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@ohfearlessleader
Anger was better than tears, better than grief, better than guilt.
Princess Arianne Martell (via quotes-of-ice-quotes-of-fire)
I’m Not Yours Angus & Julia Stone
[all] quirks my muse habitually has.
Writers, bold all of your character’s regular truths.
1. Smoking: the action or habit of inhaling and exhaling the smoke of tobacco or a drug. 2. Binge drinking: the consumption of an excessive amount of alcohol in a short period of time. 3. Drug abuse: the habitual taking of illegal drugs. 4. Nail biting: a common body language sign of anxiety/tension. 5. Lip biting: a common body language sign of anxiety/tension. 6. Night Owl: a person who is habitually active or wakeful at night. 7. Early bird: a person who rises, arrives, or acts before the usual or expected time. 8. Negative attitudes: a philosophy of approaching life with criticism and pessimism. 9. Positive attitudes: a philosophy of approaching life with optimism and confidence. 10. Swearing: the use of offensive language. 11. Superstitious: an irrational belief that an object, action, or circumstance not logically related to a course of events influences its outcome. 12. Inspecting fingernails: a common body language sign of boredom. 13. Scratching your neck: a common body language sign of uncertainty. (sometimes) 14. Foot and finger tapping: a common body language sign of stress/impatience. 15. Nose touch: a subtle body language sign of deceit. 16. Flipping hair: a common body language sign of craving attention. 17. Twirling hair: a common body language sign of flirtation. 18. Cracking knuckles: a common body language sign of readiness. 19. Hands behind back: a common body language sign of confidence. 20. Finger pointing: a common body language sign of authority. 21. Hands on hips: a common body language sign of readiness. 22: Hands in pockets: a common body language sign of mistrust/reluctance. 23. Frequent touch: a common body language sign of warmth/familiarity. 24. Throat-clearing: a common body language sign of rejection/doubt. [sometimes] 25: Jaw-clenching: a common body language sign of hostility. 26: Eye-rolling: a common body language sign of irritation. 27: Head-tilt: a common body language sign of interest. 28. Whistling: to emit high-pitched sound by forcing breath through a small hole between one’s lips or teeth; usually to a tune. 29. Humming: make a low, steady continuous sound like that of a bee; usually to a tune. 30. Perfectionism: refusal to accept any standard short of perfection. 31. Photographic memory: the ability to remember information or visual images in great detail. 32. Paranoia: a mental condition characterized by delusions of persecution, unwarranted jealousy, or exaggerated self-importance, typically worked into an organized system. 33. Exaggeration: a statement that represents something as better or worse than it really is. 34: Intuitive: using or based on what one feels to be true even without conscious reasoning; instinctive. 35: Quick-witted: showing or characterized by an ability to think or respond quickly and effectively. 36: Interrupting: breaking the continuity of a conversation with one’s own statements. 37: Doodling: to scribble or make rough drawings, absent-mindedly. 38: Irritable: having or showing a tendency to be easily annoyed. 39: Gambling: to play games of chance for money; bet. 40: Travel-sick: suffering from nausea caused by the motion of a moving vehicle, boat, or aircraft. 41: Sensitive: having or displaying a quick and delicate appreciation of others’ feelings. [so torn between bolding this or not adfdfgj) 42: Melancholy: a feeling of pensive sadness, typically with no obvious cause. (eh) 43: Chewing gum: the exercise of chewing flavoured gum which is not intended for swallowing. 44: Fidgeting: to make small movements, especially of the hands and feet, through nervousness or impatience. 45: Skeptical: not easily convinced; having doubts or reservations. 46: Neat-freak: compulsively obsessed with cleanliness. (yUP, sometimes) 47: Gossiping: divulging personal information about others. 48: Prim: feeling or showing disapproval of anything regarded as improper; stiffly correct. 49: Abbreviating: Giving others nicknames/shortening names/giving pet names. (not rlly, not anymore, but sometimes...) 50: Having a catchphrase: having a sentence or phrase typically associated with a specific person.
Abandoned places
"Cas, you get ash in my hair and I’ll finish the job the Croats started."
endverse deancas + 15 for lifehappenedtome ♥
(by the air in the branches)
Phase I: Dream And The River
————>
Inhaling sharply as the back of his neck pressed against the cool metal post, Castiel tilted his head in a way that he could keep his attention on the factory doors. They were rattling viciously, prevented from opening only by the metal bar he had shoved through the handles; it wouldn’t last long, especially with the rust, but it gave him some time to prepare for when they came. Alone, having lost his way from the other soldiers, he knew that nobody would find him — they were surrounded by Croatoan when he ran, and the sounds of the others yelling became a distant calling. If anyone had survived, they were extremely lucky.
A drop of water from the damaged roof above landed on his cheek, causing him to flinch from the slight sting it brought on one of his wounds. Scratches scattered across his face, leaving deep gouges and decorating his face with streams of blood and broken skin; he could no longer feel the pain it gave him, either by choice or human instinct, but he could still feel the warmth of his blood. It was an amazing feeling. It meant he was still alive, and his body hadn’t given up just yet, allowing him the few moments he had left to think over a few things. From how the patrol was meant to be a regular one, where things were supposed to go smoothly as they always did. To how he was always aware he was going to die soon, but not entirely in this fashion.
All humans died eventually, Castiel was well-informed. He just never imagined he would join them.
Angels didn’t have the ability to regret decisions, to face karma and feel guilty for their actions, but Castiel was ignorant and he learned that that wasn’t true. Emotions were a fickle thing, and he was pushed straight into the deep end; it was never gradual, and he became ever more aware the more he spent in the company of the Winchesters. He experienced hate, guiltiness, happiness, friendship, and emotions that he didn’t even know existed — sometimes he used them wisely, but other times he was clueless. He had to learn quickly, because the Winchesters weren’t always there to guide him.
Now, he felt guilty. It gnawed at him, clawed at his throat, and racked his brain. It destroyed his thoughts, replacing them with all the things he could have done to prevent this from happening. Perhaps he should have studied the map more, or double-checked the weapons this morning for any faults — or perhaps he should have stayed close to Dean, instead of breaking apart the group in order to make the search quicker. How was he to know that half of the rifles would become jammed, and their main radio run out of battery, or know that he was going to make such a selfish decision whilst relying on his maps?
A crackling sound came from his right hand, followed by a frantic voice that wasn’t quite reaching Castiel’s ears. His radio was running out of battery and was beginning to lose its frequency, but somebody had managed to come through on it, and he wouldn’t stop repeating the ex-angel’s name. Castiel recognised the voice immediately, and his finger hesitated over the button on his radio, wondering whether it would do any justice to give his Leader false hope. There were too many lost chances for Dean in the past to give him another one, and the soldier placed the radio down before sliding it across the factory floor until it hit a wall and lost its frequency. Even if Dean was to save him, he couldn’t stop the virus that was currently working through his veins and painfully wasting him away.
They were becoming even more erratic, having heard the noise from within the factory and knowing he was in there. Another push, a groan, and Castiel watched as the metal rod bent and broke before falling to the floor with a clank. He could smell their decomposition, filling the room with a putrid scent, and the soldier closed his eyes to rid their image from his mind and only concentrate on seeing his family. Not Balthazar, not Anna, nor Gabriel. Not them. Instead, he focused on Dean’s laugh, on Sam’s research ramblings, on Bobby’s insults, on Ellen and Jo’s fighting talk, and he felt safe as he lifted his left hand with the gun and pressed it against his temple.
With a smile, he pulled the trigger.
Adjusting his eyes to the darkness was sudden, as his mind tried to make sense of whether the massive bang was from his dream or within the camp. Either way, he immediately grabbed his clothes and got dressed, pulling his jacket over his shoulders and retrieving his rifle from one of his cabinets, where he made sure that the magazine was full and the trigger wasn’t jammed; it was only a dream, but there was something foreboding about it. He had retreated to his cabin early, as any duties he had in the camp were completed and he fancied sleeping early for once — he was never one for going to bed before midnight, because anything could happen and he preferred being prepared than being caught unaware. It rarely happened, but it was just his luck tonight that he was needed.
The quietness unnerved him, and he ceased his actions for a moment in order to listen for any movements outside. In his silence, Castiel contemplated making his way to Dean’s cabin, but he knew that he was studying the maps he gave him and didn’t wish to be disturbed. Besides, he could no longer hear any commotion and he blamed himself for being so on edge — the dream shook him up, because it felt real, and he had to check himself over for any phantom wounds. Reaching up, he rubbed at his eyes and released a wavering sigh; he was clean from drugs for months, and his body screamed at him every now and again for the release it needed. But he wanted to change, become clean permanently, and make Dean proud. He wanted to believe he could do it, but there were nights where he doubted his own restraint and he broke down, searching his cabin like a rabid wolf for any stray pill, or hidden blunt he might have stashed away and forgotten about. He never found anything, because himself and Dean made sure to get rid of everything.
Before he could register the scream in the distant, his door had already been forced open and he could smell the decay before he saw what decided to pay him a visit. It wasn’t the attack that surprised him, but the fact that he hadn’t seen a Croatoan for two weeks and one decided to suddenly show up; they should be in the inner city, as last reported by the morning patrol soldiers. Something was wrong, and their pattern was off; it definitely wasn’t staying true to his map migrations. It wasn’t staying true to Lucifer’s patterns, more specifically. Before he could question it any further, Castiel found himself using the side of his rifle to prevent the infected from tackling him to the ground — he had forgotten how strong they were, and he felt the impact of the ground moreover than the stinging on his forearm. “…Argh!" Clenching his teeth, the ex-angel pushed the Croatoan from his body using the rifle, before reaching inside his jacket and producing a knife that he promptly lodged inside the infected’s head. The Croatoan was too close for him to use the rifle, and he mentally thanked himself for equipping his jacket with necessary belongings.
This wasn’t a one-off attack, and Castiel knew this one would have brought his buddies along, so he shut the door and pushed a cabinet up against it in order to buy him some time to get his gear together. He collected more rounds for his rifle, any knives that he had available, and spare batteries for his radio and anyone who needed some. He wanted to believe that the items he was grabbing had nothing to do with his dream, but there was no denying the impact it had on his thoughts. When he had his wings, any sort of indication of bad-happenings was a sign that it was definitely going to occur, and he never lost his immediate response to prevent it from doing so; now was no exception. He could hear screams outside, mostly of children, and he breathed in deeply to remain calm - there was no justice in getting angry, losing concentration, and ending up with dwindling numbers in the camp. The only worry that niggled at him was the fact that Dean wasn’t here yet, because he always came to his cabin during an emergency.
With everything prepared, the ex-angel had no hesitation as he pushed the cabinet aside from the door, but he was promptly stopped as a sudden rush of blood made it to his temple and his vision turned grey for a few seconds. It was silent again, caused this time by a small loss of hearing, and all he could hear was his blood pumping; he felt as though somebody was keeping him in a choke-hold, and he used the cabinet for support before everything returned to normal. Pushing up his jacket sleeve, he noticed the small trickle of blood before the wound, and it took all his strength to swallow the nausea that attempted to crawl up his throat; he couldn’t remember being…
—no, he wasn’t going to believe that.
It was no good, he thought, as he curled his hands into fists to stop them shaking. It was no good focusing on that, because he had other people to save, and he would rather go out fighting than let the virus take him in his cabin. He couldn’t be sure he had the virus, but nobody needed to know either — especially Dean, because they had other things to worry about other than silly ol’ Cas. Using a bandage from his first-aid kit, he wrapped the wound and made sure that any signs of blood weren’t visible, before moving the cabinet completely. As he was about to open his door, he heard the familiar voice of the Leader speaking to another soldier nearby, and the worry he had from earlier disappeared. Looking back at the dead Croatoan, slumped in the corner of his cabin, Castiel couldn’t shift the dread that crawled up his spine; at least a bullet would be quick.
Placing his rifle strap around his shoulder, the male breathed in deeply and placed an unyielding expression to hide his uneasiness. Rolling his jacket sleeve back down, Castiel opened his cabin door and observed the camp quickly; it no longer looked peaceful, and he watched as their survivors scattered in different directions. Some of them were returning back to their cabins and presumably locking their doors, but others weren’t as prepared. Older survivors knew what to do, but recently saved ones were yet to be addressed with survival skills and what to do in a Croatoan attack, because no-one in the camp expected to be ambushed for a good while. Castiel had studied the maps, chartered the patterns, and even he wasn’t expecting it because this wasn’t predicted.
Either Lucifer had changed his direction, or this was caused by somebody else.
There was no knowing how many Croatoan’s were in the camp by this point, though it sounded more than dozen, or whether they had broken into each perimeter. As long as they were able to access vehicles and weapons, then there wasn’t going to be a problem, otherwise it was going to be difficult to balance survivors and defence. Various worries flashed through Castiel’s mind, from saving the food rations to making sure a majority of the survivors were saved, but he couldn’t do that by standing around and waiting for something to happen. It wasn’t long before he saw Dean making his way towards his cabin, looking as though he had already entered Leader-mode hours ago. “Dean, I already know what’s shakin’, so you don’t need to tell me—” I already had one visit, but I’m not going to tell you that, because you’ll worry "—what’s the situation? How many of the fences have been taken down?"
Inside, Castiel wanted to take Dean aside and tell him as much as he could; his regrets, his past decisions, and why he chose to help him. To tell him how thankful he was for guiding him, and how he still remained by his side through tough times; no matter his mistakes, Castiel somehow always ended up having a beer with the eldest Winchester and sitting in forgiving silence. He couldn’t do that, however, as it would be the biggest regret of his human life — he couldn’t do that to a man who had gone through enough already. Instead, the ex-angel kept his composure and promised himself that he would see through Dean’s survival.
Dean paused, gave him a sullen look out of the corner of his eye.
"Four, maybe five, they're moving in from the north" he said with a slight gulp that he knew Cas would pick up on no matter how hard he tried to hide it--there was a quiver of fear in the hunter's core, churning in his gut.
None of this was normal--their pattern was all off, wrong. They were moving in unforeseen, shattered patterns of predatory intent--why hadn't anyone seen them coming? It just didn't make sense, simply didn't add up. They knew how Croatoans moved, what they were after--flesh. Croatoans weren't smart, they weren't like vampires or shapeshifters; they were dead, mindless, vigorous, brutish things, twisted, bestial, darkened messes of contaminated souls roaming around purposelessly, hungry, starved, ravenous, seeking to consume, to devour, to prey upon anyone who got in their way voraciously--to satisfy their fierce hunger, gratify their insatiable need for human meat.
Something just wasn't right here; he could feel it, and so could Castiel.
The entire camp was abuzz with low, dull droning howls and groans as the infected growled hungrily and the sound violently whirred in their throats, rattling their bones. They screamed in a heated, hysterical manner, roaring their hunger--there were more of them, Jesus, they were practically everywhere now--and as Dean walked faster, the sound of gunfire grew closer.
The smell out here was overwhelming, the pervasive rank stench of decay enveloping them on all sides.
"Let's move! Vernon, you'll handle perimeter and security. Nothing and no one gets through!" Dean said firmly, without hesitation. "Split up. Sweep and clear!" he bawled out orders as he began shooting at the Croatoans.
"Cas, get off your ass!" he shouted to him.
"--stay close, gonna need you to cover me"
A few of them ended up with bullets through their forehead as they made quick work of getting towards the gates where infected were still attempting to crawl through the torn fences.
"Risa--" Dean shouted, moving closer, still shooting at the infected.
"Jesus, they're fucking crawling all over the fuckin' place" Risa shouted back to them, briefly glancing at Cas, as she noticed how many infected there were; sets of crowds, and individuals that were trying to break into the camp.
"--Risa, left side covering Logan. Cas in the back, covering me. Where's the night patrol?" Dean asked--there was smoke everywhere now, and Dean felt like the entire camp could drown in it, filling their lungs, their mouths, and he coughed violently, then bit his lower lip and blinked harshly, gripped the riffle and continued shooting at them.
Logan stepped closer, and he had to yell to be heard over the howls and the gunfire.
"They've passed the outer perimeter, headed back to the camp."
Dean nodded.
Fuck, they were everywhere, they were--
The radio transmitter made a succession of slight sharp snapping noises and then Rob's voice came through.
"Boss, you got a mess of 'em headed your way." he said and Dean groaned. "Fuck." Shit, what the hell was happening? "How's the perimeter?" Dean asked, sweat dripping down his spine.
A pause and then Rob exhaled sharply through his nose.
"Major activity at the next junction, but I'm seeing minimal activity on the high road."
Shit.
Dean paused, weighing their options.
"Vernon, Risa head right. Don't get bogged down, we have to keep moving. Logan get the others and regroup, take out the rest. Everyone pick a target. Go!" he said urgently, then gripped Jane's wrist. "Jane, Leo, clear the gates. Cas, you come with me" he said firmly, and Vernon nodded.
"Move, move!"
There were Croatoans running towards the back of the camp, into the forest--the place ain't secure, Dean knew that and they needed to take them out.
"Through here" Dean gestured towards a hole in the fence before he climbed through it, gripping his rifle tightly. "We gotta go after the ones that made it into the backwoods. You okay?" he asked, glancing at Cas as they walked towards the southern corner of the camp where there was a trail leading into the woods, adrenaline racing through his veins, his blood, and pumping through his entire body.
Phase I: Dream And The River
It’s been hours since he’s awoken and he feels on edge — nervous, worry constantly gnaws at him. He’s anxious and unsettled — has been for days, perhaps weeks — and part of him wants to stay awake for as long as he can, keep watch, afraid to let himself be vulnerable. He feels restless; his system is swimming with endorphins and adrenaline—he's been on full alert for days, and his head feels woozy like it's full of hot wax, his muscles ache dully, his throat's dry and throbbing.
It's been three weeks since Lucifer appeared to Castiel and Dean's nerves are still on fucking edge; he knows the camp's secure--there are banishing sigils drawn across the entire camp, devil traps on their ceilings, under their beds, the carpets--but there is an anger inside of him that scares him; it makes him feel hungry, rage seething under his skin, and the weight of it presses down on his sternum, his throat, his ribs, runs deep into the cavity of his chest, the hollows of his rib cage. He's not just angry that Lucifer's got the upper hand. He's a walking, breathing ball of rage. His mind is out of sync with his body, and he feels entirely exhausted.
Lucifer knows where they are. He knows where he is, and he doesn't care--he's been toying with them, and the fact that there's nothing they can do but anxiously wait for Lucifer's next move is setting his fucking teeth on edge. Essentially, he feels useless, trapped, held fast like a caged animal, helpless, the metaphorical mouse dangling itself in front of the jaws of a cat and it's fucking infuriating--let alone the fact that they still have no fucking idea where the Colt is.
It's three past midnight and he's standing at the foot of his bed, staring at the wall behind him that is covered by a large map of Kansas City. He sweeps his finger along the paths Cas drew out, eyebrows furrowed and his mouth forming a strong, hard line. He has dark circles under his eyes, and he looks pale and exhausted, and more than a little sick but he's determined to stay awake for as long as he can help it, waiting, wracking his brains for an idea, something that could help him come up with an actual plan--with something, anything that could help--defiant and sweating. Anger rumbles around in his chest and he roughly bangs his fist against the wall, exhaling sharply through his nose.
"Fuck" he releases a disgruntled sound that is on the verge of a growl and punches the wall again.
He's so sick of it, of Lucifer constantly being one step ahead of them.
Fuck.
Fuck,fuck,fuck. Fuck it all.
It's gonna be another long night, he realizes as he finishes off his whiskey, running his index finger across the side of the glass, the moisture on his fingertips grounding him, helping him focus.
He rubs his forehead, then glances at the map and turns around, but just as he's about to make his way over to the cabinets to retrieve another glass of whiskey, he hears someone scream in complete agony--he flinches and sharply glances at the door, the voice taking him so much by surprise that at first he doesn't react. He clenches his teeth and grabs his rifle off the table, a muscle in his jaw spasming spastically as he lurches forward and throws the door open, runs down the porch steps.
There’s someone,something,out there, he realizes, the flicker of distant flames the only light in the thick darkness that surrounds him. He’s tired, exhausted, his skin stings, the tightness in his throat hurts like fire, and he swallows the sick feeling in his stomach, clenches his jaw, determined as he heads towards Cas' cabin, as a ripple of fear sweeps over him and a steadily escalating sense of foreboding envelopes him.
Somebody screams in the distance, groaning in pain; the noise slams around his head, and he feels a spike in his pulse, a vein ticking spasmodically in his forehead.
And then a scent hits his nostrils that makes him pause: Croatoan, the rank, musty smell of decay, tangible in the air.
"Shit. Fuck" he hisses and runs towards the gates. Vernon catches up with him and Dean roughly grips his shoulder, pausing mid-step. "What the hell's happening?" he yells, because the guards on the southern part of the camp are shooting at the Croats that are crawling over the fences now, and there are women and children screaming, terrified, people running around, thronging into the path leading to the northern part of the camp, noise rising and bursting in the air, making the entire camp vibrate and rattle violently with it.
"There're at least three dozens of them, tore the fuckin' fence down" Vernon exhales sharply, sweat dripping down his forehead.
Dean swallows thickly and nods. "Get the others and secure the south-west corner, eyes open, watch your sectors" Dean says firmly, a command, getting into Leader Mode easily, and heads towards Cas' cabin, yelling at the mothers and their kids to go back to their cabins and lock themselves in, keep an eye out for Croats.
All my muscles ache from holding myself together.
Transparent Croatoan sign for your blog.
If you see this on your dashboard, you now have the virus and must reblog or else you will succumb.
maybe we could ѕανє each σтнєя (or maybe we’ll ɗєѕтяσу each σтнєя)
Dean walks in Castiel's cabin at 12 am as if he lives there--there was light leaking around the edges of Cas' door--and throws a chocolate bar wrapped in tin foil on Castiel's bed. "Don't say I never did anything for you" he says plainly, wryly, gesturing at the chocolate bar, hoping it'd make Cas feel kinda better--he knows he's had a rough day and he sure as hell doesn't wanna talk feelings with Cas,but he can at least give him this for now.
With his arms folded across his chest, and his back lay flat on the couch, Castiel swung his legs over the back of it in order to remain on the piece of furniture as he stared up at his cabin ceiling. There were various ‘rituals’ he completed in the middle of the night to relax, ranging from yoga, to reading, to simply studying the contour of the walls and ceiling; it allowed him to fixate on something other than patrolling, or anything he had seen that day that he would much rather erase.
That, or the fact that most nights he couldn’t sleep and had to otherwise occupy himself.
Just as he was about to start studying the ceiling, he heard the all-but familiar scuff of boots on the front porch outside, though the movements were hardly hesitant as they stepped inside without announcing or knocking. “Come in.” Castiel commented, releasing a quiet chuckle as he heard his Leader move across the room and stop a short distance away. Swinging his legs back around, the ex-angel removed himself from the couch to see what the late-night visit was all about — not that this wasn’t anything new, since he often received midnight callings from Dean.
"Now, why would I do that?" Castiel replied, a hint of amusement in his tone before his attention was taken by the chocolate bar thrown on his bed. A large grin made its way on the soldier’s face - incredulous - before he sat on the edge of his bed and took hold of the treat. He guessed that it was a good raid, because anything sweet was difficult to salvage. “Who’d you kill to get this for me, huh?” However way he was given it, it didn’t take much persuading for Castiel to open the seal and break off a piece to pop in his mouth. To say he was ecstatic was an understatement, but he sure as hell was grateful, because these past few days had been a whirl-wind of stress.
"Thanks, Dean, I appreciate it." Another chuckle escaped his mouth, and he was more than happy to offer a piece to his Leader. Sharing is caring, y’know.
lettersfromthepit:
"You’ve got…a little something, on your face.”
He shrugs slightly, hands in his pockets as he glances at her.
'---Don't you got a job to do, kid?'
just know If I could go back this would all be different