14 Mar 12
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  #it’s just a forest fire‚ claire thinks‚ but she wonders about the trees #what if this was part of the war‚ an attack—what if right now there are angels walking the earth forever trapped #(what if she had gotten there first and stood beneath cool and shadowy boughs #and pressed her shaking hand to the moss-softness of bark #and felt a flood of light) #it’s just a forest fire‚ though. there can’t be any way of knowing otherwise #so that’s what she’ll believe 
22 Jan 12
3,533 notes
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  #’I’m an angel of the lord’ #and suddenly #Firestiel
Fitting, Dean later thinks, that from the moment they met Castiel was stealing his breath.

#’I’m an angel of the lord’ #and suddenly #Firestiel

Fitting, Dean later thinks, that from the moment they met Castiel was stealing his breath.


(via tomhannigers)

18 Jan 12
17,748 notes
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siterlas:

Be not afraid, Claire.

siterlas:

Be not afraid, Claire.

13 Jan 12
14 notes
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siterlas:

anneretic:

Annointed Ground
Once, holy fires were meant to protect angels.
credits

NEW HEADCANON AND ALSO FIC PROMPT

Large moon the deep orange of embers.   Also the scent. The griefs of others—beautiful, at a distance. —”Sonoma Fire,” Jane Hirshfield

siterlas:

anneretic:

Annointed Ground

Once, holy fires were meant to protect angels.

credits

NEW HEADCANON AND ALSO FIC PROMPT


Large moon the deep orange of embers.  
Also the scent.
The griefs of others—beautiful, at a distance.

—”Sonoma Fire,” Jane Hirshfield

13 Jan 12
686 notes
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yourguttersoul:

There’s a girl on the third floor, they say, who talks to fire.
-
You’ve already spoken with her attending doctor, he’s the one who’s asked you to come here. Well, he’s asked at the request of her family. They’re the ones paying you. He’s the one giving the back of your head the hairy eyeball as you walk down the pristine white hallway, obviously bitter that after months of working with the girl, his staff here still haven’t made progress. He sneers around the word ‘specialist’. 
-
You talk to the orderlies and nurses next. There seems to be a consensus. Nice girl, nonviolent. Polite, neat, a little uncooperative when it comes to taking medication, but nothing they can’t handle. 
“We can’t let her get near any flames, though,” the head nurse tells you. “Put a lighter or a match or anything near her and she just starts babbling away, screaming at it sometimes, or just having a honest-to-God friendly little chat with it. The only time she stops talking is to listen.”“To the fire?”“Mmm. She says she can hear voices in it. She says they’re planning something.”“Who?”“The angels.””Oh?”“Yup.” The nurse pauses. “She’ll try to touch it, too, stick her fingers in it and such. She claims it doesn’t hurt her. The few times the doctor tried to talk to her with fire in the sessions were the only ones we’ve ever needed to give her heavy sedatives, just to stop her from burning herself.” 
-
The hulking orderly gives you a measuring look before shutting the automatically locking door behind you. On the bed sits the girl. Sunlight streams through the windows, striking off the intense red of her hair, and it looks like a flaming halo. Her mossy eyes are wide and innocent. This is their religious delusional pyromaniac? She looks like a kindergarten teacher. 
Clipboard and pen in one hand, your other reaches down into the pocket of your white coat, feeling for the box of matches you snuck in. They were insistent about not having any fire near the girl, but how else are you supposed to properly assess her? You are the specialist, after all. Might as well get started.
“Hello, Anna.” 

And Anna says she hasn’t changed, promises that she’s still on their side, but Dean watched the girl with red hair burn to ashes and he can’t see her face in the flames no matter how gently they reach for his fingers.

yourguttersoul:

There’s a girl on the third floor, they say, who talks to fire.

-

You’ve already spoken with her attending doctor, he’s the one who’s asked you to come here. Well, he’s asked at the request of her family. They’re the ones paying you. He’s the one giving the back of your head the hairy eyeball as you walk down the pristine white hallway, obviously bitter that after months of working with the girl, his staff here still haven’t made progress. He sneers around the word ‘specialist’

-

You talk to the orderlies and nurses next. There seems to be a consensus. Nice girl, nonviolent. Polite, neat, a little uncooperative when it comes to taking medication, but nothing they can’t handle. 

“We can’t let her get near any flames, though,” the head nurse tells you. “Put a lighter or a match or anything near her and she just starts babbling away, screaming at it sometimes, or just having a honest-to-God friendly little chat with it. The only time she stops talking is to listen.”
“To the fire?”
“Mmm. She says she can hear voices in it. She says they’re planning something.”
“Who?”
“The angels.”
Oh?
“Yup.” The nurse pauses. “She’ll try to touch it, too, stick her fingers in it and such. She claims it doesn’t hurt her. The few times the doctor tried to talk to her with fire in the sessions were the only ones we’ve ever needed to give her heavy sedatives, just to stop her from burning herself.” 

-

The hulking orderly gives you a measuring look before shutting the automatically locking door behind you. On the bed sits the girl. Sunlight streams through the windows, striking off the intense red of her hair, and it looks like a flaming halo. Her mossy eyes are wide and innocent. This is their religious delusional pyromaniac? She looks like a kindergarten teacher. 

Clipboard and pen in one hand, your other reaches down into the pocket of your white coat, feeling for the box of matches you snuck in. They were insistent about not having any fire near the girl, but how else are you supposed to properly assess her? You are the specialist, after all. Might as well get started.

“Hello, Anna.” 

And Anna says she hasn’t changed, promises that she’s still on their side, but Dean watched the girl with red hair burn to ashes and he can’t see her face in the flames no matter how gently they reach for his fingers.

(via siterlas)

11 Jan 12
18 notes
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yourguttersoul:

They tried once to fit all that heat and power into a vessel, something heavier and more tangible (and easier to talk to in public) than a zippo. The man called himself Jimmy and he could hear the words in the roaring of the fireplace - he thought, at first, that it meant he was damned, for who else would speak through flames but the devil? His body sagged with relief when Dean told him, no, those were hymns and salvation he heard. Jimmy shied away from the holy fire at first, but when he finally forced his eyes to open and realized that his entire forearm was thrust deep into the burning fireplace and he’d felt no pain, he smiled and sighed and “yes” echoed through the house like the striking of a match. 
For a few moments, he was radiant.
Dean watched those already blue eyes spark and fill with a light almost violent in its beauty. Blue flames burn the hottest, hadn’t he heard that once? The lips moved to open, and Dean’s breath caught in his chest. But all that escaped were wisps of smoke, and the flames in those eyes seemed to expand - soon the body was engulfed. A human torch. A conflagration of skin and hair and tax accountant clothing and human flesh just not strong enough to contain the pure power that was Castiel.
The screaming of the flames continued long after the man’s pained shrieks and pleas had subsided. Dean stared down at the charred body on the floor of the living room. They had failed. It had cost a terrible price. He couldn’t look at the fire. He walked out of the house, waiting until he was blocks away before leaning over a trashcan and retching. 
He didn’t even touch the lighter for a week afterwards. Finally, stretched along a lumpy motel bed (Sam had been sent on a supply run after crossing Dean’s tolerance threshold for questioning, furrowed brows) he drew the cool metal from his pocket and flicked it open. Licks of fire and whispers of sorrow reached out and encircled his wrist, and this time neither of them held back the pain - it was comforting. Dean let it burn, singeing their mistakes and sins onto his body, let it form a red, angry blister of bubbling flesh until he couldn’t anymore. The lighter closed, the burn eventually faded. Dean almost wishes that one hadn’t. 
Years down the line, years he never imagined he would have, he looks up the Novaks. The man, Jimmy, had had a daughter, he’d said. He doesn’t ask Sam for help, but digs up the records himself. He leans on a tree across from the building, watching a shiny red engine make its way up the street and into the station. They aren’t wearing their helmets, just their bright bunker gear. He pushes off the tree trunk and crosses the road. They’re aren’t smiling, but there’s no traces of pain or grief in their faces, just lines of fatigue, so he guesses the call must not have been too bad. One notices him watching as they climb off the engine.
“Can I help you?” the solid mass asks as Dean approaches. He’s not intimidated. The guy is big, but Sammy’s still bigger.
“I’m looking for a Claire Novak?” The firefighter narrows his eyes, but apparently sees nothing in Dean’s face to warrant any real alarm (hah). 
“Hey, Captain!” he calls. “Somebody here looking for you.” 
From the other side of the apparatus, a smaller figure appears. She’s halfway out of her gear, blonde hair sticking up out of a ponytail haphazardly. Clear, bright blue eyes stare steadily and inquisitively at him.
There is a small smudge of ash on her cheek. He clenches his fist, resisting the urge to reach out and brush it off; he hasn’t been gentle enough for things like that for a long time now. He doesn’t know her well enough (or at all) to warrant the contact, he doesn’t deserve it, and the mountain of muscle staring them down right now would probably break his wrist. She smells like smoke and it makes his eyes sting.

yourguttersoul:

They tried once to fit all that heat and power into a vessel, something heavier and more tangible (and easier to talk to in public) than a zippo. The man called himself Jimmy and he could hear the words in the roaring of the fireplace - he thought, at first, that it meant he was damned, for who else would speak through flames but the devil? His body sagged with relief when Dean told him, no, those were hymns and salvation he heard. Jimmy shied away from the holy fire at first, but when he finally forced his eyes to open and realized that his entire forearm was thrust deep into the burning fireplace and he’d felt no pain, he smiled and sighed and “yes” echoed through the house like the striking of a match. 

For a few moments, he was radiant.

Dean watched those already blue eyes spark and fill with a light almost violent in its beauty. Blue flames burn the hottest, hadn’t he heard that once? The lips moved to open, and Dean’s breath caught in his chest. But all that escaped were wisps of smoke, and the flames in those eyes seemed to expand - soon the body was engulfed. A human torch. A conflagration of skin and hair and tax accountant clothing and human flesh just not strong enough to contain the pure power that was Castiel.

The screaming of the flames continued long after the man’s pained shrieks and pleas had subsided. Dean stared down at the charred body on the floor of the living room. They had failed. It had cost a terrible price. He couldn’t look at the fire. He walked out of the house, waiting until he was blocks away before leaning over a trashcan and retching. 

He didn’t even touch the lighter for a week afterwards. Finally, stretched along a lumpy motel bed (Sam had been sent on a supply run after crossing Dean’s tolerance threshold for questioning, furrowed brows) he drew the cool metal from his pocket and flicked it open. Licks of fire and whispers of sorrow reached out and encircled his wrist, and this time neither of them held back the pain - it was comforting. Dean let it burn, singeing their mistakes and sins onto his body, let it form a red, angry blister of bubbling flesh until he couldn’t anymore. The lighter closed, the burn eventually faded. Dean almost wishes that one hadn’t. 

Years down the line, years he never imagined he would have, he looks up the Novaks. The man, Jimmy, had had a daughter, he’d said. He doesn’t ask Sam for help, but digs up the records himself. He leans on a tree across from the building, watching a shiny red engine make its way up the street and into the station. They aren’t wearing their helmets, just their bright bunker gear. He pushes off the tree trunk and crosses the road. They’re aren’t smiling, but there’s no traces of pain or grief in their faces, just lines of fatigue, so he guesses the call must not have been too bad. One notices him watching as they climb off the engine.

“Can I help you?” the solid mass asks as Dean approaches. He’s not intimidated. The guy is big, but Sammy’s still bigger.

“I’m looking for a Claire Novak?” The firefighter narrows his eyes, but apparently sees nothing in Dean’s face to warrant any real alarm (hah). 

“Hey, Captain!” he calls. “Somebody here looking for you.” 

From the other side of the apparatus, a smaller figure appears. She’s halfway out of her gear, blonde hair sticking up out of a ponytail haphazardly. Clear, bright blue eyes stare steadily and inquisitively at him.

There is a small smudge of ash on her cheek. He clenches his fist, resisting the urge to reach out and brush it off; he hasn’t been gentle enough for things like that for a long time now. He doesn’t know her well enough (or at all) to warrant the contact, he doesn’t deserve it, and the mountain of muscle staring them down right now would probably break his wrist. She smells like smoke and it makes his eyes sting.

11 Jan 12
5,639 notes
source
siterlas:

Dean has been calling for days and his hands are burnt.

So many open graves Dean’s put to the torch that he must understand that fire is good, fire can heal or soothe or purify, but when he meets Castiel it’s not even hellfire he thinks of, just the heavy weight of Sam in his arms and the bright roar of his family falling apart.

siterlas:

Dean has been calling for days and his hands are burnt.

So many open graves Dean’s put to the torch that he must understand that fire is good, fire can heal or soothe or purify, but when he meets Castiel it’s not even hellfire he thinks of, just the heavy weight of Sam in his arms and the bright roar of his family falling apart.

3 Jul 11
507 notes
source
And there appeared unto them cloven tongues like as of fire, and it sat upon each of them.

And there appeared unto them cloven tongues like as of fire, and it sat upon each of them.

(via hellotrickster)

17 Feb 11
28 notes
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Filling the vessel.

Filling the vessel.

(via se7enshades-reblogs)

4 Feb 11
453 notes
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like fire, hell fire

like fire, hell fire

(via fuckyeaheyegasms)

23 Dec 10
657 notes
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When it’s over, Castiel comes to get her, just like he promised.

When it’s over, Castiel comes to get her, just like he promised.

(via fuckyeahillustration)

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