#sam: 'those are for chicken pox dean and No'

[babybrotherism]

that personal space post had me thinking that the thought of having to quarantine from each other must've be an actual nightmare for them

[schizosamwincester]

Hello! Welcome my sideblog! If you want to see me post about not Supernatural, my main is @drowninginredink.

If you're not going to read this introduction, it/its please, yes I am actually schizophrenic, and beware, incest lies ahead. The rest is below the cut.

Fics:

You sound absurd, even if you're right - schizophrenic!Sam, sampreg, Sam & Dean, past Sam/Lucifer

The Story Doesn't Change - schizophrenic!Sam, Sam & Dean, Mystery Spot

Hold you breath, I'll hold mine too - past Sam/Jess, Sam/Dean, sampreg, miscarriage

Sissy - closeted trans woman!Dean/John

Sister - Sam finds out about trans woman!Dean (Sam & Dean)

Subsist - Vignettes between Sam and closeted trans woman!Dean

Pretty Thing (you'll be complete) - Closeted trans woman!Dean/Post-op trans woman!Bela (smut)

Drink to Forget - AU where Sam dies in Carry On instead of Dean

I remember when your head caught flame - Sam/John, underage, first kiss

But they were fucked up in their turn - closeted trans woman!Dean & closeted trans woman!John

Take My Body - trans man!Sam/John

A disfiguring chicken pox of the soul - weirdcest, weecest, trans boy!Sam/trans girl!Dean (not that either knows it yet)

like the baptism he never had - Sam/Dean, necrophilia, piss (All Hell Breaks Loose)

Silver Linings - Sam/Dean, necrophilia, piss (yes, again. But this time it's Mystery Spot)

Like Flies from your Face - Dean & Bobby, suicidal!Dean (All Hell Breaks Loose)

Tonight I give in to the fantasy - Trans woman!Dean, sex worker!Dean

I'll use you as a warning sign - Sam/John, Dean/John, unplanned pregnancy

Webweaves:

Sober II/samjohn

An Overdue Downfall/Sam

The Sonnet-Ballad/deanjohn

Drowning in the Sound/John

Slip Slidin' Away/Sam and John

I Haven't Masturbated in Five Days for Fear of Crying/wincest

Z-E-P-H-Y-R/Sam and Dean (and the Impala)

Big Houses/wincest

And Saints/John and Mary

The Cigarette Duet/wincest

What Makes a Man?/deanjohn

Rent/wincest

The Moon Will Sing/John and Dean

less words/wincest

Bike/wincest

Big Houses/Dean

San Cristóbal/Sam

Young and Dumb/Sam (implied wincest)

Father/deanjohn

I use mostly my own screenshots for weaves, so if you ever want one for your own thing, just ask and I'll send you the original!

All the posts about my pet headcanon are tagged "#schizophrenic sam winchester." Creative, I know. The occasional solely schizophrenia related posts are tagged "#schizospec education." Queue tag is #hallqueuecinations and oh boy do I have way too much stuff queued. I do tag ships so you can filter them out if you want to, but like... I am a johndean and wincest person. If you really don't want to see that, you should just leave.

I am watching SPN for the first time and am currently on episode S4 E12. Maybe. I do forget to update this number a lot. Don't worry about spoiling me. Trust me, I've already been all over SPN tumblr. And yes, I am already headcanoning Sam as schizophrenic despite having not yet gotten to the part where he actually hallucinates. Pretty early on, I'd seen enough from the fandom to know that Sam was going to give me ~feelings~ as a schizophrenic, but Home was what sold me on it. The way he responds to the vision is exactly like my experience of delusions. It's like having blinders on. You can't think about anything else and you need to figure it all out and fix it right this minute. It's urgent and obsessive in the same way Sam was. His body language, too, was just perfect, down to just what he did with his hands. I look at Sam, especially Sam getting visions, and I see myself. So. Sam Winchester is schizophrenic. Not in some "Sam hallucinated the entire show" way (God I hate those theories) or that none of the supernatural stuff is real. Everything we see is real, but Sam's brain also pulls some shit of its own.

A very important note, given the name of my blog: schizo is a slur. I reclaim it a lot. I was diagnosed by people who want to change the definition of schizophrenia, and so for a long time, I was explicitly told not to call myself schizophrenic. That's bullshit. My symptoms aren't quite traditional, and I am at the more mild end, but as per the current DSM? I'm schizophrenic. But because for a long time I got told "you're schizo-spec, but not schizophrenic," the word I associate myself with more than anything is schizo. I try to actually write out schizophrenic when I'm on this account, but in real life, I usually don't. But if you are not anywhere on the schizophrenia spectrum, you should not say it (unless you're tagging me). I don't want my handle to give anyone the idea that you can go around calling Sam a schizo. I can. You can't.

My purpose isn't directly to educate about schizophrenia, but I know that the general cultural perception of it misses a lot, so just by shouting about how I headcanon Sam as schizophrenic, I will accidentally teach you all things. In light of that, there will be the occasional reblog of not at all SPN related awareness posts, and my asks are always open. You all have my permission to ask rude and personal questions about it that you should not ask strangers. Schizophrenia is basically a special interest of mine at this point. I am very open about stuff, not so much because of desire to educate or what have you but just because part of my schizophrenia is having very little filter. I will say that if you ask me about the delusions I've had, you're going to get an incomplete answer because going into them too much can be triggering. Everything else is on the table, though.

My banner is from this webweave (which I made).

And once again, I am very much johndean trash, with a strong love for samjohn. I do certainly partake in my fair share of wincest as well, but really, I'm here for The Dad Ships. Point is, this blog is very much not an incest-free zone. I'd say that I'm sorry, but I'm not. You're watching The Incest Show. What do you expect? If you do not like that, block me now and move on.

Fun fact: my birthday is November 5. No wonder I eventually broke down and decided I needed to see what SPN actually was.

[dcforts]

[week #5: holidays]

3k, tfw+eileen+wayward sisters. (part 1 - part 2 - part 3)

Sam dropped it on him right before they left for their holiday. He caught him in his room, as Dean was packing the last of his clothes and said that he and Eileen were thinking of moving out of the bunker and what did he think about that and would he like that.

And Dean had stood at the foot of his bed with a t-shirt in his hand, trying to make sense of what he was hearing.

“When is this happening?” he said, when his voice started working again.

Sam had made a surprised face, like he hadn’t just hit Dean with an anvil, “We didn’t - we’re just talking about it. It’s not like we made plans without you.” His forehead had scrunched up, unsure, “You’re coming with us, right?”

Dean didn’t know.

He’d said so and that had made things weird.

“Oh, well – we can talk about it when we get back.”

They’d stared at each other some more, not knowing what to say and then they sat in the car for four hours with Cas and Eileen still not knowing what to say, met with Jody and Donna and the girls outside the hotel, had a good night sleep, and now it was Friday, near midday, and Dean was sitting on a chair half sank in the sand, under the shade of a beach umbrella, and still couldn’t quite figure out how his world had managed to go upside down nor how to turn it upside again.

He was trying to squash down the voice inside his head that said that Sam was leaving, and he was going to be alone, trying to tell himself this wasn’t like with Stanford, this was nothing like with Stanford, but he couldn’t stop Sam’s words from playing over and over in his head.

This was not how he’d planned this holiday to go. He couldn’t shake off the feeling of wrong, and it wasn’t fair, not when he had his toes in the sand, his Hawaiian shirt on, a good book to read and the sea a few feet from him. Not when he was surrounded by colourful towels and chairs and overflowing beach bags reminding him that he was in excellent company.

Right on cue, Jody plopped down in a chair next to him. She was wearing big sunglasses and a ridiculous sun hat. She’d wanted him to take a picture of her that morning at breakfast.

“Claire and Kaia are really scary when they play beach paddle, you should go rescue Cas and your brother.”

Dean snorted, “No way. If I get under the sun now, I’ll look like I’ve got chicken pox.”

“You already look like that,” she said, squirting sunscreen on the palm of one hand and smearing it on her arm.

Dean threw her a resentful look, to which she just laughed, “How was your walk anyway?”

She shrugged, jutting out her lower lip. Dean teased her, “So, are you relaxded now or do you have another patrol scheduled for later?”

He could just tell she was rolling her eyes behind her sunglasses, “Oh, shut up.”

“Come on, you were totally doing your sheriff thing. Securing the perimeter?”

“I was not,” she lied, scooting her chair out of the shade and settling more comfortably, her legs stretched out. “I am relaxed. See? I’m totally relaxed.” She sighed and rolled her head towards him. She sounded suspicious when she said, “What are you doing here alone?”

Dean opened his mouth to say that he was reading, couldn’t she see, he had a book in his hand, but then he would have to explain why he was still at page one. Thankfully, Eileen e Patience made their way back from the shore right then, so he didn't have to.

“We are starving,” said Patience, flopping down on her towel and taking her hairbrush out of her bag.

They had made themselves a little campsite, with three beach umbrellas and their towels spread out all around them. They had taken quite a lot of space, but that’s the reason people woke up at ungodly hours to get on the beach first – or, in their case, got themselves an angel that didn’t sleep and was so strong he could pitch those umbrellas in the center of the Earth.

“Donna and Alex are on the mission,” informed her Jody.

Eileen sat with her legs folded on a red towel at Dean’s feet, and smiled up at him, “You okay?” she signed.

He gave her what he thought was his most convincing nod, but her smile dropped and she exchanged a quick look with Patience so it probably wasn’t.

He said, “I’m gonna go see where Donna is at,” that just earned him some more weird looks, but at least got him out of there.

Okay, he was only a little bit avoiding her and his brother. Not to the point of letting it show, he thought, just enough not to fall into a spiral of bad thoughts. He was avoiding Cas as well, to be fair, or at least, as much as he could since he shared the hotel room with the guy.

It was just that Sam taking off had reminded him that Cas’ time with them was also coming to an end. He didn’t dare ask, and there was no way he could predict it, but Cas could fly away at any moment. He would never leave Jack all alone up in Heaven. Actually, Dean was surprised he had tagged along at all. Probably for Claire.

Donna and Alex were just about to pay when Dean spotted them at the kiosk built on the edge of the beach. He helped them carry the bags heavy of food, cursing at the sand burning hot under his flip flops.

Everyone was already sitting around when they made their way back, chatting among themselves.

Sam had snatched his seat and Eileen was leaning against his legs, so Dean helped distribute the sandwiches and took a seat next to Cas on his towel on the other side of their little campsite.

He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt that matched Dean’s, light blue with palm leaves and pinkish flowers. Claire had made all sorts of faces when she’d seen them that morning coming out of their room and said she was going to walk three feet from them out of embarrassment.

Cas was playing Gin Rummy with Kaia, who was holding her cards with one hand and her sandwich with the other.

“How much did you guys lose at paddle?” Dean asked, unwrapping his own sandwich.

“Three ice creams,” replied Kaia, her mouth full.

Dean blew out some air. “Man, that’s rough.”

“I’m trying to win one back,” Cas said, studying his cards. A moment later, Kaia made a Gin and Dean patted him on the back. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

Dean ate his lunch and he was fine. He was fine. He was fine as he chatted and smiled, and he was fine as they made plans for the rest of the day, going back around five and meeting up to go out for dinner and drinks later.

Donna told them a funny story and Dean laughed with everyone else, and then Cas and Kaia went for a rematch and Dean felt Cas gently nudging his side with his elbow and shifting a little on the spot so that he could show him his hand.

“Which one should I discard?”

Dean leaned over his shoulder to study the situation and then pointed at one in the middle.

Cas mumbled pensively, “But,” he said, pointing at the combo that card was part of.

Dean said, “Yeah, but,” and reached out from over his shoulder to rearrange the cards in his hands and to make a different combo that would give Cas more points.

“Oh, I get it,” Cas looked at him from above his shoulder and Dean winked.

“Hey! If you’re playing with Dean, I’m playing with Claire,” Kaia protested.

And Dean didn’t say he didn’t want to play. Because he was fine.

He was fine and he even managed to win back two ice creams for Cas.

*

Dean wasn’t fine. He went for a long swim, took a nice shower, had a huge, delicious meal in a cool pub and got dragged on the stage for a round of karaoke, but there was still something that wouldn’t leave him alone.

Everyone clapped as he stepped off the stage and someone else took his place, but instead of joining their table again he used the excuse of going to the bar, to get another drink and slip out of the doors.

He went out to look for quiet, and found it on the side of the building, where he could hide in the dark, just for a minute, away from the murmuring of those occupying the tables out at the front.

Even above the music coming from the bar he could hear the waves crashing on the shore in the distance and he wished for them to calm him, to take away his invasive thoughts together with whatever they took from the sand.

He told himself to pull it together, to stop freaking out, or he was going to end up exploding and ruin it for everyone. It was not like they were going away tomorrow. It could take months, even a whole year. He should have reacted better, congratulate his brother. He should have seen it coming, he should have been ready for it.

Cas found him as he was still deep in his thoughts and Dean was not even surprised that he had come looking. Hell, maybe there was some part of him that was waiting for him. If there was someone Dean felt he could talk to, that was Cas. It had always been Cas.

“Did something happen?” he cut to the chase and Dean found himself saying, “Uh – no,” even though he knew that wouldn’t work. Not with Cas.

In fact, he joined him against the wall and Dean knew he was expected to hear something else.

But Dean liked the feeling of his shirt blowing in the weak breeze, and he liked the smell of the sand, the sweet taste of pineapple on his tongue and he didn’t want to ruin it, didn’t want to ruin the way it felt to have Cas by his side and just enjoy all of that. He knew the moment he spoke, everything would turn sour and maybe Cas would look at him differently, and he didn’t want that.

Cas was waiting for him to talk though, and Dean knew he would, eventually.

He was wearing jeans and a white shirt. Earlier that evening, Dean had watched him pick them out and watched him use his hairbrush to comb his hair a little on the side, while Dean was brushing his teeth next to the same sink.

Sharing a hotel room with him without weapons, blood-soaked clothes and dusty books around was only weird if he thought about it for too long. He tried not to do that. It was easy to say “Goodnight” and let him borrow his socks and mutter “Where the hell is my phone?” and have it handed to him a second after. It was quiet, like when they were alone in the bunker, or at a stake out in the Impala.

The one they had right there was a different silence, though. Cas expected something from him, and Dean could bear it only until he couldn’t.

“Sam wants me to move out with him and Eileen.”

“Oh,” said Cas, and Dean could hear the surprised frown in his voice, “When?” he added a moment later.

Dean sighed, “I don’t know. One day. Soon, probably.”

Cas took a guess, “And is that not what you want?”

Dean licked his lips and chanced a look his way. “It’s not that,” he confessed, “It’s just different this time. It would be different and I don’t want –" he closed his eyes for a moment and wished he hadn’t finish his drink already, “We’ve always lived together,” he said, and hoped that cleared everything up, “It’s a big change.”

“I don’t understand. If he asked you to go with them and you want to, then what’s the matter?”

“The matter is – I think it’s time we go our own way." He couldn't believe what he just said. Part of him wanted to take it back immediatly, but it was like flipping a switch, he felt like he couldn't stop now, "He’s, he’s got this chance – we don’t get many chances like that. I’d just be in the way. They don’t need me – sleeping in their spare bedroom.”

“I’m sure this is not the way they see it.”

“I know, it’s just – It’s me. I want my own –“ he bit his tongue and started again, “I know this is what’s supposed to happen and that - it’s a good thing, it’s the right thing. We should've done that ages ago. It’s just hard to actually do it. So – I’m gonna say no. But it’s – it’s gonna suck without him.”

A group of friends rounded the corner talking loudly and Dean welcomed the interruption, to take a breath, feel the knot he had in his chest loosen a bit after saying what he’d been carrying around for a day. He watched them passing them by. They looked like they were having the time of their lives and Dean thought his feelings were so out of place there. This is not how this was supposed to be. He should've just dropped it, grown up. Why couldn’t he just drop it.

“Dean,” Cas called, when the group was far enough that their laughs didn’t bother them anymore, and Dean felt compelled to roll his head to the side to meet his eyes, but that didn’t last long, not when Cas started saying things like, “You won’t lose Sam. He loves you. He is not abandoning you.”

He pushed off the wall and took a few steps to give Cas his back. He was hitting the nail right on the head and Dean couldn't trust his face not to crumble.

“And it’s okay to want your own independence," he kept going, undeterred by his reaction, "That doesn’t mean you don’t need each other anymore."

"Yeah, I don't know."

"I do," he said, with finality and Dean felt something shifting in him. "And I also understand you've led peculiar lives, so you can always change your mind. But for what is worth – I think you will be fine.”

Dean didn't know what to say. He fixed his eyes on the dark horizon, the sea a black velvet ribbon, ripped here and there by the moonlight reflecting on the surface.

He took a deep breath. The whirlwind inside of him seemed to quiet down and leave just a faint burning behind. Just a paper cut, a blister. He could manage that.

He would learn how to let go. Of Sam, of Cas. It would not be easy, but he could be fine. Or he could always change his mind. He wouldn't, but he could. And that was okay. “You’re right, I just – gonna get used to an empty bunker, with Sam gone and you off to Heaven.”

He knew he sounded needy and wished he kept his mouth shut in the silence that followed. He didn’t dare look at Cas, not until he heard him say, “I’m not going back to Heaven.”

He turned his back then, “What?”

Cas had his gaze up at the sky, “Jack doesn’t need me,” he said, and didn’t sound heartbroken, just very fond and very proud. “He’s doing well.”

“Do you talk to him?”

“We pray to each other,” he said quietly, as if it was a secret he cherished.

“Will he come back?”

Cas met his gaze then, “Yes. When he’s done.”

“And how long will that take?”

He shrugged, “Ten years? More? I can’t really tell.”

“Wow. Alright,” he took a step towards him. In his mind, a piece fell into place. “Wait, so, you –"

He couldn’t say it.

“He told me I was fired,” smiled Cas, “That I’d done enough already and that I should take some time to myself,” his lips stretched out some more, “I don’t really know what that means.”

Dean felt like his mind was floating in his head. He huffed, “Well, this is a pretty good start, I guess.” he said, motioning back towards the beach. "If you are having fun, that's it."

Cas didn't lose his smile as he said, "I always enjoy being with you," and then after a beat, "With you all," but Dean's heart had already started hammering in his chest. Cas added, "I just need to get better at playing cards," and Dean was grateful to release a laugh that partly dissolved his tension.

"That I can teach you," he said.

"I was counting on it."

Dean smiled then. He knew what Cas was doing. He was talking about the future, a future he was going to be in. Or maybe just tomorrow, but the certainty of tomorrow was already enough for him.

He didn't have the time to add anything because right then, Claire's blond head of hair appeared around the corner, “Guys! Oh, good, you aren’t making out,” she said, and Dean regretted allowing her to taste his drink earlier, “We’ve been waiting for you. Come on, we wanna take a picture,” she said and didn’t wait for them to move before going back in.

Cas looked at him and Dean shrugged so they followed her inside.

The group was already all lined up behind their table, being loud and laughing, and Dean went to stand next to Sam on one side. His brother put his arms around his shoulders. “You okay?” he asked. Dean patted him on the back and said, “Yeah,” and meant it.

That poor tourist they stopped to take the picture was trying to make them stay still but Donna wouldn’t stop giggling over nothing.

Cas was standing with his arm around Claire and when their eyes met across the table, Dean believed.

They were going to be alright.

A warm wave of affection crashed against him. He craned his neck to look at everyone’s smiling faces. With the sound of their voices in his ears and his brother close to his side, he couldn't even recollect now the feeling of loneliness that had seemed so real, almost tangible, less than an hour before.

They were so lucky to be together like this, to have the possibility of a bright future ahead, a future he was going to see and be a part of. It was what Dean had always dreamed of, for Sam and for himself. There was nothing to be afraid of.

Sam squeezed his shoulder, “Dean, the camera,” he whispered, amused.

Dean looked ahead and realized he was already smiling.

They were going to be alright.

this can be read as a (very distant) prequel to week #4 and week #6 is probably gonna be a sequel of this but much sillier, gonna add the link if that actually happens

EDIT: week #6: water guns is the second day of their holiday

@bend-me-shape-me said #deancassummerprompts21 and I said YES

[webcricket]

Castiel Imagine

Imagine: A grace-less Castiel doing his darnedest to take care of you when you're sick.

[A/N: Based on an ask from @81mysteriouslyme - “Just thinking: how would human!cas take care of a sick reader? Like sick sick. I reckon he’ll be insanely sweet and adorable but also a complete dork. Out of desperation he would also call Sam and Dean for help as he realizes he really has no idea what he is doing.”]

The plague - he read in an alarming article hyped in the headlines just last week in the Lebanon Daily Star that the black death pandemic that wiped out half of Europe in the 14th century is experiencing a renaissance resurgence in house pets populating the southwest. Mad-cow disease. You do enjoy a cheeseburger almost as much as Dean with the added benefit of table manners. Ebola. The trip to the zoo several weeks ago where Castiel insisted on spending hours in the primate exhibit observing the monkeys fills his heart with foreboding.

The list of fatal ailments he discovered in a Websummon search after plugging in your symptoms stretches endless in seriousness and judging by the patients populating the Doctor Sexy reruns Dean plays between cases in his man cave, it seems like humans stricken suddenly by dire disease is a daily occurrence to be expected.

Cas is convinced you need a team of specialists caring for you in a fully-equipped quarantine ward rather than a grace-less angel who burned the toast he tried to make you to calm your upset stomach … twice. You settled for crackers straight from the cupboard after he carried the smoking toaster into the bedroom, fingers singed black, eyes apologetically glassed, and hair frizzed on end after attempting to extricate an annihilated slice of bread from its fiery confines with a fork while the appliance was still plugged in. At least the flickering lights had nothing to do with a supernatural foe.

Disregarding the fragility of his own immune system at present, the one-time soldier of the Lord perches on the mattress beside you; irises glaze in concern as he gazes at your shivering sweat-drenched figure thrashing fitfully beneath the thin white bed sheet. The aforementioned list nagging his thoughts, he brushes the saturated tendrils of hair aside from your temples to check for small pox lesions. Relieved to see none, he lays a tender touch upon your forehead.

Wakened from tenuous sleep when his palm presses to your dampened brow to test the temperature, your whine of protest rapidly devolves into a congested cough. Given his lack of angelic aptitude, he can only guess at the sweltering height of the number.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, the soft smile he usually reserves for you inverts into an anxious frown when the fatigued hollows of your watery eyes resolve on him. “You were having another bad dream.”

A fever dream to be exact. “S’okay.” You manage a strained sigh, throwing off the well-meant layers of extra warmth he piled on your extremities while you slept. Despite his inept nursing skills, there’s something reassuring about having him here as you drift in and out of consciousness. Muscles stiff and aching, you regret the loss of insulation, seized by a renewed wave of chills.

He frets over the hem of the wool blanket, fumbling his fingers along the scratchy fabric and tucking it again beneath your thighs. He doesn’t like seeing you wracked by shivers, at least not sickly ones. “Are you hungry?” he asks, feeling a burden of utter uselessness to ease your suffering in his human state. While you slept he looked up a video demonstrating how to make toast in a frying pan; going so far as to bookmark it for reference, he’s optimistic of his ability to mimic the task. If that doesn’t work, he has one requiring an iron to use as backup. And there’s always the can of chicken soup he discovered in the pantry if he wants to do battle with the microwave.

The thought of swallowing anything of substance sets your stomach churning precipitously upward. Rocking to your side, you assume the fetal position to suppress the rising pressure and prepare for the worst.

If Cas had any sense about what was coming or fondness for his sneakers, he’d do the same. “Sorry,” he repeats the sentiment because he truly is, “I-” He’s not certain what he wants to say. The fact is, without his divine gifts, he’s out of his element. Deciding on a silent show of support in lieu of syllables, he lays a hand soothingly to your side, smoothing across the shuddering landscape until the nausea naturally subsides.

The distraction helps. Cas sticking it out when you must look and smell God-awful means the world to you because it’s evidence of his love. It’s one thing to say those three little words, another to dance them in a tangle of passion, but being there when you’re at your worst, that’s the real definition of devotion.

For Cas, it’s not enough. He wants to do better; to be better - for you, so you get better. Losing you, it would be his biggest failure and one he isn’t sure he could survive.

Digging into his hoodie pocket, he retrieves his cell, closes the open web page of the sickness symptom checker, flicks through his short contacts list, and calls Sam on speakerphone.

“Hey, Cas. What’s up?” Sam answers.

“Y/N’s fever,” Cas murmurs, pausing his caress at the peak of your shoulder to squeeze, encouraging you to lie on your back. “I suspect malaria.”

“It’s not malaria,” Sam snorts, intuiting the former angel consulted the internet for a diagnosis.

Sam’s probably correct. You haven’t traveled to a tropical or subtropical region ever so the odds of exposure hover in the region of extremely unlikely; unlikely, although not impossible. “Websummon suggested-”

“It’s not malaria,” Sam insists, unleashing an airy snicker.

“Gimme the ph-” The phone emits a static buzz as Dean steals it from his brother to slam it to his ear. “Look buddy, the last time we were in tropical paradise sippin’ cocktails was never.” The elder Winchester’s voice bellows confirming Cas’ own inner argument against the diagnosis. “Sam’s right. It’s just the flu or something simple. Y/N’ll be fine in a few days.”

It occurs to Cas if you do survive it’s high time for a vacation. First he needs to get you through it. Perhaps a call to Rowena would have been more helpful, but then there might be the nastiness of personal favors owed and he’s not certain, lacking celestial clout, what he’d have to trade for your life or if influenza is reason enough to involve a witch. All the anxiety emerges as a rasped, “But-”

“But nothing. There’s Tylenol in the first aid kit, two every 4-6 hours until the fever breaks,” the hunter advises. “And, Cas?”

“Yes?”

“Angel mojo or no, you got this.” The call disconnects.

“He’s right, you know,” you mumble weakly, garnering his attention; gravel inflammation grates your tonsils as you speak. Clammy cool fingers wrap his wrist until the phone falls forgotten from their flexing tips with a bounce on the bed.

“About the flu?” Cas’ brow crinkles in confusion. When you attempt to sit up, he props a pillow behind your back and ensures you stay covered and warm.

You shake your head, coughing into the crook of your arm. “No, about you,” you croak. “You being here, I already feel better.”

A smile curves at the corner of his mouth, flattening the fretful lines of his features; his eyes gleam so brightly blue you can’t tell if it’s the fever muddling your senses, or a tiny speck of grace still simmering somewhere within the seraph.

Castiel tag list:  (Closed, if you’d like to be removed please let me know!)    @jeepangel  @sammiesamness  @willowing-love  @roxy-davenport  @blueicevalkyrie   @im-the-nerdiest-of-them-a11  @thesugargalaxy    @bluetina-blog  @dont-trust-humanity  @afanofmanystuffs  @honeybeetrash  @bucky-thorin-winchester  @superwholockz   @tistai  @wordstothewisereaders  @gill-ons  @mrswhozeewhatsis  @marisayouass  @stone-met   @castiel-savvy18  @samualmortgrim  @trexrambling  @magnificent-mantle  @kdfrqqg  @xdifsx  @moon-and-stars-cas   @rockfairy  @peaceloveancolor  @unicorntrooper  @anisolatedship  @itsilvermorny  @aditimukul  @kudosia  @goofynerd-67babylove  @uninspirationalsonglyrics  @mishascupcake   @mishapanicmeow   @praisecastielamen  @roseyhxnt  @jessikared97  @let-the-imaginationflow  @warriorqueen1991  @jenabean75  @alisonkenway  @anotherwaywardsister  @luciathewinchestergirl  @morganas-pendragons  @heyitscam99  @fangirl-and-stuff  @selahbela  @realgreglestrade  @splendidcas  @pointlesscasey  @lovelyangelofasgard  @i-larb-spooderman  @thewhiterabbit42  @thelostverse  @castieliswatchingoverme  @beccollie18  @dragonett8  @dixie-chick  @jtownraindancer   @carowinsthings  @pixiedusts @laqueus-ludovicus  @passionghost  @sherlockedtash88  @futureparent  @gabbie7-11  @myfandomlife-blog  @dreamerkim  @missjenniferb  @lexininja  @samael-has-arrived  @shamelesslydean  @earthtokace   @spookysculderfiles  @neaeri  @justanormalangel  @lone-loba  @supernaturalymarvel  @lilrubixx  @wings-and-halo  @thehoneybeecastielfollows  @musiclovinchic93  @81mysteriouslyme  @jessiekay2010  @the-bottom-of-the-abyss

[gillasue345]

Desiderium

12x02 Coda fic AO3

Desiderium:  an ardent desire or longing; especially :  a feeling of loss or grief for something lost.

Perhaps there is a limit to the grieving that the human heart can do. As when one adds salt to a tumbler of water, there comes a point where simply no more will be absorbed.

~Sarah Waters~

************************************************************************

By the time Mary closed the journal with trembling fingers, her tea had long since gone cold. She sniffed, wiping furiously at the tears in her eyes, and pushed the journal away from her in disgust. She glanced at the chipped cup in front of her, untouched.

Her body was stiff as she stood up from the desk. The painful ache behind her nipples reminded her that she needed to pump before she went to bed. It was strange, she thought, to produce milk for a baby who was now a grown man. Her body still thought it was 1983, despite all evidence to the contrary around her.

A sob worked its way up her throat, but Mary caught it before the sound could break the silence of the room.

She swallowed the pain like she always had, pushed the anger that had arisen in her as she read her husband’s journal down. She picked up the cup, careful not to spill its contents. She slipped on a pair of old loafers she’d found in the wardrobe of her new bedroom and made her way down the hall to the kitchen. Mary needed something stronger than tea.

The bunker was still much like a maze, but she remembered which room was Sam’s. Out of habit, she cracked the door, glancing in. The light was still on but the room was silent save for the deep breathing of her youngest child. Sam was lying diagonally across the mattress of his bed, his knees bent so that they didn’t slip off the edge. On hand was cradled in the other, his thumb pressed into a deep scar on his palm.

He looked so vulnerable in sleep, so utterly exhausted that another sob threatened to break the peace of his room. Mary reached over, flipping the old fashioned light switch off and plunging Sam into darkness. She closed the door and continued down the hall.

Dean’s room was empty. She frowned, glancing at the delicate watch Dean had given her, hidden in a box of her things he’d kept, including her old vinyl records. It was late enough that she thought Dean would have gone to sleep by now. Mary closed his bedroom door and continued on to the kitchen. Maybe he was going to the bathroom or something.

The bunker was always cold, and Mary wrapped her robe more tightly around herself. She got lost only once, making a right turn and ending up in the “dungeon” as Dean had called it when he gave her the grand tour. Eventually, she found the right hallway, but slowed her steps as she approached the kitchen. Light was pouring into the hallway from its open doorway, and she heard the muffled sound of voices coming from within.

“Dean, please just talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.” Mary stopped. She could hear the sound of beer bottles being thrown into the trashcan. A lot of beer bottles.

“Everything’s wrong, Cas.” Dean’s slurred voice echoed out into the hall. “She’s back. She’s alive and real and its like she was never even gone. Except she was gone, Cas. She was gone for so long, and I…” Dean trailed off.

Mary pressed her back against the wall. She should announce her presence, cough and enter. Apologize for the life her death caused. But she couldn’t move. Cas—she thought it was Cas anyway—sighed, and she listened to his footsteps as he crossed the kitchen, presumably to join her son.

“Dean—” Cas began, but before he could speak, Dean interrupted him.

“—Cas, she’s not my mom.”

“Of course she’s your mother.”

“No! I mean, fuck, I don’t know what I mean,” Dean let out a shuddering breath. “She’s different, Cas.”

“Dean, she��s just been dropped 33 years into the future. It’s going to take her some time to adjust to that.”

“No Cas. I mean she’s different from the mom I remember. All those memories I’ve clung to all these years… they weren’t real.”

“I don’t understand what you mean. She’s the same person, Dean.”

“No she isn't the same person. She is… Mary. Not Mom. Mary is the hunter, the fighter. Mary… doesn’t cook. I mean… even with that vet, when she told you to hurt him. That’s not the mother I remember. That’s not the mother who made me tomato rice soup when I got the chicken pox. That’s not the mom who used to sing me to sleep and tell me angels were watching over me Cas.”

“But it is.”

“No, that’s like saying the way Sam was at Stanford is the same Sam who’s sleeping down the hall.”

“It may be a… different side of her, but don’t you remember what it was like with Lisa and Ben?” Cas asked gently. Mary wondered who Lisa and Ben were. “Don’t you remember getting out of the hunting life?” Mary’s breath caught in her throat. Dean had gotten out of the life too? Why was he back? Why did her children ever come back to this life if they had a chance at happiness?

“Cas, I drank a fifth of whiskey every night just to stay functional with them.”

“I watched you with them,” Cas said, and it sounded like a confession. Dean didn’t respond. “You got out of the life. And you may not have been happy, but you were content, if not resigned to it. There was a day that I needed your help with Raphael. It was autumn. And you were raking leaves. And I watched you. You looked so… miserable. So lost. But then you went inside, and you forced yourself to smile. You helped Ben with his homework. Fractions. You made apple cobbler. You put on an act. And that night, you locked all the doors and windows, you checked the devils’ trap on the door. You drank four glasses of whiskey and out of habit, checked the obituaries for unexplained deaths. You never really got out.” Cas’ speech hung in the air for a moment. “But you weren't the same man with them either.”

“All the memories I have of her are false,” Dean finally said. “She got out of the life, Cas. And I remember her differently.”

“You have the idolized recollections of a child,” Castiel said. “It’s natural to feel confused when the memory you’ve clung to for so long turns out to be different in reality.”

Dean chuckled, low and deep. “Thanks Dr. Phil.”

“I am not a doctor, Dean.”

"You know, I’ve been trying to recreate her meatloaf recipe for years? Years Cas! And she fucking bought the goddamn thing at the Piggly Wiggly. It’s like everything I know about her is gonna turn out be a lie.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“But what if it is? Cuz man… having her back, getting to know her, it feels like I’ve lost her all over again. And it’s hard to let go of the memories because that was all I had for so long.” Dean started crying, and Mary felt something break loose deep within her chest. His raw grief pierced her like an ice pick to the belly, and she felt her own tears well up in her eyes. She wasn’t sure how long he cried, but eventually his sobs quieted. Mary was paralyzed on the ground in front of the kitchen. She should go to him. She should comfort him.

But Mary couldn’t move.

Dean’s voice cut through the sudden silence. “Yesterday morning, she said ‘he was a great father,’ with such… certainty man, and it…I resented it,” Dean trailed off. He coughed. “I resented her for the first time.”

Cas didn't speak, but Mary could imagine his inquisitive expression, even with having known him only a  few short days.

“He wasn’t a great father. Hell he wasn’t even a good father after she died. She became his excuse for every shitty thing he ever did. We had to stay in crap motels because he was hunting the thing that killed mom. We were always on the move because he had a job to do. He let the job consume him. He drank so much because he was sad. And I think… I think deep down I always resented her for leaving us to deal with him.”

Mary’s eyes, already filled with tears, snapped shut, and she buried her head in her hands. The movement jostled the cup of tea resting on her lap. Cold liquid seeped into the fabric of her robe, staining the nightgown beneath. She gasped.

“And then I felt guilty,” Dean continued. “I felt so damn guilty, because it wasn’t her fault he was such a shit father. She doesn't deserve to be blamed for that.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Castiel agreed.

“But I’m afraid of bursting her bubble. I’m afraid of telling her all the things that happened because then both of us will feel this way.”

“Overwhelmed?” Cas clarified.

“Yeah,” Dean replied. “Because how can I ever get past the fact that the great father she was speaking about was the same one who was off on a bender the first time I got raped by some douchebag motel manager, because the room money went straight to his liver?” The confession came out in a rush, like he’d never said those words out loud before. He probably hadn’t.  He paused before continuing. “That the guy she remembered was the same man who beat me bloody because Sammy ran away in Flagstaff and I couldn’t find him? The same man who told Sammy if he went to college to never come back? How do I break her heart like that? So I pretend everything’s okay. Just like I always do. I push the hurt down and pretend it’s all fine. I eat the pie because that’s what they expect. I make the jokes. I can be that for her, because I refuse to be the one that breaks her too.”

“You can’t keep this bottled up,” Castiel said. “But you don’t have to tell her.” Castiel hesitated before he continued. “You can tell me, Dean.”

There was a long, long pause. “I can’t put all this shit on you, man.” Dean’s voice was soft, quiet. He sounded half asleep.

“You can and you will, Dean. That’s what family is for.”

Mary felt her fists clench. Anger flared through her at her son’s words. How could she have been so stupid? It was so much worse than growing up as hunters. John raised them in the life, which was bad enough, but then to neglect them? To beat them? To put them in dangerous situations? This wasn’t the John she knew. But the John she knew was a mechanic. Not a hunter.

The John she knew was strong, stubborn, loving. He was the kind of father who doted on his children. Who made chili hot enough to clear your sinuses, and who burnt the cornbread every time.

Her John wasn’t a cold man so hell bent upon revenge that he forgot to live.

The men in the kitchen weren’t speaking anymore. She heard footsteps coming toward her. Before she could move out of the way, Castiel emerged, carrying the bulk of Dean’s weight on his shoulder as they walked towards Dean’s bedroom. Cas stopped abruptly, staring at her slumped against the wall, with tears streaming down her face.

Dean was too far gone to even notice her there, he leaned heavily against Cas’ side, his eyes half shut as Castiel led the way. Castiel didn't say anything to her.

He returned alone a few minutes later. Mary hadn’t moved.

Silently Castiel bent to pick up the overturned cup, and held out his hand. She took it and he helped her up. Mary winced. It had been too long since she pumped. The ache in her chest had flared to sharp stabbing needles.

She followed Castiel into the kitchen. She saw the waste bin and bit her lip. It was full of bottles. Strewn across the floor in between the island and the stove were dozens of pictures.

She knelt down and picked them up as Castiel put the cup in the sink. He grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels carefully hidden in one of the large ceramic crocks on the bottom shelf of the pantry and got two glasses. Mary moved over to the wooden table. She spread the pictures out in front of her. Several of them were familiar to her. But most of them were from after she died.

Castiel sat opposite her. He still hadn’t said a word and neither had she. She continued to pore over the pictures. One of Sam and Dean with an older man with a ginger beard and a trucker cap. One with a teenaged Sam awkwardly standing next to a girl with braces and brown hair. One with Dean, his hair long and greasy, leaning over the engine of the Impala, a plaid shirt tied carelessly around his waist as he worked.

Dean, gangly and tall, in the leather jacket she’d gotten John for Christmas last year—no, she reminded herself. The leather jacket she’d gotten John the Christmas before she died. Before she burned.

They were some of the missing pieces she’d been craving.

“I could take that away,” Castiel said, finally breaking the silence.

Mary gripped the pictures tighter to her, defensively. “Take what away?” she asked, rather more harshly than she intended.

“Your discomfort,” Cas said. “From lactating,” he clarified.

Mary crossed her arms over her chest. “How do you know about that?” she asked.

“I’m an angel.”

Mary almost laughed. Castiel was the furthest thing from what Mary considered angelic. “I’m fine,” she replied automatically. “My body just hasn’t caught up to 2016 yet.”

“I can help with that,” Castiel offered. “I could heal your pain.”

“What can you possibly know about my pain?”

“I know you heard what Dean said.” Castiel’s voice was even, calm, but with a hint of accusation beneath it. “He’d be mortified if he found out you heard him.”

“Is it true?” Mary asked, her voice was small and she couldn't meet Cas’ gaze. She stared at the wood tabletop’s uneven stain, picking with a fingernail at a scratch on the surface. “What he said about what happened to him?”

“Yes,” Cas replied. “But I’m almost certain he's never told anyone about it before. The only reason he told me, I suspect, is because he was very intoxicated. More than he’s been in a while.”

“Does he… drink often?”

Cas bit his lip. In a very human gesture, he ran a hand through his hair. “He drinks to forget, but I thought he was getting a little better. Tonight was a… step back.”

“What does he need to forget so badly that he drinks so much?” Mary asked. What had happened to her baby that was so bad that he hid behind a bottle? What else was her fault?

“His nightmares are from his time in hell, mostly. Sometimes he has nightmares about a man with rancid breath and crooked yellow teeth. I try to calm those as soon as I feel them coming on. But sometimes he dreams about his time with Lisa and Ben. Those are the good nights.”

“Ben? The vampire that bitch of letters was talking about?” Mary asked, latching onto the familiar name because she refused to think about her son in Hell. Refused to think about her son being raped.

“No,” Cas said. “Ben Braeden. His son.”

The bottom dropped out of Mary’s stomach. “I have a grandson?”

“Yes,” Cas said. “Dean was never one hundred percent positive, but he was Ben’s father. A few years back Dean made me wipe Ben's memories of him.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Lisa, Ben’s mother, took Dean in after… after Sam stopped the apocalypse. After Sam died, Dean got out of the hunting life. But the hunting life never… really left him. When he went back on the road, Lisa and Ben were kidnapped by some demons. Lisa almost died, and Ben had to do some things no child should ever have to do,” Cas recited the narrative like he was reading an owners manual. “Dean broke ties to protect them. To keep Ben out of the life he grew up in. And he hates himself for it.”

Fresh tears fell, covering the dried tear tracks from before.

“I should have protected them,” she finally said. “I should have warded the house. I should have been more vigilant. If I had, none of this would have happened.”

Castiel reached across the table, grasping Mary’s hand in his. “It would have happened anyway.”

“Then I should have told John before it did. I should have prepared him. Told him about the life so that he could have handled it better. I shouldn’t have hidden behind a facade of a normal life,” her voice raised. She was yelling now, so angry at her own cowardice. “I was such a fool, Castiel.”

“Your life has been predestined from the moment you were born,” Cas replied. “You and John… had to get together. You had to live your life away from hunting. It was destiny.”

“Why?”

Cas bit his lip. “So Sam and Dean could be born. So they could fulfill the prophecy of the apocalypse.”

Mary shook her head, snatching her hand back. It was too much to process. She reached over and took the bottle of whiskey from Cas’ grasp and poured a healthy portion for both of them. Mary downed hers in one swallow, slamming the glass onto the tabletop so hard she almost broke it.

“How do I do it Castiel? How do I connect with them again? Just... last week they were babies. And now… they’re older than I am.”

Castiel contemplated her question, sipping idly at the whiskey she’d poured him. “I think, with Sam it will be easier. He has no memories of you. No real ones anyway. It will be a clean slate. But Dean…” Castiel trailed off.

“He has this notion of who I am. Who I was. And I’m not measuring up.”

“How could you?” Castiel asked gently. “You… his memory of you… You were in many ways a saint to Dean. He isn’t a man of faith. But that doesn't mean he was a faithless man. Dean put his faith into family. Into your memory. Into honoring you, and being brave for you. Being strong because in many ways he had to fill your shoes after you died.” Mary roughly brushed more tears from her eyes. Castiel smiled sadly. “You don’t have to hide your tears from me Mary, I won’t judge you for them.”

Mary laughed. It was a broken, hollow laugh, but the weak smile she gave was almost genuine. “Thank you, Castiel. Thank you for watching over them.”

Cas smiled tightly. He stood up, and clapped a hand to her shoulder. “It’s all going to be okay, Mary.” Instantly, the pain behind her nipples subsided, the heavy feeling in her breasts gone. Cas healed her. Helped her body stop lactating for a baby who no longer needed the sustenance. She pressed a hand on top of his in gratitude.

He left then, his footsteps echoing down the hall. Mary stared at the bottle in front of her and poured another glass.

************************************************************************

The sound of a cabinet door shutting snapped her out of a deep sleep. A blanket wrapped loosely around her shoulders fell to the ground as Mary sat up, groaning at the crick in her neck and the throbbing of her temples. The bottle of whiskey was half empty, and she felt every single drop as nausea rolled her stomach and spun the world.

“Oh god,” she groaned, pressing a trembling hand to her head. “Oh, mistakes were made last night.”

A laugh from the other side of the kitchen startled her. Dean stood at the stove, his back to her. He looked over his shoulder. “Have fun?” he asked, glancing pointedly at the bottle in front of her.

She studied him. He didn't even look hungover. “Did you?” she asked, raising her eyebrows at the beer bottles filling the trash can next to the door.

Dean shrugged. “Needed to let off some steam.”

“Me too,” Mary replied. She stood up and stretched. The familiar ache to pump was gone, and Mary found she missed the sensation. She missed the feeling of being needed.

She moved from the table to the kitchen island, taking a seat at the stool as she watched her son cook.  Mary laughed and shook her head. Dean turned around, a piece of bacon still held in his tongs. “What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Mary said. Dean shrugged and turned back, pulling the bacon out of the pan and starting another batch. “Dean,” Mary began, and he faced her, expectant and looking a little annoyed. “I just wanted to say… I mean I just wanted to tell you…” She couldn’t find the right words. Finally she took a deep breath. “Sam gave me John’s journal,” she said. “I’m… so sorry.”

Dean put the tongs down. He walked around the island to where Mary was sitting. Gently, he pressed a hand to her cheek.

“You don’t have to be, Mom.” He pulled her into a hug. When he pulled back, tears were in his eyes, welling up like rain drops on a windshield. Mary reached out and wiped them away, just like she always did.

“Mom?” he began.

“Yes?” she replied, wiping away her own tears.

“How do you like your eggs?” he asked simply.

It was an olive branch. A chance for them to start over, to get to know one another without the expectations of who each of them remembered. And as much as Mary wanted to fall onto her knees and beg for forgiveness for leaving her son behind to clean up her mess, Mary took it.

“Fried, medium.”

Dean’s face lit up in the first genuine smile Mary had seen in days. “Me too.”

[imagining-supernatural]

Avenging Angel: Part 26

Summary: You’ve spent the last five years on a dangerous mission to solve the crime that wrongly imprisoned your father. When the Winchesters find you half-frozen on the side of a mountain, they make it their own mission to save your life and make sure you stay alive. But after five years of uncovering horribly dark secrets, you’ve learned not to trust anyone. Especially people who seem like they have good intentions.

Word Count: 1567

Warnings: None

Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6 – Part 7 – Part 8 -- Part 9 -- Part 10 -- Part 11 -- Part 12 -- Part 13 -- Part 14 -- Part 15 -- Part 16 -- Part 17 -- Part 18 -- Part 19 -- Part 20 -- Part 21 -- Part 22 -- Part 23 -- Part 24 -- Part 25

“Great Falls Public Library. How may I help you?” Your customer service voice sounded so fake. It always amazed you how you sounded completely different at work versus at home or school.

“Is this Y/N?” a timid voice asked on the other end of the phone.

“Yes, I’m Y/N. What’s your name?” Maybe one of your friends was calling. Working at the library tended to get boring and your friends often joked about ways to liven it up.

But the person on the other end didn’t say anything else. They didn’t hang up either; you could hear them breathing.

“Hello? You still there?” Well, you could cross your friends off the list. They would have come up with a horrible joke or pun or something by now. That was the only way to get through the monotony of high school, you’d discovered. Make jokes out of everything. “Was there something I could help you with?”

Still, no answer. You waited a second longer, then the line went dead when the other person hung up. For a moment, you stared at the phone in befuddlement. Who would call, ask for you, and then just breathe on the other line for a minute before hanging up?

Whatever.

Shaking your head, you forgot about the strange phone call as you re-shelved books.

*****

*****

By the time the real Dean got back to the hotel room, you and Sam had both taken quick showers and were fully dressed. Any of the relaxed calm you’d gotten from last night with Sam had completely evaporated and you were in full-out crisis mode.

“Okay, so what’s going on?” Dean asked as you wore a pathway into the carpet with your anxious pacing.

“I don’t know.”

Since your clipped reply didn’t help any, Sam took over the explanation. “We convinced them to leave by promising to meet them at that diner down the street in,” he glanced at the clock, “five minutes. Y/N, calm down.”

“Calm down?” You whirled around on Sam. “Calm. Down? You’ve gotta be kidding me! That man tried to have me killed! He spent an entire year manipulating my relationship with Braxton so that he could get information about my parents. And that woman is my mother who left when I was six years old and who doesn’t want anything to do with me and you want me to calm down? I don’t know who she is anymore and I definitely don’t want to face George again either!” Legs giving out, you fell to the floor and buried your face in your hands. “I can’t do this.”

“You can do this, Y/N,” Sam said in a soft, consoling voice.

Dean, however, took a different approach. “Suck it up.”

“Dean!” Sam reprimanded, but Dean just rolled his eyes.

“What? Yeah, it sucks. But it’s happening so she’s gotta deal with it. We don’t have time for her to go through another few weeks of whatever the hell happened after she found out about the werewolf thing.”

Dean elbowed Sam out of the way and sat on the floor next to you. He pulled your face out of your hands and made you look into his eyes.

“Push it all down, Y/N. The emotions and the fear—you can’t have those. Deal with ‘em later after this is all over. But right now you have to go face them. They both came for you, so Sam and I can’t go alone. Do whatever you gotta do to get through it.”

“You don’t understand,” you started to mumble, but Dean rolled his eyes and bulldozed over your words.

“You said you don’t know who your mother is anymore? Great. Use that. She’s not your mom. She’s the leader of a werewolf pack that we need to figure out what they’re up to. And that shifter out there tried to have you killed? Get mad! You’re still alive. You’ve got that going for you. Leave those emotions in this room, got it? As soon as you step out of this hotel room, you’re no longer Y/N Y/L/N. You’re a hunter. And we have a mission.”

As you stared into Dean’s determined, jade eyes, you felt Sam watching you carefully, trying to figure out how you would react to Dean’s speech.

We have a mission.

You’d just spent the last five years on a personal mission. People came and went in your search for the truth, but ultimately, it was yours and yours alone. But not anymore. This was bigger than just you.

So you nodded slowly. “Yeah. Okay.” Taking a deep breath, you wiped a few tears that had fallen from your eyelashes during your mini-breakdown. “We have a mission. She’s not my mom. He has no power over me anymore.”

“They came here to see you,” Dean repeated. “You have the power now.”

“We have the power,” you corrected, glancing from Dean to Sam. “I’m not alone anymore. We’re a team.”

“Damn straight.” Dean stood up and held his hand out towards you. After taking a second to fortify the last few minutes in your mind, you took his hand and let him pull you up.

While the three of you walked to the diner, you tossed ideas back and forth about how to approach this completely unforeseen situation. It was hard to push your emotions down, like Dean told you to, even discussing possibilities of what you would have to deal with in the diner. Actually facing them was going to be worse, but you had to do it. There was no other option.

So you squeezed Sam’s hand, sucked in a deep breath, and pushed through the diner doors.

Victoria and George were deep in discussion in the far corner booth, but they both shut up as you and the Winchesters approached. George had shed his Dean-skin and was once again in his CEO skin. Seeing him again shook you, but Sam’s fingers tightened around yours and that was all you needed to keep walking forward.

“This the guy that was wearing me?” Dean asked, scooting in next to George. “Can’t blame him for choosing my skin. I’m a sexy son of a bitch.”

And that joke was all you needed to remind yourself that the power was all yours. Sam slid in next to your mom, pulling you beside him. It was only after everyone was seated that you realized that the Winchesters were shielding you from both ghosts of your past.

You could do this with them by your side.

“And you must be the alpha werewolf.” Dean continued introducing everyone at the table to himself, giving you time to adjust.

“I’m Victoria Y/L/N. Y/N’s mom.”

“No,” you cut in, drawing everyone’s attention to you. “You’re not my mom.”

“Y/N—“

“My mom left when I was six.” You bulldozed over whatever argument she was about to give. “She decided that her werewolf pack was more important than her daughter, so she left a six year old little girl to be raised by a father who did his best, but still foolishly kept his wife’s secret. You weren’t there for me when I got the chicken pox. You weren’t there when dad gave me the very in-depth, scientist version of the birds and the bees talk. I didn’t have a mother to come home to and tell about my first kiss. No mother to celebrate with when I won the spelling bee in eighth grade. I grew up without a mother, so don’t pretend you can be one now. The only reason I’m here is because we need information from you as the pack leader.”

Stunned silence came from Victoria and George, but Sam and Dean were both looking at you with pride.

You looked to George. “And you… I don’t know why you’re here, but I have a feeling that I don’t need to give you a speech.”

He shook his head. “I think I know where we stand.”

Propping your elbow on the table and resting your chin in your hand, you narrowed your eyes at George, trying to piece together the last few pieces of the puzzle.

“You sound like you know better than I do… Oh my god.” Suddenly it all made sense. “It was you on the mountain, wasn’t it? You shifted into Braxton. That’s why I wasn’t scared of Braxton when he found me in the bar a few weeks back. It’s why I was so much more scared of you today.”

Sam’s hand found its place on your thigh under the table, giving you enough strength to get through this realization.

And, boy, what a realization it was. The realization that your boyfriend’s father shapeshifted into your boyfriend to leave you on the side of a mountain to die, just to know if your mother really was a werewolf. Why the hell was your life like this?

“You were much more comfortable around my son than you ever were with me.”

“Gee, I wonder why?”

“Maybe we should move on,” Dean suggested.

As you looked from George to Dean, a thought occurred to you. “You have all of Dean’s memories, don’t you?”

Dean’s eyes widened at the invasion of privacy, but you could tell that Sam’s mind had gone the same place yours had. If George had Dean’s memories, then he knew where your father’s research was.

And that couldn’t end well.

Part 27 of Avenging Angel

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[mycasandstarrs]

SPN 5x21: “Two Minutes to Midnight”

The common cold, dengue fever, and Japanese encephalitis. What a horrible trio of diseases.

And it’s gotten worse with the chicken pox.

“Are you gonna cure me?” Celeste’s last words.

RIP Celeste. Killed by...diseases caused by Pestilence.

Welp, Dean knows about Sam’s plan. He’s reacting about as well as you’d expect.

Cas!

Married couple banter! (Which from here on out will now be acronym-ed to MCB.)

“Where the hell are you, man?”

“A hospital.”

“Are you okay?”

“No.”

“...you want to elaborate?”

Cas’ “batteries are drained”...so he’s “incredibly human”.

“All right. Well, look, no worries. Uh, Bobby's here. He'll wire you the cash.”

“I will?”   

lmao Bobby.

“You said ‘no’ to Michael. I owe you an apology.”

“Cas...it’s okay.”

“You are not the burnt and broken shell of a man that I believed you to be.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“You’re welcome.”

LMAAOO CAS. We love a deadpan icon.

“Eunice Kennedy” lmao

You coulda just knocked him out from the start.

Aww, sleeping Dean.

Pestilence has been found.

Back at the beginning.

“The Winchesters are here. We should go.” This demon had the right idea tho.

“The only reasonable thing to do here is to...take it out of their healthy young asses.” Uh, I wouldn’t call them “healthy”. Maybe Sam, but their livers/kidneys must hate them.

I forgot how “shout-y” Pestilence was.

PLEASE NO MORE VOMIT, I CAN’T TAKE IT.

RIP those 2 people. Killed by Pestilence.

Hoo boy, Sam and Dean are feeling it now.

"The doctor will see you now.”

Oh jeez. Scarlet Fever, meningitis AND syphilis.

Poor Dean; he’s got broken fingers to add to the list.

Pestilence really likes to monologue.

CAS!

“How’d you get here?”

“I took a bus.”

LMAO. We love a public transport icon.

Well damn.

“An occupied vessel, but powerless. Oh, that's fascinating. There's not a speck of angel in you, is there?”

(x)

“Maybe just a speck.”

MOTHERFUCKING CASTIEL, BITCHES!!!!!!!!!!

Ring #3 has been acquired.

“Please tell us you have actual good news.”

“...Chicago's about to be wiped off the map.”

lmaooo, That timing is perfect.

LMAO. Classic Cas/Destiel moment.

Hello, Crowley.

Our first “Hello, boys”?

Even Cas is upset about Bobby making a deal.

Bobby just confessed that he sold his damn soul, and Sam’s asking if he kissed Crowley. Priorities, Sam!!

Why did Bobby have to lie tho.

AND WHY DID CROWLEY TAKE A PICTURE, LMAO

“It’s insurance.”

“What are you talking about ?”

“You kill demons. Gigantor over there has a temper issue about it. But you won't kill me... As long as I have that soul in the deposit box.”

That’s a fair point.

Is that the grenade launcher I see in the arsenal?

“Let me guess. We're about to have a talk.” It’s rather obvious, isn’t it?

“Look, Dean, um...For the record...I agree with you. About me. You think I'm too weak to take on Lucifer. Well, so do I. Believe me, I know exactly how screwed up I am. You, Bobby, Cas...I'm the least of any of you.” NOOO SAM, DON’T SAY THAT.

“And...scene.” Way to ruin the moment, Crowley.

Ah, they figured it out.

So Sam is considering saying yes to Lucifer, Cas is practically human, and the Croatoan virus is about to hit. Dean must be silently panicking.

“O’ Death” by Jen Titus.

That’s a beautiful car, damn.

Death has one of the best character introductions, second only to Cas, imo.

“Watch where you’re walking, pal.” That dude’s last words.

RIP rude dude. Killed by Death.

“Well, it's the 11th hour, and I am useless.” Cas throwing his own pity party.

Bobby’s fathering Cas too. Bobby is a better father than Chuck, confirmed.

“Good luck stopping the whole zombie apocalypse.”

“Yeah. Good luck killing Death.”

Divide and conquer. Good strategy.

The “rumor” that Death’s scythe can kill Death is very much true.

That was a very nice thing Crowley did for Bobby.

Aww Bobby, he’s genuinely grateful.

Cas is learning about Sam’s plan.

“Of course. I am happy to say that if that's what you want to hear. But it's not what I think.”

“Really?”

“You and Dean have a habit of exceeding my expectations. He resisted Michael. Maybe you could resist Lucifer but there are things that you would need to know.”

:’)

Cas is the only one to not immediately shoot down Sam’s plan. Hell, he’s the only one to immediately tell Sam that he might actually be capable of doing it. In typical Cas fashion, he does properly warn Sam of several important things.

Adam is now Michael’s vessel.

Cas casually brings up the demon blood thing, fff hahaha.

Plan A is already out the window.

Cas uses the shotgun like a baseball bat.

Shit, the Croatoan virus has already begun.

RIP zombies. Killed by Sam and Bobby.

Sam goes off to rescue the remaining people.

RIP demon. Killed by Bobby.

Meanwhile, Crowley and Dean are in Chicago.

“Boy, is my face red. Death's not in there.”

“You want to cut the cute and get to the part where you tell me where he is?”

“Sorry. I don’t know.”

SERIOUSLY, CROWLEY.

RIP zombies. Killed by Sam

That look of awe Bobby gives Sam.

lmao Crowley.

He really likes to mess with Dean.

(Wasn’t there a blooper where a leaf perfectly landed on Jensen’s face here?)

RIP zombie. Killed by Cas.

(I would love to see more of Cas using guns on the show.)

RIP all those people, killed by Death.

Those two dead people kinda looked like Sam and Dean. I hate that.

“Thanks for returning that. Join me Dean. The pizza’s delicious.”

I know everybody loves Death, but I’ve always had mixed feelings about him. What I do know for certain is that I respect him.

“So is this the part where...where you kill me?”

“You have an inflated sense of your importance. To a thing like me, a thing like you, well...Think how you'd feel if a bacterium sat at your table and started to get snarky. This is one little planet in one tiny solar system in a galaxy that's barely out of its diapers. I'm old, Dean. Very old. So I invite you to contemplate how insignificant I find you.”

A simple “no” would’ve sufficed.

Is that really how you would eat Chicago pizza?

Death’s talking about reaping God when I know damn well he’ll die first.

“Uh...w-what do you want?”

“The leash around my neck --off. Lucifer has me bound to him. Some unseemly little spell. He has me where he wants, when he wants. That's why I couldn't go to you. I had to wait for you to catch up. He made me his weapon. Hurricanes, floods, raising the dead. I'm more powerful than you can process, and I'm enslaved to a bratty child with a temper tantrum.”

Yeah, and there’s where I like him again.

“And you think...I can unbind you?”

“There's your ridiculous bravado again. Of course you can't.”

Again, you coulda just said “no”.

Pizza saved Chicago.

“You're going to let your brother jump right into that fiery pit.” Oh boy. The ultimate sacrifice.

“You know you can’t cheat death.” Um...technically speaking, he has many times.

Ring #4 out of 4. It is complete.

The rings connecting together is pretty cool.

“Well, how'd it go at the Rockettes audition?”

“Well, high kicks -- fair. Boobs need work.”  

I love Bobby so much.

Dean, pls. Trying to have his cake and eat it too.

Bobby explaining his awed face from earlier in the episode: “I watched that kid pull one civilian out after another. Must have saved 10 people. Never stopped. Never slowed down.”

“Look, Sam's got a...darkness in him. I'm not saying he don't. But he's got a hell of a lot of good in him, too.”

:’) Bobby’s a proud father.

Good question, Bobby.