oh my gosh i really want to write a story about the angel that sam prayed to all those years
and after the angel falls he’s human and he’s lost and so he makes this strange pilgrimage across the earth trying to find sam winchester because he just remembers that lost voice praying to him and praying to be saved and now the angel wants to find sam because he just wants to see and hear and touch that faithful man who prayed to him every single day and prayed to him even from the depths of hell when he was being ripped apart
#i’m gonna fucking cry #i don’t think it was cas who heard sam’s prayers i think it was someone else #oh my god can you imagine some young woman or man showing up on the doorstep of the bunker #asking for shelter (they look like hell) #and saying they know sam #and sam’s never seen them before of course #but then they say remember sam remember we spoke christmas of your freshman year #when you were thanking god for having gotten away from your father #but begging for your brother to be safe #i was the one who heard you asking for that #and dean looks at sam and sam stares at the angel #and ducks his head and lets them in (via)
Notes: Warnings for alcohol consumption, drug abuse, explicit sexual content, prostitution, and suicidal ideation. Also on LJ for ease of reading. Please read John’s and Mycroft’s flashbacks for full understanding.
The army doctor known as John has him pinned against the door as soon as it closes. “Where’d you learn to do that?” John asks in between fervent, reverent kisses. (The best kind.) “Basil—oh, Christ—” John’s breath reeks of alcohol. It’s nearly preferable to the underlying mustiness of their chosen motel room. “That thing with your—you know—”
“My tongue,” supplies Sherlock, squirming, amused. The drunk ones tend to be the more garrulous of his marks. “That’s the word you’re searching for.”
“Tongue, yeah. That’s it. Tongue.” John curls his own momentarily. Its flavor is less than appetizing—cheap beer, stale crisps—but Sherlock has tasted far worse on far more unpleasant people. Either way, Sherlock is of the opinion that too much importance is given to mingling tongues.
At least John seems to be having fun with it. Aspiring alcoholics are so easy to please. (And much more willing to part with their money. Sherlock has a whole family of addictions to feed.)
They’re kissing again. It’s nice to explore and discover that John routinely brushes his teeth. That makes sense: John is a trained medical doctor, of his own admission, corroborated by his details. Personality traits like cleanliness and fastidiousness tend to be obvious at first glance. Endearing traits to be sure. A welcome change of pace.
When Sherlock is tripping on this much ecstasy (among other things), he’ll accept flaws like poor hygiene if it means a more passionate partner. He’s craving only the heat, the friction, the adrenalized dissociation—the carnal rhythm that’s older than anyone knows. It will stop him from thinking like a precise blow to the head. John is tonight’s hammer, and a lucky find altogether.
“If you want to know more about me,” Sherlock murmurs in and out of the kiss, “then stay with me for a while. Maybe I’ll deign to tell you.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Basil.”
But Mary Magdalene and the band of women who followed Jesus and supported his ministry are described by all four gospel writers as being present during the savior’s darkest hours. Even after Jesus took his last breath, and all hope of redemption seemed lost, the women stayed by their teacher and their friend and prepared his body for burial. It is precisely because they were present, loyal even through failure, that the women who followed Jesus were the first to witness the event that would define Christianity: the resurrection…
That Christ ushered in this new era of life and liberation in the presence of women, and that he sent them out as the first witnesses of the complete gospel story, is perhaps the boldest, most overt affirmation of their equality in his kingdom that Jesus ever delivered. And yet too many Easter services begin with a man standing before a congregation of Christians and shouting, “he is risen!” to a chorused response of “he is risen indeed!” Were we to honor the symbolic details of the text, that distinction would always belong to a woman."