the idea of dean seeing cas’ true form in purgatory is still an idea i really like and i got around to drawing something, wooo.
whatwouldyouhavemedo asked: tigerstiel watches winnie the pooh with dean and thinks that eeyore is onto something. Xe is an angel, xyr tail will be anything xe likes.
And if the tail can be changed, why not the fur, the legs, the eyes? Why not sew on wings? Castiel could wear any Frankenstein combination of parts that xe liked, and Dean would accept the new vessel because Dean loves xem no matter how many tails, how many teeth.
(Xe removes the tiger’s stomach. Perhaps it will make xem less hungry.)
Callowyn: #body horror #calvin and hobbestiel#tigerstiel #it is not just bestiality it is also vore #inappropriate childhood friends: the castiel lifestyle #also #what if cas watches winnie the pooh again after s7 #the most wonderful thing about angels is #now xe’s the only one
The thing flays him open from throat to groin, a thick red line of torn flesh opening up down his midsection. Dean stares down the curve of his own body, sees the raw crimson hole that’s suddenly been torn across his person, and as black blood, the sort that only spills when something vital is wounded, wells up out of his mouth, he finds himself staring up at a pair of eyes wholly different from his own. Dark yellow, with slits for pupils and an almond shape, the eyes practically glow. A rough tongue drags along the cut, pulls down the injury from just below Dean’s jaw to right above his hips. It feels like sandpaper being applied to fatal damage, like an added abrasion on top of the pain he’s already feeling, and as he feebly attempts to push his insides back in, a weight settles across his legs.
I beat against you. Again and again and I cannot stop. I beat against your bones and your skin, one-hundred-twenty times per minute. Filling the tiny vessels into small warm bundles of skin and swelling into a glow at your cheeks. You press your lips to skin and say goodnight and I swell with knowing although he is too young to understand.
A vessel ruptures when you’re four. And you curse obscenities at me, tell me to stop. You press your shirt against me and I leak. I’m sorry about that. I don’t mean to frighten you, but there’s no need to worry over such a silly thing.
I hit you again and again. I hit you. Shoulder, back, spine, head, I hit you, step one, two three, like dancing. Easy, like the way your shoulders rolled, like the way I creased the tension out of your body with a punch, with a caress. A finger slipped down the grooves of your body and you didn’t even notice, but you felt it all the same.
sometimes, when it’s late and and he’s alone and he’s had an especially long day, tommy sits down with a glass of gin and tunes the radio between stations, until the last traces of voices and music are gone and all that plays is static. then tommy starts talking. he tells the radio about his day and how he loves his job but sometimes it’s too much and not enough all at once. he knows it’s a peculiar thing to do, but there in the dark and the white noise he always gets this strange feeling that somehow, something in that static is listening to him. he always dismisses it as exhaustion (and maybe the gin) in the morning, but sometimes, when it’s very late, tommy hears the static shift into feelings and phrases, responding to him.
Castiel leaps nimbly onto the couch next to Dean. “Nimbly” meaning, of course, that the springs squeak alarmingly and something in the frame goes pop.
“Go away,” says Dean.
Castiel approaches him, tail wafting hopefully back and forth, the couch cushions cratering beneath his paws.
“Oh, that’s precious,” says the lady, Dean’s only current lead on all the weird-ass deaths going on in this town. She clacks her fingernails across her glintzy glass jewelry and shakes her bangs over her left eye in a swoop that’s shiny and glamorous and probably tickles a little.
“Yeah, he’s a charmer,” Dean says, and forces a chuckle. He puts his palm flat against Castiel’s triangular chest and pushes. Cas doesn’t move. Dean’s fingers sink into the fur, aching where they’re bending back, and his palm goes tender against the sharp collarbones. “Cas, we’ve talked about this,” he says. “Personal space.”
Cas blinks his freaky yellow eyes at Dean and slowly—deliberately—insouciantly—places a paw upon Dean’s thigh. It presses deep into the muscle, like it weighs 50 pounds.
“Don’t be silly. Cats don’t understand things like personal space,” says the woman, and laughs. Oh, it’s a good laugh, feisty and rich, and if Dean weren’t in immediate danger of getting his balls crushed he’d be teasing another one out of her.
Cas starts to purr. The glass rattles in the windowpanes. He puts another paw on Dean’s leg. There will be bruises there tomorrow, mottled echoes of every jellybean toe.
Dean shoves Cas while trying to hide that he’s using his full strength. Castiel purrs even more loudly. The floor trembles and the wooden beams of the building start to crackle.
The woman glances around like she’s wondering if an earthquake is coming.
Dean gives up, and tries not to grunt in pain when Cas settles on his lap like a cast-iron meatloaf.
“Aren’t cats great?” she says.
“Yeah, they’re awesome,” Dean squeaks.