Aziraphale Understands Suffering Only As An Opportunity To Show How "good" You Are. He Doesn't Understand

parallelsnatural + happy birthday @lansonzhui!!

Supernatural x Shrek

because we need all the softness in our lives, could I ask for slow dancing + ineffable husbands? 🥺

I think we all deserve this, yes

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Crowley—and he would sooner jump head-first into a pool of holy water and then drink it than admit this aloud—is happy. Deliriously happy, in fact. He's topped out the happiness scales and is inventing new shades of happiness as he twirls the stem of his wine glass between his fingers and pretends not to be watching Aziraphale across the table as said angel watches London go by through the rain-streaked bookshop window.

They're okay. They're both okay. The world, too, is okay. They've still got it. They've still got each other. All is right in creation and eternity stretches out in front of them, absolutely bursting with potential. It's the first day—since it is actually three in the morning now—of the rest of their lives.

So they ought to start, Crowley thinks, as he means to go on.

"Angel," he says, something inside him curling up warmly at the way Aziraphale's attention falls on him all at once.

"Mm?"

"You," he says, tapping on the back of Aziraphale's hand. "Owe me something."

"I owe you a great deal," Aziraphale says quietly, looking away.

That won't do. That won't do at all.

Crowley gestures vaguely at the record player, and the first strains of something soft and slow crackle in the air.

He stands, giving himself a moment for the room to stop swaying, and then offers his hand.

Aziraphale looks at it like he's never seen it before.

"Apology dance," Crowley says. "Version two."

Aziraphale continues to stare at his hand, an adorable little line forming between his brows.

"Come on," Crowley beckons with his extended hand. "Do you know how often I've offered to dance with anyone? At all? Once. Just now. You'd be missing out on a genuine historical event if you don't take me up on it."

Aziraphale takes another moment. He's gotten cautious. It'll wear off, Crowley thinks—hopes—sometime between ten seconds and a millennium from now. Give or take.

But that's all right. They've got time. And now he's not wondering anymore. He knows. He's just got to wait.

"C'mere," he tries, promising himself he'll drop it if Aziraphale doesn't take the bait this time.

But he does. Wonderfully, gloriously, he does. His hand slips into Crowley's like it was made just for the purpose. Crowley's fairly sure it was. Not even God could tell him otherwise.

Crowley does not slow dance. Generally speaking, short of emergencies or spectacular drunkenness, he does not dance, full stop.

But it's very easy to draw Aziraphale close. Rest a hand on his waist. Sway aimlessly with him in small, easy steps around the cramped quarters of the bookshop.

"There we go," Crowley speaks up once he's sure they're really doing this. "Think I like this one better."

And then, because he really wants to and he's still feeling very brave and at least a little drunk, he leans close to rest his forehead against Aziraphale's, and smiles. This is also, he thinks, where his head belongs. In the grand scheme of the universe.

"A-apology... accepted, then?" Aziraphale asks.

"Yeah," Crowley says. "Think so."

"G-good. Good. Crowley, I'm so—"

"Shh," Crowley murmurs, twirling Aziraphale away slowly and then pulling him back in. "Forgiven. Forgotten."

Aziraphale makes a noise of disbelief.

That won't do, either.

Slowly, ever so slowly, with all his attention laser-focused on Aziraphale to see if he flinches or pulls away or stiffens at all, Crowley raises a hand to his cheek, and strokes his thumb along the ridge of it.

"Would you forgive me again if I kissed you, angel?"

Aziraphale's breath hitches. The lights flicker. The record skips.

"Since when do you ask permission?" he asks, voice trembling again.

Crowley laughs, low and crackling along with the record player. "I'm not," he says, leaning in close, until there's barely the space for an angel to dance on the head of a pin between them. "I'm begging forgiveness."

And then he closes the distance, soft, tentative, gentle. Six thousand years, give or take, in the making. It feels like every second of it. It feels like every second was worth it, when Aziraphale opens up under him, and—surprise of surprises—darts his tongue out in the world's least practiced attempt at kissing back.

Not, honestly, that Crowley has any more experience. He's just not trying to rush headlong into the complicated stuff.

He pulls back laughing again, giddy with it, and gives Aziraphale another, more enthusiastic twirl under his arm.

"Well?" he asks. He knows the answer. It's written all over Aziraphale's face.

His angel clears his throat. "Well. We may need some practice to get that right."

Crowley breaks into a grin that immediately makes his face hurt. "Just as well we've got forever, then."

So I did a thing...

do you know that thing when you open up tumblr and feel deep confusion?

ps. it's just a meme pls don't come after me

Look closer

Please enjoy the infectious laughter of the Australian senate struggling to keep its composure while grilling a man about bee semen

I am

David Tennant and his family in the TARDIS !!!

Source: @ georgiatennantofficial on Instagram

Dean’s lost his wallet. He’s freaking the fuck out. It’s not because he’s gotta worry about his credit cards getting stolen—technically, he stole them first—or the shitty savings cards he stuffed in there since he’s got ten more back home. No, Dean’s freaking out because right in the middle of a heated debate with Cas over noodle shapes, the intercom comes on and an totally oblivious lady’s voice says to the entire freaking store—“Would Dean Winchester come to the front desk please? Figure he might want his wallet and photo of his cute husband back.”

To be fair, the old lady was clearly one of those sweethearts who dote on customers and find anyone of a younger generation to be absolutely adorable and not dealing with delicate issues such as the photo of Cas Dean’s been hiding in his wallet for years.

So naturally, in the midst of total mortification, Dean forgets all about bowtie and elbow noodles and avoids Cas at all costs as he makes a beeline for the front desk, perplexed angel at his heels. His ears are burning, his face is burning, Dean feels like the entire store his watching him as he speed walks as fast as he can without full on sprinting.

“Dean—“ Cas hisses, but because he now thinks he’s in an action movie, Dean makes a wild turn into another lane to skitter out of Cas’ view for a moment. It’s enough time for him to pretend he didn’t hear.

The old lady is smiling when Dean reaches the front desk, Cas following and standing too too close right behind him. Her eyes dart from Dean’s bright red flush to Cas, sparkling in fond amusement.

“Was gonna ask you to describe your hubby in the photo to make sure it’s you, hon.” She chuckles in a Southern drawl. “No need to when he’s right behind yah, hm?”

“There is no one behind—?”Cas began, but Dean cut him out with a strangled sort of noise. The lady chuckles again.

“Here’s your wallet, honey. You two have a good day now.”

“Thanks.” Dean wheezes, stuffing his wallet in his pocket like he could bury the last five minutes six feet under.

Neither of them talk about it until they’re in the car.

“What did that lady mean by the husband in your wallet?”

Dean gulps, eyes fixed on the road as if that would save him embarrassment. It doesn’t.

“It ain’t some random smuck, if that’s what you’re asking.” He grunts. “S’just a photo of you I threw in there.”

Cas was silent for a moment.

“Ah.” He murmurs a moment later. “She assumed we were—“

“Yeah.”

“Why did you put it in there?”

“What?”

“You usually keep photos of your family in your nightstand. Why didn’t you put the one of me there too?”

Dean knew how Cas was looking at this. That because he separated Cas’ photo from the ones of him, Sam, Bobby, and Mom, that it didn’t equate him to family. That Dean didn’t see Cas as family like he did the others. And that just couldn’t slide for him.

“‘Cause I wanted to.” He mumbles, ears burning again. “Got a habit of carryin’ a piece of you ‘round when your gone. Your coat, your ashes, your bloody handprint…” he gulps against a sudden lump in his throat. “Guess I’m waiting for you to leave me again. Or somethin’.” He trails off into silence, avoiding the heavy gaze on him.

“I’m not leaving.” Cas says after a long moment. “Never again, unless you ask it of me.”

“I ain’t gonna do that.”

“Then I’m not going anywhere. There’s no need to carry of piece of me around when I will always be right here.”

Dean swallows again.

“Do you believe me?”

And, just how Cas continuously put his faith in Dean, Dean decides it was time to put his faith in Cas.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Dean still keeps the photo in his wallet, not because he thinks Cas will leave him, but because seeing his angel’s face every time he goes for his stolen credit card or shitty savings coupons makes him smile.

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You are now trans

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You are now gay