#coda fix

[boywifesammy]

spn fic rec fest - 8

AUGUST 28 - episode codas

as before, i've tagged authors that have their tumblr public on their ao3. if you'd like me to remove the @, just lmk. @spnficrecfest for more info on the event.

034 - adrenaline by ani_coolgirl (@ani-coolgirl) 2x12 Nightshifter, Sam/Dean, 2k, E

Sam & Dean crash at a motel after the bank heist in Milwaukee, but they’re way too wired to sleep. i really had to restrain myself from putting every coda in the Every First Time series into this list :') the way ani writes the boys is perfect for episode codas/missing scenes because she just absolutely NAILS their characterization and tone of voice. i love how chaotic and desperate this fic is, it’s really like sam and dean are like two black holes collapsing into each other. very electric & sublime.

Hail, The Son by HandsAcrossTheSea 4x1 Lazarus Rising, Sam/Dean, 2k, E

When Dean comes back from hell, Sam’s buff & broody. With a little push from Dean, they rediscover the sexual relationship they had before. ok so this ones mostly on the list for being scorchingly hot and having one of my fav hell!headcanons, that sam&dean came back from hell with foreskin. dunno why but it has cemented in my brain and refuses to leave. its also so cozy seeing them find comfort in each other during really tough arcs like post-hell seasons, and this fic really exemplifies that <3

True Face by WetSammyWinchester (@wetsammywinchester) 12x11 Regarding Dean, Sam/Dean, 5k, E

Rowena can't undo Dean's amnesia curse. Sam deals with the aftermath. this fic is the perfect mix of angst with absolutely adorable wincest. its basically 5k of dean crushing hard on sam & being able to show it without inhibitions while sam has a mini freakout every time dean forgets who he is and finds their terrifying hunting gear lol <3 great fic

acid by goshen/applecrumbledore (@goshen-applecrumbledore) 11x17 Red Meat, Sam/Dean, 15k, E

Dean's romeo-juliet suicide attempt in red meat spurs Sam into starting a conversation about their codependency that Dean really does not want to have. ok so-- not TECHNICALLY a coda, because it veers away from red meat pretty quick, but i haven't recced one of goshen's fics in this fest yet and that's just plain wrong. the dahmer conversation in this is crazy and totally something sam serial-killer-junkie winchester would ramble about. i also loved the scene later on about sam pointing out how much they know about each other and how they’re basically synced up 24/7. i luv my codependent boys :3

Sometimes I Think It's A Sin by TatteredBurningWings/angelshotgun 4x22 Lucifer Rising, Sam/Dean, 3k, E

After accidentally freeing Lucifer, Sam is certain that Dean will want to kill him. He hopes that sex will put Dean in a better mood, at least. a voicemail fix it!!! this is my brand of angst, i cant explain it but i loveeeeee when characters feel that overwhelming sense of guilt & humiliation and push themself into doing whatever they can to appease the other person. this fic hits that little guilty-pleasure spot in my brain. plus its hurt with comfort and the ending is soft and a great ending to the scene ❤️

[h50europe]

9-1-1 Buck/Tommy - Cake And Honorable Intentions

My take on some additional scenes after Tommy's "interrogation" by Hen and Karen in episode 7.09, including a cozy bathtub scene and a pillow fight...

[erstwhilesparrow]

Hello, Liebling. I am being Very Nice to you and also requesting New Life Sparrow with prompt of Do Whatever You Want I Trust You With Them.

Sparrow just has to get back to Scott.

They've tucked themself against the shadowed side of a dune. The desert night is cold. Their jacket, once a comfortable weight across their shoulders, is too light to replace a real hug. They think they can feel the gaps the sculk left when it remade them, wind whistling through.

Scott will help. Scott will make it better. There will be a warm bed, and maybe food. Maybe Scott will be in his kitchen. When Sparrow arrives on his doorstep, he'll smile and offer to cook.

Sparrow just has to get back home.

[its-coda]

I come out of a depressive episode and the first thing i do is draw middle aged men yaoi

[its-all-ineffable]

IWTV peeps...I wrote a new fic!

Death or damnation?

Summary: “This was hers; her choice. She could choose to thrust herself into the sunlight. She could choose to end this undead life that was just as bad as her old life. She could choose to stop being a buffer for two grown men that really needed to learn how to just fucking talk to each other, could choose to end a sham life where she’d never grow into a woman but still grow up. She placed one foot on the piano bench, keeping her gaze on the patch of sunlight. This was the only choice she would ever have.”

An episode 4 coda/fix-it. You choose.

[inked-out-trees]

wake up, wake up, little sparrow

(a coda to the fixed point theory, in which sparrow and cola finally get their closure)

I finally did it! it's been a long time coming (and by long time I mean I wanted to write this scene into the full fic, couldn't find a spot for it, and so pieces of this have been vibing at the back of my mind for like a year). pls enjoy :')

wordcount: 3373. title from the folksong of the same name by ella jenkins, secondary shoutout to the leyla mccalla version as well.

// mention of fic-typical death, reference to something that feels like incest but is not because they're not related - sandra just likes to call the cohort her siblings

October 2009.

The variation of front doors throughout time is surprisingly thin. At least, the look of them. Approximately person-sized, with a bit extra to account for comfort and human differences, a perfect delineation that says: you can enter this closed place through this area that is sometimes not closed. And occasionally they are painted red.

This is something Sandra thinks about on and off as she stands on the doorstep.

This squat little house lives in a threadbare neighbourhood somewhere in the shitty outskirts of a desperately small prairie town, the kind with one school and two churches and porches laden with old bikes and dirty plastic chairs. She’s seen no one in the half hour she’s been here, psyching herself up first on the gravel road and then on the front step of the house. It has a red front door. The floorboards are weathered green-grey beneath her feet.

She checks the time and date again. Correct, all around. The address. Also correct. It’s all written down, anyway, on this sticky note in her pocket that’s been crumpled and flattened so much its edges are soft and the ink has run and faded. The loopy, unencumbered handwriting of a forty-two-year-old Dodger, whom Sandra had run into at a farmer’s market in 2633.

That had been weird, too. Not just because it was the first time she’d been called Sparrow in fifteen years. They’d traded pleasantries, caught each other up on the lost years of their lives like they were casual old friends rather than estranged sisters who grew up learning how to kill people. It was awkward and then they fell into it, tripping suddenly into this metaphorical hole of easy reminiscence and falling, falling, falling.

Dodger hadn’t given her much of the cohort’s history, but she did give Sandra the currents: that she’d started writing her weird books, that Ghoul had found a ‘hot divorcée MILF’–Ghoul’s words–to settle down with, that Nicky was still gallivanting around picking up his odds and ends, to the consternation of the Bureau. Most crucially, at least to Sandra – that Cola was waiting.

The date’s passed, based on our chats, Dodger had said, something wistful playing at the edges of her lips. Cola still hasn’t told us what came of it.

How is he now? Sandra had asked.

And Dodger had shrugged, easily, like it wasn’t a concern that they’d scattered, leaving Cola in particular to whatever fate he cursed himself into. Like he wasn’t struggling to draw breath the last time Sandra had seen him, like things just – went on.

Which, maybe they did. She doesn’t know the details.

He messages us every once in a while so we know he’s still alive, Dodger had said.

Sandra wonders how necessary that was, at the start. If his state of being was that much of a question.

Dodger didn’t know what she’d be walking into, and so–even though it’s been a long time since she’s needed a debrief before jumping into things–her nerves slice sharp. The porch is so unassuming it feels, for a moment, that she’s on a regular adventure, or perhaps doorknocking or flyering or something else she lost shame about a long time ago. The door is the colour of fresh blood. Sandra’s not a ditherer – but this is Cola.

Cola, whose dream she picked up and ran with, never once looked back to see if she was trailing his intestines along with it.

The blinds at the front window are shut tight, but there’s a shift in one of them–a slit widening, and then shutting again, the brief space of an eyeball between them–and then the door lock clicks. Her throat hurts as she swallows.

Empty, cold space, this airlock of a front hallway, and then Cola says, “Sparrow.”

Sandra lifts her eyes. “Hi,” she says.

Cola’s older, here, same as the Dodger she met in the market several days ago and several hundred years to come. Or maybe he just looks it – reasonably, he shouldn’t be past forty yet, somewhere close in age to Sandra herself despite the jumps in time. But there are crevasses in his face that seem too deep to be real, a heaviness to the way he holds himself, steel-grey eyes she could drown in.

“You came,” Cola says.

Sandra thinks she might understand the way it feels to be a butterfly pinned into a shadow box. “I met Dodger,” she says. “She gave me the address.”

“I figured one of them would. If you found them.”

“I wouldn’t say I was looking for them,” says Sandra. “Not that she was looking for me, either, it was more of a coincidence, right-place-right-time sort of thing. Which, given the whole, you know. Time. I guess it could be construed as suspicious? But then again, even the smallest of probabilities must be true in some form, in some universe, again, given time. So maybe it was just that.” That’s a lot of words all at once. Sandra clamps her jaw shut.

Cola just gives her the smallest upturn of a smile. “I really want to get to know you,” he says finally, stepping aside to let her through the cramped entryway. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

He shuts the door and locks it, and as she’s pulling off her boots, Cola skirts past her, deliberately not touching her – a lack of touch that hurts nonetheless, because she knows in her bones that in a past life he would have given her a gentle knock on the shoulder, or even a hip-check, something easy and kind. There is so much between them, and it is nothing and everything, all at once.

She tucks her boots in the corner by the doorstop, toes nudging against a faded dirt stain along the baseboard. A little whiff of warm air brushes past her knuckles from the vent. Something click-clicks deep within the ducts. The house feels, incredulously, alive.

“I also have biscuits,” Cola says, from further inside. “They’re from the store. Probably stale. But I have them.”

Around the corner, the kitchen has the same wilted feel as the rest of the interior: beige wood cabinets and grey lino on the counters, the handle of the refrigerator yellowed with use, a pile of used dishes in the sink, all of it emanating a sort of stasis. The walls and fridge are bare of pictures. A single banana sits, browning, on the windowsill.

And Cola, half inside the pantry, holding a box of biscuits tentatively in one hand.

“Sounds perfect,” Sandra says, and she almost believes it. The water picks up in the kettle. She’s visiting a friend, that’s all; never mind that it’s not her current home time or place, never mind that this friend is her long-estranged brother.

Cola shifts another not-quite-smile her way, slides the biscuits across the island.

She’s not sure what’s meant to happen now. If the onus is on her to start whatever this is, or on Cola – he invited her here, sure, but she came. She slips her nails into the groove of the cardboard and rips open the biscuit box, and Cola pulls two mugs from his cupboards and drops unremarkable teabags into them, and neither of them speak.

They stand in relative silence until the kettle boils, and Cola hands her a mug, picking up his own and leading her back into the living room. She’d passed it earlier but made no note of it; the furniture is mismatched but comfortable, and–most memorably–a guitar is propped upright next to the tv, without a stand but surrounded by piles of books and sheet music. It’s so new it shakes her. So much has changed.

“So,” she says, and the word is so violently awkward it catapults her personality fully into the opposite direction – back into the ease and detachment of Sandra, the great and powerful, better-than-you actress who first debuted whenever she finally joined the drama club. Thirteen years ago and three years to come. “What made you choose two thousand and nine?”

Cola raises an eyebrow at her code switch but thankfully doesn’t push it. “Hadn’t been here yet,” he says, “and it seemed far enough away from all my other shit that it just... sounded okay.” He swipes a hand across his forehead, pulling trailing hair from his face. “And, I don’t know. I knew you were somewhere around here, too. Maybe I’d run into you. Long shot, but. You know.”

All at once Sandra deflates. So much for great and powerful. “Time loves its coincidences,” she agrees. “You look well.”

Cola’s answering snort is derisive. “I would love to see through whatever lenses you’ve got right on right now, Sparr.”

And, okay, yes, in truth Cola has a haggardness about him, deep under-eye circles and this energy fuzzing at the surface of his skin, like he’s been holding onto a coiled spring for so long even letting it go would no longer hold absolution. It’s been a long, long time, but somewhere in the core parts of Sandra’s memories she holds a picture of Cola full of life and glowing with it. This is – not that.

“You, however,” he continues, circling his mug in her direction. “Obviously whatever you did... worked well for you.”

“It did,” Sandra confirms. She doesn’t want to say too much, because, again – a dream she stole is a dream barely hers at all.

But Cola leans forward, with the least amount of guard she’s seen since she’s stepped foot in this house that breathes. “Tell me,” he demands, and she never could deny him, anyway, not when it counted.

She talks for a long time, and Cola never once stops looking interested. He rises a couple times: first to refill their tea, and then to start dinner, something small and frozen that Sandra doesn’t quite catch before it’s out of the box and into the oven. “Hope you’re okay without living in splendor for a bit,” he says, somewhat sardonically, and Sandra says, “I was in prison, I can handle it,” fully knowing she hasn’t gotten to that part yet in her story, excited to tell more. They sit on Cola’s kitchen counter and eat when it’s done – two plastic plates full of crudely sliced Shepard’s pie, heels knocking against the bottom set of kitchen cabinets.

Sandra finishes her abbreviated life story–as much as she’s telling, anyway–as they’re drying and returning Cola’s dishes to their spots. The grass flats stretching beyond the kitchen window sprout twisted, gnarled shadows, like scarecrows in the drying field. The sun is on the other side of the house, so low in the sky it’s almost disappeared. It’s been hours.

In the living room, Cola flicks on the lamp and dumps himself back into the chair. Sandra cradles her fourth cup of tea. “Your turn,” she says.

Cola shoves his face into both hands, stays like that for a while, and then moves them up, brushing back his hair as he goes. “It’s not as exciting.”

“I don’t care. It’s you. It’ll be exciting.”

This is the wrong thing to say, apparently, because all of the looseness Cola has begun to exhibit coils right back up, hard lines re-imprinting into the corners of his eyes. “Whatever you’re thinking, Sparr, I promise it’s not–that’s not even your fucking name, I shouldn’t be calling you that.”

“You can,” Sandra says. “You’re the only one who can.”

“Fuck,” Cola sighs, deflating much like a balloon. “Look, it’s not. I’m not.” He sits in silence for a while, clawing his fingers and then relaxing them on his knee, nails scraping against his jeans. “Dodger didn’t tell you anything, huh.”

“Not really.” and she hadn’t, not of their past; just of their present, or what they’d built into their own pocket of ‘present’, this shortened version of their past ten years or so. Sandra makes a small, nonsensical gesture at the house. “But you’re here. Instead of, you know.”

Cola stares at the floor, visibly steeling himself. “So you left,” he says. “We know that part. The Ring was not happy, as you can expect. They said they’d handle it. The rest of us kind of expected them to bring back your body as a warning.”

“Jesus,” Sandra says, before she can stop herself.

“But they grounded me anyway,” Cola continues. “Thought I’d helped you, or some shit. When they asked if I had I said no, but if she’d let me I would have, and I don’t know if that killed my future or not but it certainly didn’t help. Didn’t really care at that point, though. Since you, you know. Made it all possible, even when it wasn’t.”

Sandra remembers the crack in his voice that very first night, when he’d said I’m too chickenshit to do anything about it. Remembers how hard she’d hoped, afterwards, that he’d managed anyway.

Cola drains his tea. “Didn’t matter, anyway. The program got shut down five, seven years later. Yeah,” he adds, at Sandra’s raised eyebrow, “we were the first and the last ones, big fuckin’ whoop. Guess it wasn’t sustainable the way they thought it was, raising cycles of children to do their dirty work. Anyway, we were still classified as dangerous as hell, didn’t even exist legally and all that shit, so they couldn’t just let us wander. So we just, kind of... stayed at the compound. They kept everything running–everything except, y’know, the regular trips–and it was the most boring three years in my whole goddamn life. Hell, Mono and Prime started shagging somewhere in there, and it was–yeah, I know–until I figured, hey, we’ve been controlled enough, they don’t need any judgement from me. So. You know.”

He shrugs, like it’s the end of the story, dismissive in a way that makes Sandra want to lean in, unravel the stuck pieces and pull them out like thread.

“They let us out a couple years ago,” he says. “Personal escort to whenever and wherever we wanted to go, no time tech allowed beyond that. We collective-bargained for this stupid groupchat. I think they got the code from the future. But it measures sends and receives based on how long we’ve each been alive, so, like – I could text ‘em four hours after I get here and they’ll each get it four hours after they’ve landed in their final times. But that’s. That’s it, really.” He leans back in his chair, eyes still tight, face still shuttered. “And now I’m here, I guess. Living out the rest of my life in a fuckin’ farm town.”

Sandra wants to ask about the farm town decision, but the impression she’s getting of Cola–this ghost of a man living inside a house that feels, for all intents and purposes, larger than the person occupying it–is twigging something unpleasant in her gut. “All the things you wanted to do,” she ends up saying. “Concerts. Coworkers. Love.”

Cola laughs, a single, sharp bark that could shatter ice. “Fuck, Sparrow, that was always just going to be a dream. The program took too much away from me when they grounded me - hell, when they fucking adopted me. There’s not enough left in here to build whatever life I wanted.” He flops a hand around in a gesture at himself. “I’m glad you got your happy ending. Really, I’m fucking elated for you. But all you are is lucky. Most folks just go until they don’t anymore.”

Sandra notes, dimly, that whatever was rattling in the vents has now stopped; somewhere down the hall a clock seems to be repeating the tock without an accompanying tick, an unsettling undertone to the silence. She might be numb all over. Or maybe it just hurts, in some unexplainable way, this version of Cola she’s just met – the one she’s known all along. Bitter and carved from stone.

It’s fully nighttime now. It might just be the lamp casting odd shadows onto his face, but she’s not quite sure that’s it.

“Cola,” she says.

“I picked Ronan,” he says. “Not that anyone knows me by that. But the woman at the grocery store asked, once. Town this small, it’s hard to miss when new people show up.”

Sandra wets her lips and resets. “Ronan.”

And Cola looks her in the eyes. “Sandra.”

Good god, how did they get here? Her fingers itch for her watch; she wants to hurl them both back in time and fix whatever’s gone wrong here, fix it all – mold them both better childhoods, give them love rather than the fucked-up upbringing they got stuck with.

“You still have time,” she says, finally, sort of like she’s begging. Absolutely like she’s begging. “Find a major city. Pull out all the stops.”

“Jesus, always with the idealism.” Cola runs his hand through his hair, again, and tugs at it. “I’m a fucking coward, didn’t you hear the first time? This is what I have. I’m not stupid enough to let it get taken away from me, too.”

“But it doesn’t have to go.” Sandra’s stubborn, she can credit herself that. “You’re making Ronan up as you go. I know you are, I had to do the same with Sandra. He doesn’t have to hold onto the things Cola holds onto. He can do more. He can.”

Cola looks cynical, and for a flash of a second Sandra wants to haul him to his feet by the collar and throttle him. She doesn’t. She bites at the edge of her thumb and thinks for a while.

“Hey, we all knew this was going to be how it turned out,” Cola says, in a weird, gentle way, like he’s trying to reassure Sandra of his own miserable circumstances.

Sandra finds purchase on a piece of tough skin and yanks, tearing a strip that starts fine and turns tender the further it pulls. The loose thread of skin tickles. She flicks it back and forth with her pointer finger.

“Fine,” she declares. “You’re a coward. Cool. You know what you can still do?”

Cola raises an eyebrow as Sandra stands, rounding the coffee table and picking past a small pile of DVDs.

She thrusts a hand out, fingers open, as though offering him a boost up. “Take my hand.”

“Sparrow,” says Cola.

“The great news,” she says, “is that we’re all cowards. Every single one of us, about different things. We just find people who can do the things we can’t and let them drag us along, because we’re scared as hell but we do it anyway. Take my fucking hand, Cola.”

Cola spares a glace to his DVD player, which has a digital clock glowing green on its right side. “It’s nine thirty. Where are you planning on taking me, the high school bonfire?”

“It’s a bloody metaphor,” Sandra says, exasperated. “Do I have to pick you up? You look like you stopped exercising. I could take you.”

“Uh, no,” Cola retorts. “It’s always been a fair fight, it’ll always be a fair fight.”

He’s slipping back into banter mode, shedding some of that armor disguised as a hatred for life. Sandra keeps her hand out and tries to smother the smug feeling in her stomach.

Cola looks at her hand, then looks at her, back and forth a couple times. “You’re fucking serious,” he says.

“I’m fucking serious,” says Sandra.

“You–”

Sandra waves her open hand very close to Cola’s nose.

“Don’t slap me, Jesus Christ.” Cola smacks her hand away, and that’s the end of it – except it’s not, because instead of just letting her go, he wraps his fingers around hers. It’s a little unorthodox, as far as hauling handshakes go, but Sandra plants her feet and pulls him to stand anyway.

Nine thirty, in the bleeding dark of the smallest farm town Sandra’s ever seen, surrounded by life – a peeling coffee table with ringstains, piles of DVDs, the goddamn guitar. Cola opens himself, just a little bit, to match.

Sandra grips her brother’s hand. “The two thousands can be great, if you let them,” she says. “You’re going to make this work.”

[angelwiththeblue-box]

carla said i will force these two idiots to talk to each other if its the last thing i do and she is so real for that

pairings: buck/eddie, buckley-diaz family

word count: 1399

rated: t

warnings: cursing

taglist under cut (lemme know if you want to be added or removed)

@genuine-possum @blueskiesandstarrynights @buddiextarlos @thedragonemperess @thedrowningpoetofdionysus @depressedtransguy

[zorilleerrant]

"And this," Louis says, waving a hand in that forced lackadaisical way he has, "is my lover. Lestat."

Daniel starts. Looks them both over again with a critical eye, frowning as he does, but trying not to form opinions too fast. It takes work. He's too old to let his thoughts accrete organically; he wants them over with now. But that's no way to write a story.

Louis and... Lestat... stare at him patiently. Expectantly. With their vampire eyes boring through his soul and seeing the shakes he hides in his hands even now.

"You said," Daniel rolls the words over in his mouth, not quite as slow as his ideas are taking form at the moment, but slow enough, "that Lestat was a white guy."

Louis cocks his head, cute but affected, and lets a smile curl up his lips in a way that ceased to seem natural days ago. Daniel's not sure vampires can make natural expressions, anymore. It's lost to them, like flavor, and sunlight. "He was white, back then."

"He was white. Back then." Daniel's found himself repeating a lot of Louis's words this time - he found himself repeating a lot of Louis's words the first time, but that was all on the tape, and he remembers bits and pieces of it through the haze, no one keyword relevant enough to drag out the memory - but it's a stall tactic the way it hasn't been. Or the way repetition has been only from Louis's lips, so far, this session.

"White enough to buy a business, not white enough to smile at their daughters," 'Lestat' says with that placid expression, friendly, inviting, divots in his eyebrows just visible enough to seem concerned. Kind eyes. Always kind eyes. When they aren't doing that.

"You know, funny thing," Daniel says, and it's not a funny thing, but there's only so much filler he remembers. They don't train you to filibuster during interviews, that's not the point. They don't train you on the ins and outs of the racial history of the Unites States of America, but they do train you to research it on your own, and he just. Hasn't. Daniel took a class once, he remembers. Only he thinks it might have covered other topics. "I don't remember Islam being mentioned, with everything you said about the time."

"It's not always a public thing, my religion," 'Lestat' says, with those glowing, inhuman eyes. Hands still tucked politely behind his back, like that would stop him ever going for Daniel's throat, if he wanted to. Daniel's still not sure whether he wants to. "It can't always be. We did say they left Bibles."

Daniel wants his notes. He itches to roll back his tape recorder, feed the words back into his mind. He's already forgotten what they said to him, what notes he made about it. Daniel forgets so much, these days. "He's Lestat. He looks like that? He's always looked like that?"

"Since I died," Lestat confirms, without a trace of the passion that pervaded the tale front to back, without one exaggerated expression of unbearable anguish, without one scream that tore apart the walls. He smirks at Daniel, like he knows.

"It wasn't relevant," Louis says, with just a trace of a hiss, just of hint of the threat to let this go. A narrowing of the eyes, like he thinks he understands, but he doesn't know why Daniel even cares at this point in the story. "It didn't come up."

[t4tstarvingdog]

okay for no reason guys but how do you tag for an episode on ao3. like how do you write it in a tag

[profoundbondfanfic]

Untouchable

Untouchable by EllenOfOz (@ellen-of-oz) Rating: Mature Word count: 9k

Dean's life is coming undone. Castiel has proclaimed himself their new god and fucked off to make war in Heaven, while back on Earth, Sam's losing his marbles from Hell-trauma. All Dean can do is work to restore his baby, and try not to think about how much he misses his angel. How much he longs for a little taste of Heaven...

For all the years I’ve been in fandom, I have to admit that I’ve stuck mostly to AU’s, especially when the show was still airing. Since it’s ended, and since joining this blog, I’ve expanded my horizons to canon fics, whether it’s canon divergent or not. But something that’s filled the void since the end of the show has been fix it fics, for obvious reasons. This week, I have another fix it… but this one is for season 7. 

Season 7. Fifteen-episode gap. That’s all I’m gonna say. And I didn’t know I needed that to be fixed until I read Untouchable by EllenofOz. Set at the beginning of season 7, we get a front row seat from both Dean and Cas’s pov’s, which is as agonizing as you’d expect, considering what they’re going through. Cas is running around full of souls and Leviathan, and Dean’s going through it as he puts all his emotions and energy into fixing the Impala after the demon’s flipped it over. Sam’s waking up from his hell coma and things are just bad and this author lets us know how Dean’s feeling, including his secret feelings for his best friend, who is currently killing religious leaders and causing overall mayhem in Heaven and on Earth. 

One of the great things about this fic is the author lets you Choose Your Own Adventure, basically, encouraging the reader not to venture past chapter three if you’re happy with how canon went. If you’re remembering that fifteen episode desert devoid of the third main character, then you can proceed to the final chapter which will give you the happy ending both Dean and Cas deserve. I highly suggest reading all the way through.

Also if you’re a Swiftie, this fic was written for the Dean Cas Bang (Taylor’s Verison) and is loosely inspired by the song of the same name, and has some great art included. Enjoy!

[ask-the-attorneys]

Hiro: “…….i didn’t mean to kill that kid, i just went a little too far and ended up murdering him. I didn’t want to to end up in prison so I staged his death as a suicide to make it throw suspicion off of me, and for extra backup I contacted a friend of my fathers, Blaise debeste to destroy any evidence of it. It was an accident, it was never……..premeditated, all I wanted was toshiros money.”

[Oliver]

That's....

[PLAYER1]

One of the pettiest motives I've ever heard!

[pyrriax]

the joys of having the worst sleep schedule known to man

[melancholiaenthroned]

also now that im caught up i think my most controversial malevolent opinion is. well ok i hate the two bodies thing like do not separate them. but i understand why ppl like it (and tbh its strong possibility it will happen in canon) thats just a me thing i <3 bodysharing. HOWEVER if u r doing it and have arthur regain his sight after separating with john. um i think ur ignoring canon and also ableist. lol

[its-coda]

I’m going to explode i submitted my code for an assignment but i forgot to erase a comment that said “THE SENTINEL ISN’T WORKINGGG”

[florspages]

Welcome to my WIP!

A Beth/Daryl Coda/Canon rewrite.

Chapter 11 just went up. If you love twd, Daryl, Beth, the whole gang then this one is for you.

I will die with this ship!

[inked-out-trees]

quick moment of silence for the things that never quite made it into the ttau (+ the original ending, before i found something better)