Dean doesn’t know what to expect. Hell, he’s not even sure if there’s anything to expect; when angels start falling out of the sky like sparks from the butt-end of a cigarette, that’s when you know almost anything’s possible in this wide world after all.
Almost anything’s possible, he thinks in those gray hours before dawn, gunning the Impala down the highway and blinking through the fog across his vision, almost anything can happen now.
And he thinks about comets crash-landing inside vessels of skin and bone, stealing hands and hearts and eyes, angels crowding out each former soul and waking in the morning in a bed they hadn’t made. Almost anything’s possible, even once-infinite angels becoming slow-growing miracles that will rise out of the earth nine months from now, opening their eyes to the light of day as they are placed inside their mothers’ arms.
Almost anything can happen, but that’s the problem: Dean can see a new world rising up on the horizon, a world where every last truth he’s clung to in these years he’s spent fighting against the dark has disappeared between one heartbeat and the next, because angels are falling and his might be lost for good.
Dean falls asleep that night wondering if he will still have blue eyes the next time they meet.
A month goes by, and Dean wonders if he’d know Cas if he saw him again, and blue eyes and dark hair shouldn’t matter so much, but they do; Cas might be Cas without those things, but a Cas with brown eyes or silver hair might not be his Cas after all, a Cas that never touched his soul in hell or stolen his fries or leaned into his shoulder as Dean half-carried him to the car.
Anything’s possible, but Dean’s not going to hold his breath, he’s not going to hold out for the sight of a rumpled tan trenchcoat on the side of the street, or a static-lined phone call that starts with Hello, Dean and ends with Take me home. Anything can happen, and Dean knows this better than most, and he knows better than anyone that a world where angels fall is a world where happy endings just don’t happen.
But because anything’s possible, he finds himself reading the newspaper every day, scanning the personals because what if? And because anything can happen, anything at all, he makes the calls and steals Sam’s laptop and checks each voicemail every day.
The hardest part is knowing that anything could happen, and that’s what drives him up the wall, knowing that there might be a Cas out there somewhere for him to find, a Cas that still exists somehow, a Cas that still has Dean’s heart revolving around the very idea of him the way the earth turns around the sun.
The hardest part is not knowing if searching is stupid or sensible, the most frightening part is the thought that Cas might have been under his nose the whole time, and Dean hasn’t found him because Dean never knew what he looked like in the first place; that Dean only knows Cas by those silly half-smiles and the wild hair and the set of his shoulders, that Dean doesn’t know him well enough to recognize him if he sees him, that Dean just plain doesn’t know Cas at all.
But anything can happen, and it usually does, and Dean spends afternoons in coffee shops, trying to catch a glimpse of every stranger who walks through the door, staring into every pair of eyes just in case he feels something, anything. He doesn’t know what to expect, but he thinks he’d know the feeling once he felt it, so he gets a box at the post office in Lebanon, Kansas, and for weeks he runs an ad that only says I still pray to you every night.
Months go by and nothing happens, and Dean’s left waiting and hoping and not-hoping and he wonders sometimes if this isn’t faith after all.
Anything’s possible, but Dean doesn’t expect to know him in a heartbeat; he’s spent so much time worrying he wouldn’t recognize Cas if he saw him that he’s not ready for the gut-punch reaction of having Cas’s arms crawling tight and desperate up between his shoulders or Cas’s beard whisking across his cheek.
Cas breathes in his ear, gravel and grit and road-dust weary, I looked everywhere for you, and Dean wonders how he ever could have thought he wouldn’t know Cas if he found him again.
But he says it anyway, dizzy with that feeling he’s always known he’d recognize and stupid with relief, Your eyes are still blue.
Posts tagged fanfic.
more “Meanwhile in Purgatory” - final version
Dean had always been a magpie of memories: What others discarded he held close, and carried with him wherever he went. Trenchcoats. Flasks. Lynyrd Skynyrd mix tapes. It didn’t matter so much the object or its use, only that it had once been important. After all, Dean knew what it was to be left behind, and he also knew, better than anyone, that these things could still have power—even if only what he alone gave them.
But in Purgatory, sentiment was no luxury. What you carried with you was often your greatest weakness. Even Dean understood that here, there were only two objects worth a damn: Your knife and your coat. How to kill, and how to hide.
And apparently Cas had left both behind.
“Cas,” Dean shouted. His voice came out high and reedy, but he didn’t care. “Cas! Where are you, man? Cas?”
But the angel did not answer. The only sound was the tie on his stuck blade, flapping like a half-mast flag.
Dean yanked the angel blade from its purchase and peered between the trees, looking for a flash of skin, a flutter of white. But the underbrush offered nothing—only fog, vast and thick, and studded with fireflies.
“Dammit.” He heaved a ragged sigh and picked up the trenchcoat, because he didn’t know what else to do, because some habits were hard to break, because he’d only just returned it, after all, and wasn’t that rude, to leave such a recent gift behind?
Part of me always believed you’d come back. The words rattled around in his mind like something caught in Baby’s engine. As soon as he’d said outside the hospital, Dean knew he’d jinxed it. Good luck never lasted. Good luck was always just a curse in disguise. And right now he couldn’t help but remember what else he’d thought that night but hadn’t said: Part of me always knew you’d leave for good.
“Dammit,” Dean muttered again and drew the machete from his coat. He stared down the trail, searching, but a diffuse light from somewhere high above made the path before him hazy and hard to follow. His fist clenched in the trenchcoat. He tried not to scream.
The fireflies didn’t seem to care about his panic, however, and nor did the fog. It moved closer, curling around him – it even seemed to sway, and dance. It seemed alive.
Dean frowned down at the vaporous glow for a long moment. Then, in a rush, it dawned on him.
“You’re a wavelength,” he breathed, “of celestial intent.”
A swirl of fog suddenly somersaulted, sweeping high up to the treetops, and Dean’s shoulders sagged. He turned away to hide his relieved smile.
“Cas, you jackass.” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “You could’ve warned me, you know.”
The fog swirled again, all colors and none. Then it parted, revealing a muddy trail that disappeared into the dark gloom of trees. Dean smirked.
“Apology accepted,” he said, sliding the angel blade into his jacket and balling up the trenchcoat. “Even if I’m still stuck carrying your shit.”
Dean spreads Cas’s thighs easily and bends his head down so he can lower his lips to Cas’s dick before pausing suddenly and looking up at Cas from where he’s sprawled between his legs on their bed. He shifts his gaze back down to Cas’s hardened dick with a growing smirk that soon turns into a full on grin before tapping the head of it twice with his finger.
"Is this thing even on?" he questions, mouth slightly ajar with amusement and Cas glares at first before squinting down at him.
"What do you think, Dean?"
There isn’t much more talking after that.
Cas’s 40th birthday, tho. He probably forgets all about it, because the US government gave him a new identity and that meant new dates for everything, but Dean read his classified file and knows his actual date of birth. He gets home from work and Dean’s waiting at home for him with new video games and a cake—there’s even a stupid party hat on their cat. Cas freaks out and has to keep it to himself because Dean went out of his way and did something nice for him, but he goes to bed that night worried and anxious because he’s forty now and no one Dean’s age wants a forty year old dude, hell he’s like two decades away from federal retirement age and then someone else will replace him as Dean’s handler and what if they fuck up and get Dean killed? He’s working himself into a pretty solid state of silent panic when Dean rolls him over, pins him to the mattress, and gives him a birthday blowjob. The next day at work, all the guys are teasing Cas about being ‘over the hill’, Bela and Charlie are trying to defend Cas’s honor, and Dean breezes past all of them, drops into Cas’s lap in full tactical gear, and announces that they can all fuck off because Cas might be forty but he has a 29 year old live-in boyfriend. Naomi yells at them to get back to work and can’t believe that she has to deal with these absolute children.
Dean lifts his gaze to Sweater Vest, who’s positively beaming at his people statues lining the sand, and nods. “Okay, Cas. So, who is he?” Because he has a very punchable face, he adds silently.
“He is the Voice.”
The Voice of God looks like Mr. Rogers’s creepy, younger brother. [x]
I’m rereading Named and cracking up at how accurately McLachland wrote Metatron. 3 years before he was ever in the actual series.
Oh, didn’t I mention? I’m a prophet.
Dean doesn’t know how to tell Sam that he’s fucking Cas, so he just doesn’t tell Sam. And doesn’t tell Sam. And keeps fucking Cas. And doesn’t tell Sam.
Sam is too much of a gentleman to state the obvious - he always promised himself that he would let Dean come out in his own time. So he looks the other way when Cas comes out of the bathroom wearing Dean’s flannel. He agrees that it’s perfectly natural for Dean to order five desserts so Cas can figure out which is his favorite. And he accepts Dean’s explanations when he finds them asleep, spooning in the backseat of the Impala.
But sitting across from them in the diner, watching Cas dip his fork back and forth between his own plate and Dean’s, Sam can’t keep his mouth shut anymore.
“Dude,” says Sam, gaping. “You just let him steal a bite of your pie.”
Dean looks at Cas, whose cheeks bulge guiltily. He looks back at Sam. “Yeah, well, this morning while you were in the shower he made me come so hard I blacked out, so he deserves it.”
I adore the way fan fiction writers engage with and critique source texts, by manipulating them and breaking their rules. Some of it is straight-up homage, but a lot of [fan fiction] is really aggressive towards the source text. One tends to think of it as written by total fanboys and fangirls as a kind of worshipful act, but a lot of times you’ll read these stories and it’ll be like ‘What if Star Trek had an openly gay character on the bridge?’ And of course the point is that they don’t, and they wouldn’t, because they don’t have the balls, or they are beholden to their advertisers, or whatever. There’s a powerful critique, almost punk-like anger, being expressed there—which I find fascinating and interesting and cool.
Lev Grossman (via theadventuresofcargline)
This is very true - I’ve seen innumerable fanfics of people saying, “I could do this better than they did.”
And quite frequently, they do.
After what felt like another eon of watching, waiting, protecting, Cas noticed Dean finally stir beneath him. The angel allowed himself one sigh of relief, brief and muffled.
“Rain,” Dean gagged, his voice raw, like a dull blade. How long had he been unconscious? Cas had no sense of it here in Purgatory, no concept of the minutes or hours or days. Besides, time was a human construct anyway, the measure of which never quite came naturally to Cas, no matter how hard he tried. “Ghch—Fuck. Rain?”
“I do not understand,” Cas murmured, in a voice blasphemously close to prayer.
“‘s raining,” mumbled Dean, without opening his eyes. “Since when’s it rain in here?”
“It is not raining, Dean.”
Dean tried to open his eyes then, but the effort was too much; and he settled instead for lolling his head gently back and forth along the ground.
“Ow. Fuck.” A breath escaped Dean’s chapped, broken lips, stained with whose blood, Cas could no longer tell. “Sure feels like rain.”
“I assure you.” Cas bit back a pained smile. His wings, raw and battered, ached. “It is not raining.”
“Then tell whatever’s dripping on me to stop.” A droplet splattered on Dean’s cheek just then, dripping down the contour of his cheekbone like a caress. Dean choked. “‘S annoying.”
“I’ll try,” murmured Cas, snaking a hand to the collar of Dean’s jacket. “Just go back to sleep.”
“Fine, fine,” he groaned, shifting his broken cheek against the back of Cas’s palm. Cas moved his hand away, and tried to ignore the brief, inappropriate flush of pleasure he felt from the small contact. Dean needed an angel now, nothing less.
“Looks like Mom was right all along,” Dean then added softly. He managed a small, secretive smile, as if he’d told a funny joke that Cas should have gotten. Cas grimaced. He still struggled to understand human humor. But this was neither the time nor the place.
“Sleep,” Cas ordered, and Dean did.
-gasp- OH MY GOD NO ONE HAS EVER WRITTEN A DRABBLE FOR MY ARTS BEFORE THANK YOUUUUU I love it! 8D Seriously! I am so stoked! LAKSf;lgs;log;lkj!
Rejoice, favored one, and do not fear, for your prayers are heard, and I have finally found you.
It was really a perfect plan. Dean didn’t see how it could go wrong.
If glasses scorched in holy fire could let him see hellhounds, why not an angel’s wings?
Dean almost rubbed his hands together in fiendish glee when he realized that seeing Cas’s wings could be as simple as putting on the glasses and calling Cas. He’d been dying to see them ever since the barn, and things between them had changed significantly since then.
With no reason to hesitate, he got his glasses from the trunk of the Impala and went to his bedroom in the bunker to pray. They’d had to alter the wards slightly to allow Cas through, but it was well worth it.
“Hey, Cas, I want to talk to you about something, so get your feathery ass down here!” Dean said playfully. He waited.
There was a soft swish of wings behind him and he turned, heart leaping in anticipation-
His breath caught in his throat, heart stopping cold.
“Dean?” Cas said, tilting his head the way he always did when he was curious about something. Dean couldn’t answer, nausea sinking into the pit of his stomach.
He could see Castiel’s wings.
They were huge, dwarfing Cas with their sheer size. The longest feathers looked to be the size of Dean’s forearm, soft and smooth, but that wasn’t what caused the lump in Dean’s throat.
Thick tracts of scar tissue crisscrossed what he could see of the wings. Large patches of feathers were missing, revealing painful-looking burns, or clearly growing back in. One of the wings had been broken and not set properly, lending an odd curve to the bone.
“Why are you wearing glasses?”
Dean’s hand flew to his face and he yanked them off, shoving them in his shirt pocket.
“I…. uh, reading,” he said. Cas nodded slowly, uncertain whether or not to believe him.
“What did you want to talk about?” Cas asked.
“You know… I forgot,” Dean lied.