Dean cooking something in the kitchen, hands covered in flour - he’s trying for a pie again - but he doesn’t mind the white, dusty handprints he leaves everywhere. He opens the fridge to pull out the next ingredient and swears. They’re out. He should have checked earlier.
Cas is walking through downtown, idly swinging the newly filled reusable cloth bag they have adopted for shopping, when he hears Dean’s gruff voice. It is a gift from his Father, he supposes, that no matter how far he falls, he never stops being able to hear Dean. Just Dean. Always Dean.
"Castiel who I sure hope art still at the grocery store," Dean calls, addressing the air over the sink, "Could you pick up some milk, too? A whole gallon, probably, at the rate Zep goes through it. We’re out again."
His prayers have been slightly more trivial of late, though.
Zeppelin was afraid of the dark, and Dean didn’t know what to do. It was driving him crazy. Sam had gone through this phase too, he remembered, but Sammy had been comforted by Dean’s explicit declaration that any monsters in the closet would have to get through him first, not to mention their dad (if he was in that night.)
It was about 2pm on a lazy Sunday afternoon, and Zeppelin was supposed to be napping. She wasn’t, because naps were boring, but the supposition was a key part of her plan. And her Plan (it really deserved a capital letter) was going to win her the Game.
Zeppelin had a lot of games, with different people. Some, mostly with her friends, were regular: hopscotch, Chutes and Ladders, even playing with dolls. Some games were boring-in-a-fun-way, like Count the Red Cars on the Long Drive to Bobby’s House. And some were just vitally important, like the nightly How Much Dessert.
But this Game was, at the moment, the most important of all. It was the Jumping on Dads Game, and Zeppelin had never, ever won it.
Castiel returned from errands to find the house in chaos. Not just disorder, which was moderately usual, but actual chaos. Papers and toys were strewn about the living room in places he had not thought they could be placed without flight. Half the contents of the refrigerator and bathroom cabinet were mixed on the floor, supplemented by the overturned, slowly emptying jug of Borox next to the puddle. A single, lone kitchen chair remained upright; its brothers were lying haphazardly around the wobbling table.
"Dean?" he called cautiously, dropping the groceries in favor of drawing the blade he still carried at all times. Just in case. But it didn’t look like there’d been a fight, exactly…
"Yeah." His partner’s voice called wearily from the bedroom.
Since I don’t have time for this blog anymore, I’ve opened submissions. Feel free to submit your own art, fic, or graphics for the Ask Domestic Destiel verse. Official rules are here, PLEASE READ before submitting. Thanks!
So this blog has gotten pretty danged silent. Sorry about that, but in addition to sort of losing interest, I’m now in a position where I couldn’t keep this blog up if I wanted to. I have multiple comic projects going on (ones that I’m under contract for and am receiving payment for), so fan blogs are going to have to be sacrificed.
I have a very important question for all of you, however. How would you feel about me opening submissions on this blog? Folks could send in their own Domestic Destiel art or stories, and they’d be posted/reblogged here. I don’t have time anymore, but that doesn’t mean others don’t. What do you say?
Gimme some new asks so I can draw one tonight :D