#spn + making meaning from nothingness

[shallowstories]

Jack gets into Dean's anime collection, but he skips the hentai and gets obsessed with trippy stuff like Angel's Egg.

[canniballistix]

Parallels/metaphor/whatever of john winchester and god both as absentee fathers in hbo spn?

"I can't," Dean hissed.

His hand was shaking. Why was his hand shaking? This was something he'd done a thousand times. He'd lost track of the number of girls he'd kissed.

And yet… his hand shook. His hand shook as it cradled the one which cupped against his cheek, and it only served to make this whole thing all the more intimate.

The boy sighed, and Dean could feel the weight of his breath. "I thought you liked me."

"I do!" Dean said, even as the hand slipped out from under his. "I do, I do, swear to God I do."

"I-it's okay," the boy said. His hand dropped back onto his knee. "Look, I-- I get it, man. You're a guy's guy, and I'm… I dunno."

"Hey." Dean but his hand on the boy's shoulder and gripped it firmly. Though this steadied his hand, he could suddenly feel the way the boy was quaking. "It's nothin' to do with you, okay? You're… I mean, you're…"

The boy's piercing eyes were fixed on Dean's face as he struggled to find the right words. The longer they alluded Dean, the deeper the boy's heart sank.

At last, Dean sighed. "You're fuckin' gorgeous, okay?" he said at last. "Look at you. Jesus."

The hint of a smile tugged at the boy's lips.

"And you got good taste in music, and you're smart," Dean continued. His list ended there, however.

The boy cleared his throat. "But…?"

Dean closed his eyes. The way a business man closes his eyes just before he fired a good, hardworking family man. "But…" he managed to say, fingers wandering across the hem of the boy's shirt, "as much as I want to… I can't."

The boy sat there a moment longer.

It was a strange sort of quiet here, under the bleachers.

It should have been just as loud as the rest of the football field. Yet, somehow, the sounds of the crickets were so much softer. The wind seemed to miss them entirely. Here, on an autumn night, these two boys may as well have been in their own world.

The boy brushed away Dean's hand. Like it was a mosquito. Like it was nothing. "Fine. I get it," he said, getting to his feet. "Really creative way to get out of kissing me. Dramatic. Shakespearean, even."

Dean pounded the ground with one fist, then leapt up after the boy. "God, Jesse, wait--"

Jesse. That's it. His name was Jesse.

"I'm done."

"Please, if you just let me explain, I--"

"You're not explaining!" Jesse whirled to face Dean. "You're not saying anything!"

Dean took a deep breath in, and he was surprised to find that his lungs seemed to be quivering, as well.

Jesse stared at Dean. His fists were clenched at his sides. The floodlights over the football field cast an otherworldly light over his dark and messy hair, like light from heaven itself.

It did not reach Dean where he stood, still under the bleachers, his hand just barely reaching out into its warmth.

"Well?" Jesse prompted.

"My dad," Dean blurted out.

Jesse raised an eyebrow. "You dad?"

Dean shook his head. "If he found out-- if he knew--"

"How could he?" Jesse asked.

Dean blinked. His heart was hammering against his ribcage.

"He's not watching, Dean," Jesse said, a hand raised to the sky.

Dean thought about that. He looked to the sky, as well, inexplicably feeling as if John Winchester might be peering down at him from the top of the bleachers.

And yet, despite that strange terror that John was watching, that he would somehow know, this was the first time Dean realized that his father wasn't there. And not just on the bleachers, but anywhere-- anywhere at all in Dean's life where it might have mattered.

Wherever a father should have been--loving or kind or cruel or spiteful--there was merely a hole. A blank space where John may have fit, and yet never did.

The fear was melting away.

Because there was nothing there.

Only stars.

Dean stumbled out into the light. He grabbed Jesse by the front of his hoodie, and kissed him like his life depended on it.

~~~~~

"I can't," Castiel said.

Dean rolled his eyes. "You can't what? You can't taste?"

The angel returned a shrug. This was something new he'd picked up from Dean, though he didn't seem to have it down just yet-- Castiel only shrugged his shoulders when he didn't feel like answering, not because he didn't know the answer.

"You're not even gonna try?" Dean asked, pushing the plate of french fries a little closer. "C'mon, how bad could it be?"

"I told you, I can't," Castiel replied, pushing the plate back towards Dean.

"Now that's just stupid," Dean said. "You can't eat at all? For real? Your vessel can eat, can't he?"

"Of course he can," Castiel said, all but rolling his eyes. "I cannot."

Dean gave into temptation and growled lightly, pulling the plate towards himself and chomping down on another french fry.

The diner was quiet. When he was traveling with Castiel, Dean preferred to dine at night-- in fact, he preferred to work on as much of a night schedule as possible. Castiel was, to put it lightly, a fucking weirdo, and corralling him into acting even remotely human was a full-time job.

But anything goes at three in the morning in a twenty-four-hour truck stop.

All that could be heard was the clattering of dishes in the kitchen-- far fewer than those filling the sink twelve hours previously. Occasionally, something would come flying down the highway. Funny how much faster they seemed to rush by when there was so much stillness in-between.

Dean sipped his coffee.

Castiel sat very still, his hands folded delicately on table in front of him. He was staring out at that highway, and yet his eyes seemed hardly focused at all.

Dean leaned forward, trying in vain to see what it was that had Castiel so captured. As he did, he saw the man's reflection ripple along the surface of the glass, light against the darkness of the night.

In passing, Castiel's reflection looked just as one might expect. He was, after all, a dirty little man in a trenchcoat, and that was reflected quite plainly. The closer you looked, however--the longer and deeper you stared into the forms, into his eyes--the more you would see.

Some people saw God or Jesus or whatever. Some people would catch a rare glimpse of the true angel, its power lessened to that of a sharp headache by the reflection. Most people, though, saw people.

No one in particular. Just shadows of people half-remembered, ghosts of the past.

As Dean looked at Castiel's reflection, he saw something familiar in the sharpness of his eyes. In the dark mess of his hair. In the tautness of his lower lids as he gazed out into nothingness.

A boy. His name nearly forgotten--James or Jonathan or something--but his face as crisp and clear as ever.

His first kiss.

Not his first-first kiss. Not really. But his first kiss that had felt the way they say it should.

"Whaddya mean?" Dean asked.

Castiel turned to look at Dean. He didn't ask for clarification-- not out loud, at least.

Dean set his jaw. "What do you mean you can't?" he said. "You can't… like, physically?"

Castiel frowned. "No. I'm quite capable of eating."

He paused.

A pause so long he may have, in fact, finished talking.

Dean cleared his throat. "But…?"

"But," Castiel said, almost stalling, "it is frowned upon."

Dean scoffed. "Frowned upon?"

"Yes," Castiel continued. "The garrison is very strict about how… involved we should be in human culture. Eating, listening to music, dancing--"

"You're not allowed to dance?!" Dean smacked his forehead, biting back a laugh. "Goddamn. Remind me to show you Footloose sometime. You'd get a kick outta that one."

"Mm."

Castiel did not seem near as enchanted by this as Dean. It occurred to Dean that, if listening to music was forbidden, watching movies was likely on the shit list, too.

Dean cleared his throat again. "I mean. That sounds…" But he couldn't think of the words, exactly. "Wh-who told you not to do that junk?"

Castiel cocked his head. "God, of course."

"Right. God." Dean nodded slowly. "Sounds like a stand-up guy."

"I wouldn't know," Castiel said. "I've never met him."

Dean squinted. "You've never met God." Not a question, exactly, though he intended it to be. "Isn't he, like… your dad?"

Castiel sighed. "I suppose you could say that."

"But you've never met him?"

"I've never met him."

"But you're living your life by his rules?"

"Of course," Castiel said. "He… if he found out-- if he knew that I was--"

"How could he?"

Castiel blinked.

"Cas." Dean pushed the plate of french fries back across the table. "God's not watching."

Castiel thought about that. For some reason, he turned to look out the window once more, gazing balefully at a streetlight in the parking lot. As if God himself would appear under it.

And yet, despite that strange terror that God was looking down at him, that he would somehow know, this was the first time that Cas truly realized that his father wasn't there. Not just under the streetlight, but anywhere-- anywhere at all on Earth that may have mattered.

Wherever God should have been--loving or kind or cruel or spiteful--there was merely a hole. A blank space which may have been holy, and yet never was.

The fear was melting away.

Because there was nothing there.

Perhaps Cas himself was the holiest thing on Earth.

Cas reached out and lifted a french fry from the thick ceramic plate. He made eating diner food look like a celebration of the Eucharist.

[postmodernmulticoloredcloak]

I'm sorry is the Mary Sue writing an article actually critiquing Supernatural after it told fans that they were nuts like 4 weeks ago? The title appears that way but after being compared to QAnon I'm not exactly reading their articles. Can you tell me what the idea of the article is about?

It’s not a bad article at all (link), obviously it says what we’ve been talking about all this time so it’s not really for us, but I think it’s a pretty clear read for someone who’s not neck deep in this stuff (I just sent it to my mom who’s never watched a single minute of either spn or the mcu...) or simply someone who’s into one of the fandoms and is interested in how the two stories did something similar.

I don’t know who the author (Rotem Rusak) is but they’re saying that expecting a narrative to fulfill a promise its makes (like bringing something major up and... actually following that bringing up, instead of dropping it in the nothingness forever) is not fans being “entitled” because entitlement is when you expect someone to do something YOU want, in these cases the STORY brought things up so fans were disappointed because... they were just... expecting... the story... to deal... with something the story did! Both Supernatural with Cas’ confession and the Avengers series with... pretty much everything, the focus of the article is on the traumatic impact of the snap and on Bucky but it also mentions the rest. The article also mentions the Jaime/Brienne plot in Game of Thrones.

But instead of saying, yes, you spent all this time watching these scenes, feeling these moments, taking this in—you grew with this character, with these relationships (grew in many cases away from the set starting point)—here is your promised meaning, again and again, these properties snatch the rug away and then pretend blithely they cannot understand why “entitled fans” are so upset.

And just to be clear, this is not “just about the ship,” it is about the story. In many cases, the ship and the story are, indeed, inextricably linked, because the story is the basis of the ship. [...]

While it is not “just about the ship,” it does not feel coincidental that the reneging of narrative promises happens to characters and relationships that orbit queer ships so often. In fact, it feels purposeful.

At the end of the day, it takes two to tango, and though it’s true that properties can do whatever they want, it doesn’t mean they should. There’s a reason why shows like Avatar: The Last Airbender and Hannibal are so universally loved by their fans, and that is because they tell the stories they promise to tell and unfold satisfying arcs and resolutions—and not out of the desire for shock value, nor for spite, nor fear, do they stray from them.

Simply, they give to fans the one thing that is owed to them: respect.

[gypaetus-barbatus-meridionalis]

I know this blog is mostly for spn and shitposts, but I’m too lazy to make a side blog so here is my headcanon for My Little Pony that no one asked for:

Discord is Chaos. You might say, “No shit Sherlock, he’s the god of chaos. In that one episode, Fluttershy literally said that he is a creature of pure chaos.” Well fuck you Watson, because that is not what I meant.  Discord is Chaos, as in the ancient being in Greek mythology. Some say Chaos is either the primeval emptiness of the universe or the abyss of Tartarus, which is the lower of the two parts of the underworld *. Others say it is just the personification of nothingness, the first being to emerge form the void that was the universe back then.  So some say Chaos is concept, some say a deity. I am obviously thinking deity. We know that Discord is immortal (he says ”I haven’t walked that far in a millennia” in the episode where he, Trixie, Thorax, and Starlight save the Mane 6 from the changelings) but what if he had always existed? He knows pretty much everything about the ancient monsters the Mane 6 fight, and some of those monsters are from Greek mythology (The Minotaur and the sirens who technically were shown in Equestria Girls but they originated from the pony universe). If he was there as those creatures came into existence, he will know more about them than some horses in their 20s.  Now, according to The Creature World Wiki, “The six Draconequus Spirits are chaos elementals each embodying an aspect of destruction. The Draconequus Spirits are spread across the multiverse and vary in appearance and power. The most well known of the Draconequus Sprits is the spirit of chaos Discord, former ruler of The Creature World.” so you might think Oh well then your headcanon is wrong. Ahahahahahaha no. This is where I kind of stretch my hc a bit.  So Discord is in Witness Protection. No, hear me out. Chaos is the first being of the universe, which means there must be a LOT of people (ponies?) and creatures trying to take his power and/or kill him. Many creatures target the princesses of Equestria, why not target the first living being and its power? So he decided to disguise himself as Discord, a Draconnequus. He takes the form of this creature and limits himself to not showing anyone his full power. (Gabriel tried to do this when disguising as Loki in Supernatural, and he only failed because Castiel knew his shit.) Now about Grogar. Discord was temporarily disguised as Grogar, a ram who said he ruled Equestria long ago and created monsters to terrorize the ponies. He was known as the ‘Father of Monsters’. Interesting that Discord chose to present as Grogar. What if Discord started out disguised as a powerful ram sorcerer but after Gusty The Great banished him with the Bewitching Bell he decided to take on a different form? He may have stored some of his power in the bell so no one will realize he is too powerful to simply be a sorcerer. As for the ‘Father Of Monsters’ thing: In Greek Mythology, Chaos’s offspring are Erebus (Darkness) and Nyx, the personification of night. Night and Darkness would terrorize the ponies easily. Things would freeze much more easily without light. Also they would get no Vitamin D (which keeps bones, teeth and muscles healthy) if the sun was covered by darkness. But most importantly no light means no plants (they’d lose a third of the planet’s oxygen because of this), all herbivores would die because of no plants, and then all carnivores/omnivores would die because of no prey or plants. All living creatures would die. This obviously includes all of the ponies. Maybe Night and Darkness would cover the sun for days or weeks at a time, watching things get weaker, sick, and even die. Discord would be unaffected, being immortal. So yeah, Discord is actually Chaos, the primeval being from Greek mythology. Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

Note: One resource said Chaos takes the form of a female, and to that I say: genderfluid or trans :) Sources for Chaos: Source 1, Source 2, Source 3 Source for Draconequus: Source Source for Tartarus because it has been along time since I read Percy Jackson: Source Source for if the sun never rose again: Source

*(Fun Fact: Tartarus is where the gods locked up their enemies in Greek mythology, and we know the Main 6 go to there and see a bunch of locked up monsters. Maybe the gods locked up most of their enemies before the alicorns existed and a few escape from time to time and that’s how they reach Equestria. Or maybe the alicorns are just gods, and when a pony becomes an alivorn they become a literal god. They are immortal after all.) 

[wendibird]

SPN 15X19 Observations

So, here we are. Second-to-last episode of this show and what has been said will be the Season Finale. (While next week’s is the Series Finale.) 

Without further ado...

I don’t even know what to think going into this second-to-last episode. I don’t expect a “happy” ending to this show. But I can’t help hoping for a fitting one. One that makes some kind of sense. That does the characters justice. We’ll see how it goes. (Also, I want some GOOD content for Sam. *LOL*)

(Also, my notes might be sparse because I want to concentrate on the show.)

- Everyone’s gone.

- Except these three.

- Does Sam and Jack know about Cas?

- THEY DON’T KNOW YET!!! *crying* (To be clear, not upset that Dean didn’t tell them sooner. Since obviously there had to be a phone conversation at some point, or at least texting so they’d know where to meet up. THAT kind of news isn’t something to tell over the phone if you can help it.) 

- The music is really playing this up well.

- Oh Jack….. 

- And he’s still killing plants.

Commercial Thoughts:

I’ve said this again and again but I still don’t like how Chuck is being written. He might as well be rubbing his hands and cackling evilly. 

That being said, this really is sadistic. One of the few things that’s kept Sam and Dean going through all of this has been the people they’ve been able to save. (Crowely caught on to that in S8 and used it to good effect. But he was like a sniper, precise with it. Chuck is like a fricking nuke.) 

And Sam losing hope always makes me sad. (Have noticed the looks Dean keeps giving him. Still checking on him and how he’s doing and worrying about him.)

- This camera work is weird. Dream-like?

- DOGGY!!!!!

- omg Dean’s happy about a dog!

- WOW. That’s a new low.

- So, no animals? (Guess they’re gonna have to go vegetarian eventually if this doesn’t get fixed.)

- Michadam!!! 

- WHAT?! (No Adam?! HOW DARE CHUCK!!!)

Commercial Thoughts:

Okay, Chuck taking Adam is a really REALLY low-blow! (But then, that might be what pushed Michael to decide to help them after all.) 

Not surprised that Michael can’t open the book. Wondering if Jack can? Or they could call some reapers and see who wants the job of the next Death. *LOL* Hold interviews. “What will you do for us if we give you this promotion?” (crack thoughts, don’t mind me.)

I’m not sure if Chuck has realized that they have nothing left to lose. And that’s generally when people are at their most dangerous. (I mean yes, they have each other, but in the wake of what’s been lost? Literally the whole world? They can’t let that go. They can’t just sit back and treat it as a vacation. It’s not how they are.)

- CAS?! 

- WTF?!?!?!?! (Did NOT want to see Lucifer again tbh. And apparently neither did Dean. *LOL*)

- Okay, so Lucifer promoted the next Death.

- Is he actually dead this time?

- One can only hope.

- YEY! LUCIFER IS DEAD AGAIN!!!

Commercial thoughts:

So…. what was the point of all that again? 

Okay, I get that in the end, the book is open and now they can hopefully read it. Seems kind of convoluted. (Also, do NOT get me started on the whole “God and the Darkness have no pull in the Empty”. Unless God just replicated Lucifer, like I theorize he did with Lilith.) 

Wondering if they just did all that to have Luci and Mark P. back one more time.

- Sam being his super-smart self! <3

- What is Sam not saying?

- Hey! Isn’t that the lake where Jack was born?

- FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!!! Fricking Michael.

- Bloody winchesters

- That’s what Sam wasn’t saying. I don’t think they trusted Michael.

- Sam figured something out.

- Wow. That is some poetic justice!

- I’m actually impressed with that.

- So now what?

Commercial Thoughts:

Wow. Okay, that was a weird twist of a way to get there. But I’ve honestly got to say that I like it. It works. (I’d always hoped Jack would still be the key to Chuck’s downfall.)

I still feel sorry for Amara though. Like, is she just nothingness? Is she an alternate personality deep inside Chuck now? 

And what about Jack? Can he put things back to how they’re supposed to be? Bring everyone back? Did he get Chuck’s knowledge as well as his power? At least of who all he took away? 

Guess we’ll have to see.

Also, usually I’m not a fan of the trope of the “Good guys” sparing the villain who’s killed tons of people because “they’re above killing”. But in this case? It really was fitting. And a worse punishment than killing Chuck would have been.

- OH GOD I LOVE THIS SONG!!!!

- Sammy’s cafe!

- (Okay I’m getting a little misty)

- His smile!!! 

- OKay, I might cry now.

- They raised God.

- Awwww….. (The names)

- Okay, so, I’m not okay! (But I’m okay with it, so… good thing?)

- So it ends with them doing whatever it is they want? 

- I wonder if the Apocalypse World people were brought back? And their other friends. (And Eileen? I’m sorry, I know not everyone ships it, but I do, and now Sam doesn’t have the great Plot of the Universe conspiring against him.)

After-Show Thoughts: (After I’ve had a few hours to ponder things)

Let me just say, the music in this episode? Like, just even the background music? It was amazing! It did such a good job of invoking the emotions that were being felt by the guys. And their choices of songs used were also good. :) 

Michael: So, in some ways his character shift in this episode seems odd after the last time we saw him. But then I thought more about it, and I think Adam’s death had a lot to do with it. In the previous episode in which we saw them, of the two of them Adam actually seemed to be more stable, and often had good, grounding advice for Michael. Now with him gone, all Michael had was himself. And at heart, he still wanted his father’s love, despite everything that had happened. And I still think he’s an interesting Parallel/Contrast to Dean, who also had the same father-worship for a long time, but over time he’s come to understand that John was wrong about a lot of things, and he needs to make his own way. I don’t think that’s something that Michael ever REALLY learned. Not deep down. 

Lucifer: I found his presence here to be annoying. I get that he moved the plot along. And I get how much at least half of Buckleming love him. I am glad that his part was brief and that he didn’t get a redemption arc. I do wish Sam had been able to kill him. (I know, he couldn’t have because only another archangel with an archangel blade yadda-yadda. STILL though…) Or that there had maybe been SOME meaningful interaction between him and Sam for old time’s sake, since that always gets nice and spicy. (Because Jared and Mark P. always keep in mind everything that’s happened between them and put that into their performances.) But time limits and all that. Also, why were there no wing-shadows on the floor when Lucifer died? There were wing shadows on the floor of the friggen church at the end of S13 and he died like 15 feet up in the air. *LOL* I mean, then whenever Sam looked at the floor in the Library he could remember that Lucifer is Dead for Good. 

And I just rewatched the scene again and when he died, he just went poof. Like, in the past, unless a finger-snap thing is involved that’s not what happens when angels die. If they get stabbed, there’s usually been a body left behind. Heck, at the end of S13 there was a full-on light-show. Now it almost looked like a regular angel death just with redder light instead of silvery-blue. Was that because it was just a thrown-together mock-up of Lucifer that Chuck made? (Like with Lilith? Because he’s NOT supposed to have any sway in the Empty! Dammit, how hard is it for the writers to remember the stuff that was already established?!)  

(Sorry. Continuity issues bug me. And they’ve bugged me from Season 1 on, so I know that’s not a new thing. But it does feel like they’ve gotten especially worse this season.) 

(Also, I’m starting to get tired so I’m going to try to wrap this up here. *LOL*)

I did like how they brought Chuck down. When it comes down to it, they weren’t following a pre-set plan. (Well, what happened probably WAS written in that book, but they didn’t know what it was.) Instead they found their own way with what they had. They figured out what was going on with Jack, and Sam figured out some bullshit spell to make some cool light-effects in order to fool Michael and Chuck into thinking they were setting it up for him. The only aspect of it that fell a little flat for me was the extended exposition on how they’d done it. It’s a trope that crops up a lot. The whole “Haha see what I did there!” But, on the other hand, I also realize that unless they’d shown us each step of the process as it was happening, there was no real way around presenting it that way. And it WAS more dramatic to have the audience in the dark until that moment. Also, I can’t deny the effectiveness of the scene where Chuck keeps beating them down but they keep standing up again. I mean, isn’t that an allegory for their whole lives? And at the end he’s incredulous as to why or even HOW they can still stand. What makes them keep going? True, part of it was that they knew the plan, and they knew this was part of it. (Which I think is why Sam opened it up with punching Chuck. To turn the confrontation more physical and draw it out, or he might have decided after all to just finger-snap them.) But part if it is also them just being them. They’ve both been down this road before. Like their whole lives have been this road. And they’ve both been to hell. Both suffered unimaginable tortures. And they just keep going. When one stumbles the other gets up. Or they get each other up. And they laugh in God’s face. Just… THAT was well-done. And Chuck's ending with them NOT killing him? That was absolutely poetic. Because now he's busted down to "normal" and has to figure out actual life (or just end his, but he'd have to do it himself) and he didn't even get an "ending" of his creations killing him. Because even if he did make them, he clearly still doesn't understand them. And I liked them saying "no" to the revenge game. (After making sure that he couldn't come back again as a problem. Cause they ain't dumb either. Despite what everyone keeps saying about them.) 

I also loved the scene where Jack brings everyone back. I would have liked to have seen some shots of some of the individual ones that we’d come to know being back, like Donna, some of those AU people (Eileen!) but I also get this ep was shot during Covid so they probably couldn’t get as many people back. (I hope some of them at least get name-dropped in the next episode so we know for sure that they’re back and alive.) But anyway, I thought the scene was well done, that song was a GOOD choice for it! (But then, I am a bit biased. It’s among some of the music I grew up listening to because my parents had it.) It may not be classic rock, but classic folk is fitting for the new God. :) 

Overall, I thought there were some pacing issues with this episode, but in general I was happier with it than the previous one. I’ve just been re-watching it (because I never catch everything the first time through, especially when I’m trying to take notes) and I just noticed something. Near the end when Sam and Dean are in the Library and Dean says “To everyone that we lost along the way.” I first was a bit puzzled about that, because my mind went to the more immediate people that they’d lost recently, and whom I’m assuming Jack brought back too. But on re-watching I thought about it in a grander scale. How many people have they lost in their lives due to Chuck’s story? Because Chuck thought it would make things more dramatic? I think he was reflecting on their whole lives, not just the last 48 or so hours. And that makes sense too with what Sam said following, about them finally being able to write their own story. (And yes, I know that Cas was not one of those brought back. At least, he doesn’t seem to have been. And though I don’t ship him and Dean, I don’t doubt for a minute that Dean cares/cared about him very much. It’s okay to love your friends. But I didn’t get the feeling that he was JUST talking about one person. That held the weight of years of losses.) 

I thought the ending montage was brilliant! Honestly, if the show ended here, I would have been okay. Not saying I DON’T want another episode! I’ll take whatever I can get. And I definitely wouldn’t mind seeing where they take their story. So yeah, looking forward to the next (and final *cries*) episode.

Anyway, that’s about all I can really dredge up this late at night. *LOL* This will be the LAST time I do one of these knowing there’s more to come. It’s the last week we’ll all wait in suspense for what’s going to happen next. After next week's episode we'll be into new territory of "That's all there is and ever will be." This has been quite a journey, and I haven’t liked all of it, but overall I still love this weird little show, and even more so the characters that we've met through it. So, to quote Bobby, “Here’s to runnin’ into you guys on the other side.”

[bidean-byedean]

new piece on AO3

xvi. family 

Day 16 of the SPN advent calendar (not festive)

There’s something deeply absurd happening here. You feel it when you first visit and you realise. Pulling off of a hunt in nowhere middle America, aching in your bones and, depending on what you killed, your heart, and you remember that Dean Winchester - yeah, that Dean Winchester - opened a bar around here.

You stop for the night.

Rated: G // Tags: second person POV, outsider POV, finale denialist, post-canon/canon divergent, bar owner Dean, everyone is alive and in love, domestic fluff // Ships: Dean/Cas, Sam/Eileen, Claire/Kaia // Word count: 5.6k

The bar is unassuming, gentle, welcoming. Tucked away but easy to find, if you’re looking. It’s still the midwest after all. Dean knows how much it looks like the old haunt; some of it deliberately mimicked, some of it inevitable features of the genre, some of it only became apparent in certain lights, like a ghostly apparition in a foggy bathroom mirror. These things that were hidden until Sam laid eyes on the place for the first time, or an old regular froze in the doorway, or after hours when Dean is cleaning up and swears he heard Jo’s soft giggle. 

When this happens, he pauses. Braced against the reclaimed wood of the bar, desperately straining his ears into the nothingness, begging for one more note. It’s only when a warm hand settles on his shoulder, always his left, somehow always, that he realises what he’s doing. There’s only one place that his prayers echo out anymore and all they do is remind Cas of all the things that Dean has lost, of all the parts of Dean’s life that he did not know, that he cannot restore. But at least now the old Hunter does not flinch at his touch. His body relaxes into the large, steady hand; grounded, brought back to the present where Jo’s laughter is an eternal echo that makes it neither real nor unreal. If their lives had taught them anything, the distinction is arbitrary. 

Cas helps him collect the last of the glasses, stacking them into long, precarious towers. Not as tall as the ones Dean makes; he’s not as easy in his body, not as used to being observed, and he hates the sound of shattering glass, hates the silence afterwards, hates that moment of momentum when the breaking is about to happen and is happening and has happened. For angels, it’s always about to happen and happening and happened. Or, it used to be like that. When and so it is written meant something. Before, when it was Castiel and Dean Winchester, not now, in the after, when it is Cas and Dean. 

There’s something deeply absurd happening here. You feel it when you first visit and you realise. Pulling off of a hunt in nowhere middle America, aching in your bones and, depending on what you killed, your heart, and you remember that Dean Winchester - yeah, that Dean Winchester - opened a bar around here. It’s already ridiculous, considering the things you’ve heard. Only half of them can be true, mostly the half that you can reconcile with your understanding of the truth. 

John Winchester’s boy? Haven’t you heard? 

Haven’t you heard he has a face you’d pay twice the going rate for? Haven’t you heard he’ll take it? Haven’t you heard he’s the best Hunter of his age? Haven’t you heard he sold his soul? Haven’t you heard an angel brought him back? Haven’t you heard he lost it again? To John? To the devil? To God? Haven’t you heard he was the most feared monster in Purgatory? Haven’t you heard losing his soul was nothing compared to losing his brother, to losing his angel, to losing his angel again, and again, and again? 

Haven’t you heard? They’re in love. 

So you roll up to the door of the bar and it just looks like a bar because the warding is painted beneath the sign holding the name, and the devil’s trap is in the shadows of the ceiling, and hex bags are stowed inside of the cushions of the stools, and a silver rosary consecrated by softly sung blessings, murmured by the human mouth of an Angel, sits in the water tank. Even if you know, you do not know. But you feel safe here, that is the point, the commandment of the space; welcome and be welcomed. And maybe you sit at the bar, tired and alone and lonely, surrounded (for the first time?) by people with whom you can speak freely and you realise the weight of speaking in code, always hiding, bearing a burden that sears into your soul until you’re not sure you have one anymore. You hear they burn out, that you can use them up, and then what are you?

But tonight you’re safe behind the warding and in front of a bar with a surprisingly pretentious beer menu and burgers that come with avocado and the word seasonal in front of some of the offerings. But there are people you’re familiar with, even if you don’t know them, you know them. Their faces hold the same weariness, their clothes practical or incongruous by design, masks and costumes and performances, all finally relaxed. So relax. 

Maybe you haven’t seen him since before John died, or before he went to Hell, or before he killed God(?), but that doesn’t matter. Maybe you read the books, enjoying being in the know, enjoying that you enjoy them differently from all the other people that enjoy them, for better reasons. Maybe his name is a myth passed from Hunter to Hunter, monster to monster, or between the two (is there a two? You try not to think about this too much). Older now, so much older than he could’ve ever hoped for. Masculine in every way you hope to be masculine, if you really understand what it means, but by hoping and understanding you fail. He’s tall and broad shouldered, and wears a flannel shirt over a band tshirt and dishtowel over his shoulder, and his jaw is sharp and hard and stubbled, and his eyes framed by deep crow’s feet; he sees you and you feel seen. His forearms are too tanned for the season, but you’re distracted by how they flex under the skin, and his hands are big and rest on the wood in front of you, just hands now, but they might as well be an armoury for all the death they’ve caused.

So, maybe you’re suddenly afraid because the things you didn’t want to be true? Suddenly reality has shifted and not only do they reconcile with the truth, they are immutable from it, it is more impossible that impossible things don’t happen to this man. 

Then he smiles.

“What can I get ya?” 

His voice is so low it’s like traffic from a highway just out of sight from your motel room, that when you lie in the dark becomes part of your body, as essential to your existence as the thudding of your heart and the huffing of your lungs and the buzzing from the dying lights in the walkway outside. It’s atomic. It’s celestial.

Wasn’t the other one supposed to be an angel?

You don’t know. You’re not used to having choices. Simple choices, selfish ones, luxurious ones: if you want fries or steak-cut chips, American or Swiss, IPA or stout or lager, light or dark, or spirits. It embarrasses you, how difficult it is, in the face of meaninglessness, how do you fare?

“Just a beer, man.”

“I gotcha,” he tips his chin understandingly and gets to work. 

Probably gets this all the time, an understood consequence of stepping outside of the comfort zone. Your comfort zone, not his, you realise. This is his domain, his playground, his paradise on Earth, as was the promised bounty for fighting on humanity’s side in the war. The one no one else had to fight in because he did. 

Did he still have the sword? 

‘German pilsner.”

“It’s good.”

His smile seems genuine and so is your surprise. 

“What you here for?”

You keep your eyes on his, if you blink, you’ll see it again. “Shifter. Of a sort.”

“Mmm.”

“Then home.”

That catches his interest. “Where’s home?”

“Iowa.”

Then he opens the ground beneath you: “Who’s home?”

“Whoever’s left.”

He grunts appreciatively, his gaze flickering over his shoulder. You notice the bands on his fingers. Silver, you assume pure, but it catches the light in a way that isn’t quite right, you stare at it. He twists it with his thumb, an unconscious habit, a soothing touch, a comfort. Even a Winchester needs comforts. It’s a comfort in of itself. 

A young woman, her blonde hair half-braided and threaded with metal, slides over the top of the bar, her leather trousers giving her enough slip over the wood. Her heavy boots thud onto the ground and she grins manically at his frown.

“What have I told you about-“

“Yeah, yeah, nice to see you too, old man.” 

She kisses him on the cheek, he rolls his eyes, but leans into it, his mouth quirking upwards at the corners. Another woman appears, dark skinned and soft-eyed, she walked around the bar, civilised and grounded. The blonde throws her arm over her shoulders, you remember who they are: Claire and Kaia Nieves. The daughter of an Angel and a Dreamwalker. You heard they spared a family of werewolves on the West coast, you heard there’s a network for them, monsters who are not monstrous. You don’t like to think about what that means for you. The things you’ve done. 

“Where is he?” He gestures to the back and they disappear. He looks after them, his face soft and open; you can’t imagine him torturing souls in Hell. 

There are pockets of people throughout the bar: loners like you, pairs and trios quietly nursing their sustenance, groups crowding round tables, pulling chairs from elsewhere or standing when there are none free. They’re loud and joyful and free. Is it better to have a crowd? Is it enough to be adjacent? You’re not sure you have the energy to socialise, to make nice, maybe next time.

Someone enters and everyone’s heads turn, he’s called over to different tables, dropping by to say hello to everyone who calls his name: Sam fucking Winchester! He’s tall, made even taller by the short woman by his side, and their hands move animatedly as they talk, too precise, too many deliberate gestures to just be physicality. He watches her when she speaks, her voice is rounded and deliberate. Eileen Leahy. A Deaf Hunter. You remember someone telling you she was eaten by Hellhounds, dragged into the pit, and brought back by Sam, his magic, his love, willing to transcend the boundaries of life, upset the balance of the universe: all for her.  You feel ashamed for wondering how she made it far enough to meet the Winchesters.  It’s a fair question of any Hunter, the answer the same: in their own way. No one survives because they have all the makings of a Hunter, a preset list of requirements that they meet; you survive because you face the job with what you have and you do what you have to. 

Dean salutes her playfully, she smiles so wide it looks like it hurts. You can’t remember the last time you smiled like that, the last time you felt pain that didn’t hurt. She sits at the bar and Sam sits next to her, towering and gentle. You remember him. The Boy King. No longer a boy, his throne abdicated. Does he really have demon blood coursing through his veins? Hell is closed up now, sometimes a demon pops up here and there, but not like before, when the world was full of them, when all you did was exorcise and pray and holy water became a currency and left most of the community ordained ministers from variously dubious sites of divine origin, consecrated ground became the last stronghold against the end of the world. The future placed in the hands of Sam Winchester. Now you know the face. You struggle to imagine the Devil in his eyes, not when you’ve seen true evil. 

The Winchesters are not similar enough to be clocked as brothers. But there’s something in the tilt of their shoulders and their hazel green eyes and the cadence of their voices that suggests kinship, brotherhood, forged in the fires of Hell and gilded by the light of Heaven. They’re just men, you realise. Earthly and solid and real, no more myth than the one you beheaded just the other night, it’s blood as real as the blood that marks them Winchester. Just like anyone else. 

“Isn’t Claire supposed to be helping out?”

Dean sighs. “She’s upstairs. Giving her a minute, she hasn’t been around in months.” You think he sounds upset. “Typical.”

“It’s a good thing, Dean,” Sam pushes. “Her and Kaia are doing a hundred times better than we would’ve.”

“We?” He snorts. “At their age you were smoking oregano with your bougie friends. I was actually saving people.”

Sam pulls a face. “You’re such a jerk.”

“And you’re a bitch,” he signs it big and deliberate, winking at Eileen. “Hey, want another?”

It takes a second for you to realise he’s talking to you, by then all three of them have their attention on you, openly appraising you. You wonder what they read in your posture, your face, the way you’ve ripped a paper napkin into tiny shreds. 

“Any other recommendations?”

“Got a new dark in, like dessert in a glass.” He looks at Sam: “Finally found an apiarist to work with.”

“Apiarist?” You venture.

Dean looks towards the door that leads to the mysterious back. “Bee keeper. My-“ He pauses abruptly. “He likes bees.”

My. He. 

Perhaps you don’t mean to, but you eyes flicker to the rainbow flag over the doorway. You notice more stuck in glasses on the shelves, some of them rainbow, some of the blue-purple-pink bands, some of them orange-white-pink. What is it like? You know what people say behind his back, what they’ve always said, the people in the know. The men who had paid for a moment with Dean Winchester, the men who had gotten one for free, the men who had hoped for either, for anything. They still call him names. If only John could see him now. John always knew he was a disappointment. Wouldn’t be like this if John were alive.

That doesn’t seem fair. You didn’t know John Winchester, most people didn’t. He died so long ago and Hunters have a quick turnaround, reblooded often, rarely more than a decade of history able to be told first-hand. Dean watches you and your eyes and you wonder what he’ll do, if you became a threat, how does he eliminate threats now? You shiver at the thought. You let wistfulness seep through. You try to convey the kinship. The I see me in you and you in me. The you fascinate me the same way a shadow does. The show me your throat and I’ll show you mine. The secret language you’ve learnt to speak. The other one. Hidden even beneath the Hunter’s code. The more forbidden one. The one of monsters like you. Like us. 

It must work because he softens. He pours the dessert in a glass even though you didn’t order it and places it in front of you, next to the glass he places something small and shiny, he doesn’t wait for you to acknowledge it. It’s a metal pin. The silver knotted into a symbol you don’t know, impressively intricate for the size, and when you hold it, it feels unusually warm. You remember the way Dean’s ring caught the light, throwing it more than it should, almost giving off its own light, almost glowing. Whatever it is made of, this is its sibling. You pin it to your jacket, on the left lapel, the proximity to your heart neither deliberate nor indeliberate. It pleases him. You pleased him.  

The drink is good, better than the last. Truthfully, you don’t like beer that much, but it’s easy and universal and unassuming. This isn’t beer, not in that way. It’s smooth and creamy and sweet, it rolls around on your tongue, asking to be tasted, not to be drunk. The honey has that sharpness of real, pure honey, the slight antiseptic burn you get from eating it straight from the jar. You remember eating honey from a jar, a chunk of comb suspended in the golden substance. You didn’t know it meant so much to you. 

“Finally!”

“Get off my dick,” Claire bats back.

“Who the fuck taught you to be so rude?”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s no sense of upset between them. “What do you want with me?”

“Glasses.”

“Ughh, are you serious?”

“As a werepire.”

“There is no such thing as a werepire,” a new voice cuts in. It’s grumbling like Dean’s, somehow more gravelly; do they communicate in earthquakes? “Stop trying to make werepire happen.”

Castiel. 

You gasp before you can stop yourself. An Angel of the Lord, walking on Earth, living above a bar instead of Heaven. He’s nothing that you expect. Tall and commanding, but different from Dean and Sam, the same, but somehow very not. His eyes are bright and intense, as blue as the deepest sky, the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen, a blue that you never thought possible until right this second. You feel as if you should look away, as if seeing beneath a hair covering, something sacred and prized, something that is not for public consumption, only God’s eyes. Only Dean Winchester’s eyes. What is the difference now? Is this bar paradise? Where is the divinity in craft beer and crude hunters, clawing out a life on the edges of society, wading through the horror in the hope of retaining peace, but not for yourselves. Nothing is for yourself. 

Except they have claimed each other. You heard Dean is branded, a scar of a handprint seared into his skin, a memento from when they met. They met in Hell. Castiel touched his soul and raised him from Hell and fell in love with him, literally fell. Who would love you if they had seen your soul? Seen the personal realm of Hell you curated? Can you even love yourself?

Doesn’t it leave you breathless? 

And then the picture shifts. Castiel turns and you see a child, old enough to walk, but small enough to get away with demanding not to. It’s balanced on the Angel’s hip like it belongs there, like his body (is it his? Who did it belong to? Are they still there? Did they ask for this?) was made to hold it there. Dean ruffles their hair, their ambiguity is intriguing, refreshing for the Hunting community. Youth is a clean slate, you are never more full of options, full of potential, which slowly seeps from you as your choices narrow, as life demands decisions, assigns decisions, weighs you down with expectations and being perceived, an object for perception rather than existence. 

You’ve heard about the child. A nephil. But no one knows the details. No one is brave enough to ask. 

The child reaches for Dean and is pulled into his arms, plastered against his chest, small and content and belonging. You wonder what their life will be like. Will they be a Hunter? You doubt it, you doubt the doubt. How do you choose to bring life into this life? It’s too hard, too sad, too lonely, too destructive. Not even dandelions grow through the concrete paving of a Hunter’s solitude, of their broken soul and heart, tings you drag along behind you like a yoke, reminding you that you must keep going, that one day, you will not be able to keep going. The baggage. How do you inflict that on a child? When will this creature’s heart be torn out of its chest and put inside a box and chained shut, only to be your greatest weakness and source of strength?

Or will it be happy?

“You need to go to bed, buddy,” Dean says quietly, his voice so steeped in affection it makes your chest yearn. You can’t help being in earshot. That doesn’t make it right. “Want me? What’s wrong with your Dad?”

The child murmurs something silently. 

“Okay. I got you,” his arms seem to tighten. “Cas? We’re going up.”

Cas. It rolls off of his tongue so easily, the repetition of a thousand, a million, making it more at home in his mouth than his own name. An Angel of the Lord called Cas because he stands on Earth, because he is not part of Heaven, because he is of Dean, not of God. He touches the child’s face gently, tenderly, motherly, and you ache for such simple, all-consuming affection, for someone to look at you with the reverence of worship at the altar of a god that speaks back. Castiel’s (because Cas is not for your mouth) hand runs down Dean’s arm, his fingers trailing, prolonging, and when it drops away, Dean leaves. 

You’ve nearly finished your dessert in a glass without even realising, it’s good. Too good. You could drink it all night, but you shouldn’t. The list of shouldn’ts is getting too long. You can’t remember anything left that you can do, that doesn’t conflict with an imperative for self-restriction. Where do you have to be? Who is expecting you? What is your next move? Why are you even questioning it?

He notices you. 

“Ah, Sweet Dreams. How did you like it?” He tilts his head, a little more than most people would, reminiscent of a puppy, of the velociraptors in that film, assessing your prey potential. You’re aware of his magnitude. You’re aware of your insignificance. 

“Very smooth. Filling.”

“That is the problem, but Dean humours me.” 

“With the bees?”

He nods seriously. “They’re dying at an alarming rate, you know.”

“I did.”

“Have you been here before?”

“First time.”

“Welcome.”

“Thanks.”

“You look tired. Are you staying the night? We have rooms.”

 “Uh-“

“That’s not a proposition,” he adds quickly. “Dean tells me that I sound like I’m hitting on people when I say that.”

You smile at his humanness. “I didn’t feel propositioned.” Would you like to? “I- I usually stay in my car, to be honest.”

His smile falters. “I wouldn’t advise that, it’s very uncomfortable and you’re much safer in here. The warding is some of my best work.”

“You never actually asked if I was a Hunter.” Hoping he’ll smite you?

He narrows his eyes playfully. “I didn’t have to. I know Hunters.”

“You must know everything.”

That catches him off guard. “Not as much as I used to.”

“What?”

Another head tilt. This one is more amused. “I guess news doesn’t travel as fast as you think. I am depowered,” he uses his fingers to make air quotes around the word. He laughs, but it’s a grating, sad sound. “Fallen.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” He shrugs. “So, a room?”

You somehow agree to stay. The rates are reasonable and the weather turned recently, so you know that even if you get some sleep in your car, it’ll be fraught and restless, and a warm bed in the safest place in the US is hard to turn down. You wonder if they’re both always this attentive or if its you, if you’re really that pathetic, if it rolls off of you like a stench, trails after you like blood, someone else, yours. You accept the insistence of kindness from the Angel, former, no, current; he says otherwise, but you see divinity in his eyes, in his smile, in the way that he touched Dean, in the way he held his child.

“Was-“ You swallow and finger the pin that Dean gave you. “Was that your kid?”

Castiel nods happily. “Jack.”

“And Claire?”

Castiel looks across the bar at Claire, laughing loudly and talking in big, dramatic gestures with a group of Hunters. “Yes.”

He doesn’t offer clarification. You feel stupid for wanting some. All of the impossible things you’ve seen, why do you care? Why do you need to know the details? Why does it matter that they are together? That they created a family? Do you think you can too? Do you think you’re as special as Winchester? 

He leans on the bar. ‘Claire is my vessel’s daughter. I took her father from her.”

“That’s intense.”

“That’s one word for it.”

“And Jack?”

“He-“ He pauses. “He chose me. You know how are nephil are.”

“Sure…”

“God, he is too good at that.” Dean interrupts loudly, pressing his face into the back of Castiel’s shoulder. “I always fall asleep putting him down.”

Castiel pats his head. “He’s spoilt.”

“Yeah, well, gotta make up for tryna shoot him, huh?” You and Castiel share a look. You do not ask for clarification. “You stayin’?” You nod. “Awesome. Another drink?”

The room spins gently around you, but you’re content to watch the show. It’s not one that would be on TV, but it should be, warm and carefree and soft, it’s the show of a family. They move around each other in a practiced dance; Sam and Eileen and Claire and Kaia and Castiel and Dean. So many of them. All alive. All in love. So much love. It’s hard not to watch Dean and Castiel, they’re captivating. Beautiful. You notice the magnetism, how they’re constantly touching, brushing, holding, pressing, it seems so easy, it would seem so easy if you weren’t watching, but you are, and you see how Dean watches the room, the way he look out before he does something deliberate, the way he pauses, the way he checks himself and checks himself checking himself. Dean tells a joke you don’t catch. Castiel responds by kissing him. You feel like you shouldn’t be watching. Your heart won’t let you look away. They talk an inch from each other’s faces. You wonder what it feels like to love someone like that. 

Once you save the world, you can have it too.

God, you’re so tired, it’s a tired that sinks you into the ground, that makes you blood slow and your heart sticky and blinking a dangerous game. You want to see the end of the episode though. You don’t want to miss a moment. 

Thud. 

“Game over kiddo,” Claire comments when you sit up suddenly. “Past your bedtime.”

“I’m older than you,” you say, or slur, or think.

She laughs. “Sure. You got a room? I’ll show you up.” She frowns. “That’s not a proposition.”

You laugh. “Like father, like daughter.” 

Her eyes slide over to the pair. “In all the ways that matter.”

The room is small and cosy: a double bed and thick duvet, a jug of water on the dresser, a small plate with cookies on it. 

“Dean makes them,” Claire says as she watches you examine the room. “Don’t tell him I told you, if you remember that is.”

“Not tha’ drunk,” you protest, but the world spins when you close your eyes. 

“Uh-huh. If you need anything just, uh, deal with it? This isn’t the Hilton. My D- Dean gets up pretty early, but if you wanna get away there’s like a key box and stuff. Night.”

The door clicks closed and you’re left alone. Your head feels fuzzy and full and empty at the same time, and you wonder how you got here. You wonder it a lot. Every time you’re searching for a hunt, driving to one, checking your weapons, reading the lore, tracking down a creature that has no right to exist. 

That has no right not to exist.

For the first time in… well, you can’t even think about it, you sleep well. As soon as you crawl into bed, curled under the heavy duvet, surrounded by warmth and softenss, it creeps into your brain and takes away the tension from your body. You don’t even think to check the room for warding or make an escape plan, the assurance of safety here is like the knowledge that the sun will rise tomorrow, to doubt it seems like an insult to you and the universe. Maybe there is gentleness in the hunting life, a tender hand of comfort and understanding that will offer quiet and healing and rest, between the blood and guts and bones and death. Life. 

You have dreams you don’t understand, but they don’t scare you. Nothing hunts you in the dark corners of your mind, you are not lost, you are not running, you are safe. Bathed in blue-white light that feels like sunshine and makes your lips tingle. It’s pure and divine and you do not feel worthy, but the feeling does not last, the self-loathing is soothed, washed away like a baptism of permission to see the way you try, how hard you fight, how hard you live. 

Like any seasoned Hunter, the dawn brings consciousness, even though you definitely haven’t had enough sleep, yet you feel rested. More rested than you have in years. The ache in your bones that keeps you awake too late and forces you from shitty motel beds too early seems like a distant memory, one from a life you’re not sure you actually lived, like a reoccurring dream that permeates you waking days, but the relief, that’s real. Like the shower you take, the water almost too hot, the water pressure almost too hard, but it purifies you in a way that you thought was no longer possible, not after the things you’ve done, the things you’ve seen. 

Packed and ready to go, you linger by the door, wondering, briefly, what the rush is. Why do you need to leave today? What is really waiting for you at the other end? 

But this is not home. (Nowhere is home.)

Being in a bar in the morning feels wrong, the grey light filtering into the room that’s already too lit, too exposed. Somehow it feels inviting though. A couple of people are already in the room, sipping out of big mugs with plates piled with toast and pastries and even cooked food. Who’s the chef here?

“Mornin’! How’s your head?” Dean grins brightly from behind the bar. He’s wearing a stained apron that says lord of the pies and the way he looks at you makes the floor feel soft underfoot, so you forget that he actually asked you a question. 

“No complaints yet,” you quip, daring to make a reference that exposes you both. Your fingers find the pin on your jacket, still oddly warm, already a comfort. 

He allows a small smile. “Breakfast?”

“Coffee, please, lots.”

“You’re speaking my language.” The coffee smells good, expensive, something that you would pay $7 dollars for because you know what you’re really buying is the chance to sit somewhere beautiful and put together when you are anything but. “Milks and sugar just there.”

Although it feels like sacrilege, you forgo the pancakes he tries to convince you on; you’ve never had much of a stomach in the mornings, but especially not this early, after drinking, with such a long drive ahead. You’ll regret not eating in a few hours, but you’ve never been kind to your future self, why start now? You watch and sip your coffee and let the day seep into your brain, acknowledging that you have to live today, get on with it all. Again. 

Three cups in and it’s time to go. You were hoping to see Castiel again, but he hasn’t appeared. Disembodied hands produced Jack through the doorway, but you couldn’t tell who they belonged to, maybe Castiel, maybe Claire. The toddler is more awake, he follows Dean around behind the bar, babbling nonsense that Dean replies to in a gentle, but grown up tone, always acknowledging his sentences, even when there’s no real answer to give. He’s a father. Embarrassingly you imagine him as the father of your children, however that would happen doesn’t matter, it’s a fantasy. A fantasy of security and domesticity. The only knives that Dean Winchester yields now are the ones in his kitchen; the only flesh he cuts through is whatever is on the menu, already slayed and butchered; the only fights he has are bickering with his family.

Family.

Your family is somewhere, out there, maybe where you left them, what’s left of them. Dean picks Jack up and they dance to the song on the radio, some sugary pop song that makes Jack laugh in that infectious toddler way and you get to witness the Dean Winchester sing all the words, perfectly. This isn’t the Dean that ruled Hell or Purgatory or Earth, that was the Hunter and the bow, the sword to Castiel’s shield, that fought the Devil and God and the every other cosmic entity. Could this Dean Winchester have saved the world? 

But maybe this isn’t his weakness. If you do not have a soft underbelly then why do you need to have claws? If you do not have a reason to fight then what drives you to win? Dean bares his throat to the world to show it that he has something to protect, and that is what makes him so dangerous. What do you have? Where is the kink in your armour? What are you fighting for?

The bar disappears into the distance, shrinking in your rearview mirror the way a dream slips through your memory like water between your fingers as consciousness takes over. The roads are all the same, the towns are all the same, but you are not. The dread in the pit of your stomach is no longer a knife holding you hostage, but a knot attached to a rope, pulling you back, anchoring you. For all the time spent fighting it, the magnetic pull to a place you felt you could no longer love, people you could no longer have if you wanted to survive. They are what convinces you to survive. You think about the way Dean and Castiel looked at each other when the other wasn’t watching, you thinking about the way Sam never stopped smiling when Eileen spoke, you think about how Claire became a teenager again in Castiel’s arms. 

On the second ring, your phone connects.

“I’m on my way.” 

[writtenmemxries]

hey elena! just curious on your opinion on this since we r all clowning again rn.... :o) how do you think castiel is going to be saved?

Hey anon, thank you for asking! :)

First of all, I love how we as a fandom collectively agreed that Cas is actually coming back, not even the slightest doubt about it. And for this reason I love the fact that you asked HOW I think Cas is gonna be saved and not IF I believe he’s gonna be saved at all. Which, of course, I do.

It would bring a perfect ending to Dean and Castiel’s story, in the sense that it’s symmetrical, circular: Castiel is rescued from the Empty - saved from an eternity of nothingness, in which angels and demons dream about their regrets over and over again, as Ruby put it in 15x13 - in the same way that Castiel has gripped Dean tight and raised him from perdition when they first met. The beginning and the end.

We already know that they’re going heavy with the parallels this season. The handprint is a big one, for instance, even if it wasn’t the writers’ idea, but it was Jensen, Misha and Richard who discussed it. It’s not the only one, though: they brought back the whole Purgatory arc, they’ve been paralleled to Saileen as a couple multiple times now, not to talk about the whole “losing your loved one” trope in 15x18, in which Charlie, Sam and Dean all lost someone, and I think it’s 100% sure that both Charlie and Sam are getting their love interests back next episode, Thanos 2.0 ain’t gonna win, sooo... why not Dean, too? ;)

The point is: this is not the end of Cas’ arc. He thinks it is, because he sacrificed himself for the love of his life, he experienced a moment of true happiness and he’s now content with his choice, entirely dictated by free will. We’ve never seen Cas cry and smile as he did during his confession, which made this a very emotional, poignant and bittersweet moment, and it makes the audience think that it’s over for him, because it was indeed a perfect ending.

BUT

Surprise surprise, it isn’t!!!

Death’s never been their endgame and it certainly won’t be now. It can’t. Moreover, Dean didn’t get a say in the matter. He saw Cas disappear in front of his eyes and he didn’t even had the time to process anything. So no, I don’t think they’re done with it. The development of their relationship is not over yet. Whether Dean reciprocates or not (of course he does, look at him, c’mon!!!), they HAVE to address it. And you think Dean is gonna leave the poor guy in that place full of despair and not fight with everything he has to bring him back home? Ummmmm...

What I find interesting about 15x18 by the way (besides the obvious stuff, of course), is how Jack got sent to the Empty by Billie, basically exploded there but survived, and “made it loud”, as the Empty itself said. Does it mean that everybody is awake or waking up now? I mean, it would be kind of hard to be asleep in a place so loud, wouldn’t it? And if they are waking up, it would be difficult to fall asleep in a place so noisy, so what if Cas is awake, too, now? :)

Ready to annoy an ancient cosmic being so much to be sent back again

Also, we know that Lucifer is coming back, although I don’t think we know the circumstances, do we? Like, will he come back to Earth from the Empty, or will we see him in the Empty, where he’s supposed to be?

Still, I think he might play a role in the whole rescuing Cas business. Otherwise, why would he even come back on the show in the first place? What do we need him for? He’s annoying who cares about him we as a society are past the need of Lucifer on spn.

I know I haven’t exactly answered your question and I just rambled a lot, buuut I’m not very good with theories apparently!!!

Still, I appreciated the ask! :)

[katymacsupernatural]

The Threat of Thunder

Dean Winchester x Reader

1200 Words

Written For: @spndarkbingo​ @spngenrebingo​

Squares Filled: Jack Kline (Dark) Thunderstorm (Genre)

Summary: Dean’s worried about you staying behind with Jack. You say it’s going to be fine, but then a storm hits. 

Warnings: Angst,

“You sure you can handle this?” Dean asked you quietly. He was pacing around the bedroom, finishing up his packing while you sat cross-legged on the bed.

“Of course,” you assured him, handing him the flannel shirt you had just folded, rolling your eyes when he just shoved it in his duffle bag. “Jack is sweet. We’ll have fun while you and Sam are off dealing with...what was it this time? A ghoul?”

Dean sat down next to you. “A wendigo. Which means a lot of hiking around a muddy forest, freezing our asses off. I’d rather be back here, with you.”

You patted his cheek, wishing that he didn’t have to go either. But it was a job, and he was a Winchester. It was part of who he was, a part of who you had fallen in love with. And you wanted to spend time with Jack, to really connect with the poor kid. “Dean, go. Save those poor people and Jack and I will order pizza and relax.”

Dean turned serious, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. “Listen, I know you and Jack get along well. But he….he seems different, and it worries me that I’m leaving you alone with him.”

You appreciated the concern, but you were a big girl. You could take care of yourself. “Dean, it’s only for a couple of nights. We’ll keep it low key, and everything will be fine when you get back. I promise.”

“As long as the roof is still standing,” he sighed. “Just keep in touch and we’ll hurry back.”

His lips ghosted across your cheek before he picked up his duffle bag and left the room. You immediately wanted to call him back, hating being separated by him. Instead, you stood up, promising yourself that you and Jack would have a great weekend.

After a trip to the local grocery store, you were ready for a casual night in. You had insisted that Jack go change into a pair of sleep pants while you did the same. Frozen pizza was baking in the Bunker’s ancient oven and movies were ready to watch in the Bunker’s freshly turned movie room.

Dean had texted a couple of minutes ago, checking in. You had assured him everything was going well, letting him know you missed him. “Everything okay?” Jack asked as he stepped into the kitchen. He had switched into the pants Dean had bought him, a pair that never failed to bring a giggle to your lips. They were completely covered in bacon. Dean even had a matching pair. He had tried to buy Sam a pair, but Sam had refused, sticking with his simple black.

“Everything’s great,” you assured him just as the first rumble of thunder shook the bunker slightly. “Sam and Dean are already out hunting the Wendigo, and our dinner is almost ready!”

“What was that?” Jack asked, his eyes raised to the ceiling, his body on alert. “Are we being attacked?”

Chuckling, you pulled the pizza out of the oven. “No, it’s just thunder. Haven’t you ever heard thunder, Jack?”

He shook his head, taking the paper plate you offered him, still wary about the thunder rumbling over his head. “Wanna watch the movie now?” You asked him, ready to head out of the kitchen, but he shook his head.

“Can we just talk?” He asked, sitting down at the table. Smiling, you sat down next to him, watching as he shoved in a huge bite of pizza, exactly as Dean would have. It was interesting, seeing this grown, child-like man act so much like the man you loved. It made your heart warm that Dean had such an effect on him, that he was almost like a father to him.

“So, you wanted to talk?” You asked as another round of thunder shook the bunker so hard the lights swayed.

“How can you be calm with this happening?” He asked, swallowing the huge bite of pizza. From your spot across from him you could see his breaths coming fast, his heart pounding. His eyes were wide, his knuckles white as clenched the table.

You needed to calm him down before it became too much and his powers took control. Scooting your plate of pizza away from you, you reached forward, grasping his hand in your own. “Jack, I know that thunder and lightning can be scary. Especially if you’ve never witnessed it before. But it’s just a natural wonder, and it will be over soon, I promise.”

“I don’t like it,” he answered, standing up and pacing the room. His hands were clenched, his eyes glowing gold, ready at any moment to erupt.

“Let’s go watch a movie,” you suggested. “If we turn it up loud enough, you won’t be able to hear the thunder.”

“No!” He screamed just as your phone started ringing. The bunker shook again with the force of the lightning hitting close by. The lights flickered and swayed.

“Hello?” You answered the phone, nervously watching as Jack stood in the doorway, his hands clenched, his back to you.

“Y/N, we’ve already killed the Wendigo!” Dean exclaimed happily. “Can you believe the stupid thing pulled the trigger on the flare gun itself?”

“Dean now isn’t a good time,” you told him. “There’s a pretty loud storm here, and it’s a lot for Jack to take.”

“Y/N,” Dean’s voice immediately turned low, full of concern. “How is he? Nevermind, just leave him to himself and get somewhere safe. Who knows what will happen if it becomes too much.”

“Dean, he’s blocking the doorway,” you whispered just as another boom echoed through the bunker.

Gold light emitted from Jack’s hands, surrounding him, pulsing uncontrollably. “Dean, hurry!” You exclaimed, backing up until your back hit the cabinets. Your phone slipped from your fingers as Jack turned around.

“Jack, sweetie, it’s okay,” you tried assuring him. “It’s just a storm. It will stop soon.”

“Make it stop!” He screamed, his golden power pulsing before exploding all around him. Glass shattered, the lights popped, and you screamed, ducking your head. Thunder continued to rumble over your head, egging Jack’s panic on.

He was uncontrollable, his power pulsing and flashing around him. Walls shook before the ceiling cracked. Plaster and steel pelted you, pinning you to the ground. Your screams combined with the roar of the bunker caving in on itself and the thunder still rumbling above. Jack’s screams filled the air, as well as his power, continued to destroy the bunker. “Jack, stop!” You screamed, unable to move with the huge piece of ceiling that had your legs pinned to the ground.

Rain poured through the huge cracks in the ceiling before slowing ebbing away. The thunder stopped, and Jack’s golden orb slowly faded away into nothingness. “What did I do?” He whispered, his eyes full of horror.

“Jack, help me!” You called out, trying to move when a steel beam fell down, slicing through your body, pinning you even farther into the tile.

“I did this?” He gasped, falling against the only standing wall left in the kitchen. “I...oh no.”

“Jack please,” you pleaded, reaching for him, but he only shook his head.

“Dean is going to kill me,” he whispered. His face was white as snow, and before you could blink he was gone, leaving you pinned to the floor of the ruined bunker’s kitchen, hoping that Dean would arrive to save you before it was too late.

Dean/Jensen Tags: @acortez82​ @acreativelydifferentlove​ @adoptdontshoppets​ @a-girl-who-loves-disney​ @akshi8278​  @bebravekeeponfighting  @bi-danvers0​ @brindz30​ @burningcoffeetimetravel​ @cap-just-said-language​ @colette2537​   @deansgirl215​  @flamencodiva​ @hamiltrash1411​ @its-not-a-tulpa​ @jerkbitchidjitassbutt​ @just-another-winchester​ @karouwinchester​ @keikoraventeller​  @krys198478​ @librarygeekery​ @magssteenkamp​ @misspygmypie​ @mlovesstories​ @mrsambroserollinsacklesmgk​  @mrspeacem1nusone​ @nothinbuttrouble2​ @ria132love​ @ruprecht0420​     @sortaathief​ @superseejay721517​ @squirrelnotsam​ @team-free-will-you-idjiot​ @thing-you-do-with-that-thing​ @torn-and-frayed​ @tricksterdean​ @wonderfulworldofwinchester​ @woodworthti666​

Forever Tags: @aditimukul​ @alexwinchester23​ @algud​ @amanda-teaches​ @andreaaalove​   @artisticpoet​ @atc74​ @be-amaziing​ @camelotandastronauts​ @caswinchester2000​ @chelsea072498​  @closetspngirl​   @docharleythegeekqueen​ @emoryhemsworth​ @ericaprice2008​  @esoltis280​   @foxyjwls007​ @gh0stgurl​ @goldenolaf25​ @growningupgeek​  @heyitscam99​ @hobby27​ @horsegirly99​ @internationalmusicteacher​ @iwriteaboutdean​  @jayankles @jensen-gal @just-another-busyfangirl​ @karlee-fay-my-wayward-son​ @lifelovelaughangell123​ @li-ssu​ @linki-locks11​ @littleblue5mcdork​  @lowlyapprentice​   @maui137 @mogaruke​ @monkeymcpoopoo​ @musiclovinchic93​  @nanie5​   @percussiongirl2017​ @plaid-lover-bay25​   @roonyxx​ @ronja-uebrick @roxyspearing​ @samanthaharper2018 @samanddeanmyheroes​ @sandlee44​ @shamelesslydean​ @simonsbluee​ @sillesworldofwriting​ @sgarrett49​ @spnbaby-67​ @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester​ @spnwoman​   @superbadassnatural​ @thatcrazybookwormgeek​   @thewinchesterchronicles​ @vvinch3st3r​ @wecantgiggleitsafandom​ @whimsicalrobots​ @winchester-writes​ @zombiewerewolfqueen​

[septembersghost]

it’s strange, being away from social media, and simultaneously being in a very bad, difficult place, caused me an examination of a lot of the habits I’d built up on my blog, on that identity I established as saferincages. having nearly 1000 people (which I realize isn’t even that many compared to some on here, but for me it felt like...a lot) made me constantly aim to please without even realizing it (mirrorball plays in the distance). I tried to curate things so carefully. I tried not to over-post. I tried not to post too much of one thing, and when I did, I felt bad about it, so I saved thousands of drafts - they still sit hidden there, their own haunted space, and I suppose they always will. I tried never to let cynicism taint my emotional reactions because I am naturally very earnest, yet at the same time my instinct for guardedness wanted to protect a lot of my feelings. there’s something on the knife’s edge of performative about it, not untrue, just sanded down and polished so as not to show too much. it’s not something I’ve considered for a while until hanging out here for the past few days, and browsing around and seeing people forcing themselves to interact ironically, because they feel like they’re not...acceptable? cool?...otherwise, that there’s a shame in authenticity. 

it makes me sad? there’s nothing wrong with overtly loving or enjoying something and simply wanting to be able to embrace it and immerse in it, but the magnifying glass of the internet gives this weird value judgement where we’re only supposed to love something halfway. not to say it’s not important to have a critical eye or discuss things intellectually, but, like, if that’s all we’re allowed to do, it’s miserable. the very existence of art, whatever form it takes, is a rejection of nihilism, because art cannot exist without some measure of compassion, sincerity, meaning. art is the most obvious blossom of humanity, it’s creation that springs up out of the ether, fractured scraps of beauty from nothingness, is crafted and shared, and is meant to go, “yes, you are allowed to feel this.”

I’ve been thinking about it a lot because I’m primarily here sobbing about SPN feelings with a side of attachment to Taylor, and those two interests specifically were eroded for me by social media without my even consciously realizing it. between toxicity from the fanbases themselves and the mocking derisiveness of haters, my brain went, “nope, this is WAY too close to your soul, you can’t expose this and have people trample it, evacuate!” and I stopped allowing myself to fully have those connections. (not with Dean necessarily - darling you are the only exception - even though I did try to quiet the public level of that connection, but with the journey in general. yes, the show itself has been a chaotic problem, but the atmosphere made me pull back too).

they announced SPN was ending when we knew Angel was going to die. the show has been with me for longer than she even got to be alive. I watched the video of them announcing it, and it was honestly this intense shattering spotlight on my grief that was so bad I literally had to lie down. and I was like, “I haven’t even been happy with the writing? why am I feeling this?” and I realized it was too much of a signifier of everything I’ve lost. I’ve talked so much about SPN starting on my birthday, the first September when I was so ill that I’d had to drop out of school. I’ve been through years of sickness, suicidal ideation, massive betrayal and heartbreak, multiple deaths, but the Winchesters have been there. so it was like being told a death was coming, not only of the show, but of such a significant portion of my life. literally my ENTIRE adult life, of which I have essentially nothing whatsoever to show except...surviving longer than I expected.

when Taylor announced Lover was coming out I was so deep back into suicidal ideation that it was nearing 2009 levels of darkness again (a decade later, time is a flat circle). I did not think, in S5, that I would make it to the “end” of SPN, that originally planned end in Swan Song. there were maybe three central things, outside of my mom and Angel, that kept me alive then. one was Taylor’s music (I know I once talked about how she and FOB were the only things I could listen to at the time), one was SPN. I rode the shadows out with those lifelines, until my heart healed a bit - scarred over, but ready to be full again - and I was able to get back to caring about a whole array of things. those lights, though, they had a particular place, nearly a sacred one. I should never have allowed that to be dimmed and it’s silly that I would.

so it’s April and I go, “I want to live until August, when Lover comes out,” and I did, and it was really cathartic and sweet and brought something back to me. I made this blog hoping I could come back to Tumblr, but then I couldn’t, so it sat quietly. The Archer was on a constant loop. I never grew up, it’s getting so old. I hate my reflection for years and years. I wake in the night, I pace like a ghost, the room is on fire, invisible smoke. I was reading a lot of the Romantics and there’s a line in Keats, from “Ode to a Nightingale” (amongst: my heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, and darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death) - some melodious plot of beechen green. so I put the words together and thought, “lol that is too flowery and over-Romantic,” and then I thought...who cares? folklore, of course, wasn’t even a hope or glimmer on the horizon, and the fact that I got to be here for that still feels like an extraordinary gift, considering it’s an album I always dreamed of her making. it’s remarkable how MUCH that album seems to draw from that timeframe and genre of literature/poetry. Taylor said in her Rolling Stone interview with McCartney that was published yesterday: “I was also using words I always wanted to use — kind of bigger, flowerier, prettier words, like “epiphany,” in songs. I always thought, “Well, that’ll never track on pop radio,” but when I was making this record, I thought, “What tracks? Nothing makes sense anymore. If there’s chaos everywhere, why don’t I just use the damn word I want to use in the song?” which struck me. why don’t I just use the damn words I want to use?

anyway, obviously last year, I knew SPN was ending, and I put that in a box. I did not feel it. when S15 started, my emotions were so detached that I didn’t experience it at all. I’ve rewatched the first few episodes of this season and feel like I didn’t even see them? I also refused to rewatch early episodes, which is an unusual reaction for me, but in the last month I’ve seen S1-3, and that has stirred up a lot of things. it was almost childish denial initially, a defense mechanism, like, “well, this is over, but I’m not going to be affected by it :)))), I am going to let go gracefully” (me, laugh-crying at myself now: I didn’t have it in myself to go with grace). I could not let myself be vulnerable enough to care. because of this, cracking open currently is letting in this alchemical mix of emotions that are so intrinsic to not only the story itself, the characters, Dean, but to me and my authentic self and everything I’ve been through, that it is...unique. idk how to describe this particular brand of anguish, lots of fiction I love has ended, things I’ve had less problems with and been less hurt by, even, and emotions always accompany that, but not like this. it is sense memory. everything it’s bringing to the surface, the amount of tears I have shed, the delicate fragility I’m experiencing compounded by the fear of what’s happening irl to my mom and me is clawing at the door (like I said in my temporary angry post before I migrated over here), and it’s probably unstable, but I’m refusing the knee-jerk reaction of shutting it off. because I’m not the person who interacts sneeringly. I’m not the girl who doesn’t feel things or hardens her heart or allows there to only be darkness. that’s not who I am.

[dimples-of-discontent]

“Absence, darkness, death: things which are not”: 14x18 watching notes

“What’s Deal with Catharsis?”

Let’s talk about catharsis. 13x04 has been haunting me since it aired. I couldn’t get over Dean sitting on a therapist’s sofa asking “So what’s the deal with catharsis?”. I know it’s obvious but it is also a dramatic term and we are hardcore missing some catharsis in this show. Essentially, it’s the purging of negative emotions that are typically repressed which, in drama, enables renewal or restoration. One of SPN’s narrative problems, for me, is that it gives us precious little in the way of catharsis. There are notable exceptions (12x22 when Dean confronts Mary in his dream, for instance) but for the most part negative emotions are repressed, sublimated, and remain unaddressed. 

This is especially (haha, autocorrect turned that to “epically,” which is also true) for Dean and Cas. And it’s not sustainable. We need some purgation of their negative emotions, we NEED them to know crucial bits of information that reveal their true feelings instead of repressing them: Cas killed a million Deans but Dean doesn’t know! Dean was nihilistically depressed when Cas died but Cas doesn’t know! Cas sacrificed his soul (and happiness) to save Jack and Dean doesn’t know! The layering of dramatic irony is all very well and good, but we need to stop it at some point.

“A quintessence even from nothingness”: Absence and Negative Space

Do I actually think that will happen soon? No. I was interested in “Absence” being the title of this episode since absence is defined by the things it is not. Cas explains it in terms of Jack--not bad but the absence of good. And that’s kind of where we are with DeanCas too. It’s not definitively one thing (romance) but it’s the absence of any other convincing explanation. If they aren’t these other things--brothers, friends, war buddies--then what are they? “Absence” also refers to Mary, of course, who was absent from their lives once and now is again to be experienced not as a person but a lack. Their whole maternal relationship is defined by feelings of loss and absence so in a sad and terrible way it’s returned to normal. SPN is full of things that are not definitively one thing but which are NOT a bunch of other things and, in all cases, the slipperiness of the definition is itself the narrative problem.

SHAMELESS RENAISSANCE POETRY PLUG please go read this poem by John Donne on the winter solstice, which is all about death and renewal:

Study me then, you who shall lovers be At the next world, that is, at the next spring;        For I am every dead thing,        In whom Love wrought new alchemy.               For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness; He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not.

It’s called, “A Noctournal upon St. Lucy’s Day, being the shortest day” and I adore it. Also...it (along with a lot of Donne) seems so SPN-appropriate that I think he would have been a fan. (Donne is the preacher who wrote the “no man is an island” sermon and asked “not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee”. He had a massive command of rhetoric, yo.)

Anyway, “absence, darkness, death: things which are not” is what the title immediately made me think of. Jack promised a new beginning, forged from the darkness that was Lucifer, and part of me is still convinced that this is what he’ll bring, despite appearances. We all predicted early on that he’d have a moment to go darkside and, yeah, this is it! His choices would also matter--because this is Team Free Will--but it would then be his choice to act evilly. Even if that happens, though, he can choose not to and part of me thinks he will. We don’t have other Big Bads on deck for the end of this season/start of S15 so I’m assuming episodes 19 and 20 will focus on the Jack problem until it reaches a crisis that carries us through to the summer. But how they will resolve it, I hope, has more to do with the power Jack holds to create as well as destroy. Or maybe Chuck’s reappearance will set this balance off? We’ll see.

Also, “absence makes the heart grow fonder,” which I’m going to keep an eye on as the season goes on.

Destiel is Pain

It’s fascinating that the promos were edited to suggest that this was an episode with MAXIMUM DEANCAS DRAMA OMG!! when it kinda...wasn’t. I know @occamshipper​ pointed out that they edited it just like a het romance drama, centering on the “you’re dead to me” and building up the angst and tension. And that was there, but it wasn’t everything. PR isn’t showrunning, yes, but it does mean something; it means they think the GA cares. And that’s kind of a big fucking deal at this point because what the GA cares about determines what we’ll see more of in the show. It’s not definitive at all. But it’s a trend and an important one that some fine folks have been tracking for a while.

The “you’re dead to me” was not not a big deal--and I had hoped very much that we’d get an apology along the lines of, “Cas, I’m sorry. What I said--I put the whole Jack thing on you and that’s not fair. I did the same thing. We all did. You didn’t fail us.” Let’s cross fingers and hope we hear that the next time they talk (since Sam stopped Cas from trying to give comfort in this episode...pray4Sam who was SUCH a brother-in-law/marriage counselor here). But it’s a Buckleming next so I don’t hold out hope. In any case, it’s a big deal because while Sam now knows that Dean doesn’t consider the whole thing Cas’s fault Cas doesn’t know that and will continue to go on thinking that a) he’s only good the Winchesters insofar as he’s “useful” and b) he’s a failure to Dean specifically. THAT’S TERRIBLE AND WE NEED TO CORRECT IT IMMEDIATELY!!

But we won’t correct it immediately because the show is riding DeanCas tension as basically the A plot at this point. Building angst to a breaking point surrounding Jack just emphasizes that. Jack caused our biggest DeanCas rift to date, both by Cas’s unwavering support in him that led to betraying Dean (running off with SOME WOMAN after stealing the colt from under his pillow after the mixtape scene, layering romance trope on romance trope) and by coming into existence the same day Cas died. Jack’s essential good or evil nature has been the biggest disagreement in their relationship for 3 seasons now so it makes sense to center a crisis on it. 

And Dean doesn’t even KNOW about Castiel’s deal with The Empty! He doesn’t know that Cas traded his soul to return Jack’s to earth...only to have it be destroyed. True, The Empty said it would only come when Cas was happy and the thick angst we have now doesn’t suggest he’ll be happy anytime soon, but I think Dean and Sam are about to find out about the deal and Dean’s about to be pissed the fuck off at Cas for doing something SO STUPID (so like a Winchester). Maybe in the same conversation where Dean apologizes we can have Cas tell him the truth about the deal? Like, can they talk please? The real villain was miscommunication all along though, right?

Zombie Moms

Just a little sidebar to tell myself to return to 13x12, “Various and Sundry Villains” (a Yockey ep) and the two witches who were able to get Rowena the Book of the Damned (crucial in this episode, as Rowena unwittingly leaves it with Jack) try to resurrect their mom and bring her back...wrong. Because necromancy is extremely tough (and why didn’t Jack need any victim blood to bring Mary back the way that the Plum sisters did??) what they bring back is just a murderous simulacrum that was, honestly, what I was afraid they were planning to do with Mary. I’m relieved that they didn’t.

Both episodes owe a great debt to the Buffy episode “Forever” (5x17) where SPOILERS FOR BUFFY after their mother’s death her younger sister attempts to bring her back, only to realize at the last second that it’s not possible and the thing outside the door is a horror. It’s a very intense episode about grief, following “The Body” (5x16), one of the most devastating TV episodes to ever air. It was obvious to me that Yockey et al. were using that episode in 13x12, though not totally clear how. They even cast the zombie Mom like Joyce!! 

In any case, in 13x12 the sisters’ refusal to let their mom go was an example of the toxic sibling codependency that Rowena used to kill them (as they beat each other to death, one using a hammer just like demon!Dean). In 14x18 Jack’s desire to bring Mary back is an example of his being unable to cope with the reality of his actions and his fear of losing the Winchesters. That’s not toxic codependency, but it is a refusal to go through the stages of grief. There’s definitely something going on here--and going on about Moms--that I can’t pick apart now but want to (or hope someone else will!!).

On which note, my chemo fatigue has found me so I’m gonna sign off. Apologies for typos or lack of clarity. I have really missed doing episode notes, though, so maybe I’ll be back to it soon. I’m psyched to see how this season wraps up, how about you?

[nerdylittleshit]

Thoughts about Spn 14x08

SPOILERS AHEAD! BEWARE!

So, does anybody else have Buffy season 2 war flashbacks? (I know you do) What an episode. It was a lot to take in, both emotionally (ALL THE FEELS), as well if what happened in the episode could mean for the future. For whatever slow pacing the season had so far, Jack’s sickness and death arc happened rather fast. They could have dragged it out longer, and the reason they didn’t means it was a plot device. Though unlike Kevin or Charlie’s death (who were plot devices as well) this ended on a happy note. For now.

But, as always, let’s take a closer look.

Because I made a promise, because I love you

I saw some speculation about Jack’s death after last week’s episode, that he had to die in order for the story to make sense, but in all honesty I didn’t expect it so soon. I was not ready. And obviously neither were Sam, Dean and Cas. And we see how different they react to his death, how Dean can’t even bear to be in the same room when it happens, but afterwards he is the one dealing with the most mature. He is the one talking about a funeral, and he is the one most suspicious of the deal Lily Sunder offered. And I think it might be because he has been a father his whole life, and it is not the first child he loses (Sam), whereas Sam and Cas are strangers to the situation. Sam only lost people who took care of him but never someone he felt responsible for.

I hope nobody dares to give Mary shit for not calling back immediately. I think Dean calling her was a good way to include her in the episode, because apart from Team Free Will she was closest to Jack. And Dean, who tried to hold everything together, just needed for a moment to be a child as well. He needed comfort as well, and Mary is the only one he allows himself to ask for it.

The episode focused on the unnaturalness of a child dying before his parents. All three (Sam, Dean and Cas) fully accept Jack as their child. Cas says that this is not how he thought Jack’s story would end, which of course is very meta thing to say. Even on a show like Supernatural nobody expected Jack to really die. And we see two women trying to help Jack who both know what it means to lose a child: Rowena last episode and now Lily Sunder.

A word about Lily: I’m glad they brought her back because she has been an awesome character. I’m glad that she found some sort of peace and that they let her age (because, you know, women aren’t allowed to get older on TV). There is also regret of what she had done. Yes, she got her revenge, but it almost cost her her soul (metaphorically and literary), reminding us again that revenge will never bring you peace. And by doing so she ruined her chance to be reunited with her daughter. I love how they ended her story, how Dean reminded her of her humanity, of her own pain, and how that one big sacrifice got rewarded in the end.

Dean is the one who is the most suspicious of the deal they made, which shows his growth. Also his first assumption is that Sam made a deal, and he got really angry about it. I do believe that the spell they used to save Jack will have consequences. If Dean is suspicious it is always an alarm signal. Lily says that as long as he only uses his soul to sustain his body it won’t cost him much. So Jack will probably use this magic for more, which will have an effect on his soul. I… don’t like it.  

After Jack dies he goes to heaven, which makes sense, because without his grace he is essentially human. And yet the Empty claims him. So does the Empty also claims other angels who lost their grace? Does it matter more what you were born as, than as what you die?

I also wonder if the Empty has been awake since Cas woke it up (and it can’t go back to sleep until Cas returns), or if Lucifer woke it up again? Naomi said Cas is the only one who ever escaped the Empty, so does that mean Lucifer is still there and that she doesn’t know about him yet? Is the Empty pissed because Cas escaped or because he woke it up or both?

I also loved how Erica Cerra played the Empty (better than Misha and his weird accent *cough*). I really think the major issue is that the Empty is now awake, aware of the endless nothingness it is surrounded by. I would go bonkers as well. The deal Cas makes is of course a huge reference to Buffy and the curse Angel was put under. Angel lost his soul after one moment of true happiness, and that happiness happened after he finally allowed himself to return Buffy’s love. So yeah, if they go that route, it would be a huge step towards Destiel. I wonder if Cas remembers this del however and if Jack does as well, because we know Sam and Dean forgot all of their heaven memories.

One more thing about the Empty: back in season 12 it was already a metaphor for depression, representing empty nothingness, and we saw how Cas overcame it. And now, when he finally allows himself to be happy, it will take him away again. Ouch.

I also saw some suggesting that Cas only needs to become human, so he will go to heaven if he dies. But Jack was human when he died, and the Empty still claimed him. A deal is a deal.

Also speaking of Destiel, the episode made a huge deal of separating Sam from Dean and Cas, and showing us basically them acting as husbands the entire time. Because they are.

It is also interesting that Jack’s heaven, one of his happiest memories, is their hunt from 13x06. That was after Cas returned and Den finally started accepting Jack. He sees them as much as his family as they seem him as their child. I don’t think this makes Kelly less important, but he simply had no memories of her he could see. I do love the ways in which the show made Kelly part of Jack’s story and that they were finally able to meet. It tied her story up perfectly. And her and Cas’s story as well. All. The. Feels.

On another note I love how Supernatural just mixes up all religions. Yes of course Anubis works with heaven (and yeah for a moment I thought they would have the same point system as in The Good Place). But also Anubis’s reminder that it isn’t him or God who decides where we will end up but just ourselves. Our choices determinate what kind of person we are. (I wonder where Sam and Dean would go? They did save the world (a lot) but also did some really awful things)

So next week we will see Michael again. How does heaven know where to find him? And what is the relationship between heaven and Michael? Michael didn’t seem to fond of the angels and Naomi just gave his location to the hunters who try to kill him… unless it is a trap *badadum* We will see.

Until next week <3

[postmodernmulticoloredcloak]

Well, now I wonder how the perfect 16th (17th?) season that lives in our hearts could fix the characterisation problems without outright dismissing last three seasons. I mean, not that SPN writers ever had consistency as their priority, buuut. (Ngl, though, if that dream fix-it season ever going to happen, I really hope it *will* dismiss some dumb deaths and plot-twists.)

Oh, I personally can accept some good ol’ shaky retconning if it makes the story better :3

I actually did daydream an interesting post-15x19 plot that just went from there, brought Billie back, un-god Jack and brought back Amara as an autonomous character.

Basically Jack-and-Amara actually unbalance the cosmos because Amara is The(TM) Darkness but Jack is not the original creator. Chuck, despite being human, is the first to realize it since, well, he knows a thing or two about the universe. He goes to Dean and Sam, they reach some sort of cautious truce (they don’t trust him, since it def looks like he just wants his powers back, but still listen because that’s kinda important).

Eventually Chuck, Amara, Jack and all become human. Cas too obviously. Humanity is the endgame for all the major players.

No God, no Darkness, so the cosmos is balanced. Death still stays, obviously, because that’s important for cosmic balance reasons.

The Empty becomes really nothingness. Eternal rest. Everyone goes there. No heaven or hell.

Everyone’s human and life on earth matters.

[foreverfallen]

MUNDAY.

GENERAL

Name: Megan Birthday: September 20th Sexual Orientation: ??? Dad’s Name: Mark  School Status: Working on getting my Master’s

YES/NO

Drink?: Yes, on occasion Smoke?: No Eat cake?: Yes Believe in True Love?: Sure? Why not? I don’t know if everyone has it, but for some people, I think they can find their loves.  Afraid of the dark?: I kinda like the dark. Not the pitch blackness of nothingness, mind you, but just... the dark? Yeah.  Cat person: Definitely much more than a dog person; cats are great. 

FAVORITES

Shampoo: I don’t know if I have a fave; what I use came from the salon and it works and that’s all that matters hah.  Disney song: Oh probably... Be Prepared from The Lion King. I love that song so much!  Actress: I have ones I like and enjoy, but I don’t know if I have any particular faves in that regard. Person: Probably my mom. I love her to pieces.  Type of Weather: Fall and Winter. I love the dark and rainy days, the cloudy overcast skies, the windy breezes--I hate spring and summer with a passion, all the bugs and the hot sunny days... ugh.  Color: Black, green, silver, those sorts of colors.  90s Sitcom: I don’t know... Too many to choose from. 

QUESTIONS

What is your special talent/skill as a roleplayer? I like to think it’s my writing itself. I mean, I don’t format anything fancy, and my photoshop skills are just... what they are, but at least as far as Lucifer here is concerned, it’s a character and muse I’ve been with for so long, I understand so well-- they’re almost a literal part of me, and I’ve been writing in one way or another all my life, so... I don’t know. I just like to think that/tell myself that, for a confidence boost :)  

What is your favorite type of roleplay genre, and why? Anyone who writes with me will know I’m easily a magnet for angst, for hurt/comfort, for anything where I will torture this muse of mine. I feel doing so only makes us understand them that much more, and hurting them here makes me love them in my heart all the more. (I know, I’m weird. I show my love for Luci here by torturing him in writing, yes.) It’s very hard for me to maintain something purely fluffy, without any hints of trauma or angst... 

Why did you pick your muse? Um... you should have asked me that nearly a decade ago when I did? hah. I don’t actually remember why I first decided to write Lucifer, to be honest, but it was when he was first coming to SPN--seasons 4 (talked about) and 5 (actually there). Then he sort of dimmed down a little, and while he was still there, I didn’t roleplay him as actively for a lot of years in between. Seeing him again on the show, I guess, is what brought him roaring back to life, which led me back to finding my old blogs and rereading so many headcanons and being all “MY PRECIOUS!” about this muse. Needless to say, he’s my own creation pretty much, with just inspiration in a lot of cases taken from SPN by now.  

If you could write any other muse - but know you don’t have the muse for him/her - who would it be? Are we talking the same fandom or are we talking just in general? Just in general, I’d love to try my hand at some of the Dominion characters; rewatching the show has reawakened my love for it again (it doesn’t help that the dash does that too), and as far as the same fandom goes... Probably would be the likes of Dean. I never could get his voice down right.  

What is one thing you think you need to work on for a partner? I don’t know... Um... Probably reply speed in some cases? I mean, a lot of my partners are very understanding but I still feel bad making them wait. Especially when one or two threads may take focus and priority and then I’m like “I’m working back and forth on these and I’ve had these other replies/asks for months” and I feel bad... 

What would be your warning label to other roleplayers? Will probably give you feelings through the torture of muses. 

What is your favorite episode/scene of your muse? Season 5 in general, but damn, the scene in the hotel in the episode, “Hammer of the Gods” with Gabriel? The amount of times I watched that-- Kills me every time to this day. Oh, and probably second place would be conversing with Michael in “Swan Song” as I wish we’d gotten more of Michael & Lucifer... 

What crack!ships do you have for your muse? I don’t think I have any? I mean, when I happen to ship with this character, I ship with him; it’s not crack at all ;) 

What is your senpai blog for someone who plays the same muse as you? I tend not to follow a lot of other Lucifer blogs. Mainly because I’m intimidated, first off, and secondly, they’re all so awesome in their own way, and I have a hard time not judging myself against others, and then depression and anxiety kick in and... yeah. Mind’s a vicious place. 

tagged by: @fracturedsword tagging: @ anyone who wants to

[fearfilledvirgil]

Ivity and Anx: part eleven

Summary: Virgil’s mind spirals farther and farther down as he mindlessly walks the path to Logan’s house. When he arrives, Logan’s mind begins to reel into his own thinking process. 

Warnings: Physical and emotional abuse discussed, manipulation discussed, Deceit (Marxious) mentioned, few swears

Word Count: 2581

Pairings: Slowburn Prinxiety

A/N: I think the warnings don’t get through just how much they think about abuse in this chapter. It’s bad. I got a few sinking feelings in my stomach when I read it over, and I wrote it. Besides that, yay! Part eleven is finally here! I’m so incredibly sorry for the long wait. Thank you for sticking with me. (Taglist under the cut)

masterlist

Taglist: @rileyfirstname @verymuchanidiot @definentlynotjustanotherlemon @silversmith-91 @kanejandkruge @sander-fander-sides @hexdream18243 @crows-with-hats @turksmigurks17 @monikastec @definenormalifyoucan @i-am-absolute-fandom-trash @applecannibal @cats-with-blogs @bubblycricket @gay-girls-do-it-better @bunnyartie @quietlypondering @elusivefalsehoods @hghrules @royallyanxious @quietwords-loudthoughts @squishynonbinarytwink @sortablue @giant-tiny-spn @illogical-anxieties @lovecrazyjennybear

~•~

shhimcreatingrightnow: I’ve given you your space for months now,, I understand what happened before but I promise I’m not like him. Please, let me tell my side of things, Virgil

I miss you

Virgil’s eye-line stuck mostly to the ground a few feet in front of him on his walk. He sometimes let his gaze wander to the street when a car approached, but the inexplicable urge that came about to leap out before the moving vehicle stopped him from doing so. He kept on as much allert as he could with two of his scenes mostly blocked out. His vision was impaired with his hoodie and low eyeline, and his hearing was limited with the quiet music leaking from his headphones. Not that he cared much. Well, he did care, a lot. Virgil continually looked back behind him, finding excuses to look into the street for oncoming assailants. It was all counter productive, his paranoia, but none of Logan’s impeccable logic could convince him that there wasn’t someone breathing down his neck.

Virgil had an understandable love-hate relationship with walks. He loved the calmness of it, the being able to just go where his feet took him. He liked that he could just breath in the moisture filled air in this time of year, walking alone with no one to make him talk. The serenity of the walks as the trees swayed gently in the wind was enough to convince him to keep going on them. The opposite side of the coin, though, was that there was a lot of things that could go wrong while he walked alone. His music that he loved and thought was an essential part of the walk-taking experience limited the amount of things he could hear. If he couldn’t hear someone approaching, then he couldn't prepare himself. Virgil’s tendency to look at the ground and hunch his shoulders also provided difficulty; if he couldn't see danger coming, then he had no way to protect himself.

Virgil always had to be able to protect himself. If he wasn’t careful, he knew full well what would happen. He would get hurt. If he didn't do something just the right way, or he spaced out into nothingness and missed something important, he would get hurt. There wasn't any way of avoiding it either. Whether it was yelling, passive aggressiveness, or a physical punishment, a part of Virgil would be broken. The boy with the hard outer shell understood too completely that pain didn't have to be physical to make someone fall apart.

His father taught him the darkness of physical punishment. The man took it upon himself to beat the submissiveness and learning into him. It hadn’t always been that way, but the discipline the man used had become so regular that Virgil could hardly remember a time when things were better. Way back when his mother was still alive, the harshest punishment his father inflicted was loud, loud, with an object taken away. Now discipline was loud, louder, deafening, with an object hitting his skin. He told him that his son deserved to be punished, to be put in his place for all the mean wrongdoing that he's done. The harsh dark of his father’s reality pushed Virgil farther into too sweet words that wreaked of manipulation.

Marxious graciously showed him the mental scars that emotional manipulation could cause. The older boy--who Virgil acknowledged was now in college with a shiver down his spine--made it his personal, sick mission to create as much dependency in Virgil as possible. He fought with words, sickly sweet promises and never ending lies. When Virgil latched onto Deceit, and when Marxious hooked Virgil onto his line, the walls that covered the younger’s heart grew tenfold. Deceit convinced him to be the worst possible version of Virgil he could be, saying that in doing so he was strong. Marxious was creating a villain for his own control, but the small speck of light that was Logan managed to wiggle its way back into his life. With that spark Logan started a flame, and the flame burned through most of the deception.

As his mind went along on its usual tangents whenever it was left to wander, Virgil managed to walk just over halfway into the neighborhood. His feet had walked this path so many times before that he neglected to realize just how far he walked until another car drifted past him. The sound of the engine and the rush of wind that blew harshly onto him as it passed pulled Virgil out of his mind and back to the present. Virgil’s feet stopped cold, allowing their owner to stop to take a moment to collect himself. He couldn't allow his mind to drift there so deeply again. Not only was it unproductive to dwell on the past, but having it sink deeper into his mind would reverse so much progress made with Creativity.

Ivity. Virgil’s current problem. Some would think that his father was his ongoing problem, something that must have had much more weight in Virgil’s mind than someone catfishing him, but Virgil’s mind worked differently. It worked wrongly. The hunched, broken mess, standoffish boy began to think of his father’s ways of something daily: ordinary. The kind of crushed that he felt when Roman of all people was made out to be Ivity took more precedence over the ordinary. Unlike with Marxious, Roman had always seemed genuine. There wasn't one moment when in a conversation with Creativity did Virgil have any second guesses of his nature. Roman was constant in what he had to say, and how he presented it. Deceit jumped too far over the board, and more than once broke his masquerade of kindness to reprimand Virgil for something. There was two sides to Deceit, but Creativity only had one.

Virgil shook his head violently and resumed his steps. He couldn't think this deep about Roman right now, not before telling Logan what happened. Virgil needed to keep a clear head. He needed a mindspace where his father didn't exist, and neither did the two who betrayed his trust online. He couldn't be thinking about the men who broke him, because if he did, he would break down. The one thing besides ever telling Logan the severity of most of his issues that Virgil swore never to do again was breakdown in front of Logan. The logical thinker would realize too quickly just how fucked up his friend was, and then he’d decide that Virgil wasn't worth the trouble.

In the midst of his chaotic, overflowing thinking, Virgil reached the road down to Logan’s house. He closed his eyelids, letting the heaviness weigh down onto them for a moment. He pushed everything away and down just for a little while. He became light, airing, floating away from the pavement into a state of something much calmer. The calm barely lasted, though, as the one emotion he couldn’t push away came crashing back when he saw Logan’s house in the distance. To hide the ever growing fear, Virgil placed on his facade of the short tempered and pushy kid that the Brian family knew him to be.

Luckily for Virgil, the sun was still high in the sky despite the clouds obscuring its light. Usually his long walk down into the more prestigious neighborhood occurred at nightfall, so he usually used the back door. Today, though, and on other occasions such as this, Virgil felt free enough to ring the doorbell and possibly be greeted by a family member other than Logan. So Virgil’s feet found themselves atop the old welcome mat, his hands still in his pockets. After the last few moments of constructing his face into that of a grim scoul, Virgil pulled his hand out of his hoodie and pressed the doorbell.

It took a few moments, but the door soon swinged open to reveal a ten year old girl who held a striking resemblance to Logan with her dark brown hair and deep blue eyes. Those eyes, however, were currently glaring daggers at Virgil. Her face was scrunched up with something like a mini mom glare, and it was kind of adorable. It would be actually adorable if the reason behind the glare wasn't as hard pressing as it was.

“What do you want.” Olivia looked Virgil up and down with a touch of disgust. Virgil always said that he didn’t mind the way that Logan’s family treated him. Of course, they all were just cautious. Virgil wasn't exactly the kind of person to look inviting or anything less than intimidating.

“Well I was looking for the Brian’s house, but clearly I got the wrong address.” Virgil seethed through slightly parted lips, regretting the words immediately. Serves her right, he tried to convince himself, for treating him that way.

Olivia made another snarl and let out a scoff, going to roll her eyes before Logan appeared behind her. The older brother caught sight of his friend standing in the doorway, hunching over with that all-too-familiar gimance on his face. Logan halted in his footsteps, walking backwards to get a full look of the situation unfolding at his doorway. Virgil’s eyes caught his, which made him immediately begin towards the two at the door.

“‘Lia, what’s happening here?” Logan asked as he placed a hand on his younger sister’s shoulder. He gave a glance of apology to his friend in the doorway, but that only made the younger squint his eyes and hunch over more. There seemed to be a little sneer on his face. Logan pursed his lips, wonder still overflowing his mind. He knew that Virgil disliked putting out anything other than this hardened face in front of strangers and peers, but the logical one still didn't understand why he would feel the need to keep it up here. Virgil was practically family with how often he came over, and with the fact that Logan cared for him deeply. He just wanted his family to see his friend in the same light that he does.

“The gothic boy is back.” Olivia retaliated with a small half-smile that held the smallest bit of real emotion. Her kind eyes and sweet facial features were so at home on her face when she looked at her brother. It was easy to see that the girl cared for her sibling, and the way that her face naturally melted into the less distasteful expression signified just how much she didn’t like Virgil. Like he thought before, Virgil didn’t mind how the Brian family thought of him. He couldn’t possibly; he had too many other things to worry about. Besides, keeping up the darker persona around Logan’s family just helped his societal image come together as someone who you’d rather not mess with, unless you want a pretty bruise as well.

“Do you need help with physics again?” Logan asked, his gaze becoming ever so slightly serious. Virgil’s head inclined with the slightest of movements with that word. That was the two’s code of sorts that they would use if Virgil need to be patched up, but more into that later.

“No, I just want to talk...about something.” Virgil shoved both of his hands deeper into his pockets and made his shoulders rise and enclose his neck to make an awkwardly looking hunch of sorts. The shrug that wasn’t exactly a shrug passed back down into Virgil’s normal slouched standing position. Logan tilted his head up and raised a lone eyebrow in confusion, but gently lead his sister away from the door.

“Alright, Olivia,” Logan started quicker then he usually spoke. “Thank you for answering the door.”

“But-” Olivia tried to say, only to be turned around and directed back toward where she was doing homework at the table.

“Just get finished on that homework, okay?” Logan finished talking to his younger sister with small smile before hurriedly turning toward his friend still waiting in the doorway. It was irregular that Virgil would show up at Logan’s doorstep unannounced, even rarer doing so and not wanting ‘help with physics.’ Virgil didn’t even take physics. The only conclusion that Logan’s mind could come to in the middle of this fast pace moment was that Virgil was finally ready to actually tell him the thing that Logan had been theorizing about. What thing? Well, Logan only knew it by one name: Mr. Sanders.

Mr. Sanders was arguably not a good man. Logan had been theorizing for quite some time some things that he would rather not make a hypothesis on but he did anyways. They always lead him to concern whenever his best friend’s dad was involved. The one thing Logan did not want to do, not now nor ever in his lifetime, was allow Virgil to get hurt without helping him. The older felt as though it were his personal duty, as he was Virgil’s self-proclaimed older brother, to protect him. The obvious signs of severe neglect and touch starvation that the younger exhibited broke Logan’s heart into a million different pieces, but he never knew how to help.

Whenever Virgil would arrive at Logan’s back door with pleading and fear in his eyes, Logan’s inner speculation worsened. The purple-haired boy would rarely tell the older just how he got the wounds scarring his skin, and if he did, it was only small excuses. On the worst night that he saw him (March 21st, to be exact), Virgil confessed that he was mugged, but the assailant didn't get away with much in the way of money, only in hurting the smaller.  Logan wanted to believe this, but with the way Virgil squirmed and refused to maintain eye contact, he couldn’t. The best logical explanation to Logan’s favorite human being constantly rough around the edges with broken and bruised skin was parental abuse.

The figures don't lie either. It is significantly more likely for a parent who lost their spouse to abuse their child, all the while more probably for them to blame their child for the death. Once Logan added Virgil’s father’s alcoholism, neglect of his child, and Virgil’s skin as evidence, it was all the too likely that Virgil was being abused. And what could Logan do other than fix him up when he asked and offer a safe place to sleep? Virgil hasn’t disclosed any factual words about Logan’s speculation. The younger rarely asked for anything concerning safety or care for wounds either. All Logan had to go on was probability. Since he swore many months ago that he wouldn’t ask questions in exchange for Virgil being more comfortable with going to Logan for help, he couldn’t ask any questions either. But now, it seemed as thought Logan was about to get all the questions he stored inside his head answered. Hopefully.

When he turned back toward his friend, Virgil gave a fleeting upright twitch of his lip. Logan followed and gave his own, ignoring his current lengthy thought process. The oldest Brian child opened the door wider to make room for his younger friend on the porch to enter. “What are you doing out there still? Come on, it’s cold.”

With that last remark, Virgil entered Logan’s house and the two ventured to Logan’s room in the back of the house. Virgil would like to have said that his hands were shaking from the cold, but that was certainly not the case. Not one bit.

next part

[trisscar368]

Eldritch Monstrosities

@grey2510 made the mistake of tagging me with a vague request for thoughts on Eldritch Monstrosities right after the episode aired.  I have too many thoughts.  My friends have been putting up with me begging, whining, and pleading for some form of Eldritch monster for months — and not just the Eldritch Bunker, as much as I enjoy that headcanon.

One of the problems that SPN has is reduction of scope.  Everyone likes to comment on this in the form of “demons used to be so scary and now…”  One of the basic tenants of the show is that humans are the real monsters; therefore all monsters are human, on some level or another.  This is great for themes, but there’s a certain point where clinging to that tenant starts to mess with the sense of scope/scale to the universe and the overall tone of the show.

We’ve gotten to the point where even God and his Sister are people, and that’s a problem for a show that relies upon escalation in its Big Bad mytharcs.  You can’t go bigger than the being that created everything and the being that was there before even him.

Unless you go back further.

One of the basic formula for creation myths is “in the beginning there was Chaos; and then there was a division between opposites.”  Light and dark, fire and ice, earth and sky, yin and yang.  Sometimes the gods create the division, and sometimes it’s just there before the gods are.

The Empty is our Chaos.  It’s the answer to the riddle of “what came before eternity?”

Back up, what the heck do you mean when you say Eldritch Monstrosity?

The definition of eldritch is something eerie, weird, spooky, otherworldly; (also “oblong” in certain dictionaries).  There are theories that tie the origin of the word back to the Fae Folk and Faerieland.  Where most people know it from is H.P. Lovecraft, though I am not going to delve into him.

When it’s used in a fictional setting, it’s shorthand for something otherworldly, but more than that it’s something that we can’t properly understand.  It’s beyond the scope of human reality, something so big and so powerful and so far above the world that we can’t even begin to get a hold on it.

I also need to expand my definition a little bit here; because of the genre we’re operating in, creature and being does not just mean humanoid, or tentacle god-thing, or morphic smoke or goo.  It’s also buildings and locations (see The House of Leaves, The Haunting of Hill House, and Demonreach in The Dresden Files for good examples of location and building entities).

For characters, look at beings like Discworld’s Death; Dream and the other Endless from Sandman; Tom Bombadil from The Lord of the Rings; any of Lovecraft’s Elder Gods; or creatures like the Pale Man from Pan’s Labyrinth.  In Supernatural, Death has been our key example for years, and he’s really the best example for scope.

Death: “You have an inflated sense of your own 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.”  

Dean: “How old are you?”  

Death: “As old as God.  Maybe even older, neither of us can remember any more.  Life, death, chicken, egg; regardless, at the end I’ll reap Him too.”

Amara is a similar creature, though we get to see less of her Otherness because of how season 11 is constructed and out of sheer necessity.  It’s fairly easy to anthropomorphize Death (we’ve been doing it for centuries), but a being that’s essence is Nothingness has to be seriously scaled down for human characters to interact with it.  Amara was also trying to understand Creation, which isn’t something Death wanted to do.  Still, there are scenes like human!Amara talking to mirror!Amara that make me jump up and down and point frantically at Sandman and Dream’s gem analogy: that this massive Being’s existence in our realm, what we perceive as Dream (or Amara) in physical form, is basically the light reflecting off of one facet of a jewel.  It’s only part of the whole; only a partial perspective and view of the deeper reality.

And now we have the creature from the Empty, something older than God, or the Darkness.  A location with a personality who really wants to sleep.

Okay but why should I care?

Outside of the fact that the Empty being a creature reintroduces scope to the universe?  There are older things out there than God, Monster, or Man and they’re awake.  This is why I also frequently clamor for the show to re-do the Fae Folk; again, Supernatural has sacrificed scope for theme over the years.  The monsters are all people, so the only way to get real monsters back is to go full on Eldritch.

But that’s not why they’re important.  Eldritch Beings, as far as SPN is concerned, are mirrors.

When we’re talking in terms of writing and storytelling, eldritch creatures reflect the characters and world around them.  If it’s a location, the set is designed, lit, and decorated so that it reflects someone or something; if it’s a character, they mirror themes or arcs.

This is why @floralmotif and I lovingly call two of the recurring sets Eldritch Monstrosities (the Bunker and one particular Diner).  The Bunker has internal illogical inconsistencies, and the diner has showed up at least from s4 to s12; most of the time the sets are identical, but the ways that they are altered/redecorated/relit act as emotional mirrors for the characters present, to an even greater extent than normal sets.  (This kind of mirroring does not happen in the ‘Hell’ set, ever, or Bobby’s house, or any of the other handful of recurring sets we visit).  It’s an extension of how the show naturally uses set design (like the ever-popular beer signs), they just spill over into this category because at some point their use/reuse passed the realm of logic and went full “okay how the hell does this even work in-universe.”

Amara was a mirror for Dean; a being consumed by rage because of loss, fighting to reconcile disparate parts of themself into one cohesive whole, who was searching for emotional completion (in all the wrong places).

Jack fully qualifies as an Eldritch Monstrosity, both in power scope and in how he functions in the story.  He’s the ultimate mirror right now; whenever he’s with a character he ends up reflecting their emotions, and he’s also mirroring a bunch of individual arcs all at once.  His powers and true nature are outside of everyone’s understanding right now; only the fact that he’s limited (and adorable) keeps him from appearing ridiculously terrifying.

And now, again, we have the Empty.  We have a being/location that automatically qualifies as an Eldritch Monstrosity by its nature (the anthropomorphic personification of the Void wants to have a nap), that is reflecting and mirroring the emotions of a character.  Only this time it’s explicit: the Empty is an actual dark pit of despair, beating Cas over the head with his failures and fears and all the reasons he blames himself; telling him to give in to the darkness, to sleep, to stop fighting.  It’s the physical manifestation of his depression.

I don’t know if the Empty will return: I hope it will, in some form or fashion.  I hope there are other things out there in the dark.  I really really hope my other crazy theory is right, and that Amara, Death, Billie, and the Empty are all aspects of the same Dark Being.  But for now, it’s served its purpose.  We’ve gained another layer of scope, which is crucial for a soft reboot like s13 is, and the Anthropomorphic Personification of Cas’ depression tried to beat him into submission and failed.

[frozen-delight]

I really want to like Wayward Sisters...but I think it’s going to suck

When Wayward Sisters was announced as a show about a group of girls becoming “a supreme monster-fighting force”, it made me wary. Because what I’m interested in (and what makes the whole concept unique) are the characters and the relationships between them. I hoped this was just a marketing slogan with little relevance to the actual show, but ever since the latest episode introduced Patience, that hope has dwindled away into nothingness.

It is no coincidence that Jody was created by Jeremy Carver and that Claire, Alex and Donna were introduced during his time as showrunner. From his very first episode, in which we met the amazing Casey, Carver has shown an interest in exploring women as multi-dimensional characters who *gasp* are also allowed to have weaknesses and everyday worries, giving us a wide array of fascinating characters like Amara, Ann-Marie, Tina or Rowena.

Unfortunately, Andrew Dabb proved last season that he has zero interest in that kind of differentiated approach to female characters. Mary was reduced to a bunch of empty stereotypes (Amazing Hunter Mary, Not Like Other Girls, Not Just A Mum) which failed to form a coherent whole - and if her character actually managed to have its engaging moments, that was thanks to Sam Smith alone, who put an incredible amount of effort into bringing the stale writing for her character to life. Toni Bevell was...just no. Fake Umbridge aka Dr. Hess even more so. Poor Kelly Kline was a toy being pushed around by various male characters so that even though she had a lot of screentime, we never got to know her. And Dagon was the type of kickass ninja warrior mysteriously subordinate to a chained-up man that I’d usually associate with Steven Moffat.

This impression solidified when I watched Patience, introducing us to Perfect Psychic Patience - super smart, super great at sports without practise, super popular with the boys, and super awesome in using the psychic powers she never knew she had. Also - super boring. 

As if that were not already bad enough, Dabb showed once again that he’s incapable of imagining relationships outside of the magic word ‘family’. I cringed so hard last season when Claire called Jody her ‘mom’, and I cringed again watching Patience when Jody now also referred to Claire as her ‘daughter’.

Finally, I was also forced to accept that Dabb’s view of the hunting world is strictly binary: Either you’re in, or you’re out. And ‘in’ can only ever mean hunting. Over the course of eleven seasons we’ve delved into a universe where multiple approaches exist to the world of the supernatural, a universe that isn’t split into ‘those who’re in the know aka hunters’ and ‘those who’re unaware of the existence of the supernatural’. 

We met various characters making a living out of their knowledge about monsters, such as Bela, Pamela or Missouri. Being psychic didn’t mean that you were a hunter, though it could mean that you’d help out hunters on occasion. When I pointed out in a debate about Missouri a while back that she made her living telling the people coming to her what they wanted to hear, I was accused of making her out to be Satan, because God forbid anyone ever do anything for money. Andrew Dabb seems to have joined this absurd Tumblr school of morality, so of course Missouri now had to become a hunter forever on the road fighting monsters, always ready to sacrifice herself for the greater good.

What I take issue at isn’t just this simplistic view of characters, but also this simplistic view of the SPN universe as a whole. Psychics weren’t the only characters existing in the transit zone between being a full-time hunter and leading a perfectly normal life. There were sheriffs like Jody or Donna who continued to pursue their jobs while also taking care of monster-problems happening in their vicinity. There were people like Ellen or Dr. Visyak who provided information etc. for hunters while at the same time working at a bar or as a therapist. There were people like Dr. Roberts who were ready to treat a hunter's various injuries without asking too many questions. I could go on.

It is interesting to note that this grey zone was mainly presented as a female space. Andrew Dabb’s decision to turn Jody into a full-time hunter who is connected with everyone in the hunting community and drives all over the country to work cases or to pretend that the only options for Patience’s future are either suppressing her powers in favour of a normal existence or becoming a hunter might have been motivated by the supposedly feminist notion of finally letting all the women kick ass just like their male counterparts. In my opinion, it achieves the opposite though. I always thought there was a remarkable amount of realism in this conception of female characters having to navigate and integrate different spheres and demands. It was something I could identify with. It was something which made these characters’ storylines even more moving. Dabb’s black-and-white view of the universe, however, strikes me as a cheap abstraction which glosses over the complexities of female existence in a heternormative world and remains ultimately boring.