#-he examines the simple wrapper and begins to peel it open-

[resolute-casualties]

@ryusxnka asked:

'Pon arriving at the third division's barracks, he does not cease his foot movement's velocity, for anyone, till he ultimately locates the man he had come to seek out. " ----- Oi, Captain Ichimaru! " he calls forth from behind, lack of interest, not so effortlessly perceivable, written 'gainst countenance. " Please accept this piece of candy on behalf of the Tenth Division. " once the merchandise was distributed, he pivots and forthwith absconds ''fore any quantity of utterance could be articulated in turn. / For Ichimaru!!

A slender form slinks upright when the call is heard, he turns to realise the small form of the individual in his midst, a playful smile is offered in greeting but before he can do much more than that, there's something being slipped into his hands. Long, lanky fingers gracefully grasp the offering.

"Ara ara, what's this now, chibi-jubantai?"

No sooner had he spared the inquistive words to notice that the small third seat had taken to quickly abscond from the scene entirely.

Curious indeed. A slitted gaze falls down to the item in hand.

Such delightful mystery. Could be sweet. Could be a prank~.

[scones-and-texting-and-murder]

Bookends

(This story was originally written for and published in the DeanCas Anthology back in 2018. )

Word Count: 2223 Rating: General ao3 link

Cas pulls as close to the door as he can, checking the rearview mirror to make sure he isn’t blocking traffic as he waits for Dean to get out of the car. Before heading inside, Dean ducks his head back in to smile at him. “I’ll get us some coffee.”

Instead of driving away, Cas stays there, watching until Dean pulls open the diner door. Leaning heavily on his cane, he shuffles more than walks, his bow-legged gait made stiff by the arthritis that wracks his joints. Cas waits until he’s safely inside, then pulls past the open handicapped space Dean stubbornly refuses to use, and finds an empty parking spot.

Cas’s car is boxy and utilitarian, and Dean often proclaims that he wouldn’t be caught dead behind the wheel of something so ugly. Cas plays along because giving up driving had been Dean’s toughest concession to age, but as his vision deteriorated and his reflexes slowed, it had become an unavoidable sacrifice. With replacement parts for the Impala harder and harder to come by, Dean had finally agreed to keep her stored safely away in their garage. Cas knew it pained him to see her shrouded under a tarp, her motor idle and useless, but Dean would rather enshrine her in pristine condition than risk one more run-in with a light pole or curb.

With his ugly car parked, Cas crosses the lot to join Dean inside. While he’s aged as well, aged to the point that nobody questions the two of them together, he’s been spared many of the maladies that Dean’s combat-wrecked body has endured, and he moves with relative ease. The best they can figure is that the grace he’d had on and off over the years left his body with a certain resilience to the passage of time. Cas can’t cure Dean as he once could, can’t ease the aches or slow the aging process, but he can use his own comparatively good health and mobility to take care of him.

Inside, Cas navigates past the hostess stand to find Dean at their usual booth, chatting with their usual waitress. The two of them go to this diner religiously each Sunday morning, where the pews are scuffed burgundy vinyl booths and the altar is the breakfast buffet with the generous senior discount. As always, Dean has maneuvered himself across the bench seat to make room for Cas to sit beside him. His cane rests against the wall in easy reach, the simple carved wooden handle belying the fact that the base unscrews to reveal a bayonet-like tip. It’s never been wielded as a weapon (although Dean uses it, still sheathed, to poke at aggressive pigeons who muscle in around their favorite park bench), but that potential made it “badass” enough to overcome Dean’s resistance to using it.

To Sam’s everlasting chagrin, Dean has kept all of his hair, and it’s turned a stunning silver. The crinkles around his eyes have deepened, meeting the roadmap of lines that cross his face. His shoulders are stooped, his joints are stiff, and Cas thinks he’s never been more beautiful. After so many seemingly certain ends, so many years assuming Dean would die young and bloodied, the fact that he’s living out a full, lengthy life is an unparallelled blessing. Cas marvels at the gift of days that have unfolded into decades, granting them time he never dreamed they’d have together here on earth.

As Cas settles into the booth, he smiles and greets their waitress.

“Two for the buffet?” she confirms as she pours their coffee. Cas doesn’t even have to check to know that she’ll leave Dean’s at a little more than half-full so he can lift it without the tremor in his hands sloshing it over the brim.

They drink their coffee quietly, simply enjoying the ritual of being here. Dean peers at the laminated card that lists the specials, even though he never orders off the menu.

“Shall I?” When Dean nods, Cas gets to his feet. “Any requests?”

“You know what I like,” Dean says, leaning over to swat at Cas’s butt.

Picking up two plates from the warmer, Cas slides them along the metal counter, filling them in tandem as he traverses the buffet. Pancakes are too difficult for Dean to get on a fork, but the crisp waffles are good. Bacon he can pick up and eat, and Cas uses the tongs to place precisely two strips on his plate. If Dean wants more, he can get up and get it himself.

Dean can argue with Cas’s choices, but they’d had a hell of a scare a few years back. Cas will never forget the look on Dean’s face when their phone rang in the middle of the night, alerting them that Sam had been taken to the hospital in an ambulance. They’d rushed there themselves, Cas driving in silence, knowing that nothing short of seeing Sam with his own two eyes could reassure Dean. Thankfully, it had been a mild heart attack and, after spending a few days in the hospital, the discharge plan called for cardiac rehab and an appointment with a nutritionist. With Sam’s release imminent, Dean had relaxed enough to crow at the irony. “Don’t either of you try to tell me what to eat ever again. Mr. Organic Produce is the one lying in the hospital bed while my pork-rind-fueled ticker is going strong.”

Still pale, Sam’s brow furrowed with resignation. “I’m beginning to think you can’t die.”

Dean jabbed a finger in his direction. “You don’t get to go first. We have a deal.”

“Yes, sir.” Sam lifted the hand without the IV in a mock salute.

“That’s more like it,” Dean said. “Speaking of which, I need a snack.”

Cas helped him up and they walked to the elevator that would take them to the cafeteria. As they waited for it to arrive, Dean pulled Cas into a hug. Cas left a hand on his shoulder when they stepped apart again. “All right?”

Dean nodded, his green eyes shining with tears. “I’m glad you’re here.” Cas started to respond, to remind him that there was nowhere else he would be, but Dean cut him off. “I know you know. But I wanted to say it anyhow.”

Cas noticed a change after that. Dean was still the same stubborn mule Cas had fallen in love with, but he gradually became more willing to let Cas help. And somehow, Cas loved him even more for it. He loved seeing the slow-blossoming acceptance that came when Dean stopped seeing Cas’s help as a sign of weakness.

Now, standing in front of the steaming trays of food, Cas considers what else to add to their plates. He bypasses the cauldron of oatmeal (they eat that at home most mornings) and continues along the buffet. There’s a tremendous satisfaction in being allowed to care for this man who has done so much for so many and asked for so little in return. In fact, Dean has now embraced this new role so fully—no longer questioning what he deserves, or grudgingly accepting help, but full-on enjoyment of being doted on—that Cas has to be careful he doesn’t get lazy. There’s nothing Cas would rather do than settle Dean in front of a sunny window, snug in the recliner for Cas to wait on like a pampered cat, but he knows that sort of inactivity would do Dean’s joints and his heart no favors. So he watches Dean’s diet and insists on them taking slow walks after breakfast when his energy is highest.

Their neighborhood is a mix of young and old and everyone knows the two Mr. Winchesters who circle the block on days when the weather permits. The kids on bikes and scooters know to give them a wide berth, their parents warning them that the old men need the entire sidewalk, but they call out their hellos as they go by. They’re friendly with everyone except the woman who lives on the corner. Dean is convinced she’s a demon, but Cas suspects his distrust of her stems more from the fact that she seems immune to his charm. (Whatever the reason, he’s had to talk Dean out of chalking a devil’s trap inside her mailbox more than once.) They chat with their neighbors about the weather and the score of last night’s ballgame, and it’s so painfully normal that Cas sometimes feels his throat tighten up at the wonder of it all.

When Cas returns to their booth, Dean examines his plate. “They outta bacon?”

Cas cuts the waffle into manageable pieces and peels the wrapper from the muffin before sliding Dean’s plate over. “You know the deal.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says. “You just like to look at my ass when I get up.”

They eat in congenial silence with Dean methodically working his way around his plate, eating everything heartily, even the fruit. Sitting next to him, Cas can easily scoop up any bites that miss his mouth, plucking them from Dean’s lap or his shirt.

“You two good?” The waitress asks when she comes to refill their coffees. “Need anything?”

Dean swallows the bite of muffin he’s working on, and rests his hand on top of Cas’s. “I’ve got everything I need right here. An actual angel, this one.”

She nods agreeably. “I can almost see his halo.”

Cas has learned that an old man can say just about anything and receive an indulgent smile in return. When Dean references angels or demons or the apocalypse, people assume he’s speaking in metaphor and they’ll nod pleasantly. Sometimes he’ll do it purely for effect, telling rambling tales from their past for the sheer enjoyment of being able to speak openly. He can’t always keep the details straight, but Cas is there to remind him. Some days, though, he seems to lose where he is in time, and there’s nothing Cas can do for that. Cas has taken to keeping a watchful eye on him in the late afternoons when he likes to doze on the couch with their one-eyed black cat curled up on his chest. Cas stays close in case he wakes from his nap agitated, calling for Cas, wanting to know where Sam is. Cas helps him to sit up as the cat springs down and scurries away.

“Don’t go,” he says again and again, and Cas takes him in his arms, assuring Dean that he’s here and reminding him that Sam is safe at his own home. He holds him until Dean shakily dismisses it all as just a bad dream.

The unfairness of it overwhelms Cas, and each time he’s left filled with wrath. These final years should be spent in well-earned peace, but instead Dean seems cursed with reliving his most frightening memories, traumatized anew by old, familiar fears. If Dean’s mind is destined to slip, why can’t it be toward blissful forgetting? What Dean has endured goes beyond what any human should; to ask him to bear it again is nothing short of cruel. But it’s a torture chamber created in his own mind, and all Cas can do is sit helplessly by, doing his best to ground Dean and bring him back to the present.

Cas looks at Dean’s empty plate. “Did you want to get some more?”

“Nah.” He’s full and happy and it’s time for their walk.

The waitress arrives to clear their plates. As he does every week, Dean asks if she needs to see his ID for the senior discount. As she does every week, she pretends to consider it before leaving the check. “You boys take your time.”

“Tip her well,” Dean says, leaning in to supervise Cas as he signs the bill.

“I always do,” Cas assures him.

When they’re ready to leave, Cas stands next to the banquette, waiting for Dean to retrieve his cane and slide himself to the edge. Using a combination of the cane and Cas’s extended arm, Dean hoists himself upright, groaning a little. Cas keeps a firm hold on him until he’s steady on his feet. Dean still dresses in layers, but these days it’s because he gets chilled easily. He favors heavy knit cardigans and as long as Cas gets the zipper started for him he can tug it up or down as needed. Cas checks him for crumbs then together they walk through the other tables crowded with families. They continue by the hostess station where a woman is wiping down menus. “See you next week,” she calls as they pass.

Cas steps forward to push open the door, and stands holding it. “Watch your step,” he says as he always does, pointing toward the raised metal threshold of the doorway.

Using his cane to steady himself, Dean shuffles his way over it, then stops to lay his hand on Cas’s cheek. His knuckles are gnarled, the skin of his palm is dry and warm, and Cas feels the same flare of awe go through him as he has since the moment he first found this glorious soul in the depths of hell.

“I am the luckiest man who has ever lived,” Dean says.

Cas kisses his palm, then takes his arm to help him on his way.

[letspretendfictionpressworks]

body language 3

"Can I help you, sir?"

I abruptly end my staring contest with the menu to blink at the cashier. My response isn't the most eloquent. "Huh?"

The girl sighs, her patience with me and the rest of the world obviously drained, and tucks a long lock of hair behind her ear. "What do you want?" she tries again.

A nudge in my ribs makes me glance to the side where Spencer is giving me a look I can't decipher.

"Sir?" the woman behind the cash register calls, the strain obvious in her tone. Behind me, I hear more than a few people sigh impatiently, shift their weight, and grumble about inconsiderate jackasses—that'd be me.

  I stare back at the teenager. She blinks at me, frowning. Her mouth pinches after several seconds, and then opens. I know she's going to say something sharp, so I do what I always do under pressure.

I do something stupid.

"Hot dog," I blurt.

There, problem solved. I start to relax, even as heat prickles up my neck. I don't know why I'm getting embarrassed now—I should've been a blushing, bumbling idiot a minute earlier, when all I could do was stammer and stare like a deer caught in headlights. But there is no reason to get flustered—all is forgiven, said and done.

The girl looks taken aback, and I can't imagine why. She braces herself on the counter so she can crane her neck and examine the short list of food products on the menu behind her. My eyes dart up to read over it, too, but I'm too anxious, too stressed, to actually take in the words. Finally, the cashier turns back to me, frowning.

"Sir," she begins, and from her tone I just know that even my measly hot dog request wasn't enough for her because she's using a tone that most people reserve for people too stupid to remember their own name (that'd be me, in this case), "we don't sell hot dogs."

Goddammit.

My eyes dart up to the menu again, desperately trying to find the two words that would prove her wrong. "Uh."

Hot dog, hot dog, hot dog. It had to be on that menu somewhere. Hot dog, hot dog—was a pretzel a hot dog? No, no, of course not. Though I had seen one place sell pretzel dogs, a hot dog wrapped in pretzel dough and baked. Maybe they had those—

"Sir, I'm going to ask you to step aside for now and come back when you figure out what you—"

"Two slices of cheese pizza and a water."

I snap my mouth shut and shoot Spencer a grateful glance. He looks at me and twists a corner of his mouth back, like he can't remember something—probably why he ever invited me along today. I was just tripping over myself to cause trouble all day long.

The cashier instantly relaxes and falls back into her routine of pecking at the cash register, accepting payment, and handing me my meal. I can't even manage a simple "thanks" as I take it and follow Spencer and Bella back to one of the picnic tables. The look Spencer's giving me renders me mute. Pretty sure he officially thinks I'm some sort of brain-dead freak at this point.

"What was that about?" he demands the moment we're seated.

I have no answer to give, so I stuff a bite of pizza into my mouth.

Spencer sighs and uncaps his soda, takes a swig. The whole time, he's still watching me. When he screws the lid back on his beverage, he frowns and persists, "Seriously, Markus. What is up with you recently?"

My mind is frustratingly blank. Not even a simple excuse flits across my mind.

"This seat taken?"

Fortunately, I don't have to answer. Someone taps the seat across from me and glances around at the three of us, seeking approval. The voice, though, is unusually familiar, and when I chance a peek up at the guy, I nearly drop my pizza rather unceremoniously into my lap.

"Nah, it's yours if you want it," Spencer tells Mr. You-Stole-My-Fucking-Quarter, even offering a flash of a smile as a peace offering. For some reason, I highly doubt Spencer remembers who the guy is. But when he sits down, peels back the wrapper from his sandwich, and makes eye contact with me, there's no mistaking the look in his eyes.

He definitely remembers me.

  My mouth dries, and I take a long chug of water. It makes no difference. My tongue still feels like sandpaper in my mouth, and when Mr. You-Stole-My-Fucking-Quarter says, "Imagine meeting you again," I have no idea what to say, or how to force my tongue to move and form words.

I can't tell if he takes that as an insult, a sign of cowardice, or just anxiety on my part. His expression doesn't change as he lazily drawls, "Mute, are you?"

"That's just Markus for you," Spencer smoothly intervenes, coming to my rescue, and I'm relieved that I don't need to explain myself.

"So, Markus, huh?" the guy asks, like he wasn't just told what my name is.

I decide not to say anything, just give a grudging nod and devour more pizza. Can't talk with a full mouth. It's rude.

The guy sits, turns his body so that it's obvious he just wants to talk to me—that Spencer is now officially an unwelcome party. "How'd you do it, anyway?" he asks without preamble.

I mumble something that might be a baffled "wha?" from behind my pizza.

“Do what?” Spencer asks, looking between us, asking what I’m wondering, but in a more eloquent manner.

Mr. You-Stole-My-Fucking-Quarter motions briefly to the large box of chocolates that lay nearly forgotten near my feet—too large to fit on the table while we eat, I had to settle with maneuvering it so that it was under the table, out of the way.

All eyes are on me now, expectant and curious.

"Oh." I try to think of how to explain it, but no matter how I lay out the system in my head, I can't figure out to put it into words. I practice a few explanations quietly, but they all seem choppy or confusing. I really, really am not the person to explain things. And I do not perform well for an audience.

"Um," I try again after an achingly long pause.

I need to prove I am capable of more than monosyllabic words.

"You just"—I make a few vague hand motions, as though those would explain what I couldn't—"watch it for a while. The game, I mean."

I’m not sure if pantomiming is any better than monosyllabism. I’m not sure I’m fighting whatever case I’m trying to make. I expect Mr. You-Took-My-Fucking-Quarter to look disappointed in me, because I very obviously didn’t give him the response he wanted. But his expression doesn’t change, though I can’t tell if he is deliberately censuring how he feels or not.

“That’s… smart,” Bella offers politely, breaking her silence. She sounds like she’s not sure what, exactly, she’s complimenting, but she sure is happy to do it.

Spencer makes a noise of disdained amusement at my fumbling.

But Mr. You-Stole-My-Fucking-Quarter doesn’t show any such derision, at least I don’t think so.

"Watch it how?" he finally asks, leaning even closer, intent.

"Uhm." I pause to take a swig of water, like it will wash away my anxiety. A part of me hopes he doesn't think I'm being rude; another hopes he does, so he'll leave me alone. "There's a system to it."

He nods, so I continue. I decide not to look at—or towards, I suppose—anyone but him. I don’t think I can take Spencer’s derision or Bella’s odd flavor of condescending pity.

"You can figure it out if you watch it long enough," I offer. "After a while, I thought I knew what it would be. The number, that is. And I was right."

It’s the closest thing to an explanation he’s going to get, and I can only hope he’ll accept it for what it is.

I think I see Bella and Spencer exchange some sort of glance from my peripheral vision, but I don’t turn to look. I refuse to look away from—well, not Mr. You-Stole-My-Fuckig-Quarter’s eyes. I can’t quite make eye contact with him. But I’m steadfastly looking somewhere around his left ear.

"Hm," he humms. "So you didn't guess? You knew what it was going to be."

"Well—no—yes. I mean, I thought I knew."

"Hm," he humms again, and I don't know that I like how he doesn't always give verbal answers, but falls back on sounds. Words I can understand. Body language and sounds are harder.

"You're not as bad as I thought," he finally tells me, and he cracks a smile. It's a rather friendly, inviting smile, and I'm returning it before I can stop myself.

"Trevor," he says suddenly, in the same tone I'd use to say "you don't say" or "how's the weather today?" I stare back at him for several moments.

"My name," he explains and I let out a small "oh" of understanding.

"Markus," I return the favor.

"Yes, I know." His eyes flick to Spencer, a reminder that my name's already been given.

"Oh," I say again, but this time it's followed by a laugh. "Right."

He laughs, too, and it's not snide or rude. And it convinces me to relax.

Things only get better from there.

He makes jokes, I laugh. I do something silly, he laughs. We talk about nothing in particular, and it’s enjoyable. Minutes fly by, and Spencer and Bella seem to lose interest in us. By the time everyone's done eating, I'm just starting to wonder if Trevor will join us for the rest of the afternoon—how it might change the sour notes of my day into something sweeter, more bearable—when his phone buzzes.

Trevor pulls it out and it's amazing how quickly his expressions brightens only to turn stormy. His face pulls back in a scowl as he reads his text. His lips tighten as he punches in a rather lengthy reply. Once he sends it, he takes a deep breath and looks back at me. His smile is apologetic.

"Girlfriend," he explains, and that really does explain it all. "She's mad we got separated."

I don't really know what to say to that. Relationships have always been a problem of mine, and I never know what advice others are looking for. Fortunately, his phone buzzes again and he checks his text. His scowl returns, deeper than before, and he punches in a much shorter reply this time before returning his phone to his pocket and shrugging.

"Ditching me here apparently." He closes his eyes and I think I can see him count to ten before opening them again. "I guess I gotta take off."

He stands and collects his trash, and I scramble to move. It’s a spontaneous decision, fueled by my lifted spirit—the one he managed to buoy. I yank the overly large box of chocolates out from under the table and stop him, hold them out in offering.

"Well, if you're fighting with your girlfriend, won't these calm her down a bit?"

He looks surprised at the suggestion, before turning pensive. "Actually, you just might be right," he concedes finally. "You sure you don't mind...?"

"No. No, not at all. Take them."

He's smiling again when he grabs the box, so bright and warm it melts my stiff face into a softer expression, a returning smile.

"Thanks."

"Yeah."

"I'll see you around, Markus?"

"Yeah."

It isn't until he's gone and Spencer, Bella, and I are heading out to catch a few more rides that I realize Trevor never gave me any kind of contact information. Not even a phone number or last name so I could look him up. Not that I’m on any social media that I could even do that.

I'll see you around? Hah, yeah right.

More like I'll never see him again.