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lu-sn · 1 year

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Pete watches on in amusement as Macau totally fails to shimmy himself into the skintight layer of his pilot suit.

“Hey, it’s because I’m swole now, okay, I lift,” Macau says petulantly as he finally manages to roll the suit past his hips.

Pete finishes zipping up his own suit. “Mhmm.”

“This is a super old suit,” Macau complains, “they took my new suit for repairs, and let’s be honest, I was basically a stick back then–”

“Until you became hot,” Pete says, having heard this spiel only about twenty times before. He moves to help Macau squeeze his arms through the suit.

“Until I became hot!” Macau grins at Pete. “See, you get it. Hey, I bet my biceps look real good in this–”

“The kaiju will definitely be blown away by your biceps.”

“They sure fucking will.” Macau looks inordinately pleased with himself. “The final, secret weapon that will save humanity.”

Pete rolls his eyes. “Okay,” he says, “hold your breath – good,” as he yanks Macau’s zipper all the way up. He pats Macau on the back. “Let’s go.”

–

Once they’ve made their way to the jaeger cockpit, the technicians start encasing Pete and Macau in their protective armor, along with all of the hook-ups that give them control over the various limbs and weapon attachments on the jaeger.

“Helmets,” one technician says, and Pete swiftly pulls on his head sock, making sure his bangs are securely tucked under the cloth before slipping on his helmet as well. He hears the familiar hiss of the hydraulics as the technician locks in a large attachment to the back of his helmet – the critical cabling that enables the pilots’ neural link.

“Step back,” the technician says, and Pete does. The exoskeleton clicks into place around him. “Preparations complete.”

“Testing comms,” a voice says, directly into Pete’s ear.

“Menace-L, copy,” Pete responds.

“Menace-R, copy,” Macau follows. “‘Sup, Hia.”

“Brat,” Vegas says placidly. “Operations confirmed that the kaiju is a Cat-3, and it’s headed for the Philippines. You’ll be in-flight for a little over 2 hours before the drop.”

“Yeah, right,” Macau mutters.

Pete snorts. After that one time they were stuck waiting to drop for over 12 hours, Pete doesn’t blame him for his skepticism.

“Tell yourself 4 hours, and then maybe you won’t be so cranky when the estimate isn’t spot on.” Vegas says. “The shelf on that side of the island falls off pretty quickly. Luckily, we don’t think you’ll have to wait until the kaiju makes it to the shallows. He doesn’t look like a swimmer.”

“A runner?” Macau says, a hint of glee in his tone.

“Yep. Four-legged. You should be able to fight him along the sea bed.”

“Phi,” Macau says. “Phi. Can we wrestle him, please–”

“Absolutely not,” Vegas starts.

“Sure,” Pete says.

Macau whoops. “Fuck yeah! Underwater wrestling, baby, let’s fucking go–”

Vegas sighs. “If HQ asks for Menace’s damages bill again, I’ll make sure you’re the one taking that call. You can be the one to explain exactly how critical it is to account for underwater wrestling in the budget–”

“We’ve, like, improved,” Macau says. “We’re good at it now. Tell you what – I’ll make you a bet. External damage only. No dents in the framework this time.”

“Deal,” Vegas says immediately.

“Here we go again,” Pete says under his breath.

“We’re ready for the neural link, sir,” another voice interrupts. “Are we cleared?”

“One moment,” Vegas says. “Yes, you’re cleared.”

“Neural link for Apocalyptic Menace going live in sixty,” the voice says.

“Copy.”

Pete exhales, leans back into the exoskeleton. The jolt of the neural link is always nauseating, but thankfully it’s short-lived. Pete is very used to it, though. And the drift itself is wonderful.

He hears a faint click, and an indicator pops up on his helmet’s interface that he’s been switched over to a private line.

There is a long silence.

“Wish I could come with you,” Vegas says quietly.

Pete smiles, fond. “You’ll just have to wish harder for a Cat-4. For next time.”

Vegas’s injury means that he’s not allowed to be on a standard pilot rotation, not like the rest of them. But he’s so damn good that HQ can’t bring themselves to bench him, either. So he gets sent out with Pete on the really tough drops, the category 4 and 5 kaijus, and Macau subs in on all the rest.

They’re lucky that all three of them are drift compatible with each other. Otherwise, HQ would force Vegas into the cockpit far more frequently. And then Vegas would re-injure himself, probably, and Pete would have to go kill someone over it.

“Next time,” Vegas says. Then, firm, “You’ll come back.”

“I always do,” Pete says, voice soft.

Vegas hums. “And bring my idiot brother back intact, please. Keep the wrestling to a minimum.”

“Can’t believe you’d throw a bet like that,” Pete says, amused.

Vegas scoffs. “It’s a win-win for me. Less repairs, and HQ doesn’t come for my head... or, Macau does laundry for a month.”

Pete shudders. “Maybe not laundry this time? He’s not very, um. Good at it.”

“How else is he going to learn, Pete,” Vegas says pleasantly, “if we don’t give him the opportunity to improve himself.”

“Uh-huh. And it’s a total coincidence that you hate laundry.”

“Like I said,” Vegas says, “win-win. Oh, wait. Macau is speaking.” And Pete hears another click.

“Phi,” Macau says, very seriously.

“Nong.”

“Friendly reminder,” Macau says, “to not think about Hia.”

Pete laughs.

“No thoughts!” Macau screeches. “None! Not a single one, or I swear to god, I’ll break the neural link and jump into the ocean.”

“That was one time,” Pete says. Plus, it wasn’t like it had been Pete’s fault. Vegas shouldn’t have given him horny thoughts from 2000 kilometers away.

“Once,” Macau says, “was plenty.”

“Link in three,” the technician’s voice counts down, “two, one–”

And as the neural link kicks in, Pete’s vision whites out, and the pain is sharp and bright right behind his eyes – until, suddenly, it settles.

Hey, bro, he hears. Ready to rumble?

Pete grins. Macau’s emotions are infectious, all excitement and anticipation and dogged determination. And in the far corner of his mind, a tiny hint of nervousness.

It’s good for Macau to have that. Keeps him from being reckless.

Let’s do this, Pete thinks. And then, just for a brief moment, he pulls up a memory from this morning – Vegas standing in the bathroom doorway while brushing his teeth, shirtless, ratty sweatpants riding low on his hips–

Oh my fucking god. Why would you do this to me. Why would you make me suffer like this.

Pete laughs, harder this time.

“Drift is stable,” the technician says. “Cleared for lift-off.”

“Copy,” Vegas says. There’s some murmuring from his end of the line. “Operations says you’re good to go. Good luck. Remember to cut down on the snarking this time. Maybe it’ll improve your kill time average.”

“Maybe I’ll stop snarking,” Macau says pointedly, “once Phi is done inflicting mind crimes on me–”

Describe to me, Pete thinks, in great detail, exactly how you picture this wrestling going. Just so we’re on the same page.

The distraction works. Pete feels a huge wave of glee hit him. Phi. I have so many ideas.

–

(thank you to @suzteel and @kissporsche for all of the ideas ❤️ and especially to suz for saying that every combination of mvp would be drift-compatible, because i swear i wasn't going to write anything until she baited me with that)

#fucking pacific rim AUs. they always get me in the end #hope yall enjoy this 😂#i am not turning this into a fic i've learned my lesson with AUs nope not doing it #but maybe i'll get the urge to write a few more scenes like this. we'll see. suz and boots gave me too many ideas. very rude of them #kinnporsche #vegaspete #mvp #pete saengtham #macau theerapanyakul #vegas theerapanyakul #mine: ficlet #pacific rim au

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hauntedpearl · 1 year

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Endverse, Kind of MCD, 2.4kwords, Gen (ao3)

At the end of everything, there is still him. Cas. There is still Cas.

It's just that Dean doesn't know if it's a blessing or a curse.

His brother — Lucifer — is long gone. So is the other him. The one whose world hasn't gone to all shit yet. Who still has the chance to do the right thing.

Dean hopes he's doing it — whatever it is, because he sure as hell can't figure it out, even now.

Hopes that whatever happens, it doesn't end like this.

It hurts to move, hurts to breathe, hurts to think.

(He's doing all those things anyway. What else is new?)

"Reckless," Cas hisses from somewhere to his left. "I fucking told you it was reckless."

Dean doesn't respond, stares at up at the sky instead.

It's a good sky, all this considered. Here, at the end of everything.

Cloudless, and blue, like the world on the cusp of a warm summer. Like ice cream on a park bench. Sunglasses and sundresses.

Like his —

Like Cas' eyes. Or like they used to be.

It's a nice blue, is all.

Dean's glad to be looking at it.

"Sorry," he says, and his throat is scratched and torn, voice drenched in his own blood. He swallows, tries not to choke on it. Then, "Should've — Should've just stayed back, huh?"

Cas laughs, and it sounds like the rattling of the world. Like it hurts.

Dean's sure it does. Cas had looked like death warmed over when he'd crawled up to Dean on his hands and knees after everything, collapsing at his side.

He'd sighed, and the world went quiet, and it was selfish, but Dean was so fucking glad to have him, just then. Beside him. With him. Here, at the end of everything.

Dean doesn't know what exactly happened to Cas — if it was demons or the Croats or even Lucifer himself. Or a shitty fucking combination of the three. Cas won't tell, he knows, and Dean's not going to waste his last breaths asking.

It's the end of everything. And Dean's just glad for the company.

"Like that was ever a choice," Cas says, now, and he sounds bitter. He sounds helpless. A little smug, too. Sounds a lot like he has been for the past couple of years.

Dean blinks, drinking in the sky one last time. Rolls his neck so he's facing Cas instead.

"Fuck!" he swears, because it hurts like a motherfucker but atleast he can see Cas now. He can look at his face — human, and divine, all at once. It looks bashed in. Dean tries to not focus on that. Or the trickle of blood that carves its way down his chin. Tries to look at his eyes instead. The whites are shot with red — a burst blood vessel, if Dean would have to guess — but the irises are as blue as ever. Not the same as the sky, no, but close enough.

Dean loves them, always has. Loves looking at them.

"Of—Of course it was a choice," he says, now. "I — I didn't m—make you."

Cas smiles at him, close-mouthed, all bloody lips and regret. "Oh, you did, Dean. You always have."

And Dean knows what he means. Understands.

(He doesn't want to, though. But that's nothing new, either.)

"Th—Think you've got one last miracle in you, Cas?" he asks, and it's mostly in jest. But—

If—

Well.

Here's the thing about life— it can suck as all hell, but you'll still want to keep living it. All the time in the world, and it'll still never be enough. And Dean's here, at the end of everything, on purpose. By design. He chose this. Still — somewhere underneath all that hurt and hopelessness and the drive to just end it, he wants to live.

He's always wanted to.

He'll keep wanting to until there's nothing left of him to want with.

Cas pauses for a moment, almost like he's taking stock. Then, "No," he says. Groans as he turns onto his injured side, facing Dean. "'Fraid we ran out of those a while ago."

Just as well, Dean thinks.

Who knows what else he'd have had to endure if they did live to see another day. Atleast there's the sky, on this day.

Atleast there's Cas.

"Did he make it?" Cas asks. Coughs. Sprays blood everywhere. A drop of it lands on Dean's cheek.

Dean watches him as he wheezes, moans. Quiets a little. His eyes grow slightly unfocused.

It hurts to look at him.

Dean keeps looking anyway.

An angel who smote demons with a thought, reduced to the indignities of mortality by his calloused, human hands. Dean's done a lot of fucked up shit in his life but this — this takes the cake. When he's back on the racks in Hell this time, and for good, he'll deserve ever fucking second of it.

"Yeah," he says, shaking himself a little. "Yeah, he did. Just in time, too."

"Good," Cas breathes. Lets his eyes slip close. "That's — that's good."

There on his lashes is a tear.

Dean looks at it — a little universe on the edge of Cas' lashes. It's silver and blue, and shines in the light of the day. Dean wishes he was in it.

He thinks about the other version of him who went back in time. He wonders if he'd fix the fuckfest that this world has become. If it's even possible to fix it.

He wonders if it would matter.

Once, when things hadn't been so bad, Cas would talk to him about these things — Timelines and multiverses and the effect of the flapping of a single butterfly's wings. He bets Cas would know what would happen if the other Dean made a different choice this time around.

Bets he would know if it would matter.

Then, the tear rolls down Cas' cheek, across his nose. Falls to the ground in a bloody splash.

It's all — it's too much. It's overhwhelming.

"Cas—," he calls. Cas hums. Doesn't open his eyes. Dean wants him to open his eyes. Wants to look at the blue of them. He wants to see them smile, one last time. He wants —

"Lo—look at me, man."

"No," Cas says. There's the tinge of something horrid in his tone. Dean hates himself for being responsible for it. For being responsible for everything.

"Pl—Ple-ase, Cas," he begs.

Cas breathes. Dean watches his bruised chest swell, the slight rise in his shoulders. The way his too-long hair, matted and sweaty and bloody, flops in a lazy curve over his forehead.

Then, he opens his eyes.

Duller, now, but there, atleast.

Yes. There.

"Hey there, Cas," Dean says. Tries to smile. The skin across his bones stretches painfully.

Cas' face softens, then. Something that mirrors Dean's own smile carves itself into his bloody cheeks. There's something old, and quiet, and familiar about the shift. "Hello, Dean," he says, and Dean's heart lurches.

There you are, he thinks. There's my Cas.

After all these years. After everything.

It's still him, it's still them. At the end of it all.

Dean doesn't know if it's a blessing or a curse. He doesn't know.

He's not a big fan of deathbed confessions, but — well. Here they are. Cas is fading, he can tell, and his own thoughts are starting to scatter. They don't have long and this — this one thing.

Well. Dean's life has always been a cliche filled nightmare. Why would it be any different now?!

"C—Cas. I wanna—," he starts. Pauses when his breath sticks against the sharp edges of his broken ribs. Groans. Forces himself to keep going.

Just a moment, he prays to a God who's never listened. Give me one fucking moment.

"Dean?" Cas calls. Watches him struggle to breathe. "Dean!" He crawls closer, wiggling on his side. Presses a shaky palm to Dean's chest. Something cracks under his hands but somehow, somehow, the breath whooshes out of him.

He gasps. Then gasps again. And again.

"Th—Thought we were out of miracles," he manages between breaths.

"Wasn't one," Cas replies.

"Right. O—Okay."

But it feels like one, anyway. Every fucking thing about Cas feels like a fucking miracle.

The world is quiet, and Dean's dying under a bright blue sky, Cas' hand on his chest.

That feels like a miracle, too. And, well, isn't that something.

"Thank you," Dean says, after a moment. "For. Fo— for everything. I ne-ver do s-ay it—," and he doesn't. Dean doesn't. Even on frenzied nights that they spend trying to sate the hunger buried under their skins, or the morning-afters when the world is quiet and soft, and easy, if only for a moment. Dean never says it. He's a right fool for not saying it. "B—but. I couldn't — Not without you."

That didn't make sense, he thinks.

Cas just looks at him, his hooded eyes fending off exhaustion, fighting to stay open.

For him, Dean tries again. Says, "Every— every day. Always. I've needed you. And you've been here. Even when I — I didn't de-deserve it. Even — now. I need you, and you're here. You're always here. So— th-thank you. I just—," he trails off.

Cas is quiet.

Dean wonders if maybe he's gone. If perhaps the slight light in his eyes is not life but the echo of it. He cannot stand the thought. It keeps coming at him anyway.

Wake up, Dean pleads. Prays. Say something!

Then, Cas laughs.

And the world keeps spinning. If only for another moment.

"Fuck you, Dean Winchester," he says, and it bleeds the anger and resentment Dean's poured into him for years. "Fuck you. I do— don't. I don't accept your confession. I will not— grant you — this— this absolution."

Dean wants to think that he isn't seeking absolution. But he doesn't know anymore.

Maybe he is. Maybe he wants to be forgiven. Maybe he wants to know that it was alright to want Cas. To love him. To need him.

To be told that it was excuse enough for everything.

Dean laughs, too, then. Because what else is there to do.

His bones rattle in his chest under Cas' hand. He wonders if Cas can feel them. If he can feel the way his heart slows.

"Do what you wa-nt, ass-hole," he says. "For-Forgive me for try-ing, I guess."

"No," Cas says. Heaves himself closer, still. "I won't. It's all too late."

Yeah, okay.

That much is true. It's the truest thing of all.

It is.

It really is too damn late.

"I know," Dean says. "I'm so-sorry."

And he is. He's so fucking sorry. He wishes— Well.

What does it matter anyway.

Then— he screams.

Pain blooms in his chest, sharp and bright, and the edges of his vision turn white. He tries to move, but cannot. Tilts his head down, just so. Watches as Cas presses his palm flat against his chest and pushes once more.

Another scream tears out of his throat.

Cas uses his leverage to push himself closer, until he's flush against Dean's side. He drops unceremoniously, then, sprawling on his stomach, his body half on top of Dean's broken ribs. His chin settles on Dean's shoulder, and Dean feels his every laboured breath against his neck and collarbone.

"I hate you," Cas says. Wheezes, really. "But I—," and Dean thinks Don't. Don't say the word. " I guess— Guess I needed you, too."

Dean's relieved when Cas borrows his words. His arm's pinned between their bodies but he wiggles his fingers until he's got a fistful of Cas' shirt in his hands.

"'S'alright," he says to him. "'S'okay. I'll t-take it."

There's only Cas' messy hair in his line of sight, so he closes his eyes. Counts the dark spots on the back of his eyelids so he doesn't fall asleep.

Not yet, he begs his body. Not yet. Not yet.

"Hey, Cas?" he asks.

"Hmm?"

"Th-think they'll figure it o-ut in ti-me?"

"The other ones?"

"Yeah," Dean says. Thinks about the ease in his other self's skin that seemed to have left him forever ago. Wonders if he's sane enough to make use of it while it's still there.

"I—I don't know," Cas says. Dean hears rustling as he moves against his side. (It doesn't hurt so much, anymore. Everything's numb.) Cas pushes himself up, and Dean feels the tip of his nose against his cheek. Cas' forehead falls against his temple. Dean presses into the touch. "I hope so."

"Yeah," Dean says. "Me-me, too."

Dean thinks about what it could've been like, if they'd figured it out sooner. If they'd had the luxury to figure it out. What his future could've looked like.

A log cabin, he thinks. Some place to come home to. Hunting together, maybe. Holidays where he would cook. A guitar. Birthday sex, and pie, and holding hands under the covers. A couch. Dean would've loved a good couch. Memory foam on the bed.

Dean loses himself in this dream that seems real, and vivid, and bright. So fucking bright. Brings his lax hand up to the Cas' on his chest. Threads their fingers together.

"Sing for me," Cas asks. Curls his fingers around Dean's. Holds tight.

Dean's too far gone to sing. So he hums instead.

Cas mouths the lyrics against the skin of his neck.

Take a sad song, and make it better.

They tried, he thinks. Despite everything. They did try.

The sky is the kind of blue that means sandalled feet, and busy beaches. But Dean's not looking at it anymore.

At the end of everything, there's still him. There's still Cas.

And the sound of a song in the air.

It's not too bad, when all's said and done. It's not bad at all.

#doe's writing #destiel fic #endverse #mcd #end of all things or whatever #i watched eeaao and had the first line of this fic stuck in my head and also A Concept!#so i wrote it!#it's not going on ao3 bc I'm not convinced of its quality rn but maybe eventually #should I even tag my taglist I DON'T KNOE #I'LL LEAVE IT UP AND WE'LL SEE AFTER A NAP #okay thanks i hope you like it!.#spn fic #this one is sad!#angst

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