tabletop games with my roommates. (Also drinking. Lots of drinking.)

Oh shit, was this when I started that Drunk Librarian blog? I was trying really hard to be The Nostalgia Critic for books (ew), but I remember having a lot of fun with that. That was when my lifelong vendetta against John Green began.

Most regrettable 2013-2014 memory: Did I mention that the blanket I sent to Jenna included a letter? Did I mention that letter included some bible verses I thought she would appreciate????

Most awesome 2013-14 memory: Started a knitting club. It was just like 4 people hanging out and not knitting.

2015:

Cringy 2015 photo: Me being emaciated, makeup-smeared, and proudly showing off a collarbone piercing. That piercing has since rejected, but was in fact cute af.

Graduated college! Summa cum laude, bitches. (And an unfinished minor because I didn’t feel like taking the one (1) class I needed to graduate.)

Started library school and moved back home with parents. That was . . . an adjustment.

Changed library school “majors” halfway through my first year, after a lot of soul searching and panic attacks.

Had a short but catastrophic relationship with a man 9 years older than me (who was my pastor. Awkward). Religious crisis continued.

Got really skinny and hot because I was too miserable to eat. Dyed my hair red for the first time and looked basically like Ariel.

Discovered Party Hard and got really good at killing people.

Remembered how much I fucking love my parents’ dog:

Most regrettable 2015 memory: Being that person who “thought I could change him.”

Most awesome 2015 memory: Did you see how cute that dog is? His name is Oscar, after Oscar the Grouch.

2016:

Cringy 2016 photo: I had this huge thing for 1950s dresses for a while, complete with petticoats.

Grad school continued.

Religious crisis continued.

Therapy happens to deal with Things, is quickly dropped due to money and lack of shrink-chemistry.

Discovered a dumb little web cartoon with a teensy fanbase and no love for my favorite ship. Began work on a fanfic to correct this.

Finished a long-form fanfic for the first time in my entire life.

Virtually abandoned every other fandom to hyperfixate on this for the rest of my life.

Got super political, then super depressed. Quit Facebook because I realized I hate everyone I’m FB friends with.

Discovered Stardew Valley and never got anything done ever again.

Found Tumblr again (needed it to keep in touch with my first-ever beta reader, @raenbowsofficial) and turned into fandom and politics trash.

Most regrettable 2016 memory: Man, was I cocky about that Hillary Clinton winning the election. Oops.

Most awesome 2016 memory: I mean, CAMP CAMP. Obviously.

2017: 

Cringy 2017 photo: My first day of work as a very bisexual-in-denial librarian.

Finished grad school and became a certified librarian (in NYS anyway)!

Got a job at a local college, including my own office!

Shaved half my head!

Moved into my own apartment and adopted a cat, fulfilling a goal over 7 years in the making!

Became friends with two of the most important people I’ve ever met. Visited one of them on a semi-impromptu 9-hour drive to Virginia and met IRL for the first time. First ever all-night solo trip, one of the best days of my life.

This might’ve been the year I got the VFD eye tattooed on my ankle, though I can’t swear to that.

Was part of my first long-form tabletop RPG with friends from college (and friends-of-friends). Was very emotional and also quite gay.

Rediscovered Megamind thanks to excellent fanfiction. That shit is still great.

Currently the best year I’ve ever had. 

Most regrettable 2017 memory: I should’ve attended my graduation from library school instead of deciding it didn’t matter. It mattered a lot.

Most awesome 2017 memory: Seeing the-artist-formerly-known-as-ciphernetics in person.

2018:

Cringy 2018 photo: Um, apparently we don’t get one, because there’s an image limit to these posts. Lame.

Was laid off and took 6 months to find another full-time job. Spent most of that time depression-napping.

Said full-time job lasted 4 months before I ran like my shoes were on fire, because it was morally . . . suspicious and left me borderline suicidal.

Got very fat because I was too miserable to stop eating.

Had to cut my hair so I would look “professional.” Looked like my ex-boyfriend. My mom said I “looked like a Trump supporter.” To-date the meanest thing anyone’s ever said to me.

Moved back in with my parents due to not-having-job-ness (got to bring the cat, though).

Lost parents’ health insurance and had to pay for my own. Discovered health insurance is ridiculously expensive.

Became super left-leaning thanks to the power of Tumblr and Youtube (and possibly that super expensive health insurance thing). 

Writing came to a virtual standstill, though I managed to organize and actually finish participating in all of Gwenvid Week (for the first time).

Two weeks after quitting the job from hell and three weeks after moving back in with the parents, I was offered my old position back. Accepted. Was once again a college librarian.

Most regrettable 2018 memory: Knowing I didn’t want the nightmare job and accepting it anyway. Might’ve been the only choice, but it caused a lot of unhappiness.

Most awesome 2018 memory: The day I was laid off, I hopped on a plane and went to fucking Disney World. Because why not?

2019:

Started work again. Finally (mostly) stopped having panic attacks about being fired/laid off out of the middle of nowhere around 8 months into new job.

Fewer paper cuts than expected.

Accidentally became associated with dinosaurs at work, despite not having any sort of special affinity for dinosaurs.

Did develop a deep and abiding affinity for octopus. Also elephants.

Took cat to doctor. Cat didn’t enjoy doctor. Cat is now 8 lbs. and 14 oz. She is big girl.

Rediscovered the joy of reading again. Newly discovered that mysteries actually can be pretty awesome, and read barely anything else all year. (Personal recommendations: The 7 1/2 Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle by Stuart Turton and Waisted by Randy Susan Meyers.)

So. Many. Youtube. Video. Essays.

Discovered Stardew Valley mods and eventually broke 3k hours of playtime. 

Napped frequently. Panicked less frequently. It’s a step in the right direction.

Most regrettable 2019 memory: This post sure is long and over-share-y, isn’t it? Didn’t even include a cut so you could more easily scroll past my face. Inconsiderate, is what that is.

Most awesome 2019 memory: This one is pretty good. Right now.

2020: 

??? 

Profit.

[amoralto]

Playgirl: Paul! (June, 1982)

(Note: I’ve been wondering if I should include more full articles/interviews on the blog, i.e. pieces that are not already available and/or hosted online. This is one of them - more of an overview/feature piece, but worth a read nonetheless. For Paul and Linda’s 1985 interview w/ Playgirl, I typed it up a while ago here. Previous quote posts from both articles: here, here.) 

-

by Mark Rowland

He turns 40 this month, and if he is anything like the rest of us, the last 20 must feel as close as yesterday. Was it really so long ago that four working-class chums from a dingy English port town sang and laughed and shook their mop-tops to signal a crumbling of the old order and a hailing of the new? You look for the signs of age in recent photographs, but the changes are so subtle—a slight hollowing of those cherubic cheeks, perhaps a hint of wariness in eyes that used to sparkle with playful coquetry. Yes, time has been a gentle thief.

The lad who stole girls’ hearts all ’round the world is a husband of 13 years standing, and the father of four. The inveterate rock ’n’ roller divides his time between home and studio, now surfacing to promote a new album (Tug of War, Columbia), soon disappearing back into the mists of his Scotland farm. Which is just as it should be. Paul McCartney, handsome and rich and brimming with easy charm—and still the mirror in which we seek the reflection of our own youthful dreams.

“I like Walt Disney cartoons—they sort of live forever.” Paul McCartney

In fact, the last decade has not treated Paul all that kindly. When it becan he was, quite simply, a hero. By its close he’d become the subject of casual ridicule, a turnabout engineered in part by the mocking comments of his former best friend and musical compatriot, John Lennon. Any critical appraisal of his band, Wings, was bound to include unflattering comparisons to the Beatles and/or snide references to the credentials of its keyboard player, who just happened to be Paul’s wife.

And then there was Wings’ disastrous final episode, a triumphant tour of Japan that abruptly terminated when customs officials unearthed a hefty cache of marijuana in Paul’s luggage. Instead of Budokan’s concert stage, McCartney commenced a 10-day engagement “live” in the local jail, regaling his fellow inmates with renditions of “Yesterday” and “Mull of Kintyre”. Then he was deported.

“He certainly received quite a shock,” recalls Michael McCartney, Paul’s brother and the author of an affectionate family history entitled The Macs (Delilah Communications, Ltd.). “But even worse was the way the media deliberately distorted his situation. When I said I was angry at what was happening, for instance, they made it sound like I was angry at Paul. So just at the crucial moment, when the court is weighing judgment, they read the papers and think, ‘My God, even his own family thinks he’s a fool.’ It could have gone to his detriment, you know. He could have been locked up for years.”

Paul’s problem, of course, is that he has always appeared just a tad too sexy, too suave, too eager to please. His equipoise looms like a red flag to critics ready to knock him down a peg, and no matter that his temperament is genuinely affable. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in a bad mood,” contends rockabilly great Carl Perkins, a friend of nearly 20 years standing. “I’ve worked with a lot of greats, from Elvis to Dylan, and they could all get pretty moody at times. But Paul’s not like that. I’m sure he has a time and place, but it doesn’t interfere with his outward personality.” Though McCartney is far from invulnerable, it has never been his style to exorcise personal demons in public, a la John Lennon. Instead, he turns inward, to his family and his music. When the Beatles broke apart, Paul did both—he formed a new band with his wife.

“If you want the Beatles, go see Wings.” George Harrison

“I think I’m good. I like me, I’m good. I can dig me. Can you?” Paul McCartney

“He sounds like Englebert Humperdinck.” John Lennon

Wings took flight in 1971, when Paul and Linda joined forces with old pal Denny Laine (from the Moody Blues) and drummer Danny Seiwell. It endured, in various incarnations, for eight more years and eight more albums. Paul first conceived the band as a vehicle for playing small clubs and halls, a return to his rock roots and an emergence from the isolation that, in Paul’s view, had ultimately destroyed the Beatles. As a traveling show, Wings was a hit from the start—who wouldn’t want to hear Paul play the local pub?—but a succession of pop hits soon propelled him back to superstar-sized arenas and concert halls.

Critical acclaim was not so readily forthcoming. Without the Beatles’ special alchemy Paul’s romanticism tended to drift toward pap, lacking the spark of originality that characterized the best McCartney-Lennon collaborations. His most acrid critic, to Paul’s everlasting chagrin, turned out to be Lennon. For years they squabbled like ex’s unable to leave behind a stormy marriage, but when it came to sarcastic repartee John was in a class by himself. Japes like the one about Humperdinck, or the picture of John hoisting a pig by its ears (a wicked sendup of Paul holding up a sheep on the cover of his Ram album) wounded Paul deeply. He still has not entirely recovered; in a recent interview he claimed to draw fresh solace from his conversations with Yoko Ono. “She tells me something very important,” he revealed, “that John still loved me, after all.”

“Of course my brother and John loved each other,” declares Michael McCartney, “same as my brother and I do. Brothers have their feuds—you love ’em and you hate ’em. Oh, it’s easy enough to put all the negative parts under a microscope. I could have written a book called Paulie Dearest, slagged him to death and made millions. But it wouldn’t have been the truth. With Paul and John, though, all the dirty linen was brought out in public.”

Despite, or perhaps because of, such controversy, Paul continued to pour his energy into the music, and by 1976, his faith had been rewarded. Wings toured America that year like conquering heroes. McCartney was hailed on the cover of Time, and the band’s crack performances drew wildly ecstatic crowds and rave reviews. Amidst all the hoopla, however, Paul and Linda remained serene and jocular, causing one associate to marvel that McCartney was the only touring rock star around who knew how to keep a grip on his sanity.

”Groupies, chicks. It was fabulous. I loved it. There was no stopping me after a (Beatles) show. I was the biggest raver out. But I got to thinking, ‘What am I doing with my life? Who am I getting to know? What one chick do I know as a pal?’ And there weren’t any… Mainly, I’d sown enough wild oats. Making love does become a sort of commitment—I love the idea of vows and stuff. To tell the truth, it keeps me kind of straight.” Paul McCartney, 1974

“I’m not sophisticated, a good conversationalist, looking good all the time. I don’t think of myself like Jacqueline Kennedy or Patricia Nixon.” Linda McCartney, 1974

Paul was always the most desirable of the Beatle bachelors, and by the end of the sixties, he was the only one left. Any whiff of serious romance merited close scrutiny by the press. Thus, Linda “no relation to Kodak” Eastman was in for some rough sport, when, after a relatively swift courtship, she and Paul tied the knot in 1969. A rock photographer at the Fillmore East who’d enjoyed acquaintanceships with various rock figures previous to meeting Paul, she was dubbed the “Park Avenue groupie”—a sobriquet that says more about rock’s inbred sexism than Linda’s character. (Years later, Rolling Stone slurred Joni Mitchell in much the same fashion.)

Nonetheless, Paul and Linda took to the life of domestic bliss with remarkable dispatch, a condition rather smugly documented on their first two records together, Ram and Wild Life. Since then, however, they’ve managed to sustain the ideal of traditional marriage and family—no mean feat in this era of celebrity swapstakes. Though rumors of discord surface from time to time, from all indications, their marriage remains solid. Indeed, one of the highlights of the Wings Over America tour was Paul’s impassioned rendition of “My Love”, crooning the hook “my love does it gooood” while a smiling Linda posed before the multitudes, hands on hips, letting no one miss the implications of that particular song.

“Paul would be sort of a Republican.” John Eastman, Paul’s brother-in-law and business manager

According to the Guinness Book of World Records, Paul McCartney is “the most honored man in music.” One is naturally inclined to trust Guinness in these matters, and Paul’s statistics do tell an amazing story—over 100 million album sales, 100 million singles sales and, separately, 43 million-selling songs. Since 1970, all 10 of Paul’s records (solo and with Wings) have been certified gold by the Record Industry Association of America. The last five releases have also gone platinum (over a million units sold), and his newest, Tug of War, which features Ringo, Stevie Wonder, Michael Jackson and Carl Perkins, is certain to do the same.

During the sixties, however, only a small part of the Beatles’ fabulous success translated into personal wealth. For many years the band relied on a loose network of acquaintances to handle their financial matters—most proved either honest or competent, but rarely both. But under the guidance of John Eastman, Paul has since realized a vast financial empire, with an estimated annual income, mostly from record and publishing royalties, of about $40 million. His publishing house, MPL, originally established for tax purposes, is the largest independent song publisher in the world, holding the rights to scores from Grease, Annie, Hello Dolly, A Chorus Line, Bye Bye Birdie and Mame; standards from “On, Wisconsin” to “Stormy Weather” and “Autumn Leaves”; the entire catalog of Buddy Holly songs, rags by Scott Joplin, songs by Ira Gershwin, even the theme to the Dinah Shore TV show. And in a recent twist of fate, Paul and Yoko are currently negotiating with British mogul Sir Lew Grade to buy back Northern Songs, the catalog of early Beatles hits (including “Yesterday”) that was sold during the sixties. The whimsical Beatle has turned out to be one savvy entrepreneur.

Less publicized, however, are McCartney’s frequent gestures of charity. He’s performed various benefits for UNESCO, and, in 1979,, following a plea from then-Secretary General of the United Nations Kurt Waldheim, he personally organized a giant pop concert to raise the emergency relief aid for Kampuchea. The event and subsequent album, Concerts for the People of Kampuchea (featuring the Who, Queen, the Pretenders and Elvis Costello, among others), has netted UNICEF over $600,000 to date, according to organization officials. A concert movie will also be released around the United States and Europe this summer.

McCartney’s generosity crops up in smaller, more personal encounters. “When I first decided to become a writer, I sent a bunch of stuff to Paul,” recalls Laura Gross, now a radio interviewer at KRLA, the “Beatles station” of Los Angeles. “Then, when he came to L.A., I knocked on the door of his hotel, and he said ‘Oh yes, I’ve read your stuff, you ought to send us what you’re doing. Linda and I are very interested.’ Here I was, a stranger and a nobody, and he took the time to be kind. He gave me encouragement at a time when that was very important to me.”

“He was my boss,” observes Wings guitarist Laurence Juber, “but he was also my teacher. At one point he gave me a fairly substantial budget just so I could develop my own ideas. He’s an extremely benevolent sort of person, but he doesn’t shout about it. He’s aware of his responsibility to other talents, otherwise he wouldn’t be a nice person, and he is a nice person. Of course, he’s always got that element of cockiness about him, because he’s come such a long way. Don’t forget, he was just a kid off the street in Liverpool. That’s all any of them were.”

“Phony Beatlemania has bitten the dust.” The Clash

“I love Paul, he’s my favourite—brown, white, red, blue or green! He is the Beatles.” Little Richard, interviewed by KRLA’s Laura Gross

In 1974, Mark Lapidos decided to put together a kind of giant swap meet and communal gathering for Beatles fans. He called it Beatlefest, rented a hall, and ended up admitting 7,000 people and turning away thousands more. This year, Beatlefest will span 11 days in four different U.S. cities, as interest continues to mount in a group that called it quits more than a decade ago. “We’re not living in the past,” Lapidos insists. “You take surveys now and ask young people their favourite group and what do they say? The Beatles! Their music will not die. It is the cultural phenomenon of the century.”

Lapidos may be right. The past year has evidenced yet another spate of books and articles about the Beatles, along with discoveries of long-dormant radio recordings and master tapes by the Fab Foursome. And if anything, the hideous murder of John Lennon in December 1980 seems to have inspired fans to rekindle the flame of memory. “We simply couldn’t let that act destroy such an important part of our lives,” explains Lapidos. “Actually, we became more like family, pulling closer together after we’d lost our brother.”

The man who knew John Lennon best was devastated by his murder. Paul’s friend, Paddy Moloney of the Chieftains, remembers seeing McCartney looking “stunned. He said it was useless and tragic, (but) I don’t think it had penetrated that John was gone forever. I’m sure it took a few days for that to sink in.” When it did, Paul turned, as he always did in times of crisis, to his closest ally—music. At the suggestion of friend and producer George Martin, he shifted base from London to Martin’s studio on the Caribbean island of Montserrat, away from the obtrusive glare of the media. Once settled in with Linda and the kids, he called up Ringo, Wingsmate Denny Laine, Carl Perkins, Stevie Wonder, and embarked on the most ambitious and painstaking project of his musical career.

“I have never met a more dedicated musician than Paul McCartney. He’ll work all night on a little guitar lick until he gets it just the way he wants it. He’s a perfectionist.” Carl Perkins

The intensity of his commitment on Montserrat became its own kind of therapy. Between sessions the musicians would swim, sun on the beach, or take Jeep rides along the scenic island trails. But after two months, McCartney and Martin returned to London, where they continued to refine the material for another year. The sessions had produced two albums worth of music; the second set was still in its final stages of completion when I phoned Martin’s studio in March. A spokesperson remarked that McCartney was anxiously awaiting its public reception. “I think Paul wants to have a truly ‘musical’ success this time, not just a popular one,” she declared. “He really wants to be recognized for achieving something.”

In the past decade, McCartney’s most trying periods have often fostered his best work—McCartney and Ram, following the Beatles split; Band on the Run in 1973, when Wings was coming apart at the seams, and to a lesser extent, Back to the Egg in 1979, amidst persistent rumors that Paul and Linda’s marriage was on the rocks. But all of those efforts pale, I think, beside Tug of War. Here Paul has finally cast off the aureole of calculated cuteness that marred so much of his seventies music, and penned lyrics that are evocative, unsentimental and deeply personal. At the same time, the album’s sheer range and spunky, let’s-try-it-on spirit recalls the Beatles at their most ambitious, from the daring juxtaposition of rock ’n’ roll rhythm and big band texture that propels “Ballroom Dancing” to the graceful, quirky country swing duet with Perkins, to the hothouse funk of “What’s That”, a six-minute corker with Stevie Wonder that bears favorable comparison to Wonder’s own “Superstition”. Yet the record’s most eloquent moment is its most elemental—a quiet, heartfelt paean to McCartney’s fallen brother, entitled “Here Today.”

And if I said I really knew you well, What would your answer be? Well, knowing you, You’d probably laugh, And say that we were worlds apart If you were here today… here today.

Every era has its myths—from Jesus to Camelot to the Beatles—and every myth exists to fill the special needs of its culture. As Beatle Paul, he will always play the courtly knight, the crooning Lancelot in shining Nehru jacket. But the real Paul McCartney is no more or less than a talented musician with wife and kids, nearing middle age and trying, along with the rest of us, to sort out the various slings and arows of life’s fortune. It is no put-down to say that nothing he ever does, no matter how accomplished, can again approach the majesty of the legend he once helped create, precisely because it is a legend.

“Why should the Beatles give more?” John Lennon once asked, with characteristic bluntness. “Didn’t they give everything on God’s earth for 10 years? Didn’t they give themselves?”

So now Lennon is gone, though his restless, vibrant spirit survives among the living. And now Paul McCartney, unarguably one of the premier artists of his generation, continues with his own life’s work, which is simply to make music for the world to hear and enjoy; perhaps even be touched by.

[sparklyjojos]

the promised summary of Smoke, Soil or Sacrifices. [tw: a lot of child abuse in a dysfunctional family, mentioned suicide]

--

The narrator is Natsukawa Shirou [ 奈津川 四郎], an ER surgeon working in San Diego. You know the type: workaholic with a god complex, wearing Armani coats and having casual sex left and right, but also constantly sleep-deprived and popping anxiety pills like its candy. He has deep-seated aggression issues that even he himself is afraid of getting out of control, and to manage it he trained boxing for a while before a gang drove him out of the gym (long story). As his name implies, he's the youngest of four brothers - in order of birth: Ichirou [一郎], Jirou [二郎], Saburou [三郎] and him, Shirou [四郎] - but since he's working in the USA, he hasn't seen his family for a while.

One winter day Shirou learns that back in Japan, his mother got seriously hurt and is currently in a coma. He flies back to his Japan hometown, Nishi Akatsuki, meets with an old classmate Takaya Yoshio (who everybody calls “Rupan”, like Lupin the Third, after he once wrote that word instead of ‘renessaince’ on a test), and learns that there’s more to the attack: someone has been attacking the women of Nishi Akatsuki, hitting them in the back of the head and then partially burying them in the ground. None of the five victims died, but most were still unconscious, and no one saw the attacker. Even if his mother is alive, Shirou gets so furious about the attack that he nearly destroys Rupan’s car before he can calm himself down; he really does have violence issues. (Also Rupan is dating a high schooler Yamaguchi Usagi behind his wife’s back and Shirou has a really bad feeling about it).

We learn a little about the Natsukawa family. They’re descended from a German immigrant Hans who left them two things: first, ridiculous for Japanese standards height (the brothers are all >185cm tall); second, a mysterious warehouse with triangle-shaped floor and ceiling that he built next to the family house. Its history is grim: Hans’s son Daimaru (大丸) hanged himself inside the warehouse, and then Daimaru’s son, Maruo (丸雄, the narrator’s father) tended to close one of his kids inside a lot for misbehaving. Shirou remembers Maruo, and thinks about how as a kid he saw that his father’s body was scarred all over, which Maruo claimed was a remainder of injuries from one or another war.

Shirou has a reunion with two of his brothers, Ichirou and Saburou. Jirou, the second oldest, has mysteriously disappeared at 17 and nobody has seen him since, it seems. Ichirou is a politician, just like their father Maruo, while Saburou writes mystery novels starring detective Runbaba 12. (Shirou thinks they’re ridiculous, and remembers one that had the hero looking for his daughter and somehow ending up living with an amnesiac woman and a gay guy, or some nonsense like that.)

---

The serial attacker case is overseen by a Tokyo police officer Marikku Takahiro (真陸隆宏) and a Nagoya prosecutor Shirai Masami (白碑将美), both Shirou’s old schoolmates. Upon learning the facts about the case from them, Shirou figures out something nobody else realized: if on a map of Nishi Akatsuki you draw lines between some houses of the victims, and draw a spiral based on it, it’ll go perfectly through all the victims’ houses. [I’m not sure how to explain it in text, so here’s the map in question -- the numbers are houses:]

Shirou goes to where the origin of the spiral points to, at the shore of the river Shounokawa (not pictured on the map), and finds an empty coffin buried in the ground. He alarms the police and Saburou, who arrives at the scene with his detective friend, Banba Junjirou (番場 潤二郎). [Interestingly enough, he shares the last two kanji of his first name with Jirou, but it isn’t brought up ever -- I don’t know if this coincidence is done just for the sake of having a red herring, or will it be important in a later book]. Saburou often affectionately calls Banba ‘Runbaba’ and it seems he based the character in his books off of him. He originally hired Banba to help find Jirou, the missing brother, but they’ve been unsuccesful so far. Banba doesn’t really do anything useful at the scene, only claiming nonsense like the coffin being actually a time machine.

Shirou learns that the serial attacker always makes a photo of the crime scene and writes some nonsensical letters on it, and always puts an animal plushie in the ground next to the victim (so far: sheep, elephant, lion, sheep, koala). Through some truly inspired reasoning Shirou notices that since the victims were only partially buried, their body parts were always kinda sticking out in a grid pattern, and you can ‘read’ them like syllabary Braiile code. The resulting message is ‘MAMATASUKE’, seemingly a part of ‘mama tasukete’ = ‘help me mom’. And if you treat the letters on the photos as a Caesar cipher key, and pair it in a very complicated way with the names of the victims, you’ll get DRMN / NOBT / SZK / SNEO / GIAN... which looks like nothing, but these are abbreviations of famous kids cartoon characters, eg. the first one is Doraemon. Soon after this discovery, they learn that another victim was attacked (incidentally it’s Marikku’s mother), and the discovered pattern of plushies/words/etc. seems to continue.

Shirou goes to the hospital to visit his mother, meets Ichirou there and they start physically fighting kinda out of nowhere. Not because they hate each other for any reason; just because, it seems, there is something inside them that drives them to violence-as-bonding. After they flee the security, they talk about the case, and wonder if it wasn’t their missing brother Jirou who’s at fault. This conversation sends Shirou on a long trip down memory lane.

---

When Shirou was 9, he took three abandoned puppies home. The brothers were told they couldn’t keep them, and so the puppies eventually got entrusted to Jirou (then 12) so he’d find them a good owner somewhere else, but as he later admitted he’d just drowned them in the river instead. Jirou didn’t seem to care about the horrible thing he did. In fact, he always did horrible things, like breaking windows in other houses or killing and eating the neighbours’ chickens, and their father Maruo always locked him in the triangle warehouse for that. In primary school Jirou enacted long painful revenge on his bullies, and even called the terror he instilled his ‘Days of Creation’, as if the things he did were ‘a seal given to other by God’. But Jirou’s acts were (as present Shirou now thinks) a natural result of the violence that had been bestowed upon him finally exploding.

Jirou had been abused by Maruo ever since he'd been a tiny child; his every mistake was viciously criticized, and he was ‘jokingly’ threatened with getting abandoned in the mountains. After some time Maruo started beating him, and while Jirou pretended like he didn’t care, it was clear he was terrified and in pain. Ichirou as the oldest brother tried to stop Maruo or get outside help, for years and years, but nothing ever worked.

Eventually one day Maruo seemed to see his mistakes, crying promised to do better and embraced the kids (except Ichirou, who was skeptical and didn’t want to take a part in any display like that). Maruo really seemed to behave a little better after that, though mostly he was completely ignoring Jirou now. This caused Jirou to act out in order to get attention, which each time made Maruo close him in the triangle warehouse. Again, Jirou acted like it was nothing, and called the warehouse his ‘summer residence’, even if all of them were terrified of the dark place that was allegedly haunted by their grandfather’s ghost. Eventually Jirou’s actions escalated into committing petty crimes, and then all-out violence, though he drew a line at murder.

It was only after Maruo’s mother’s intervention that Maruo finally moved to Tokyo for some time, leaving the kids in her charge. Ichirou started tutoring Jirou and was surprised to find out that Jirou was actually incredibly smart; the boy could recite entire passages from books after flipping through them once, and draw complicated maps from memory. He still walked the path of violence, though, and once Maruo came back from Tokyo, the boy got hit and locked inside the warehouse a lot again. Because of his deeds Jirou at times seemed positively demonic to our young narrator; he even once recited Shirou a poem he wrote, which basically said ‘hey, remember those puppies? I killed them with a knife’ (actually it was deeper and more interesting than that, with a hidden promise from the poem’s narrator towards the dead puppies that ‘if I became god, you’d be the first ones I revive’, but obviously talking about that event hurt Shirou a lot all on its own). But even then, Shirou recalls he still held love for Jirou; they were brothers, after all.

Time passed. Ichirou moved toward a political career like his father. Saburou got attacked on the street and had his hand broken, which made him paranoid that somebody from the neighborhood / some organized crime group was out to kill him, but he still laughed at Shirou’s suggestion to run away from home (’and where would we run?”). He ended up ditching the piano that he had always loved playing, and instead got into fights a lot. Jirou by the time of high school was very popular among his peers, infamous among the Fukui policemen, had ‘fans’, and often smuggled girls into his bedroom, which again earned him a trip to the warehouse if Maruo caught him.

In 1986, when Jirou was 17, their grandmother (Maruo’s mother, the same who made him leave that one time) was diagnosed with terminal cancer, and stayed in the hospital in constant horrible pain. While Maruo tended to run away from the situation excusing himself with work trips, Jirou unexpectedly stayed by his grandmother’s side every night. On her death bed, she told her grandsons that “no matter how great or rich a person is, death will turn them into smoke, soil or sacrifices; the burned ones turn into smoke, the buried ones into soil, the others into sacrifices for wild beasts.” She apologized that she couldn’t protect the kids better, and that’s it’s her fault for raising Maruo badly. Then, in pain, she suddenly yelled ‘Daimaru, who killed you?!”, and then just before death demanded to see Maruo once more, to tell him that he’s still the one she loved the most in the world -- that last dying line was shocking to everyone, but hurt Jirou the most.

From then on, Jirou and Maruo’s conflict escalated even more, with Jirou for some reason starting to blame Maruo for Daimaru’s sucide. On 19 December the two started a horrible furniture-breaking physical fight while Saburou and Shirou could only helplessly watch. Suddenly their mother entered the scene with a knife in her hand, but she didn’t use it to stop the fight or otherwise help Jirou, who was looking at her with hope. Instead she screamed that it was Jirou she felt like stabbing, that it was all his fault and he should apologize to his father. Jirou didn’t intend to apologize (instead yelling that maybe it’d be better if he’d never been born), and the situation ended in Maruo brutalizing him and still bleeding throwing into the warehouse.

The next morning, Jirou couldn’t be found anywhere, as if he just vanished from the locked warehouse, and if the other brothers were honest, they were actually pretty glad about that.

--

Back in the present day, Shirou notices that the way a victim’s head is positioned always points like an arrow to the next crime scene, and tells Shirai to guard the houses the last victim points to.

Shirou then goes to the hospital once more to check on his mother, and surprises himself by crying a lot. Later he meets a nurse called Hatakida Atena that catches his eye with her red coat, but nothing comes out of it (he’s bad at / afraid of / unable to have anything more intimate than purely sexual relationships going on, it seems). Then his mother is visited by another victim of the case, Satou Ryouko, who tearfully recalls her joyful near-death experience she had after being attacked. She saw bright light, felt a warm god-like presence, then wandered through a giant forest and met the dead poet Raymond Carver that she had no prior knowledge about (she even recites his poem ‘My Death’). An unassuming student called Nozaki Hiroshi approaches them and seems to be very interested in Satou’s experience, asking for an interview, which she agrees to, as she feels the need to share her wonderful experience with the world.

And then there’s this... out-of-nowhere fragment in which Shirou and Ichirou’s wife Rihoko in the spur of the moment have sex in a random hospital closet (they apparently had an affair two years earlier), and some thugs hired by Ichirou’s political opponents snap pics and try to blackmail Shirou, but he fights them like it’s a damn martial arts movie except with more violence (like ‘biting into someone’s jugular’ kind of violence), and Shirou comes out of it alive but in pretty horrible shape, with the photos destroyed, and what the hell was that?

--

Hitching a ride back to town with Marikku, Shirou realizes that it’s possible it’s actually Marikku who’s behind the murders, as the sixth victim was his abusive mother, who it seems has still been inflicting physical abuse on him even after all these years. Maybe Marikku figured out the pattern of the attacks early on, and used it to arrange a copycat crime that’d get blamed on the original culprit? But just as Shirou confronts Marikku, they get into a car accident. Shirou gets some bones broken, while Marikku dies. Shirou isn’t sure whether it was suicide or not, but suspects the original culprit may have wanted to get rid of them -- later an investigation of the wreck proves that somebody tampered with the car.

Saburou and Rupan help Shirou make a daring escape from the hospital, and the brothers are having quite a lot of fun working together during that entire scene, even if Shirou’s injuries are so severe he has to fight his body not to faint from pain at times. Later, as they return to Nishi Akatsuki, Saburou admits that he and detective Banba believe the criminal may be Jirou, back to take revenge on the town (Banba didn’t disclose more information, as apparently he doesn’t like to tell Saburou anything until he has everything figured out). As proof, they found an old paper -- with the exact spiral pattern used in the crime drawn on it -- in the triangle warehouse, so it’s likely Jirou drew that before his disappearance. During the ride the brothers learn from Yamaguchi Usagi that the plushies found with the victims are their corresponding Doubutsu uranai animals (a sort of new hip horoscope that gives you a different animal depending on your date of birth).

Saburou tells Shirou that there’s another link between the victims: the two women that regained consciousness so far both had a Near-Death Experience (Saburou says it’s super interesting and mentions he’d like to use it in another book of his). Shirou thinks that it may not be a coincidence; maybe the attacker intends on giving the victims NDE like it’s some weird modern ritual, and the plushies serve the same purpose as ritual dolls, as empty vessels to which illness or other bad stuff would be passed? Suddenly Shirou remembers that random Nozaki Hiroshi guy who seemed very happy hearing about NDE from one of the victims, and something clicks. Shirou phones Nozaki’s mother and through some seemingly innocent questions (’Was he in Nishi Akatsuki lately? Does he act like this and this? ...Does he like Doraemon?’) realizes that the serial attacker really is Nozaki. They alert Shirai Masami and local media and rush to Nozaki’s house.

But they’re too late. In the house instead of Nozaki they find the body of detective Banba stabbed to death twenty one times, and Nozaki’s parents strangled by their own son. It seems Banba had figured out the solution before everyone else, and came to this house yesterday without telling Saburou. (”Rest in peace, Runbaba 12,” Shirou thinks reflexively.)

--

In the house they find a note from the criminal, who claims to be fulfilling orders of ‘the Great God Jawakutora-sin’ (or Jawakutora-shin), who governs over all human souls, but as those souls are ‘dirty, unaware, unseeing and ignorant’, the god wants to make them clean. The cleansing proccess has to start with mothers, so the next generation of humans would hopefully already be ‘clean’. Apparently Nozaki in his childhood had a NDE himself, saw ‘Jawakutora’s light’ and understood his guidance. The method involves hitting a precise spot at the back of a person’s head. This causes a ‘perfect opening’ in the skull to form, through which the soul can briefly fly out and have a NDE, that is, ‘be shown reality’, and also be shown Jawakutora’s great spiral structure (a spiral being its symbol) -- that’s the spiral on the map of Nishi Akatsuki. Jawakutora also told Nozaki to do all the other things: bury the victims, write the letters on the photos, and use the plushies (’animals who have never been given souls’. Or something).

While this note shows clearly that the culprit is just some religious fanatic, something bugs Shirou, and he still thinks Jirou may be involved, especially since the two dogs of the family were also killed without any reason.

--

After Banba’s death, Saburou mourns him and closes himself alone in the triangle warehouse for long periods of time. This unexpectedly allows him to discover something, and he calls Ichirou and Shirou to the warehouse. (Maruo and his wife at that time have a job-related meeting with a few other people in the house). This something is the mystery of their grandfather Daimaru’s death.

As Saburou points out, the old stains left from the corpse’s bodily fluids are spread over a significant area, in an arc, which would mean that the hanging corpse had to somehow move around in a circle. Saburou found out that the ceiling of the warehouse can be moved, independently of the walls, by pressing a hidden button. The ceiling rotates in such a way that the building seen from above eventually looks like a 6-pointed star, which was the warehouse’s purpose in the first place: apparently, their great-grandfather Hans was secretly Jewish, and while he was afraid of persecution if he showed his identity outright, he constructed this mechanism as a great big fuck you to the bigoted society who had no clue a giant Star of David was right under their noses.

When the ceiling is moved, there are large enough gaps in some places that a person can fit through; that’s how both Jirou and Daimaru’s murderer could get out. Yes, Daimaru was actually murdered -- by his own son Maruo, the son that he had abused for years and years. That abuse was what gave Maruo his scars. The violence instilled on him, which he then passed to his own sons...

While the brothers talk in the warehouse unaware of anything else, Nozaki sneaks into the main house and stabs everyone he runs into, eventually wounding every single person there. Maruo manages to dodge him and runs towards the warehouse, and in the heated moment yells, ‘Ichirou, Jirou, Saburou, Shirou! Run!”. The names of all his sons.

The brothers run out and see Nozaki stab Maruo, and as Ichirou moves to help his father he also gets injured. This makes the other two brothers’ blood boil and they fight Nozaki, with Shirou eventually using the attacker’s own knife to stab him. But Shirou’s job isn’t done yet: with help of Saburou he gets everyone moved to one spot, grabs his doctor bag, and through his sheer skills of an ER surgeon, lightning fast decisions and improvising on the spot, he manages to keep everyone including Maruo and Ichirou alive until the ambulance arrives. [And it’s fucking amazing to read.]

--

After Shirou heals physically (he did run away from the hospital earlier, after all), he goes to Rupan’s wife Takaya Mari, who’s a psychologist, and makes the first step on his way to heal emotionally. He cries like a baby throughout the entire session, finally lets so many emotions pour out chaotically out of him, and leaves with a lot of things in his head finally sorted out.

Later through his own investigation he learns that Jirou is alive and well, now working in the Ministry of Finances under the name ‘Kawaji Natsurou’, which is so obviously an anagram of ‘Natsukawa Jirou’ it’s surprising nobody noticed.

...but another romaji spelling of Jirou’s name (’Natsukawa Jiro’) is also an anagram for ‘Jawakutora-sin”, and Shirou now understands who was the mastermind behind Nozaki’s actions; who wanted to enact revenge on the mother who in a critical moment turned against him, and most likely on the entire family sooner or later. ...Although Shirou has a feeling he won’t try anything like that anymore.

During the therapy session, Shirou expresses forgiveness towards his father, and wonders whether or not this quick forgiveness isn’t just a foolish decision made in spur of the moment, under strong emotions... but after he heard Maruo yell all their names trying to save them in a similar moment of emotions, he has a feeling things will get better. Shirou’s mother hasn’t woken up yet, but he’s sure she’ll come out of that wonderful giant forest eventually. The force putting their family together is powerful like gravity -- whether this power won’t just bring another disaster, nobody can tell. Certainly, it’s best if Jirou still keeps as far away from them as it’s possible. Maybe it’d be for the best if every single one of them stayed apart, never had children, and let this cursed family be finally destroyed; maybe it’d be for the best if all that remained was smoke, soil or sacrifices. But it’s not the time to think about death. For now, what matters is that they’re all alive and have to try and keep on living.

In the end, Shirou calls Atena (the nurse from earlier) and asks her to sleep with him -- literally sleep with him, mostly -- and with the warm and safety, and another person’s heartbeat so close by, he can finally sleep calmly.

[hale-of-stiles-heart]

35 please? :D

This got really long and really angsty. I don’t know what happened. (also on ao3)

35. “Here, take my hand. Everything is fine, just hold onto me and keep moving.”

Castiel had always been deathly afraid of fire. In any form, no matter how big or small.

It all went back to when he was just a little kid, barely seven years old, the youngest in a ridiculously huge family consisting of an absentee writer of a father and the eldest siblings trying to make sure no one died.

Michael was the oldest. He was the Good Son. The one that sang their father's praises while he was off on a bender god knows where, drowning himself in whiskey as he agonized over his latest book.

He was stern and almost militant in his rearing of the younger siblings, orderly to the point of obsession. In the mornings, he would instruct all of the younger children to brush their teeth, make their beds, and get themselves ready for school.

The younger siblings were his little drones, little soldiers ready to dive into battle the moment he told them to. He barked orders and preached Bible verses from memory, fire and brimstone in his voice.

There was an odd sort of affection he held for his siblings. He had cared for them, but he was ultimately selfish and nothing would ever be more important than himself.

After joining the Air Force when he turned eighteen, he worked as a local police officer. He mostly just wrote parking tickets but the badge gave him power that he so fervently craved.

Raphael was the second eldest. If Michael was the heir, he was the spare. And he seemed to be rather content with his lot in life.

He let the others handle most of the child rearing, occasionally stepping in for discipline purposes. But unlike Michael's punishments of jumping jacks or pushups or scrubbing the bathroom tiles clean with their toothbrushes, Raphael preferred timeouts and corner time.

His favorite game to play was the quiet game. His second favorite was hide and seek though he was often very hard pressed to do any actual seeking.

He chose medicine for his career path. He became a specialist working with terminal patients, easing their pain when he could.

Many thought it was because he was compassionate, even courageous, so wonderful that such a fine young man would devote himself to such a noble cause. But his siblings knew it was only because he preferred the silence of those who were not long for the world, the only sound their breath as it came slower and slower and slower.

Gabriel was the third. The trickster. The one who saw life and their family itself for what it was: a joke.

He would spend his days lounging on the couch watching any television show that aired, from cartoons to cop dramas to country western classics. He liked to compare his siblings to archetypes and tropes, laughing all the while.

He had a predilection for sweets and women, especially those who could crush him in one blow if they so chose. Some speculated it was because the woman he dated for the longest time's name was Candy. In truth, her name was Kali and she would destroy anyone who dared to call her Candy.

He found work as a porn star slash porn director, much to the displeasure of his older siblings. But when they criticized him, he just claimed they were jealous. Not about the sex but about the fact that he could do what they could never dream of: not conform to their father's dreams for them and feel no trace of guilt.

Of all the brothers, he was the real caregiver, a god of mischief more than happy to raise mere mortals. His methods were unorthodox and oftentimes unheard of but so were many grand, amazing things and the time he spent with his younger siblings was the time that they most felt loved.

Then, there was Lucifer. The black sheep of the family. Rebellious to their father's plan.

He did not care about any of his siblings, save for the ones who themselves had raised him. He did not care about many things, adrift in a life of alcoholism and apathy. In that way, he was more like their father than he ever wanted to be.

He barely interacted with the younger children, hating them with an undeserved passion, almost as much as he despised their father. Most believed it was simply an extension of his own self-hatred, like an injured animal lashing out at those that tried to help it.

He moved out shortly after he turned eighteen. On one of the rare occasions their father had been home, he had started an argument which had blossomed like a poisonous flower into a knock down drag out that had lasted all night.

In the morning, both he and their father stormed out of the house, neither to return for a long time. He started a rock band shortly afterward, diving headfirst into a life of drugs and sin.

The younger siblings were too numerous to mention by name with a few notable exceptions.

There was Balthazar, an art dealer who followed in Gabriel's footsteps of hedonism and the pleasures of the flesh. There was Anael, who insisted on being called Anna, a love crazy chef who specialized in aphrodisiac dishes.

There was Muriel, a zookeeper who preferred the company of animals over anyone else. There was a Hannah, a sociologist who investigated what made people tick.

And then there was Castiel. The youngest. The one who became a writer. Like their father in many ways yet vastly different in others.

But before that, before he left their overcrowded house in Pontiac, Illinois and flew to the East Coast to attend Columbia, before he published his own books, before he moved into his cozy little apartment in Kansas, he was just Castiel. The youngest. The one terrified of fire.

When he was seven, already reading at a fifth-grade level and devouring every book he was given, his older brother Nathaniel had found a niche of his own. In a book of matches that Gabriel had left lying around after a night of smoking pot with his girlfriend.

Nathaniel was older, half a decade older than his baby brother yet no wiser for it, and while Castiel preferred solitude to the chaos of their home, Nathaniel reveled in it. He basked in the tension, the anger and resentment, the burning rage that simmered just under the surface.

The matches gave him control of it. That kind of power corrupts quickly. It was no different that time. Castiel just happened to be collateral damage.

Nathaniel was playing with his matches in the long upstairs hallway, flanked on either side with countless doors to countless bedrooms belonging to countless siblings. He smiled widely as the flames sparked at the red phosphorus tip, a buzz igniting within his own body.

With unadulterated delight, he watched as the flames engulfed the rest of the match until they singed his fingers and he dropped them. They went out before they landed on the carpet. Until one didn't.

The smell of burnt carpet filled the air as the fire danced before his eyes, spreading across the floor towards the door of the bedroom at the end of the hall. Castiel's bedroom where he was taking a nap, curled up in bed with his favorite stuffed animal, a gray cat.

The flames crept silently under the door, stalking into Castiel's room like a dragon hunting its prey. It had spread like wildfire, fast and fierce and fatal.

Nathaniel had sat, cross-legged on the hallway floor, and watched. Just watched. But then just watching got boring and he was moved to action.

He lit more matches and, before the fire could travel down the matchstick, he tossed them at Castiel's bedroom door. He had just thrown the last match, dark smoke filling the air, when the screaming had started.

The fire had advanced over the carpet like a legion of soldiers marching onto enemy land, declaring war with no mercy, surrounding Castiel's bed. The edges of his blanket caught fire first and a moment later his entire duvet had been alight and with it, Castiel.

He had always been a heavy sleeper. Dead to the world once his head hit the pillow. He hadn't smelled the smoke, hadn't had enough time to startle awake choking on its fumes. Instead, he awoke to pain.

The most excruciating pain he had ever experienced. Every nerve ending had been in agony, exposed and singed so severely that he didn't even feel the heat. It was cold. A stinging avalanche of gut wrenching, nauseating pain.

The flames had leapt from the comforter to his shirt and the skin lying under the fabric, burning away both without any mercy. He had been burnt alive, roasted like a rotisserie pig, sacrificed for consumption, for the delight of others.

Not knowing what else to do, he had screamed. Thrown his head back and screamed. Screamed for Gabriel, for Balthazar, for Michael, for his father.

He screamed until he was hoarse with it. Until his lungs burned like his skin did. Until he nearly passed out in the fiery ruins of his bedroom, his only sanctuary.

It was Gabriel who came to his rescue, fire extinguisher in hand. Like some kind of Shakespearean, Arthurian hero he had slain the fire breathing dragon with his monoammonium phosphate spewing sword.

But the agony had only begun.

The car ride to the hospital had jostled his fresh injuries as he sobbed into his brother's shoulder, clutching the fabric of Balthazar's shirt in his little fist. Every pothole in the road, every abrupt stop when cars in front of them failed to use their turn signals, every moment they sped down the highway was pure torture.

Luckily, he hadn't had to suffer through a long stay in the waiting room, the only mercy he had received that day. He had been taken directly to the burn unit of Saint Jude's Emergency Hospital where he was subjected to even more pain.

Despite the painkillers they had pumped him full of, he had felt every second of the debridement process as doctors cut away the non-viable skin surrounding the burns. Face buried in his arms, he had cried and wailed and begged for relief from the pain.

They concluded that twenty percent of his body had been burned but they had opted not to perform any skin grafts. They claimed that the burns would just have to heal on their own and with them, Castiel himself.

They had assured him that because some of his nerve endings were dead, he would feel less pain.

He hadn’t believed them.

He was kept at the hospital for three weeks before he was allowed to return home, an IV supplying him with the necessary fluids and electrolytes. Every few hours, a nurse would come in to change his bandages and apply an antibiotic ointment, Castiel wincing in pain.

Only a few of his numerous siblings visited him. Gabriel and Balthazar were his most frequent visitors, smuggling in his favorite candy and telling him jokes that he only half understand yet made him laugh. Hannah visited once or twice, bringing him bouquets of sunflowers and other brightly colored flowers.

He tried to convince himself that his other siblings were too busy to visit him. That Michael was working an important case. That Raphael was developing a cure for some disease that would save millions of lives.

But he had never been a very good liar.

His father had never visited. He had never even called. He was too busy writing the next book in his series. Apparently, Castiel's misfortune had inspired a new character: Claude Maloret.

After his lonely three weeks in the hospital with too rough nurses and food so bland he couldn't taste it enough to really dislike it, Gabriel had driven him back home. Back to the scene of the crime. Back to the burned out husk of what was once his bedroom, the room no longer uninhabitable.

At least not to him.

Michael had cleared out all of the scorched carpet and the burnt remains of most of Castiel's belongings, had scrubbed the ash stains off the walls. He had shoved an air mattress into his room along with a few lumpy pillows and threadbare blankets and declared it ready for Castiel to return to.

But Castiel had been petrified of the mere thought of setting foot in that room. He had cried and begged Gabriel to let him sleep in his room, even if it was just on the floor.

Gabriel, god bless his soul, had readily invited him to share his room, moving the air mattress into his own bedroom. For the next three years, he had bounced between sharing a room with Gabriel and Balthazar, other times sleeping on the couch in the living room.

Then, as he neared his twelfth birthday, he had been forced to return to his bedroom that had laid vacant for years. It was Michael's orders.

It had sparked an argument of epic proportions between Michael and Gabriel. Michael had insisted that enough time had passed, claiming that they weren't paying so much money to live in such a big house with so many rooms for Castiel to not use his room. Gabriel had defended Castiel, pointing out that he was still traumatized by the fact that he had almost been killed in that room.

Unfortunately, in their house Michael's word was law and no matter how vehemently Gabriel argued, he lost the argument and Castiel was moved back into his bedroom.

Every night, he had laid in his new bed, tucked into his new sheets, in his old room where he had almost been burned to death. No matter how tightly he squeezed his eyes shut, he saw the flames. No matter how soft and cool his sheets were, he felt the heat. No matter how many times they repainted, the room still smelled of smoke and burnt flesh.

Nathaniel had never been punished. Apart from Balthazar threatening him if he ever came close to Castiel again and Gabriel smacking him upside the head.

Michael, and Raphael, had never punished him. Had never reprimanded him. Had never even confronted him.

He was more willing to accept that it was a case of spontaneous combustion than admit that he was a bad, negligent older brother. Denial seemed to run in their family.

But Castiel had been punished. He had been punished with his suffering.

He had been punished for taking a nap in the middle of the afternoon when he knew that it meant he wouldn't be able to sleep later. He had been punished for being such a deep sleeper, his siblings always joking that he could sleep through the apocalypse.

He had been punished for not immediately smelling the smoke. For not reminding his older brothers to check the batteries in the smoke detectors. For the fact that Nathaniel had been snooping in Gabriel's bedroom and found the matches.

And he had been left with a gruesome souvenir of all that he had done wrong, of the horrible events of that day: large swathes of burn scars on his back, pale and ugly and slightly contractured.

As he had gotten older, the scars had paled, less red and angry looking as they had been in the beginning. But they never became any less ugly. His siblings and the other kids at school made sure that he knew that.

In junior high and high school, gym class had become the bane of his existence for the sole fact that it meant he had to change in front of the other boys. As if it wasn't bad enough that he often got pushed around because of his big glasses and his awkwardness and the overly formal manner in which he spoke, bigger, stronger kids suddenly had a new reason to pick on him.

They called him awful names that he tried to forget. Shoved him to the ground when they played football or soccer. Threw his clean clothes into the showers so he was stuck in his gym shorts in the middle of the winter.

Once he had been duct taped to a bench in the locker room and left there for hours, none of the gym teachers hearing his cries for help. When his brothers had found out, Balthazar had kicked the kid who did it's ass while Gabriel had raised hell with the principal.

Fortunately, he hadn't been in high school very long. He graduated early and the day before he turned sixteen he was accepted into Columbia on a full scholarship.

With a beacon of hope beckoning to him eastward, he bought a one-way plane ticket with some money Gabriel gave him and fled to New York City. He fled the only home he had ever known, his scores of siblings, and the room that smelled like smoke.

Four years later, he graduated top of his class, summa cum laude, valedictorian with an impeccable GPA. He had even been asked to give a speech at the graduation ceremony, which he had stumbled his way through, falling back on his awkwardness when humor failed.

Gabriel and Balthazar had been the only ones out of all his siblings to bother attending his graduation. They had thoroughly embarrassed him by cheering raucously when his name had been announced and he had accepted his diploma.

He stayed in New York for a couple years, working in a bakery down the block from his tiny apartment and starting his first novel. After those two years, when he found himself lost and lonely in the big city where he was almost painfully anonymous, he decided to take his brothers up on their invitation to move to Lawrence, Kansas where they had both relocated shortly after Castiel had moved out.

Years later, things seemed to be going rather perfectly for him.

He had a decent sized apartment in a residential part of town with all of the amenities he could have ever wished for including a dishwasher, washer and dryer, and central air. Plus, he had a lovely view of the Lawrence skyline, getting to watch the sunrise every morning.

He had already written and published twelve full-length novels, three of which had actually made it onto the bestsellers list. A few bookstores in the area had actually contacted him to inquire about him possibly doing book signings.

He and his brothers had a standing bi-weekly get together where they would either have dinner out at some swanky restaurant Balthazar picked out or play drunk Scrabble at Gabriel's. It was the most normal sibling experience any of them ever had.

His life in Lawrence, for that matter, was the most normal part. He had done some casual dating, casual because the relationships had only lasted a few months but it was dating nonetheless. He had even adopted a cat, a silver tabby Maine Coon he had named Seraph.

Yet at thirty two, over two decades having passed since the incident with the matches, he still suffered from a debilitating fear of fire. And the anxiety, that ever-present dread that another fire was looming just over the horizon, had taken over his life.

It had affected him when he had gone apartment hunting after moving to Lawrence, crashing on Balthazar's couch for a few weeks. He had made a checklist of requirements for an apartment that included hardwood floors instead of carpeting and an electric stove rather than a gas one. Plus, it had to be directly adjacent to the stairwell if it wasn't on the ground floor.

After a few weeks of searching for the perfect place, he finally found it at the Cedarwood Apartments building. A two bedroom, one bathroom apartment had just gone on the market for only six hundred dollars a month.

It had been perfect, with dark hardwood floors and a stainless steel electric stove, nestled right beside the stairwell. He had moved in a few days after finding it, putting down some money as a down payment.

But while the apartment itself was perfect, he still obsessed over fire and the prevention of it.

He checked the batteries in his various smoke detectors every month even when he knew that they were still full of juice, just to ensure that they were still working. He kept fire extinguishers in every room of the apartment, even the bathroom where he kept the extinguisher on the back of the door.

He held his breath every time he pumped his own gas, his palm clammy around the handle of the pump as he toyed with the idea of upgrading to an electric car. But he loved his old Continental too much.

He winced anytime he saw someone smoking, the dark embers making his heart race. He jolted as though he had been smacked whenever he heard the hiss of a lighter or the sound of a match being struck.

He couldn't bear to be around candles, even when they were unlit and undeniably harmless. Just looking at them flooded his mind with visions of what could go wrong.

He couldn't even listen to songs that had the word 'fire' or anything similar in them. And he had never written a single sentence that had anything to do with heat or fire.

Once a week, he cleaned his apartment, meticulously checking for fire hazards, constantly consulting the Kansas Building Fire Safety Handbook. He unplugged all of his appliances and electronics when they weren't in use and obsessively cleaned the lint trap in his dryer.

He did everything within his power to avoid even the most minor cooking fire so when he woke up in the middle of the night to the shrill blare of his smoke detectors and the taste of ash on his tongue, something in him snapped.

He bolted upright, jumping out of bed and onto his feet, the hardwood floor cool against the soles of his feet. Trying to fight back the panic that threatened to overwhelm him, he yanked the fire extinguisher off the wall by his bed.

He fumbled with it, pulling the pin and crossing his bedroom to the doorway, seeing the warm glow of flames emanating from the hallway. He was dangerously close to freezing at the sight of flames creeping closer down the hallway, covering the stark white walls and turning them black.

Close to being completely paralyzed with fear, he aimed the nozzle at the approaching flames and tried to summon up visions of King Arthur or MacDuff. Then, he squeezed the handle, waiting for the monoammonium phosphate to save the day again.

But nothing happened. Nothing.

He tried again but still, nothing happened. He tried again. Nothing. Again. Nothing.

"No," he whimpered, trying again. It didn't work. Again. Nothing. Again. Nothing.

He dropped the fire extinguisher by his feet as he reeled backwards. His breath came in rough pants as he buried his hands in his hair. "No, no, no, no, no."

His mind raced. If the flames were already encroaching on his bedroom that meant the rest of his apartment must already be ablaze. He couldn't get to another fire extinguisher.

He was on the third floor so an escape through the bedroom window wasn't a viable option. There was no fire escape which should have been on his list of requirements for an apartment.

He charged his phone overnight in the living room so he wouldn't be tempted to go on a Wikipedia binge at two a.m. So he couldn't call anyone, not his brothers or the fire department.

He could hear the sirens of a fire engine over the cacophony of the smoke detectors, blue and red lights flashing on the glass of his bedroom window. But the small shred of hope that fact gave him was quickly burnt away as panic settled in, realization along with it.

He was trapped in his deathtrap of an apartment with no way out, no recourse, no hope. The fire was quickly making its way into his bedroom, the heat making him break out in a terrified sweat.

No one would know that he was in his apartment. Not until they found his remains, charred and blackened like a hunk of overcooked meat.

He wondered if anyone would mourn him. Gabriel and Balthazar would but what about their other siblings? Michael? Anna? Uriel? Inias?

What about their estranged aunts and uncles? Zachariah, with his huge company? Joshua, with his sprawling greenhouse? Naomi, with her own enterprise? Amara, with her string of lovers half her age?

What about their father? Would he mourn the loss of his youngest? Would he cry? Visit his grave? Would he even care?

A nasty little voice in the back of his mind growled out the answer that he already knew. No. No. No! No! No!

Resignation took root in his bone marrow, weighing him down until he was doing the only thing he could think of. He pulled his cat into his arms, curled up on the foot of his bed, and started to cry.

When he was younger, his older siblings used to call him cry baby because of how easily tears had come to him, whether he was happy or sad. He spent much of his adult life fighting the habit but now he accepted it wholeheartedly.

As tears rolled down his cheeks, he squeezed his eyes shut to block out the sight of the orange flames creeping closer and closer and closer. His breath grew faster and more ragged with each passing second, well aware that the life he had built for himself in Kansas was being burned away to nothingness.

He clutched Seraph tight to his chest, stroking a shaky hand down her spine. The weight of her in his arms, mewling miserably in palpable fear, anchored him.

The only mercy that he would be given this time was that he wouldn't be alone. That he wouldn't die alone.

He hoped his brothers would let her be buried with whatever would be left of him. She deserved a headstone of her own.

More tears wetting his cheeks, he prayed. Harder than he ever had before. Harder than the first time he had been engulfed in a hellish inferno.

He prayed for a miracle. For divine intervention. For his father whom he still loved for no other reason than obligation and the longing of a boy who had never even met his father.

He prayed for his brothers to come save him again. For Gabriel to burst in like some sort of white knight and save the day again.

He prayed for God. For an angel.

But his prayers fell on deaf ears and he was left to die of either smoke inhalation or the flames themselves. Either way, there would be pain and he didn’t know whether he should dread it or eagerly await it.

Just as resigned acceptance began to sink in, something made him open his eyes and look up. Through his tears, he saw an angel standing above him.

In the bulky jumpsuit and helmet, a breathing mask obscuring their face, the conflagration in the doorway formed a halo of light around them.

There was a buzzing sound in Castiel's ears, like a hive of bees flitting around with a numbing drone. Spots danced behind his eyelids as his throat tightened, smoke filling his lungs as his tears continued to fall.

As he sight began to blur, tears and smoke threatening to blot out everything else, the ringing in his ears subsided enough for him to make out what the firefighter standing in front of him was saying. "Here, take my hand. Everything's fine, just hold onto me and keep moving. Okay?"

Sniffling, Castiel nodded frantically. Tightening his grip on Seraph, who dug her claws into Castiel's t-shirt, he took the firefighter's proffered hand and let himself be pulled to his feet.

The faceless firefighter squeezed his hand reassuringly, the leather of his gloves smooth and cool against his palm. Voice low and urgent, the firefighter instructed, "Stay close to me. I'm gonna get you outta here."

Castiel nodded again, squeezing the firefighter's hand and shifting closer. He took a deep, steeling breath as he was led towards the doorway where the fire was spreading into his bedroom the way it had all those years ago.

He half expected to see Nathaniel sitting cross legged in the hall among the flames, an empty book of matches in his hand. Of course, Nathaniel wasn't there. He was back in Illinois with his wife and kids and his perfect white picket fence life while Castiel faced the fear that had overrun his life because of his older brother.

His breath came faster as saw the bright, flickering flames that were engulfing his apartment. The hallway was rather short so from the doorway of his bedroom he could see the rest of his apartment and the huge fire that was destroying it.

The sight of his living room, full of towering flames that dwarfed him and devoured all of his earthly belongings, choked him up. His apartment, his home, was the only place where he could relax and write and forget about the rest of the world if only for a few hours. It was the only place where he felt completely safe.

And it was all going up in smoke. Again. The most morbid deja-vu in his life.

The couch, an old battered sofa where he ate his dinners and listened to music to unwind, was little more than a pile of flames, the stench of burning upholstery filling the room. The desk in the corner where he wrote all of his novels and short stories was aflame, the dark wood home to bright flames.

But the worst thing, the sight of which nearly made him curl into a ball and give up trying to make it out alive, was his bookshelf. On its shelves was every book he had ever written, every short story, every collection of poetry.

It held all of his life's work. And it was completely enveloped by the blaze.

With a choked sob, he pressed his face against the firefighter's arm, clenching his eyes shut to shield himself from the devastating sight. He was overwhelmed, he was terrified, he was lost.

He heard the firefighter beside him curse, the sound of the expletive making him tense and tighten his grip on the firefighter's hand. Why was the firefighter cursing? Was the floor about to fall away? Was the fire too big, too hot? Were they going to die?

Before he could utter a single question aloud, he was suddenly being hoisted up into the firefighter's arms. He let out a squeak of surprise as he was cradled bridal style, curling his arms more securely around Seraph who let out a shocked mewl of her own.

The next several minutes passed in a blur of panicked fear and searing flames that licked at the exposed soles of his feet as he was carried through the burning ruins his apartment. With quick, precise steps, the firefighter toted him out of his apartment and into a tunnel of heat and fire that was once the hallway.

Castiel was rushed down the stairwell that was mercifully free of any trace of fire. He started coughing as they made their way down the flights of stairs, having the presence of mind to politely turn his head away so he didn't cough on the man who was carrying him to safety.

He was pretty sure he heard a host of angels sing when they burst out of the apartment building, away from the nightmare that had unfolded on the third floor. Out of the inferno and into the cool night air of the parking lot where a crowd of people was gathered. Castiel assumed they were other residents.

Three fire engines were parked as close as possible to the building, their lights flashing as clusters of firefighters aimed hoses at the fire. Castiel found himself sighing in relief when he saw that the fire was only on the third floor, his sigh triggering another fit of coughing.

An ambulance was parked by the large crowd of people in the center of the parking lot, its back doors open as the paramedics talked to a few people in the throng. The firefighter made a beeline to the ambulance, setting Castiel down on the stainless steel footboard at the back of the ambulance.

He desperately clutched at the firefighter's sleeve, nodding his head at the building as he blurted, "You have to go help them! Other people, trapped inside! Need to save them!"

"Whoa, easy there, buddy," the firefighter's voice soothed, a bit muffled by his oxygen mask. He laid a gloved hand on Castiel's shoulder, squeezing gently as he explained, "You were the only one stuck inside. Everyone else is accounted for, I promise."

Castiel let out a sigh then promptly coughed throatily, feeling like he was going to hock up a lung, turning his head to cough into his elbow. The cool night air helped but he knew that he was suffering from smoke inhalation, same as the day of the first fire.

"Yo, Benny! Need some oxygen over here!" The firefighter's gruff voice called, making Castiel jump and jerk his head up. By his side, the firefighter who had rescued him was removing his helmet while waving another firefighter over.

He had already taken off his oxygen mask, revealing a gorgeous face that would have been better suited for a model than a firefighter. His jaw was sharp and well-defined, dusted with just a tiny hint of stubble.

His cheeks, and the bridge of his straight nose for that matter, were scattered with freckles, constellations spread across his skin. His eyes were such a brilliant shade of green that Castiel was momentarily taken aback, wondering how exactly someone could possibly have eyes that green.

The firefighter, who was thus far nameless, set his helmet down beside Castiel's hip and pushed back his black hood to show off his slightly tousled hair. He had an Ivy League haircut but Castiel couldn't tell if his hair was dark blonde or brown.

Castiel was distracted from how beautiful his savior was when another firefighter appeared in front of him with two oxygen tanks. He was a large, broad shouldered man who was a bit intimidating, Castiel nervously leaning closer to the firefighter who had carried him out of the building.

But the bright smile the other man sent him vanquished any apprehension he might have had. He handed the green eyed firefighter one of the oxygen tanks and the attached masks before reaching over to take Seraph out of Castiel's arms, assuring him, "Just gonna give this little lady some oxygen. Make sure she's doin' alright."

Castiel reluctantly loosened his grip enough for the other firefighter to scoop up Seraph. He watched as Seraph was carried over to a nearby stretcher where the firefighter, apparently named Benny, held the oxygen mask up to her sooty muzzle.

"Your turn, dude."

Castiel turned his head, tearing his eyes away from Seraph, to look up at the sandy haired firefighter who was holding out an oxygen mask. Castiel nodded and gratefully accepted the mask, holding it up to his mouth and taking in a deep breath.

He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the light breeze that chilled the night air and dried the tears on his cheeks. He evened out his breath, trying to remember as many breathing exercises as he could from his Saturday morning yoga class.

"I'm Dean, by the way," a voice that was quickly becoming familiar announced. When he opened his eyes the gorgeous firefighter was beaming at him, the corners of his bright green eyes crinkling. He held out his hand to Castiel who noticed that he had taken off his gloves. "Dean Winchester."

"Castiel," he returned, reaching over shake Dean's hand. "Castiel Novak."

"So, Cas, I kinda doubt they're gonna be letting people back in tonight," Dean claimed with a wince, gesturing to the apartment where the fire was still raging. His eyes sliding back to Castiel, he tipped his head to the side and asked, "So, uh, do you need to call anyone?"

"Oh," he mumbled, his hand going to where his pocket would have been if he wasn't wearing a pair of sweatpants. His brows drew together as he quietly stated the obvious, "I don't have my phone."

It was then that the numb shock ebbed away and realization of the gravity of the situation finally sunk in, for a second time that evening. Biting his lips as his eyes filled with more tears, he softly sobbed, "I don't have anything. Oh, god. I don't have anything. Everything I had...  Everything I've worked for... It's just...gone."

Like a dam bursting, he felt a deluge of tears cascading down his cheeks as he whimpered. He raised his other hand, burying his face in it as he lifted his legs, curling in on himself.

The past sixteen years of his life spent running away from that horrible day, from the dark embers of his past, had ended up culminating in ash and ruin. All the work he had put into building a new life for himself in the town where no one knew him as the weird little burned kid was all for naught.

All of the sleepless nights he had spent hunched over his computer, painstakingly typing out every word of every piece of work he had ever written hadn't meant anything. Every precaution he had made to protect himself from another tragedy had been meaningless.

He couldn't even live out of his car for awhile since he didn't have his car keys.

"Hey, hey, it's alright," Dean assured him, taking a seat beside Castiel on the footboard and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He gently tugged Castiel closer, shushing him as he curled his other arm around Castiel's waist. "It's gonna be okay, man."

Castiel tilted his head to the side to hide his face in Dean's chest, too miserable and overwhelmed to be embarrassment by how forward and desperate he was being. He held the oxygen mask to his face as he sniffled, forcing himself to keep his breathing even despite the whirlwind of emotion he was experiencing.

Curiosity that could only be described as morbid goaded him into asking his next question. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his free hand as he inquired, "What caused the fire?"

"Uh, apparently your neighbor fell asleep with a cigarette," Dean explained, giving Castiel's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Set off a whole book of matches."

Castiel couldn't help the watery, bordering on hysterical laugh that bubbled up out of his throat at Dean's words. Of course, it was a book of matches that started the fire.

Mopping at his cheeks, he straightened up with a sniffle, shaking his head at himself. Dean offered him a wide smile, squeezing his shoulder again as he offered, "How 'bout I go grab my phone? You can call whoever you need to."

He nodded, returning Dean's smile with a small one of his own. He waited patiently as Dean dropped his arms from where they were curled around Castiel before standing and jogging over to one of the fire engines.

While waiting, Castiel glanced over at the stretcher where the other firefighter, Benny, was gently stroking his hand down Seraph's back. The Maine Coon seemed perfectly content, lying down on her stomach with her front paws stretched out in front of her.

Dean returned a few minutes later, cell phone in hand and a light flush on his high cheekbones. Plopping back down beside Castiel, he unlocked his phone and pulled up the dial pad to place a call, explaining, "You can just tell me the number. Might be a little hard to understand you through the mask so I'll put it on speaker. That okay?"

Castiel just nodded and rattled off Gabriel's number, infinitely glad that he had memorized it. The phone rang a couple times before Gabriel finally picked up, greeting, "Yo."

It was Dean who spoke first, to Castiel's surprise. Clearing his throat, Dean began, "This is Dean Winchester, I'm with the—"

"Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying," Gabriel asserted, cutting Dean off. Castiel could perfectly envision his brother's eye roll. "So, buh-bye—"

"Gabriel, it's me," Castiel interjected, raising his voice enough so that it wasn't muffled by the oxygen mask.

"Cassie?" Gabriel asked, using the nickname he had saddled Castiel with decades ago. Then, he whistled, following it up with a low chuckle as he teased, "Ooh, did you hook up with someone? Now I'm all jealous."

While Castiel would have liked to have been amused by his older brother's ribbing, he found himself extremely nervous. He chewed his lip before he sighed and blurted, "Gabriel. Dean's a firefighter.There... There was a fire."

"What?!" Gabriel practically screeched over the line, Dean wincing at the loud, stringent squawk. "Are you fucking kidding me?! Again?! Jesus Christ! Are you alright? Do you need to go to the hospital?"

Dean raised a brow at the word 'again', but Castiel ignored it in favor of answering his brother's series of rapid fire questions. "No, I'm not kidding. Yes, again. I'm fine. I don't need to go to the  hospital. But I—"

He was cut off by a hiccuping sob, overwhelmed again by the bleak reality of his situation. His eyes stung but he doubted that he could actually produce any more tears.

"Damn it," he cursed under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to compose himself. With a shaky sigh, he forced himself to continue, "But, Gabriel, everything's gone. Everything. Even my laptop. How am I gonna meet my deadline if my whole novel's gone? I don't have my wallet or my car keys or any of my papers. It's all just gone."

Dean curled a comforting arm around his waist, running his hand up and down Castiel's side. He leaned into the soothing touch, eternally grateful for both the firefighter's presence and his patience.

"Alright, here's what's gonna happen. I'm gonna come pick you up, you can stay with me for as long as you need to," Gabriel announced. "We're gonna call your publisher and get a copy of your rough draft. I have a spare for the Continental, we'll pick it up tomorrow. And I'll make some calls, get you a new social security, new birth certificate, whatever you need."

Castiel sniffed and nodded even though he knew that Gabriel couldn't see him. His brother's voice sounded again as he claimed, "I'll be there in a few minutes. Oh, and Castiel?"

"Yeah?" He answered, rubbing a few tears out of his eyes.

"You're alive," Gabriel said simply. "Just remember that, okay? You're alive."

Castiel let out a breathy huff of incredulous laughter as his brother's words sank in. He was alive. Against all odds, in spite of two separate fire that quite possibly could have killed him, he was alive.

A wave of disbelieving relief crashed over him as Gabriel hung up. He wanted to sing and dance and run naked through the streets he was so elated. He felt at least thirty pounds lighter, like he could walk on air, like any minute he was going to sprout wings and take to the cool night sky.

He was alive! And he was giddy with it. So overcome with giddiness that the next thing he knew, he was pulling off his oxygen mask and wrapping his arms around Dean's neck to lay an overjoyed, life-affirming kiss on his plush pink lips.

It was a quick, chaste kiss, little more than a peck really. It only lasted a few blissful moments before Castiel pulled back and gushed, "Thank you, Dean. You saved my life. And Seraph's!"

He set down his oxygen mask and hopped off the ambulance's footboard to greet Benny as he carried Seraph over. Her thunderous purr was audible even at a distance, her yellow eyes narrowed as Benny scratched under her chin.

Buzzing with adrenaline, Castiel bounced on the balls of his feet as Benny handed him Seraph who immediately nuzzled under Castiel's chin. When Castiel raised his head to ask Benny if she was going to be alright, he found the burly firefighter laughing heartily, a huge grin on his face.

"Oh, she'll be fine, brother. Just needs a bath," Benny informed him between laughs. With a wide smirk, he clapped Dean on the shoulder and tacked on, "Looks like she's not the only one who needs to take a cold shower."

Castiel hummed in confirmation as he looked at the blotches of soot on Seraph's silver coat, sure that he himself was probably covered in the black powdery. He wrinkled his nose when he thought about the fact that he would probably be clawed to hell when he gave Seraph her bath, but it was a small price to pay for being alive. "Yes, I suppose I'm a mess as well."

For some reason that sent Benny into a fit of renewed laughter, the firefighter throwing his head back and practically howling. Dean, whose face was suddenly flushed with color, elbowed the other man in the ribs and grumbled, "Shut up, Benny."

Castiel ignored the hushed bickering that ensued between the two firefighters, cuddling Seraph close and peppering kisses over the top of her head. He still couldn't believe they had made it out alive, that the flames hadn't devoured them both.

The elated feeling that had taken root in his chest only seemed to intensify when a pair of headlights cut through the dark of the night and a car pulled up beside the ambulance. Castiel immediately recognized it as Balthazar's sleek silver Porsche, his older brother a fan of the finer things in life whether it be vintage wines or exorbitantly priced sports cars.

The mere sight of the silver paint job made him smile, reminding him that he was still alive to be annoyed by his brother's over-indulgence. That he was still alive to spend the holidays with his brothers and put up with their constant teasing about everything and anything and help settle the prank wars that Gabriel started at least once every few months.

Gabriel burst out of the car and rushed over to Castiel, Balthazar hot on his heels. Before he could say a word, he was being swept up into Gabriel's arms despite the fact that his older brother was four inches shorter than him.

Gabriel actually spun him around a few times, squeezing him so tightly that it almost hurt, Seraph meowing loudly from where she was sandwiched between them. By the time Gabriel set him down, Castiel was a bit, laughing a bit hysterically as his brother leaned up to scatter kisses over his cheeks.

Balthazar hugged him next, letting him keep his feet on the ground as he pressed a single kiss to Castiel's temple. He slipped an arm around Castiel's shoulders, tugging him close with a grin.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Gabriel demanded as he started fussing over Castiel, fiddling with the collar of his t-shirt. He licked the pad of his thumb before rubbing at a spot of soot on Castiel's cheek.

Rolling his eyes, Castiel swatted his brother's hand away. "I'm fine, Gabriel. A little shaken up and more afraid of fire than I was before but I'm fine."

"Is that even possible?" Balthazar inquired with a raised brow. "The being even more afraid of fire part, I mean."

"Well, I'm definitely not more of a fan," Castiel returned with a small smile, shifting to hold Seraph more comfortably. She was growing a bit restless.

Castiel looked back over at Gabriel who was clearly tense, his worry palpable. Voice soft, he assured his older brother, "Gabriel, I'm fine. I promise."

Letting out a long exhale through his nose, Gabriel nodded, mustering up a tiny grin of his own. Nodding his head towards the Porsche, he suggested, "Let's get you back to my place and tucked into bed."

"Just give me a second," Castiel requested, handing Seraph to Balthazar who scratched her behind her right ear until she purred contentedly. "I need to thank Dean."

He ignored the equal parts amused and critical raise of Gabriel's brow in favor of turning back to Dean and Benny. On pure impulse, he looped his arms around Dean's shoulders and hugged him again, murmuring, "Thank you for saving me."

He hugged Benny next, the big burly man returning the embrace with a low chuckle. As Castiel pulled back, he thanked the firefighter, "Thank you, too."

With a final wave to the two firefighters and a glance up at the charred tensions of the third floor, he hurried over to his brothers' side, Gabriel wrapping an arm around him. It wasn't until he was seated in the passenger seat of the Porsche, Balthazar climbing into the backseat with Seraph in his arms, that he abruptly realized he had kissed Dean in his euphoric daze.

As they drove off, Castiel's face flushed hotter than the fire he had been rescued from.

The days following the fire were full of adjustments, of changes to his carefully mapped out routine that left him anxious and itchy.

Gabriel's apartment was on the other side of town, swanky and ostentatious where Castiel's had been cozy and warm. It was a stark contrast, Gabriel's apartment more suited to the life of an eligible bachelor while Castiel's had been perfect for an asocial writer.

Gabriel lived in the penthouse apartment of some luxurious building that catered specifically to the rich and occasionally famous. His many awards for adult entertainment films and the fat paycheck that went with them were enough to qualify Gabriel as both.

Floor to ceiling windows in the living room allowed a fantastic view of the Lawrence skyline, allowing for a semblance of familiarity for Castiel who was extremely glad that he didn't have a fear of heights. At night, the lights from downtown illuminated the room like twinkling Christmas lights.

The kitchen was fit for a professional chef, completely wasted on Gabriel who had the wondrous ability to burn water anytime he tried to cook. Stainless steel appliances and all sorts of other amenities, including a gorgeous electric stove, glistened in the kitchen, practically untouched.

Castiel had taken to cooking for his brother in return for Gabriel letting him stay there. He knew that it wasn't necessary but going through the motions of making French toast or chili helped him feel more like a guest and less like a freeloader.

He had been given Gabriel's guest room which had only been used once or twice before, usually after one of his wild parties ended up with people too inebriated to drive home. It was comfortable enough, the bed firmer than Castiel would have preferred but there were no fire hazards in the room so he couldn't find any cause for complaint.

The day after the fire, Castiel discovered it had made the morning news on several different local stations, residents and rubberneckers alike interviewed by reporters. The news anchors reported on the cause of the fire, Castiel's next door neighbor garnering the ire of the entire apartment building.

Luckily, no one had been injured apart from a few cases of smoke inhalation that hadn't required any more treatment beyond some oxygen. And, as a too-cheery blonde news anchor announced, only one person had been trapped inside the building: none other than Castiel himself.

He had been shocked when a grainy video had appeared on the wide screen of Gabriel's insanely huge television, showing Dean carrying Castiel out of the building. After they had run the short, fifteen second video a few times, the anchor had moved on to talk about Castiel's career, listing off a couple titles of his as a copy of the picture he used on the dust jackets of his books popped up in the upper right-hand corner of the screen.

After a miserable attempt at humor from the other anchor who made a comment about the fire potentially igniting some new ideas for a novel, they had moved on to a different story. Beside him on the plush white sofa, Gabriel had nearly spit out his coffee.

"Those fucking bastards," Gabriel had hissed under his breath with all of the righteous indignation of both an overprotective brother and a publicist who hadn't been made aware that his client was going to be given some sort of publicity. Stalking away, he had gotten on his cell phone and started making calls, the hushed growl of his voice echoing through the apartment.

While Gabriel raised hell with the news stations, screeching about invasions of privacy and the legality of the video itself, Castiel decided to call his editor slash publisher.

Fergus 'Crowley' MacLeod was an old associate of Gabriel's, a former publisher of their father's who quit after getting tired of the quote 'mindless drivel' he wrote under his pseudonym, Carver Edlund. He had a reputation for being ruthless, a harsh editor who didn't mince words and wasn't afraid of being brutally honest with his authors.

Fortunately, Crowley agreed to mail him a copy of the chapters he had already finished after Castiel explained the fact that there had been a fire. Crowley may have been nicknamed the 'King of Hell' by those in the publishing profession but he wasn't completely heartless.

The day after that, he begrudgingly returned to the apartment building to pick up his Continental while Gabriel and Balthazar braved the ruins of his apartment to see what they could salvage. They only managed to recover a few things — his wallet, his car keys, his important paperwork, and a bag of clothes — but it was enough to make him feel less destitute.

He had already started looking for a new place to live, this time contemplating investing in a house rather than an apartment. He liked the idea of having a real home, with a backyard and a front porch, maybe even a beehive of his own.

And he had to admit he found it rather attractive that living on his own would make it less likely for him to suffer through a fire caused by someone else.

The only thing left for him to worry about was finishing his next novel. And making it up to Dean for that thoughtless kiss.

Over the past few days, he had been wracked with guilt. He had practically assaulted the firefighter for god's sake!

The incessant teasing from both of his brothers after he had confessed that in his frenzied euphoria he had kissed the man who had saved him didn't help. In true older brother fashion, they constantly teasing him about having the hots for the firefighter, asking him if he used tongue, if Dean had returned the kiss.

Castiel felt like an idiot. Yes, Dean was a gorgeous man and yes, he was definitely attracted to him but he had never been that forward before in his entire life.

His approach to flirting had always been practically nonexistent. Even when drunk and uninhibited, he was shy and somewhat awkward at best and embarrassingly awkward and nearly mute at worst.

How he had ever lost his virginity still baffled his brothers and sometimes even himself.

In total, he had only had three relationships, apart from a few one night stands, and all three had been initiated by the other person. He had a tendency to be attracted to bolder, more assertive people.

In college, he had dated a woman named Daphne. She had been smart and pretty, president of the student government with an impressive GPA of her own.

He had met her in his English Literature class junior year when they had been grouped together for a project. She had flirted with him for weeks before he had finally realized that her odd comments and compliments were flirtations.

They had dated throughout the rest of his junior year and midway through senior year when they'd had an amicable breakup. She had been Castiel's first in many ways: his first kiss, his first date, his first girlfriend, his first time.

She had contacted him a few years back, just to see how he was doing after recognizing his face on the back of one of his books. They had talked for a little bit over an hour, about what they had done after college and their families.

Daphne had gotten married to a nice, religious man named Emmanuel and had two children with another on the way. She had sounded perfectly content as she claimed that they would have to talk again sometime.

During Castiel's last year in New York, he had met a woman named Meg. She had blatantly flirted with him, her eyes running down his body salaciously as she bit her blood red lip.

Their relationship had taken on a distinctively different theme than the one he'd had with Daphne. He and Meg's relationship had been based purely on sex and little more.

They would meet up a few times a week for dinner at Castiel's apartment, followed by sex. He had been too naive to realize that Meg was essentially using him for sex and free food.

They broke up shortly after Castiel decided to move out of the city, Meg simply shrugging. Apparently, as she explained it to him, she had never seen him as anything more than a friend with benefits.

Her words had stung but Castiel hadn't been too broken up about it. After all, Meg had been right. It wasn't as though they had been in love.

A few years after moving to Lawrence, he had met a charming man named Mick at the local bookstore. Mick had struck up a conversation with Castiel in the mystery section, enchanting Castiel with his handsome smirk and Irish brogue.

When Mick had invited him out for drinks later that evening, Castiel had been helpless to refuse. They had spent the night getting to know each other over cocktails, Mick's hand warm on Castiel's knee.

They had taken things slow, Mick extremely supportive after Castiel explained what had happened between him and Meg, sharing only chaste goodnight kisses at the door until after they had been dating for a month.

Castiel had been deliriously happy, Mick a perfect gentleman and an even more perfect boyfriend. He had even invited Mick to dinner with Gabriel and Balthazar so his boyfriend could meet his brothers.

After interrogating him over glasses of expensive champagne, both Gabriel and Balthazar had given Mick their seal of brotherly approval. Castiel had been extremely grateful for that, beaming at Mick after Gabriel sent him a discreet nod.

They had dated for over a year and a half before Mick had sat Castiel down and explained that he had been given a promotion and would have to move back to England. As much as it had hurt Castiel, who was pretty sure that he was following in love with Mick, he hadn't wanted to hold him back, giving Mick his blessing and one last kiss goodbye.

He hadn't been involved with anyone since aside from a few one night stands and even then, he had never been the one to initiate anything. So, his bold, impulsive decision to kiss Dean out of the blue surprised no one more than himself.

He knew that he had only kissed Dean because he had been so overwhelmed with relief that he was alive but he also knew that was no excuse. And he had to make up to Dean somehow.

Which is how he found himself pulling into the Lawrence Fire Department's in his Continental, two trays of cupcakes and a pie in the passenger seat.

He had woken up earlier than usual, itching with the need to make himself useful in some way. After a quick shower, he had wandered into the kitchen to make breakfast.

A towering stack of chocolate chip pancakes and a fed older brother later, Castiel still had the urge to cook. With Gabriel's enthusiastic permission, Castiel had started a batch of vanilla cupcakes.

As he was whipping up some honey buttercream frosting, he realized that he could bring some cupcakes down to the fire station to thank Dean. It was foolproof. Who didn't like receiving baked goods?

Of course, Castiel had then over-thought things and decided to make a second batch of cupcakes, chocolate with a hint of chili. He figured the firefighters would appreciate the joke.

Then, because Castiel almost always got carried away when he baked, he ended up making one of his famous caramel apple pies. Pie was never unwelcome, right?

Before he could lose his nerve, he had packed up all of the food he had made and carried it down to his car, for once opting to take the elevator rather than the stairs. Carrying three trays of baked goods down twenty flights of stairs was not all that appealing to him.

In the ten minutes it took him to drive to the fire station, doubt settled firmly within him. As he put his car into park, he found himself muttering, "What am I doing? This was stupid. I should just send a card or something."

He dropped his forehead down onto the steering wheel and let out a groan, squeezing his eyes shut. But he had made it that far and he would hate to waste perfectly good cupcakes.

Trying to muster up some confidence, Castiel climbed out of his car, rounding the nose of the Lincoln to grab the trays of cupcakes, leaving the pie on the passenger seat. He took a deep, steeling breath before making his way to the front door of the station.

There was a redheaded woman sitting behind the front desk, typing away on a computer. Bobble heads and various other action figures littered the top of the desk, multiple characters that Castiel recognized from Harry Potter and Game of Thrones.

The woman radiated an air of cheerfulness, from the bright smile on her face to the vivid shade of her hair, even the vibrant yellow of her t-shirt. And if he wasn't mistaken, she had a Dungeons and Dragons tattoo on her inner wrist, a line of rainbow colored polyhedrons.

She looked up at Castiel as he walked closer to the desk, offering him an even wider grin in response to his own shy smile. Turning to face him fully, she greeted, "Hey, what can I help you with?"

"Hi. Uh, I'm looking for Dean Winchester," Castiel replied, feeling his cheeks heat with a light blush. He felt ridiculous, the urge to run coursing through him. "Is he here?"

"Yup, he and the others are hanging out upstairs," she relayed, standing up. She walked out from behind the desk and started towards a staircase. She paused and glanced over at Castiel, waving a hand and urging, "C'mon, I'll take you up. I'm Charlie, by the way."

"I'm Castiel." He said shaking himself as he hurried over to join her at the foot of the stairs, obediently following her as she led him upstairs. He was careful not to jostle the trays in his hands too much, making sure none of the cupcakes tipped over.

He wanted them to be perfect for Dean. And if that thought didn't make him feel like a dorky kid with a crush.

The upstairs of the fire station clearly served as a common room for the firefighters when they had nothing else to occupy their time with. It was made up like a typical 'man cave', fitting for the stereotypically masculine setting of a fire station.

There were plush leather recliners arranged in a semi circle around a rather large TV, though not as big as Gabriel's ridiculously large television. Benny was sitting in one beside a petite blonde woman, the two of them animatedly discussing something. A German Shepherd was lying curled up at their feet.

There was a kitchenette in the opposite corner with dark wood cabinets and black soapstone countertops, a line of stools along the kitchen island. A lanky man with messy brown hair was fixing himself a sandwich, a jar of peanut butter on the countertop.

There was a foosball table by one doorway that led into a room full of bunk beds and another that Castiel assumed was to a bathroom. Three men were playing, one had his back to Castiel so he couldn't tell if it was Dean or not, the other two men were older.

One wasn't wearing a uniform, instead wearing a baseball cap and a plaid shirt over an old t-shirt. He had full beard that was gray on the sides, too full for him to be a working firefighter.

The other was younger but looked to be in his early fifties, with jet black hair and five o'clock shadow. There was something almost familiar in his features, as though Castiel had seen him before somewhere though he could not for the life of him figure where that might have been.

Not sure what else to do, Castiel just lingered by Charlie's side, biting the inside of his cheek and keeping his eyes down. He jumped a bit when she whistled loudly and called, "Yo, Dean! You got a visitor!"

Everyone in the room craned their necks to look at Charlie and therefore Castiel who felt himself start to squirm under the weight of their gaze. The third man at the foosball table straightened up and turned around, Castiel's breath catching in his throat.

It was Dean alright, in a black t-shirt that was practically skin-tight, his muscular biceps on glorious display. He was wearing heavy boots and black turnout pants, red leather suspenders holding them up while drawing Castiel's attention to both the wide breadth of Dean's shoulders and the muscles in Dean's chest, defined enough to be noticeable through the fabric of his t-shirt.

His hair, looking more dirty blonde than brown under the incandescent lights, was artfully disheveled, like Dean had been running his hands through it. Even at a distance, Castiel could see the incredible green of Dean's eyes.

The corner of Dean's mouth curled up in a smile as he strode across the room to Castiel, greeting, "Heya, Cas."

"Hello, Dean," Castiel answered, returning Dean's bright smile with a more subdued one of his own. He found himself having some trouble looking Dean in the eye, feeling his cheeks heat even more.

"What's up?" Dean asked, hooking one thumb into the waistband of his pants.

"I, uh... I just wanted to thank you properly," Castiel explained, fidgeting with the tray in his hands. A second later, he rushed to add, "And Benny, too, of course."

"I made cupcakes," he blurted, unnecessarily raising the trays in his hands. Biting his lip and lowering his eyes, he murmured, "Which I realize now is probably weird and unnecessary and stupid..."

"Nah, man," Dean scoffed, shaking his head. "Like I'm gonna turn down cupcakes."

He grabbed one of the trays from Castiel before turning to the side, laying a hand between Castiel's shoulders blades as he guided him further into the room. Castiel was surprised that he wasn't more bothered by the fact that Dean was touching his scars, even if it was just through his button up and the navy cardigan he had thrown on.

He had only let a handful of people even look at his scars and even less had been permitted to touch them. But with Dean, it was oddly easy, though still a little bit disconcerting, a reminder that the scars were there in the first place.

He tried to shake off the feeling as Dean led him to the kitchenette, setting down the tray of chocolate chili cupcakes on the kitchen island. Castiel followed suit as Dean looked over his shoulder to address the others in the room, announcing, "C'mon, guys. Cas made us cupcakes!"

Like a herd of stampeding zebra, the other firefighters quickly flocked to the kitchenette, startling Castiel with their enthusiasm. He was used to just Gabriel and Balthazar bowling him over in a bid to get to whatever he baked for them, not a whole station of firefighters.

Even the German Shepherd who had been content to nap at Benny's feet galloped over with an excited bark, tail wagging vigorously. The dog came to a stop directly in front of Castiel, sniffing his thighs curiously before taking a seat on his right foot, gazing up at him with big innocent eyes.

"So, what d'ya got for us, Cas?" Dean inquired as removed the tops of the cupcake trays. He made a show of rubbing his hands together and licking his lips as he ran his eyes over the display of cupcakes.

"There are vanilla cupcakes with a honey buttercream and honey whiskey filling," Castiel explained, indicating the yellow cupcakes topped with fluffy spires of white buttercream. Then, he pointed at the chocolate cupcakes, "And chocolate chili cupcakes with a chocolate cayenne frosting and chocolate ganache filling."

"I don't care if I get diabetes, I'll die happy," Charlie declared cheerfully as she reached over to grab a chocolate cupcake. Cas noticed that her fingernails were painted pale purple as she carefully removed the cupcake wrapper.

"Chocolate chili?" Benny asked, sounding a little bit skeptical. There was a crease between his brows as he glanced between the two varieties of cupcakes.

"I thought it would be fitting for firefighters," Castiel elaborated lamely, feeling like an idiot the second the words were out of his mouth. "Oh, and I have a pie in my car if you'd like."

"Pie?!" Dean exclaimed, a radiant smile stretching across his face as he beamed over at Cas. Throwing his hands up, narrowly avoiding smacking Benny in the face, he announced, "Aww, Cas, just marry me now!"

Castiel wasn't proud of the swarm of butterflies those words set free in his stomach. He bit his lip hard enough that he was worried he might have drawn blood as he forced himself not to accept Dean's joking proposal.

He was a grown man for god's sake, he should not be blushing like a little ten year old. He was just glad his brothers weren't there to tease him.

"I can run down and grab it," Castiel volunteered. "It should still be warm."

"I'll come with ya," Dean offered, untangling himself from the throng of other firefighters who were looting the trays of cupcakes. He jogged down the stairs beside Castiel, setting his hand on the small of his back, Castiel stiffening the slightest bit at the casual contact.

Castiel fiddled with the sleeve of his cardigan as he led Dean out into the parking lot. His Continental was one of the only cars in the parking lot, the only others a bright yellow Volkswagen Beetle, a couple of pickup trucks, and two classic muscle cars.

"This yours?" Dean asked as Castiel pulled his car keys out of his pocket, nodding his head towards the Continental. When Castiel nodded, Dean cocked a brow. "What are you, a pimp?"

Castiel shrugged as he unlocked the car. "I like it."

"That's my baby," Dean proclaimed, his voice brimming with audible pride as he pointed out his car. Castiel raised his head to see which vehicle Dean was pointing at.

It was one of the classic cars, jet black and clearly waxed, its paint job glistening in the morning sunshine. Like some sort of sacred, ancient monument, it sat in the parking lot, emanating an almost holy aura.

"Wow," Castiel found himself murmuring under his breath, eyes wide as he admired the beautiful car. He had never been much of a car guy, always deferring to Gabriel and Balthazar, but there was something about Dean's car that enchanted him, that made him think of home.

"C'mon," Dean said, grabbing Castiel by the hand and dragging him across the parking lot to stand beside his car. Hands on his hips, he recited, "1967 Chevy Impala. Tuxedo black with parchment interior."

"She's beautiful..." Cas whispered, his voice low with awe as he leaned over to look inside at the leather bench seats. He reverently ran the tips of his fingers over the hood, a feather light caress over the cool metal.

"Yeah, she is, isn't she?" Dean hummed. "My dad gave me her on my eighteenth birthday. Best day of my life."

"Gabriel would love her," Castiel commented, straightening up and tipping his head to the side to smile at Dean. "He loves classic cars. He was the one who gave me the Continental."

Dean nodded, dropping his arms to his side. He glanced over at Castiel, venturing, "Yeah, I was gonna ask. No boyfriend today?"

"Boyfriend?" Castiel repeated, wrinkling his nose as he frowned at Dean. He was beyond confused. "What boyfriend?"

Dean blinked at him, staring like he thought Castiel was an idiot. With a frown of his own, he said, "Uh, Gabriel?"

"Dean, Gabriel isn't my boyfriend," Castiel explained slowly, wondering how exactly Dean had come to that conclusion. "Gabriel's my older brother."

"Oh." Dean kept frowning, his eyebrows drawing together. "Then what about the blond guy? The one with the British accent?"

"Balthazar," Castiel provided helpfully. Dean nodded, then gestured for Castiel to continue. "Oh. Balthazar's my older brother, as well."

"Oh," Dean repeated, his frown still in place. He scratched his chin where there was just the tiniest hint of a cleft. Glancing over at Castiel, he asked, "So... No boyfriend?"

Castiel shook his head. Then, on second thought, he tacked on, "Not for over two years now."

Dean just hummed, nodding to himself before striding back over to the Continental where he took the liberty of opening the passenger side door. He pulled the apple pie out with an ear to ear grin, licking his lips at the sight of the brown sugar crumb topping.

After locking the car and closing the door with a slam, Dean turned back to Castiel, brandishing the pie. As he began leading Castiel back into the fire station, he happily chirped, "You were right. It's still warm."

The German Shepherd greeted them when they made it to the top of the stairs, barking joyously and wiggling his entire body. Dean twisted to the side to avoid dropping the pie, nudging the dog aside as he grumbled, "Back off, Colonel."

"Oh my god, Dean!" Charlie called as he carried the pie over to the counter, a few coos greeting the appearance of the delicious looking baked good. Wiping a dollop of buttercream off her upper lip, she raved, "If you don't marry him, I will."

"Switching teams, kiddo?" Dean laughed as he rounded the kitchen island to rifle around in one of the kitchen drawers. Glancing over his shoulder, he commented, "I thought you were strictly team lesbian."

"I can make an exception for food this good," Charlie retorted, taking another bite of her vanilla honey cupcake. Her eyes rolled up into her head as she let out a theatrical moan, lauding, "Seriously, these cupcakes are better than sex."

Dean shook his head as he returned to the island with a knife to cut the pie. Disappointment saturating every word, he admonished Charlie, "Then you must not be having good enough sex."

"I have great sex, thank you very much," Charlie sniffed, taking another bite of her cupcake. Thumbing a crumb off her chin, she challenged, "But you haven't tried one of these cupcakes yet, Dean. They're freaking orgasmic."

"Yeah, man. Are you a baker or something?" The skinny guy asked, a wide smile on his face.

"I'm flattered," Castiel claimed, scratching the back of his neck. Shrugging, he continued, "But, no. I'm a writer."

"Anything we might know?" The blonde woman asked, licking a spot of chocolate frosting off her thumbnail.

"I've made the bestsellers list a few times," Castiel begrudgingly admitted, watching as everyone's eyes widened as they turned to gawk at him. He squirmed under their scrutiny, stuffing his free hand into his pocket to play with his keys, hoping the fidgeting would calm him down a bit.

"That's like big-time money, right?" Charlie demanded, drawing Castiel's attention back to her. She had finished her cupcake, a smudge of buttercream on her cheek. "Like millions of dollars, right?"

Castiel didn't know what else to do, glancing around at all of the firefighters staring at him. He felt like he had been tossed back into the flames, the same panicky feeling threatening to suffocate him.

He really didn't want to discuss his financial situation with them. Sure, they seemed like lovely people but he could barely bring himself to discuss such things with his own brothers and he was closer with them than he ever had been with anyone else.

He didn't want to discuss the fact that he had indeed made over a million dollars in royalties from the last book of his that had made it onto the bestsellers list. He didn't want to discuss that he donated most of it to various charities and sent the rest of it to his less fortunate siblings even though they barely remembered his name.

He didn't want to discuss the fact that he had paid for Lucifer to attend rehab countless times even though his older brother always relapsed. Didn't want to discuss the fact that he had single-handedly paid tuition for five of his cousins so they could go back to college.

Didn't want to discuss that he had helped cover some of his uncle Zachariah's gambling debts. Didn't want to discuss that he had bailed his aunt Naomi out prison after her various DUIs and bought her new cars after she totaled her old ones.

Didn't want to discuss that when his uncle Joshua was evicted from his home, he had bought him a new house with a yard full of flowers. He didn't want to discuss the fact that he had paid for Nathaniel and his wife to go to couples counseling, that he had covered the hospital bills after Nathaniel fell off his roof and broke his leg, that he had helped Nathaniel pay his mortgage after he lost his job.

He didn't want to discuss the fact that years after being treated like shit for years, for being taunted and tormented, burned and nearly killed by his family, he was still a slave to their whims. He didn't want to admit that he had been incapable of severing all ties when all of his siblings, besides Gabriel and Balthazar, would have no problem forgetting about him completely.

He tightened his grip on his keys, debating whether or not he should bolt. Fortunately, Dean stepped in before he could actually commit to making a desperate run for the door.

As he finished dividing the pie into eight even slices, he chastised the others. With a sigh, he pointed out, "C'mon, guys. He doesn't even know half your names. And he brought food! Cut him some slack."

When the others looked suitably chastised, looking down and pursing their lips, Dean clapped his hands together and cheerily announced, "Alright! Time for pie!"

He grabbed a stack of plates from one of the cabinets along with a pile of forks from one of the drawers while Charlie flitted over to grab some napkins. Using the knife to lift the slices of pie and carefully set them down on the plates, Dean lifted his eyes to meet Castiel's and offered, "We can eat and I'll introduce you to everyone."

Castiel waited patiently as Dean doled out the slices of pie, keeping his hands stuffed in the pockets of his cardigans. As they were handed their plates, the other firefighters made their way to the semi circle of recliners, settling down on the plush brown leather.

There weren't enough seats for everyone, the blonde woman taking a seat on the arm of Charlie's recliner while the lanky guy set his hip against the side of Benny's chair. After handing Cas a plate of pie and a fork, Dean claimed the last recliner for himself.

With nowhere else to sit, unless he wanted to plop down on the floor with the dog who was sitting at the oddly familiar man's feet, panting and begging for scraps, Castiel hesitated. He only moved forward when Dean patted the arm of his recliner, gesturing him over with a bob of his head.

Feeling extremely awkward, Castiel carefully perched on Dean's recliner, waiting until everyone else started to eat before he let himself relax. There was a clatter of forks as everybody dug into their slices of still-warm pie, the metallic twang almost immediately followed by a collective moan of appreciation.

Castiel smiled to himself as he took a bite of his own. The caramel was warm and gooey on his tongue, the streusel topping sweet without being saccharine, the apples perfectly tender but not mushy.

"You seriously need to open up a bakery," Charlie informed him with a grave nod. Around a mouthful of pie, she amended, "Or at the very least help us out with the annual bake sale. Jo here can't bake to save her life."

Castiel was just about to ask who Jo was when Dean cleared his throat. "That reminds me. Here, Cas, lemme introduce everyone."

He used his fork to point, caramel and streusel topping still sticking to the stainless steel tines. Using said messy fork, Dean indicated the blonde woman, announcing, "That's Jo Harvelle. She's like the little sister I never wanted. Charlie, too, for that matter."

Jo gave a polite wave as she continued chewing her mouthful of pie. Charlie rolled her eyes at Dean, fondness visible in the gesture.

"Garth Fitzgerald IV," Dean said next, moving his fork to point at the scrawny guy. Garth raised a hand to wave, as well, setting his fork down for a moment.

"You've met Benny," Dean murmured dismissively, moving on to the bearded man in the baseball. He raised his hand in a small wave as Dean declared, "Bobby Singer."

Next, he pointed to the oddly familiar man who was close enough to Castiel to hold his hand out instead of waving. Castiel extended his own hand to shake the other man's as Dean finished, "And this is my dad, John Winchester."

For whatever reason, that little tidbit of information suddenly made Castiel even more nervous than he had been when the others had been asking about how much money he made. After John released his hand, he faltered a bit, fumbling with his fork and nearly dropping it.

A piece of pie crust fell onto the floor along with some streusel. Castiel was reaching down to pick it up when the German Shepherd loped over and eagerly lapped up the crumbs.

"And that's the Colonel," Dean explained as Castiel straightened up. After licking his chops, the German Shepherd set his head down on Castiel's lap, looking up at him with big brown eyes, silently begging for more.

Laying a hand on the top of the dog's muzzle, the bare skin of his arm brushing against Castiel's stomach, warm through the thin fabric of his button, Dean proudly stated, "He's pretty much our mascot."

They fell into companionable silence after that, the only comments a few glowing compliments from Bobby and John. That ended up sparking a lively discussion about what other baked goods were on Castiel's repertoire.

Charlie and Garth were very clearly in awe as he listed off the desserts and pastries he was most well acquainted with. His list ranged from French desserts like croquembouche and mille-feuille to more traditionally American pastries like donuts and all sorts of pies.

Jo insisted that he indeed participate in the fire department's annual bake sale, Benny and John seconding and thirding her announcement. Castiel admitted that he would love to participate, more than willing to burn off some stress by baking all sorts of desserts to benefit the men and women who had saved his life.

When everyone was finished their pie and there were only a few cupcakes left, Benny turning out to be a huge fan of the chocolate chili cupcakes, Castiel announced that he should be on his way. Gathering the empty trays, he had said his goodbyes, letting out a squeak of surprise when Garth and then Benny swept him up in tight hugs.

Dean's friends were much more affectionate than most of Castiel's family altogether. It was a bit jarring, in a good way.

"I'll walk you out," Dean offered, leading Castiel towards the stairs with a gentle hand on his shoulder. It was only once they were outside that Castiel realized how long he had been at the station, the sun hanging directly overhead.

After Dean deposited the empty trays in the backseat of the Continental, he turned back to Castiel who was fidgeting with the hem of his cardigan. Chewing on his bottom lip, he glanced between Dean and his shoes, trying to muster up the nerve to apologize.

"Dean?" He murmured questioningly, tilting his head to the side. Dean smiled and nodded patiently, encouraging Castiel to go on. "I just wanted to apologize. For...kissing you the other night. I—"

"Look, Cas, you don't have to apologize," Dean assured him, cutting him off before he could keep rambling on like an idiot. "It's not a big deal."

"Yes, I'm sure it happens all the time," Castiel replied sincerely, meaning every word. He nodded to himself as he said it, still fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve.

Dean shook his head with a crooked grin. "Nope. Never."

"Oh..." Castiel whispered, feeling like an even bigger jackass. He rubbed the back of his neck, biting his lip again.

Then, before he could apologize again, there were two rough hands cupping his face and a pair of warm lips on his as Dean kissed him.

He was too shocked to do much else besides lean back against the side of the Continental as Dean deepened the kiss. His lips were smooth and just the tiniest bit wet as Dean swiped his tongue over the seam of Castiel's lips.

Throwing caution to the wind, Castiel looped his arms around Dean's neck, reeling him in even closer until their bodies were molded together from chest to knee. He eagerly returned the kiss, parting his lips to let Dean further deepen the kiss as he dropped one of his hands from Castiel's jaw, curling an arm around his waist instead.

Castiel had shared many kisses in his thirty two years. But this kiss with Dean was completely different.

There had been sweet, innocent, barely there kisses with Daphne. They were the kisses of first love, of naivete and romance.

There had been hungry, hurried, biting kisses with Meg. They were kisses with no purpose beyond progressing to sex, kisses of two young people seeking comfort in the flesh.

There had been comfortable, familiar, warm kisses with Mick. They had been Castiel's favorite up until then.

Dean's kiss was something different altogether. It was gentle and passionate and everything Castiel had ever imagined when he thought about the perfect kiss.

It ignited another fire, this time one that did not frighten Castiel. For this time, the flames flickered inside, somewhere deep in his chest.

He knew, in the back of his mind and the bottom of his heart, as warmth spread throughout every fiber of his being, this was what falling in love felt like. And that was more dangerous than any fire.

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[mermaidsirennikita]

August 2017 Book Roundup

Last month was not a good reading month for me, partially because work and depression make reading hard and partially because the books themselves weren’t that great.  There are times when a ton of new, exciting books get dropped and they seem to swing around the spring (people beginning buying for the summer?  Beach reads?) and the fall (obviously, in preparation for Christmas).  The one book I really super enjoyed was A Map for Wrecked Girls by Jessica Taylor--a tale of sisters getting shipwrecked on an island (with a boy, but he’s not super important) and working through the fact that one is borderline psychopathically manipulative and they hate each other.  Also, sibling codependence.  There were decent books aside from that one, but nothing that gripped me quite as much.  (Ratings and mini reviews below.)

Stolen Beauty by Laurie Lico Albanese.  3/5.  In World War II era Austria, Maria Altmann’s world is turned upside down as her Jewish family attempts to flee.  In the process, the Nazis snatch up portraits of her beloved aunt, Adele Bloch-Bauer, painted by the renowned artist Gustav Klimt.  As we follow Maria from the turmoil of World War II to her twenty-first century struggle to regain the paintings, a parallel story is told--that of Adele and her relationship with Klimt.  While this book was pretty accurate as far as I could tell--I’m no Klimt expert--it could have done without Maria’s story.  This is better told in the Helen Mirren movie “The Woman in Gold”; here it’s pretty flat, and distracts from Adele’s much more engaging journey from impetuous young wife to immortalized muse.  Maria’s narrative becomes a fairly standard--I hate to say it--World War II story.  Adele’s is far more interesting and unique, and the book would have been much better had the author stuck with that.

Severed: A History of Heads Lost and Heads Found by Frances Larson.  4/5.  Larson takes on the topic of severed heads, from those captured during war, to those decapitated by royal decree, and those belonging to saints.  Morbid curiosity and the recommendation of Caitlin Doughty drew me to this book, and it’s both well-researched and quite interesting.  I thought it would be largely about the heads lost through the decapitation of living people, like those who would become “shrunken heads” and famous people like Anne Boleyn. While a couple of chapters are devoted to such subjects, Larson also discussed people decapitated after death, as well as the topic of life remaining after decapitation.  It’s a pretty thorough book, and while some topics were more interesting than others and it was certainly all a bit gruesome at times, I was impressed by the fact that Larson even went into the topic of decapitation in art.  Overall, a good read if you’re in the mood for something niche-y.

The Good Daughter by Karin Slaughter.  2/5.  In the 80s, sisters Sam and Charlotte (later Charlie) undergo a horrific event together that leaves their mother murdered and both deeply traumatized.  Thirty years later, Charlie--an attorney, albeit not one as controversial as her “defend any client” father--witnesses a school shooting, and is compelled to help defend the shooter, a teenage girl.  The subsequent events will bring up the truth about what happened to the sisters that night, as well as the truth of who they became after.  I really enjoyed this book at first--even though the beginning is quite harrowing and not for the faint of heart.  But there’s “not for the faint of heart” and “this makes me actively uncomfortable because I don’t think it’s being handled well”.  This might act as a spoiler, but honestly it’s a theme throughout the novel and, well...  The topic of rape is not handled the way it should have been, in my opinion.  Lots of people will feel differently, and I’m sure some will have valid reasons, but I could not get behind this book.

The Life She Was Given by Ellen Marie Wiseman.  2/5.  As a young girl, Lilly is sold to the circus by her mother.  She hasn’t even had much experience of the world, locked away by her parents to keep her albinism a secret.  In a parallel timeline, 20+ years later, nineteen-year old Julia learns that her estranged mother is dead, and she has inherited the family horse farm.  Returning home, she stumbles across Lilly’s story, and becomes wrapped up in the mystery of what happened to her.  Obviously, this story is interesting--but I think it might be time for me to stop trying these parallel narrative historical fiction novels.  They just aren’t for me.  Furthermore, the simplicity of the writing and the characters was off-putting.  It felt like I was reading about Lilly and the Good People versus Cartoon Villains.

Happiness: A Memoir by Heather Harpham.  3/5.  Upon finding out that she was pregnant, Heather Harpham soon realized that her boyfriend, Brian, loved her but wasn’t sure about the idea of fatherhood in his forties.  She went through her pregnancy alone, gave birth without him--but things became even more complicated upon the discovery that their daughter, Amelia-Grace, had a blood disease that would quite possibly kill her before she hit thirty.  “Happiness” is the story of not only Amelia-Grace’s treatment and the fight for her life, but Heather and Brian’s journey towards finding each other.  It’s at times frustrating, as many memoirs are; I really don’t know that Brian and Heather are people I would identify with if I met them, and some of their decisions were... questionable.  But the writing is lovely, and I really felt for what was an incredibly human story.  It’s a well-done memoir.

A Map for Wrecked Girls by Jessica Taylor.  4/5.  Shipwrecked with her sister Henri and a virtual stranger, Alex, Emma has little hope of being found or rescued.  Complicating matters of survival is her fraught relationship with Henri, ruined by recent events.  Parallel narratives tell the story of the three teens’ attempts to survive, while also revealing what happened between Henri and Emma.  This book is extremely gripping and interesting, and while there is a romance that largely serves to develop Emma’s character, the crux of the story is her relationship with the magnetic, manipulative Henri.  Henri is the kind of character you love to hate, and so is Emma in a way.  Their codependency was extremely compelling, and while a couple of the later “twists” weren’t the strongest, they didn’t dull my interest in the sisters and what happened to them.

Too Fat, Too Slutty, Too Loud: The Rise and Reign of the Unruly Woman by Anne Helen Petersen, 3/5.  This book is a collection of essays on women who Petersen--someone who got her doctoral degree on celebrity gossip, essentially--terms as “unruly” for a variety of different reasons.  Petersen, who wrote for Buzzfeed, does know how to write a thinkpiece, and in an engaging manner.  It’s definitely a quick, fun read.  Nothing she says here reinvents the wheel if you’re already engaged in feminist theory, but most of it isn’t actively wrong and it’s good to read.  But she does write as a straight, cis, white woman (as she acknowledges). She’s conventionally attractive; she isn’t fat.  So there is a part of me that’s like “ugh, I wish someone who could speak from personal experience about what she’s writing had written this book”.  She’s not even old, like Madonna (the subject of her “Too Old” essay).  But that’s not really something Petersen can help.  What she can help is the manner in which she overlooks the ridiculousness of Caitlyn Jenner’s political views, barely mentioning them in the “Too Qu**r” essay.  Really, Petersen acknowledges that Jenner doesn’t embody that label; so why not discuss another woman like Laverne Cox or Janet Mock over Jenner?  And I know she’s capable of criticizing her subject, because she does so in the aforementioned Madonna piece (though she doesn’t get into exactly how problematic Madonna’s rearing and presentation of her black children has been; that’s not the point of the piece).  The Lena Dunham piece is similarly shortsighted.  She doesn’t discuss many of the reasons why lots of people--including many feminists--hate Dunham.  She doesn’t get into her racism, her troubling discussion of her relationship with her sister.  If Petersen didn’t want to get into these issues, there are plenty of “unruly women” who coincide with her topics and aren’t loaded with ugliness, for lack of a better term.  So while I liked the book--it could have done with more women of color, by the way--a couple of the essays I side-eyed.

The Devil’s Lady by Deborah Simmons.  4/5.  When Aisley de Laci (yes) is forced to marry--but given the option to choose her husband--she chooses Piers Montmorency (yes) otherwise known as the Red Knight (YES).  Fierce and mysterious, Piers is said to have a made a pact with the devil, and doesn’t allow Aisley to see him in the light.  If you think this means they have a lot of sex in the dark, fuck yeah it does.  This is a classic sort of romance novel, made better by the fact that the heroine has a lot of agency in terms of her sexuality for a romance novel written in the 90s, and the guy isn’t a total douchebag.  He kind of is at first, but he’s not put in the best situation so....  One of the most appealing parts of the story is dealt with in a manner that was way too easy for my taste, and the ending was all a bit rushed, but that wasn’t the point.  The romance was.  And it was good. 

Shimmer and Burn by Mary Taranta.  2/5.  After an attempted escape from their guarded city, Faris is left alone, her love murdered and her sister enslaved.  Desperate to free her sister, she enters into arrangement with the king’s executioner and a the Princess Bryn--who wants to become queen--to slip out of the kingdom and transfer magic and honestly that’s all I got because this world was so badly explained and constructed.  It was one of those worlds that naturally doesn’t appeal to me, where magic is a substance and you can, like, put it in your body with a syringe?  Which made me think of an addiction plotline on the rise and addiction + magic is something I hate and even if I did understand this world, which I didn’t because the writing didn’t explain it to me, I probably wouldn’t like it. Then there were little things, like the king’s executioner being a teenage boy (was there... not someone a little older) and Faris streetfighting~ to earn her keep.  Cliche.