Start Of Chapter Two, Sins Of The Flesh.
Start of chapter two, Sins of the flesh.
Link to Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/1233104183-sins-of-the-flesh-chapter-2-newcomer Link to ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38974686/chapters/98769999#workskin --- Dean gasped awake, chest heaving as he drew in panicked breaths and gripped at the bedsheets, the adrenaline in his veins and anxiety slowly fading the longer he breathed in sweet, sweet oxygen.
The nightmares were horrible, always of the same grotesque beings, the demons, werewolves, wraiths and other monstrosities his father would fight off when he was a child.
The images and fights Dean himself had fought against them were always present in the back of his mind during his waking life, reminding him that he was living on borrowed time and that nothing was ever permanent; these thoughts only became more prominent when he was asleep as he did not have much control over what his own mind created. “Sonova bitch…” Dean muttered, letting out a relieved breath, relieved to have finally escaped the dream; he had been allowed to remove his blindfold when fighting these beings to ensure that he wouldn’t get too injured, but some days he wished he hadn’t seen anything.
Dean reached over to his bedside table for his braille watch, the cool metal and leather strap coming into contact with Dean’s hand as he did so. He had, of course, learnt to read braille at a young age simply to make his life easier due to the blindfold, and as a result, his father had bought him the watch on his thirteenth birthday, but Dean somewhat believed he only did that so he would stop asking what time it was every half hour.
To his dismay, it was only around three am, which aggravated Dean to no end; it was a Saturday, so he didn’t have to be up early and he had only gone to sleep three hours ago. Thoroughly disgruntled, Dean placed his watch back on his side table and yanked the sheets back up to his chin, rolling onto his side in an attempt to get comfortable. Despite his greatest efforts, the dream had shaken him too much for him to feel even a pang of sleepiness.
After nearly an hour of tossing and turning, Dean kicked his sheets off in frustration, slipped out of his bed and located his fluffy robe, tying the string around his abdomen as he walked. The house was mostly silent, nothing but the sound of the wind howling outside and the near-silent creaking of the old home; an eerie feeling hung in the air, the feeling of being careful watches unnerving Dean to the core, though he tried to ignore it as he made his way through the house.
The man allowed himself to simply wander through the house, not bothering much to do anything but trace his fingers over the walls and the picture frames hung up them; he had never seen what was in the picture frames, but he hoped one day he might. He remembered his father often having him and Sammy pose and stand for pictures, but Dean had never seen a single one of them; he wondered if somewhere in the house, there might be a photo of his mother... Continued on Wattpad and Ao3!
More Posts from Deityofcaffeine-writerstears and Others
playing god
Me: ...I need a way to get rid of all these crows so that this plot hole can be fixed. Also me: Let’s just flood the town and attack them with lighting; yes, great, perfect.
ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛꜱ
ᴅɪᴀʟᴏɢᴜᴇ ➼
"pull me closer..."
"coffee or tea?"
"get the blankets."
"I'm turning up the heat!"
"it's fine. you're here now."
"look at the moon..."
"my hands are cold." "is that a pickup line?"
"ugh, finally!"
"remember that time...?"
"do you want to sit?"
"have a coffee."
"let's share."
"oh, it's adorable!"
"shall I start the fire?"
"ugh, you make me dizzy."
"you're my happy place." "don't get cheesy on me."
"you smell nice."
"hold my hand. please."
"did you make that yourself?"
"that smells so. good."
"what film?"
"this is somewhere I feel safe."
"I'm going to fall asleep..."
"it's already twelve?"
"it's just how I remember..."
"look, look!"
ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ➼
draping a blanket over their sleeping body
knowing how / if they take their coffee
squeezing hands
splitting a cake in a small café
spinning around together until you get dizzy
crashing together on the couch after a long day
knowing each others' tells
watching the rainfall
jamming out to the radio at midnight
cooking for the sick friend even though they're bad at it
lighting candles
snuggling in a blanket in front of the tv
hiccuping tears into their shoulder
rocking back and forth in their arms
pulling out that favourite hoodie
/ the collection of stolen hoodies
staying up until midnight to talk
roasting burnt marshmallows
sneaking out to look at the stars
Daddy is gonna pull out the toys tonight kitten 😈…….
My writing process
1. Make myself some coffee 2. Sit down at my desk to write 3. Look for music 4. Make a new playlist 5. Make a pinterest board for that playlist 6. Oh look it’s 3 am and my coffee’s cold. 7. Cry about not being productive 8. Repeat. :)
New journal, new ideas
I got a new journal and decided to turn it into a prince’s journal. Whoever reads this journal next will follow the story of a prince, his lovers, and his decent into villainy and madness- all through the prince’s eyes.
Story teller.
I have always loved stories, have always gotten a little thrill out of reading about Neverlands and far away wizarding schools, always searching for an escape. Now, I write, providing others with their own escapes. I write stories of fiendish pirates, poisoning tea with nightshade and sailing the seas to carry on a mother’s legacy. I write of plagues and pestilence, of crows invading the skies and turning them black. I write of an angel loving a human so much that they would fall from the heavens for him, just as Icarus did for the sun. Stories are meant to be shared, fantasies to get lost in... and yet, sometimes I wonder, how far into my fantasies is too far?
Fanfic writer.
I really do love being a fanfic writer; being able to create content for my favorite shows is an incredible gift that I’m greatful to have-
But it also means that I am cursed with truly horrible ideas at times..
I have always been a lot like my father. I have his hair, his face, his taste in music, his last name, some of his old jackets and shirts. I’ve often hated that I’m so much like him, as the only thing I don’t and will never have from him is his support. Now, however, I carry pocket watches and work towards education, a feat he never achieved. I do not use his last name, he doesn’t deserve the credit of my success. His music I’ve integrated along with violins and melodies that his rough and tough demeanors would never fit into. His clothing and jackets are reserved for when I make art, the paint that is left on the shirts show how I can make beautiful things as opposed to the blood that had previously stained them when he got into fights. I am very much like my father, but never will he be like me.
trans masculinity, when u have a shitty father, is abt taking pieces of him for yrself & reclaiming it & turning those things delicate & caring in ways he could never, ways that would disgust him. in his hand-me-down jacket, i carry bandages. the knife he used to skin deer is now the knife i use to sections apples to share with my brother
Just an amazing comic my an amazing artist
i can’t stop thinking about @ehlihr‘s teacher!jon au i couldnt NOT draw something for it
Mostly 3am shitposts, my lover (coffee), random rants and my own wrtiter's tears
72 posts