ryah ignis – Karate, SPN Demonic Octopus Guardian

goodfemalecharacters:

A Destiel AU

Chapter Seven: The Oval Office

The day of the inauguration dawned bright and clear, despite Dean’s best mental attempts to chide the sky into storming. It took him a full three snooze cycles (and Sam smacking his bedroom door once he realized Dean wasn’t getting up) to drag himself out of bed.

Sam eyed him drowsily over his Cheerios as he stumbled into the kitchen, still blinking gummy sleep out of his eyes. He estimated that he’d gotten about two hours between all the tossing and turning and how long it had taken to get up the heart to leave Jack last night.

“You look like hell,” Sam observed.

Dean glared, best as he was able with his left eye still half shut against the flickering bulb of the light above them—someone really had to fix that, but that would require a free afternoon that neither he nor Sam would have for the foreseeable future.

“Nice observation. I can see they’re teaching journalists well these days. You’re sharper than ever.”

This was the sort of day that would normally be cause for some bacon, but Dean couldn’t find it in himself to bother. Instead, he nabbed Sam’s Cheerios and ate them straight out of the box. It was a testament to the day that Sam didn’t cuss him out for it.

They ate in silence. Dean normally turned out the radio and he and Sam duked it out over Big 100 and NPR, but it didn’t seem like the right time for classic rock and it wasn’t like either of them wanted to hear the news. Dean ducked back into his room to change and emerged, still scowling.

“Is my tie straight?”

“As you are,” Sam said without missing a beat.

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

He still attempted to straighten out his tie.

(start from the beginning on ao3)

goodfemalecharacters:

A Destiel AU.

Chapter One: Air Force Down

Bzzz. Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzzz.

Castiel groaned as he flopped over on to his stomach. The crick in his neck—no matter how much yoga he did he couldn’t ever seem to wake up without it—complained loudly as he fumbled for his phone in the semidarkness. He managed to knock over the glass of water on his bedside table and the top three books on his stack before he reached it.

The background of his phone—one of his plants in particularly good lighting in the lab that day—was completely obscured. Castiel squinted down at the too-bright light, preparing to send Meg a flurry of angry texts, but the little notifications weren’t from text messages. Castiel snatched his reading glasses up and shoved them on his nose. The blurry text cleared.

The Washington Post: Air Force One Encounters Engine Trouble.

New York Times: Air Force One in Trouble Over Pacific.

And so on, a dozen little notifications with more popping up every time he scrolled down. With every single little buzz of his phone, tension’s tight fingers clamped harder on Castiel’s heart until it felt like it had in high school what felt like a million years ago, like it was going to beat out of his chest.

Finally, a text.

Meg: Clarence, don’t turn on the TV.

Numbly, Castiel watched notifications come one after the other as every major news network in the world realized the same thing.

Air Force One had crashed with the President on board.

(read the rest on ao3)