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evqnbuckley · 7 years

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13x02 coda aka what I feel like happened while dean was on his phone and after he left the bar

Dean hadn’t been truly alone since they lost Mom, Crowley, and…

Now he’s in some dive bar, looking at his phone to pass the time and he can’t help but tap on his messages. The last text he got was from Sam asking if he had found Jack. He rolls his eyes at his brother’s attempt to save the kid. He’s the spawn of the devil; he’s bound to cause death and destruction. It’ll be any moment, for now he’s just a ticking bomb set to go off.

He continues to thumb through the rest of his messages when a familiar name pops up: Castiel. Dean’s heart sinks at the name, and his brow furrows in grief as he hesitantly opens the conversation. Castiel was the last one to send a message, saying “I’m sorry, Dean.” He scrolls up to view the previous messages.

Dean at 11:45 p.m.: “Cas, what the hell? You knock me and Sam out and just take off like that?!”

Dean at 11:45 p.m.: “And what the hell was that light show? Cas, you need to come back home so we can make sure Satan Jr. doesn’t have a grip on you.”

Dean at 11:51 p.m.: “I know you think you’re doing the right thing, you always do, but someone’s going to get hurt.”

Dean swallows the thick lump in his throat as he stares at the last five words. So many emotions want to take control, anger, anguish but the need to hear Castiel’s voice overpowers everything. He needs to hear the angel’s rough, deep voice tell him he’s okay, Mom’s okay, and that even Crowley’s okay. Dean needs to look into Castiel’s eyes again and fix his number one regret.

The bartender walks over as she’s cleaning up and pulls Dean out of his thoughts. She mentions Jack and Donatello but he dismisses her comment and pays for his whiskey. He walks passed Baby, without giving her a second glance and continues down the sidewalk. The lack of sleep mixed with the liquor makes Dean extremely exhausted. A loud car horn sudden erupts as car lights shine on him. Dean looks over at the driver flipping him off, and he realizes he walked in front of traffic. He grimaces at the driver before walking across and sitting on a bench.

He pinches the bridge of his nose in exhaustion. The drive isn’t what has him fatigued. The amount of loss they had and having to comprehend it and deal with it…and having to burn Cas’ body. Dean places his elbows on his knees as he buries his face in his hands. Dean feels the bench move underneath him, and he groans under his breath – not wanting to deal with a civilian right now.

“Hello, Dean.” A rough, deep familiar voice that Dean knows all too well says next to him.

Dean’s heart stops, as he freezes in place. He slowly sits up, wiping the silent tears off his face, facing Castiel. “Cas? H-how? I-we gave you a hunter’s funeral.”

“Dean, I’m okay.” He offers a soft smile before saying, “And you will be too.”

“What does that mean? Are you back?” He asks with urgency.

“Dude, are you alright?” Castiel suddenly turns into a man dressed like some hipster looking bewildered.

Dean shakes his head trying to get his grip on reality. “Uh, not really.” He answers before walking away.

He fishes for his phone and taps on Castiel’s name, hoping the angel will answer, hoping he wasn’t hallucinating. It goes straight to voicemail.

“This is my voicemail. Make your voice, a mail.” Dean’s eyes close tight with pain at the sound of Castiel’s actual voice.

Dean wanders back to the Impala as he continues to call Castiel’s voicemail. Once inside, he calls twice before trying to leave a message.

“Hey, it’s-it’s me. I just wanted to tell you something that I’ve never had the courage to say. But the kicker is you’ll never get to hear this message. So I’m still a coward. I once called you a coward for not fighting against Heaven. And you rebelled against everything you believed in…for me.” He swallowed, gathering his thoughts. “Losing you so many times, Cas…it was hard but each time you came back. You always came back. Not this time. This time I know it’s final, and I don’t think I can cope. Man, I’m barely holding it together when I’m around Sam. I don’t think I can live without you. I-I love you, Cas. I loved you, and you left me.” There’s a loud beep, indicating the allotted time for the message has been reached.

Dean pulls the phone away and looks at it as if it just ripped his heart out. Suddenly, he receives a text from Sam, “Found Jack.” He steels his composure as he ignites the engine to head back to the motel.

#13x02 coda #spn coda #princesscas #destieldrabblesdaily #look at me trying to write again #my writing

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profound-boning · 7 years

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Last Kiss

13.02 coda, destiel, 669 words | dwlts

Dean opens his eyes into the darkness of his bedroom. The digital clock on his bedside table reads 1:58 AM in blinking lights. He doesn’t wonder about what woke him though, he knows.

Castiel is curled against his back, a wall of warmth from his nape to his calves. Dean can feel the rush of air at the knob of his spine, long fingers resting still against his naked hip, the press of knees against his legs felt through layers of cotton.

He tries not to change his breathing but not a minute later, he hears Cas’s gruff voice.

“Dean?”

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says. “Go back to sleep.”

“Mmh.” Cas grunts and squeezes Dean’s hip. “Was just dozing. Why are you up?”

“Dunno. Probably wanted to spoon or something.”

“Or something.” He feels Cas’s smile press against his shoulder, followed by a kiss.

He leans back and into the touch, into the soft and sturdy of Cas’s torso. He’s never felt safety like this before, never felt so utterly at peace just from proximity to a bedmate. Another person, yes, because Sam’s snores have been Dean’s lullaby for years. Sometimes it was the only thing keeping him going, back when they lived in an endless string of motels, when they rarely saw their dad, when Baby was the only home they had. Now, they have the Bunker. Sam is safe in his own room. They are grown, much older than Dean ever thought they could be, and they are happy.

Dean has Cas and he is happy.

He rolls over to face him, the fallen angel in his bed. The dimly lit room casts everything in shadow, highlighting his forehead and cheekbones and the blue of his eyes still shines like there might be Grace inside. With his arms curled up between them, he brushes one hand down Cas’s chest, feels the thumping heart beneath his ribs and his t shirt. Cas’s left arm is curled under his head but his right hand dances across Dean’s skin.

“Beloved,” Cas whispers, and Dean smiles. He presses his mouth to Cas’s in a tender kiss.

Their first kiss was not quite so relaxed. Arguing about a case and self-sacrificing bullshit when Cas grabbed him by the shoulders and planted one on him. A welcome interruption, and one that they repeated many times over the years. Sometimes it helped settle an argument or quiet an angry voice. Other times it just meant I need you.

Dean’s never enjoyed kissing so much before. It used to just be foreplay and now it can be the main event; it can be a whole conversation.

“I love you,” Cas whispers into the warm air between them. Dean knows it and cherishes it and kisses him again and again and—

Dean opens his eyes into the darkness of his bedroom. The digital clock on his bedside table reads 1:58 AM in blinking lights. He doesn’t wonder about what woke him though, he knows.

He’s curled up on his side, utterly alone and strangely cold.

Sam is down the hall, hopefully asleep, and Jack is doing whatever the hell Nephilim do. Dean’s at home in the Bunker but not in his bed. Not anymore.

“Cas,” he whispers into the silence. His heart, numb and cold in his chest, still stutters when there’s no response. He’ll never hear that once familiar response again, no matter how often he repeats Cas’s name.

He’d always thought they’d have more time. Once the Darkness was gone, once Lucifer was gone, maybe, maybe, maybe…

And now it’s too late. He’d put it off for too long and he’d never said it back.

Their last embrace is weeks past, their last conversation mere days ago, and now he’ll never know what could have been. From now until God only knows when, all he has is the memory of their last kiss.

Dean closes his eyes against the stillness and the dark of the room and he breaks a little more.

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aetherealcas-blog · 7 years

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Gone

You lie awake,

Alone in a room full of

Memories.

Sleep should have come by now,

But slumber evades you

Like clever prey does a hunter.

The sheets are

Cold

Beneath your touch.

This is the first time that

This bed has held one

Instead of two.

There's a toxin

Forcing itself into your lungs,

A growing storm outside.

Gasps shallow,

Gale howls,

You are unable to breathe.

For the one you love is

Gone.

The daytime is no better.

Your insides are turning

Outwards,

Nothing is as it

Seems

Anymore.

That storm still rages

Begging to be set free.

You are trapped

Here

With tensions boiling over

And hope a desolate tundra.

The boy, Jack,

He keeps asking about his

Father.

You cannot bear the

Thought of talking about

Him.

For the one you love is

Gone.

So you sneak out,

Nighttime air heals

Open wounds.

But this wound will not

Heal.

So long as he’s not here.

The wind

Overpowers your storm

And you have to

Let it go.

That all consuming anger

That has been consuming you.

You know that

Tears do not solve a

Problem like this.

But there is no stopping

Them from

Falling.

For the one you love is

Gone.

You should not be here,

Crying in the rain.

Because the Winchesters

Always have bigger

Problems than this,

Don't they?

But nothing is bigger than

This.

Not Cas.

Because you

Loved him,

Didn't you?

You never got to tell him

That.

You never got to tell him

That

You still love him,

With every fibre of your being.

There is

Nothing

That can be done.

For Castiel, the one you

Love?

He is

Gone.

#destiel #destiel poem #destiel fic #destiel angst #13x02 coda #dean winchester #castiel #grieving!dean #hurt!dean #spn #supernatural #I'm really sorry for this #honestly #I'm gonna go cry in a hole now bye #my fic #Imo writes

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pantheonofdiscord · 7 years

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The Long Game - 13x02 coda, ~800 words, angst

The beer’s almost empty, which is annoying.

The bottle dangles in one hand, the knife in the other, and Dean stalks down the hall, heading back to the kitchen. He should tell Sam, let him know the stupid kid’s gone all stab-happy-Bukowski. Then Sam can rush in with his Dr Phil crap and smother the kid in stupid platitudes about rock bottom and getting through it. The two of them will probably have a good cry, listen to some fucking Enya, then start moving on, in all the ways that Dean can’t.

There’s nothing to move on to. Dean’s future is lost in gritty, greasy, black smoke.

Dean stops, braces a hand on the cold, stone wall, and chugs the last of the bottle. Screw telling Sam. He’ll figure it out. Kid wears his damn heart on his sleeve, like an idiot.

He’ll learn.

The beer’s gone now, and Dean’s already had four, but they’re not really doing anything. Big surprise. He’ll have to make a detour to his stash in the library on his way to his room.

Mercifully, there’s an unopened bottle on the little table in the corner. It’s cheap-ass whiskey, and it’s probably not gonna do much either, but it’s what he’s got. He grabs the bottle by the neck and turns to go, but the corner of the table catches his eye.

Two sets of initials, carved with a pocketknife, only a few weeks ago. Feels like a decade.

The bottle thunks down on the table and Dean pulls back a chair. He collapses, slumps back, and then realizes he’s still holding the knife.

There’s a lot of things he could do with the knife. But he’s a coward – always has been – so he drops it on the table and starts sucking down the whiskey.

Gotta give Jack props on that score. He at least tried – just went for it.

Given the option though, Dean will always choose the slow suicide.

He swallows, swig after swig, 40-proof burning the back of his throat like the acrid smoke of the pyre.

He’d wanted to fling himself onto it. How fitting it would’ve been, to end their story the way it had begun: one of them diving headfirst into fire, searching for the other.

But he hadn’t moved, couldn’t summon the energy. And before he knew it Sam was there, using the same tone he always used with grieving widows, the bastard.

It’s been a half hour and the bottle’s half-empty. He tries to focus back in on the table, but his vision’s a little blurry. He can’t decide if it’s his head or his eyes that are swimming.

Probably both. Score one for the slow suicide.

Dean’s always played it slow, though. Always assumed there’d be time.

Time to talk, work it all out together. Time to finally spit out the words, instead of making a dumbass mixtape and hoping Cas has a decoder ring for Dean’s cryptic fucking feelings. Time for Cas to carve his own initial into the table next to Dean’s.

The knife’s in his hand in he next instant, the point digging into the wood. It’s too large, unwieldy, and it’s still covered in Jack’s drying blood.

Dean only gets halfway through a squarish-looking ‘C’ before it slips, slicing into the meat of his palm.

“Fuck.” His hand flies to his mouth and he sucks on the cut. But it’s not too deep, and the booze is dulling the pain, so he just leans across the table and yanks a few tissues from the box. He crumples them in his fist, squeezing tight, then looks up at the library’s high ceiling.

“You can’t hear me. I know you can’t. ‘M not trying to pretend.” Dean’s keeping his voice low, but in this space, it still sounds too loud. “‘Kay, maybe I am.”

He takes another pull from the bottle, then picks the knife back up to keep carving.

“But I prayed to God, to Chuck, and that was stupid. When has he ever actually answered one of our goddamn prayers? I shoulda prayed to you. You always hear me.”

The ‘C’ is finished now. Dean didn’t do a good job; the lines are jagged and rough. He probably should’ve waited until he was sober.

“I need you to come home. I can’t do this. I’m trying, and I can’t. I just – I can’t. So come back to me.”

The knife drops from his hand again, clattering against the table. He’d gotten halfway through the ‘W’ without even realizing what he was doing.

He stands abruptly and reaches for the bottle, but it’s empty now. Maybe this suicide’s not that slow after all.

#13x02 #13x02 coda #destiel #spn spoilers #13x02 spoilers #angst #tw for suicide #panfic #hufflepuffdean #ozonecologne #convallariini

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cafedestiel · 7 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Supernatural Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester Characters: Dean Winchester, Castiel (Supernatural) Additional Tags: Tattoos, Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode Related, biblical Summary:

Dean wants to keep Cas close.

#destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #spn s13 #13x02 coda #queued

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bedtimeisthebesttime · 4 years

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Season 13 Coda

“Castiel, what was he like?”Jack asks, always curious.

Dean wasn’t prepared for that question, and certainly wasn’t prepared for the tide of grief it brings. It rises and settles at just below the nose- just short of drowning.

Sam somehow knows this, because he’s the one who answers.

“He was kind,” Sam says solemnly, the thickness of his voice serving as a visceral reminder that Dean isn’t the only one here who’s grieving. “Too kind for his own good,” he continues.

And hell if Dean hasn’t had that exact thought before. Cas’s compassion was blinding and fierce and was always going to be the death of him. Some small part of Dean, the part that isn’t furious with Cas for being so reckless, can’t help but be proud of him for that.

“You’d have loved him, Jack.” Sam says. “You remind me of him, actually, sometimes.” It hurts to hear Sam say that, mostly because Dean knows exactly what he means.

“Dean?” Jack prompts. “You knew him well, what was he like?”

Dean wouldn’t know where to start with that question on the best of days, but it floors him now. Cas was too many things all at once; each of them contradicting and complimenting each other in equal measure. Cas was intense- he favoured action and honesty over delicacy and tact. But Dean knew him well enough to know that he could be gentle too. He was old, old enough that Dean must have seemed like an insect to him. He would see glimpses of it, sometimes, when Cas talked about humanity. It was as though there was a perceptible shift where he would look at you with different eyes- see something you couldn’t. But other times, he’d be just like a child; naive and innocent, looking at Dean like he knows everything. He often seemed untouchable. Dean could sometimes forget that he was looking at a vessel; that Cas was a thousand feet of searing, celestial light condensed down and tucked into a human body. And yet, when Dean reached for him, Cas molded to his touch, completely malleable; all that blazing heat carefully crafted down into a gentle warmth, just so Dean could touch. There was a huge sense of duality in Cas; a constant conflict between the hardened angel and his bleeding heart. Not quite angel, not quite human- some remarkable mix of the two.

“Well, it’s like Sam says,” he answers Jack.

“He was a lot like you.”

#13x01 #spn 13x01 #destiel #deancas #dean winchester #castiel #jack kline #sam winchester #spn coda #13x02 #spn 13x02 #spn 13x03 #spn 13x04 #spn 13x05

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whichstiel · 7 years

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Fandom: Supernatural Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester Characters: Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Jack Kline Additional Tags: Dreams, Longing, Pining, Angst with a Happy Ending, spn 13x02, episode coda, Season/Series 13, Episode: s13e02 The Rising Son Series: Part 3 of Season 13 Codas

On my bed at night I sought him

whom my soul loves-

I sought him but I did not find him.

The spice shop was redolent with the scent of sweet clove, warm apple cider, and the tangy fog of dried leaves. It smelled heavenly - the kind of place that brought on fantasies of yellow curries and sweetly spiced apple pie cooling on countertops. It was also haunted. Dean gripped the shotgun a little tighter, shaking himself back to full awareness. According to the owner, the shop was sabotaged nightly. She arrived every morning to broken jars throughout the store and ectoplasm streaked across the picture window like tears, like someone pressed their face against it nightly and wept. Until a customer had been injured “and blabbed to the press” - she’d told them, lips pursed - she’d simply endured the attacks.

So far, with Dean, Sam, and Jack prowling the store, everything was quiet. Calm. Sam and Jack were checking in the back, trying to find any remnant or evidence of a false wall or floorboard that might be harboring remains. Dean ran his tongue over his teeth and winced at the fuzz. He’d insisted on heading straight into the hunt as soon as they’d made contact with the owner earlier in the day. Maybe afterwards he could find a truck stop with showers and a little privacy, and take a little time to feel human again. Dean and Jack could sleep in the car the rest of the night and they could press onward to investigate some possible ghoul activity the next state over. He picked up a glass jar labeled “Grains of Paradise” and rattled it. The contents jangled pleasingly and he smiled a little at it and shifted the shotgun to the crook of his arm so he could untwist the cap and take a quick sniff. Of course, that’s when it struck.

Glass shattered around him as Dean went down in between the shelves. He immediately rolled to his back and caught a glimpse of a specter darting away through the shelves. “Sam!” he yelled, scrambling to his feet. The shelves of the shop were low, barely five feet, and Dean raised his shotgun and fired one clean shot at the ghost making its way through the store. The ghost flung out its hands with a wail and disappeared in a flash of white.

Sam stumbled in from the back, Jack close on his heels. “Dean?” Sam said, looking around wildly. “Where?”

Dean shook his head grimly. “Headed for that wall,” he said, loading another bullet into the chamber. Together they stalked the shelves towards a kitschy collection of knick knacks nailed to the far wall. The entire back end of the shop was plastered in tacked on mid-century tinwork and dusty black frames. Dean scanned it rapidly before zeroing in on the culprit. “Yahtzee,” he said grimly, pointing at a photo mounted above a faded Coca-Cola sign. Hanging on the wall was a photo of a young man, mouth drawn into a sly half smile. A lock of hair was tied with a delicate piece of embroidery floss and plastered between the photo and the glass. Dean reached for the picture frame.

The ghost howled again with all the rage of a hurricane and Dean watched Sam and Jack get hurtled across the room, smashing rotund glass jars and decorative crystal work as they went. Dean grabbed for the photo, dropping his shotgun so he could use both hands to pry up the photo from the wall while the ghost was occupied with Sam and Jack. Sam hit the wall hard, and fell with a sharp thud onto the floor. He lay crumpled, still, and Dean grimaced. Jack had promised not to use his powers. Even so, he stood between Sam and the ghost. Although his eyes didn’t glow, his face was drawn in a grim expression akin to hate. He held Sam’s shotgun in his hands. Blam . The ghost disappeared.

Dean pressed his boot into the wall and tightened his grip on the frame, working it off the solid pegs spearing it to the wall. The frame burst free just as the ghost attacked again and the picture flew out of his hands and crashed to the floor below. The ghost tossed him towards the ceiling before he could protect himself and hot, white sparks jumped into his vision. Dean soon found himself tossed right on top of it by the ghost’s angry push and he shuffled his bloody hands around him until his fingers met the dusty thick paper. He slid it out and fumbled for the lock of hair, then fished a shell from his pocket. He broke open the shell and scattered salt before him so that it bounced out like hail across the tiled floor. Then he pulled out his lighter, squinted up at the inhuman face rushing towards him, and lit the remnants on fire. The ghost burned through one last scream and then the shop fell quiet.

Dean groaned and let his forehead fall to the floor where it crunched against glass. “Sam?” he called.

“He’s okay,” Jack said from across the store. “He’ll be fine.”

“‘Kay.” Dean closed his eyes for a moment - just a moment - and inhaled slowly to chase the sparks from his head. Even with his face pressed to tile, the shop’s sweet perfume permeated his senses. The floor smelled like spice and dust, heated by his breath. He wondered in his addled haze if this was what Castiel had described to him, long ago.

When Castiel had wings he used to travel for unusual ingredients in the blink of an eye or the space of an hour. He’d spoken of a market once, sweet with the scent of fresh fruit and the dust kicked up by people perusing the open air stalls. The town had smelled like mountain - minerals and pine - but once he was in the market the only thing he noticed was the thick cloud of harmonious spices. He’d spoken of this phenomenon with a crooked half smile, his eyes alight as though the concept of an edible symphony were entirely new to him.

Blood tinged spit pooled on Dean’s lower lip brought him back to the shop. He spat, then pushed himself up. Dean grabbed his shotgun and went to check on Sam. And Jack.

His and Sam’s head injuries meant that they were stuck with a hotel room. They limped their way to a nearby motel and after short, cursory showers, collapsed for the night.

Once the lights were out, pain pulled at Dean’s temple and he leaned against his bed with a groan. Jack and Sam had passed out fairly quickly. Jack, as it turned out, snored loudly and his chainsaw rattle filled the corner by the couch. Sam lay insensible under a pile of blankets, dead to Jack’s unwitting symphony. Dean reached for the bottle by the bed and took a long swig before dropping the condensation-wet glass to his pant leg. Another hunt down. Another day gone. Dean drank, and willed his mind to emptiness.

When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed. He was walking in a bazaar fringed by deep green pines and gray-blue mountains. The stalls were brightly painted with cloth-clad canopies flapping in the stiff alpine breeze. Dean looked around. It was a small village, as far as he could tell. Just a collection of sparse cabins and temporary stalls lining a wide dirt path that cut through it all. Still, the market was thick with people. They milled from stall to stall, their conversational haggling capped at a muffled buzz. Many of them wore furs or brightly cut clothing dusted white at the hems. Something white caught Dean’s eye.

A crisp white shirt and wide shoulders wove through the crowd and was eclipsed a moment later by a raucous man carrying a basket of melons on his head. “Cas?” Dean croaked. A white-clad arm appeared and then the tousle-haired man crossed the market to a stall on the other side, where he disappeared yet again. Dean pushed his way around a gaggle of men crowded around a dice game and shoved his way past two women with swords strapped high on their shoulders.

Just ahead of him Castiel’s hand slipped over sunny squashes lined up in a neat row. His fingers brushed along petals from a stand of cut flowers and then he disappeared again, this time behind a crowd of school children portaging wooden boxes over their heads.

Dean ran towards the stall where he’d last seen Castiel and an old man popped out from behind the flowers. He pushed a small glass cup under Dean’s nose, brown eyes steely. “Drink,” he ordered. Dean bit his lip and craned his head around. He’d lost Castiel again.

Irritably, Dean snatched the cup and drank it down quickly, like taking a shot. The liquid lingered on his lips, sweet but bitter, and his tongue darted out to taste it even after he’d shoved the cup back at the old man and pushed past him. Pomegranate juice, he thought. A drop of it clung jewel-bright on his lip and he caught sight of Castiel again. This time he stood across the bazaar, his nose buried in an uncapped basket, a look of bliss painting his face rosy.

“Cas!” Dean called out again. This time, a woman blocked his way. She thrust a crystal vial at him. An ornate golden air pump capped the top of it and he looked at the perfume bottle, puzzled. “What’s this for?”

“So you can keep his name,” she said.

He bit his lip again. Castiel was already moving on. Dean nodded curtly and snatched the bottle from her, sweeping around her side. She grabbed him swiftly, fingers cutting into the crook of his arm like talons.

“Don’t lose him this time,” she hissed.

See! He is standing behind our wall,

gazing through the windows,

peering through the lattices.

Castiel stood at the window as lightning illuminated his rain drenched face. He looked hangdog, worn down. It was the sweetest sight Dean had ever seen. Dean sprang up out of bed and ran to the motel window, pressing his hands against the glass. Slowly, his expression unchanging, Castiel faded away into the black night beyond.

In his sleep, Dean twitched then turned over.

The orchard filled the sky overhead. Sweeping bows of apple-heavy branches blotted out the egg-blue sky, casting the ground beneath the trees in soft gray shadow. Dean held a gun in his hand. The old god was behind one of these trees. Gun oil cut into the sweet apple-scented air and the stench of woodsmoke clung to Dean’s clothing. His lip curled.

Then the gun disappeared and his hand closed on air. Something wet touched his palm and he peered at it. A single golden drop of honey, bright as the sun, glimmered on the end of one fingertip. Dean stared at it dumbly for several seconds and then carefully he extended the finger all the way and closed the rest of his fingers into his palm. He paced carefully through the ankle-tangling grass, balancing the bead of honey as he went.

His dark head bowed, Castiel sat under an apple tree, legs folded beneath him. He looked up when Dean approached and grinned so widely that Dean nearly stumbled with rib-splitting relief. Bees circled Castiel like electrons around a nucleus. “Do you have it?” he asked, voice soft and rough and perfect.

Dean held out his finger and bent his knees, so that his hand drew level with Castiel. Castiel’s mouth dropped open and he leaned forward to meet Dean, then closed his lips around Dean’s first knuckle. His tongue cradled the underside of Dean’s finger as he sucked the honey from his hand. When he finished, Castiel’s tongue pushed against his skin and he pulled back with a sound almost like a kiss.

“It’s not enough,” he whispered. His face fell into sorrowful lines and Dean hung his head in despair.

Dean woke up with a pounding headache. He padded into the bunker kitchen, flicked on the lights, and barreled straight for the refrigerator. Beer populated a third of the fridge and he shot out his hand to grab one, changed his mind and shifted his hand to the handle of a six pack, before he dropped his hand again. A loose bag of apples sat on the bottom shelf. Dean hesitated, then reached for one of the red globes. He pulled it out and cradled it to him, curling his palm inwards as though protecting the apple with his wrist. He grabbed the six pack then, and retreated back to his room.

The watchmen found me,

as they made their rounds in the city;

They beat me, they wounded me,

they tore off my mantle,

the watchmen of the walls.

The angels accosted them at a gas station in one of the lonelier stretches of Nevada highway. Dean had already dispatched one. Off by the store, Sam fought off two others, whirling like a sand storm, his hand a blur of flesh and steel. An angel tackled Jack and angled her blade towards him with a pleased grin. Although Dean knew the blade would do nothing he stabbed his own blade through the angel who had tried to pin him against the Impala, then rolled towards Jack. He lunged for the angel blade, knocked away the attacking angel’s hand and used his momentum to drag the angel off to the side to fight him instead.

This close, the angel’s breath fell hot across his face and Dean ground his teeth and tightened his sweat-slick fingers around the hilt. He levered his arm to thrust the blade into the angel’s side when the woman reached out and caught at it. She grinned at him, blood dripping from a slash on her cheek onto Dean’s lips. He spat, then grinned back and knocked the blade a fraction of an inch, dislodging her sure grasp. The blade drove into her, and she dissolved into light.

Later, the bar near the hotel served them shots - Sam’s treat. Dean lifted the glass to his cut lip and let the liquid splash inside. He winced. Pomegranate. “It’s not enough,” he growled, and lifted his fingers to signal for more.

Set me as a seal upon your heart,

as a seal upon your arm;

For Love is strong as Death,

longing is fierce as Sheol.

Its arrows are arrows of fire,

flames of the divine.

Castiel was back. One minute he was dead and the next - he was back. Dean leaned his hip against the map table, arms crossed in a faux casual repose, and struggled to lift the numb fog from his brain. Sam and Castiel stood over the library table, a great sheet spread across it. Castiel was scribbling Enochian glyphs over it, Sam nodding over his work with a pleased expression on his face. Jack lingered in the background, his eyes still saucer wide and fixed upon Castiel.

It was almost like he’d never left.

Sam and Castiel worked together, a seamless team, hashing out a new defense strategy to protect Jack from the constant depredations of angels and demons. Dean’s mind swam with the effort of reconciling this image. This.

It was only the sight of Castiel, weaving away from him through the pillars and past the shelves that hot fire jolted through Dean. He was struck with the sudden conviction that if he lost sight of Castiel now he would wake up in sweat-soaked bedclothes, alone. “Cas,” he burst out and Castiel stopped and turned, instantly. His head cocked to one side, brow furrowed.

“Dean?”

“Can we talk? For just a second.” Dean’s heart pounded heavily as though he stood atop a twelve thousand foot mountain peak and he could feel his lungs struggle for air. Tantalizingly, he thought for just a moment that he could smell a whiff of pine on the air. He cleared his throat and gestured towards the kitchen.

“Of course.” Castiel dipped his head to Sam and Jack and followed Dean down the hallway to the small kitchen.

Dean swung open the refrigerator door and pulled out two beers, tilting the butt of one bottle towards Castiel. “Beer?”

Castiel took it silently and flipped the cap off with his thumb as though flicking off a speck of dust. He settled on the bench and set the bottle on the table before leaning forward. “Dean,” he asked in a grave, puzzled tone. “What’s going on?”

Dean slipped off his own bottlecap and took a long swig. “Needed a break,” he said with a gasp between gulps. He set the bottle down, lining it up across from Castiel’s. He drummed his knuckles on the tabletop. “Seriously, man. How are you holdin’ up? Resurrection’s a tricky business and--”

Castiel held up his hand, a gentle smile fixed on his cheek and his eyes stern and calm. “I fought my own way out of The Empty, Dean,” he said. “I assure you, nothing followed me. I made no deals. We’re safe.” He folded his hands on the table and glanced down at Dean’s tension-white knuckles. “I’m safe.”

Dean blew out a breath. “Yeah. Yeah. Of course.”

Castiel leaned forward. “Dean. Are you alright? You look…” He lifted a hand and gestured towards Dean’s face and the night black circles that had taken up permanent residence under Dean’s eyes.

Dean took another long drink of his beer before he said, to the wall, “I dreamed about you while you were...gone.”

Castiel’s voice was soft when he said, “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” Dean tried to grin, and turn the reply into something light, but his mouth refused and his voice broke. “I missed you,” he whispered to the stack of napkins against the wall.

Fingers brushed his jaw and nudged his chin to the side until his eyes met Castiel’s. “I missed you, too,” Castiel said. “More than you might ever know.”

Dean sat frozen for a moment, Castiel’s warm fingertips pressed spots of sunshine into his jaw. Then he lifted his hand and wrapped his own fingers around Castiel’s palm. He dipped his head so that his nose grazed along Castiel’s knuckles. His skin smelled like rich black loam overlaid with something floral, like sweet honeysuckle. The kitchen was utterly silent, Sam and Jack’s voices only dull echoes through the bunker’s thick walls.

Castiel’s fingers wrapped around Dean’s hand, fingertips pressing against Dean’s skin and brushing the top of his lip in tiny, almost imperceptible brushstrokes. It was only a fraction of an inch to move and, bolstered by the quiet bubble of unreality he’d been engulfed in most of the day, Dean raised his chin just a little more. His lips caught at Castiel’s first knuckle and he pressed them there, flicking his eyes up to catch Castiel’s expression.

Castiel watched him with widened eyes, a rose flush skimming his cheeks. “Dean,” he mouthed, barely loud enough to qualify as a whisper. Castiel watched him, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he seemed to press the lines of his finger further into the cushion of Dean’s lips and Dean returned the pressure.

They stared across the table at one another.

When Dean finally pulled his head back, Castiel’s hand remained in his. Dean quirked a smile at him and lifted one shoulder in a fraction of a shrug. “I missed you,” he said again.

When Castiel grinned, it was like the sun coming out. “I’m beginning to understand that,” he said and leaned all the way across the table, so their lips could meet at last.

Tell me what you think on AO3!

#spn 13x02 #song of solomon #destiel #deancas #episode coda #the rising son

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fandomspower · 7 years

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I dream of you

I wonder if it happens to Dean sometimes. In the middle if the night, when at 2am, he suddenly wakes up. The good, pleasant and familiar dreams -images and memories of all he has loved- already starting to fade as his eyes open.

During these nights, he usually dreams about those he has lost, but the memories haunting him were only the happiest ones, the ones he knew would never experience again, and that's the thing that probably hurt the most.

He dreamed of his Dad (the first time John had let him drive the Impala, his father's nod of approval that had made Dean, for once, believe that he was good at something after all), Charlie (the one time, before the bunker's doors, when Charlie said she loved him, and the utter joy in his chest when he knew he still had people to care for), Kevin (when he hugged him tight, that day on the boat after his discoveries on the demon tablet, how damn proud he had felt), sometimes of Sam (the way he had smiled during that Christmas, when he gave Sam the precious Samulet), his Mom (her pies and forehead kisses, her lullabies and whispered words of love when he was a kid), and Castiel- now Castiel was one of them.

He dreamed of bees and soft smiles, deep blue eyes. Of Cas' hand on his shoulder, every time he put him back together, healed him, cured him, loved him. He dreamed of innocence and clueless gestures, upside down FBI badges, "how important is lipstick to you, Dean?". Of promises, faith, and trust.

That, was of course, before other thoughts came.

The bright, pure, energy surging from Cas' vessel as the angel blade hit him. His own scream of panic and utter despair. The wings spread out on the dusty ground. Castiel's eyes closed, body motionless, dead.

Then came fire. Its heat burning Dean's face as Cas turned into ashes in front of him. The cold and heavy corpse he held in his arms. The hole he felt in his heart and soul, because Cas was forever gone.

I wonder if, when he wakes up, he stares at the ceiling for a few minutes, barely breathing, focusing on these happy memories, to try and convince himself... "this is not real, right? He's not- he can't be." And he tries to calm down, to go back to sleep and dream again because at least Castiel is still alive in them.

Except he can't. And he lies there, not moving, afraid that if he'll take a step he'll just fall apart and never come back up again. He thinks of all that stayed unspoken, he thinks of "I'm sorrys" and "I wish I had had more time" and "I love yous" that won't ever be heard.

#Supernatural #Supernatural Family #dean winchester #Castiel #season 13 #destiel #13x02 #coda #kind of #paiiiin

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fallenandthefaithless · 7 years

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13x02 Coda Fic (One hectic work week over and here it is... finally)

The short walk to his room seemed to take no time at all. The quick strides he took to get away from J-it brought him to his bedroom door faster than he would have liked and left Dean standing there, staring at it blankly. It seemed to mock him, concealing the dark, empty room beyond it. The only thing that felt solid anymore was the bottle in his hand, the walls themselves seemed to be shifting, threatening to move in and crush him. For the first time since they’d moved in Dean felt as if the bunker was suffocating him.

He couldn’t return to the kitchen – there was a good chance that Sam would still be there – and he couldn’t go to the library. It was still a mess, their quick clean only days ago had barely scratched the surface. Every room was tainted, every empty space screaming at him.

The messed-up library quickly brought other thoughts to the surface and despite how Dean tried to fight them off he couldn’t help but remember the last time the library had needed cleaning. The stench of petrol and the pile of damaged books now mixed with the blood that was currently still staining the floor. He could almost feel the blood under his nails again.

He quickly pushed his bedroom door open and slammed it shut behind him, leaning against it for a moment before he realised he was standing in his pitch-dark room. He reached out slowly with his free hand and flicked the light on and stared around him. His duffle bag had been dumped at the foot of his bed, the dirty clothes in it spilling out from where he’d rummaged in it before. Nothing else in the room had changed, nothing else showed the slightest hint that the world had been forever altered, that his world had been altered. The gaping holes were less obvious in here, those holes had never really been filled in here anyway but now they felt mocking, teasing him with the possibilities of what could have filled them. All these empty spaces could have been filled, the gaps in his life fleshed out.

His grip loosens on the bottle as something tightens in his chest. The tears his been fighting for days are building and he doesn’t think he has the strength to fight them much longer. He puts the bottle down on the desk, next to the mixtape that he had pulled from his pocket. He can’t look at it for long, can’t even think about it.

His bed welcomes him as always when he collapses on it, fully dressed. His throat feels clogged and his eyes burn. The room around him doesn’t look that different to how it was a week ago. It feels different though. The whole bunker does. Larger and colder, the once welcoming hallways now feel empty and distant. There is no noise, no friendly chatter or Netflix playing down the hall.

There’s no gentle knock upon his door and a voice full of thunder softly breaking the silence.

There’s no home to be found in these walls anymore.

Ao3

#destielfanficnet #spn 13x02 #coda fic #spn 13x02 coda fic #destiel fic #ish #my writing

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wheniwrite28 · 7 years

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Cartoons and Knifes- 13.02 coda

He is sleeping in Cas's place, the same way. Dean doesn't know how not to stop and take rest. He needs to finish this journey as soon as possible. He needs to be alone, to not be around people, before the pain is too much to handle, too much to remain numb.

***

Sam asked him to take a break or he can drive. He needs control right now, he can't let baby also go. So he stops and they rent a room. Jack is watching cartoons with the same endearing expression that Cas had. He can't look at him, he just can't. He doesn't need this right now. He doesn't need reminders of Cas in front of him. It hurts too much.

Instead he chooses to combact hurt with hurt and makes Jack leave the room. They are eating later and Jack is mimicking Dean and he thinks that Dean would tether him to humanity but he can't, he has lost his soul along side Cas. He can't tether himself, how can he tether something else.

***

It is later, he is drinking, or at least a drink. He can't drink. It tastes like nothing, everything tastes the same, of sustenance and nothing. A big ol' nothing. Sam talks about rock bottom and how they come back. Dean doesn't say anything, internally he is shouting, "Sam this isn't the same. I don't feel the same. I can't come back, I don't even if I want to. Bounce back or anything."

But silence is the best answer, yes Sam has also people he loved but he has not lost the one he loved, one he longed for nine freaking years. He hasn't. So, Sam should shut up about loss, unless he wants to talk about Jess.

***

They save one more crises or something. They are back at the bunker. Dean is going towards his room and some more miserable night and nightmares when he hears Jack in the washroom. He is stabbing himself. Stabbing and healing. His tshirt looks like a mess and he sees the inocent hurt, he saw Cas what he was before Leviathans took over.

He tells he will kill Jack if he turned towards the dark side. He ha son forgiveness left, he doesn't believe that good things happen. He doesn't believe in one thing. Nothing, zilch, nada.

It should hurt less now, but he feels the same hurt, just a different day.

#13.02 coda #spn 13.02 coda #spn 13.02 #spn 13x02 #spn 13x02 coda #destiel #destiel ficlet #deancas ficlet #deanxcas ficlet #deanxcas #deancas

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fangirlingtodeath513 · 7 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Supernatural Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester Characters: Castiel, Dean Winchester, Jack Kline, Sam Winchester, Missouri Moseley, Asmodeus (Supernatural) Additional Tags: mentions of Castiel's death, mentions of dean grieving, grieving!dean, brief very vague mentions of jack's self-harm Series: Part 2 of Season 13 Codas Summary:

Reluctantly, Dean agrees to leave Castiel’s truck at the house in North Cove. Splitting up would only put them in more danger from whoever’s going to inevitably be hunting Jack, so he leaves the keys in the truck but keeps the tape safely tucked in his pocket. They climb into the Impala, the elder Winchester with a wary eye on Jack, and pull onto the road just as the sun begins to rise. Jack falls asleep a few hours into their drive, his breathing evening out just as they pass over the Oregon border. Sam, to his credit, doesn’t bring up the events of the past few days. Dean doesn’t really want to talk about it and, if he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t know if he can talk about it. He does know he definitely shouldn’t talk about it while they’re driving.

#supernatural #13x02 #my coda #coda fic #destiel fanfic #grieving!dean

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quillquiver · 7 years

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After the 13x02 sneak peek. Inspired by one of the amazing 13x01 codas I read, but I can’t remember which one!

"Okay. Alright. Would you stop?!”

Jack is, once again, confused. Big fucking surprise.

“I... don’t understand,” he says, squinting. Dean almost can’t look at him when he does that. Swallowing thickly, he takes a huge bite of his burger, ignoring Sam’s quiet noise of disgust as he does. Seriously, fuck him. Fuck everything.

“My father---Castiel, my real, true father, he said you were a good man. He spoke to my mother of you often.”

Dean feels like all the air has left the room.

“Jack...” he hears Sam say, softly. Carefully. What’s left of Dean’s heart throbs with that dull, aching pain that never seems to quit in response. He doesn’t want pity.

“I ain’t a good role model, okay?” Dean says gruffly. He takes a swig of beer. Jack is still.

“Castiel thought you were.”

Dean laughs so he doesn’t cry. It’s an empty, ugly sound, and it seems only to confuse Jack further. Scooting closer on the couch, the nephilim leans in like a better view of Dean’s breaking heart will afford him a complete understanding of the situation.

“Castiel loved you greatly,” he says, like he’s trying to figure it all out. “He would have followed you anywhere. And, in fact, he did. I was inside him. I know you went to purgatory together. I know he loved you, but... in a different way than he loved my mother. What he felt for her was superficial---nothing at all, compared to what he felt for you.”

Dean buries his face in his hands. He feels like a circus side show. He feels like throwing his beer bottle across the room.

“I don’t understand,” Jack says again. “My mother said Castiel would take care of me. That he would teach me. But he’s not here... and he learned everything from you. If my mother loved me with a certain depth that resembles what Castiel felt for you, does that not make you the perfect model of humanity?”

And that’s it. Dean can’t stay here anymore. Not when this kid is supposed to be the enemy. Not when he keeps talking about Cas. Not when Sam is looking at him like all he can see what’s happening and is sorry for it. Dean stands, spilling food onto the floor, and carelessly bumping his leg on the coffee table as he rushes out the door.

Fuck.

#destiel #spn spoilers #s13 #jack #dean winchester #adventures in fanfic

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nerdylittleshit · 7 years

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Thoughts about Supernatural 13x01

SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS!

Also, there might be spoilers.

First of all:

I have them. All of them. I’m glad the Moose told us two days after 12x23 that Cas would be back or otherwise I’m sure I wouldn’t have survived this episode. If their intention was to hurt us in all the best ways they sure delivered. The episode felt to me almost like a coda; it focused on the aftermatch of 12x23, on the characters and their emotions, without a lot of plot. The emotional themes of the season were established - question of idendity, family (especially fatherhood), and at least for the first episodes loss and grief. I expect that the actual mytharc will probably start of in 13x02 & 13x03. If anything it was slow, really emotional start into the new season, that I liked a lot.

Father

It was the first word spoken in the new season, and I think fatherhood is gonna be one of the central themes of the season. It certainly was of this episode. Jack first asks if Sam is his father, and even though he is not, it is clear Sam is going to become a father figure to Jack.

Now, let’s skip ahead to what I believe was the most interesting part of the episode.

Jack: Lucifer? No, that's not his name. My father is Castiel.

Sam: What?

Jack: My Mother, she said Castiel -- he would keep me safe. She said the world was a dangerous place, that's-that's why I couldn't be a baby or a child. I-that's why I had to grow up fast, that's why I chose him to be my father.

There is so much in this short exchange and I try to break it all down. First of all this brings back the theme of “family by blood vs family by choice”. Or to say it in the words of a wise man: “Family doesn’t end with blood, but it doesn’t start there either”. Jack has been defined as Lucifer’s son so much, it is one of the reasons Dean believes he is evil, and yet given the choice Jack chooses Cas as his father. This is so huge.

This goes back to Kelly and the connection she had with her son. Jack said he wasn’t talking to her but rather, he was her. I don’t think he used her as a vessel, but rather that it was some sort of symbiote. They both influenced each mother. Jack brought his mother back from the dead and he gave her the vision of Cas saving her. In return Kelly teached her son everything she thought he needed in order to survive. She taught him to grow up, because it would be safer (and that is the first time we get the “magical child grows up really fast”-trope with a logical explanation), she taught him that Cas would keep him safe. Dean says again that both Cas and Kelly were brainwashed by Jack, and I believe there is some truth to that (simply because they made Dean repeat that for the audience), but I also think it might be more complex than that. It doesn’t make Jack evil. If anything it is another example of him not being fully able to control his powers.

After 12x23 I speculated that Kelly’s video message would become important again and I think it will at some point. So far Jack has been influenced way more by his mother (he described Dagon as the bad woman) than his (biological) father. He seemed genuinely sad about her passing and distraught after he learned that Cas died as well. I’m pretty sure he will go astray eventually, but not in the long run. “It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.”

Jack’s first choice was Cas (as his father), trusting the choices his mother made for him. And let’s say I’m right and Jack turns out to be a good egg in the end, this leaves the question where his place is in the narrative. Dean’s prayer made it clear that Chuck has left the building, so there is a vacancy. Jack as heaven’s new ruler? With Cas as his guide? We will see.

(Also the two angels at the lake house represented the two sides of heaven to me right now: the one side who thought Cas got what he deserved and thought of Kelly as a brood mare, and the other side, who thought Cas deserved better and thought of Kelly as a mother, meaning they value human life.)

Anyway, Jack is (obviously) still on a learning curve. He felt sorry for what he had done (to the sheriff and her son), but for a moment I actually expected him to heal Clark. Maybe he doesn’t know he can this yet. Looks like somebody should teach him that.

Also, that line from the sheriff? “There is no such thing as weird, everyone is normal in their own way.” Ok, I admit my first thought was that her son is gay (the actor actually played Kevin’s boyfriend in “Riverdale”). But I think it is a general statement about idendity, about finding out who you are and accepting yourself. Which I think can apply to Jack, Cas, Sam and Dean. Idendity has always been a big theme on the show.

We lost everything

Dean. Oh Dean. I’m really actually worried about him, because it is clear that he has lost all hope. His first instinct after leaving Cas’s body? Killing the thing he thinks is responsible. And look Dean was suspicious of Jack before, but I think with Cas still alive his reaction wouldn’t have been that extreme.

His nightmare, seeing Mary burn, re-living his trauma all over again. Believing her to be gone, because in his current state he can’t afford any kind of hope.

Not after his prayer, after realizing that Chuck won’t listen this time. After having been told that not even Jack could bring Cas back (and that angel lady just knew that that was Dean’s first instinct and used it to hurt him even more). Dean is beyond hope. No longer a hero, just a guy doing his job. Hurting himself so that he can feel anything. He is in such a dark place right now, that will probably mirror the literal dark place Cas is in now. I wouldn’t be surprised if we see him act in a way that makes it clear he no longer cares if he lives or dies.

And this is the opposite of “You and me against the world”. Because having Sam is no longer enough. Losing both Mary and Cas has given Dean the final blow. His world has grown bigger, the show has grown bigger, and the Sam-Dean-only-unit no longer works.

Dean? No, it’s Becky

(this is a Taylor joke nobody will get but I think I’m hilarious)

I’m kinda curious about Miriam, the drunk lady angel. She didn’t seem very angelic. Was she already possesed in the dinner? What was her motive with Jack? She didn’t wanted to kill him, but use him. For what?

And speaking of motives: What would Lucifer need Mary for? The only reason I came up with is to use her as a vessel, so that he could travel through her back to our world. Please don’t.

Overall I really liked the episode. I liked the way they portayed Jack so far; there are great possibilities for future storylines. It was probably one of the most painfull episodes regarding Destiel, but it was oh so good. But mostly I’m just happy to have my show back <3

#supernatural #spn 13x01 #lost and found #spn meta #spoilers #my meta

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goodfemalecharacters · 7 years

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13x02 Coda: Gutted

Coda, 1k, Destiel if you squint. A little bit of Sam POV

The bunker seems gutted, somehow, like all the life had drained out with the Men of Letters’ break-in. Sam quickly diverts his thoughts from Lady Bevell as he holds the door open over Jack’s head.

“It’s not conventional, but it’s home.”

For someone who’s only a few days old, he manages to look awfully judgmental as he slides under Sam’s arm and into the bunker. None of the wards so much as shudder; Sam looks back at Dean with a triumphant smirk. Jack might be far more human than either of them had anticipated.

“You can’t see the sun,” Jack observes in that slow, steady way of his.

Watching him stand there, surrounded by the oppressive emptiness of the bunker, it’s easy to forget he opened a hellmouth earlier today.

“It’s safe,�� Dean snaps before Sam has a chance to respond, “and that’s that.”

He shoves past both of them and heads towards his room without another word. Sam watches him go with a small sigh. It’s going to take a life or death situation or two for him to trust Jack. Not that Sam thinks those are going to be in short supply.

“Come on,” he tells Jack. “I’ll get you a room.”

He settles on the one that Kevin once claimed, even though he has to show Jack how to pull a fitted sheet over the mattress and fluff up the pillow. Cas’s room is probably spotless, but Sam can’t bring himself to hand it over just yet. Mom’s room is utterly out of the question. He doesn’t care what Dean says—she’s alive. He’d know it if she wasn’t.

“Let me know if you need anything.”

Jack sits down on the edge of the bed. He’s still staring at the ground by the time Sam leaves.

“You gave him a room?”

He runs into Dean in the kitchen. His brother has a half empty bottle of Crowley’s favored whiskey dangling from one hand. Sam really doesn’t want to deal with the fallout of a drunk Dean deciding to haul off and shoot Jack in the head, so he tugs the bottle out of Dean’s un-protesting grasp. That’s when he knows it’s really bad. Usually, Dean would be telling him off for trying to baby him by now.

“I’m not gonna let him sleep on the floor, Dean. God.”

He can’t help looking at Jack and finding a reflection of his twenty-year-old self staring back at him. Motherless, fatherless, gifted in ways he couldn’t even comprehend, hopelessly (cursedly) intertwined with Lucifer. He wants to be the guiding force he never got, the one person that would never lose faith in him.

“Why the hell not? Can’t he just mojo himself a bed?”

Sam takes a deep breath. “You know he doesn’t know the extent of his powers.”

“Or he’s just faking it so that we protect him! Come on, Sam. Don’t be naïve about this.”

Sam knows the smartest thing to do would be to go to bed. It’s been a long day for both of them, made longer still by the losses of Mom and Cas. He’s not in the right state of mind for this conversation and he knows it. But still.

“He’s not inherently evil.”

“Look at his dad!”

Sam glares. “So what, a connection to Lucifer automatically makes you an evil son of a bitch?”

Dean scrubs a hand over his face. “That’s not what I meant.”

And yeah, Sam knows that. Intellectually, anyway. But he remembers what it’s like to feel like you’ve been tainted, marked since birth for a darker purpose. Remembers feeling like his life wasn’t his own, like someone else was pulling the strings. He knows all too well what Jack feels. And it’s cold and lonely and isolating.

“It’s what you said.”

“What do you want me to say? He killed Cas!”

Something in him seems to deflate at the very thought. Sam wishes now, more than ever, that Dean would give words to his grief. But every time something like this happens, it’s like he’s the four-year-old with fire in his eyes all over again, unable to speak even a single word.

“He didn’t kill—” Sam begins, the weariness settling into his bones.

“He might as well have! He was—I don’t know. Brainwashed. Controlled. He wouldn’t have been with Kelly. He wouldn’t have gone through the rift, wouldn’t have—wouldn’t have—”

For one long, painful moment, Sam thinks his brother is about to cry, and he doesn’t know what to do about it. Instead, Dean collects himself, taking in a deep breath to steady himself.

“Dean, I know what Cas—”

“Meant to me?” Dean lets out something almost like a laugh. “No you don’t.”

Sam doesn’t bother trying to pacify him. “Besides, we need him to get Mom back.”

Dean makes a halfhearted reach for the whiskey that Sam rebuffs. “She’s dead and you know it. Lucifer isn’t merciful.”

Sam’s eyes drift closed of their own accord as he tries to keep the memory of fire at bay. The hallucinations are long gone, but just digging out the bullet hasn’t healed the scars. His fingers search out the old scar on his palm and dig in without his permission.

“I know he’s not.” Sam closes his eyes. “I know him better than—better than I know anything. He’s not merciful. Which is why he’s keeping her alive. We need to get to her, before—”

Before what? He drives her insane? He rips her into so many pieces that they can’t begin to hope to put her back together again? Bile rises in his throat and Sam forces it back down.

“Sam—”

“He wouldn’t let me fade away, no matter how hard I tried. She’s alive. If only because he needs entertainment.”

At that, Dean gets up and stalks out of the kitchen. Sam sinks on to the uncomfortable bench next to the table, massaging his temples.

He doesn’t know where they go from here.

(ao3)

#spn #spn fic #spn spoilers #spn s13 #destiel #jack kline #my fic

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magicalmischel · 7 years

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SPN 13x02 coda

pairing: Destiel link to AO3 is here, to fanfiction.net is here.

This coda includes: Dean hallucinating sheep on the road, Dean taking a walk after the bar scene, and Jack asking Sam for a new t-shirt. Everything then ends with more Scooby-Doo :)

Uncle Sam Knows Best

"Dean, the problem might be our only shot at saving mom."

"Mom's gone. There's no fixing that," Dean had said.

That was an hour ago.

They still had at least 11 hours of the road in front of them and Dean was driving with his eyes almost closed. He hasn't had enough sleep and he refused to let Sam get behind the wheel, and that attitude was both irritating Sam and both making him feel sad. It was pretty obvious that Dean was hurting, a lot, but he just couldn't let him drive them off the road.

"Dude," Sam sighed. "That's enough, just let me-"

"What did I say?" Dean rolled his eyes. "This is my car, okay?" he added, but Sam saw that he was trying hard to keep his eyes open.

"Dean, look at yourself," Sam tried again, turning to Dean as much as he could in the car. "I know that it hurts . . . I know that losing Cas-"

"Why do you keep talking about him? He's dead. And there's no fixing that either," Dean snapped at him. Sam quickly glanced at Jack, relieved that he was still asleep, and then he pursed his lips and looked at Dean again.

He knew exactly what was happening. He could read Dean like an open book and he knew that losing Cas was probably the hardest thing that Dean had to go through, maybe ever since losing Bobby. And Sam was really worried about him, but there had to be something to make Dean let go of the steering wheel.

"You know," Sam kept his voice down and looked at the road in front of them. "Jack said that he chose Cas to be his father."

"What?" Dean frowned. "Lucifer's-"

"Yeah, I know, but Jack chose Cas. And Kelly was a good person too, you know? Maybe we could-"

"Sam, I really don't want to talk about this right now, okay? Nothing will ever change the fact that his dad is Lucifer and that means that there's no changing him either. Now, shut up."

"Dean-"

"Sam!"

Sam pursed his lips again and looked out of the window. He could work on Dean's opinion of Jack later. He was sure that once Dean talked to Jack more and got to know him better, he'd change his mind. At least a little bit. If Jack thought that Dean hated him, well, that meant that Sam had to try his best to let Jack know that he himself believed in him.

But what was more important right now was avoiding a car accident on an empty road. And even though Dean didn't look as tired as he looked pissed right now, he still needed to rest at least a little bit.

"Alright, but at least let me drive. You can't just-"

"Weren't you supposed to shut up?"

Sam couldn't help it, he just had to roll his eyes. Maybe he'd try again in a couple of minutes, but he could tell that Dean was getting angry and an angry Dean was not something he wanted to deal with right now. Especially with Jack in the backseat, still asleep.

A couple of miles later, Dean violently turned the steering wheel and hit the brakes.

"Son of a-"

"What the hell, man?"

"What is going on?" Jack asked from the back, now fully awake.

"Was that . . . a sheep?"

"A sheep?" Sam asked incredulously, his eyes just as wide as his brother's.

Dean looked confused, but when Sam looked at the dark road and saw nothing, he couldn't stay silent any longer.

"Alright, that's it." He shook his head and opened the door, getting out. When he noticed that Jack opened his door as well, he quickly turned to him and shook his head. "You can stay in the car, but Dean," he bent down and looked at his brother who was still in the Impala, "you're definitely getting out."

"Man, I told you-"

"Yeah, and I've had enough." Sam cut him off as he walked to the other side of the car, opening Dean's door. "Get out. I can drive the car too and right now, you can't."

Dean rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath, which sounded suspiciously like jerk. Sam ignored it and waited until Dean got out of the car. And as soon as he was behind the wheel and Dean was sitting next to him, he made the decision to drive them to the nearest town and find the nearest hotel as soon as possible.

xoXÖXox

"You know what? I'm good. Uh, I'm gonna take a walk," Dean smiled at the waitress and stood up, finishing his glass of whiskey. Then he put some money on the bar counter. "There you go, thank you."

"Thanks." The girl smiled.

Then he walked out the door. He never put his phone back inside his pocket.

It was cold out there. And considering that Dean still hasn't slept and felt both exhausted and tired of their lives, he put his hands inside his pockets and continued walking through the dark street. Unfortunately for him, the bar was a part of the hotel that Sam chose to stay in, and so it was only a matter of minutes until he'd be back in their room. At least now, Jack was staying with Donatello.

But he didn't want to return yet. And that was the problem. He didn't want to talk to anyone, and he didn't want to see anyone and he just wished he could disappear and be back inside the bunker, with Sam and . . . and with Cas. He was the only one he really wanted to talk to right now.

He looked at his phone again and sighed. The picture of Cas was still on the screen, looking exactly like it looked when he was sitting in the bar and staring at it. Maybe that was why he left. Talking to someone while staring at the same picture of a guy on his phone was just weird.

At least now he was alone. And even though it was dark and cold and Sam was probably still looking for Jack, returning to their room seemed like a bad idea. Because who needed sleep anyway, right?

"What am I supposed to do, Cas?" he whispered. Was that a prayer? He wasn't sure. But if Chuck was someone he never wanted to pray to again, at least he could pray to Cas. He wouldn't hear him. He knew that. And it was pointless anyway, but . . . he just couldn't help it. What was he supposed to do?

"I wish you were here, man," he sighed as he closed his eyes and turned away from the hotel. His eyes landed on a dark park with dark trees and dark benches. But it was a better place than his and Sam's room right now. So he crossed the road and sat down on the nearest bench, looking up into the sky. He couldn't even see the stars with all the clouds up there.

"This is all my fault," he continued with a deep breath. He rubbed his eyes with his fingers and sighed, trying hard not to let the tears come. Cas was dead because of him. And there was no fixing that. There was no cure for an angel blade piercing through an angel.

After a while, he looked at his phone again and found himself scrolling through his contacts. His thumb stopped on Cas and before he knew it, he was calling him. Hesitantly, he put the phone to his ear and closed his eyes, just listening and waiting.

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice . . . a mail."

Dean took another deep shaky breath and put his phone back into his pocket, ending the call. This was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous. Cas was dead and he needed to deal with that. The main problem now was deciding what to do with Jack and he should be focusing on that. At least until they got back into the bunker.

With a grunt, he stood up and looked at the hotel across the street. Then he checked his watch – almost 1am. And with another sigh, he headed for their room and for his cold and empty bed.

xoXÖXox

Dean sighed and stood up, clearing his throat. Sam really wanted to talk to him about Jack again because . . . Sam really didn't want Jack to think that Dean hated him. And even though that might have been true, he still wanted to try to make Dean understand.

"Dean, wait a second," he found himself saying. Dean stopped and looked at him, waiting for Sam to continue. Sam took a deep breath and readied himself for Dean's anger again. "The kid came through for us today," he started. "Jack saved us."

"No," Dean simply replied and Sam frowned. What did he have to do to make Dean understand? He knew that he thought Jack couldn't be saved, but he could at least try to pretend, couldn't he? At least in front of Jack. He didn't want to find him crying again.

"No, whatever that was, that was a reflex," Dean continued, shaking his head. Sam sighed. "It was a sneeze. Maybe next time he sneezes, he kills us." It looked like Dean wanted to say something more but decided against it. "Good night," he finished and left the kitchen.

Sam only sighed again. Was there even something that would make Dean see that Jack wanted to do the right thing?

After a while, Sam heard Dean shut the door to his door rather loudly. And after that, he heard footsteps, undoubtedly getting closer to the kitchen. He looked up just as Jack arrived and stopped in front of the door.

"Do you have a new t-shirt please?" he asked, looking sad and with tears in eyes. But Sam's eyes widened as soon as he realized how Jack looked and what was wrong with his first t-shirt.

"What the hell happened?" He immediately stood up and ran to Jack's side. "Did . . . did Dean-"

"No, it was me," Jack looked down, looking ashamed. Sam let out a huge sigh of relief but returned to being worried mere seconds later. "Jack, why'd you-"

"It healed immediately," Jack looked up into Sam's eyes. "And I have no control over it, it just . . . healed whenever I stabbed."

"Jack, hurting yourself . . . that's not a good thing," Sam tried to explain. He put his hand on Jack's shoulder and looked into his sad eyes, trying to be supportive and understanding. "I know that everything feels confusing right now, I get it. But the best thing you can do is learn how to control it and that will take time. But I'll be here whenever you need me."

"Thank you," Jack nodded and sniffled.

Sam sighed again and looked at Jack's chest, taking his hand off his shoulder. "Come on," he led him to the hall. "I'll find you a new t-shirt."

They went past Dean's room, which seemed a little too silent, and entered Sam's room. Jack stood by the bed, while Sam opened his wardrobe and tried to find any old t-shirt that wasn't too big for Jack. Or at least not as big as most of them were.

"Dean doesn't believe that I can be saved," Jack mumbled and sat down on Sam's bed. Sam turned to him and pursed his lips.

"He doesn't," he nodded. "But I'm trying hard to persuade him that you can be saved."

"Thank you for believing that," Jack smiled softly. Sam went back to searching through his clothes.

"You know, Dean isn't really himself these days," Sam continued. "Normally, he wouldn't be so angry all the time. He's not a bad person."

"I know that losing my father hurts him," Jack said. "I can feel that whenever he's in the room."

Sam stopped looking for a t-shirt and his shoulders slumped. "Yeah," he mumbled quietly. "Cas was . . . he was family. And now that he's gone, everything seems darker, you know?"

"Yes, I understand."

"Here it is," Sam smiled as he turned around and showed Jack his old blue t-shirt. "I used to wear this way back in college. I don't even know why I still have it," he chuckled.

Jack stood up and accepted the t-shirt, saying, "thank you."

"No problem," Sam smiled. He took Jack's old t-shirt as he took it off and threw it in the trash can in the corner of the room. When Jack was wearing the new blue t-shirt, Sam smiled at him. "See? It fits you just fine."

Sam was glad when Jack smiled at him.

"Tell me more about my father," Jack asked as he sat down on the bed again.

Sam nodded and sat down beside him. What was he supposed to tell him? He knew that he was probably the only one Jack could ask since Dean would refuse to talk about the angel immediately. So he smiled at Jack and cleared his throat.

"Cas . . . was an angel. He was a great friend, he was always there for us and he always tried to do the right thing."

"He sounds nice," Jack smiled. "How did you meet him?"

Sam chuckled at that. "That was almost nine years ago, he . . . he saved Dean. Dean had died and ended up in Hell, and Castiel . . . he saved him. Brought him back to life and he's stayed with us ever since."

Jack nodded. "He did love Dean."

"What?" Sam frowned.

Jack only smiled. "I . . . remember a few things. Feelings. I remember that when I chose Castiel to be my father, I felt his love for Dean. It was very strong."

Sam smiled at that. His smile disappeared as soon as he realized that Cas would never return to them though. "Yeah, I know."

"How . . . how did he die?"

Sam took a deep breath and looked at Jack with sympathy in his teary eyes. "He died trying to save us," he told him. He wasn't sure if it was the best idea to tell Jack that Lucifer was the one who killed his father. At least not now.

"I wish I could have met him, at least once."

Sam didn't know what to say to that. Cas wasn't coming back, not this time. He himself tried to pray to Chuck, but he didn't answer, just as Dean had told him. But even though Cas was gone, he left them a kid to take care of. And Sam was determined to make Jack feel as welcome as he could.

"Do you want to watch tv?" he asked him after a while. There was a tv in his room after all, and now that Dean wasn't there with them, he could let Jack watch whatever he wanted.

The smile that Jack gave him warmed Sam's heart.

"Could I?"

"Sure," he smiled as he stood up and went for the remote control, closing the wardrobe on his way. When he found it, he sat down next to Jack on his bed and turned the tv on. And of course it was Scooby-Doo that he found on one of the channels.

Sam put the remote control in between them and glanced at Jack, whose smile had only gotten bigger.

Yeah, if Dean didn't want to be there for Jack, then Sam would. He definitely would.

I hope you liked it! :) Thanks for reading! ♥

#Supernatural #destiel #coda #spn coda #my fanfiction #my supernatural fanfiction #destiel fanfic #oneshot

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