barrowdowns

Have you heard the tale of Mathieu Bellamont, and the great treachery of Cheydinhal? *** There is a sharp tug, a pull behind his eyes and suddenly he is cold, blinking at the muted light of the twin moons, obscured both by trees and the softly falling snow. The hazy chaos of the Void is gone for the moment, the Listener needs him. They move, quiet and light as shadows through the darkness, never speaking a word. The branches tangle in his robes, scratch at exposed skin, and for a moment he forgets he is only a spirit. They wait for hours, crouched and shrouded, watching the bustle of people move back and forth, oblivious. Every unknown fa

Aziraphale's clothes are missing. It had started slowly.  A tweed jacket here, a tartan scarf there.  Aziraphale blamed it on his own forgetfulness, forget my own head next, he'd murmured, standing in the middle of the bookstore, glancing around for the plaid cardigan he was certain he had just set down. He tried not to think about it when his favourite pair of worn loafers were the next to disappear (oh well, needed a new pair anyway I guess, he'd said shakily, making himself yet another cup of tea), and he had barely managed to keep his cool when his most comfortable pair of slacks also went missing (they were just her

Well, last night on earth. What are your plans? I just thought I'd sit here quietly. **** Dean has him pressed up against an alley wall. There's alcohol on his breath—he's drunk—too drunk to know what he's doing, and Castiel knows that he should stop him. The hands gripping his collar have such a firm hold on him, and Dean's body is so warm against his own. "Cas." His name is breathless as it falls from Dean's lips. He's warm now, and he can feel his heart—his vessel's heart—pounding in his chest. His breath catches in his throat, and—no, this is wrong. Dean is his responsibility and he's an angel, he can't feel

Sometimes when Dean dreams, he dreams of hell. It's less frequent than it used to be, and for that he's quite grateful, but when he's dreaming, it's easy to forget that it is merely a dream. He's back there in the pit. Sometimes he's on the rack, and other times it's someone else. It's those nights that he wakes up screaming. The rack was bad. It was pain and hopeless torment. That much he can handle, in a way.  (Never on that scale before, but he's a Winchester, they always bounce back. Eventually.) It's when there's someone else, some other face without a name. It's when he's the one holding the knife and ignoring the cries and pleas fo

This is how the world ends Not with a bang, but a whimper. --TS Eliot - The Hollow Men *** Aziraphale wonders if this is how Christ felt in the desert. It's a different type of hunger that he feels now, has felt for longer than he'd like to admit. Certainly longer than forty days and nights. It burns in him, a screaming in his veins, tearing at his insides and for a moment, he forgets that he doesn't need to breathe. "Don't tempt me, you old serpent," he murmurs, barely audible, but Crowley quirks an eyebrow and regards him with a smirk. "Whatever are you talking about, angel?" He hisses, a glass of wine clutched delicately in his lon