(Average Metropolis reader after investigative reporter C. Kent's 452nd article on yet another case of landlords/business owners/factories' continued use of lead pipes/paint/gas/glass knowingly exposing the public to dangerously toxic lead levels) what the fuck happened to this guy
One day Bruce Wayne mentions in an interview that heroes like Superman are overrated, as the most effective way to reduce crime is to provide public resources and improve local infrastructure, then cites how neighboring city Metropolis has effectively lowered their violent crime by 13% after addressing their outdated water system and investing low income housing. the reporter conducting the interview suddenly starts looking a little uncomfortable
"Who, Clark Kent? Yeah, we're pretty sure he's a Meta. Is he a superhero? Like what, "Lead-detector guy"? "Captain pipes?" Don't get me wrong, he's a great guy and it's a handy trick, but it's lead detection, not laser vision. He's not about to go running around in tights any time soon."
I hate Bruce's "I don't kill because once I start, I wouldn't be able to stop"
Like I simply do not buy it. Murder is not a potato chip Bruce. I think he is full of shit and a messy bitch who lives for the drama. I am certain Bruce has some kind of valid reason for not killing, but I don't believe that this is it.
No no let’s dig into this. And let’s not go into the obvious of, “murders bad” or “he’d feel guilty” like let’s try to find another reason to why this bitch man doesn’t kill anyone, including his son’s murderer
So there are generally around 5-6 "big reasons" traditionally given for why Bruce doesn't kill his villains, many of which have been explored in comics and others of which have been discussed and debated ad nauseum around the internet. Here's the four I tend to find most compelling:
Bruce's moral code that prohibits killing is ultimately what separates him from those he fights against. He follows a very strict deontological viewpoint of "killing is wrong, regardless of intentions or consequences." Jason, by contrast, has a "ends justify the means" consequentialist mentality of "if you kill a criminal, you prevent more crime, so the killing is justified." The ethical dilemma surrounding this issue is that who are you, random quasi-legal vigilante on a self-imposed quest to end crime, to decide when you are or aren't preventing "more killing/crime" by killing a criminal? What makes Bruce qualified to determine who should get to live and die? He doesn't think he is, so he's simply said "I don't have that right. I'll instead work to save everyone, regardless of who they are/what they've done (to me or anyone else)."
Bruce's "if I start killing, I don't think I'd be able to stop" is less "murder is a potato chip" and more about the rationalization it would take to take that first step off the edge. Essentially, if he kills Joker, why not kill Two-Face? What makes killing Joker fundamentally different from killing Two-Face? From killing Penguin? From killing Harley, Ivy, Killer Croc, etc? Why is killing the Joker okay but killing say....Victor Zzasz isn't? When does a villain commit enough illegal and morally reprehensible acts that extrajudicial murder is an acceptable solution?
Part of the point and purpose of Bruce being Batman in addition to Bruce Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprises, is the flexibility he has in pursuing justice, rehabilitation, and re-education. The entire point of Batman is preventing the Wayne Family Tragedy™ from happening to anyone else. Bruce's entire mission in life is creating a world where "no more children lose their parents to some punk with a gun." Batman is supposed to prevent more children from becoming orphans, more wives from becoming widows, more husbands from becoming widowers, more parents from losing their children. What does killing do except perpetuate that cycle of violence and undermine his core mission?
How is Batman any different from the cops if he kills? Batman can't be a figure to inspire reform in the criminal justice system (and specifically the GCPD) if he kills, because how does that make Batman any better than the corrupt system he claims to want to make better? Batman killing doesn't inspire hope that there is a better way; it would just be an extension of how Gotham's "justice system" works anyway. By refusing to cross that line Batman as a symbol encourages Gotham to be better than they are.
As an expansion of #2, you could very reasonably make the point that "but it's the Joker! He's different!" But is he? Is he really? He's certainly done more permanent personal harm to the Batfamily than most other villains (Babs and Jason specifically), but what about Two-Face smashing Dick to pieces with a baseball bat in Robin: Year One? What about Black Mask torturing Steph to death during War Games? What about Shiva killing Cass in Batgirl (even if she brought her back)? What about Ra's nearly killing Tim in Red Robin? What about Talia murdering Damian by proxy (via Heretic) in Batman Inc.? What about Bane murdering Alfred in City of Bane? Where's the line?
Bruce has seen 3-4 people he's either legally or nominally responsible for die on his watch, another 3 tortured to near-death conditions on multiple occasions, 1 permanently injured, and had a villain murder the man who raised him and leave his body for Bruce to find, and yet the only thing anyone really ever talks about re: Bruce killing is Jason and the Joker. If the line is torturing one of his kids (or those flying under his banner) half to death, by all rights he should have killed Two-Face and Black Mask for what they did to Dick and Steph. If it's killing a 'family' member, he should have killed Joker, Black Mask, Bane, and Talia (also Lex Luthor and...technically Jacob Kane, considering everyone thought Tim was dead during the Rebirth arc).
It's not just the Joker at stake here: if we start saying "Batman should kill the Joker because of what he did to Jason [and everyone else]," you start getting into really thorny questions about well...a lot of Bruce's villains have done some ridiculously morally reprehensible stuff, including mass murder and irreparable personal harm to someone he considers family. What makes the Joker's mass murder different from Ivy's mass murder (and yes, canonically they are both mass murderers) that justifies the Joker's death but not Ivy's?
You can of course justify that by saying "but Ivy's not unredeemable! She can be reasoned with and rehabilitated!" but...what if Bruce had made the decision that she was unredeemable and worthy of death before her No Man's Land-era redemption arc kicked off? It loops back around to #1, that Bruce doesn't feel personally qualified to make that moral and ethical decision about who gets to live or die, because he thinks everyone has the personal capacity to change (and what right does he have to take that possibility away from someone?)
....also personally I think "they deserve to die" and "I deserve to kill them/let them die" aren't morally/ethically equivalent statements and Bruce can certainly think Joker deserves to die without also thinking he is morally allowed to kill him (or morally allowed to let someone else kill him when he has the ability to stop them).
#SAY THAT. #my go to whenever this pops up is somewhere along the lines of "what is he...a cop????". #bc like!!!! half the reason batman (and most of the bat family) are so compelling to me is their deep belief in restorative justice!! #its certainly simpler to just kill someone who's done wrong to you and others and walk away believing you at least prevented further harm. #its farrrrr more narratively fascinating (to me) to find compassion for someone you despise #and actively take a role in helping them better themselves. #thats WHY batman works in a city like gotham. otherwise yes ur so right he'd just be another cop. #and i absolutely love how u pointed out how many horrible things the other rogues have done bc i feel like fandom often forgets that. #(i know i certainly do). #but yes vv much so!!! where is the line???? what makes killing joker ok but not two-face? or black mask? or harley? #AGAGAGAGAG now i'm just reiterating ur points. #op im sorry i'll shut up #i just!!!!!! adore!!! this!!!! meta!!!!! SO MUCH!!!!
Ohoho now let’s get into this shit, shall we? Time for some numbers!
Estimates actually put the death toll between 30 to 60 percent of the European population, there were so many dead and so much variation from area to area you can’t accurately estimate how many it really was
People who got infected by the “Black Death” were to 80% dead within 3 to 5 days, the population was reduced so dramatically that it took between 80 to 150 years to regrow to where it was before, varying from location to location
Some places were almost entirely depopulated. Over 60% of Norway died within two years, China’s population was reduced from around 125 million to 65 million in the late 14th century, at its peak Damascus reported around 1000 dead every day, between 75 and 200 million people died overall in a time where the world population didn’t even reach 500 million.
And let’s not even get into the persecution the Jewish had to face. No wait, let’s do that actually. “The Jews are poisoning our wells” was something people liked to say because they couldn’t think of anything else and hey, why not blame the Jewish? The Jewish communities in Mainz and Cologne were completely annihilated (not a lot of character development happening in Germany, hmm) and about 2000 more people were killed in the Strasbourg massacre. Simply because they couldn’t figure out where the disease came from and hated the Jewish enough to blame them without evidence
Fun fact, the word quarantine originated in the time of the first global outbreak. It comes from the Italian word for 40, which was the period of time people were isolated if they came from infected areas.
The world didn’t survive the Black Death, too many people died for the disease to spread effectively
And then it came back several more times, including two more major pandemics and many more outbreaks. The most deadly one in modern times was, buckle up, 2017 in Madagascar where it killed 170 people and thousands more were infected.
Now, before someone starts worrying, here’s the good news: thanks to modern medicine the fatality rate was pushed down to around 10%. I think we can all agree significantly better than before.
So next time someone says “the plague went away without vaccines”, now you have numbers. Have fun.
It didn’t “basically stop”. It’s still around. We just have medication to treat it now. Anyone who thinks the plague is gone clearly has not been hiking in California.
[ID: A Plague Caution sign from the California Department of Public Health explaining how chipmunks, ground squirrels and other rodents and cats in the area may have plague, how you can avoid catching it and what the symptoms of plague are.]
As someone with outstanding debt from being a non-traditional student, frankly every part of this plan is HUGE. Not enough, but huge compared to everything jackass has done so far, and really capable of impacting peoples’ lives.
I was able to pay half of my yearly tuition due to having had a much better job then, which vanished permanently during early COVID.
So after graduation I was left with just over 17,000 dollars in primary. (Peanuts compared to a lot of borrowers, I know.)
If you don’t have student loans, you may not really get how bad the interest rates are. Before this bill I stood to pay 30,000 over the next twenty years. Yes, that’s more than half again in interest.
Now, this bill is targeted to people like me who have small outstanding loans, low income and so on. I benefit more than a vast majority of borrowers because this will wipe out more than half of what I owe, cap my payments at something ludicrously small… something like 50 bucks a month, and forgive me the remainder at just about the age my father retired at. I’m hardly the typical case.
BUT! Every part of this does benefit a huge number of borrowers. If you make less than, I think it was 120,000 a year, as most graduates do, you are going to have $10,000 or $20,000 (if you had Pell grants) shaved off your outstanding debt, UP TO THE OUTSTANDING AMOUNT. That’s not nearly enough but it’s really something.
Your monthly income-based payment is capped at 5% of your monthly discretionary income, as opposed to 10% before. That’s precious breathing room for a huge number of working people, and it really, truly makes a difference.
After ten years, people who have been paying will be forgiven. Like, that’s the wham line here. Most of us stand to spend the next several decades paying, and to have it reduced to a single decade will let a lot of young people escape debt with a lot of their adult lives left.
And lastly, yes, while you’re paying you won’t be accruing interest, which is ENORMOUS when you consider that there are people who had $50,000 primary, paid on it at punishing rates for twenty years, and now have $70,000 outstanding.
YOU HAVE TO APPLY BY THE END OF THE YEAR.
I can’t stress how important this could be for you. If you have any federal student loans at all, follow the link above and apply. If you’re eligible, you won’t be turned away if you get that form in by the end of the year. This is being billed explicitly as a “one time” cancellation, so get it while it’s hot.
In some ways this is the least I would have accepted, but it’s something and I need to know that people are taking advantage of it.
Go read the full text and if you’re eligible, apply, please.
This one isn’t a hotbutton issue for Republicans vs Democrats so dont assume that just because you live in a blue state that your reps will definitely vote for it. Make the call.
Boost the heck out of this. It is bipartisan legislation, Sponsored by Sen. Sherrod Brown (D-OH) and co-sponsored by Sen. Rob Portman (R-OH). The bill number is S. 4102 and I don’t think it has a House equivalent yet. If you tell your reps to vote for S. 4102 sponsored by Sen. Brown and co-sponsored by Sen. Portman, you could be completely changing the game for disabled married couples. (The Senate has a drop-down menu by state at the top of the website https://www.senate.gov/)
As of now (31 May 2022) this bill is in committee in the Senate. It was sent to the committee of finance. If your senator is listed below, it is ESPECIALLY important that you call them to express your support for S.4102 - SSI Savings Penalty Elimination Act.
Dta cas (lying awake at night): if Dean was ONLY attracted to me- I mean men- we could have sex. This would be great because it would improve his mood and make him a better leader. No other reasons. Would just be convenience
Dta dean: I noticed in the midst of 45 straight minutes of explaining the intricacies of living the universe the host of heaven and all its secrets that he tucked his hair behind his ear and it was so breathtakingly beautiful nothing else about the end of the world as we know could possibly feel as important. So when's that guy gonna go out and get himself some pussy
(Partially because he lets Grogu’s father come visit whenever he can, and partially because he lets Grogu keep a free reign of terror over the creatures in the pond outside the temple, but there are other reasons, too.)
Instinctively, from when they first met, from when Grogu first felt him, he had known that his master is someone special. Only someone very special could enter a place with so much fear and anger and despair and make the Force sing tunes of hope. There is a light in him, a place of good and wanting to do good that wells and overflows and makes the galaxy a little less dark of a place.
Master Luke is very different from the other masters—the ones Grogu can vaguely recall from a past that seems so far away now. His temple is different, too, and too large for the two Jedi it houses. But Grogu likes the training they do, likes the way he feels against his mind, assured and strong, and playful and exploring. Like he is learning with Grogu, rather than just departing a lesson.
He likes master’s flying, the acrobatics he’ll sometimes perform in his x-wing that makes Grogu’s stomach churn with excitement; he likes his astromech, and how he bickers and banters with it like they are family or very old friends, and how he convinces R2 to let Grogu ride on top of his dome head as they zoom around the halls; he likes how he asks Grogu to show him his favourite things and happiest memories, and how he ‘oh’s and ‘ah’s at the right parts when he shows him his adventures with father.
More than anything—more than sitting comfy in his master’s hood as they explore the jungle or getting to play in the pond until sundown, hunting down the largest and tastiest frogs with hunter-like determination that surely would make his father proud—he likes the understanding. Here, at the temple, there is no hiding anymore, and no suppressing what he hears and feels in the universe around him, no hiding what he can do. He is safe. With master Luke, here, he feels safe.
(He likes it even better when father is here because that means his father, too, is safe.)
His master is bright, and kind, and he listens, and he is all this even when Grogu does something he was not supposed to do. Whenever he reaches out for him, he reaches back, and he is warm, warm, warm.
So Grogu likes master Luke very much.
And, naturally, he wishes that he can make his master feel as safe and happy as Grogu is.
(Master Luke is not always happy. Often, he hides his pain and his own fears and loneliness, and Grogu knows because he had long done the same.)
There isn’t much one can do when one is only very small, and his master is not as fond of the largest and tastiest frogs as Grogu is (even though he has shared with him memories of a time when he ate them often).
But there are some things Grogu can do.
The first time Grogu sees his master hurt is while they are out in the humid jungle, stacking stones and moving water with the Force. The stones come easy to him now, but the water is challenging in its formlessness. Master Luke is demonstrating a particularly difficult manoeuvre, creating fine, cooling mist out of pond-water.
There, where his shirt once covered his shoulders, Grogu sees the angry red and dark purpling of bruises. His ears flatten against his head, and he wonders how his master could have been made to suffer these injuries. He sometimes has them when he returns from off-world, from places that are probably dangerous—places he goes to so that they can all be safe.
This time, master has not been off-world, and these bruises are relatively small. The cause is likely the nasty, large mosquitos or meat-flies that sometimes find their way into the temple, if they’re not careful enough with the doors and windows.
Grogu vows to eat one the next time he sees one buzzing by.
He likes master Luke very much, after all.
Which is why it is so strange to Grogu when master Luke tries to stop him while he is healing his wounds.
“Grogu,” says his master, eyes wide in surprise and his own hand holding Grogu’s away from his neck—now back to its regular, healthy colour.
Grogu coos, askance. Not better?
“I—you didn’t have to…” master Luke pauses, turns a little, as if embarrassed for a moment. “Thank you, I mean. But I was doing just fine. You should save those powers for when they are truly needed, little one.”
Grogu’s head drops, and he feels unhappy for a moment. He had only meant to help.
His master must sense this, for he reaches out, warm and wonderful, and gives Grogu a brilliant smile.
“Some practice doesn’t hurt, of course. But you don’t have to do that again.”
Grogu makes a sound of understanding, but he really doesn’t understand why his master would refuse to let Grogu heal him.
Some weeks the biting bugs are more vicious than others. Grogu makes good on his promise to exterminate every such creature he comes over, and even enlists R2 to his aid, incinerating the ones that Grogu misses.
Grogu luckily does not suffer so badly, and his father is so well protected that no insect could ever do him harm. Why are they so interested in master Luke? Perhaps some people, the ones that are good and powerful, like his master, simply taste better.
(Despite his master’s request that he doesn’t, Grogu sometimes, when seated conveniently in his hood or on his shoulder, can’t resist reaching out in focus, and watching in satisfaction as the skin there is healed and turned unblemished, even when master gives him very accusive stares when he discovers it later, although Grogu claims none of the credit.)
To Grogu’s great worry and frustration, the bruises keep returning.
It is only a day later, when father is holding him just after breakfast, and Grogu clearly spies more terrible bruises on master Luke—red and vicious and high on his neck. He reaches out, whines loudly. Perhaps father can help him convince his master to accept his help.
“Grogu? Hey, what’s wrong, kid?”
Master Luke immediately knows his intentions, but his face, inexplicably, slowly takes on a hue of red. To his father, he explains: “Ah, he… wants to heal me.”
“Are you hurt?” father asks urgently, and Grogu feels validated in his concern.
“No! No, I’m fine, he just, uh…” His face grows redder still. “The other day, he saw the… marks and… healed them. He thinks they’re hurting me.”
His father stares, eyes wide, and Grogu can feel his hand twitching and his body radiate a sort of embarrassment. “Maybe I should… stop doing that.”
Master laughs, smiles mischievously. “Maybe you should start leaving them lower.”
Grogu is suddenly confused. Had his father been the one to do this? Are his father and his master fighting? Hurting each other? He remembers that his father hadn’t been happy when he had tried protecting him when he had wrestled with Cara Dune, because she was “his friend”, but they had never wounded each other. Not like this. Were his father and master Luke, perhaps, not friends after all? None of this seemed to make sense. But he can’t allow them to hurt each other anymore.
So when his two most important people are suddenly standing a lot closer, and his father’s other hand touches his master’s neck exactly where he is hurt, Grogu gathers the Force around him and promptly pushes.
(And because Grogu likes master Luke and his father so very, very much, he is not that sad when he is not allowed frogs for dinner that night).
-
Tl;dr: Grogu wants to heal Luke’s injuries, but they are actually hickeys.
(This started as a ficlet about Grogu’s feelings on Luke, and suddenly became DinLuke whoops)
How fucking funny would it be if post-reunion, after everyone has settled down on The Revenge and accepted their weird found family, Izzy still pulled out the “I’m resigning, Ed!” speech every few months, like a kid marching down the end of their driveway to “run away forever, I’m definitely leaving this time, Dad!” Because he’s a supremely repressed gremlin of a man who doesn’t know how to receive validation unless he’s made a dramatic production of it via this intricate ritual. So everyone just accepts that on occasion Izzy will throw a hissy fit, passive aggressively pack up the dinghy, and Ed’s gotta go down there all, “Nooo, mate, we totally need you, don’t leave, what the fuck am I gonna do without my fearsome First Mate?🙄” Really laying it on thick so Izzy can soak up enough Toxically Approved Praise to survive another couple of weeks. Meanwhile, the crew is just watching this sad production, exchanging knowing glances. They’ve TRIED to be nice to Izzy—the whole mutiny thing was so last year, dude!—but outside of The Ritual he will straight up bite off anyone’s head who so much as tries to smile at him.
“Oh, you think I’ve got a flight or bite response? Mr. Hands earned his last name for a reason, laddie,” Buttons says while staring pointedly at Lucius’ finger. That’s obviously bullshit, but Buttons likes fucking with them on occasion. It’s great fun.
Stede’s place in The Ritual varies depending on everyone’s mood. Usually, he treats it like another fuckery production, making a big ta-do about how if Izzy really insists on leaving them—and wouldn’t that be terrible? Simply terrible… right, everyone?—then he must take plenty of supplies with him and a bottle of the good brandy and this warm coat because it can get quite chilly at night, don’t you know? This allows Izzy to fly into a very cathartic rage about real pirates vs. gentry twats, leading to him oh so magnanimously deciding to stick around, if only to continue saving Ed from this dithering fool. Sometimes though Izzy has legit pissed Stede off, just like in the old days, and the crew has to run damage control to keep another duel from starting, Izzy having entirely forgotten his desire to leave under the allure of skewering Stede. That too is cathartic, but Ed tends to get tetchy when Stede stabs or is stabbed by anyone other than him.
Every once in a while Izzy will dig his heels in and actually launch the dinghy, heading towards… nothing, because we’re nowhere near land, you idiot, are we really doing this today? So the crew has got to drop everything else they’ve got going on and just… follow him. Izzy spends a couple hours angrily trying to out-row a top of the line ship while the others watch from the deck, occasionally yelling out corrections to his form: “Keep your shoulders steady—you’ll get farther away if you improve your posture.” “I know that!” They let him wear himself out and then tow him in for dinner.
Job seeker pro tip that is paying dividends for me (literally in the not too distant future if I’m lucky). Repeat after me:
“What is the budget for this role?”
Memorize it. Internalize it. Practice it like a martial artist with their 10,000 or whatever punches. You need to be able to rattle it off in a moment of panic and that moment of panic is when they ask your salary expectations. Do not be the first person to name a number if you can at all avoid it. You’re gonna drop this baby like the Reverse Uno card you’ve been waiting the whole game to play and you’re going to drop it before even thinking about answering that question first.
Not once has it backfired. No one has gotten angry or offended. Bonus points if you can frame it as you not wanting to waste their time either (makes you sound more senior than you might feel, might not work for someone looking for their very first job but hey still worth a shot).
Every interviewer I’ve tossed this at has been gratified and clear and quoted a number, the only exceptions were when the interview was more exploratory (didn’t have a specific role when we spoke) or they needed to ask a different hiring manager and even then both apologized profusely for not quoting me the number first.
Every single time it has been more money than I would have asked for. Sometimes literally double what I was making before, in calls where the recruiter reached out to me first. I was aghast. As a millennial who got screwed every which way by the recession and still has ptsd over it, finding out what I’m “worth” in this current labor shortage was mind boggling.
(Final disclosure, I’ve been working office jobs for 10 years. This advice might not work for everyone. Many it will work for already know it. But boy howdy, has it been working to levels that have me absolutely floored.)
TL;DR: Never be the first to quote a number if you can at all avoid it. HR people I’ve encountered won’t be mad, they’ll respect you for it, especially if you frame it as doing both of you a favor by making sure you’re both on the same page and the magic words are, “What is the budget for this role?”
The first time they have a fight, it is over something silly. Dean storms out on him, his heavy footsteps echoing in the empty house. Castiel stares after him, his heart in his throat, and doesn't ask him to stop. To stay. He doesn't think Dean will come back, either.
It startles him, then, when he hears the roar of the Impala just as the sun sets the horizon on fire. The creak of the driver's door opening, the slam of it falling shut. Footsteps coming up the porch stairs. He hastens into the living room just in time to see Dean lock the door behind him. Castiel watches him, panting, as he toes his boots off, drops his keys in the yellow bowl with the crooked rim that Cas made them.
His face is hard, still. Jaw set, eyes flinty. He doesn't meet Castiel's gaze, makes for the kitchen on steady feet, shoulders curving away as he passes him.
But he's here. He's here.
"You came back," Cas says. His voice is filled with surprise.
Dean turns to him, then. Almost rears back. His eyes dim and his jaw slackens. He looks — hurt.
"And where else would I go, huh?"
Dean's arms lift in a mockery of a shrug. He would sound caustic, if not for the faint tremble in his voice that Castiel notes. He doesn't know what to do with it.
The Bunker, he wants to reply. Home. But that wouldn't be true. The Bunker isn't home for either of them. Hasn't been for a while, now. It is just windowless walls of metal and concrete, underground. It is what it was once meant to be and nothing more.
Shelter, not home.
No, for better or for worse, this is home now. This kitchen with the cracked windowpane that needs fixing, still. The living room, cluttered, with its faded couch and thrifted pillows, Cas' pottery and Dean's books. The garden out back, whose soil is staining Cas' fingertips.
"I don't know," Cas says, and he knows it's the wrong thing to say just as he does. He wants to take it back, but he can't.
He doesn't know how to talk to Dean. Not anymore.
Maybe he never did.
Dean heaves a breath, eyes trained on Castiel, and Cas thinks he feels so impossibly far away.
There is too much crowding the air between them. Too many things unsaid, too many wants unsatisfied. Too many prayers unanswered. Castiel wants to reach Dean through all this, split the fog with his hands. But he doesn't know how.
There is something unnamed brightening Dean's eyes as they flit over Cas' face, the breadth of his chest. His damp, bare feet.
Then, he huffs. Turns away. Says nothing.
The silence echoes. The world darkens. The sky turns the shade of a bruise.
Castiel heads upstairs to wash the scent of the earth off his fingertips.
~
That night, Cas lies in bed on his side, back to the door. He listens for a croak. A chirp. A buzz. Something.
But the night is too cold. Too quiet.
He counts his breaths as they pass his lips, watches the seconds hand of the old-fashioned clock on his bedside table as it moves.
He isn't as startled as he thought he would be when the door to his room opens. When Dean pads in, and the mattress dips as he settles at the foot of the bed. He can almost feel the scratch of Dean's fingernails on the sheets.
Dean says nothing, just sits there. Watches him sleep. Breathes in this space that he doesn't often breach. Castiel keeps his eyes closed and breathes with him.
It is easier, with Dean here.
His thoughts are syrupy with sleep, and not for the first time, he wonders if he should leave. Go back to the bunker until he finds a place he can carve for himself in this world. (It would be easier, this time, in some ways. Harder in others.) He wonders if Dean keeps him here, chains himself to Castiel, out of a misplaced sense of obligation. Of pity.
Castiel doesn't want Dean's pity.
He just wants Dean.
Even if it is as he is now — angry and cold and quiet.
But he doesn't know what Dean wants. Dean doesn't tell him. And selfishly, Castiel waits, not willing to push him farther away.
Castiel waits, the weight of hope heavy in his chest.
~
He wakes to the soft caress of sunlight.
He blinks his eyes open. The sky in his window is lightening, the purples and pinks dissolving into nothing.
It is early — for him, at any rate — but there is a smile fighting his yawn, curving his lips upwards. He pushes himself up on an elbow, rolls his neck.
Finds that he is surprisingly well-rested.
He turns over and sees the top of Dean's head peaking over his mattress, the tips of his hair turning rose-gold in the sunlight.
Cas leans towards him and sees that he's slumped on the floor, leaning against the bed. The morning light falls over his face in strips, paints half of it golden. His freckles stand out in the light, a galaxy of them scattered across his skin. His eyelashes feather over the curve of his cheek.
He is beautiful here, asleep and uncaring. So very beautiful.
And Castiel loves him. He loves him so much that he aches with it.
He swallows, throat dry. Ignores the rapid thudding of his heart. Stretches his fingers towards Dean, watching as they hover over the lines carved into his temples, the corners of his eyes.
He is so tempted to touch them, to learn their shape.
Instead, he sets his palm on the ball on Dean's shoulder. His curled pinkie sits under the edge of the collar of his t-shirt.
"Dean?" he says, softening his sandpaper voice. Shakes him a little.
Dean flinches, then groans at the twinge in his back, and Castiel winces in sympathy.
The bones in their bodies are tired. Cas has learned that much, if nothing else.
Dean blinks himself awake, rubs the grit out of his eyes with his fingers. Smacks his lips together. And all the while, Castiel leaves his hand on Dean's shoulder.
"Morning, sunshine," Dean says, even now. Even when he's angry, and there are bags under his eyes, and tension in the skin of his temples. Even when he fidgets where he sits on the floor, not looking at Cas.
"Good morning, Dean," is his reply, like always. He squeezes Dean's shoulder before letting go. Sits up. Curls his fists in his lap. He feels soft, in the morning, like this. Soft, and small, and so very sad.
What are you doing here? he wants to ask. Why did you sleep on my floor?
Instead, he watches, quiet, as Dean stretches and groans. Then lifts himself onto the bed. Settles into the same dip in the mattress as the night before.
They sit across from each other, not quite looking at each other, and Cas feels his skin crawl. His eyes are starting to sting. He tilts his face up to the ceiling and blinks to keep them dry.
"Fuck," Dean swears, and Cas closes his eyes. "Fuck, this is stupid. I'm so fucking stupid."
Castiel's only warning is the rustle of the sheets before Dean's body slams into his, arms wrapping around his shoulders in a vice like grip. It is only instinct that keeps them upright, Cas' broad frame managing to brace them somehow. His arms wind themselves around Dean's waist.
"I'm sorry," Dean says into his shoulder, tightening his grip. Their hearts race against one another under their thin, cotton shirts. "I'm sorry I was being an ass. I'm sorry I left. And—"
Here, he gulps, and the air around them tenses like it's waiting for more. But then, Dean just sighs. Buries his face in Castiel's shoulder.
"Just — Okay. Yeah. I— Yeah."
He's nodding against Cas' shoulder. And somehow, that — that's enough. That Dean is holding him. That he says Okay like he's bracing himself and like he's said what he wants to, all at once.
Cas holds him back. Thinks he's starting to see past the fog, in the clear light of this morning. Thinks he's beginning to understand.
It settles something in his chest, this revelation. Loosens the pressure around it.
"I hate fighting with you," he mumbles as he closes his eyes and presses his face into the crook of Dean's neck. Breathes.
He is allowed this, for now.
"Me, too, Cas," Dean says, a palm coming up to cradle the back of Cas' head. "Me, too."
~
They eat their breakfast on the deck out back, sitting on the stairs next to each other, their knees knocking together, plates in their laps — French toast and scrambled eggs, Cas' share of it drenched in honey.
The morning feels quieter. Calmer. Nicer.
Or, maybe, it's just Castiel. He doesn't know. Doesn't think he particularly cares, either.
He is beginning to learn their language, his and Dean's, dissonances and all. And it's setting the hope in his chest alight. He is almost buoyant with it.
Then, Dean sets his half-finished breakfast aside. Dangles his elbows from his knees, presses the palms of his hands together, bows his head. Supplicant, almost. Like he's praying.
Cas watches him, his pulse jack-rabbitting. Sets his own plate aside and turns, when he notes the slight tension in Dean's shoulders. He wants to quell the rising tide in his chest but he can't. He can't.
"What is it?" he makes himself ask when Dean is silent for too long. He's surprised his voice is as steady as it is.
"I...," Dean swallows. He tilts his gaze up to Cas'. His eyes are summer-green and gold and Castiel can't look away.
"I won't leave you. Ever. I'm always going to come back, Cas," he says, and it is a promise. It is a promise and it sets the fire in Cas' chest roaring. "Even if I'm pissed off as hell, even if I say stupid shit that pisses you off enough to kick me out....I—I'll still come back here. As long as you'll let me, I'll stay. I'm not going anywhere."
Castiel swallows. Searches Dean's face for something. Something, something.
Something.
When he asks, "Why?" his voice buzzes, thick and sweet.
Dean looks at him with an exasperated fondness that is familiar. He shakes his head, gaze lifting to the sky a moment before it lands back on Cas. Almost as if to say, Why do you think?
But, Castiel waits him out. He wants Dean to tell him. He wants to know, wants to be sure.
The smile slips off Dean's face, but it is replaced by an expression that is softer. More tentative. Almost shy.
Castiel feels a little like he's flying, a little like he's falling.
"Because," Dean gulps, licks his lips. "Because this? Us," — a palm moving in between their bodies, folding the whole world into the space there—, "This is it. This is home."
Oh, Cas thinks. Oh, Oh, Oh.
Then — "Alright," a gasp, a blink. Fireworks in his chest, his throat. "You can stay."
"Yeah?" Dean says, and he's grinning, eyes bright and joyful, and Castiel wants to say, Idiot. Goddamn Idiot! "Good."
Emboldened, Castiel leans forward. Rests his forehead against Dean's collarbone. Dean stills, for a moment, but then he lets him. He lets him.
When Cas slides his palm into Dean's and slots their fingers together, Dean holds fast, curling his hand into Cas' touch.
Castiel brings his free hand up to Dean's neck, holds him close. Breathes him in.
"I love you," he says, because he can't hold it in. Because his chest feels so full. Because he wants to say it again. To let Dean know. "I always will."
Dean sighs, then. Shifts so he can hold Cas better. Closer.
There's a dry press of lips to the warm skin of Castiel's temple.
"I know, sweetheart," Dean says, and there, in those words, in the softness of them where they touch Cas' skin, is everything. "I know."
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