#[ coda: what is this breathing nonsense ]

[faejilly]

Ok, I gotta know what “canon complicit” is for the WIP ask meme!

Mostly it's coda fic for individual episodes of the Shadowhunters TV show, to be honest, and there was a tumblr post about canon compliant vs complicit vs compatible which made me laugh so... [THIS, btw, is the version I saw, iirc]

I did specifically use it partly to be petty tho; when I got stuck on rewatching the show to do coda fic for the first two seasons (I was only actively fandoming at the same rate as the show for like, the very end of s2 into s3) I was also reading a lot of fic on AO3 and there was just... there was a lot of fic that seemed really out of character to me, and some of it was people who read and liked the books and were pulling aspects of characters from there (which I'm never gonna do because Clare is terrible) but some of it was people who were just... imho... wrong about my faves. (As people are wont to be, but we all must suffer in silence if we're not going to be assholes about it. 😅)

So some of the episode/fic notes in that folder are very specifically emphasizing aspects of the show's characterization that I particularly liked and was especially unlike fanon/book canon so there's a bit of spite!fic in there, yk?

Specifically I started and stopped like five different things where-in Alec is going to Pandemonium because I'm sad the show didn't let them hang out there, even if I understand that filming clubs is a pain and a half and they probably spent all their money on shiny swords and Magnus' wardrobe. (And I can't begrudge them Magnus' wardrobe because I enjoyed that tremendously, and I'm mostly even more indifferent to fashion than fanon!Alec.)

I was particularly proud of this bit in there, and istg I'm going to actually get it into something I publish eventually; it takes place in between s2 & s3, I guess? The timeline on this show is nonsense, don't worry about it. (Post soul-sword break-up & reconciliation.)

Magnus inches a little closer to Alec, until his knee bumps against Alec's shin. "If you're there as my boyfriend, especially a Shadowhunter, you're going to get a lot of attention." "So?" Alec flicks his fingers out, as if dismissing that. "You don't generally like people staring?" Magnus tilts his head, suddenly wondering if he knows Alec as well as he thought he did. Alec snorts. "Be hard to give a briefing with the entire Institute or a grumpy Council staring at me if that bothered me." "But..." Magnus waves his hands almost helplessly. He has no idea what to say to that. How did he get something this simple so wrong? "I don't like attention if I don't know what my role is, if I don't have, I don't know." Alec shrugs, as if he's not sure he's making sense, but he's going to keep going regardless. "Rules to follow? If I don't know what I'm supposed to do, or how I'm supposed to do it." Their entire relationship tilts slightly sideways in Magnus' head, and he sighs out a long shaky breath. Ohhh. "But you know how to be my boyfriend." "I'm not sure I do, considering." Alec's mouth twists, bitterness and regret and guilt, and Magnus has to hold in a wince. "I made myself think I had to keep all my roles separate, but that didn't work, that isn't possible, and I'd like..." He trails off again, a hint of a frown wrinkling its way across the bridge of his nose. "You'd like to try?" Magnus whispers. "Yeah." Alec ducks his head, the hint of a blush warming his face. "I want to do better this time." "So do I." Alec smiles, and his face is soft and Magnus has no idea what's happening, but he's certainly not complaining. "I didn't think you'd want to deal with a club." "Why wouldn't I be able to deal with a club?" Alec looks affronted, and his frown is back. Magnus bites his lip and lifts his eyebrows. "Clubs are full of people." Alec rolls his eyes. "I don't hate all people." "Darling." Magnus grins this time. "You like about six people in the entire world." "More like twelve." Alec lifts his chin, his eyes looking vaguely upward as if he's counting. His lips twist with amusement as he teases. "Alright, maybe ten."

[unhinderedoutlier]

actual nonsense

circumvent the circumstances of our daily lives-- actors and actresses, the blueprint for how a flower thrives. doing impossibles things, owing heroes high fives, and settling in at night to sing about low valleys and tall city skies.

do you wish it were you up there, waving at the strangers below? do you wish you weren’t square, hoping your friends won’t go?

the world is strange and muffled by the sound of your own breath. the wind loves your hair ruffled and humid frizz is all that’s left.

now tell me why my eyes are clouded with gentle things, mist and fog-- and what we do with glory laud to ourselves instead of God.

what the heck is high octane? and why do my atoms buzz? why are the clouds and rain nearly totally synonymous--

to a terrible disposition, raise your wine, your ale, your cola! and hearken to a newer tale till orchestra plays to coda!

may all your future days be brighter than the last few sunless rays-- may all your wishes come true in this reality, not some dreamy haze.

may God give you courage, may the Lord be praised-- this is the end of my ramblings in all its muddled, flighty craze.

[marjansmarwani]

this weight off your shoulders 

1.9k || ao3

When Andrea Reyes receives a call from her son with terrible news, she makes a promise to a woman she only met once but always felt she knew. -- A 3x07 Coda

I started off writing a different coda to this episode, but somehow ended up here.

------

Andrea raised an eyebrow as the footage of Owen Strand punching a police officer on a softball field played on the 10 o’clock news. She glanced at her husband who was sitting beside her on the couch with an unimpressed look. “What?” he demanded upon spotting her expression. “I had nothing to do with this!”

“No,” she agreed, “but you buy into all this nonsense.” 

“It’s just harmless teasing, mi vida.” 

She looked back at the TV where the camera had zoomed out to show the fighting spreading. “Yes,” she deadpanned, “looks completely harmless to me.” 

Gabriel at least had the good grace to be chastened but she pressed on, “Your future son-in-law is with the fire department,” she reminded him. “I would think that would be enough for you to get over this.” 

“I have nothing against TK,” he reminded her firmly, “or his father,” he added as Owen appeared on screen again. “It’s just always been this way,” he concluded with a helpless shrug. “It really doesn’t mean anything, really.” 

She shook her head and turned her focus back to the footage of fighting mass and she could make out Carlos amongst the masses of uninformed brawlers stepping between two blue-clad figures and one red one. She couldn’t say for sure, but she’d put money on TK being the one in red. 

“It looks like the boys had quite the day,” she commented drily. 

Gabriel chuckled, “I can’t wait to ask them about this at dinner on Sunday.” 

She rolled her eyes but was prevented from retorting when her phone began to vibrate across the end table beside her. She twisted to pick it up, grinning when she saw her son’s name on the screen. 

She flashed the screen to Gabriel as she swiped to answer, putting it on speaker and holding the phone between them. “Carlitos, we were just watching you on the news! You and TK better get your stories straight because your father is going to be looking for a play by play when you are here for dinner on Sunday.” 

Her husband grumbled good naturedly but there was quiet on the other line for several moments before Carlos responded, “I um…I don’t think we’ll be able to make dinner on Sunday, actually.” 

It wasn’t so much the words but the way that he said them that sent up red flags for Andrea as she exchanged a look with Gabriel to find the grin slipping off his face too. There was something in the way his voice sounded that brought her back six months ago and sitting beside him in an ICU room as machines worked to keep TK alive. “What’s happened, Carlos?” she asked, skipping the part where she waited for him to talk. 

“It’s TK.” He paused and took a deep breath and in its space a thousand awful scenarios entered her head. But not one of them was anywhere near what Carlos said next, voice cracking over the words: “His mom died.” 

And Andrea didn’t know what to say to that. She put a hand over her mouth in shock as she looked over at her husband with tears in her eyes. He looked just as distressed and for a moment they simply sat in silence on their couch, their son on the phone between them. 

After a moment, Gabriel cleared his throat, “Did he say what happened?” 

“No,” Carlos replied, voice heavy. “His stepdad called him a few hours ago. I don’t think he gave him any details. If he did, he hasn’t shared them. I’ll…I’ll ask later.” 

“Of course,” Andrea murmured, wishing she were there right now to hold both of them in her arms. Carlos sounded wrecked; she could practically see the look on his face (in her head it looked just like the one he had worn when she had arrived at the hospital) and the very thought made her heart ache. But the idea of what TK must be going through… 

She sniffled and felt a hand on her knee. She looked across to see Gabriel giving her a sympathetic smile and wrapped a hand around the one resting on her knee and squeezed it. She could help but think of a time nearly a decade before and a phone call of her own. Even at 40 the pain of losing her mother had nearly struck her down; she was pretty sure that was something you didn’t age out of. But to face it so young—TK wasn’t even 30 yet and his little brother…

She squeezed her eyes shut as she thought about the sweet baby she had met only a few months before when Gwyn Morgan had come to town. That baby boy was never going to know his mother. He was never going to remember the bright, funny woman with kind eyes that had wrapped Andrea in a hug the moment they met and thanked her for all she had done for her son; for being there for him when she hadn’t been able to. Andrea had told her then that TK was family and that she intended to always be there for him and she fully intended to keep that promise, now more than ever. 

She and Gwyn had gushed about their boys, had playfully made bets for their future. It was striking Andrea now that Gwyn would never get to see all those things they had talked about and TK would never get to share them with his mother. She felt fresh tears fall at the thought but pushed her attention back to the phone gripped tightly in her hand as Carlos started speaking again. 

“I don’t know how to do this,” he was saying. “How do I help him through this?” 

And Andrea sucked in a breath because she didn’t know what to tell him. Her mind was so filled with grief—memories of her own intermingling with sympathy for the young man she was coming to love as her own—that there wasn’t room enough to form a coherent thought. Soon the grief was joined by guilt at the fact that her son was asking for help that she couldn’t give him. 

But, as it turned out, she didn’t have too. 

“Just be there for him, mijo,” Gabriel told him gently, tightening his grip on her knee as if to say I’ve got this. “Listen to him and what he needs. Don’t try to fix this, because you can’t. No one can, all you can do is be along for the ride. And keep loving him,” he added as almost an afterthought. “That’s the most important part of all.” 

“That part’s easy,” Carlos replied, and his voice did sound a little steadier. 

Andrea let out a small sigh of relief at the shift and felt a rush of gratitude for her husband: her rock then and now. At least, she thought sadly, TK was in good hands. Being loved like she was, like she knew her son loved him, made the pain so much easier to carry. Sharing the load always did.  

“We’re heading to New York tomorrow,” Carlos continued. “TK, Owen, and I. Our flight leaves at 11.”

“Do you need a ride there?” Gabriel asked and Carlos politely declined. 

“Captain Vega offered to take us. Actually, every member of the 126 offered, she just offered first because TK had to call her to get cleared for the time off.” 

“If you do need anything we’re only a phone call away,” Andrea reminded him. 

“I know that,” Carlos assured them, “and I appreciate it. I just…” he trailed off and when he started again his voice was thicker. “I just feel guilty, almost. I miss her too, but I barely knew her. I can’t imagine how TK must feel, they were so close.” 

“You’re allowed to grieve too, Carlitos,” she told him gently. “You spent time with her, got to know her. She told me about all the time you two spent together when she first got to Austin, how much she had enjoyed getting to know you. And you love her son,” she added. “That means more than you can possibly know. Whatever you’re feeling Carlitos, you need to feel it. What TK is feeling doesn’t make your pain any less. There’s no limit on who can mourn. And trying to ignore your own feelings won’t help either of you.” 

“And I know that, logically,” he replied drily. “But logic and practice are two very different things.” 

That pulled a small laugh out of her, but soon enough they were back to the reality at hand. “It’ll be okay, Carlitos,” she reminded him. “You two will get through this together. And we’ll be here for you, every step of the way.” 

“Thanks, Mom,” he repeated before breaking off with a sigh. “I should go. We’re going to have to get up early in the morning to get going.” 

“Tell TK we’re thinking about him, when you get a chance,” Gabriel replied and Andrea nodded. 

“And we love you, Carlos,” she added. “You and TK both.” 

“I love you too,” Carlos responded, voice thicker than it had been a minute ago. “I’ll let you know tomorrow how everything goes.” 

“Text me your flight info, when you can,” Gabriel requested. “And safe travels.” 

“I will,” Cales promised and with that, the call ended. 

They sat in silence for several minutes after that until Andrea broke the silence, “That poor boy” she said softly, wiping away the tears still clinging to her face. 

“I should call Owen,” Gabriel said heavily, glancing at his watch. “I wonder if it’s too late.” 

“I doubt he’s sleeping,” Andrea replied absently. “I just can’t believe this is happening. After everything they’ve been through…”

But she trailed off instead of finishing her sentence because the only thing she could think of to say was that it wasn’t fair, but hadn’t life shown again and again that fair wasn’t its goal? 

It was all just another reminder of how lucky they were, her and Gabriel. They were both here and healthy, and they had Carlos. They had an amazing son who was in love with an incredible man. They were so blessed. 

Andrea thought again to the woman she had met after hearing about her for so long. She thought of the way she had beamed in pride as she had talked about her son, of the love that was evident in every single glance she took towards her boys. Gwyn had been so full of life and love and humor. Andrea remembered how they had joked about being in-laws someday and she was gutted by the thought that they never would be now. That only one of them would get the privilege of seeing their sons take that step together  

She thought back to how Gwyn had thanked her for loving TK, how she had told her it was easy. It was easy, and it would keep being easy. She knew that without a doubt. And as Gabriel rose from the couch with his phone pressed to his ear as he murmured words of sympathy to Owen Strand, Andrea made her own promise to Gwyn. 

She would keep loving her son, just as much as she did her own. She would be there for him, should he need it. She would make sure that as long as he was in their lives he would never know what it was like to be without a mother’s love. 

Your boy will be alright, she promised the memory of the woman with the bright smile and warm eyes. I’ll make sure of it. 

[braveclxrke]

✨ malex 3.08 coda ✨

3.5k / Ao3 / Malex

title: What's meant for you will find you, even if you feel like it had already passed.

summary: A lil 3.08 coda where we see Michael and Alex talk about the dangers of the Lockhart machine and Michael worries about Alex. We also see some Alex, Michael, Sanders family bonding.

[preview]

The truck pulled into the lot, Michael's head lolling back against the headrest. He kept his eyes for a moment, reliving the last hour over and over in his mind.

He took in a deep breath, pushing open the door and slipping out of his truck, “Where were you all day?” Sanders called, walking across the lot, beer in hand.

Michael raised his brows, head cocked to the side, “I didn’t realise I had a curfew,” he said.

Sanders grunted, “Hilarious,” He quipped.

“Just the usual, hanging with friends, saving lives and defeating evil aliens,” All of that seemed pretty inconsequential compared to the events that occurred at the end of the evening, Michael fought the urge to run his hand across his lips.

“I miss when the ‘usual’ was working on the lot,” Sanders said, “Do you think tomorrow between defeating aliens you could take a look at Mr Simon’s car? You know, the job I pay you for,” He teased.

Michael narrowed his eyes, “Hilarious,” he whispered.

Sanders went to speak when he noticed something behind Michael, his lips being drawn into a small smile.

Michael spun around, his own mouth spreading out into a smile, “Alex?” He said.

Alex was walking across the lot, his hands shoved in his pocket, a folder tucked under his arm, “Hey,” He smiled, nodding his head to the man behind Michael, “Sander, hi,”

After the Wild Pony, Michael and Alex had sat and talked for a while, lost in their own little world where Jones and alien communication machines didn’t exist. Despite neither of them wanting to leave, the night had come to an end as the morning crept closer.

Michael frowned, wondering what had pulled Alex out of the bed he had been looking forward to climbing into, “Everything alright?” He asked, noticing the way Alex was nervously biting his lip.

“Yeah, yeah, I just wanted to drop this off,” He said, pulling one hand from his pocket and handed the file over to Michael.

Michael glanced down at the brown file, “The Caulfield file on the Lockhart machine,” He breathed, glancing back up at Alex.

Alex nodded his head, “Yeah, I’m at work tomorrow, so thought you might want to take a look at this before I have to bring it back,” Alex said, his hands ringing together nervously.

Michael smiled, his fingers running across the writing on the front, “Thanks,” He said. Despite the nervous energy radiating off Alex, he grinned back at Michael.

“You wanna beer, kid?” Sanders said, Michael completely forgetting the man was there, and from the look on Alex’s face, so had he.

He gave a polite smile, “Uhh, I should get going; let you guys sleep,” He smiled.

Sanders scoffed, “Nonsense, he ain’t gonna sleep now he’s got that, I’ll be back in a minute,” He said, patting Michael on the back as he walked across the lot and disappeared into the dark. Michael and Alex strode over to the chairs outside Michael’s trailer, the fire pit already lit.

Alex sat down, his hand nervously tapping on his thigh. Michael grabbed the chair closest to Alex and dragged it, so the armrests were practically touching.

“You okay?” He asked as he sat next to Alex, placing the file on the floor, the information inside not his priority.

Alex nodded, “Yeah, I’m fine,” He said too quickly for him to have put any thought into the answer.

[read the rest on ao3]

[thesquidkid]

I guess it's been a long way home, trying to face the world alone

Kind of a coda to 3x07 where Alex spends some time in the barn without really knowing what happened in Roswell, studying the Lockhart machine. The machine activates and a man with a sword shows up.

(basically my thoughts on Alex meeting Jones in 1.8k words)

Alex had been at the Gunther farm for 27 hours now, Ramos occasionally bringing him food, both of them sitting by Kyle’s bed, waiting for him to wake up. Ramos would go back and forth between the Deep Sky facility and the farm, but had told Alex to not do the same, to stay with people, have company, in hopes to not lose his mind like Trevor Gunther once had.

The Lockhart machine had been moved to the farm too, per Alex’s request, wanting to stay near Kyle in case he woke up. He barely slept in those 27 hours, closing his eyes only a few times, sitting on the chair, holding one sided conversations with Kyle.

He also barely looked at his phone, putting his whole attention on the machine, on the Caufield files. In hindsight, he probably should’ve been more in touch with his friends in Roswell. That way he maybe could’ve avoided what happened.

He was fiddling with the Lockhart machine, his computer opened on the side looking through the deep web, one had on the top of the machine observing the signals. Suddenly, the machine activated, the soundwave resonating through his entire body, shaking the walls of the barn. Before he could even process what was happening, he found himself pinned against a wall, held by a force that was both familiar yet unknown, facing a man whose face he knew quite well, holding a purple sword that looked very much alien.

“Well, well, well,” said the man with a dark smile that seemed out of place on that face, usually sweet and awkward, taking a few steps forwards in the direction of Alex, getting closer to the machine. “We meet at last, Alex Manes,” he continued, looking at him up and down, examining Alex from all angles, making him feel like an animal in a zoo.

“Jones,” Alex said as a greeting, knowing very well that the Max he knew would never act this way. His mind was racing, thinking of the best plan to follow, trying to predict Jones’ intentions. However, he quickly realised that he didn’t know that much about the man, other than he was a clone of Max (or Max was a clone of him) and that he knew more about the alien’s home planet than his friends did. Which wasn’t much to base a plan off, even with his gut telling him not to trust him. So instead of doing anything, he just stared back at Jones, who just smiled at him.

“Before we do anything, M Manes,” Jones said, his eyes circling between Alex and the machine, taking a few steps towards the latter, so that he could touch it with his hands. Alex opened his eyes in shock - the machine was reacting to Jones, the metal seemingly changing color. “I want to thank you,” he continued after a long exhale as his hand came into contact with the machine, “for bringing me exactly to where I wanted to be.” He pointed his last words by looking back at Alex, smiling in a way that was so un-Max it creeped Alex out.

He swallowed his saliva hard and frowned, how did Jones find him? Jones must’ve felt Alex’s confusion, since he continued, waving his sword around and finally settling it on his shoulder. “Oh Alex,” he said, shaking his head, “I wish I could answer all your questions, but you see I am a bit in a hurry and you are the final link I need to break.”

With that, he took the final steps towards Alex, and swung his sword down. Alex closed his eyes, knowing what was coming, having been close to death before. He waited for the sharp pain to come, already calculating his chance of survival, knowing he couldn’t move and was at Jones’ mercy. But the blow never came. He opened his eyes slowly, hesitantly, to see Jones frozen in motion, his eyebrows frowned, clearly using his force but being blocked by an invisible force. The sword was a few millimetres from Alex’s chest, touching the fabric of his jumper, so close that he could feel the heat coming from it.

“Don’t touch him!” came a shout from the entrance of the barn, making Alex raise his head in its direction, even though he already knew who it was from. Jones hadn’t moved, couldn’t probably, and was thrown away to the left of the barn, his sword flying into Michael’ hand as he ran towards Alex. Alex could feel his feet touching the ground, but didn’t have to balance to steady himself and fell, making Michael lean to him.

“Are you okay? Did he hurt you? I’m gonna-” he rambled as is eyes searched Alex’s body for any sign of injury, the furry clear in his eyes, making Alex chuckle, “I’m fine, Michael,” he interrupted, “Thank you,” he added sincerely, raising Michael’s head with his right hand so they eyes could meet. The furry in Michael melted for a bit, but regained it’s amplitude as Jones laughed on the side.

“Oh isn’t it so cute, saving each other's lives.” He stood up, brushing his trousers with his hands before using his telekinesis to bring the sword back to him. “Anyway, I think some formal introductions are needed, don’t you think, son?”

Alex raised an eyebrow at this. Son? He looked back and forth between Michael and Jones, the latter smiling and the former avoiding him. “Oh my god,” he groaned, his head falling back against the wood panel he was earlier pinned against.

Michael stayed silent, his eyes looking at the floor, his body slightly shaking from what Alex assumed was anger mixed with a bit of fear. Fear of what it meant, fear of what he might become. It was one thing knowing the horrors of your father, another to actually see them. And Alex knew that very well. He stood up, using the wall to balance himself, and stepped in front of Michael, facing Jones. He crossed his arms against his chest and lifted his chin, defying Jones. He knew that it probably wasn’t the best idea, but he also knew very well that all his rational thoughts flew out the window when it came to Michael. And in this moment, he wanted nothing more than to protect him.

“I have an offer for you, Michael,” Jones breathed out, as if tired of this nonsense. What nonsense exactly, Alex didn’t know, but he didn’t want to find out what Jones would do to speed things up. At the mention of his name, Michael looked up, Alex still feeling the anger and fear off of him. “I have a plan, you see. One that involves coming back home,” he smiled at Michael, who unconsciously took a step forward at the mention of home. Jones must’ve noticed it too, as he continued, “I could take you with me, if you wanted. You could see where you are from, the family you have that stayed, the life you so desperately wanted, a life where you are loved, my son.”

As he spoke, Michael took a few steps forward, until he was now the one in front of Alex. Alex looked at him move, his mind racing through all the possibilities. As Michael turned his head towards him, however, all fears about being left alone disappeared. The look Michael gave him was a look he had once described as ‘making him seventeen again’, and he couldn’t agree more with that statement. It was a look of hope and love, but not directed towards Michael’s father or home planet, no. It was directed to the one person who had made him belong on earth. Alex.

The look didn’t last long, though, as Michael turned his head towards Jones. Alex couldn’t see his face, but if he based himself on Jones’ reaction, he could see it satisfied him. His eyes stared at the back of Michael’s skull, all he wanted to do was close his eyes and keep Michael’s look burned into his mind. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t bare himself to not watch, wanting more than anything to trust Michael. For Michael to have the same hope that he had, in them.

Michael walked forwards until he was face to face with Jones, feeling each other’s breaths on their faces. He whispered something that Alex couldn’t hear and the reaction was immediate. Jones, who was previously smiling like the evil mastermind that he was, became instantly furious, a fire burning in his eyes. Alex wanted to shout, tell Michael to take cover, but he didn’t have time as it all happened in a matter of seconds.

Jones went flying against the closest wall but not through it - which Alex found strange with the force that was used against him. His sword went to Michael’s right hand, holding it firmly. He could see Michael’s shoulders raise as he inhaled deeply. And then, just as fast as Michael threw Jones and took his sword, he pushed a bit harder and Jones vanished towards the desert.

Michael turned around finally walking slowly towards Alex, letting Alex fully see him. His hair was a mess, and had been since before he walked into the barn, anger still clear on his face. It was different, though, thought Alex as Michael waked until stopping a few feet in front of him, it was like it had diminished a bit. So had the fear, he realised, it was still there, probably would always be there, but it felt more like a background emotion, not at the forefront of Michael’s thoughts.

The two of them stared at each other for what felt like forever, Jones forgotten. “You stayed,” Alex said, echoing Michael’s words from the first morning he woke up in the airstream. Michael smiled at him, taking a deep, shallow breath, “My family is here on earth,” he said weakly, nearly a whisper. He swallowed and continued, his eyes never leaving Alex’s, “You are,” he whispered this time, so quietly that Alex nearly didn’t hear him.

Except he heard the whisper. Loud and clear. Resonating through his body bringing tears to his eyes and smile to his lips. He closed the distance between them and hugged Michael, hard. The hug was awkward, neither properly used to them, especially with each other, but they both clung hard, not wanting to let go.

“I’m not going anywhere, Alex,” whispered Michael in Alex’s ear, “Neither am I, Michael,” answered Alex in the same tone. They leaned out of the hug, their foreheads touching, the outside world a problem for another time. Right now, they needed to reassure each other, hold each other, the rest could be figured out later. They had time.

Eventually they came out of the barn, and were met with Isobel, Liz and Rosa who had put Jones back in a pod. The three women looked at both of them, smiling as they saw how closely they were walking, but distant enough that everyone knew they still had some distance to go, conversations to be had, lost time to be caught. And that would happen, in its own time, now that they were both on earth and planning to stay.

[expectingtofly]

One Hell (Heaven?) of a Situation

2.6k

also posted on ao3

thanks to @callenofthenorth​ for beta-editing :)

15x20 Coda, Crack and Fluff, Jimmy and Kansas are in Heaven

I have no good explanation for this. I was in the middle of writing a "serious" coda... then the stuff about Jimmy and Kansas came out and this happened instead

Dean opened his eyes to a bright, blue sky.

“What the fuck?” he muttered, realizing he was lying on the ground outside. Sitting up, he looked around, trying to get his bearings, then everything came flooding back to him. The vamp mimes, that fucking piece of rebar, piercing pain—he looked down at himself and frowned. These were not the clothes he’d been wearing on that hunt. 

“Fuck,” he said aloud as it hit him. “I’m dead.”

Getting to his feet, he stared at the building he’d ended up beside. The Roadhouse? He thought his Heaven was setting off fireworks with Sammy. Then a familiar figure stepped out onto the porch and called, “Dean!”

“Bobby?” Dean asked as he approached the porch.

“What the hell are you doing here, boy?” Bobby asked, pulling him into a hug. “Thought you had several more years in you.”

“Yeah, well, bad luck.” He really was gonna have to come up with a better story for how he got here than death by glorified rusty nail.

Pulling away from Bobby, he looked at the lit windows of the Roadhouse. Was that "Dust in the Wind" playing from inside? “What memory is this?”

“It isn’t one.” Bobby clapped him on the shoulder. “Heaven’s completely different now. Jack changed everything. Everyone’s together, we can go wherever we want, do whatever we want.” He gestured to the Roadhouse door. “Turns out that means a lot of parties inside.”

“Shit, alright.” Dean smiled. “Way to go Jack.”

“Wasn’t just his idea, though. Castiel helped.”

Dean’s heart skipped a beat, or would’ve if it was still beating. He stared at Bobby, afraid he hadn’t heard him right. “Cas  helped?”

Bobby grinned. “A week ago, or something like that—time passes strange here—Jack showed up and introduced himself. Brought Cas with him.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Dean interrupted. “A week ago? What the hell? Why didn’t Jack bring Cas down to Earth? Sammy and I, we were going crazy—” He cut himself off. He didn’t want to remember his last days on Earth. The way he and Sam had poured through books of lore, trying to find a spell, something, anything, to bring Cas back. The long, sleepless nights, the way his eyes burned as he scanned yellowed pages, the fear that they might never get Cas back, that he might never get to give Cas a reply… Even after defeating Chuck, returning to run-of-the-mill monster hunts, nothing had seemed normal. Nothing had seemed right.

“I don’t know,” Bobby said, frowning. “Cas said he had work to do here first. He’s inside—”

The words hadn’t left his mouth before Dean was wrenching open the door to the Roadhouse and rushing inside. Calls and greetings rose around him, but he couldn’t pay them any attention, too intent on scanning the room. 

There, in the corner, sitting at a table near a stage where a band played. The angel he never thought he’d see again. “Cas!” Dean called and rushed forward. 

A woman at the same table nudged Cas’ shoulder, and Cas turned from watching the band. His eyes met Dean’s, then widened, and a look of horror crossed over his face.

“Wait, wait!” he exclaimed, lifting his hands up in defense, and holy fuck—Dean skidded to a stop in front of the table, the words, I love you on his tongue. That was not Cas’ voice. And the man in front of him was not Cas.

He was Jimmy.

Dean stared at him, the joy and relief that had urged him forward giving way to shock and disappointment. If he’d paused for one second before running over, he would’ve realized in an instant that the man in front of him wasn’t Cas. There were several giveaways. For one, the polo shirt and khakis Jimmy was wearing. Two, his arm around the woman sitting in the chair next to him—his wife, Dean was assuming.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Dean managed, realizing he’d been staring with his mouth open. He shut it and tried to not look as betrayed as he felt.

“I live down the road,” Jimmy said, looking affronted. “Well, not live, because I guess we’re all dead—”

“Where’s Cas?”

“He’s, um,” Jimmy rubbed the back of his neck and looked around the room. “He was here a moment ago, but I don’t know where he went.”

Dean blinked at him, then turned to scan the room. “Anyone seen Cas leave?” he called desperately. He got a mixture of noncommittal sounds and shrugs. Just his luck. The one time he was finally ready to tell Cas how he felt, and Cas was nowhere to be found.

Bobby reached his side. “I see you’ve met Jimmy. Again.”

“Yeah.” He stared at Jimmy, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “This is one hell of a situation.” Which was ironic, considering he was in Heaven right now.

“It’s not my fault!” Jimmy protested. “I wasn’t expecting Castiel to show up looking like me! Besides, I thought angels didn’t go to Heaven when they died.”

“Well, Cas is special,” Dean spluttered. “He gets to keep his vessel, I guess. And if anyone deserves to be in Heaven, it’s him.” 

Tearing his eyes from the imposter, he turned to Bobby. “What the hell is going on?” he muttered. “Why is Jimmy in my Heaven?” It wasn’t that he hated the guy; it was just incredibly difficult to look at him—Jimmy having the same face as Cas and all.

“Like I said,” Bobby explained patiently, “it’s not  your  heaven. It’s everyone’s. Case in point, your dad has a house not five minutes from here.”

“Fuck.” Sam was gonna  love  that. “Wait.” He scanned the room again, slower now. There was Ellen, Jo, Mrs. Tran—fuck, he was gonna have a lot of explaining to do about Kevin. “Where’s mom?”

Bobby grimaced. “Her and John split up, pretty hairy situation. She’s doing well now, though, much better off without him. Do you know a stuck-up British guy by the name of Ketch?”

“You’re joking. Not him and mom… Together?” Bobby nodded and Dean swore under his breath. “This place isn’t what I was expecting at all.”

“If I might add,” Jimmy spoke up and Dean looked at him. “Castiel has been creating quite the disturbance since he got here. Heaven was… peaceful before him. Not so much now.”

“What’s he talking about?” Dean asked Bobby.

“Well, turns out Cas isn’t such a fan of John—” 

“He nearly started a fight!” Jimmy interjected. “This is Heaven, for Heaven’s sake!”

Dean couldn’t help but grin, and Bobby returned the smile. “Come on,” he said, leading Dean away from Jimmy. “Cas will turn up soon enough. I’m sure Jack will too. There’s a lot of people here who are happy to see you.”

“Right, yeah,” Dean said, trying to hide the fact that, at the moment, the only person he wanted to see was Cas. He let Bobby lead him to the bar where Ellen smiled and waved at them. “Icarus-Borne on Wings of Steel” filled the air and he frowned. That sounded pretty good for a cover band. 

He glanced at the stage and stopped in his tracks. “Is that… Kansas?”

Bobby nodded. “They all died when their tour bus crashed. I would say it’s a shame, but I’m enjoying the live music too much.”

Dean shook his head in disbelief. First Jimmy, now Kansas. Heaven was… interesting, to say the least. Overwhelming was another way to put it. If only Cas would show up, he could start to appreciate it all. 

Cas? he prayed silently. I’m here, buddy. I wanna… I wanna see you. He waited for the sound of wings, but none came, and disappointment sunk in his chest.

He made his way through the Roadhouse, greeting old friends, making up a badass story for how he died—thirteen vamps, an epic car chase, and liberal use of his grenade launcher—but his smile felt forced. Where the hell was Cas? Maybe he was angry Dean had stayed silent during his love confession. In Dean’s defense, Cas had thrown a lot at him all at once. He’d been in a state of shock for days after. Even now he wasn’t completely sure he hadn’t dreamt the whole thing up.

“Jimmy,” he called, returning to the table. He caught the way Jimmy rolled his eyes before looking up at him. 

“Yes?”

“Cas, he’s been alright, hasn’t he? I mean, did he, um, has he said anything about me?”

Jimmy’s eye twitched and his wife laughed. “What has he not said about you—that’s the real question,” she answered. 

“He won’t shut up,” Jimmy added. He gestured to Kansas, to the bar. “All this, it’s been for you. Giving Kansas a gig here, the free, unlimited liquor. He acts like he’s designing Heaven for everyone, but it’s painfully clear it’s all for you. He even brought in the Impala, which he won’t let anyone near, by the way.”

Baby was here? Obviously. She was as good a car as cars got. Of course Cas understood that. “So, he’s not mad at me?” he pressed.

Jimmy let out an exasperated sigh and looked at his wife. “This is the nonsense I had to put up with, the whole time Castiel was possessing me.” He looked back at Dean. “No. Not that I know of. Did you two really not get together on Earth? After all this time?”

“We’ve been busy,” Dean protested. “Saving the world, defeating God—we haven’t exactly had time for heart to heart talks.” That wasn’t strictly true, but the truth wasn’t something he was proud of. All these years and he’d never worked up the courage to tell Cas how he truly felt. But now he had a second chance, if only Cas would show. 

“Well, hopefully you two can talk it out soon because if I have to see Castiel stare at you longingly across the room one more time, even if it’s not through my own eyes anymore, I’m gonna request a transfer to hell.” With that, he turned back to his wife, and Dean stammered for a snarky retort. Unable to come up with one that preserved the last shreds of his dignity, he slunk away.

Joining Jo and Charlie at the bar, he listened as Charlie told him about the recent larping tournament she had organized. He paid attention, nodding and laughing at the right moments, but his eyes kept searching the room for any glimpse of a trenchcoat. 

The door to the Roadhouse opened and Dean turned expectantly, his heart racing. Rufus raised a hand in greeting as he stepped inside and Dean sighed. 

Please, Cas, he prayed. I have so much to tell you.

His eyes returned to Jimmy again. Same hair, same face, same eyes as Cas. But so different. So human. Cas, though… Cas was gorgeous—the way he stared at Dean so intently, the way he carried himself, the way his eyes glowed with angelic strength, such blue eyes, and his hands, holy fuck...

“For Pete’s sake!” Jimmy exclaimed and Dean startled, realizing he’d been staring for who knew how long. Jimmy jabbed his finger at a door on the back wall. “He’s hiding in there.”

“W-What…?”

Jimmy looked heavenwards—well, at the ceiling—for a long moment before meeting Dean’s eyes. “Castiel panicked when he heard you were here, something about not expecting you so soon—”

Dean stopped listening, already shoving his stool aside and rushing to the door. The doorknob didn’t budge so he knocked. “Cas? Cas, are you in there?”

A long pause, then a muffled, “Yes.”

Dean leaned closer to the door to hear better. “Cas, what the hell, man? What are you doing in there?” He waited for a response, but none came. “Cas?” he pressed, afraid the angel had flown the coop.

The door opened slowly, and Dean took a step back. Cas stood with one hand on the doorknob, an embarrassed look on his face. “Hello, Dean.”

The sound of those familiar words, in that familiar voice, made Dean weak at the knees. He forced his voice to be steady as he said, “Hi, Cas.”

Cas studied him. “You died so soon.”

Dean huffed a laugh. “Yeah, sick joke, right?”

“How did it happen?” Cas started to ask, but Dean waved his hand. 

“Not important. The better question is, why have you been avoiding me?” His voice faltered at a sudden fear that he wouldn’t like the answer. Maybe Cas had had too much time to think since the night he died, maybe he was regretting everything he’d said, maybe Dean’s silence had spoiled the moment—

Cas ducked his head, studying his shoes. “I wasn’t sure… I never expected to see you again. I thought my death was final. Then Jack awakened me and brought me from the Empty, and...”

“And?”

“And I wasn’t sure how you would react to my reappearance.” Cas raised his head to meet Dean’s eyes. “I said a lot of things before I died, and I don’t know how things stand between us now.” 

“Then let me speak.” He glanced over his shoulder to see everyone watching them. In all the times he’d pictured this moment, he’d never imagined having an audience, let alone background music courtesy of Kansas. But he’d be damned if he went one moment longer without telling Cas the truth. 

Focusing on those blue eyes again, he took a deep breath and said, “You were wrong.” Cas frowned a little and Dean continued, “You  can  have me. I love you, Cas—have for years now. I just never… I never knew how to say it.” Cas watched him, face serious, eyes intent. So undeniably Castiel. “I love you. So goddamn much. Please say it’s not too late. Please tell me you’re not having second thoughts.”

A smile slowly spread over Cas’s face. “It’s not too late, Dean. I’ll always love you.”

Relief rushed over Dean. Before he could think twice about it, he stepped forward, grabbed Cas’ tie, and pulled him in to kiss him. He felt Cas’ hand rise to his cheek, then Cas was kissing him back and people were cheering, but Dean ignored them all, wrapping his free arm around Cas to pull him closer. 

“I thought you didn’t love me back,” Cas whispered, pushing his forehead against Dean’s when they broke apart after seconds, or maybe years. Time in Heaven was different, after all.

“I can’t believe you hid in a closet to avoid me.”

Cas laughed a little. “Not my finest moment.”

“I almost confessed my love to Jimmy; I thought he was you.”

“Oh, yes. I suspect his being here is going to cause some confusion.” Cas pulled away to frown at Jimmy over Dean’s shoulder. “And he was not supposed to tell you where I was.”

Dean laughed. “I’m just so glad you’re here.” He kissed Cas again, deeply, slipping his hands under the worn fabric of the trenchcoat. Cas’ fingers slid along his neck and in his hair. Finally, after so long...

Though his mind was spinning, he caught Jimmy’s voice rise above Kansas playing “The Wall,” “First I had to hear all of Castiel’s thoughts about Dean while he possessed me, now I have to share a Heaven with them—”

“Get a room!” Jo called. Dean waved her off as Cas pulled him into the supply room. He’d make a comment later on the irony of hiding in a closet. Right now, he nearly tripped over his feet in his haste to keep kissing Cas while fumbling to pull the door shut behind them. Time to start enjoying the afterlife.

Tag List

@becky-srs @xojo @marvelnaturalock @cas-you-assbutt-dean-needs-you @aelysianmuse @prayedtoyou @letsjustdieeveryone @spookyskeletonsandallthezombies @good-things-do-happen-dean @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @theninthdutchessofhell @famouspsychicpizzabandit @madronasky

Let me know (message, ask, comment) if you’d like to be tagged in my other destiel fics or removed from the list :)

[cassiecasyl]

It’s the Heart, Not the Power

I started this fic after fatws e1 aired but bc I’m slow af, I only finished last night at like 2 am and then was too tired to post. oh well. Hope you enjoy!!

fandom: mcu, the falcon and the winter soldier relationships: Sam Wilson & Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson & Peter Parker & Bucky Barnes  add. tags: Post-Episode s1e1 A New World Order, Coda, Not Spider-Man: Far From Home Mid-Credits Scene Compliant, Banter, Sam Wilson & Bucky Barnes Friendship, BAMF Sam Wilson, Protective Bucky Barnes

“Sam, you’ve got a visitor.” Sam laid the screwdriver aside at his sister’s words, looking up to see her standing at the doorway leading down to the ship’s engine room. She was surrounded by light, an aura that reminded him of lighter times when they were still kids roaming their playgrounds recklessly. At the same time, it looked a little like the one they called Captain Marvel. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d be called away to battle soon enough again.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“One of your hero friends,” was all Sarah provided, leaving Sam none the wiser. He sighed, gave the engine a gentle clap to say goodbye, and climbed up the ladder.

“You’re not gonna be any more specific than that, huh?” he asked, following her to the dock and eventually, towards the house. Sarah didn’t respond. He shook his head and chuckled slightly.

“See for yourself,” she invited, coming to a stop at the front door, raised eyebrows and all. Something was definitely up. And Sam had the feeling she didn’t like it very much or, at least, disapproved. He had just arrived, after all, shaking things up, and now he’d go again?

He breathed in, bracing himself for whoever it was. Maybe Torres turned up, all bloodied up. Maybe some white dude from the military, all demanding. Hell, he had no idea. But least of all, he expected this.

“Sam! Honestly, I thought you’d sink with that shipwreck out there,” Bucky addressed him, looking up from the soup he was sipping. Sam recognized it as a portion for the soup kitchen and sent a questioning gaze towards his sister, who just shrugged.

“What? He looked hungry.”

“And thank you, Ms. Wilson. This is phenomenal,” Bucky smiled up at her, looking like a satisfied puppy. At least, that’s what Sam would always call it around Steve. He looked back and forth between his sister and his friend, sensing a flirtation.

“Ah, no. This isn’t happening. That’d be just weird.”

“What? I’m just telling the truth,” Bucky defended himself, grinning.  

“I don’t need you to protect me, Sam. I’m a grown woman,” Sarah clarified, glaring at her brother. “Besides, I’m not interested.”

“Aw, you wound me,” Bucky joked and Sarah shook her head over their nonsense. Then, she turned around and left them alone. Sam mustered Buck. He seemed tired in a sense all too familiar to him, but it seemed worse than usual somehow. His form was hunched a little over the food, speaking discomfort.

“I’ll have you know that shipwreck out there is a thriving old lady with only a few kinks in her back,” Sam retorted at his line from earlier. No way he let him get away with disrespecting his home like that.

“God, you sound like Stark,” Bucky answered, and after a brief silence, they erupted into laughter. It was good to see him. Bucky coughed as some soup entered his air hole, but caught himself quickly and finished the food. Then, he stood up and placed the dirty dishes into the sink.

“So, you’ve been getting my texts. I was starting to think you forgot how to use your phone or something, old man.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got better things to do than answering your boring texts.”

“Yeah, and what would that be? Contemplating your existence?”

“For example,” Bucky admitted, heavier than intended, “but also” - he paused and went to retrieve a roundish bag that had been sitting by his feet - “this.”

Sam’s heart sank slightly in recognition. He was glad it wasn’t in Walker’s hands anymore, but it truly didn’t belong anywhere other than next to Steve’s suit in the memorial. It was his and always would be. “You didn’t,” he exclaimed.

“Oh, yes, I did,” Bucky confirmed, mischief on his features. They’d get into so much trouble for this.

Read the whole fic on ao3!

tag list (let me know if you wanna be added or removed!): 

@aixabi @spookyscarykittycat @aniridescentdreamer @starrynightdeancas @sherlock-who-mentalist @lost-lunar-wolf

[lire-casander]

a time of heartbreak and distress [a young royals fanfic]

[5,231 words] [teen and up audiences] [title from with you in your dreams by hanson] [it's unbeta'ed (and i'm not native), but my friend @moviegeek03 had a look over it and promised me it didn't suck. any mistakes are my own.] [prince wilhelm, prince erik, simon eriksson, queen kristina, king ludvig, headmistress annette lilja, malin] [angst, grief, canon compliant, coda for s01e03, mentions of character death as per canon, erik’s dead, little to none dialogue, character study, panic attacks, fractured structure — changing between flashbacks and present time, hurt no comfort, emotional whump] [after rewatching the show far too many times, i’m still hurt by the way wille throws everyone out and remains alone in his bubble of hurt and grief, instead of leaning into the people who could be there for him. thus, this fic was born. i don’t know what it is, but i wanted it to be a study on grief and loneliness. this is my first fanfic for this fandom, so please be gentle (or not and let me know how much this sucks)]

[when his whole world is turned upside down, prince wilhelm needs to face the new reality of his position completely on his own — or does he?]

a time of heartbreak and distress | on ao3

The sky is a weird shade of blue, cloudless and pretty in the peak of the morning, mocking him from above as he stares up through the wide windows of his chambers at the Palace.

He's too scared to look down at himself and see how unworthy he is of everything that has just been handed his way, simply because life has thrown them all a curve ball neither could have anticipated.

Wilhelm tries to breathe deep, nostrils flailing as he fails time and time again, unable to keep the air inside his lungs long enough not to feel like he's dying from asphyxia. He tries not to succumb to panic, closing his eyes and attempting to count backwards from one hundred, but he's assaulted by images of Erik when he was happy and carefree and alive, and that's harder than everything Wilhelm has ever lived through.

Loneliness has a tricky way to relocate to his heart when he'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be on his own. When he'd realized he didn't need to be isolated due to his position — when he'd seen himself reflected on dark eyes in a way that he could only dream of. As though he's worthy of love because of himself and not because of his title. As though he deserves to be cherished.

It had almost made the anxiety go away for a fleeting moment.

It's always been there, the pressure on his chest, the constricting pain viciously clawing at his lungs, the weight on his shoulders that feels as though he’s carrying the whole world by himself. It’s always been there, the crippling fear and the nasty anxiety, but this time he has the inkling that it will be ten thousand times worse.

This time he doesn’t have Erik around to share it.

One hand goes up to rub his chest over the soft fabric of the sweater he’s wearing, fingers clumsily trying to reach underneath as though it would give him some comfort as the freezing wind coming in from the open window seeps beneath his skin and takes siege of his bones. He feels like he's going to be cold forever.

"Wilhelm," he hears in the distance, the sound muffled as though his head is underwater. "Wilhelm, you need to get ready."

He looks up, right into his father’s eyes, and nods curtly. He knows his place now, as the new Crown Prince, but he doesn’t want to move. He just wants to stay in this moment for a little while longer, because the later he moves the later reality will kick in. The funeral won't start until they get to the cathedral, and without a funeral he can still pretend that none of this nonsense is real.

He can still pretend that Erik is simply away on an official trip, and that he might step into the palace anytime now, after skidding in with that red sports car Wilhelm teased him so much about.

The car that took Erik from Wilhelm.

"Wilhelm," he father insists. A hand lands on his shoulder, anchoring him and bringing him back from his memories of a far happier time. "I know it hurts, son. Believe me, I do. But the service won't wait for anyone, not even the Crown Prince."

That's when it settles in his mind — and in his heart — that he actually is the Crown Prince. That all the cameras will be attached to his every movement. That he's going to be dissected under the public eye today and for the test of his life. That one day he's going to stop being the Crown Prince and he's going to become the King.

That, despite his parents raising both Erik and himself in a similar fashion just in case, he's never going to be ready to take over where Erik left it, because his brother's shadow is too long and dark to be outshone by the meek presence of an awkward teenager with a massive crush on one of his classmates.

He sighs and nods. He knows he needs needs move away from the window, in front of which he's aware he's been planted for far too long, but his legs refuse to cooperate. He feels helpless without Erik, more alone than he's ever been, and he doubts he'll ever be able to recover from losing his brother.

"What are you doing there?" comes his motherʼs voice, a shrilling sound cutting through the white noise in his head. "The cars will be leaving for the cathedral in ten minutes and you're still here? What are you wearing? Isn’t that—"

Her voice falters, and it doesn't take a genius to understand that what she's seeing is the reason why she's stopped grilling him.

The soft blue sweater he's wearing — two sizes too big, with sleeves that would cover his hands if he hadn’t rolled them up his forearms — isn't exactly his. Although, technically, he thinks it might be.

It isn’t his.

It's Erik's.

"It’s—it's Erik," his mother whispers through the phone, and Wilhelm clutches the device tighter against his ear, a choked-up what bubbling up his throat. "He was going too fast and lost control."

There's a sob rattling his motherʼs voice, interrupting the news he hadn't anticipated. Sure, he'd seen the rest of the boarders muttering as he walked past them, but he'd thought nothing of it.

He'd been too focused on escaping Hillerska and this hell for a few days to explore who he could be with Simon.

"Wil—Wilhelm," and he's never heard his mother stumbling upon words like this before. He tenses up, fear finally catching up with him. "Erik is dead."

He feels numb, standing in the middle of the Headmistress’ office, a landline phone weirdly stuck to his hand as he stares ahead and allows the words to sink, even though their meaning still escapes his understanding. There's no way Erik is gone. He simply can't be.

"A car will pick you up in an hour and a half. It's already on its way. Malin and Johan will escort you back home."

Malin and Johan. Wilhelm knows them because they're Erik's security detail. It takes him a second to comprehend that they're no longer working for Erik. They'll be following his every step from now on — he won't have a second to himself. Because he's now who his brother used to be.

"I—" he stammers, the fingers holding the phone receiver curling tighter, nails digging in his skin. "I'll be ready."

He hangs up, his heart hammering in his chest as he summons up the courage to turn around and face the adults gathered at his back.

"Prince Wilhelm," the Headmistress says in a grave voice.

"I need to go," he interrupts her. "I'm not sure when I'll be back." He doesn’t say the words that are biting at his throat, fighting to be spoken. I don't know if I'll ever be back.

"Of course," she replies, her face a mask as he stares briefly up before casting his gaze down again, at the marks his nails have left on his palms. "Whatever the Crown needs."

He doesn’t want any of this. He doesn’t want to walk this world alone, without the guiding presence of his older brother. He doesn’t want to be addressed as the Crown Prince. He doesn’t want to become King one day. He doesn’t want the deference and the pity.

He just wants to be normal.

Instead, he walks out of the office and into the deserted hallway, his steps faltering as he leans into the nearest wall, palms sweaty and head full of cotton. He has to stop, rest his back on the wall, allow his head to roll back against the surface, before the reality of his new normal hits him with the force of a thousand freight trains bound his way.

Erik is gone.

There will be no more late night snacks in the kitchen, no more light banter during the rare weekends they both were at the Palace, no more shared glances across halls full of people neither of them wants to acknowledge. From now on, there will only be one of them doing all these things, and it breaks Wilhelm's heart that he gets to have all that when it's always been Erik's birthright.

Your birthright is a privilege, not a punishment, his mother loves repeating until they both get fed up with the sound of the words.

Wilhelm shivers.

It will only be him from now on enduring her lectures about etiquette and proper behavior.

Somehow, he manages to make it to the corridor leading to his room, but he has no recollection of how he's finally arriving at the correct place. He feels like he's been running in circles around Forest Ridge, the rest of the students long gone to their exeat weekend. There's a silhouette leaning against the frame of the window by the end of the corridor, the faint light of a phone screen illuminating features that not that long ago Wilhelm had wanted to map out with his lips.

Simon.

"You're here," he says lamely when he reaches Simon, a couple of feet away from the door to his room. "Why are you still here?"

"I wanted to check in on you," Simon whispers. There's a reverence in his voice that wasn't there before. "How are you?"

"You know," Wilhelm says, and it comes out way harsher than he intended. "You know what's happened. You know how I feel."

"I know how you're supposed to feel," Simon points out. "But I don’t know how you're feeling right now."

The atmosphere is too suffocating for Wilhelm to think straight. The lump in his throat double his size as he stares down at this boy who's waited on him just to make sure he's okay. Which he won't be, not any time soon, maybe not ever. But instead of gratitude, Wilhelm feels a white rage building up inside of him, rearing its ugly head up until it climbs its way up.

"I won't be going to Bjärstad this weekend," he says in a low voice. "I'm leaving in," he checks his watch, surprised to find that almost forty-five minutes have passed since his phone call with his mother, "three quarters of hour, give or take. I don’t know when I'll be back."

Simon's face falls at his words, but he's quick on putting up a mask, just like every other time the guys at Hillerska have made fun of him for being a non-resident in a boarding school filled to the brim with bratty snobs.

"I understand," he replies slowly. "I'm sorry for your loss, Wille. I'm here if you need to talk. Whenever you need it."

The sentiment behind Simon's words isn't lost to Wilhelm — you're not alone, you can count on me — but there are certain things that a prince needs to do on his own. Mourning the deceased Crown Prince before becoming the next one, even though he's already de facto the next in line, is one of those.

"Thanks," he mutters. His hand rests on the doorknob, and it's only when he touches the cold metal that he realizes he's trembling, the fingers tapping on the spot with a tinkling noise. "I—I need to go," he stutters. Mentally, he chastises himself. A Crown Prince doesn’t stammer. He needs to get a grip.

With a nod towards Simon's direction, he opens the door and steps into the solitude of his new reality.

A single tear makes its way down his cheek.

A single tear makes its way down his cheek as he walks into the empty cathedral, his steps echoing inside the space built out of high ceilings and wide windows. He blinks it away as he approaches the coffin, closed so nobody can see the wreckage the accident did on Erik's body. Wilhelm himself hasn't really seen it; he's only heard about it, in hushed whispers spoken through covered mouths because his mother thinks he's not ready to face the truth.

She's right — he's not ready. But he needs to be, and her attitude towards him only makes him believe that his own mother deems him unable to deal with his emotions.

He leans in once he reaches the coffin, right ear against it as though he wants to make sure that no sound comes from the inside. He needs to check that Erik isn't going to be buried alive. His arms flail at his sides, and he lifts them to cover as much of space as he can, hugging the coffin as he'd hug his brother.

There's a handful of sand on top of the wood. Wilhelm touches it reverently, eyes trained to the grains that move beneath his fingertips. His mind is racing a mile a second, images of his childhood flashing before his eyes as he reminisces what it was like to be happy and carefree, when everything was simpler and they were just two kids running around the gardens unaware of the future that would swallow them whole.

He sighs, chest expanding as he allows the air to get in through his nose and expels it through his mouth — in and out, in and out, counting to twenty as he holds his breath inside when he feels like he might drown. He struggles to keep his arms leveled against the coffin — they don't feel like an extension of him but more like two boneless appendices that want to have a life of their own. They itch to be lifted above his head to touch the ceiling, just in case he can brush his fingertips to Erik's, because he's sure Erik is in Heaven. Despite everything — despite his love for speed, despite the fights, despite Erik's penchant for practical jokes — Wilhelm hopes his brother is actually in a better place. This life Erik was meant to live is already too constricting for Wilhelm; he can't blame Erik for searching for a way to ease the stress.

Even if that means he's now going to be buried six feet underground.

Someone clears their throat at some point at his left. Malin whispers something that he doesn’t understand, but it's enough to make him move away from the coffin, buttoning his jacket and running a hand through his hair. He takes the few steps separating him from the spot where he's supposed to stand for the whole ceremony, before remembering that he's supposed to enter the cathedral in front of his parents. He turns around and exits the aisle with Malin hot on his heels. His parents are waiting for him — a stoic look on his father’s face while his motherʼs hands crunch the handkerchief she's using to wipe her tears. There's no rhyme or reason for this, and thus old royal etiquette doesn't really apply; Wilhelm knows he's allowed to shed a tear or two at his own brother's funeral, but he's not sure he has any left in him.

He's been crying for two days straight now. He feels drained and exhausted, and not at all willing to undergo the torture that this funeral is deemed to be. Televised worldwide, Wilhelm knows the world's eyes are going to be on him — on the Crown Prince who wasn't meant to be instead of on the kid who's just lost the lighthouse that guided his path with incandescent light.

Wilhelm leads the funeral procession, short steps and head lowered, and he's proud of himself when he reaches the side of the altar without tumbling down. Erik would be proud of him.

It's hard for him to think of his brother in past tense. Erik was meant to live a long life, to become King and rule the country into modern times. He wasn't meant to find an abrupt end on a curbside, steering wheel askew among a wreckage of steel and smoke. Erik wasn't meant to leave Wilhelm to fend for himself.

He should be angry at his brother for leaving him, just another phase of grief and mourning, but he doesn’t have enough strength in his soul to feel anything but emptiness. He tugs discreetly at the white tie that's suffocating him, his forehead sweating under the laser focus of hundreds of cameras strategically set up across the aisle. His mother is biting down her sobs right by his left side, his father staring blankly ahead at his right.

Wilhelm has never felt more alone in his life.

The service isn't short by any means, and it feels endless to him. All he can think about is the smirk on Erik's face the last time they talked on the phone — the knowing look his older brother sent his way when he confessed to having a crush on someone from school. Wilhelm has always known he could count on Erik, on his sage advice catered by the four-year gap that separated them. It feels weird to be aware of the bleeding wound in his heart when the pounding of his blood in his veins reminds him of how much alive he is when Erik simply isn't anymore.

It's his fault. It's all his fault. And Wilhelm isn't sure whether he can go on with his life knowing that his brother has been violently taken from him by the force of a speeding car Wilhelm himself had encouraged Erik to drive.

The priest drones on about Erik's legacy — about his love for life and his enthusiasm, about his work as Crown Prince and all the people he's helped — and at some point the words lose their meaning and become just a mumbled nonsense drilling into Wilhelm's mind and undermining his resolve to stay put and not shed a tear, pretty much the way he's been raised up.

When the coffin is lifted and they get out of the cathedral with slow steps, Wilhelm's head is dangerously tipping over the edge of insanity. All he can think about is how Erik had just looked at him through the camera of his phone in a way that had made Wilhelm believe his brother actually saw all of him. He briefly closes his eyes to remember the bright light in Erik's gaze one last time before facing the world on his own.

He has the feeling that he'll always be this lonely.

He has the feeling that he'll always be this lonely. Sprawled on his bed, wearing only his boxers like he's used to in his chambers, Wilhelm picks his phone up and leaves it on the mattress several times, as though he hasn't made up his mind about what to do with the device.

He can't text his mother — well, he can text her, but it will serve him no good at all since she's hellbent on keeping him at Hillerska. He can't text his father, because his own father is technologically impaired and has refused to even use a cell phone — his reasoning behind that is that he's almost never on his own, and he can be easily located through his bodyguards' devices.

Wilhelm doesn't know what he'd say to them, anyway. Please, take me out of here seems hardly adequate after the events of the past days. I think I might have found my soulmate here is definitely too dramatic, and he isn't even sure that's true. What he knows for sure is that he's thankful for his parents being too busy to even think about coming to Hillerska for the parents' day.

Wilhelm sighs and grabs the phone again, this time swiping right at the screen and opening his text messages to his brother. Erik's online according to the app, and Wilhelm is very grateful for his brother's odd sleeping patterns.

Are you mad that I'm not going back home for the weekend?

Erik takes a little bit to reply, three little dots appearing and disappearing from his screen as his brother types.

I'm not. Surprised? Maybe. But not mad. I'd have done the same.

Wilhelm worries his lower lip with his teeth before replying.

For real? Don't you think I'm being foolish?

Why? Because you want to spend time with your crush?

He takes his eyes off the screen for a moment. The urge to come clean to his brother and tell him the truth — that his crush is another boy, that he's confused and he doesn’t know how to feel, that he wants to climb to the rooftop and yell that he likes Simon but at the same time he knows he can't.

About that, he types, pressing on the button so the two words get sent. I have a confession to make.

Erik doesn't write him back right away, and it makes Wilhelm nervous. Maybe he's overstepped, maybe Erik doesn't want to hear anything about that, maybe—

I'm here for you, comes Erik's words through the screen. I'm four years older, I can give you some dating advice.

Not sure about that, Wilhelm types back. He inhales deeply, breathing through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, before typing and sending, unless you have experience in dating a boy.

It's too late to take it back when Wilhelm realizes that he's sent the message. He panics but he can't bring himself to delete the words. Erik doesn't seem to be typing, and it feels as though a ton of bricks has been dropped on his shoulders, pinning him to the ground.

The screen lights up with an incoming call. It's Erik.

With trembling hands, Wilhelm accepts the call, only to hear Erik's soothing voice through the speaker.

"I'm so proud of you," he says in lieu of greeting. "And I feel so honored that you've decided to tell me."

"Erik," he tries to interrupt his brother, but it's to no avail.

"I know I'm not the most adequate person to go to with your questions right now. But I want you to know that I love you, and that I will fight that boy if he doesn't like you back."

Those words elicit a laugh out of Wilhelm's stunned throat. "You'd—you'd do that?"

Erik chuckles. "Do what? Fight for my little brother? Give someone a shovel talk? Or you'd rather mom do that?"

"God, no, Erik!"

"So," Erik sobers a little bit. "Does this boy know you like him?"

"Do you mean, does this boy know Prince Wilhelm likes him?"

"Listen, I know it's hard, being who we are. Believe me, nobody gets it better than me." Erik's voice sounds serious and somber all of a sudden, the lightness in his teasing all but gone. "And I know how those kids can see you. To them, you're just the Prince who's come to their school to steal all the gleam. Some look up at you, others are jealous. Most of them will try to get in your good graces. But, Wille, if you find just one single person who wants to really be your friend, then you'll have a friendship for your whole life."

Wilhelm isn't sure how they've gone from him spilling his guts about how he likes a boy to this tirade about everlasting friendships, but he isn’t about to cut Erik off. His brother usually has a point, even when he digresses.

"This boy—this boy could be anywhere in the spectrum I've just told you about. I just want to make sure he doesn't fall into the I want to sleep with the Prince so I can brag about it category."

Wilhelm can almost hear the air quotes in his brother's speech. The fondness and protectiveness in Erik's voice makes him smile. "I doubt Simon feels that way."

"Oh, so we have a name!" Erik says joyfully. "And who is this Simon? Is he the son of a wealthy landlord? A heir to some chocolate empire?"

"He's a non resident," Wilhelm finds himself saying. "And he's so smart, Erik. And he sings!"

Erik remains silent for a second. "A commoner?" he whispers on the phone.

"Yeah?"

"Wille, are you sure he doesn’t fit into what—"

"I can’t believe you," Wilhelm almost screeches. He's really thankful that he isn't sharing a room right now — not because of his late-night phone calls but because he wouldn't want anyone to witness his undignified yelps and stutters at his brother's words. "You really think—"

"Wille, I love you. All of you. I'm just trying to make sure your heart's not broken while you learn who you are."

He sighs onto the microphone. "He—he kissed me, Erik. And I—I kissed him back. Even if I'm—I'm not allowed to."

"You're allowed to be yourself," Erik tells him. "But our position is harder than anyone else's. Please be careful, Wille."

"I will be."

"Listen, I need to go. I have an early start tomorrow, and I might take the Lamborghini out for a stroll. But just remember, I love you. All of you."

"I love you too," he whispers on the phone.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do, and be yourself."

The line goes dead, and those are the last words Erik will ever speak to Wilhelm.

Those are the last words Erik will ever speak to Wilhelm.

Be yourself.

It feels like an Herculean task right now, to get out of the bed and get dressed, to slip into his shoes and choose a suitable knot for his tie. It feels like he can't breathe, and the pressure on his chest hasn't lessened in the slightest.

"I don't know who I am," he mutters to his reflection in the mirror, bags under his eyes and skin white as a sheet. "You were supposed to help me figure out who I am, not dump this whole Crown Prince nonsense on me, Erik."

He's taken to talking to his brother these past few days. He only does so when he's all alone and not even Malin or Johan are around. He doesn’t want to add craziness to whatever everyone thinks of him right now.

"Or maybe that was your plan all along. To leave me. I don’t think I'll ever forgive you, Erik."

He drags his feet across the marbled floors, buttoning his jacket as he walks out the door and into the hallway where Malin becomes his shadow. His bag has been packed and loaded on the trunk of the car that's taking him back to Hillerska, so the only thing he needs to worry about is himself.

His parents are waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, dressed formally as though this is an official function. Everything in this family has always been taken as though the whole world is watching, even the private mourning of their loss. Wilhelm sighs as he comes to a halt to receive the perfunctory hug from his father. His mother, though, surprises him.

She reaches out and places a stray hair behind his ear lovingly. She looks tired and sad, exactly like Wilhelm feels. It seems as though happiness will never find them again.

"Be brave, Wille," she whispers as she leans in and hugs him. "He'd have wanted that."

It takes all of him to keep walking forward — one foot in front of the other, keep moving, just keep moving — after his mother kisses his cheek, the echo of her words lingering over them. Erik would have wanted him to be brave; Erik would have wanted him tk keep living. But Erik isn’t here anymore.

Erik will never be here again.

The drive to Hillerska is silent, loaded with the knowledge that Wilhelm will never be enough. He stares outside the window, the buildings giving way to the road signs and the concrete until all he can see is a series of trees passing by faster than he can count them. The day looks glum, dark clouds looming over them as the car speeds through the deserted roads.

He can’t breathe.

"Stop," he says, voice cracking at the vowel. "Stop!" he repeats louder, panic present in the one syllable that escapes his mouth.

Malin turns around from the passenger’s seat to lock eyes with him, and whatever she sees — the wildness in his eyes, the disheveled locks of his hair, the beads of sweat pooling on his forehead — it makes her gesture at the driver to pull up and kill the engine, against every single security protocol that has been drilled in her mind.

Wilhelm wastes no time in unlocking the door and jumping outside. The air, however, doesn’t cool him down; on the contrary, it chokes him, suffocating and oppressive. It swirls around him, catching him in between its bursts, unstable and weak.

A tear escapes his eye, as lonely as he feels, and that's all he allows himself to have in the wake of his heart shattering. That's all the mourning he allows himself, in the middle of nowhere while he bites down the need to scream. His fingers thread through his hair, and he wishes they were Simon's. But Simon is not here, and Wilhelm knows he will never have the chance to explore what they could have been, if Erik wouldn't have crashed his car against a tree.

Wilhelm now needs to follow a script. There's no room for improvisation in his life from now on, and sadly there's no space for true love in the way he needs to feel it right now. True love isn't kissing a boy he likes, not when he is the Crown Prince. True love isn't cut for him.

He looks up at the sky, opens his mouth in a silent scream, and closes his eyes.

"Your Royal Highness," Malin says at his back, snapping him out of his trance. "We need to get going."

Silently he moves back into the car, fastening his seat belt and staring once again out the window as they pick up a pace, much slower this time. He's made up his mind — he'd be lying if he said he'd had help with that, his parents' speech about his upcoming obligations as Crown Prince echoing on the battered walls of his memories. He needs to become who Erik was meant to be. He needs to make his brother proud.

He needs to push Simon aside.

And so he does, after enduring August's vicious grip and Felice's sincere hug, after sitting through a rendition of Erik's favorite song in the voice of the only person Wilhelm wants to be around right now. He stares ahead, fiddling with the hem of his coat, fighting off the tears brimming in his eyes.

Not even Erik's acceptance, during their last conversation ever, manages to lift the pain from his heart.

He needs to do this, even if it kills him. He can't put Simon through the circus that his life is going to turn into — the Crown will never accept them.

And when he tells Simon to delete their texts — when he asks for oblivion when all he wants to do is being remembered — he can see in Simon's eyes that he understands. It hurts, but Simon gets him. He always had.

And in the end, Wilhelm sits on his own in the empty room where he's spoken his first speech as Crown Prince, feeling every ounce of loneliness on his shoulders, the weight of a world he didn't ask for.

[mattzerella-sticks]

Desperation, Baby! (coda to 15x19 “Inherit the Earth”, Dean & Lucifer, Dean/Cas, 2.3k, T)

ao3 link

Death took her sweet time parsing through Chuck's book, meaning Lucifer spent longer than he'd like surrounded by his former vessel, his brother, his son, and a man whose obvious longing made him want to vomit. Instead of returning with his prize, Chuck welcoming him back, he must waste his valuable time playing 'nice; with those he can't stand.

Not that it matters. They don't trust him, each member of this ragtag group of survivors watching Lucifer in shifts. Never leaving him alone.

It's Dean's turn now, and he's driving Lucifer up a wall by doing nothing at all save for broadcasting a never-ending supply of feeling. Can he cut the signal without showing his hand, or put Dean's heart to good use?

           It’s pathetic, truly. Lucifer huffs, deflating, sinking further into his seat. Weighed down by obscene amounts of longing that poured freely off Dean like a broken hydrant. Funneled into his awareness because its usual drain was cordoned forever. It flooded these now silent angelic air waves, Lucifer growing more annoyed with each, excruciating second. Until, finally, “Holy hell, can you please quit it?”

           Dean startles from where he stood, jaw tensing. Mouth flattening in a thin line as he glares, “What?”

           “Quit. It. Quitit!” He hisses, leaning forward. Stretches his arms across the table, reaching for Dean. Fingers twitching, Lucifer imagines Dean’s neck between them. “Seriously, you’re giving me a migraine with all your feelings.”

           “Good.” Dean surprises Lucifer with his response. No attempted denial, nor misdirection. His gaze unflinchingly pierced through Lucifer’s vessel, pride bolstering its blow. Lucifer cannot detect any shame that usually clings to his soul, none of that smell lingering. He’s grown since they’ve last seen each other. Stunning character development. “Deserve it, after that dick move you pulled earlier.”

           “You still upset about that?” Scoffing, Lucifer rises. Meanders across the room towards Dean, gaze never straying. Easy since it’s only them. “I thought my gift would have more than made up for that.” He grins, rocking on his heels. A breadth of space separates them now. “How else was I supposed to get in, anyway?” he continues, “Not like if I called as myself you’d’ve rolled out the welcome mat.”

           “But… Cas?” Lucifer savors the taste of his brother’s name, drenched in sadness. Ripped from Dean’s heart in a barely controlled sob.

           “Nasty habit,” he giggles, “Though the results speak for themselves. I mean – you know how easy it was smooth-talking little Sammy when I looked like his ol’ flame, Jess?” Dean doesn’t laugh, snarled lip suffocating Lucifer’s airy mirth. “You’re no fun.”

           “Sorry,” Dean growls, “why don’t you try later when the world’s not ending.”

           “It’s always ending. In one way or another.” Lucifer waves his hand and a chair drags itself over. He straddles it, gazing up at Dean. “If we waited for peace to enjoy life, there’d be no time. Better to… say what’s in your heart, even if it kills you.” He frowns, mockingly, “Or in Castiel’s case… did kill him.”

           Dean slams his fist against the wall. “You have no right –“

           “Timeout there,” Lucifer smirks, eyes glowing red. Reflection of Dean’s entire face, blood rapidly swelling his cheeks. “Don’t want to do anything you’ll regret…” He holds Dean there, frozen, waits until the other man seems calm. Dips his head, tries catching Dean’s gaze. “If I let you go, will you behave?” Dean remains silent, yet Lucifer hears him. Tunes into his frequency, actively sifting through his frenzied emotions. “Seriously,” he lets Dean go, hunter falling on his ass, “how are we supposed to work as a team if you’re not willing to cooperate?”

           “This… isn’t a team,” Dean spits, “you’re working… with the Empty.”

           “And the Empty’s trying to take Chuck out!” he argues, “So, enemy of my enemy is my friend or all that nonsense –“

           “Go to hell.”

           “I wish I could, but I’m kinda on a short leash.” Bored with Dean’s resistance, Lucifer threads his next few words with seriousness. “Listen, once Betty’s done with the book I’ll flit on out of here and one, two, three – humanity is saved from dear, ol’ dad! We can make this all painless if you’d just trust me, or we can keep doing what we’re doing. I, personally, am tired of this bullshit. Rather be napping back in the Empty, but no…”

           “You should be.”

           “Beg pardon?”

           Dean bares his teeth, roiling hatred knocking Lucifer back a few inches. “You should still be sleeping, back there,” he says, “if anyone were supposed to come back, it’d be Cas. Not… you…”

           “Ah, Castiel, yes…” Lucifer sighs, “that would make sense, wouldn’t it? Of course, he lacks my raw power and charm, but… yes, you’d trust anything that he said.” Hand on his throat, he affects his vocal cords. Mimicking the other angel’s gravelly tone again, “Dean, please go along with Lucifer’s wishes and help him –“

           “Enough!” Dean kicks at a chair leg, interrupting Lucifer. Tears threaten to pour, dangling from his lashes like morning dew. “If you really wanna play nice, you’d stop doing that.”

           “This is nice, buddy.” Lucifer pokes at Dean’s leg with the toe of his boot. “Why don’t you grow some thick skin, huh? Where’s the real Dean Winchester? That tough guy with endless bravado instead of this sad, sorry piece of shit that’s pining after some dead guy?”

           Dean turns, Adam’s apple bobbing. “That isn’t me. I… he never was.” An intimate confession whispered into ancient brickwork. Meaningful for a different crowd. Except Lucifer shows little care, sarcastic clapping shattering Dean’s moment.

           “Wow, Dean… really fantastic. Amazing!” He climbs off the chair, crouching closer. Tongue dragged over his lips, smile wide. “Your verbose diction astounds me… did you whip that together after my brother got dragged into super hell? Are you still workshopping it – okay if I give you a few notes?” Lucifer pinches Dean’s cheek, poking this rabid grizzly. “At least you’ve got that face. Clearly Cas didn’t fall for your emotional maturity, your observational prowess or timing…”

           He weakly bats Lucifer off him, “You don’t know anything…”

           “I think I know quite a lot,” Lucifer challenges him, “Between the both of us, only I managed to slip inside my tight-ass little brother. Probably why I knew all his little… perversions, although it was clear as day how he felt about you to everyone – well… almost everyone.” His hand settles on Dean’s chest, atop his heart. “Do you know amazing it was, when I slipped my blade through him? You were a buffet that night… fear, relief, hope… despair. I could’ve ended him in that other dimension, but I waited until he crossed back. Knew how much more painful it’d be.”

           “Monster,” Dean says, “Fucking psychopath.”

           “The old me, maybe.” Lucifer teleports, sitting on a nearby table. Legs absentmindedly pedaling, stirring confusion within Dean. “But I’ve been reborn on the right side, Dean. Nobler. I’ve got purpose.”

           “You’ve got a load of shit,” he accuses, standing on shaky legs, “that you’re trying to sell me. Us.”

           “Come on!” Lucifer groans, hands flying skyward, “Isn’t this supposed to be your eleventh hour? How can you be so stubborn? Here I come, with a Hail Mary, and you’re turning your nose up at me like some snob. Like you have better options waiting. All because you won’t work with the Empty –“

           “It’s not just that,” Dean corrects him, “I also don’t want to work with you.”

           He crosses his arms, pouting. “You’re gonna have to suck that up. So the Empty wouldn’t send your boytoy, do you blame them? For a broken, little thing he sure is popular. Who’s to say Cas’d come back once this all wraps up? At least the Empty trusts me.”

           “I guess something has to.”

           “You can, too, if you want.” Lucifer casts his reel wide, waiting. Eyebrows waggling like baited worms. “It’d be a hell lot easier than what you’re doing now. Come on…” he needles, “why is it so hard to believe in miracles?”

           “Please…” Dean says, hiding his face behind his knees. Arms circled around his legs, curled into a ball. “Stop talking.”

           He relents for the time being. Proud of what cracks in Dean’s armor he made. When Chuck sent him, he asked Lucifer to ruffle a few feathers. Mess with their heads, ensure this ragtag group of losers would stay down. Accept their fate, end this miserable experiment called humanity in sadness. “Don’t provoke them too much, though,” Chuck warned, fists curled along his jacket’s lapels, “Betrayals only work when the other side doesn’t expect them. Plot’s stretched thin as it is, bringing you back doesn’t really make sense –“

           “I love you too, dad.”

           “That’s why you need to lay it on thick,” he said, “steer them away from why, keep the action moving.”

           Lucifer stared down at his father, frowning. “Anything else you need?”

           “No,” Chuck clapped Lucifer’s shoulder, nodding. “Just be yourself.”

           Except none of them wanted him. Especially Dean. He wanted… Castiel.

           It’s a little off-script, but Lucifer bets Chuck will enjoy what he plans. Even if it’ll involve his least favorite character. Lucifer hops off the table, grace burning across his body. Razing this vessel’s form, stealing its characteristics and distinguishability. A tall mound of clay left that he molds into a new body. Darker hair, sturdier frame, and bluer eyes. “Dean,” he says, swallowing his laughter. “Dean…” He tries again, sounding exactly like him.

           Like Castiel.

           Dean tenses, “Cas?” Barely audible, Lucifer strained to hear his prayer. That hope, sweetness quickly bittering as Dean digests the scene. “No…” he sighs, mumbling into his legs. “Lucifer, thought I told you to quit it.”

           “Lucifer is gone, Dean,” he lies, kneeling. “I’m here… please, Dean, look at me.” Lucifer grabs at Dean’s head, thankful the other man lets him. Green finds masked-blue, their ‘reunion’ drawing a pained breath.

           “What?” Dean asks, a single tear slipping free. Trails along his cheek until it falls off his chin. “How – how is this happening?”

           “Because of you, Dean.” Lucifer’s hands shift, a thumb smearing that tearstain while he runs fingers through Dean’s hair. “You refused Lucifer’s help, even though what he said was true. The Empty saw and decided, if we were to truly end Chuck, the risk of sending me will be worth it.” Expression darkening, Lucifer leans into dramatics. Lips quivering as he recites his next line, “Though not without conditions, Dean – I… you know I can’t stay, right?”

           “You will,” he says, “Cas – we will… if this book really can end Chuck, and we take him out, what can the Empty do –“

           “Take you,” Lucifer cuts him off. “Take you… Sam, and Jack. I step even an inch out of line and we all get sucked into their being, with no hope of actually defeating my father.” He nearly breaks character, watching how the light in Dean’s eyes flickered before being snuffed. Lucifer regains composure, growling his next words. “You understand this, then? What it means?”

           Dean nods, snaking his hands across Lucifer’s wrists. “Means we don’t have long,” he barks, squeezing tight. “I have to set it right, right now.”

           “Dean –“

           “No, Cas,” Dean talks over him, guiding Lucifer’s hands off where they rested. Silences the disguised archangel by chaining him, making Lucifer a helpless victim. Awe real as he waits for Dean, cowed by longing powerful than his earlier annoyance. “I… I need to get through this because – well, the last time you didn’t let me get a word in edgewise and I, there was a lot left unsaid that I don’t want to stay that way. If we can’t have a future, then at least… at least we have here.” He laughs, choking on it. More tears dance their way down.

           “When you told me you loved me, I couldn’t believe it,” Dean confesses, “and then, when you told me why I – I was… I believed that less. I mean, you… you’ve listened to your heart more than I have. Even if a few of those times it was wrong, everything you did was for love. Knowing you was – that was my happiness. Having you, in whatever way you’d let me. Because there you were, this shining beacon, and for some reason you kept on letting me bask in your glow. I felt I… I didn’t deserve it. That I didn’t deserve you.”

           Dean brings Lucifer’s knuckles to his lips, pressing a light kiss along a patch of skin. The gesture disgusts him. “And you were right about how – I thought of myself so… so poorly, it kept me from saying and – and doing things I wish I’d done sooner. All my life I thought there were things I couldn’t have, rules I had to live by, and I never questioned them until you saved me from hell. Literal and figurative. Because of you, I wanted to be a better person. I wanted to be good. But I never believed I could. Then you tell me you loved me… because I was good. I already was the kind of person I thought seemed impossible. I couldn’t believe it. What’s stranger… I didn’t have to believe it, to know it’s true.” Dean smiles at him, Lucifer mirroring his gesture though it pained him. “I’m the person I always wished I could be, and even when you’re gone I’ll still be that person. I’ll miss you, Cas. Always. I’ll miss you, and I’ll love you. I’ll love you always.”

           It happens before Lucifer realizes. Distracted, nauseated by Dean’s powerful emotions, he missed how a hand snuck its way towards his neck. Pinched there, startling him. In that second, Dean forces Lucifer into an embrace. Lips crashing together, Lucifer stays frozen while Dean attacks his mouth. Mewling, whimpering.

           Disgusting.

           He pulls the curtains back, reverting to his previous form. Delights in how Dean senses the change, peeking with one eye as Castiel’s face vanishes. The other man violently hurls himself to the side, gaping at him. “Why Dean,” Lucifer grins, awkwardness heavy in his tone, “if I had known that’s how you felt about me…”

           Dean sobs, wiping at his lips. “How… what the –“

           “You really thought I was Cas, didn’t you?” Laughing, Lucifer towers over him. “I figured you’d catch on but… I underestimated you. And for that I’m sorry.” He devours these new emotions radiating from Dean, eagerly lapping them up. “I’m also sorry that you’ve convinced you deserve a happy ending,” he twists the knife further. Dean flinches, turning. Fleeing. Lucifer shouts at his retreating figure. “That’s not your story, Dean! Don’t ask for more, be happy with what you have!”

           Then, as he waits for his next babysitter, Lucifer’s eyes glow red. “Because soon enough… you won’t even have that.”

[curekibouka-writing]

Breath (Healin’Good Precure one-shot fanfic)

Summary: Just another breath, still alive.

Word count: 751

A/N: Since they didn’t show us Daruizen's point of view in episode 41 and 42, fine! I will show myself hmph! =3= I just realised I forgot to post on tumblr hhhhh

*This fic is also on FF.net, Quotev and AO3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gasping, grasping, for another breath, onto another moment of living. Screams clawed at his throat, begging to be released, but he gulped them down. His energy was hardly so ample to be squandered on fear.

“Daruizen!!!” the furious bellow of his king echoed throughout the dimension, ricocheting off mighty stone pillars and blasting at his ears like stray bullets, inducing yet another concussion in his signature indifferent demeanour.

The putrid red odor in his kingdom, for once, felt foreign to his system, like slithering snakes crawling beneath his skin to eat away at his insides, at his time and at his will.

This was not what he was promised, not the destination his suave struts were supposed to lead him to.

Unlike that love-blinded wretch or that power-hungry moron, he had always chosen the least risky path to traverse, the cosiest location to laze around in.

Everything he did was for himself. He only ever lived for himself. To give up his ego and his consciousness at this point? Absolute nonsense!!

A sudden twinge on his right shank set the scream he had been suppressing free. The King’s magic sank its fangs into his leg viciously, attempting to drag him back to his demise.

Gasping, grasping, for another moment of living, onto the barren ground with one hand and tearing the blood-red beast off of him with the another.

It continued to lunge at him, sharp canines digging into his palm when he just barely blocked it an inch away from his neck. Another scream. Another breath, with which the pain reverberated through all his veins.

And abruptly, his mind was clear.

I want to live!

A voice that seemed familiar yet alien shouted within him. A second later, he found himself stomping on the magic beast, his heel crushing its jaw as he exterminated it with his own powers.

He had given away his position, he realised when more beasts swarmed around him. They squirmed onto his limbs, pressing him down and gnawing at his flesh.

Breaths. Inhales in the form of gasps and exhales that of screams. So unnaturally loud, each one stirring a storm in his eardrums. Accelerating, then slowing down. Deep, then shallow. Irregular, as if fearing its own finale.

Just like her breaths.

Just like what he had heard when he was still inside of her, still feeding on her life to cultivate his own. Her breaths sometimes strong, sometimes fragile; sometimes relaxed, sometimes strained, like a dramatic symphony telling the story of her unfortunate life.

And with every note, every breath, every moment, her body and her soul spat at him a declaration, or perhaps a condemnation:

“I want to live!”

Now he understood. Now he was truly all ears for that symphony. He was close enough to the auditorium named Death to hear it.

But he refused to enter, it was not the performance he’d wanted to attend, a few stations too soon to leap off his vehicle. Yet he could not stay here either, not as his so-called home is collapsing on him.

Then there was but one choice — to return to his very own flower garden.

Certainly that place would heal him, and deliver him from his current predicament. That place, a sanctuary from a cursed destiny.

In a last-ditch effort, he wrenched his hand out from the maw of a ravening beast. He snapped his fingers, his powers barely enough for him to teleport to Sukoyaka City.

Gasping, for another breath, for tenacity to move his broken wings and aching legs to find her.

Grasping, onto the one chance at being bestowed the grace of salvation, onto the open hands of his benevolent saviour—

And she turned him down.

This was his misjudgement. She was no saviour, she was just a living human. And had the self-preserving human race ever exceeded his expectations?

Never. After all, humans were just the same as his race, bringing yet another creature to its knees before the coda of its symphony every so often.

I want to live...!

Then pay the price.

He glanced at the Mega Parts in his possession, resigned. To trade the remainder of his life for a glimmer of hope to create a future, for an encore before the curtain call, a fair bargain, isn’t it?

It’s a deal then. He had nothing left to lose.

Gasping, for another breath. Laboured and pained, but a breath nonetheless.

Grasping, onto the doorknob of the auditorium. And he begins to turn it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The End

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: There are countless potentials between Daruizen and Nodoka that could not be used in canon, this fic attempted to subtly address a fraction of it. Although this fic was quite self-indulgent (look at that one super obvious callback to my previous Nodoka AU just because I love my price/trade metaphor and no one will ever notice... see? Self-indulgence! 😌) as this is just how I interpret why Daruizen is the way he is.

I think Daruizen’s personality derived from Nodoka. His selfishness and laziness is a direct mirrored image of Nodoka’s kindness and vitality. But when I see his will to live, even went as far as to throw away his dignity and beg his enemy for sanctuary, I think his determination to live an ideal life derived from Nodoka’s desire to live a healthy life back then as well.

Oh and um... ‘deliver’, ‘sanctuary’, ‘bestow the grace (haha get it?) of salvation’ etc, yes I used a few religious vocabularies in there and yes I intended this. But I’m an atheist and I really didn’t pay enough attention in Religious Studies classes so I’m not 100% sure if I used them right. Please tell me if I didn’t, I’ll see how I can revise them.

[isolavirtuosa]

Maybe 1-5

[fanfiction] Dean/Castiel

Canon Compliant Coda

One minute I was sitting on the porch, having a beer with Bobby, and the next I was standing in the bunker next to an equally confused-looking Sam.

Parts 1-5

- 1 -

  One minute I was sitting on the porch, having a beer with Bobby, and the next I was standing in the bunker next to an equally confused-looking Sam.

“What the hell, Sammy,” I grumbled, staring at the once-familiar wall of the dungeon in front of us.

“I have no idea,” Sam said, brows furrowing.

“Dad?”

We both whirled around, my hand going for a gun that was long since gone.

“Dean?” Sam said, but the tone was all wrong.  That wasn’t how he said my name.

“Dad?” the man repeated.  He was tall, with brown hair that was longer than it needed to be, and it was obvious enough even for those of us who had no idea what was going on.

“This is Junior?” I asked Sam’s back as he was already moving to wrap his son in a hug.

The hug went on for a lot longer than I thought was necessary, and then my brother was turning around and gesturing to me with a warm smile.  “This is your Uncle Dean.”

“Hey,” Dean Junior said, his eyes a little wide.

Apparently my reputation preceded me.  “Hey yourself,” I responded, swaggering over to him.

I was suddenly wrapped in a very tight hug.

“Um, I guess you’re a hugger,” I said, patting his back awkwardly for a moment before finally just giving in to hugging my only nephew.

Sam was grinning like an idiot.

“I can’t believe you’re both here,” Dean breathed as he pulled away.  “I mean, it worked.”

“Um, what exactly is it that worked?” Sam asked.

“Castiel’s spell,” he said, like that explained perfectly why my brother and I had been ripped out of heaven and brought back to earth.

“Wait, Cass is-” I started to say, even as Castiel was slipping out of the shadows.

“Hello, Sam,” he said, nodding at my brother.  He paused, looking at me meaningfully.  “Dean.”

“Cass!” Sam said, and then there was even more unnecessary hugging.  He squeezed Castiel tightly, and when he let him go, he turned an expectant glance on me.

I stared pointedly at the wall.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why we’ve brought you here,” Castiel began to say.

“What’s up with you two?” Sam asked, gesturing between us.

“Nothing,” I said, which was swallowed up by Castiel’s very loud declaration that, “Dean is uncomfortable about my homosexual feelings towards him.”

“Wait, what?” Sam said, squinting at me.

“Cass, you know that’s not true,” I ground out, annoyed.

“Angels have sexual preferences?” Dean asked, scratching at his stubble.  “I kind of thought you were all asexual.”

“We mostly lack human desires,” Castiel agreed.  “Of course, some angels have-”

“Nobody needs a lesson on the sexual exploits of angels,” I interrupted him.

“I think I might,” Dean said, looking genuinely perplexed.  “I mean, all these years, and I never once…  But I guess now that I’ve heard it out loud, it’s starting to…  Yeah, I mean, Castiel talks about you a lot.  A lot a lot.  And he gets this soft expression on his face, and-”

“‘All these years?’” I repeated slowly, feeling my face harden even more.  “You’ve been helping Junior out for years?” I asked Castiel angrily.

“Other Dean needed my help-”

“Great, Cass, just great, so glad you could be there for him,” I said.  “Can we just move on to the part where you explain why the hell we’re here, and then get us back to fucking heaven where we belong?”

Castiel breathed out heavily, his lower lip sticking out slightly.

It was a ridiculous expression that looked completely out of place on his face, and I wanted to tell him so, but…

“You were not exaggerating,” Dean marveled to Sam, still staring at me in awe.

I was starting to wonder what exactly my brother had told my namesake about me.  “I need a beer,” I decided, throwing the dungeon door open and making my way towards the kitchen.

“Wow, look what the cat dragged in.”

At first the woman sitting with her boots kicked up on the table was unrecognizable.  Her gray hair flowed around her face in curls, wrinkles etched across a face with surprisingly youthful-looking blue eyes.

“…Claire…?” I asked incredulously.

She grinned at me.

“How are you still alive?” I asked, still trying to process this elderly woman as the young girl I’d last seen.

“Some of us are actually good at hunting,” she said with a smirk and a twinkle in her eyes.

I didn’t know what to do with that.  “I need a beer,” I decided, disappearing into the kitchen.

“Grab one for me!” Claire called after me.

“Can elderly people drink?” I replied, digging through the fridge and pulling out two tall bottles which were hopefully beer, the brand name unrecognizable to me.

“We can drink Dean Winchester under the table!” she called, a laugh in her voice.

I returned with the bottles, and Claire accepted hers, taking a long drink.

“That hits the spot after a long day of raising assholes from the dead,” she declared.

I sat next to her, running my fingers over the names etched into the table.  There were more now, covering the table from end-to-end.

“We decided the table had a nice nostalgic vibe to it,” she said, before nodding her head around the room.  “Updated everything else from the prehistoric nonsense you had in here before, though.”

There were screens and flashing lights everywhere.  It seemed pretty fucking awful to me, but hopefully whatever fool’s errand had brought us back here would be over and done with quickly.

Claire finished her beer, letting the empty bottle hit the table with a loud clink.  “I guess that’s an okay start, but you’re gonna need to keep ‘em comin’.”

“Slow down, grandma, I don’t want to have to pick you up off of the floor.”

She snorted.  “How the fuck old do you think I am?”

“I don’t know, a hundred?”

She laughed even harder.  “Oh, god, you are precious.  I am the picture of youth and vitality.  You like music from the freaking 1970s and dress like an elderly lumberjack.”

I touched my flannel shirt self-consciously.

“And Jimmy certainly made a choice with that body,” she said, looking me up and down, and grinning madly.

“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked irritably.  “…and also, ‘Jimmy’?”

“That’s just my nickname for Castiel,” she said, ignoring the rest of my question.  “It’s an inside joke, and there’s pretty much no one left alive who gets it anymore.”

“So you two have gotten close?”

“Well, I mean, we’re not having constant crises that require heavenly intervention like back in the Winchester days, but yeah, Jimmy’s always here to bail us out when things get rough.”

“Fucking fantastic,” I said, downing the rest of my beer.

“Oh my god, you really are mad,” she marveled at me.

“What am I mad about?” I asked, rolling my eyes.

“That Jimmy looooooves you,” she swooned at me.

“You know what, you’re right,” I said, standing up.  “You’re not elderly at all, you’re twelve.”

“Takes one to know one,” Claire cackled at my retreating back as I took the glass bottles back to the kitchen.

There was a loud bustling back in the other room, signaling that the others had finally come up to join us.

Everyone stared at me expectantly as I came back into the room.  I looked at them blankly, handing Claire another beer and opening my own.

“So, did Claire fill you in about Temeluchus…?” Sam asked.

“Who in the what now?” I asked, taking a drink and specifically not looking at Castiel.

“And how the Michael sword and the Lucifer sword are the only way to seal him…?” Sam asked.

“That sounds like a pain in the ass.”

“They need our blood-” Sam continued.

“You know, I really don’t need the details,” I said.  “Tell me what to do, we save the world, we go back.  Right?”

“Right,” Castiel confirmed.

“Okay then,” I said.  “Let’s save the world.”

 - 2 -

  They put us in the guest room that night.

“Being alive is weird,” I decided, studying the back of my hand.  “You gotta piss and shit and sleep…”

“And alcohol actually gets you drunk?” Sam suggested from the twin bed next to mine.

“Well, that part’s not so bad,” I said, letting my hand drop to my stomach.  “I could get into that part.”

“Maybe if you pray to Jack, he’ll let you get drunk in heaven, too.”

“Don’t need to be drunk in heaven.”

Sam sighed.  “It’s weird for me, too, you know.  To be back here.”

“I was never here.”

I heard him breathe in sharply at that, almost like a flinch of pain.

“And that’s okay,” I continued.  “I did my part, then my story was over.”

“We always felt you with us.”

“…Sammy, that is some new agey bullcrap.”

“It doesn’t make it less true.”

“So Cass helped you on cases.”

“That’s a bit of a non-sequitur.”

“Is it?” I asked, mostly because I didn’t know what a non-sequitur was.

“Well, I guess we were talking about our feelings, and then you brought up Cass, so actually, no, I do see where you’re coming from,” Sam decided.

“We were not talking about our feelings,” I said, offended.

“Of course not,” Sam replied in that patronizing way of his.  “Manly men don’t have feelings.”

“Damn straight.”

“So about your best friend Cass…”

“Did you want us to braid each other’s hair and exchange friendship bracelets?” I grumbled.

“I was thinking about more maybe just actually having a conversation…?” Sam suggested.  “Seriously, Dean, what is going on between you two?”

“Nothing,” I muttered.

“Oh, yeah, sure, okay.”

The smart play would be to not respond to Sam’s sarcasm, and just let the conversation die.

Sam sighed loudly.

I ignored him.

He sighed again.

I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep.

There was the sound of movement from Sam’s bed, which was the only warning I got before something crashed into my chest.

The smart play would be to just hold the pillow hostage and continue to ignore him.

Unfortunately, Sam knew that I could never possibly ignore such an obvious affront.

I threw the pillow back at him as hard as possible.

He was sitting up now, and caught it with a grunt.  “Dean, is this really…  I mean, you’re not actually bothered that Cass has feelings for you, right?”

“Of course I don’t care,” I growled, but I could already feel the anger dissipating.  Somehow I’d gotten better at letting go of things.  “I mean, of course I care.  About Cass.  About… whatever.  Feelings and shit.  I just… he dropped that bomb at me, and then he left.”

“He didn’t really leave so much as die…”

“He didn’t come back, Sammy.”

“He’s right here, Dean.  In the next room.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.  He’s here on earth.  He’s helping Junior.  He’s bonding with Claire.  He was even freaking helping you on cases before you moved on.”

Sam put his pillow down and seemed to lean forward, straining to see me in the dark.  “Dean, what are you saying?  Have you not seen Cass since he was taken by the Empty?”

“You just figured that out?”

“Wait, not even once?”

“He came once.”

“Okay…?”

“A little after you moved on,” I said, lying back down.  I closed my eyes again.

“…and did something happen?” Sam prodded me when I didn’t go on.

“Hello, Dean.”

My head was under the Impala’s hood, and his sudden appearance startled me so much I shot up and banged my head.  “Shit!  Ow!”

“I, uh… apologies…” Castiel trailed off, looking at me uncertainly.

“It’s fine, you just surprised me,” I said, straightening up and taking my hand from my aching head.  “You’re… here.”

“Yes, that is where I am,” he agreed.

I stared at him.

He stared back.

It felt like just yesterday that I’d last seen him, yet it felt like a hundred years ago.

Time moved differently in heaven.

“You look well,” Castiel finally said, breaking the silence.

“Being dead does that for a guy,” I said, trying to be glib.  Trying to break up the tension.

“It’s certainly true that a human can choose their favored appearance in heaven,” he said.

We weren’t saying anything that mattered.

“Dean, are you angry with me?” he asked, easily picking up on my frustration.

“Why would I be angry with you?” I replied, shaking my head.

“I’ve made you uncomfortable,” he said, his head bowed slightly.

“Kinda, yeah,” I agreed.

“I’ll go.”

“What the hell, Cass.”

He forced a smile at me.  “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You’re not bothering me,” I said, the anger rising in my voice.

“It’s okay, I understand.”

“What exactly is it that you understand, because I don’t get you at all right now.”

He looked at me.

“Cass,” I said looking back.  I felt like something I hadn’t even realized was missing was suddenly right in front of me, but I couldn’t reach it.

“This isn’t how it usually goes,” he said after a pause.

“How what goes?”

“Us,” he said, gesturing between us.

“Then stop being so damn awkward.”

“I could say the same to you.”

“How am I being awkward?”

“Well, usually after I sacrifice myself for you, you say something like, ‘Cass, you are not dead, I am very pleased’, followed by a customary embrace in which you try not to show me your emotional face by making the embrace unnaturally long in order to get control of yourself.”

I tried to protest that, but all I could do was open and close my mouth like a fish.

“I understand if physical proximity is… no longer appropriate,” he continued.

“For Christ’s sake, can we just forget about what you said and go back to normal?” I asked irritably.

Cass’s expression hardened.  “No, Dean, we will not forget about what I said.”

I sighed.  “That’s not what I meant.”

“Isn’t it though?”

“Whatever, Cass,” I said, turning my back on him and going back under the hood.  We both needed to take a step back or this was just going to keep on getting stupider.

And then he fucking left.

“Dean?” Sam prodded me.

“Just Cass being Cass,” I said, waving it off.  “He makes stupid assumptions about things.”

“Does he?” Sam asked.

“Yes,” I growled at him.

“So you’re not being a homophobic dick about him telling you that he loves you?”

“You know me better than that,” I complained.

“I know you well enough to know that feelings make you uncomfortable,” he said.  “Especially things you have no experience with.”

I clicked my tongue in annoyance.

“Cass said these bodies will only stay bonded to our souls for three days,” he said.  “All I’m saying is that maybe before we go back to heaven, you should figure your shit out.”

“Maybe you should figure your shit out,” I grumbled back at him.

“My shit is very figured, thanks.”

I rolled my eyes, but it was true.  My little brother had it together.  “Junior seems competent.”

“Yeah, he can hold his own,” Sam said, and I could hear the beaming dad-pride in his voice.

“I’m glad I could finally meet him,” I said, continuing down this little rabbit hole so we didn’t have to talk about me anymore.

“Me, too.”

“Hey, Claire got old, though, huh?”

“Dean, we all got old,” he scoffed at me.

“Yeah, but…” I started to say, hesitating.  “Claire just… always reminded me a lot of me, you know?  Didn’t know if she would…”

“She changed a lot after Kaia came back,” Sam put in quickly.  We never lingered too long over that kind of talk, no matter how much heaven had chilled us out.

“Did she?”

“Yeah,” he said.  “Started hunting smarter.  Hunting less.  Making time for a life.”

“Good for her,” I said softly.  She’d figured it out before it was too late.

We were both quiet with our own thoughts after that, and eventually I remembered how to sleep.

 - 3 -

  “Hell no,” I said emphatically.

“Dean, no one uses gas-powered cars anymore,” Sam said, rolling his eyes at me.

We all stood in the garage, staring at the monstrosity that these hunters dared to call a ‘car’.  It was some froufrou, electric-powered nonsense, and there was no way I was getting in that thing.

“Impala or I walk.”

“The Impala hasn’t run in twenty years,” Dean Junior said.

“What did you do to my baby?” I asked, mortified.

“It’s a fucking old car, Grandpa,” Claire taunted me.  “They break down.”

While Claire and I stood there arguing, everyone else climbed into the monstrosity, with Junior and Sam in the front and the angel in the back.

“Looks like they’re leaving without you,” Claire said unhelpfully.

I clenched my jaw.

“You coming, Uncle Dean?” Junior asked, leaning out the window and giving me a shit-eating grin worthy of the Winchester name.

“Move over, chuckles, I’m driving,” I growled, stomping over to them.

“It’s a self-driving car, Dean,” Sam said, showing exactly where his son got that damn grin.

“Then I call shotgun,” I said, glaring at the two of them.

“Sorry, rules are rules, and Dad already called shotgun,” Dean said with a shrug.

I looked at them.

I looked at Castiel sitting in the back.

I looked back at them.

I focused on Sam.

He shrugged, unable to stop giving me that grin.

I sighed loudly.

“I can teleport there,” Castiel said, looking like some kicked puppy.

“Cass, no,” Sam said immediately, at the same time as Dean protested, “we need your help with the spell before we get there.”

And I looked like the jackass again.  “It’s fine,” I said, opening the door and getting in beside Castiel.

“Have fun, boys,” Claire said, waving to us as the car started to move out of the garage.

Castiel sat ramrod straight next to me, eyes forward.

I wanted things to be right between us again, I just had no idea where to start, and it certainly wasn’t going to happen with Nosy and Nosier sitting in the front.  “Do these joke machines have tunes?” I asked instead.

Sam groaned, slumping back against his seat, while Dean looked over his shoulder to give me a huge grin.  “I’ve got the perfect playlist.”

The familiar guitar riff of Ramble On suddenly filled the car.

“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy!” I said, hitting the back of Sam’s seat excitedly.  “Is your son a Zeppelin fan?!”

“Don’t remind me,” Sam said, and I could feel his eye roll even though I was behind him.

“Dad had all your old tapes in the Impala,” Dean said, drumming his fingers against the console.  “We used to just drive and drive, listening to them on repeat.”

For some reason, that put a lump in my throat.

“Of course, then he would plug his phone in and make us listen to old crap like Deathcab For Cutie…” Dean continued.

I cracked up.  “Did he follow it up with some Celine Dion?”

“That was his freaking wedding song,” Dean said, making me laugh harder.

“So hilarious,” Sam grumbled.  “…The Power of Love is a damn good song,” he added under his breath.

“Looks like Junior is more Winchester than Sammy,” I said, patting my nephew on the shoulder and feeling pleased.

The next hour passed very pleasantly with me and Dean belting out classic rock while Sam pretended that he hated it.

At some point I glanced over at Cass, and he was looking at me softly, smiling like a creep.  He immediately looked away when he realized he’d been caught.

I continued singing, but I bumped my knee lightly against his.

He looked surprised, but then he smiled again, so I figure that was a good enough olive branch for the time being.

Of course, the longer we drove, the harder it was to ignore how fucking weird the world had gotten.

“You can’t even enjoy the road anymore,” I complained, watching as we passed an endless line of self-driving cars in yet another underground tunnel.  “The open air, your hand on the wheel…”

“As you did not typically allow others to drive, I don’t think we really experienced any difference in the transition to driver-less,” Castiel said, speaking for the first time.

“Ha,” Sam said.

Cass glanced nervously at me, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to make jokes anymore.

“Shut up, smartass,” I said, smacking him in the arm.

He looked relieved, but that kind of pissed me off.  Why did he think he had to walk on eggshells with me?  Why couldn’t he just be normal?  Was I really so awful to him?

“How about we stop and get some food?” I suggested, ready for a change of scenery.

That also turned out to be a terrible idea.

“Why are the burgers not made of meat?” I asked Sam, low and threatening.

“It’s better for the environment,” he explained.  “And for your health.”

“Samuel,” I said, my voice getting lower.  “I will have my meat.”

“Having a tofu burger just this once won’t kill you.”

“Yes, I think it will,” I said, jabbing my finger into his ridiculously broad chest.

“Dean, we need to meet Mellie and Rowena tonight, so we don’t really have time for this,” Sam tried to explain to me logically.

“I already rode around in your abomination of a vehicle all day, and now you’re telling me that I need to eat a… t-to…” I tried to get the word out, but it stuck in my throat.

“I’ll go pick up the food since none of you have any money,” Dean said, getting out of the car and moving towards the so-called burger joint.

“You bring me a real burger, kid, you hear me?” I called after him.

“I’m older than you, Uncle Dean!” he called back.

Sam followed after him, laughing.

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?” I grumbled, getting back inside the vehicle.  “I’ve lived longer than the brat, even if my body is… however old it is.”

“Thirty-nine,” Castiel said.

“That’s oddly specific.”

“Yes, well I had to choose which template of you two to form,” he said.  “I thought the time we spent fathering Jack together when he was a baby was nice, so I went with those bodies.”

“When Jack was a baby…”

“Yes, before he lost his soul,” Castiel said.

“You are so… you,” I decided.

“Yes, that is who I am.”

“You were… happy then?”

“Yes, very,” Castiel said.  “I was able to become a father and raise my son with his other two fathers.”

“I don’t think that’s how biology works.”

“How would you know?” he scoffed at me.

My jaw dropped and all I could do was stare at him, wide-eyed.  “Are you calling me stupid?”

“A little bit, yes.”

“Asshole,” I said, but I was smiling anyway.

Castiel looked pleased with himself, which made me feel… something I didn’t want to think about.

“So baby grows up and you leave the other two fathers behind?” I asked, deciding to pick a fight instead.  “No, wait, it was only the one father that you cut out of your life.”

“Dean,” he said, sounding weary.

“Oh, no, Cass, it’s totally cool that you decided to move on with your life and never talk to me again.”

“Dean Winchester, I did no such thing,” he said, his tone starting to get angrier.  “You are the one who didn’t want me around.”

“And how exactly did you arrive at that conclusion?” I asked him incredulously.

“You didn’t pray to me.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I asked.  “I didn’t know that I had to pray to the holy and powerful angel of the Lord Castiel to get him to deign to come and see me.”

“Prayer has never been like that between us,” he said, frowning.  “It’s our way of communicating long distance.  I treasure the prayers you send to me.”

“So that’s why you didn’t answer me all those times,” I grumbled shittily.

“If anyone can understand putting duty over matters of the heart…”

“So it was your duty to take care of Sammy and Junior… and Claire… and who the fuck knows who else… but not me?”

“Yes, Dean, that is correct,” Castiel said, blue eyes lasering into mine.  He opened his mouth to say something else, when the door to the car flew open.

“I’ve got burgers,” Dean Junior declared, getting into the car and tossing a paper bag to Castiel.

It bounced off his chest and slid to the floor.

Cass did not react.

“Uh, am I interrupting something?” Dean asked, looking between us leerily.

“No,” I said, at the same time that Castiel said, “yes.”

“You two were actually talking?” Sam asked, sliding into his own seat and passing me a bag.

“No,” I grumbled, digging through the bag and pulling out my burger.

“Yes,” Castiel said contrarily, still ignoring his food on the floor.

I unwrapped my burger and took a big bite.  I chewed thoughtfully.  There was something… different…  I looked at Sam in horror as a flash lit up the backseat.  My eyes shifted to Dean, who was looking pointedly forward as the car pulled out from the rest stop.  “Dean Junior.”

“Yes, Uncle Dean?”

“Dean Junior, you and I haven’t known each other long.”

“Less than a day,” he agreed.

“Less than a day,” I said.  “And in that day, I haven’t asked for much, have I?”

“Well, you wanted to ride around in a busted gas guzzler-”

“Dean Junior, I haven’t asked for much,” I repeated.  “As you may know, I died about fifty years ago, for about the… two hundredth and final time, after sacrificing my life to save the world so many goddamn times.”

“Dad did mention that, yeah.”

“So many goddamn times,” I repeated.  “And yet, I am a simple man.”

Cass snorted at that.

“Some might even say you are a meat man,” Sam put in.

Cass flat out chortled at that.

“Interesting that you mention that, Sam,” I said.  “Interesting that you mention my know predilection for meat products, when you have schemed here with your son to bring me this faux meat bullshit.”

“Yeah, okay, but the look on your face,” Sam explained, holding up Dean’s holophone and showing the picture of my mortified-looking face as I held the offending ‘burger’ away from me.

“Dean Junior, tell me the truth,” I said, eyes boring into my namesake’s.  “Were you talked into this by your embarrassingly uncreative father who knows nothing of true pranks and hijinks?”

“I was,” he said solemnly.  “Dad promised it would be hilarious.”

“And was it hilarious?” I asked.

“I mean, you just made this whole ridiculous speech, so I’m going to have to say yes?”

“Oh, Dean Junior,” I said, shaking my head.  “You know nothing.”

“I’m pretty sure everyone thought it was hilarious, Dean,” Sam put in, gesturing between Castiel and Dean, who did in fact look like they thought it was hilarious.

“Simpletons,” I said, shaking my head.  “I have been gone too long.  But don’t worry.  You will remember.”

Sam was looking at me like I was crazy.

“Now where is my goddamn burger?” I asked, shoving the tofu burger back in its bag and throwing it at Sam.

“On the floor,” he said, nodding his head towards Castiel’s bag.

“Jackass,” I grumbled, picking the bag up.

“Like Cass would have eaten it,” Sam said with a shrug.

“Molecules,” Castiel agreed.

I unwrapped it and took a big bite, only to see that damn flash in my face again.  “You motherfucker,” I said, throwing the tofu burger at Sam’s head and sticking the landing.

“Childish much?” Sam said, grinning like a loon.

“My revenge will be all-consuming,” I said, slumping back in my seat and crossing my arms over my chest.  “All-consuming.”

“Mm-hm,” Sam said, flipping through the pictures on the phone and laughing to himself.

 - 4 -

  “Dean.”

I woke up with a start, breathing in through my nose sharply.  My head rested against something hard and unyielding, but somehow familiar and warm.

I was drooling on Cass’s trenchcoat.

“If you do not mind,” he said, looking at me uncomfortably and holding his body stiffly, trying to keep himself as far away from me as possible.

“Shit,” I muttered, shooting back up to a sitting position.  “What, am I that repulsive to you?”

“Dean, you were drooling.”

“And you loved every second of it.”

Castiel looked startled, then frowned.

I groused and rubbed the sleep from my eyes.  “We almost there?”

“About an hour out,” Sam said from the front.  “Maybe a little less if traffic is light.”

“Great,” I said, staring out the window at the endless tunnels.  The future sucked.

We finally pulled into our seedy motel, which was a lot shinier and more electronic than I remembered seedy motels being, and then there was Mellie, standing out in the parking lot with a cock to her hip and a grin on her face.

“Hey, boys,” she said, waving us over.

“Mellie,” Dean Junior said, giving her a quick hug.

“Sam Winchester, is that you?” she asked, looking my brother up and down in amusement.

“It’s me,” Sam said, holding his arms out to her.

“Damn, my mom never told me how hot you were when you were younger,” she said, throwing her arms around him enthusiastically.

“Er…” he trailed off, patting Mellie’s back awkwardly.

“That must be difficult for Sam’s ego, as he has always believed himself to be hot,” Castiel murmured.

I cracked up, turning to grin at him.

Cass gave me a pleased look.

I forgot how much he was pissing me off for a moment and slung my arm around his shoulder, leaning in close to his ear.  “So who the hell is this chick again?”

“Mellie Hanscom,” Cas explained.

“No shit?  She’s Donna’s kid?”

“Perhaps in human years she would be considered an adult female.”

“I got that, Cass, thank you,” I said, patting his chest as I pushed away and moved towards the other three.  “Hey there, Mellie,” I said, giving her my best Dean Winchester smoulder.

“Hi,” she said, smiling back before turning to Sam.  “So this is your little brother?”

Sam’s lips twitched into a smile.  “My older brother, yeah.”

“Oh,” Mellie said with a slight frown.  “I thought he’d be taller.”

“Is this Shit on Dean Day?” I asked no one in particular.

“You sounded taller in my mom’s stories,” she clarified.

“He has always been this short,” Sam said helpfully.

“Everyone besides the Jolly Green Giant here is shorter than me,” I said incredulously.

“Why is Dad green…?” Dean asked, rubbing his stubble and looking genuinely perplexed.

“I don’t get it,” Mellie agreed.

“Dean, they don’t understand your references, either,” Castiel commented, pleased.

“Everyone knows who the freakin’ Jolly Green Giant is!” I said, exasperated.

“Yes, the large green man in a leaf toga who makes canned corn,” he said, nodding his head thoughtfully.

Everyone had their laugh at my expense and then we finally got down to business.

“We summon Rowena, she does the Rite of Blood, and that starts preparing your bodies for the final ritual,” Mellie explained as she wrote a sigil on the door in her blood.

“Just tell me where to stand,” I said, not really thinking too much about all the blood and the letting of it in preparation to remove mine.

“Anywhere’s fine,” Mellie said, smiling at me cheerfully as she wiped her hands clean on a motel towel.

“We ready?” Dean asked.  When he received an affirmative, he started chanting in Latin.

“This is so boring,” I commented to Sam after about five minutes of it.

“This used to be our lives,” Sam said, giving me a rueful smile.

“Was it?” I asked, shaking my head.  “Man, I cannot wait to get back home.”

“Yeah…” Sam said.  “It’s been good to see Dean, though.  To have you two meet.”

“He’ll be with us before you know it,” I said with a shrug.

“That should sound ominous, but it’s weirdly comforting,” he said, scrunching up his face in confusion.

“Hello, boys.”

We both looked back towards the door where Rowena now stood in all her hellish glory.

“Mellie, Wee Dean, lovely of you to orchestrate this reunion,” she said, passing by them and pinching Dean on the cheek before slapping Mellie on the butt.

“I don’t understand any of these relationships…” I said.

“My, Samuel, this is certainly an improvement over the dour old man bit you had going on before,” Rowena hummed, squeezing Sam’s bicep.  “Now what say you we start this rite so I can get back to ruling my kingdom?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, shooting her a salute.

“Castiel, will you be joining us or remain sulking in the corner?” she asked, flashing him a bright smile.

“I will remain in the corner.”

Rowena chuckled at that, and suddenly she was pinning me down with her sharp gaze.  “Dean Winchester, it seems the rumors that you’ve been acting a right twat might be true.”

“Why is it always my fault?” I asked with a scowl.  “What, ’cause Cass is an angel?  Well, news flash, angels are dicks.”

“You certainly won’t broker any argument from me there,” Rowena said.  “But the real question is, how much of the angel’s dick have you seen?”

I just about spontaneously combusted.

“Rowena!” Sam cried, scandalized.

Mellie looked between us all with a fascinated look on her face.  “Wait, are Castiel and Dean a couple?!”

“No, we are not a friggin’ couple!” I snapped.  “I’m not gay!  Jesus.”

“Ah, that’s too bad,” Rowena said shaking her head.  “You two really are adorable together.  You know, my Fergus always was a bit sweet on you…  You seem to give off a very seductive aura that screams, ‘I’m the picture of toxic masculinity but also I’d like you to take me to bed and pull me apart slow-’”

“C-crowley was what now?” I asked, mortified.

“Ah, yes, he told me about the triplets,” Rowena said with a grin.

I clenched my jaw.  “We do not talk about the triplets.”

“You know, I’m not gay either,” Castiel put in from his corner.

Everyone turned to look at him.

“Angels have no gender,” he explained.  “We have taken to equating ourselves with the gender of our frequently used vessels in order to accommodate your human languages which require such explanation, but Enochian has no gender-specific pronouns.  I myself have always used vessels of either gender.”

Dean proceeded to make a series of incomprehensible noises.

Cass burst out laughing.

I stared between them, confused about a lot of things, but most specifically about what had just come out of my nephew’s mouth.

“Enochian,” Sam explained, shaking his head.

“Wait, Junior can speak Enochian?!”

Sam shrugged, clearly jealous that his progeny had accomplished something he never even dreamed possible.

“He’s very good,” Castiel said with a proud smile.  “If only he could free himself of his human form and speak through his light.”

“If only,” Dean agreed.

“Well, this is all very amusing and all, but time is precious,” Rowena said, gracing us all with a threatening smile.

“Let the bloodletting begin,” I said, holding out my wrists to her, more than happy to change the subject.

“Dean, dear, we’re doing a Rite of Blood, not a bloodletting,” she explained.  “Unless that’s what you’re into?”

“I am into whatever you are into, Rowena,” I said, upping the charm.

“Oh, I did miss you a teeny weeny bit,” she said, shooting me a flirty smile back, then shoving me backwards on the bed.

“Okay,” I said, going with it.

“Lie back and enjoy the ride, boys,” she said, then started chanting in Latin.

Sam’s weight landed next to me, and suddenly the room was buzzing with energy.

I started to feel like I was drunk, looking at all the pretty colors swirling over our heads.  The ceiling seemed to be getting closer and closer, and when I tilted my head to the side, I realized we were now floating off the bed.  I felt completely serene.

And then we crashed back onto the cheap motel bed, the mattress squeaking loudly in protest.

“And we’re done,” Rowena said, clapping her hands together.  “Boys, it’s been lovely,” she said, leaning into our vision.  “Samuel, stay strapping,” she said, patting his chest.  “Dean… well, you’ll figure it out, dear.”

“Huh?” I said, still woozy from the ritual.

Rowena just smiled and disappeared from my line of sight, saying her goodbyes to the others.

“Did it work?” Sam asked, trying to sit up only to flop right back down on the bed.

“Rowena said it did, so that’s good enough for me,” Dean said, coming to sit next to his father.  “You okay?”

“Yeah, just…” Sam trailed off.

“High?” I suggested.

Sam nodded at me, a goofy smile on his face.  “High,” he agreed.

Dean and Mellie exchanged concerned looks.

“It’s a known side effect of the Rite of Blood,” Castiel explained.  “We should just let them sleep it off.”

Dean helped Castiel move Sam to the other bed, Sam laughing the whole way.

I caressed the comforter gently, rolling the texture between my fingers.

“Here you go,” Cass said, tugging off my boots and helping me into bed.

“Mm, thanks,” I hummed, rubbing my cheek against the pillow.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly.  “Do you need liquid replenishment?”

“Nah, I’m okay,” I said, looking into his eyes for a moment and getting lost.

“I’ll watch over you tonight, if that’s all right with you,” he said, eyes taking on a questioning look.

“Okay,” I said, closing my eyes.  “My own freakin’ guardian angel.”

“Yes, your own freakin’ guardian angel,” Cass agreed, and then I was out like a light.

 - 5 -

  Sam and I sat in the back of the car together the next morning, sunglasses on and blankets wrapped around our shoulders.

“What the fuck did Rowena do to us?” I grumbled.

“She… activated our blood?” Sam said slowly, flinching at the sound of his own voice.

“And why the hell would blood ever have to be activated?”

“Something about… the ritual where they extract our blood to bind Temeluchus to the earth…?” he trailed off.

The front door of the car opened and Castiel slid in, leaning over the seat and putting a cup of hot coffee in my hands.

I felt myself smiling at him, and the smile was immediately returned.

He passed another cup to Sam, then faced forward again.

Dean slid in on the other side and started the car.

Mellie came over to us and the windows all rolled down.

“Great seeing you all,” she said, “but I need to haul ass back to Sioux Falls and get to work.”

Dean and Castiel gave her a proper goodbye while Sam and I mumbled something that might have sounded like human language, and then we were off.

I slept most of the morning despite the copious amounts of coffee I’d consumed, and slowly I started to feel like a human being again.  “Where are we going again?” I finally asked when I was ready to rejoin society.

“Lawrence,” Dean said.

“Of course,” I said.  “Back to Kansas.”

“Says the guy who will literally cross state lines just to pick up a damn pie,” Sam mumbled.

“I just don’t see why we couldn’t have summoned Rowena to the bunker,” I said with a shrug.  “Seems like this whole mission could go a lot smoother if we didn’t waste time floating around in these tin cans, getting high on blood rites…”

“I’m sorry, I would not have missed that for all the world,” Dean said with a snort.

Sam and I exchanged A Look.

“What does that mean?” Sam asked.

“It means you two were funny as shit last night,” Dean explained, and yet it explained nothing at all.

“We went to bed right after the ritual,” I said, Sam nodding his agreement.

“Oh, we tried to put you two to bed,” Dean said with a laugh.

“It was not successful,” Castiel agreed.  “You know, now that I think of it, memory loss is also one of the side effects of the ritual.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Sam asked, looking between them nervously.

I just nodded my head, showing my support for Sam’s confusion.

“So you really don’t remember ordering room service?” Dean asked, giving us an amused look.

“Motels have room service in the future?” I asked, squinting at Sam.

He just shrugged.

“And then you had a race down the hall on the room service carts?” Dean continued.

“Oh, that sounds like us,” I said, relieved that we had just behaved like children and not actually done anything detrimentally stupid.

“I’m sorry, is it?” Dean asked with a laugh.  “I mean, my dad is such an… old man.”

“That is also true,” I agreed.  “Sammy certainly has the longest, thickest imaginable stick up his ass, but he occasionally knows how to pull it out and let his hair down.”

“Beautiful imagery, Dean,” Sam said.  “Who knew you had the sensitive soul of a poet?”

“I am a man of many talents.”

“So you also are accustomed to dancing on bars?” Dean asked, looking intrigued.

“I’m sorry, what?” Sam said again, as I nodded my agreement with him.

“Bars?  Dancing on them?”

“Isn’t that usually a thing that chicks do?” I asked, scratching at my stubble.

“And also something that the Winchester brothers apparently do,” Castiel contributed helpfully.

“I have never in my life danced on a bar,” I stated firmly.

Dean held up his phone, showing us both an image of what looked horrifyingly like me and Sammy, shaking our asses on a bar.

At least we were surrounded by a crowd of adoring-looking females.

“Listen, what happens during the Rite of Blood stays in the Rite of Blood,” I said.

“And your mother never needs to see that,” Sam added.

“Oh, I sent her the video.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“She showed it to all her friends in the nursing home.”

“…”

“The video is very funny,” Castiel put in, helping as usual.

Sam and I proceeded to stew in silence.

Apparently the next step in the ritual to bind the Angel Whatever-His-Name-Was involved another spell performed simultaneously on the north and south sides of the hospital where Sam and I were born.

“I thought we would be going to the cemetery, why the hospital?” Sam asked as we pulled into the parking lot.

“Because this is the power spot of Lawrence,” Castiel explained.  “It is where Mary pushed you both from her uterus, setting destiny into mo-”

“Dude, please do not ever talk about my mother’s uterus again,” I interrupted him, aghast.

“Yes, but Dean, it was a monumental event that only Mary, with her well-formed uterus, could-”

“What the hell did I just say.”

“‘Please do not ever talk about my mother’s uterus again,’” he repeated in a very disturbingly accurate impression of me.

“And yet you keep talking about it.”

“I do not think that Mary would take offense.”

“I take offense, Cass.”

Castiel suddenly disappeared.

“Uh, we kinda need him for the spell,” Dean said.

“Why do you have to pick a fight with him over everything?” Sam asked.

“Why am I always the bad guy?!” I demanded.

Castiel suddenly reappeared in the front seat.  “I talked to Mary, and she was not offended.”

“You what?” I asked.

“She seemed a little annoyed with you, though, Dean.”

“For what possible reason would my mother be annoyed with me?!”

“Don’t we need to begin the spell?” he asked, changing the subject like the asshole he was.

“We should get in position,” Dean agreed.

“Dean and I will take the south,” Sam chimed in quickly.

“That wouldn’t make sense,” Castiel said with a frown.  “One of you needs to be at the north.”

“No, my son Dean,” Sam clarified.

“Ah, you meant Other Dean.”

Dean Junior rolled his eyes but smiled.  “Come on, Dad,” he said, opening the door.

“Wait, what if I want to go with Junior?” I protested.

“Father-son bonding time,” Sam said, scrambling out of his side of the car, and he and Dean took off at a much faster walking pace than necessary.

“Do you really just call Junior ‘Other Dean’?” I asked, giving Cass a weird look.

“Of course,” he said, his brows scrunching in confusion.  “You are Dean.  He is not you.”

“You don’t think it’s just a little bit insulting to be called ‘Other’?”

“You call that same man who is older than you ‘Junior.’”

“I was born first.”

“Yes.  You are the original.  He is the Other Dean.”

“Weirdo,” I said, getting out of the car.  I wasn’t smiling because of Cass.

I caught him giving me that soft look of his again, his own mouth curving in a smile.

I ignored it and moved towards the north of the hospital.

Castiel drew up beside me, and when we’d reached a little grassy area that he deemed the correct spot, we started setting up the candles and drawing sigils.

When I was seated in the middle of the candles, I used Cass’s phone to message Sam.  “They’re almost ready,” I informed him.

“Good,” he said, shifting from side-to-side and scoping out the area.  The only light came leaking out from behind the curtained windows of the hospital, clouds covering up any light from the sky.  “Dean?”

“Yeah?” I asked.

“…are we still fighting?”

I looked at him.

His brows were drawn together and his lips were pushed out, and I couldn’t help but marvel that this dope was an angel.

“Do you still think that I’m angry with you because I’m uncomfortable about your feelings?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Then yeah, we’re still fighting.”

“Dean, I don’t understand.”

“Do you need me to draw you a friggin’ road map?”

“That would be helpful, yes.”

The phone buzzed.

“Ten seconds,” I said, and Castiel straightened up, ready to start.

We both counted down, and then I started lighting the candles and Castiel started chanting.  The wind picked up, but somehow the flames stayed lit, growing stronger and taller.  Everything seemed to be going according to plan.

Then a demon appeared and punched Castiel in the face.

[destiel-love-forever]

15.3 CODA

Dean stares at the bunker door, refusing to blink. Cas will come back. He just has to wait. Any second now. Cas will get a new wave of energy and come storming in. They’ll yell at each other. Hurt each other some more. Then Cas will go to his room, in the bunker, where he belongs, and Dean will get wasted and crash on the couch. 

Dean just has to wait. Once Cas comes back, they’ll finish it. They’ll go through the rest of their routine. 

Except, Cas doesn’t come back. 

Not after Dean blinks. Not after Dean realizes he’s crying. Not after Dean chugs the whiskey in his glass. Not after Dean fills that glass twice more. 

Certainly not after Dean throws the glass at the wall, the chaos of the crash sounding painfully similar to what’s happening in his chest. 

He pulls out his phone and calls Cas with shaking hands. His phone rings from across the room. When Dean slowly approaches the thing, as if it’s a bomb about to go off, as if things aren’t already beyond fucked up, as if Dean isn’t already destroyed, Dean finds a neat little pile of things that Castiel left behind. 

The cell phone Dean bought him, with the two of them in their cowboy hats as the lock screen photo. 

The mixtape Dean made him. 

The spare key to the bunker. 

The faded old Led Zeppelin t-shirt of Dean’s that they both pretended he didn’t steal. 

The copy of Slaughterhouse-Five Dean gave him. 

The cowboy hat from their trip to Dodge City. 

Dean collapses down at the table with the near-empty bottle of whiskey. As he sips on it, staring off at nothing, Dean replays the conversation. Well, maybe conversation isn’t the right word, considering he barely said anything. It’s more of what Dean didn’t say that matters. 

Dean doesn’t trust him. Castiel was right about that. 

But… they’ve lost trust in each other before. Multiple times. The two of them can be fucking idiots. They’re great at ignoring things, or keeping secrets. Great at hurting each other. 

So, yeah. Dean doesn’t trust him. But Castiel is supposed to wait. He’s supposed to just sulk and take it. Keep apologizing until Dean forgives him. That’s what he did before. That’s all he did in purgatory. Constantly apologizing. It’s what Dean did after the whole mark of cain/demon shit show. He always made sure Castiel knew he didn’t mean the things that had happened, and that he was so sorry. 

They get pissed at each other. They fight. They give the silent treatment. But they love each other, and that’s supposed to be enough. It’s always been enough. 

Why wasn’t it enough?

Dean takes a long pull of whiskey and slowly swallows it, allowing the liquid to burn him something fierce as it trickles down his throat. 

His powers are draining… but when aren’t they? Castiel’s powers have been draining since he rebelled against heaven for Dean. It’s not like he’s falling.

He’s not falling, right?

He can’t be falling. 

Dean closes his eyes, his body starting to tremble. Castiel is right, Dean hasn’t even been able to look at him. He hasn’t been paying attention. Dean has no fucking idea if Castiel is falling. When Dean asked him if he was okay outside the impala the other day, Castiel had said, “Yes, but-” and Dean had walked away. 

He had walked away! 

What if Castiel was going to tell him he could feel himself falling. For real this time, like when he did after the angels fell. Not just low grace, weak powers, and a body that needs to rest more than it should, but falling completely. Becoming human. 

And Dean rolled his eyes at him. 

Dean let him walk away. 

Dean let Castiel believe he was truly dead to him. 

Dean let him leave with the intention of moving on. 

Moving on? Fucking moving on? 

What did Dean do?

What did he do?

What the fuck did he just do?

---- 

Castiel lifts a shaking hand to the center of the door and tentatively knocks, feeling terrible that it’s so late at night. He only had fourteen dollars in his wallet, which was enough to buy gas for this short trip, but not enough for food or a hotel. This is the only other family - well, not his family, but the Winchester’s family - that Castiel has left. It’s only right he says goodbye to them before leaving for good. He knows it’s awful he didn’t talk to Sam before disappearing, but Sam had enough pain today. Castiel will call him from the road. 

The porch light coming on pulls Castiel out of his thoughts. He steps back just as the front door is opened, giving Jody a wobbly smile. She tilts her head and gives him a smile of her own. It’s genuine, and warm, and makes Castiel want to curl up and cry. 

“Castiel. Hey. Are the boys,” she stops herself, looking over his shoulder before back at him. He can feel her eyes as they rake over him. The sheriff in her must figure the situation out real quick, because her eyes turn sad and she reaches out for Castiel’s hand, pulling him inside. “You look like you could use something to drink. Do you want a beer? Maybe some whiskey? I think Donna has a bottle of vodka in the freezer.”

Slowly settling on the stool Jody gestures to, Castiel shakes his head. “No, thank you.”

“Maybe some tea?” Jody presses. 

“Yes. Tea sounds lovely,” Castiel says quietly, not wanting to be rude. “Thank you, Jody.”

“Peppermint? Chamomile?”

Having no idea in the slightest, considering all Dean drinks is coffee, Castiel says on a whim, “Peppermint, please. Thank you, Jody.”

“Of course, Castiel.” She sets a teapot on the stove, then pulls out a mug and a box of peppermint tea. As the water heats over a gas flame, she turns back to Castiel. He slumps down and clenches his hands together where they rest on the breakfast bar’s countertop. It unfortunately does not make him feel any less vulnerable or inspected. “Are you feeling alright, Castiel?”

“I’m fine,” Castiel replies, hearing Dean’s voice like he’s saying the words for him. It makes him suddenly angry. “Actually, I’m quite exhausted. And hungry. And it’s just been a very long few days. I miss Jack, so much. And I miss Mary. But I don’t think I’m allowed to miss Mary because, well, you know. It’s my fault and all. But I still miss-”

“Castiel, I’m sorry for interrupting, but Mary was not your fault.”

“I’m pretty sure she was.”

“That’s not the story I got from Sam. I know Dean has been taking it out on you, Sam’s been worried. He wasn’t sure if he should step in. But he made it very clear to me that he does not believe his mother’s death is on you. And after he explained everything, I agree with him. Castiel, you wanted to assume the best of your son. That’s what you are supposed to do as a parent. It backfired, yes, but that’s life, Castiel. That’s just how life goes.”

Castiel swallows around a lump in his throat and closes his eyes to stop them from burning. He drops his head, trying to breathe. 

The room stays quiet until the silence is interrupted by the whistling tea pot. A minute later, a steaming cup of peppermint tea is placed in front of his clasped hands. Castiel stares at it like he doesn’t recognize it. 

“Did Dean kick you out, Castiel?” Jody asks softly. 

“He-” Castiel stops when his voice cracks. He clears his throat twice before trying again. “No, he didn’t. But I didn’t belong there. Or I wasn’t wanted there. Or both. It was time I leave. I’m going to - well, I’m hoping to move on.” 

When Jody says nothing, Castiel peeks up at her. She looks devastated. “He’s an idiot. You know that, right?”

“No. No, Dean Winchester isn’t an idiot.” Castiel shakes his head, a corner of his mouth perking up. He releases a shaky, self-deprecating laugh under his breath. “Dean Winchester is the best thing to ever happen to me, and I ruined it.” 

“Castiel-”

Castiel stares down at his tea, waiting for Jody to continue. She doesn’t. He can’t blame her. What’s there to say? It’s true. His world is crumbling as they speak, and it’s all of Castiel’s fault.

The worst part, though? He can’t even regret it. Any of it. He’d rebel again. Fall in love again. He’d take all of the pain and sadness. All of the pleasure. Every kiss. Every hug. Every hand held beneath the diner table. Every laugh. Every fight. He’d do it all again, happily, because for a while there, Dean Winchester showed him what true heaven was like. 

“I’m going to go make up the spare bedroom. You just drink your tea, okay?” Jody asks in the mom voice he’s heard her use with the boys, and Claire and Alex, before. 

“I can find somewhere else if-”

“Nonsense. You’re family, Castiel. You will sleep here. Claire will be happy to see you in the morning.”

Castiel takes a sip of his tea, wondering if that’s true. Can he still be family if he’s not with Dean? He always thought he was just included because Dean said so. Is Castiel really loved and cared for by these people, even if Dean doesn’t want them to? Would Claire really be happy to see him? The angel that killed her father? 

She did keep the grumpy cat stuffed animal after all…

Jody returns just as Castiel is finishing his tea. She guides him down the hall, showing him the bathroom where he’s welcome to shower if he’d like, then the bedroom. After a final look laced with concern, Jody gives him a quick hug and wishes him goodnight, closing Castiel’s door as she leaves. 

Castiel stares at the bed for a minute, the weight of the last few days sinking in. He drags his feet across the room, stripping as he goes. The last thing he does is kick off his shoes right before collapsing onto the mattress in nothing but his boxers and undershirt. He barely has the energy to move around and get under the covers, but it’s so worth it. His entire body relaxes as the warmth encases him. 

As the mounting exhaustion begins to pull the falling angel into dreamland, the last thing he thinks about is Dean. 

Castiel hopes the man sleeps well tonight. He deserves to get some rest. 

---- 

Dean answers his phone with slow, uncooperative fingers. “Hey, Jody.”

“Dean Winchester, sometimes you are such an idiot that I want to smack you upside the head!”

“Wow,” Dean mumbles, rubbing a hand against his eyes. “You’re welcome for savin’ the world ‘n all.”

“And you’re drunk, too. I don’t know why I’m even surprised.”

“Jody, you need somethin’, or jus’ callin’ to make me feel’ike shit?���

He hears a deep sigh and rolls his eyes. Dean’s not in the mood for her to play mom right now. 

Dean has a mom. 

Had a mom. 

Just like he had Cas. 

Now he’s lost them both. 

He’s lost Jack. 

Rowena. 

Ketch.

“I just called to let you know that Castiel is safe. He’s here.”

Dean sits up straight, knocking over the empty bottle of whiskey. He ignores it as it crashes to the floor. “He’s there? At your house?”

“Yes. I gave him some tea to help calm him a bit and put him in the spare bedroom. I know angels don’t sleep, but… well, he’s sleeping.  Dead to the world already.”

You’re dead to me. 

Dead to me. 

I’m dead to you. 

You don’t care. I’m dead to you. 

My powers are failing.

You don’t care. 

My powers are failing. 

I’m dead to you. 

I know angels don’t sleep.

Dean feels sick to his stomach, whiskey flavored acid crawling up his throat. “I’ll be right there. Don’t let him leave.”

“No, Dean. Go sleep the booze off.”

“I need to be with him.”

“I’m not sure he needs to be with you, though.” Dean flinches like he’s just been slapped. Honestly, it feels like he has been.

But is she wrong? 

Probably not… 

“Will you just - just don’t let him go disappearing, okay? Take care of him, please.”

There’s a long pause. Then, “Get some rest, Dean. He’ll be fine without you.”

Jody hangs up without saying anything else, leaving Dean alone on the other end. He tosses the phone onto the table and buries his face in his hands. Maybe she’s right. Maybe Castiel will be fine without him. Hell, maybe Castiel will be better off without him. Dean should really just leave him alone. 

Dean eventually drags himself to his room, collapsing on the bed. The whiskey and exhaustion do their job, pulling him under in no time. Just before slipping into dreamland, the last thing he thinks about is Castiel. 

Dean hopes the angel sleeps well tonight. He deserves to get some rest.

There is now a PART 2! You can read it [HERE] <3

If you enjoy my work & would like to support me, please consider buying me a quick coffee [HERE] or becoming a Patron [HERE]! 

[simplyshelbs16xoxo]

‘wreck my plans’ chapter 4: moments that we stole

FFN | Ao3 | Buy Me a Coffee?

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                It was Saturday evening, the dark sky dotted with what little stars could be seen. The December air was crisp, freezing Sherlock down to his toes. In the courtyard, he waited impatiently for his brother to arrive. As soon as they snuffed out the murderer, he planned to return home. In an effort to keep busy, he had been helping John and Mary organise their wedding to an almost obnoxious degree, he was sure. Lately, he had been allowing his emotions to get the best of him, failing in every effort to thwart them.

               When Mycroft had come to him with this particular matter, Sherlock had turned it down immediately. It was tedious, boring. As much as he loved to dance, this ball didn’t sound the least bit enticing—not without the one woman he wanted to dance with. She’s ruined him he thinks. He only stood here now waiting for his brother to join him on this case because Mrs. Hudson had threatened to change the locks to keep him out until he talked to Molly.

               Didn’t anyone see? This was the only way to give her everything she wanted. It wasn’t as if she was reaching out to him. If she didn’t want to speak with him, who was he to not respect her wishes? He and Molly walked a fragile line now. Had he not gone and fallen in love with her, it wouldn’t have to be this way. It was painful being on the other end of unrequited love—he now knew all the pain he had unintentionally put her through in the past, and felt very sorry for it. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about her, for he always had, but Sherlock was very adamant about keeping everyone at a distance. The sociopath façade was for everyone’s sake, including his own. It protected him from his heart, which felt too much, and it protected them from his enemies.

               One of his brother’s cars rolled up much to his relief. “About time,” he muttered. The door opened and her name rolled off his lips in a breath, of which was currently being taken away by the sight before him. A pair of strappy heels on her small feet, Molly Hooper, her hair swept up into a chignon, began to stride towards the stairs leading up to the main doors. Her petite form was perfectly accentuated in a ruched aubergine chiffon dress that swished around her legs. The sweetheart neckline modestly highlighted her décolletage. His mouth went dry at the sight of her. This was much better than taking this case with his brother, who no doubt, set this whole thing up. She probably thought Mycroft was going to escort her.

               Despite the anger he felt towards himself, it suddenly dissipated. It was replaced by a new feeling. The warmth that bloomed in his chest upon setting his eyes on her calmed his racing mind. It was as if her presence, alone, comforted him. “Molly,” he said lovingly, his eyes softening at the sight of her.

               “Sherlock…” her tone matched his own, flabbergasted to see him again. He was donning a pair of rectangular framed glasses, a midnight blue tux, his hair gelled back, a few curls still making themselves known. Oh, he was ever so handsome. “Where’s Mycroft?“

               He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. God, she’s beautiful. “Off, having a laugh I’d wager.” There was no stopping the nervous laugh that escaped him. This was wrong. She was engaged. Mycroft practically set them up on a date. What would Tom do if he found out she was here with someone other than his big brother? He hated himself for it, but the next words out of his mouth were callous. “You shouldn’t be here. Get back in the car, Molly. Go home to your fiancé. Start planning your wedding—for God’s sake pick a date already—and forget about me. ” The cruelty in his words stung as he said them, and he knew if she stayed, there’d be no stopping whatever else might come out. He turned to go inside.

               “No,” Molly said firmly, gripping his arm. His words cut her like a knife—the one that was burying itself deeper into her chest. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I haven’t a clue what’s gotten into you, but if you think I’m going to let you go it alone, you are sorely mistaken. Besides, Tom knows I’m here; told me to have fun. Damn it, I’m here to do just that, because these last few weeks without you have been shit.” Molly felt the trickle of her tears falling down her face. “You said I’d always have you. Was that a lie?”

               He stood there, a lump in his throat, his own eyes welling up. The last thing he had wanted to do was make her cry. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, and gently wiped away her tears. “I’m sorry, Molly. I can’t seem to ever do right by you. Of course, you have me. Always. Come on,” he looped his arm through hers. “We’ve been freezing out here for too long. Besides, I’d like to show off how ravishing you look.”

               She half-laughed, half-sobbed wondering what could have changed his mind from giving her a verbal lashing. They stepped through the doors together into a warmly lit ballroom. It seemed most everyone was simply socialising, only a small handful of people dancing. It was a lovely scene before her, but Molly soon realised she hadn’t been told the specifics of the case. As if reading her mind, Sherlock leaned down and whispered in her ear, his breath hot against her skin, “It was a crime of passion; quite violent, so we’re most likely looking for a jilted lover.”

               God, she thought, could his voice be any more enticing??? Her thoughts were soon interrupted, probably for the best.    

               “Hello there! I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced! I’m Fabian Quill,” a joyous plump man greeted them.

               “I’m William Knight, and this,”—he wrapped his arm around her waist protectively—“is my beautiful fiancée, Margaret Holmes.”

               Molly tried not to react to his choice of surname for her. The sound of her name interwoven with his sent chills through her body. God, it sounded so perfect.

               “Holmes?” Quill questioned.” Any relation to that detective?”

               She laughed lightly, humorously, almost awkwardly. “Oh, goodness, no! I do get asked that a lot.”

               Fabian welcomed them, told them to enjoy the festivities, and bid them good evening before he continued making his rounds. Molly let out a sigh of relief, noting the smug smile on Sherlock’s face from the corner of her eye.

               “Shall we dance?” he asked her, opening the palm of his still freezing hand.

               She nodded, taking his offered hand.  They took three steps forward, and turning to face her, Sherlock placed a hand at the small of her back as she wrapped an arm around his shoulder. Their steps were in perfect tandem as they glided across the floor. The other guests couldn’t help but take notice. He spun her outward and spun her back into his waiting arms.

               His eyes never left hers, the irises nearly as dark as his suit. For the first time since their crime solving day, Molly allowed herself to let go and enjoy the moment. She closed her eyes as he tilted forward to lean his forehead against hers whilst they moved around the ballroom. It was easy to forget the rest of the world, the case, and other commitments. He had been so cold toward her for God knows why, but it was as if that icy exterior had melted away in favor of holding her in his arms.

               Sherlock spun her outward once more, and when she turned inward this time, he lifted her in his arms briefly and set her back down on her feet.

               “Been saving that one?” Molly asked breathlessly, her face flushed. That sparkle in her eyes was there just as he had hoped it would be.

               His warm smile reached his eyes, crinkling them at the corners. “Only for you, Molly Hooper.”  His low, rumbling voice sparked a flame within her. Their gaze never strayed from one another, full of ‘what ifs’ and ‘what could have beens.’ They had been almost lovers—and what a sad word it was, almost. It implied that everything they had ever wanted had been so close within their reach. He faked his death. She helped him do it. He returned. She had gotten herself engaged just months before. The only regret he ever had was not kissing her goodbye, asking her if she’d wait for him. He suspected she would have.

                Right as the music reached its coda, Sherlock dipped her, resisting the urge to press his lips to her slender neck. He had to stop himself, for the action felt natural in the moment, and pulled her back up, safe and sound. “Shall we snuff out our killer?”

                Lowering her voice, she replied, “Sherlock Holmes, you say the most charming things.”

                “I do, don’t I?” he quipped.

                Her laughter bubbled up, sounding like sweet music to his ears. This was the happiest Molly had felt in…well, three, nearly four weeks. It was just beginning to occur to her that the man beside her was the connecting factor. She had missed him so much. He was her best friend; someone she felt she could talk to about anything, even if the subject matter wasn’t necessarily interesting to him.

                They took a turn about the room, making conversation with the other guests. One woman asked them how they met, claiming they made such a beautiful couple (who would inevitably make beautiful children.) Molly had blushed at that. As for the story of how they met, Sherlock was quick on the uptake and talked of having met in Uni. 

                “I was nursing a whisky in the pub when I saw her,” he had told her. “She had just had a fight with her boyfriend at the time—he was a scoundrel, never deserved her. It was a pity such a lovely girl was so sad. I thought she deserved to smile, so I covered her next drink and had the bartender slip her a note which I am glad to say cheered her up.”

                “Well, go on,” one of the women encouraged, “what did the note say?”

                Molly smiled graciously despite the heat flushing her cheeks. “Oh, it’s been an age, I can’t possibly recall it.”

                “Oh, nonsense,” Sherlock remarked, “she’s just being modest. I wrote, ‘You deserve better than that—someone who makes you happy. If I were so lucky, I would treat you as the goddess you are. Oh, my darling, let’s be adventurers and make this world our own.’”

                His words had left her breathless as he recited them. The story itself was completely false, but those words…he hadn’t prepared them in any way. He hadn’t even known she’d be here tonight. This was Sherlock speaking from the heart and it was so beautiful, it made her want to cry. Was he just that poetic? Or were these words he wanted to say to her but never could? Molly so desperately wanted to believe the latter, but she didn’t want to get her hopes up. And why should she? Her fiancé was probably awaiting her return, unable to sleep until she was back safe and sound. Most likely not.

                 There went that knot in her stomach telling her something wasn’t right. She felt she might be sick. She clutched her belly in an effort to settle it. And then, pulling her aside, Sherlock placed a hand on her waist, his eyes boring into hers. “Are you feeling alright? Do you need to go home?”

                 Before she could answer, his soft, warm lips were pressed to her forehead. It’s just to feel your temperature, she had to remind herself.

                 “Hmm, you’re not warm,” he murmured. “Do you need to sit down? Would you like some water? What do you need?”

                 For the oddest reason, tears welled up in her eyes. She wasn’t used to someone taking care of her. “I’m alright, really. I’ll be fine. I want to keep investigating.”

                 Sherlock was hesitant. She had looked so pale a moment ago, but the color appeared to have come back as quickly as it left. “Well…if you’re sure. Just tell me if you’d like to go, and I’ll make arrangements for you.”

                 Molly smiled sweetly, almost lovingly. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary, but thank you. Come on, we’ve many more guests to talk to.”

                 As they jumped from groups, couples, and esteemed friends, it was a pair of gossiping women they had heard mention the deceased, Mister Archibald Hale. “Oh, I had heard what happened,” Molly told them. “Awful business, that. You don’t reckon he had taken a lover?”

                 One lady laughed at the notion, the old engagement ring hanging from a chain around her neck gleaming under the lights. “Oh, Archie definitely had one. Don’t know who she was, mind you, but either his wife offed him or his mistress did. Either way, the man was a lesion on society.”

                 “A despicable one, he was,” another woman added, taking a sip of her champagne. “I heard his wife knew about the whole sordid affair. I bet she bided her time before doing away with him.”

                 Sherlock stepped in, then. “Hm, and what if there was a third person involved? Not the wife or his lover? Anyone like that you know?” The women shook their heads, though the first who spoke to them—Elsie Brown—appeared a bit on edge. “Well, good evening to you ladies. I think Margaret may need some fresh air, don’t you, darling?”

                 Molly nodded. “It is quite stifling in here. It was a pleasure to meet you all.” She took Sherlock’s arm as he quietly led her through the crowd and onto the balcony.

                 “What do you make of Elsie?” he asked her once they were alone.

                 “I think she knows something,” Molly replied. “Maybe she did it, though we know she’s not the wife.”

                 Sherlock nodded. “Nor the lover, I’d wager. No, I think this is far more personal. The murderer is a jilted lover as I suspected, but one from long ago.”

                 A light went on in her thoughts, and excitedly, she grabbed Sherlock’s arms. “Notice how she called him ‘Archie.’ There’s a level of intimacy there. Perhaps they were in love once, maybe even betrothed, if that ring around her neck is anything to go by, and he left her for another woman. It wasn’t the wife that bided her time, but Elsie, who was probably planning this for years!”

                He smiled warmly, so in love with the woman excitedly solving his case. Though, of course he had already solved it. Sherlock thought it would be nice to let her have this one. It was the least he could do after the fight they had. Never did he want to make her cry again, not that he had intended to. “Excellent work, Molly,” he praised her as he sent off a text to Mycroft. “I’ll make a detective out of you, yet.”

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                They rode back to her flat together in one of Mycroft’s cars. Sherlock wanted to be sure she got home safely. When she began to let herself out, he placed his hand on hers. “Molly, wait.” He now had her immediate attention. “About earlier…I am very sorry for the way I snapped at you, and for what I said. Furthermore, I shouldn’t have disappeared on you. I hurt you, and that is unforgivable in my book.”

                Molly shook her head. “Not unforgivable.”

                He smiled sadly. “You’re too kind to me, Molly. If there’s any way I can make it up to you…”

                “You can start by forgiving yourself,” she told him. “You’re much too critical for your own good.” And she leaned in, leaving him a kiss upon his cheek.

                Sherlock could barely breathe, though he managed one last sentiment. “As you wish, Molly Hooper.”

[curioussubjects]

and let me correct it

(ao3)

Pairing: Dean/Cas Rating: M Words: 1.5k Tags: Coda: 15.09 The Trap, Post-Episode, Fluff and Smut, (easy on the smut), Established Relationship, Getting Back Together, Feelings Notes: This fic is probably one of the most self-indulgent things I've ever written. I admit I was tempted by that MoC!Cas angst, but sometimes one just wants some warm and fuzzy feelings -- even in this economy. Probably canon divergent. Like...maaaaybe. Anyway, hope y'all like it! Title is from New Perspective by Panic! at the Disco because I really meant that bit about self-indulgence. 

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The hushed sounds of the bunker are loud around them. Dean can hear the buzz of electricity from the lights and the generator, feels alive with it. The lights in the hallway aren’t particularly bright, making the angles of Cas’s face soft. It’s been too long since they’ve been this close, and Dean’s fingers itch to touch him. They’re in the hallway about to part for the night, so Dean makes a decision. He steps closer to Cas, slowly, carefully and with baited breath. Cas watches him move, but doesn’t back away, doesn’t add any distance between them, though he doesn’t move closer either. Instead, Cas looks at Dean with curiosity, a trace of hope and a challenge in his eyes. Dean licks his lips and sees Cas track the movement, purposefully. It’s easy then to lean in, to wait for Cas to meet him halfway. The kiss is a careful thing, incongruent. Neither of them make a move to make it more intense; the moment feels fragile. Dean doesn’t want to push his luck because they’re still reeling from purgatory, from Chuck. They still have more to say to each other, more to fix. But he wants to kiss Cas again, has missed how he feels and how he tastes.

Cas sighs into it and pulls Dean closer, his hands settling warm on Dean’s waist. Dean relents willingly, needs to be close and closer still. Feels their apprehension steadily falling away. He moves a hand to Cas’s jaw, to angle him just right. Lets his other hand move further, so he can run his fingers through Cas’s hair. And Dean loves kisses like this, slow and focused – not heated, but no less overwhelming. Dean struggles to remember the last time him and Cas kissed this way, were this caught up in how to touch and be touched. Dean relishes in it, in how Cas’s lips are chapped and dry, but have a softness to them that Dean has long grown addicted to. He lets himself get lost in it, knowing Cas is doing the same by the way he holds Dean tightly and nips at his bottom lip.

But when Cas walks them backwards, slightly, towards Dean’s bedroom door, Dean forces himself to break the kiss, to pull away just a little. Dean hadn’t had a plan beyond a kiss in the half-light of the hallway. He’s not opposed to what Cas seems to be suggesting, as if he could ever be, but he doesn’t want to derail their progress by getting carried away now. With his voice rough around the edges, Dean says:

“I know we still have to-”

Resting their foreheads together, Cas nods. Dean is about to ask if they could talk in the morning, maybe grab some lunch or – but he loses his train of thought at the sound of Cas clearing his throat.

“Later?”

For a second, Dean thinks of saying no. Of gently pushing Cas away, saying they need to talk before they resume any kind of normalcy in their relationship. Except Cas is so close, and he’s so distracting when he nudges Dean’s nose. Not demanding anything, he does it just to be tender. And Dean gets it because there’s been enough violence between them. Every soft touch they share is a discovery, a wound healed. Besides, they need some solace, and they’ve found it in each other more often than not. So Dean doesn’t pause whatever it is they’re doing, doesn’t say they should wait until they have no more secrets to share or hurt to dole out. The bunker feels suddenly warmer and brighter than it has in months.  

“Yeah, alright.”

Dean guides them the rest of the short way into his bedroom, encouraged by the steady hold Cas has on him. Opening and closing the door is simple with them trading lingering touches and an errant kiss. Yet, when the door shuts, and the only light comes from under the door and the display on the clock on the nightstand, it’s easy to get lost in the push and pull of undressing and the marvel of exposing skin. In remembering how to touch after months of absence. There’s no grace in their movements: they are tugging at each other’s clothes and stumbling in the dark.

----

They find a rhythm soon, hips rocking together.  Heat builds slow and steady with the slick slide of their bodies. In the endless span of skin and the press of fingers and lips. Dean feels drunk on it, his senses overrun with how solid and warm Cas feels beneath him, the way he smells, and the litany of sounds he makes against Dean ear. He is lost in the way they move together, muffles a groan against Cas’s neck at the sting of blunt nails running down his back, at the way Cas tugs at the short hairs at the nape of his neck, allowing him to bite the bolt of Dean’s jaw. So then Cas can trail his lips across Dean’s cheek until they kiss, open mouthed and sloppy. They know how to do this, know how to read their bodies, and move together. They know how to move until they lose focus, with racing hearts and panting breaths.

Their movements grow erratic; Dean is sure he has embarrassing nonsense spilling from his lips, knows Cas hears it all by the press of his hands and the fondness in his eyes. It’s not unusual that moving like this is enough to tip them over, hips grinding together in tight thrusts. They hold hands sometimes, above their heads, when it’s hard to breathe. When it’s so good they can barely see straight. But there are times when Cas needs more friction. Needs to move more freely, even if he’s the one pressing Dean into the mattress. Dean can tell, knows by the way Cas makes impatient noises in the back of his throat. It’s unsurprising that he pushes until Dean is on his back, watching as Cas straddles his hips and looks like he could stare at Dean forever. It’s difficult not to squirm under the attention. Even after years together, Dean isn’t quite used to it, kinda hopes he never is. And really, he can’t be sure he doesn’t have the same look on his face because Cas is gorgeous like this: with a flush running up his chest and his eyes bright, even if framed in shadow. Dean pulls Cas down against him, can’t stand the distance. Whispers c’mere and gasps against Cas’s lips when Cas wraps a hand around them both.

----

Cas falls heavy on him, after. Tucks his face against Dean’s neck. Nuzzles. Dean thinks his heart is going to burst, and he hates himself for almost giving this up. For almost letting it fall away into nothing. He wraps his arms around Cas, not caring about the mess spreading between their bodies. Kisses his temple, breathes him in. Cas kisses his Dean’s collarbone in response, and sighs his contentment. Dean can’t help asking then, directly and not cushioned in deflection:

“Stay?”

It’s quite for a while, and Dean tenses with regret. Braces himself for the inevitable. Cas tugs at his hip, so Dean turns on his side. He keeps his eyes open, looks at Cas and tells himself the earnestness he sees there is not a sign of apology. The second before Cas answers is long and fretful.

“Tonight?”

Dean licks his lips, feels his throat closing up, old alarm bells go off in his head. He powers on, he can do this. Dean makes it slightly easier on himself by closing his eyes, resting their foreheads together:

“And the next.”

“And the next?” And Dean knows Cas is smiling, can hear it in his voice.

Dean lets out a breathless chuckle in disbelief that maybe it’s that easy. Relief floods his whole body, and he feels a little foolish for doubting. Maybe it’s not complicated at all, even if it actually is in practice. Even if they bicker and fight and sacrifice. Even if they don’t tell each other things they should, or if they struggle to break old habits. But the certainty of another night, and another, and another make the ugly parts smaller, insignificant in the feeling that blooms in Dean’s chest and takes roots in his body: a shriveling thing waiting to come back to life. Dean knows what this is, knows the love he’s felt for years and tried to keep away from the light. He grips Cas’s waist, his hip, pulls him closer. Hums his assent because he’s choking on the thought that this isn’t just something he gets to have again, but gets to keep – for good this time.

Cas holds him close, thumb running against Dean’s cheek; he brings their lips together, soft and soothing.

“Dean,” he breathes. “Yes.”

Dean opens his eyes and they smile at each other. They know tomorrow will be less kind and tender than this. And yet it changes nothing. It doesn’t change the words bubbling up Dean’s throat, words he’ll save for now. For after. For another night, and, hopefully, another morning. Afternoon, if they’re lucky.

“Okay. Okay,” Dean says, instead, softly. It’s as much acknowledgment as it is reassurance: that whatever comes, they have this. Always. And Dean knows Cas will stay here with him, in their bed, even if he doesn’t really sleep. He knows the morning light will find them still wrapped up in each other.

[faejilly]

tag game

Fic Writer Edition (tagged by @silver-latin-and-salt​, tagging, idk, whoever is writing atm? @twistedsinews​ @leahazel​ @junemermaid​, anyone who’d like, no one who doesn’t, etc.)

Fandoms: atm, primarily Shadowhunters. But also BioWare: Dragon Age and Mass Effect and maybe someday I’ll post some Jade Empire.

Also the occasional other game or TV show or Yuletide inspired one-shot. It’s a wide and ridiculous range of things, from a Georgette Heyer regency epilogue to Code: Realize and #7kpp to Firefly & even some Sleepy Hollow ficlets from back in s1 before we realized how terrible TPTB were going to be.

Number of fics: I have 158 works published on AO3.

This includes a couple of fanmixes that are linked on there to companion fics/series, two collaborative fics which are not just mine, even less so than most writing that is, and four WIPs: two of which I am still working on, one of which will absolutely 100% NEVER ever get more, and then that last one will probably not get more but who knows, maybe in ten years we’ll do a reunion and try again (it’s one of the collabs).

AS WELL AS: forty-seven different ficlet collections, sorted by fandom and pairing(s), because otherwise I would honestly have almost 1000 things and never be able to find a single damn one of them when I wanted to (and neither would anyone else). Like, ten of them are just for Shadowhunters because I split up the coda-fic by season and then also I put the porn in its own thing and Clizzy is kind of a post-canon AU so they’re on their own too and spin-offs of a particular fic setting get their own collection so they’re all together and etc. etc. etc.

Fic I spent a lot of time on: Do we count time actually writing? Or just the amount of time it hung out in my head before I finished it? Because I probably spent the most actual physical writing time on Lost For Words, which is a frothy cotton-candy experiment in long-fic for Mass Effect that I posted chapter by chapter as I wrote it and actually finished. (I have never successfully repeated the experience, tho I suppose a couple of my Shadowhunters fics will sort-of qualify in terms of length when they’re done, but they didn’t get posted semi-regularly and in progressive chapters in at all the same way.)

In terms of time between debut and completion, that would probably have to go to Cruel Intentions, which took over five years between initially going up on the Dragon Age Kink Meme and actually getting a conclusion.

i am for you and if broken hearts were whole have both been lingering WIPs for over two years at this point now, though, and a couple other DA2 fics were pretty close to that five year mark as well. 😅

Fic I didn’t spend a lot of time on: ashes of angels because I was coming up on my bingo deadline so I just pounded it out in a day. (It’s actually quite good tho! I think so, anyway! I am very proud of it! Read part one first, if you haven’t yet!)

also Impossible, (DA2, Bethany/Sebastian, confessional!porn) which mostly wrote itself in pretty short order, which was delightful. (Tho I also had a very astute beta for that one; don’t think he’s on tumblr anymore tho, or I’d yell at him in thanks again.) I told y’all I had a priest!kink problem. Not that you hadn’t all noticed on your own, anyways...

Longest fic: Finished? The aforementioned Lost for Words at just over 62k.

In limbo? Persephone Rising is literally three times longer than my next longest fic (and still not done!) but it is also a collab fic with three authors, so I suppose that sort of evens out?

Active WIP? i am for you at 59k. I’m not sure how much more is left of that one, tbqh... it will probably end up a bit longer than LfW, tho maybe not by much.

Shortest fic: I have no fucking clue, 47 ficlet collections, remember? In terms of a thing that I forgot to collect, apparently it is Consequences, which is my Brosca after the Landsmeet in DA:O.

Most hits/Most kudos/Most bookmarks: ALL THREE FOR i am for you! (Wonder how it’ll do when it’s no longer marked as a WIP?)

Total word count: On AO3: 1,137,609 !!!

(Sorry, you can see why I had to make that big tho, right?)

Fic I want to rewrite/expand: Except for the revisions to what is now Maleficar, I much prefer to leave fic as is, once it’s up there, so nothing on the re-write front. It was what it was when I did it, and it’s important to remember that, even when you move on to new stuff, imo.

But! I have potential/hopeful sequels in the WIP folder for and breathing is wishing, out of some dreaming tree, with an if in its soul, and several assorted ficlet collections & prompts I’ve sort of teased over the years. 

Favourite fic of mine: At the moment, they have hung the sky with arrows because it’s a thing I’m not sure I ever really thought I was going to write, and then I did and I surprised myself a little, but it was fun and it ties together a lot of my thoughts on the Shadowhunters finale in a way I really enjoyed. (Also it has an actual plot! I don’t do that terribly often, I’m usually very introspective in my fic.)

Sneak peek of a WIP/Share an idea? I started a Shadowhunter!Magnus fic for a bingo square, but then scope creep! so I made a moodboard, but there is maybe a fic on the way... eventually. After my Bangs. 🤞🏻

The first time Magnus Bane met the High Warlock of Manhattan it was during his "travels", the two years after graduating from the Academy when most Nephilim wandered from Institute to Institute, seeing how things were done differently around the world, how they were still so often the same, learning about all the things you couldn't see in a classroom.

He wasn't actually in New York City in order to meet the High Warlock, of course, not as a 17-year-old foot soldier, that was well above his pay grade, as the mundanes put it. But when all the full-fledged Shadowhunters had work to do, he was assigned escort duty when the High Warlock showed up to do his yearly wards inspection. 

Magnus met High Warlock Lightwood at the main entrance, and almost swallowed his own tongue at the sight of him, a broad shouldered, long-legged white man dressed in a conservative but very well-tailored suit, with heavy eyebrows, even heavier eyelashes, and a complete and utter lack of anything resembling an expression on his face. 

A shiver went down Magnus' spine as he met the High Warlock's gaze, and he refused to think too much about why.

Magnus managed to introduce himself reasonably coherently, he thought, offering a hand to shake, but the High Warlock just raised an eyebrow at him. "I thought I'd talked them out of this nonsense last year."

"Uh." Magnus swallowed. The man was both terrifying and ludicrously attractive, and Magnus resigned himself to being a slightly stuttering idiot for the next four-to-six hours. "Not my call, I'm sorry to say. Sir."

The High Warlock rolled his eyes, and stepped forward. Magnus barely managed to dodge out of his way, and followed along behind him as he stalked towards the Angelic Core, where all the Institute Wards were anchored.

He never once acknowledged Magnus' presence as he worked, never asked for directions, or needed any sort of assistance. Magnus followed him anyway, and couldn't even bring himself to be upset about the waste of his time because damn, that view. He could see the shift of Lightwood's shoulders beneath the line of his coat, the tension in the muscles in his arms as each tiny motion correlated to whatever he was doing with his magic. There was so much power there, constrained and under his complete control.

The High Warlock never took so much as a wasted step in his clearly perfectly planned spiral of a route through the Institute's halls, circling out from the Core, stopping at each node, hitting all four corners of the building, before reaching the main doors again several hours later. 

Once there he finally turned and looked at Magnus directly. He dipped his head in some slight acknowledgement, straightened his cuffs, and his face shifted into something that was merely neutral and professional rather than granite. "There were no concerns to note, Mr. Bane. The wards have been refreshed, and the contract terms have been met."

"Thank you," Magnus managed, though he had to cough to get his voice to cooperate. 

The High Warlock's face softened, a hint of something that wasn't quite surprise in his eyes, but Magnus wasn't sure what to call it instead. "You're very welcome."

He nodded again, slightly more sincerely, perhaps, though there still wasn't enough of an expression on his face to properly qualify, in Magnus' opinion, and then he turned and left. 

Magnus blinked at the doors as they shut behind him, and let out one long slow exhale. His shoulders relaxed, and it was only now that his posture sagged that he realized he'd been extra tense the entire time, as if waiting for an attack that had never come.

[bytheangell]

Gallery of Broken Hearts

(Read on AO3) (A 3x18 Coda, episode spoilers ahead)

Maryse returns the next morning to the shop, coffee in hand, eager to see what Magnus did with the place after she decided to turn in for the night. She isn’t sure what to expect - she told him not to stay too late, that she could always finish up whatever is left in the morning - but whatever she does expect, it isn’t to find Magnus sitting in one of the chairs in a corner reserved for reading.

He’s curled up, eyes blinking open slowly at the sound of the bell and the door slamming shut - she didn’t bother being quiet about her entrance, not expecting to find anyone there when she arrived. But she finds Magnus, makeup smeared down his cheeks and the skin around his eyes is red and inflamed. He’s been crying. He’s also still fully clothed, complete with shoes and jewelry as he realizes where he is and startles upright. He hadn’t planned on falling asleep there whenever he did… which, judging by the way his eyes hang heavy the moment he tries to focus them, hasn’t been for very long at all.

“Maryse, I-” he starts, but falters. “I shouldn’t be here. I’m sorry, I just… I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Magnus? Is everything alright?” She asks, setting the coffee cup down on the counter.

“I’m sorry,” he says, the words sounding weak. He looks lost, and her heart aches at the sight.

“No need, I’m just… confused. What’s wrong?” She asks, and then hesitates as a thought crosses her mind as to what might upset Magnus so much he couldn’t even make it back to the Institute last night. “...is it Alec?”

Magnus chokes out a sound that’s somewhere between a sob and a bitter, harsh laugh. “Alec is fine.” He manages, but she knows there’s more to it than that. So instead of prying, she waits, watching his expression shift from that flash of anger to something softer, and infinitely more sad. “He’s going to be just fine, now that he doesn’t have me to worry about any more.”

She takes the words in but can’t make sense of them. “What do you mean?”

“I shouldn’t be here. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to burden you, I just… I didn’t have anywhere else to go,” he says for the second time. He stands up from the chair. “I should let you talk to Alexander about all of this, I’m sure you’d rather hear it from him anyway--”

“Magnus, please. You don’t have to leave, and you’re far from a burden. But nothing you’re saying makes any sense.” She fights the urge to pick up her cell phone and call Alec up. Does he know Magnus is here? He’s probably worried sick if his boyfriend didn’t come home last night, knowing the state he’s been in lately…

“Alexander broke up with me last night.” Magnus says, and no matter how hard he tries to keep the tremor from his voice he can’t, and the tears begin to fall all over again leaving familiar trails where the previous night’s waterworks already left stains of smeared eyeliner and mascara.

“What? No, he wouldn’t…” She thinks of the ring, of the joy on Alec’s face. She thinks of the way he sounded on the phone when he suggested Magnus come over the night before because it would be good for him, and the care behind every word he spoke. “He loves you.”

“Yes, well, not as much as he loves his own self-preservation. I can’t blame him. I don’t blame him. I’ve been nothing but a burden since I returned from Edom…” Magnus says, blinking the tears from his eyes. His voice sounds hollow by the end, and that worries her more than the previous emotion.

“That isn’t true, Magnus. He cares about you. We all do. Something has to be wrong… he was going to--” she starts, but cuts the words off abruptly, steadying herself with a deep breath before she can get too ahead of herself. “That doesn’t sound like Alec.”

“It sounded a lot like him when he said it.”

This can’t be right. What could’ve happened in half a day to make Alec go from wanting to propose to Magnus, wanting to make sure he’s spending time with people who are about him, who will understand and help him, to ending things entirely without looking back? That isn’t him. That isn’t her son. She refuses to believe he would do something so selfish in the face of love.

“I’ll figure out what happened. There has to be more to it, something he isn’t saying-.”

“Don’t.” Magnus cuts her off abruptly, the word cold and harsh. “He made himself very clear… and it isn’t his fault. It’s mine. It’s everything I said to him on the balcony that night… I told him I couldn’t be happy without my magic, but I never meant… I didn’t just ruin the dinner he planned, I ruined everything. I ruined us.”

She’s at his side the moment the sobs begin, clutching him against her with no care for how the streaks of tears and makeup are surely ruining the white dress she wears. She holds him, whispering soothing sounds into his ear as his body shakes with violent sobs, any attempt at words drowned out by the shaking, stuttering breaths that leave him in their place. Minutes pass before they slow, and then still, and Magnus’ breathing begins to even out.

He looks at the marks on her dress and frowns. “I… I’m so sorry. I’ll pay to get that dry cleaned.”

It’s absurd to even consider worrying about the state of her clothing just then. “I don’t care about this stupid dress. I care about you, Magnus.” “Alec doesn’t, why should you? Consider yourself officially off the hook.” Magnus tries wave it off. To act that he doesn’t care, but she can see through it immediately. He’s trying to push her away, because it’d be better to imagine it’s his choice rather than watching her abandon him, too. She isn’t about to do that. Not a chance.

“Nonsense. Are you up for a short walk? I don’t live very far away. You can shower, and get some proper rest in my apartment.”

“Maryse, I couldn’t-”

“Of course you can. And you will.” Her tone is firm and final as she pulls her keys out and takes the one to her apartment off the ring, holding it out in front of her. Magnus doesn’t take it at first, and so she grabs his hand and places it into his palm, closing his fingers around it. “Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Or order takeout - they have my card on file at the Chinese place around the corner.”

“You don’t have to-” Magnus starts, trying to hold the key back out to her, but she shakes her head insistently.

“I know I don’t have to. I want to. Just promise me you’ll be there when I get back?” She glances around the room. “I’m going to finish a few things here quick and then call it a day. An hour, two tops. Deal?” She planned on opening for a full day of business but knows she’ll be far too distracted now. And this is more important.

Magnus doesn’t say anything for a long while. She watches him reconcile whatever happened with her son and with what she’s saying to him now, before nodding slowly.

“Alright,” he agrees. “Thank you.”

Maryse waits until he leaves, praying to the Angel she made the right decision, before taking the cell out of her pocket and calling Alec.

“Alexander, what on earth did you--” she starts, but cuts herself off at the sound of sniffling on the other end of the line.

“Mom? Mom, I… I need you.” Her son’s voice dissolves into a broken, choked cry that tears at her heart. 

“I’ll be right there.”

In under a minute the closed sign is back on the door and she’s on her way to the Institute. Whatever’s going on Maryse is determined to get to the bottom of it. Alec nearly threw away his chance at love once in the name of a selfless act, and while she isn’t sure what’s going on right now she’s certain of one thing: this isn’t what he wants, and she refuses to watch him make the same mistake twice.