#14x18 coda

[gooferdusted]

Jack falls to his knees when he finally lands. Dirt and gravel dig through his jeans. It's painful, he knows that, but it doesn't make him want to explode the way it used to. 

He's tried to ground himself with pain, lately. All those emotions slipping through his fingers; he went back to the one thing he knew. The one thing he was sure about being human: it hurt. 

Jack let's the sharp rocks press against his palms, and tries to remember how it felt to be new. To be scared, to be sad. To be anything at all. 

He brushes the bloody gravel off his hands and doesn't flinch.

Jack walks stiffly toward the porch. His limbs feel wooden, like the steps creaking beneath his feet. 

It takes him a long time to open the door. He stands, hand gripped on the doorknob, palm sweating, heart pounding: the symptoms of an emotion he doesn't feel.

He floats through the house like a ghost. He doesn't hear his own footsteps over the ringing in his ears. He climbs the staircase robotically, gripping onto the railing with all he has.

He almost wants to stay in that hallway forever. Not quite anywhere yet. Jack would like to be somewhere. He'd like to be home. But he's not sure where home is right now, so he settles for nowhere instead.

Jack's footsteps grow louder. He's suddenly so aware of every noise he's making. Every shoe squeak, every huff of breath. 

His name on his bedroom door makes everything seem big.

Jack steps into his room like the floor will give out any second. 

It's undisturbed, for the most part. The sheets are gone from the bed (burned, along with her), but the mattress and headboard remain. 

The sunlight, filtered through the blinds, lays gently across the room. 

And all at once the world feels so terrifyingly big. Jack had carved out little places for himself. Jody's house, Lebanon, and all the little motels they've stayed at. Each one became a part of him. Part of that map in his head, that made some sense of the universe. Every highway was an ocean, and every gas station, a continent.

But now, in the wake of perfectly settled dust, on filled coat racks, and worn in sofas, and television sets, the earth threatens to open up and swallow him whole. This life is undisturbed. Jack feels like he's walking through a memory. 

"Mom?" Jack whispers. No one answers but the crickets outside.

Jack stares into the crib, with the yellow baby blanket laying crumpled in the bottom, and feels lost from all things. 

"Mom." He says again, and that's when his brain gets stuck. "Mom, mom, mom, mom, mommommom--" Jack gasps on a sob, gripping the edge of the crib. His hands leave an imprint in the dust gathered there. 

Jack collapses to the ground, his knees hitting the hardwood floor with a sickening thud. He gives a distant thought to the ache in his wings. Something, he thinks. That's something.

Through the blur in his eyes, he blinks up at the half finished mural on the wall before him. The hand lettering of his name is shaky. The rainbow has drips in it. There's still an open paint bucket on the floor.

Jack pulls the baby blanket through the bars of the crib and buries his face in it. It smells like home in a way that he can't comprehend.

Jack remembers being born.

Not the details, so much, but the way he felt. He remembers his mother. He remembers love. He remembers that feeling of safety being torn away from him. He remembers being cold, sitting on the same hardwood floor, with his knees to his chest. He could've used a baby blanket then. 

That's all he has now, he supposes: memories. Memories of home, of family, of feeling. It's the past now. And how strange it is to have a past at all. Everything feels like the present until you lose something.

Jack lets himself fall onto his side. He clutches the baby blanket with all the strength in his body. 

And for a brief moment, he wants to close his eyes and make the house disintegrate beneath him. Let himself get swept up in the ashes, until he disappears along with them.

But instead he lays there. Beside a crib he's outgrown. A warm, safe bed that never fit him at all. He stays on the floor until his wings have the strength to carry him somewhere else. 

(When the Ma'Lak box slams shut on top of him, Jack holds a yellow baby blanket to his chest. 

If he closes his eyes, it's just another crib.)

[mattzerella-sticks]

Incomplete (Dean/Cas 14x18 “Absence” coda, 1.2k)

Cas tried to comfort Dean earlier, when Mary's body burned a few feet away. Sam stopped him.

They came home. Sam wasn't there, and Cas stumbled upon Dean back in the kitchen. What can he say to the hunter he failed that will make up for what his silence caused? Can he even say anything? Duma was right about them... they're incomplete as they are now. There are words swirling around the surface he still can't see, and the longer they stay unspoken the less whole he feels.

He's been searching for so long to do right by the Winchesters - by Dean - but what if all he needed to do was much simpler?

(Link to ao3)

           Cas watches Dean drink his fourth beer from behind the kitchen doorway, hidden by the shadows. He stumbled upon his hunter ten minutes ago, his legs restless but unwilling to leave the Bunker’s walls. Seeing Dean there was not surprising, he always found his way back into this space whenever the weight was too heavy to bear. But it hadn’t even been an hour since he and Sam said they were turning in for the night. Cas figured he would have more time before crossing paths with the elder Winchester, so he could better prepare for when next they met. Now he has the chance to speak, but there’s nothing he can say. He’s rooted to the spot, held back not by Sam but by his own hesitation.

           But Cas should know by now, life never gives him enough time.

           “You just gonna stand there or what?” Dean barks out, startling Cas out of his thoughts. His grip on the frame tightens, eyes widening. Dean turns his head slightly, meeting his gaze. “You gonna try and make it better? Like before? C’mon,” he gestures him closer with the bottle, “nothing’s stopping you now. Give it your best shot.”

           His mind has nothing, but his legs move like it does. Cas floats his way over to Dean, his hand hovering over Dean’s shoulder before ultimately deciding not to take the plunge. Instead he places it on the table and drags it to where he sits. Dean’s stare haunts him the entire way over.

           “What?” Dean asks, chuckling, “Nothing to say?”

           Cas squints at him, frowning. “I… I don’t know what to.” Sighing, he shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe I should start with sorry –“

           “You don’t have to, Cas –“

           “Dean, I know this is my fault –“

           “No, Cas,” Dean speaks over him, eyes large and dewy, “It’s… it’s not on you. Blame falls on me… on all of us.” The bottle swiftly returns to his mouth, and Dean finishes it off in seconds. It joins the others with a clatter.

           He’s confused. Before, Cas thought he knew Dean’s pain but… each interaction proves any chance of understanding his hunter flies farther and farther away from his grasp. “But I…” he says, “My silence, the snake –“

           “Drop the snake talk, Cas!” Dean hisses, “Christ, why can’t you just take my apology?”

           “Because I don’t deserve it.” Cas blinks at the raw emotion coating his voice, Dean as surprised as him by the display. “I don’t… deserve it,” he repeats in a whisper, “Dean, I failed you –“

           “You didn’t fail me, Cas,” Dean says, “You never do… but all of us, we failed Jack.”

           Cas draws back, ducking his head. He wrings his hands together as he processes Dean’s words. His heart hurts at what he said, but it also warms. Even after his selfish and cowardly acts, Dean still has faith in him. Momentary lapse aside, Dean never fully gives up on Cas even if all he does is give him reason to do so. His venomous barb, “you’re dead to me”, stung. But as the wound festered Cas could tell Dean didn’t mean it. His response was that of a cornered animal with no chance at escape. With time, he licked his scars and slinked over to Cas’s side once more. Like it’s where he belongs. As if they carved spaces for each other, and when they’re empty the world loses color.

           He’s reminded of Mary, a conversation they had what felt like centuries ago. Driving back from a vampire hunt, silence reigned within the cabin of his truck. Mary focused on the passing scenery, leaning against the window. Cas kept his hands on the wheel, fingers twitching every so often as if to turn on the music. He always flinched away no matter how close he came to the knob.

           Mary spoke up. “There are things that I’ve had to get used to; that I’m… coming around to.”

           Cas glanced at her. She hasn’t moved. “What do you mean?”

           “I saw a different kind of life for my sons before my death,” she said, “plans that were the product of my time and upbringing. I didn’t want them to grow up like me, to be hunters… but I came back, and I adjusted. My boys are heroes. But there was still a part of me that hoped maybe they’d find a way out. Maybe do what I did and settle down…”

           He frowns. “I’m having trouble following –“

           “I’ve been gone nearly forty years but everything I thought I knew flew out the window,” Mary continued, “About my boys… about the world. People are able to choose the lives they want for themselves; fight for their happiness with pride. Back in the past you’d never see that so widely accepted.”

           Cas turned to her again. Mary finally looked at him, expression soft and hopeful. “That’s… I still don’t get what that has to do with me.”

           “Just because I’m still learning doesn’t mean I don’t accept you, Castiel,” Mary said, “I see you. I see you with my boys, with Dean. He… they don’t need me. Haven’t for a while. But they want me, and they have me. But you… you’re who they need.”

           Cas swallowed down the bile in his throat, Mary’s kind words everything he wanted to hear but can’t agree with. “Thank you,” he said.

           He felt her stare still on him. “I mean it,” Mary told him, “you don’t have to say anything about it now. Just sit on it and keep it in mind…”

           Coming back to himself, Cas glances up. Dean keeps his gaze on Cas, on the verge of a breakdown. “What, Cas?” he whispers, “What do I need to say? We’ve lost so many I… I can’t…” His hand shakes uncontrollably.

           Cas finds himself acting without thought again. He reaches over for Dean’s hand, holding it in his own. “Dean, I… you don’t have to say anything. You don’t have to do anything but be… here.” His voice breaks, and he laughs. “You shouldn’t be trying to comfort me, Dean it should be the other way around. All I want to do is comfort you, to take on the burdens so you don’t have to. Shield you away from all the pain and solve your problems. That’s what I… what I’ve always wanted. Why I do what I do. Every mistake is just me trying to be someone who deserves to have you as my…” He trails off, unsure of how to finish.

           Dean starts to talk again. “Cas, I don’t need you to be any of that. I never did.”

           “Then what do you need of me?”

           “I just need you, man,” Dean sighs, “I need you…”

           “They need you. He needs you.”

           Cas smiles and squeezes Dean’s hand. “Then know I will be here. And nothing will tear me from your side.”

           Dean chokes on a sob, smiling. “You better not break your promise.”

           “I won’t.” Cas’s thumb strokes against his skin like a blade against flint, sparks flying in its wake. “So… what would you have me do now?”

           “Honestly?” Dean sighs, sagging onto the table, “This.” His head slumps onto the table, eyes fluttering shut. Cas watches as Dean’s breathing evens out and his hunter fades into unconsciousness.

           He stays right there, waiting where he’s meant to be – beside Dean.

[tragidean]

a night to remember [1.1k] (ao3)

It takes three days for Dean to finally look at Castiel.

For the most part, Castiel doesn’t try to engage, at least not directly. Dean mourns violently and all at once, the brunt of his anger taken out on anyone within arm’s reach, no matter how familial they may be. Whatever Castiel felt for Mary is nothing compared to Dean or Sam—for two years, they finally had their mother back through unforeseen circumstances, and now, they never even got the chance to say goodbye for a second time.

Sam is quiet, reserved about the ordeal—but always on the verge of tears, always seeking conversation, anything to pass the time. Castiel entertains him the best he can, whether it be through idle chatter or just keeping him company. “You know he’s not pissed at you,” Sam says at one point, the two of them watching Dean clean out the Impala from a distance. “He’s just… It’s the whole thing. That’s how he copes, he goes after the first person he can pin the blame on.”

“Still,” Castiel sighs. “I can’t help but feel… I played a role in this somehow. If I would’ve told you both—”

“That’s not on you, Cas.” Hand to Castiel’s bicep, Sam leads him away from the door, out of Dean’s earshot. “Look, we all had our suspicions, but we all believed that Jack was on our side. That Jack was here to help us, and we all tried to ignore the red flags. We knew the risks, and we clung to hope instead, because we loved him.”

Castiel hangs his head, staring pointedly at his shoes. “We could’ve done more, though,” he says. “I don’t know what, but there had to be something we could’ve done. Something to keep his soul intact, to keep him on the right path.”

“But that’s not on us.” Sam pats his shoulder; whether or not he believes his own lie, Castiel doesn’t know. In fact, if asked the question, Castiel doesn’t know if he truly believes himself, either. “I’m not saying I forgive him for what he did, and I don't think any of us ever will, but he’s… He doesn’t know up from down right now. And he needs our help.”

continue reading on ao3

[sortasirius]

14x18 Promo Coda

AN: Y’all know I had to write it.  An angsty coda to the promo we saw this week.

Words: 781

I also tossed it onto my AO3 here.

“You’re dead to me.”

The words echoed in his head, bouncing off the walls of his mind over and over in an endless loop.  The boys were gone, but Dean’s words remained, filling the silence in the dilapidated house as morning crept into the room, the minty glow of dawn filling the dirty windows as Cas watched from a rickety chair.

Sam had looked at him, almost pityingly as Dean slammed the door of the Impala, staring straight ahead and immediately cranking up the radio.  Cas could tell he was listening to Zeppelin, like he always did when he was upset.

“Don’t worry, Cas, we’ll find a way to fix this,” Sam had said, again solidifying his place as the most gentle among them.  He clapped a hand on Cas’ shoulder and gave him a small smile before getting in the Impala himself.  Cas smiled at him and watched the Impala tear away into the night.  He tried to see any sign of Dean looking back, even for a second.  It would be easier to push through this whole mess if there was any chance of forgiveness.

Cas suddenly remembered when the boys and Bobby had trapped him in holy fire and confronted him about working with Crowley, all those years ago.  Dean’s betrayal had been palpable then too, but even as they fled the house, he had stopped, turned around and they had locked eyes.  And even through the betrayal, the anger, the hurt in his eyes, Cas had seen the possibility of forgiveness.  Now?  He wasn’t so sure.

Watching the sunrise, Cas reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the little cassette tape that Dean had given him.  “Dean’s Top 13 Zepp Traxx.”  He had been almost nervous when he had handed it to him, looking at the ground with a gruff, “Gotta start your music education somewhere.”

Cas remembered smiling at him, their eyes meeting in the dim light of Dean’s room, and Dean leading him to the Impala in the garage, where they sat and listened to the whole tape, not saying anything.  Cas remembered really taking in the worn leather of the car, the first home he had ever really known, Dean humming along to song after song, knowing every beat and word and note of every song.  After the click of the end of the tape, Dean turned to Cas, who was in the passenger seat for once, and had said, almost softly,

“Well, you gotta tell me your favorite.”

Cas considered him, thinking through the bass beats and guitar solos and vocals, trying not to alter his decision based on the fact that this was one of the better moments of his life on earth.

“Maybe Ramble On.”

Cas hadn’t expected Dean’s whole face to split into a radiant smile, but it was a moment of warmth and sunlight that he wanted to hang onto for every second he could.  These smiles were so rare, Cas only saw them when he commented on a movie they were watching, when Sam told Dean that his cooking was better than a restaurant, or when Jack asked to go for a drive.  The moments that made Dean really happy, they were the moments that Cas began to crave himself.

But then he was back in the rundown house, with the sun peeking over the trees, holding the mixtape and all by himself.  Cas was more worried than he wanted to admit that he really was dead to Dean and those moments, those smiles, were only memories now.

Cas felt his heart clench, feeling much like the broken down house he was sitting in.  The boys were his family, Dean was his family, and having that taken away hurt much more than it ever had before.  It hurt more than when they had left him to Crowley, it hurt more than when they had left him with Meg, it even hurt more than when Dean had made him leave the Bunker to protect Sam.  This hurt the worst because it really felt like an ending, that maybe Dean wouldn’t forgive him, and that the only memory he would have of him was in the little mixtape in his lap.

He needed Dean, more than he could ever say, and he was terrified that Dean didn’t need him, that he would never need him again.

The sun had really risen now, the light spilling across the dirty floorboards.  Cas stood, shaking the paint chips and dust from his coat.  He pocketed the mixtape, looked around the room, and stepped out the door into the cool morning air, resolving himself to keep going, even if he wasn’t needed anymore.

[road-rhythm]

fic: where is thy sting

(crossposted to AO3)

Sam thinks of Billie often. Of course, he's always thought a probably greater than average amount about Death, both as a personification and in general, but when he thinks about Billie, what he tends to think of is how baldly she intended revenge. It feels wrong to apply the word want to a reaper. Sam never read want from her even when she used words like it; but intent—yes. A very strong intent to see them learn respect for death. To make them regret.

Jack furnished them with a body. Dean ran to it and held it. Sam followed more slowly. He crouched down and, after a moment's hesitation, held Dean holding the body.

It seemed correct that way. Dean grieves their mother. Sam grieves his grief. That much, at least, he knows he can do.

Now, looking through these pictures, he lets himself ask whether he has more within him. Certainly he's sad. Lost? Yes, some of that. Not the kind of lost he thinks he would be if he'd known his mother all his life, though.

This is not the first time he's looked at the pictures—like, sat down and looked at them, as an activity. He's the one who keeps a shoebox of these things, after all. He might not keep pictures on his walls, or on his desk, or on his nightstand, but more than once he's sat down and gone through the pictures, plucked their edges with his thumbs, flipped them over to read the information on the back. Honeymoon, 1975. The Winchesters - John, Mary, Dean and Little Sammy. (He knows all their legends.) He did this both before Amara brought her back and after, and what he would feel looking at them was not the same thing he felt when his mother was actually in the room. The two sets of emotions were related but distinct, like two different artists' drawings of the same subject.

Sometimes, maybe, he tried to make himself feel something. To feel the things he assumed he should feel. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't. It's the inconsistency of his emotions toward his mother that's left Sam uneasy, because a lot of the time all he could feel was the anxiety of not being certain whether he was feeling what he should, while other times he felt so much and all at once that he couldn't understand where it went when it vanished.

Did he love his mother? He should know that, right?

He looks at Mommy with Dean - Little League, 1983 and thinks about pictures come to life. It was very strange, to have Mommy with Dean come to life in a basement that stank of his own blood and excreta. Almost strange enough to shock him out of seeing pictures whenever he looked at her. Almost, but not quite, and he never really knew her because their relationship became a series of missed opportunities where Mom got in the way of Mary but everything else got in the way of Mom.

He wanted to know her, he thinks. He wanted to ask, What is it like to have your children stolen from you? He wanted to ask, Does it feel like God took them from you, or more like we did? He truly did. He wanted to ask these things; he just didn't want to know the answer.

Sam was so jealous of Dean's bond with her. That wasn't an act for that shapeshifter's sake, not totally; it was a true thing that happened to accomplish a practical purpose. He was jealous of Dean's memories of her and maybe a lot more jealous of her memories of Dean, that Dean as a child existed in her mind as something more than a swaddled lump. He could see her lean on these memories, sometimes, or thought he could; could see the relief of being able to produce a memory of the time before and use it to be the thing all three of them thought that they wanted. To Dean she could say, "Mouse Trap was your favorite game, I remember how you used to make sound effects with the pieces"; "Carrots 'n' Peas was your favorite flavor of Gerber's, I remember what color your diapers used to be after" simply didn't have the same force.

Mommy with Dean. Mary in the Hospital with Dean - Aged 1 Day. Mommy's Little Gentleman - Mother's Day, 1982. Mary and Dean, mother and son. The photographic evidence is all right there, so Sam feels like an asshole for thinking maybe both of them bonded with ghosts.

What did Rowena call it? A replica, incapable of holding life? Dean held the replica. Sam held his brother's shoulder and the replica's knee. He waited until it felt like Dean was ready to move. It took a long time.

And now he looks at pictures. This is something bereaved people do. He knows it is. He's seen them do it.

He thinks about Billie.

He thinks about etymology. Extremity (n): from Latin extrēmitās (border, perimeter; ending), from extrēmus (situated or occurring at the end; extreme in degree), from exter (external, outward). Derived terms: extremism, extremist, extreme unction, in extremis.

Sam and Dean's lives are extreme. They have often had to perform in moments of extremity. Others have remarked on the extremeness of their actions. When Dean died the first time, Sam was extremely broken up about it. And the second. And the third. Nos. 4 – 126 were a little weird. The 127th was worse than the first, though. The 128th was the worst.

Nos. 129 – 131 must, of a necessity, be measured against no. 128. And must, by definition, lose.

What is fear? Sam used to think fear was poison. Before he thought it was poison, and sometimes during, he thought it was common sense. Now he thinks it's salt.

He wants to feel more than this. It's not his fault that he can't. Leaving the volume cranked up all the time will eventually burn out ears and speakers alike, and what does final even mean?

Sam wonders sometimes if Dean experiences a version of it, too. If Dean is also going through the motions. If he really feels the grief he's displaying—not whether he feels it at all, but whether it goes quite all the way down to the bottom. If even breaking chairs against walls is to some extent performance. If some of the fear of death and all that spiders out from it has become at least a little bit habit, even with Sam. Sam wonders these things, and then he feels like a traitor.

He stares at Mary's face. He will do this again, maybe with a glass at his elbow. He will do other things, like write in a journal and run too much, and maybe, eventually, the grief will come. Maybe it will be raw and deep and alive.

Absence (n). 1: a state or condition in which something expected, wanted, or looked for is not present or does not exist. 2a: a failure to be present at a usual or expected place: the state of being absent. 3: lack; deficiency; nonexistence. 4: Inattention to things present; abstraction (of mind). From Latin absentia.

He didn't think Billie would take her revenge in absentia. Maybe Death always knew that she already had.

[waywardaf67]

14x18 Coda

Cas knows Sam was right to hold him back out by the pyre. Dean needed his space, needed time to mourn, but Cas needed his friend to know how sorry he was for keeping silent. If he’d only been honest with himself about Jack, Mary might still be here. They could be playing the stupid mouse trap game Dean insisted was fun instead of sitting in their respective bedrooms, alone. Cas is so tired of being alone, exhausted by running from every time he’s failed the Winchesters.

For the first time since he’s met Dean, Cas considers going home for good. There is a spark of hope that Naomi would let him do something in Heaven, given how much they are struggling. Even the isolation of imprisonment would feel better than the look of disgust in Dean’s eyes when he told Cas he was dead to him. If Cas were home, the empty wouldn’t get him, and Sam and Dean would be safe from any other screw-ups.

His chest burns at the thought of leaving his family behind, but Dean won’t even look at him, and of course, Sam’s loyalties lay with his brother. All Sam did was give him a pitying look and another pat on the shoulder before shuffling off to his own room.

It’s never made sense to him why Sam and Dean mourn alone. They are hurting for the same reason, and if what Cas is feeling is only a fraction of their loss, he doesn’t know how they can stand to be alone. The hollowness inside is threatening to swallow him whole. He’s almost desperate enough to ask Dean to just humor him––allow him to sit on the floor in the corner of Dean’s room, just so he doesn’t have to keep replaying Mary’s joyful squeal as a four-year-old Dean jumps from his father’s arms into hers. Seeing her in her heaven, happy with her family was all Cas needed to see to know that Dumah was right. Mary’s chapter is over, but her story lives on.

The deal she made, the demon blood, the apocalypse, and every subsequent disaster that followed and will continue to follow, all because she couldn’t be alone without the love of her life. It wasn’t her fault, not really. Heaven wanted the apocalypse, they needed Sam and Dean strong. If it wasn’t Mary it would have been John, and the path may have been different, but the destination would have been the same.

Cas rubs a closed fist over his heart and drops onto his bed. The memory foam Dean insisted he get because even if you don’t sleep, Cas, you deserve to relax. He regrets his anger toward Mary. He’d been so mad at her for abandoning Dean when all Castiel himself ever wanted was to stay. She had the chance and chose to run. He would find himself driving for hours on a solo mission wishing he was with his family, not isolated in a tiny box on wheels. He always wanted to be in the bunker working with Jack, teaching him how to use his powers. Helping Dean cook, or answering Sam’s questions on the lore. Maybe if he’d been home more things with Jack wouldn’t have turned out the way they had.

Cas paces the floor as if he could somehow walk his worry away. Jack had never perfected angel radio, and Cas wasn’t sure his signal was transmitting, but he closed his eyes and bowed his head regardless.

Jack, son, we are not mad at you. Whatever happened between you and Mary was an accident. We know that, and we forgive you. We just want to know what happened. Please come home and talk to us, Jack. We need you.

Even in Castiel’s own mind, he stumbles over the phrase, years of hearing I need you and knowing that it was never quite enough. He focuses on those words now.  

I love you we all do. We want you back and we can figure this out. Just please, please Jack, come home.

The knock at his door startles Cas out of his prayer and he’s thankful Sam has come to check on him. Maybe he, too, was wondering why they aren’t being more supportive of one another.

Cas gasps softly as he pulls the door open and sees Dean standing in front of his door. He’s wearing his favorite lounge pants and holding a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

“Hey, um. You got a minute?” Dean asks quietly, watching his feet as they shuffle.

This isn’t what he was expecting, but it’s exactly what he wanted, Still, Castiel is wary of talking to Dean right now. He can’t handle being asked to leave again, and though his mind had been all but made up, Dean telling him he was no longer welcome in his home for a second time might actually kill him. But it’s not like Cas can refuse Dean, so he steps aside and sweeps his arm back, a clear invitation.

Dean’s eyes are bloodshot and glassy, and Cas knows this look. Dean sits on Cas’ bed, tucking his socked feet under himself and hunching his shoulders as he curls in on himself. A rare vulnerable pose for Dean.

The silence is killing him as Cas waits several long moments for Dean to speak. Finally, when he can’t take it anymore, he does the only thing he knows how to do––he tries to apologize.

“Dean I...”

“Don’t. Just don’t, okay? There’s nothing to be sorry for, Cas. We saw it, we all saw it and just kept going forward. It’s like Sam said: he became family. I’ve––” Dean purses his lips and shakes his head before taking a long pull from his bottle. Dean offers it out to Cas, but there isn’t enough left for Cas to feel anything, so he shakes his head. Dean needs what’s left.

Dean takes a smaller sip and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before continuing. “I just watched my mom burn to death for the second time. And as much I want to blame Jack, and…” Dean top lip twitches as he draws his brows together, pain showing clear as the words he’s speaking. “I don’t want to lose him again, not like this. Going Darkside? I can’t, Cas. I just...can’t.”

The bottle slips from Dean’s fingers and lands on the floor with a loud thump. The brown liquid sloshes out as the bottle lands on its side. Dean’s head falls into his hand and for the first time ever, Cas hears him sob. Deep breaths coming in as gasps

Cas drops to his knees, the spilled booze soaking into his pants, as he wraps his arms around Dean and pulls him forward. He goes willingly, and because Cas was expecting a little resistance, Dean crashes into his chest.

“I’m sorry, Dean. So sorry.”

Cas cups the back of Dean’s head with one hand and grips the back of worn, soft t-shirt fabric with the other. He wants to list all the things he’s done wrong, every time he’s failed Dean, and how he would do things differently. But the hunter is shaking his head back and forth, mumbling into Cas’ coat. So the angel stays quiet, and though he can’t understand what his friend is saying, he listens intently.

“...shouldn’t have said it, Cas. I’m sorry. I can’t do this without you.” Dean’s crying has tapered, and Cas isn't surprised. It’s the biggest display of emotion he’s ever seen, so it doesn’t surprise Cas that it passes so quickly.

Dean, breathing starts to slow and Cas tries to pull away with the intention of getting his friend a box of tissue and a glass of water, but Dean’s fingers dig into his back as he tries to pull away. Cas takes a moment to decide if a glass of water is worth breaking the moment. Dean is rarely so open and even though Cas suspects embarrassment will follow, he’s sure the release of emotion must feel like a relief.

“It’s okay, I’m not going anywhere.” Cas settles back on his heels, holding Dean close to him, but not so tight that the hunter couldn’t easily pull away when he’s ready.

Several long moments pass and Cas finds himself running soothing fingers through Dean’s soft hair. While Cas was debating his return to heaven, Dean had been showering the stench of smoke and death from his skin, leaving behind the warm sandalwood scent of his body wash.

When Dean finally pulls back, Cas selfishly misses the contact. He suspects Dean will go back to his usual repression, leaving Sam and Cas feeling the loss of not only Mary’s death and Jack’s disappearance but also Dean himself. The small smiles, the nerdy outbursts about the thing he’s reading up on, the subsequent denial of said outburst. They will have to deal with a lost Dean, only he will be sitting right next to him. He will probably hunt for weeks on end, hiding from, and repressing, anything that reminded him of his mother or their wayward son. And though Cas will miss that Dean, and will likely get snapped at, swung at, and maybe even forced to accompany Dean to a strip club or Chuck-forbid another brothel, he’s ready to do what it takes to show Dean that one angry phrase, muttered out of desperation, isn’t going to drive Cas away. They are a family and more than ever they need to come together to offer comfort and forgive harsh words.

“Can I stay?” Dean mumbles into Cas’ shoulder. “Sam’s already asleep and—I just want to stay.”

“Of course, Dean. You’re always welcome wherever I am.”

Cas stands and rids himself of his shoes, overcoat, and suit jacket while Dean wiggles himself under the covers, the empty bottle of whiskey long forgotten. With Heaven being so low on power, Cas knows mojoing a glass of water would be seen as a waste of limited grace, but he can’t stand the thought of leaving Dean, and he knows his friend could use a cold drink. The grateful look on Dean’s s face as he guzzles down swallow after swallow proves to Castiel that there isn’t anything where Dean’s concerned that would be considered a waste.

It takes them several long moments to get situated in bed, and a small part of his heart sings when Dean sidles up to him and nudges his arm out of the way, giving him full access to lay on Cas’ chest. The angel isn’t sure if this is cuddling or comforting, or some strange mix of both. But whatever it is, he’s happy Dean came to him—elated to know he’s needed. He wishes the circumstances were different, but as Dean drifts off to sleep, Cas wraps him in a bone-crushing hug and thanks anyone listening that Dean didn’t mean what he said.

[vinylackles]

14x18 destiel coda: reflexes

I am upsetti spaghetti... so here u go. CONTAINS MASSIVE SPOILERS FOR 14x18!!!

word count: 1.9k

Sam’s reaction was a reflex. He knew Dean better than anyone, and he knew how he got when he was upset. He lashed out, he yelled, he broke things, broke people. So when Cas felt him put a hand out, felt it hit his chest and stop him from crossing in front of the flames, he wasn’t angry. He knew Sam was just trying to protect him, like he always did. 

But Cas didn’t need protecting. Not from this. Not from Dean.

So he raised a hand, gently placing it over Sam’s. He squeezed Sam’s fingers slightly, a silent reassurance. Sam squeezed back, like a child might when they were uncertain, or scared. It pained Cas a bit to let him go, but he knew that Sam was processing. And he also knew that Dean was not. So he let go of Sam and moved in front of him, the heat from the flames of the pyre soaking through his coat as he started towards Dean.

The hunter’s gaze didn’t waver from the flames licking at the wood, though Cas knew he could see him approach. Dean’s body was set, his feet planted in a bit of a fighting position. It was subconscious, Cas was sure. He was preparing for battle - a battle against himself, and his greatest enemy. His grief. The angel had seen this progression before, when Dean experienced loss. First came the anger, then came what he called the shut down. No one was allowed in to help, and nothing was allowed out. Emotional expression was not a Winchester expertise after all. 

Then came vengeance. Cas tried not to think about it, think about how he knew Dean was already thinking of 10,000 ways to kill Jack, and that he could do any of them if he really wanted to. He shook the thoughts from his mind, moving to stand beside Dean.

He tested it, reached out to let his fingers brush against Dean’s, as they usually did before Dean’s scarred hand wrapped around his own and held it. The feeling of their skin together was familiar. They did this in the impala, one of Dean’s hands always resting on the empty leather between them, a silent offering. They did this in the middle of the night, after a nightmare. When Dean’s breathing had settled, and he’d moved from clinging to Cas back to his more comfortable sleeping position (on his tummy, face buried in a pillow), he’d always leave one hand intertwined with his lover’s. A reminder, that Cas was there, and if Cas was there that meant he was safe. They did this in diners, when they would roll through a more liberal town where two men holding hands didn’t turn so many heads - those towns were Cas’ favorite. They’d done this only a few weeks prior, watching the bodies of the slain hunters burn on pyres just like this one.

Caught in his memories, it took him a moment to process Dean’s movement. Their fingers had grazed, and Cas had grabbed, but all he caught was a finger. He released it as Dean jerked his hand away, stuffing it quickly into his jacket pocket.

That was something they never did.

Cas felt eyes on him and looked over to see Sam, a look of I told you so written on his face. It wasn’t malevolent; it was only filled with sadness. Dean had begun his shut down, so Cas took a deep breath and moved one step to the right, his dress shoes kicking up a bit of the ash that was raining down around them.

He didn’t reach for Dean’s hand again, though his fingers tingled with want. Instead, he moved just close enough to let his shoulder press up against Dean’s. A reminder that he was there, he would always be there. He assumed it was against his will when he felt the hunter relax, albeit slightly, against him. A reflex; his body remembering who Cas was, even if Dean didn’t want it to. 

So they stood there in silence, shoulder to shoulder, watching as the rest of Mary’s remains burned. The flames were still flickering when the sun began to set. Sam had been crying, a mixture of his grief and the ash that had taken over the air. He’d coughed through it, unwilling to leave his brother’s side.

Dean hadn’t showed a single sign of discomfort. Nothing. He was being strong, strong for his mother, like he always had been. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t waver. Not now. 

When the sky had given way to black, Dean had been the first to turn away from the embers. The day was done. There was nothing more they could do. Sam jumped when Dean touched his shoulder, turning him away from the pyre, guiding his baby brother back to the car, back home. Cas followed silently, sliding into the passenger seat without a word as the impala’s engine roared to life and Dean drove her, under the speed limit for once, back to the bunker. The car was silent besides the sniffles that Sam was trying to hide. 

Silence was one of the first lines of Winchester defense; Cas had learned that a long time ago. So he was unsurprised when they remained silent on the way into the bunker, and that they parted ways with no words shared. Cas knew where he would find Sam later when he checked on him. He’d been on his bed, with the pictures from his memory box either on the duvet or on the nightstand beside him. And he knew where he would find Dean as well - at the bottom of a bottle. 

He couldn’t let him do that, not tonight. He couldn’t let him shut it out. It would be too hard on him in the morning, when he had that one moment of thinking it was all some drunken dream. So when he saw Dean disappear down the hallway to their room, he followed him.

He didn’t say anything until the door shut behind them.

“Get out Cas.” His voice was scraggly, and Cas wasn’t sure if it was from the ash or from the tears he was holding back. 

“No.” His tone was neutral, but Dean still fumed back at him. Cas braced. 

“I’m not having this conversation right now. I’m not talking about it, I’m not gonna sit here and cry on your fucking shoulder, or whatever the hell it is you want from me. It’s not happening. Now get. Out.” 

He knew that anything he said would be twisted, turned back against him in a malicious way, so he stayed silent, waiting. 

“What the hell do you want from me?!” Dean yelled, anger bubbling. He saw the step, Dean’s tell, and he set his feet. 

One thing Dean loved about having an angel boyfriend was the fact that he was so solid. Cas could use his grace to make himself as light as a feather, but he could also use it to make himself sturdy, strong enough to hold Dean up, to hold Dean together, to become a ton of solid stone.

So when Dean strode across the room and shoved at Cas’ shoulders, he didn’t budge. Well, he flinched. But that was for two reasons. One, because no matter how much he loved him, no matter how much he trusted him, Dean Winchester coming at you angry was always something to be afraid of. He could put Cas down in a heartbeat if he wanted. But that was the other reason he flinched too. Because Dean’s shove wasn’t as hard as it could have been, as hard as it should have been. Even in his darkest time, his darkest moments, Dean never really wanted to hurt Cas. And that was enough. 

“I don’t want anything from you Dean,” said Cas, voice steady. “I just want you to let me be here with you.”

“I don’t want you here!” Dean yelled, roaring anger raising his voice. He knew Sam could hear it echoing in the bunker halls. 

“I know. But I love you, so I’m going to stay,” Cas said quietly, the pain on his lover’s face making his heart break. Dean was falling apart.

He roared again, and Cas couldn’t make out the words as the man lunged for him. He held his ground, feeling Dean’s fists beat against his chest, his shoulders. They would leave no bruises on him.

He tried to shove past, to get out of the room, but Cas caught him, finally shifting, pulling him into his arms. Dean fought it for a moment, but his yells turned to sobs that turned to whimpers as he collapsed, letting Cas hold all his weight as he lulled against his shoulder.

“She’s gone. I lost her. Again.” His voice was small. A boy’s. 

“I know honey. I know.”

The sobs continued, ragged ones that sounding like they were being pulled out with hooks. When Dean tried to compose himself enough to speak, Cas had to cup his face, run his thumbs along his freckled cheekbones to calm him enough to get a breath in.

“Stay. Please. I’m sorry for what I said.” Dean was pleading, and only then did Cas remember his words from earlier. You’re dead to me. They seemed like a distant memory.

“You were already forgiven. I love you. It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.” Cas would repeat that mantra forever if it always brought the look of relief to Dean’s face that followed. 

Dean only nodded, throat thick with tears. Cas kissed his temple, holding him still. He only moved when Dean’s knees started to shake, the exhaustion setting in. 

“Let’s get you to bed.”

Panic returned to Dean’s eyes, only for a moment. As Cas knew, nights after a death were always terrible for Dean. The nightmares were vicious, and inevitable. Dean looked so vulnerable, and it was so rare that Cas found it somewhat beautiful, even in the pain it caused him. 

“I’ll be right beside you. I’ll keep them away.” And he didn’t care how much grace it took, he would stay up all night with a finger pressed to Dean’s temple, bringing him peaceful dreams. 

After they got stripped down to boxers, never wavering more than a few inches from each other, they climbed into bed. Dean landed on top of Cas, pressing his body to him every where he could, physical reassurance trying to chase out his fears. 

“I love you” were the only words Cas could say, even though he knew they weren’t enough. Dean reached around, searching the sheets until he found Cas’ hand, holding it tightly in his own, anchoring himself as the toll of the day took over. 

And as he slept, Cas knew what he would show him. He wouldn’t create anything new - no, Dean had had enough change for the day. Instead, he would show him a memory, something he’d seen just the day before.

Mary Winchester’s heaven. He’d only seen it for a moment, but it had been enough. There had been a dinner table in the middle of the room, a grand meal set out. At one head was Sam, the other Jack, both of them laughing and carefree. Mary sat next to John on one side, beaming over their family.

And across from them, with wide smiles, were Cas and Dean, hands intertwined under the table.

[destiel-love-forever]

Coda 14x18

I fixed it <3 

(#obviously spoilers if you haven’t watched)

Read on AO3: Coda 14x18

At some point during the burning of Mary's body, Dean stormed off to the impala and left. With a silent look, Sam went after him and Castiel stayed, seeing that the hunter's funeral was finished properly. He stood there for hours. Part of him knew he was using it as an excuse to stay away from Dean. To put off the impending heart break. He has to go home eventually though.

Home. Can he call it that anymore? Dean is his home. But the man's voice echoes in his head “You're dead to me.”

You're dead to me.

You're dead to me.

You're dead to me.

It's late when Castiel gets ho- to the bunker. The place is deathly quiet, a strange absence of noise considering the state of the place. Chairs are broken. Lamps. A bottle of whiskey lays broken on the floor, a splatter of the liquid on the wall above where it now rests, shattered in a puddle on the floor.

That's how Castiel finds Dean. Shattered. In a puddle on the floor. Cradling a new bottle of whiskey to his chest. It looks like he tried making it to his bedroom but gave up halfway down the hall. He lays broken. Not crying. Not angry. Just staring off into the distance with a blank expression.

Not bothering with words, Castiel walks to the man and picks him up. Dean doesn't even argue as he's carried bridal style to his room. That's how Castiel knows this is bad. Very bad.

He places Dean on the edge of his bed, hovering his hands inches away in case the man falls over. When he decides that Dean is stable, he reaches down to take the whiskey.

Green eyes snap up, focusing for the first time. “No.”

“Dean. You need rest.” They fight over it like children until Castiel pauses the tug of war, the two of them holding it at once, holding hands at the same time, whiskey suspended in the air. “I won't take it away. I'll just put it on the bedside table. Right here. Nice and safe. Okay?”

“Safe,” Dean echoes in a whisper.

“Yes. Safe. You can grab it and take a drink whenever you need. Okay?”

“Safe.” Dean's eyes lock onto him again. This time, it feels like he's telling Castiel instead of asking. But what? What's safe? Dean is safe? Because Castiel is here? Or Castiel is safe? Because Dean doesn't hate him like he said?

You're dead to me.

You're dead to me

You're dead-

“Cas,” Dean starts.

“Yes?”

“You saw her?”

Castiel gets down on a knee to look Dean in the eye. “I did. Her and your father.”

“What-” he pauses, sniffing and wiping away a few tears. “What were they doin’?”

“They were watching the sunset. Sitting on the porch swing of a house overlooking the lake.”

“Were we there?”

“No.”

Dean drops his head, looking at his lap. “Oh.”

Unable to stop himself, Castiel adds, “Sam and Jess live in the city nearby with their three little ones. He got his law degree. He uses it for social activism. They visit at least once a week.”

Still not looking at Castiel, Dean huffs a laugh. “And let me guess? I'm some alcoholic no one acknowledges? Black sheep? Maybe come home for a holiday now and then just to fuck it up.”

“No, Dean. You are happy in their world. You live a life that, in Mary's mind, would make you happiest.”

Dean looks at him, nibbling on his bottom lip. “What is it?”

“What?” Castiel asks, even though he knows what Dean is asking. He's terrified to tell Dean what he saw. He thinks maybe he should lie. It feels like a betrayal to lie, though. A betrayal to who, Castiel doesn't know, but a betrayal nonetheless.

“What's my life like there?” There's so much vulnerability im Dean's eyes. It takes Castile's breath away, and he knows he doesn't stand a chance. Of course he will tell Dean. Even if it changes nothing. Even if he still breaks his heart after.

You're dead to me.

“Happy,” Castiel chokes out. He clears his throat and clarifies. “You went to college. Got a degree in criminal justice. You're a detective. A very good one. You live in a beautiful home just a few blocks from Sam. Your kids are best friends with his. You're - you - you're married. Happily married.”

“To who?”

Castiel forces himself to maintain eye contact. “Me, Dean. You and I are married.”

The shock he expected doesn't come. Instead, Dean's lips tilt up in a ghost of a smile. “And we have kids?”

“Yes. A little boy that looks just like you, but with even more freckles. And a little girl with my black curly hair and blue eyes.”

“They're biologically ours?”

“Yes. I'm human. So we can grow old together. We used a surrogate. First your sperm. Then the next one mine.”

Dean's lips part in a breath. “I bet they were beautiful.”

“Yes. They were.”

“Very unrealistic though.”

The subtle hope that had been swirling inside Castiel sparks and fizzles out. He swallows around the lump in his throat, looking away quickly so Dean can't see him blinking to try and fight the tears.

You're dead to me.

“I would never go to college,” Dean says with laughter in his voice. “Plus, I'm too old for that shit. And with two rugrats running around? No way. I'd be exhausted. Especially if they have our DNA. I think I'd own an auto shop. Like Bobby's. I always felt at peace when I was workin’ on cars.”

“Wait.” Castiel snaps his eyes to Dean. When he blinks, a tear slips down his cheek. “It's unrealistic because you wouldn't go to college?”

“Yeah.” Dean reaches out a shaky hand, touching Castiel's face with just his fingertips, almost like he's checking to make sure he's still real. “The rest is nice, though. The rest we keep.”

Castiel leans into the touch and holds his breath. It only takes a second before the sadness returns, making Dean pull his hand away and slump his shoulders. “There's no sorrow. There's no guilt. Just joy.”

“What?” Castiel asks.

“That's what you told me and Sam about my mom's heaven. There's no sorrow. There's no guilt. Just joy.”

“Yes.”

Dean nods, his eyes going blank like when Castiel first saw him. “Maybe I should die. Maybe it'd be better. I'd like a life like that. I want that life. Not this one.”

“Oh, Dean.” Castiel scoots closer. “That life isn't real.”

“But it's better.”

“Dean-”

“I can't do this anymore, Cas. I can't live this life. I can't handle the sorrow anymore. I can't handle the guilt.” Dean gives him a broken smile. “Like today. The things I said to you. That was unacceptable. That's not how you deserve to be treated.”

“It's fine, Dean. You were-”

“No,” Dean nearly growls. “No. It's not okay. I'm not okay. And the way I treat you. The way I'm always treating you? Not. Okay.”

Castiel nods. “You're right. It's not okay. It needs to stop.”

“It will. I swear. I'll be better.” Dean’s eyes meet Castiel's. They're watery and red. “We could go. We could be in that world instead. Together. I'd probably be a shitty husband and a shitty father, but I'll try, Cas. I'll try really fucking hard.”

“No, Dean. We are staying here. Alive. In the real world.”

“I don't like this world anymore.” Dean closes his eyes, a tear slipping down his freckled cheek. “I'm not sure I ever did.”

Castiel stands up. He shrugs out of his coat. Then kicks off his shoes. He removes Dean's flannel. The man keeps his eyes closed, just letting Castiel do what he wants. It isn't until they're beneath the covers, Castiel holding Dean tight to his chest, that Dean finally opens them again. He blinks, finding himself nose to nose with Castiel. When he breathes in, he breathes in the angel. He wants to hold it inside himself forever. Even if his lungs burst.

“We'll build that life here, Dean. You'll see. We can be happy. Even with sorrow and guilt, we can be happy.”

“Happy,” Dean whispers. It sounds like a request.

“Happy,” Castiel replies. It sounds like a promise. “I swear to you Dean Winchester. I'll give you your auto shop. I'll give you those beautiful children. I'll give you anything I possibly can.”

“Me too, Cas. I'll give you everything. I'm tired of feeling like this. I'm tired of keeping it all bottled up. It's not fair to you.” Dean rubs their noses together. “I'm sorry for today.”

“I know.”

“You could never be dead to me. Even when we lost you, even when you were physically dead, I still saw you everywhere. I still longed for you. Missed you. Needed you. Dreamt of you.”

Castiel releases a shaky breath. It's everything he's ever wanted to hear. He's terrified. And thrilled. He's shocked. And happy.

He's happy.

“I love you,” Castiel whispers against his lips, pushing thoughts of the darkness away.

Dean presses closer, planting a kiss without actually kissing him. “I love you, too,” he says against his mouth.

He pulls away only to lean back in and kiss Castiel again. They kiss until they forget everything but themselves. Then they fall asleep tangled together. In the morning, they'll begin to rebuild. This time, they'll do it right.

[deanirae]

best before, worst after| 14.18 coda| 0,8k| gen/unrequited| also on ao3 (tco)

It's surprising how much clarity can drowning give at some point when it's been years of rinse, dry and repeat. Even the most beautiful colors wash out in the end.

This was the longest burning pyre in his life. This time Dean burned alongside it, to the last spark of fire, to the last breath of empty ashes, to the point where his insides turned into cinders and everything around him went dark; into the night Dean knew would last so, so long. Kansas nights can sometimes get quite cold, especially when you’re wearing nothing but your aching soul and a just as worn denim jacket, but this night is different. It’s arctic cold and it’s Dean who makes it that way.

Sam sat by his side, for endless swollen hours, stiff and quiet like a stone. Grieving the loss, processing the end of what they thought they had - their family. But eventually he went back inside. He’s always been better at it, Dean figures, faster to make peace and keep it. Dean was never this quick to let go, to live again. Every life he’d lost stayed as a new rock to his neck and the deep, dark water always remained close, still in his field of vision even on the best of days. It’s like he has been made for the sole purpose of always be drowning.

Right now, it’s overwhelming, seeping through his boots, growing onto his ankles, knees, it eats him up to the waist and freezes his hands. He can’t move a muscle or blink. It’s just him, black water melted into the horizon and the dead island of his mother’s stake.

And Cas. A rock-tossing distance away, but still too, too close; too present. A sad statue apparently immune to all of Dean’s antarctica, all of the walls of ice. He hovers and haunts, waiting for the right moment to dare and come close.

He can fucking wait ‘til Hell freezes over for all Dean cares.

But the goddamn thing about Cas and Hell is that when he sees it and Dean on the other end, he fucking bulldozes through it, no matter the weather, no matter if Dean wants him there or not. And since Sam is back ho-- back in the bunker -- he won’t perform a second small miracle of a selfless, humane gesture of protecting Dean for once. He won’t stop Cas on his path and wordlessly tell him this isn’t the time.

Hours have passed, they’re all alone, Cas pushes through dead ocean like a knife, in small considerate steps, and he believes, as always, that empathy, pain and anger all have an expiration date. A short one at that.

He walks up to Dean, face dressed in its woundest, pain so clear Dean sees it through the dark. This time his presence warms and soothes nothing. Dean wants to scream, throw punches or just shake him hard into going away, but he can’t. By now the water has swallowed him whole and he keeps going down like a rock. Cas and whatever he wants to do or say is too far away to reach Dean now, maybe ever.

He’s so, so tired of raising snakes on his lap over and over when all he wanted to do was to raise a family. Mary, John - they said he turned out well and, fuck, he believed in that - in himself - too, perhaps more than they ever did. But that was wishful thinking. He failed spectacularly, what with all those family snakes, including one totally ballistic on the loose and one that always knows better, then cries.

Can’t nurse angels into people, Dean reminds himself yet another time. The apple never falls far enough from the tree, never. The reminder sticks until he gets drunk with love on some small miracle and it doesn’t anymore (until next time).

But now his mother is dead, gone burning for the third time and it makes the charm, breaks the charm -- and he believes, for once in the possibility of the painful lovegiveness loop being over.

He meant something to Mary - not as much as he hoped to, not as much as he always needed. But she saw him, at least saw him and came back to him, despite the wounds of lost pasts and broken holy icons they made of each other. And they were willing to walk on shards arm in arm; and if sometimes his mother would sleep on his, so trusting, so serene, so there, it had to be enough. Even if the fond words were never present. He meant something, that he knows. But she - she meant the world to Dean.

Now his mother is scattered on the ground, and he can’t tell her apart from dead wood and dirt.

At the bottom of the sea, he searches his heart for the tingling warmth Cas’s presence raised in him in sharpest despairs, in deadest of his days. For the bare, raw minimum of hope that rekindles that heat again and again, from almost scratch, each time his heart breaks. Weary, weary acceptance is all he finds. It’s not there. Ain’t that much of a surprise; the nothing was long in the making.

Cas got one thing right: the expiration date for everything.  

[contemplativepancakes]

14x18 coda

or! read it on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/18435374

Cas stuffs his hands in his pockets. He grinds his shoe into the grass. He tugs on his hair. He takes a step towards Dean, but Sam’s hand on his chest stops him from getting any further. He aches at the sight of Dean’s face. Cas can see the lines of worry and stress, and he would do anything to ease them. He concedes that Sam has a point as he stares at the ash floating around above the pyre. Dean lashed out at him, but he’ll come around when he’s ready. Cas wants to be upset for what Dean said, but he knows Mary has always been one of Dean’s sensitive points, and Cas doesn’t want to waste any of whatever amount of time he has left being mad at Dean. No, Dean will come to him.

Cas lays in their bed that night, but Dean doesn’t come. He works on knitting a scarf, a recent hobby that he’s picked up. When 7 am rolls around, Cas sets his needles to the side and goes to the kitchen. Dean and Sam are sitting at the table with their coffee. Cas sits down, and Dean immediately gets up, leaving his coffee behind. Sam shoots him an apologetic look. Cas shrugs, determined not to be bothered, and takes a sip of Dean’s coffee. Sam snorts. Cas finishes the mug and goes to the coffee pot for a refill. He takes the coffee and peaks into the library, but Dean’s not there. Cas walks down the hallway. He doesn’t hear shooting from the gun range, water running in the showers, or a movie emanating from Dean’s den. Cas sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. He had refilled the mug for Dean, but he’s nowhere to be found, so Cas swallows some down, the heat soothing to his throat. He walks to their bedroom and pushes open the door. He drops the mug, shattering the ceramic, when he sees Dean in the center of their bed. Dean jumps, startled by the crashing. “Hey,” Dean says sheepishly.

Cas waves a hand and the mug reappears in one piece. “I brought you some coffee.”

Dean takes the mug. He points to the bedside table, where Cas had put his knitting.

“What are you making?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Cas asks back, deciding not to mention it’s a scarf for Dean.

Dean gives him a tentative smile, but sobers quickly. “I’m so sorry,” he says.

“I know,” Cas says, climbing into the bed with Dean and handing him the mug.

Cas settles against the headboard. He reaches a tentative hand out for Dean. Dean meets him halfway, scooting over so their thighs are pressed together. Dean heaves a sign and laces their fingers together. He brings the coffee up to his lips. “Shit, that’s hot!” he curses.

“Sorry,” Cas apologizes.

“Wait, no, look, I’m the one who has to apologize here, not you. Just give me a second, okay?”

Cas waits patiently, as requested and leans closer to Dean. “This has kind of been my worst nightmare since she came back,” Dean starts.

Cas doesn’t say anything. He knows if he starts talking, Dean will probably get spooked and stop.

“Amara wanted to give me what I needed most, and I guess what she thought I needed was this ideal mom I’d pictured for the last thirty years. I already had you in the bag, so I guess she thought I was fine on that front,” Dean says with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes, knocking his shoulder into Cas’s.

Cas gives him a mild smile.

“And then it wasn’t perfect. She went off with the men of letters,” Dean huffs a laugh, “I guess she had a type.”

Cas looks up at Dean’s face which is so open. The only time Cas sees Dean like this is when they’re together, hidden away from the rest of the world.

“But then she came back, and she still needed a lot of space, but it was getting better. And then,” Dean pauses, and Cas can see tears start to well up.

He gives Dean’s hand a squeeze. “And now this, and I guess I was mad at everyone, and you’re the only one who puts up with my crap, you know? Everybody always leaves me. So, I took it out on you, and you didn’t deserve that all. Even after I said that to you, you were still looking for her,” Dean sighs. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“I’m here,” Cas says and leans in.

Dean meets him halfway and presses his lips against Cas’s gently. Cas brings one of his hands up to cup Dean’s neck. Dean pulls away for a second to set his coffee on the nightstand. Then, he pushes Cas against the headboard and presses his tongue against Cas’s lips, then inside his mouth. Cas can almost taste the desperation coming off of him, and he cards a hand through Dean’s hair, holding on tightly.

When they had returned from the funeral pyre, and Dean had made his way into the bowels of the bunker, Sam had given Cas a stern talking to about how he shouldn’t be so quick to forgive Dean. But, Cas thinks guiltily, Sam doesn’t know about the deal I made. And neither does Dean. He wonders if Dean would still be kissing him if he knew exactly what he had given up for the person who had killed his mother.

Cas swallows down his worry about the Empty. He’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

[oneinamilligan]

Title: Never to Part Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18489346 Square Filled: Pack Dynamics Ship: Castiel/Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester Rating: E Tags: spoilers for 14x18, aftermath of canon death, do not proceed if you haven't seen the episode, Episode 14x18 Coda, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Castiel (Supernatural), Omega Sam Winchester, Omega Sam, Omega Dean, Omega Dean Winchester, Bottom Dean Winchester, Top Sam Winchester, Bottom Sam Winchester, Top Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel & Sam Winchester Bonding, Castiel Takes Care of Dean Winchester, Castiel Takes Care of Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Takes Care of Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester Takes Care of Dean Winchester, Threesome - M/M/M, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Anal Sex, Wincestiel - Freeform, Incest, dean is still mad at cas, Scenting, Pack Dynamics Summary: How do you begin to move on when the worst thing has happened?Again.

Created for @spnkinkbingo

[hotshotsxyz]

14x18 Coda

It doesn’t hit him until he’s alone, sitting on his bed with his knees tucked to his chest, unable to bring himself to do anything but stare at his bare toes.

She’s dead, Dean thinks. After all these years, he ought to be numb to the idea.

But fuck, it’s his mom, and it’s not fucking fair. She’s not supposed to be dead. She wasn’t supposed to be dead when he was a kid and she’s not supposed to be dead now and suddenly he’s sobbing. A desperate sound escapes Dean’s mouth and he claps a hand over it, trying in vain to muffle the noise of his grief. His shoulders shake. Tears spill over his lashes. He’s four years old again, with a dead mom, no dad worth talking about, and the weight of the world on his shoulders.

And god, he doesn’t want to admit it, but it’s not just Mary he’s mourning. It’s Jack, too.

Jack, who was good and kindness and light until Dean’s inability to keep Michael locked away left him with no choice but to burn off the rest of his soul.

He should be at the bottom of the Pacific.

Dean lets out a bitter, hiccuping laugh. He’d had the nerve to pin this on Cas, but he knows the truth. It’s his fault. All of it. Mary. Jack. All the hunters that Sam blames himself for. It’s Dean’s fault.

There’s a tentative knock at his door.

Dean rests his forehead on his knees and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to will away the tears still sliding down his cheeks. “Not now, Sam,” he says gruffly.

There’s a moment of hesitation, followed by a heavy sigh. “It’s not Sam. It’s me.”

Dean swallows heavily. He can’t do this right now, he can’t, he can’t–

“You don’t have to say anything,” Cas says after a moment. “I know what you think of me. And I just–“ There’s an audible break in the angels voice. “I’m sorry. I’m so– I wish I could fix this. I’m sorry, Dean.”

He hears Cas take a step back from the door, and fuck he can’t let him shoulder the blame for this mess. Dean jumps from his bed and wobbles messily to the door. He rests a hand on the knob for several moments before twisting it, just in time to see Cas sliding down the wall opposite his door, head in hands. He looks up at the sound of Dean’s door opening, but looks away quickly. The stark difference from their usual dynamic shreds the final remaining intact pieces of Dean’s heart.

“Cas,” Dean says, and he hates the way his voice breaks on the single syllable. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

At that, Cas’s eyes snap to his.

“It ain’t your fault, and I shouldn’t have said what I said.” Dean takes two steps and sits down heavily next to Cas, so close that he can feel the heat emanating from the angel’s skin. “I’m sorry,” he says again, but it doesn’t feel like an apology.

It feels like an admission of guilt.

They sit in silence for several minutes. Cas is kind enough not to acknowledge the tears still rolling down Dean’s face, the ones that just won’t seem to stop.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Dean says finally. “I thought, for a second, we might get to be happy. Thought I might get to keep my family together, just once.”

“I loved her too,” Cas says quietly.

Dean reaches over and lay’s a heavy hand on Cas’s knee. “I know.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean says again after several minutes.

“You don’t have to keep apologizing.”

Dean shakes his head mutely. “You’re not–“ Dean can’t bring himself to say those words again. “You’re my family,” he says instead. “I can’t lose you too, Cas, not again. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Dean’s vision blurs and he feels another sob building in his chest. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out.

Then there are arms pulling him close, wrapping him tight in an embrace he doesn’t deserve. He clings to the familiar trench coat, buries his face in Cas’s shoulder and, for once, lets himself feel. Breath ghosts across his ear as Cas whispers something in a language Dean doesn’t understand, over and over again, soothing in a way that feels more significant than white noise.

They sit like that for far longer than Dean’s joints would’ve preferred. They’re not okay. None of them are. But they’ll do what they always do.

[cyncity2000]

Even if I absolutely detested everything about destiel, ‘you’re dead to me’ still would make my heart skip a beat…god I know they’re all messed up but that’s the worst thing one of them has said to the other in a while…that line is going to haunt me

[hyperactive-and-hyperfixating]

Reblogging this because it popped up in my notifications out of no where and is super appropriate after this weeks ep! I love how it could still accurately include Mary’s initials being amongst the boys even though I had no idea two years ago when I wrote this that she would be added.

12x18 Coda

She swipes her little fingertip over the familiar carvings like she has every day for as long as she can remember. Over the cuts that form letters. Letters that symbolize the dozens of hunters that came before her. The ones that fought and loved and lived. The ones that shared the bunker she and her sister were practically born and raised in. Through her few short years she’s memorized every curve and chip and divot beautifully marring the once pristine mahogany. She hums as she dances nimbly around the table, her dainty finger never lifting from the wood. Her tiny hand always follow that same path, ending on the oldest etchings there.

Daddy says that they were true heroes. That one day she’ll be tough enough to fight just like them. That they helped people. She wants to help people. To keep them safe.

One day she’ll be as strong as a Winchester.

[xylodemon]

dean/cas fic: shadows are falling and i'm running out of breath

shadows are falling and i'm running out of breath: deancas, 1.1K, unrated, 14x18 pre-coda.

"Billions of souls are at stake," Dumah says, narrowing her eyes. "Billions. If Heaven's integrity fails, we–"

"Lemme tell you something, sister." Dean's heart is beating in his throat. "I don't give a rat's ass about Heaven. I never have. You guys have been a pain in my ass for ten fucking years."

Wind batters at the window, shaking the dusty curtains. Cas asks, "How bad are things in Heaven?" in a quiet, tired voice.

"Heaven is dire," Dumah says. Her hands flex at her sides. "There are just six of us now. Naomi only opened the gate so I could find you."

Cas pauses before saying, "I failed you. When Naomi asked me to find Gabriel and convince him to return, I–"

"That wasn't your fault," Dean insists. He cuts a look at Dumah; his hair's been standing on end since she showed up. "Michael shanked him before you really had a chance."

[Read it at AO3]

[goodfemalecharacters]

14x18 Coda: Just One Thing

“Get out,” Dean snarls.

The threatening effect is somewhat muted by the fact that he’s slurring his words. Cas eyes the empty bottle of whiskey at the foot of his bed as he steps into the room anyway.

“No. You’re drunk,” he informs Dean shortly.

Dean throws his hands in the air. “So?”

So, I’m not having a conversation with you when you’re like this , Cas thinks, but doesn’t say. Instead, he crosses the room in a few quick strides and presses two fingers to Dean’s forehead. He protests and tries to move away, but Cas doesn’t let up until he’s flushed the alcohol from his system.

He debates leaving the vestiges of a hangover headache behind, but they’ve all been through a lot today.

“I told you to get out,” Dean says once the light fades.

There was a time, Cas thinks, that he would have slunk out of the room like a whipped dog at that. Instead, he crosses his arms.

“And I told you no.”

They glare at each other for a moment.

“Haven’t you done enough today?”

Cas know that quiet, casual cruelty is one of Dean’s most common responses to grief. The words don’t dig as deep as they’re meant to.

“I know you’re upset,” Cas begins.

“No shit, Cas.”

He turns his back to Cas and stares accusingly at the wall instead. Cas knows it’s an accusing glare by the familiar set of his shoulders.

“Mary was--”

“You don’t get to talk about her.”

Cas almost takes a step back at the force in his words. An old instinct.

“You’re the reason she’s dead.”

For the first time in a long time, electricity crackles in the air around him. The single lightbulb that still functions in Dean’s lamp flickers.

“No, I’m not.”

He reins himself in and the air stills, like the quiet aftershocks of lightning. Only one of them can be angry right now.

“We all knew that something was wrong with Jack,” Cas continues quietly. “But we all let our love for--”

“I don’t love him,” Dean snaps.

Cas shakes his head. “You know that’s not true.”

After all, it had been a combination of the Winchesters’ desperation and his own that drove him to accept the Empty’s deal. Cas considers for a moment ripping that ugly secret from his chest, but that won’t help anyone. Not right now.

“He killed her.”

Cas doesn’t say that they’ve all done something horrible under the influence of a power that was not their own. Sam and the demon blood. Himself and the Purgatory souls. Dean and the Mark.

“I know.”

And to his surprise, the hard shell around Dean utterly shatters at the words. Dean’s breath hitches once, twice before he folds forward, burying his face in his palms. Cas hovers for a moment, unsure of if it’s better to stay or go.

Screw better. He knows what he wants to do, and for now that’s enough.

So instead of fleeing the room and finding Sam, whose grief is usually easier to manage, he sits on the edge of Dean’s bed.

“Dean.”

And instead of pushing him away, Dean folds into his chest like he belongs there. Cas waits a moment before wrapping his arms around him as tightly as he can, as if he can squeeze the pain away.

They both pretend not to hear the first quiet sob.

They stay like that for a long time.

read the rest on ao3