#colognecoda

[ozonecologne]

I know it will never happen but I want to see Sam and Eileen go on a romantic date, giggle and eat good food, kiss softly, then make out passionately, then have great sex, then spend a few months canoodling and poring over Rowena's books, learning magic together until they are an unbeatable super hunter witch duo. They flick Chuck into the void. Then they get a puppy. And Sam proposes. And.. and.. that's the end of the show! Everything is beautiful and nothing hurts. 😭 #WHYNOT????

Eileen wakes up around three in the afternoon the next day, and Sam tries to pretend that he wasn’t waiting up for her. For a little bit there, yeah, he’d actually gotten engrossed in deciphering Rowena’s journals – lifted from the apartment and safely in their new home – but staring at complex symbols and formulas can get tiring after a while. Her handwriting is tight and small and impeccable, just as she was in life, and Sam has to set the pages aside for a while to breathe. 

It’s only once he does that he realizes he hasn’t eaten in a while.

He makes his way to the kitchen and half-expects to see Dean there, but the room is empty. A quick glance at the shelves does confirm that they’re down two more boxes of cereal, so Dean’s definitely been here in the last few hours. Sam shakes his head and stumbles towards the refrigerator, dragging his hands down his face. He sniffs and peers in, blindly swiping at a bell pepper placed gingerly on the bottom shelf. The skin is a little wrinkled and it’s not super firm to the touch, so he scrunches his nose. He picks up the other two peppers behind it and looks around for anything else he can use – some wilting spinach, a few sad tomatoes… man, they really need to go shopping.

Cooking is usually Dean’s thing, but Dean clearly isn’t up to the task right now. Sam takes his aging vegetables over the center island and grabs a cutting board and a big knife and sets to work, dicing and mincing and julienning as best he knows how. It’s like spell work for the body.

He whips up a quick pasta primavera pretty fast, and it may not be very complicated, but it is warm and does the job. He tries to pace himself as he eats alone at the table, and tries to keep his eyes off the door.

He doesn’t manage to stop himself from glancing over at the second portion left in the pan.

When the clock hits 3:12PM, Eileen walks in. She moves as quietly as if she were still a ghost in a pair of borrowed flannel pajamas that are almost comically big on her, and she pauses in the doorway. Sam startles when he actually sees her there.

“Hey,” he says.

Eileen smiles and wipes a hand up through her hair, over her forehead. She waves with the other hand and steps into the kitchen.

“Uh,” Sam starts to say, but Eileen’s back is turned. He gets up with the guise of taking his empty plate to the sink.

Eileen reaches up for the cabinets where she knows the mugs are kept, but she’s just a smidge too short to reach the first shelf. Sam huffs a laugh under his breath and leans over to help her.

His hand lands on the cabinet handle and Eileen looks over to smile gratefully, eyes still a little glassy with sleep. Sam smiles back.

“Do you have any tea?” Eileen mumbles, just as he takes down a yellow mug for her.

Sam nods. He leaves the mug on the counter. He gently puts his hands on her arms and says, “Why don’t you go sit?”

Eileen’s eyes flick over his shoulder, towards the stove.

“Did you cook?” she asks, and Sam doesn’t like how incredulous she sounds about it.

“Yes, I did,” he tells her.

She raises her eyebrows, and finally steps away in the direction of the table. “You really are impressing me lately,” she says.

Sam feels his face heating and busies himself with fixing Eileen a plate. He also makes himself a cup of tea, if only to have an excuse to stick around a bit longer.

Eileen is very complimentary with her meal, taking one big bite of pasta and leaning back in her chair, bringing her right hand up to her chin and empathically slapping it against her left in a good good good good gesture while she chews.

Sam smiles. “Glad you like it.”

Eileen pauses to swallow and goes right back in, taking breaks just to wash down her food with some chamomile tea. She picks up her hands at one point to sign to Sam, Did you eat?

Sam nods into his mug of Earl Grey. “A little before you.”

She nods and picks up her fork again, but as soon as she touches her plate again, she slows to a stop. Sam looks up from his mug and watches her for a minute as her brow furrows, her eyes darken. He sits up straighter in his seat.

What’s wrong? he signs.

Eileen puts her fork down to free up her hand and signs back, Thank you.

Sam sits there, a little confused, but Eileen signs it again. Thank you. Thank you, thank you –

He sees her hand shaking. And he sees how her eyes are brimming up with tears and oh no…  

“Sam,” she whispers, and drops her head into her hands.

Sam sets down his mug too fast and darts out of his seat, immediately moving to join Eileen on the other side of the table. “Hey,” he murmurs, reaching for her. “Hey, hey, hey.”

She can’t hear him, but he knows that she can feel the words rumbling through his chest when he pulls her close, petting down her hair.

“You’re fine,” he tells her. “You’re fine, you’re safe here. It’s over, honey, it’s over.”

Eileen weeps into his shirt and he just holds her through it, his own eyes getting a little misty with the effort.

They sit there together for a long, long time.

Dean finds them in – where else – the library. Having a job to do helps keep everyone focused and functioning, so Sam asked if Eileen wanted to help hm sort through Rowena’s belongings and archive them all for their own records. She took him up on it, and by the time Dean finally surfaces Eileen’s eyes have dried.

Sam looks up at his brother’s arrival and does a double-take, nearly shattering the little glass jar in his hands.

“Whoa,” he says. “You’re not in a robe.”

Dean throws him a baleful look. “Ha ha,” he replies. He gestures to Eileen. “Apparently not everybody got the memo about putting on big kid clothes today.”

Eileen picks at the collar of the plaid pajama top. “They’re comfortable,” she says.

Dean ticks his head and approaches the table. “Don’t I know it, sister.”

Sam rolls his eyes as Dean trails his hands over a few of the scattered papers in their pile. “So what’s got you all gussied up?” Sam asks his brother.

Dean shrugs. “Figure you’re right. Can’t just hole up in my room forever, you know?”

Sam nods. “Good, yeah.”

Dean is quiet, picking absently through some of the boxed-up artifacts. Eileen slaps his hand away and he looks up, betrayed.

“Anything else?” Sam asks.

Dean shifts his weight and his eyes dart away a bit guiltily. “Uh, yeah.”

He doesn’t elaborate. Sam sets down the two jars he was inspecting and gives his brother his full attention.

Dean sighs a little, but Sam catches it. “Cas called.”

Sam frowns. “He in town?”

“Will be within the hour.”

Sam bites his lip to keep from grinning. “So you guys gonna kiss and make up?”

Dean waves a hand and turns on his heel. “Whatever. Just thought you’d like to know.”

“Sure. Thanks, jerk.”

Dean just flips him off over his shoulder as he storms out of the library. Sam snickers a little to himself and gets back to work, logging the contents of the jars on the table very neatly into his notebook.

“Even I understood that one,” Eileen tells him.

Sam smirks. “He’s a little sensitive right now.”

Eileen nods and hands him a tall, clear bottle. Some green-ish liquid swirls in the bottom of it and she wrinkles her nose as she passes it over. “Well, I know the feeling.”

It seems like a good segue to bring up what happened earlier in the kitchen, but Dean all of a sudden reappears before Sam gets the chance. He stomps through the library in his heavy boots with purpose.

Sam raises his eyebrows at him. “You forget something?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, but he isn’t looking at Sam. 

Eileen, not having heard Dean arrive, doesn’t take her eyes off the table until Dean is standing right in front of her. She jumps a little when Dean gets up in her space.

“I know how it feels to come back from Hell.” Eileen’s eyes widen, but Dean keeps going. “I know how that feels. And when you want to get away and think about something else, when you get nightmares and you can’t tell what’s real anymore, I want you to know that you have somewhere to go.”

He presses something into the palm of Eileen’s hand and closes his own around it. Eileen, dazed, folds her own hand over his.

“That’s all I’m going to say about it,” Dean tells her.

Eileen shakily nods. “Ok.”

Dean nods at her in return, once and decisively, and then pulls his hands away. Eileen lets him, and clutches whatever he’s given her close to her chest. 

“Ok,” Dean echoes.

His eyes dart to Sam’s for a moment, but he doesn’t pause to communicate much, or to decipher Sam’s own look back. He just turns around again and walks out of the library, a bit slower than before.

Sam only turns to look at Eileen once he’s gone, and before he can ask what he wanted to ask, he catches her looking down into her palms. A tiny brass key on a thread of braided leather cord sits there, and Eileen peers at it curiously.

“What is it?” she asks, like she can sense Sam’s eyes on her.

Sam frowns and leans over her shoulder, inspecting the key a little closer. His face clears. “Oh my god,” he murmurs.

Eileen turns over her shoulder, feeling Sam’s breath in her ear. “What?”

Sam laughs. He points at the key.

“You got a key to the Dean Cave.”

Eileen is the one that gets the honor of flicking on the light downstairs, after her new key has been successfully twisted into its lock. She looks around suspiciously before entering, with Sam close at her back.

“Welcome to the Fortress of Dean-a-Tude,” Sam flourishes.

Eileen starts to grin. “This is… cool,” she decides.

Sam rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t disagree.

“You guys have foosball,” she says, pointing. Sam just shrugs.

She wanders further into the Cave and looks around at all of Dean’s dorky decorations: the framed posters on the walls, the stuff he’s hung from the ceiling, and runs her hand over the plush armchairs as she scans the bookshelves.

“Records,” she observes.

“Dean’s a big music buff,” Sam answers her.

She turns, head cocked.

He likes music, he signs to her. She nods.

She approaches the bookshelves and runs her fingers along the spines. Records, books, DVDs. She smiles a little sadly. 

“I don’t suppose any of these movies are subtitled,” she hazards.

Sam cocks an eyebrow. “Only one way to find out.”

Sam and Eileen are able to spend a good amount of time down in the Cave together, and it works out to be in everybody’s best interest anyway. Now that they’ve both gotten their heads back in the game, Dean and Castiel need their space to work themselves out – which Sam is more than happy to give them. Eileen still feels a little “sensitive,” and honestly Sam does too. With everything in such chaos and nothing much to do but wait until God comes to them with a new ultimatum, they might deserve a few lazy days to themselves to heal.

So Sam and Eileen start working their way through Dean’s movie collection. Many of them do, in fact, have subtitles.

Some of them don’t, like this version of Fellowship of the Ring they’ve got running on the DVD player. “It’s really ok, Sam,” Eileen assures him. “I don’t think I’d follow it anyway,” she confesses.

Sam smiles. “I have trouble following it, and I read the book.”

Eileen tucks a secret smile into her cheek. “So did I, way back when.”

Sam huffs, grinning. “Of course you did.”

She twists around in her seat. “You know, it’s really hard to read your lips in the dark.”

Sam blinks, and swallows. “You could come over here,” he says.

Eileen raises an eyebrow. “You barely fit in that chair by yourself,” she teases.

“It reclines,” Sam blurts.

Eileen blinks at him, any traces of teasing sliding from her expression.

Sam takes a breath and slowly lets it out, before lifting his arms.

Come here, he signs.

Eileen’s smile returns, and hesitantly gets up out of her armchair. She brings her soda with her, but sets it on the end table closest to Sam before climbing up into his lap. True to his word, he hits the lever on the side of the chair and puts them at an angle, so their legs can stretch out.

Eileen giggles as they try to fit themselves comfortably onto the chair, and Sam finds himself laughing along with her despite the way his heart is pounding. “Dean should get a couch.”

“Yeah, I’ll be sure to mention it to him,” Sam replies.

“Good Christmas gift,” Eileen counters.

“Got a point,” Sam tells her. Eileen nudges her head into his shoulder and Sam hisses, recoiling.

Eileen sits up. “Did I hurt you?”

Sam tries to wave her off, but he’s sure he doesn’t look very convincing gritting his teeth the way he knows he is. “No, no, it’s ok. Remember when I told you about, uh. About Chuck? How I shot him?”

Understanding washes over Eileen’s expression. “Oh, right. It’s not getting any better, is it.”

Sam shakes his head. “No, it’s not. I don’t know if it ever will,” he confesses.

They’re quiet for a minute, with only the sounds of the movie in the background to fill the silence. Eileen breaks their stillness by smiling again. “Guess I’ll just be careful when we cuddle.”

Sam laughs and is grateful that the dark can disguise the way he flushes. “I’d – yeah, I’d appreciate that.”

Eileen tucks herself up under Sam’s chin, angled forward enough that she can see the television screen. Sam wraps both arms around her and squeezes, sighing happily into her hair.

It’s nice. It’s the most at peace that Sam has felt in a long time.

“Do you still have the visions?” Eileen asks him, quietly.

She isn’t looking at him, so Sam signs his reply in her eyeline. He waves his hand back in forth in a so-so gesture, which is the closest he can get to telling her, Sometimes.

Eileen nods. Sam drops his hand to her bent knee and pats it. He prods her with his finger.

“What, me?”

Sam nods into her hair. He brings his hand up to her temple, and taps the letter D there before moving away.

Eileen sighs. “You want to know if I’m having nightmares.”

Sam nods again, keeping his eyes on the television screen. Once Dean brought it up in the library, it was all Sam could think about: if Eileen was actually getting any sleep, if bringing her back only doomed her to a waking torment…

“I was down there for almost three years,” Eileen whispers. The sound of her voice is nearly lost under the sound of the movie. “But it didn’t feel like three years.”

Sam’s breath hitches. He squeezes Eileen tighter.

“I do still dream about it,” Eileen admits. “It still feels like I’m back there sometimes, it feels so real.”

Sam shuts his eyes tight and nods again. He knows, he remembers. Where his hands are clenched against Eileen’s sides, he fights the impulse to dig his nails into his palm.

“You’ve been there,” Eileen mentions, softer. “So you know.”

“I know,” Sam croaks. But she’s not looking at him, she can’t see him, so he shifts them. Eileen twists around to look up at him, the low light reflecting off her eyes, and Sam hopes it’s bright enough that she can see him say: “I know there’s no way to describe it, and that you’re going to carry it with you forever. And I’m so, so sorry you have to. But I promise you,” Sam insists, and in the moment he says it he knows that it’s true, “that you will never go back. With all this stuff from Rowena, I won’t let you. We’ll find a way. I promise, Eileen.”

Eileen’s lip quivers for a moment, and she clenches her jaw to gather her composure. She lifts a hand, and she rests it on Sam’s cheek. He leans into it, his eyes slipping shut for just a fraction of a second.

“Don’t make a promise you can’t keep,” Eileen warns him.

Sam opens his eyes and brings a finger to his lips.

Promise, he signs.

Eileen carefully covers his hands with her own, and lowers them.

Her hands are so much smaller than his. Even though they’ve wielded weapons and landed blows, in this moment they are delicate. Thin, trembling, but warm. Sam is absolutely helpless in her grip.

With her hands still around his and their eyes locked together, Eileen leans in.

[ozonecologne]

13.23 coda

picking myself up off the floor to say: if you’d like to be added to or removed from the taglist, please send me message.

“I rebelled for this?”

With thunder and wrath and all that he was.

“So that you could surrender to them?”

Another blow. Punch and punch to the soft, squishy guts. So fragile.

Frustration and fear in equal measure, manifest as force.

Castiel twisted his borrowed hands, still foreign to him, into the thin material of Dean’s jacket, pinning him to the rough face of the brick wall. He clenched them until the tiny bones cracked and the joints popped with pressure. Ichor boiled into magma. He paid it no heed.

Castiel leaned in close, and Dean turned his head away from him, blood pooling to the surface of his lips. Like wine, like a sacrament. Like something sacrificially holy.

“I gave everything for you,” Castiel hissed at him. “And this is what you give to me.”

Here’s the thing: hope is difficult to manage.

It’s what he’s known for, really. In the past decade that he’s spent away from Heaven, Castiel has taken it as his task to find whatever sliver of a chance there is for survival, for happiness, for a better world that there is, and defend it. Despite any and all odds stacked against him. His brothers and sisters have condemned him for this tendency, tried to condition it out of him, called him a fool, called him worse things, dismissed him, even hated him for it. He has heard countless times from countless faces that his efforts to fight on the side of the humans – a doomed and dying breed – for the fate of the Earth – too perfect to last – are nothing but in vain. That his misplaced faith and expectations would lead him only to ruin.

And it is true; hope is a painful business. Much of the time it leads only to bitter disappointment, and hurt the likes of which no angel has had to endure before. He knows. That moment in the alley when Dean first considered saying “yes” to Michael was the first time that Castiel really felt heartbreak at the hands of hope. He doesn’t think he dealt with it particularly well at the time, but he didn’t really know what he was in for then. He finds himself thinking about it now, curled in on himself on the threshold of his only home, hands limp where they hang in the empty air.

At his core, Castiel believes in surprises. He believes in the not-believed, because to be honest God was a shitty craftsman and Creation is entropic, and he has seen the irrational triumph despite the petty rules of logic. He has beaten them himself. As a strategist and as a being with too much heart, Castiel believes in hope.

And there had been a moment there, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with allies in an underground bunker, when Castiel had dared to be hopeful. 

In pleasant company of friends once thought lost to time and circumstance, his face had stretched into an easy smile and he felt deeply content. He had let his guard down enough to relax and thought to himself, See? It is not so foolish to take chances when this is the reward.

He’s paying for that now. But at least he’s not hurting anybody over it.

In fact, now that it’s finally happened – his worst fears and his biggest failure come true, Dean Winchester saying yes – he doesn’t move at all. It is as if the fight has left him all at once, all in one fell swoop. Dean said “yes,” and his final exhalation of breath took all of Castiel’s with it.

Michael will not honor the deal he struck. This, at the very least, Castiel knows.

“Castiel?” Mary asks, too close to his ear.

His lower lip trembles. He doesn’t speak.

“Where are they?” Mary asks him. Her voice tries to hold firm, but it shakes despite her best efforts. “Castiel, where are my boys?”

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t even breathe. Any movement at all is too much and more than he deserves. But Mary does deserve an answer. 

“I don’t know,” he manages. The words come out in a mumble that might not be entirely English. It’s a minor miracle that Mary understands him at all.

“What do you mean, ‘You don’t know?’” she asks him, not harsh and mean but scared. In the voice of a mother. At her shoulder, Bobby Singer is already tapping away on his phone, keying in Dean’s phone number. Castiel can hear it ringing, and he does nothing to help. He listens to the phone ring, and ring, and ring, knowing that Dean will not pick up.

Despite what he stands for, he cannot muster up any hope that he ever will. There is no hope here, Castiel despairs. Not even a sliver of it. Michael has his sword, and Castiel has a broken heart in trembling hands. He has, paradoxically, a lack. He has an absence, a hope-less-ness. He has an empty hole where his love should be.

I gave everything for you, he hears himself say, what feels like an age ago. And this is what you give to me.

“What if you had your sword?” Dean had asked.

The words sunk in around Castiel like ice water, paralyzing and overwhelming. “Dean, no.”

But Dean barreled on, ignoring him. “I am your sword,” he told Michael. “Your perfect vessel. With me, you’d be stronger than you’ve ever been.”

And Michael had smirked, even with blood dripping from his eyes, even low to the ground as he was. “Oh, I know what you are.”

“If we work together, can we beat Lucifer?”

And even knowing where this was going, Castiel couldn’t follow. He stayed rooted to his spot, disbelieving. “Dean,” he objected.

“Can we?” Dean persisted.

Michael nodded, and sealed his fate. “We have a chance,” he promised.

Castiel finally jolted into motion. In a few strides he came to Dean’s back, stiff with tension, and snarled with a familiar fury. “Dean, you can’t.”

Dean reeled around, and Castiel only saw his own terror reflected back in his eyes.

“Lucifer has Sam,” he said. “He has Jack. Cas, I don’t have a choice!”

And isn’t that rich, coming from Dean Winchester, the man who taught Castiel that we always have a choice. Castiel stood before him in silence, in utter shock and horror at the words having left his lips.

This was not the same man, he realized suddenly, that stood before him ten years ago and called him a hammer. This was a man that lost too much and had drawn a line in the sand; his brother died in front of him not even a week ago and the loss had made him raw.

It made him desperate.

“If we do this,” Dean said, turning away from Castiel and back to Michael, “it’s a one-time deal. I’m in charge. You’re the engine, but I’m behind the wheel. Understand?”

“Of course,” Michael replied, too easily to be sincere.

In a moment of his own desperation, Castiel reached out and put a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean turned, and his hands clenched into fists. His mouth and his eyes were set, hardened as if from stone. “Cas, if you’re gonna fight me on this – ”

And in another life, another time, he would have. But here, and now, they are different people. This is a different time.

Castiel leans in close, in full view of the archangel, and presses his lips to Dean’s.

And Dean, blessed and beautiful and so so sad, melts for just a moment. For this brief second he is his, he is Castiel’s, not the world’s and not his brother’s and certainly not Michael’s. He sags under the weight of Castiel’s hand, pressed now to its familiar touchstone, and his eyes slip closed. His mouth goes slack and sweet, and Castiel savors this, all they could have had together, all that the future never promised them but that they dared to hope for anyway. 

He pours all of his devotion, simmering beneath his skin for ten long years, into this point of contact.

It kills him to do it, but he pulls back from the kiss too quickly and hopes that Dean can see it on his face when he says, “Ok.”

Dean blinks at him, battered and sluggish. 

They aren’t going to fight. They don’t do that anymore.

Castiel will not raise a hand to this man, beloved, in anger ever again. He made up his mind about that years ago.

Michael coughs behind them, spewing up blood as he does. “Touching. But can we hurry along?”

Dean starts to turn, to address him to his face and without fear, but Castiel holds him steady. His other hand, the one not on Dean’s shoulder, shoots up to cup his face, fingers curling around the bone of his jaw.

Dean lets himself be turned. He looks right into Castiel’s eyes, and Castiel stares back.

“Say it to me,” Castiel tells him, voice hoarse. “Tell me you’ll come back. Tell me you’ll come home.”

Dean never looks away. He breathes deep.

To both of the angels in the room, Dean says, “Yes.”

He doesn’t need to, but Castiel closes his eyes as Michael’s light overtakes the room. His lips part around a quiet sigh and he squeezes his eyes firmly shut, hands on Dean’s body like he can’t make himself let go. He keeps his eyes shut until the air stops humming, and the smell of lightning striking flesh has faded into something bearable.

A gentle touch falls on Castiel’s wrist where it is pressed to Dean’s face.

Castiel opens his eyes.

Dean’s eyes are flat and cold, but they still never leave Castiel’s. He curls his fingers around Castiel’s wrist with such care, such delicacy, and guides his hand away. Castiel’s fingers fall away from his skin with a quiet rasp, and he lets them. It is impossible to know who is in control as, impassively, Dean takes a step back. Castiel stares at the distance between them in agony. He doesn’t dare ask who he’s looking at.

As it turns out, he doesn’t have to. Dean’s face twitches just for a second, just long enough for Michael to squeeze in a parting shot.

“You’re a fool, Castiel.”

And then, in a flash of blood-tipped feathers, he’s gone.

As Mary shouts a new order at Bobby, as Bobby punches in another cell number into the useless phone in his hands, as Maggie glances between them both with that new haunted look of hers –

Yes, Castiel thinks. I am a fool.

He isn’t sure there’s any other way to be.

“We’ve got Sam,” Bobby announces, turning his head away from the speaker. “Boy, slow down,” he says into the phone.

Mary sags in relief. “Oh, thank God.”

Maggie swallows. “I hope they’re ok,” she murmurs.

Castiel remains still as a statue where he sits on the floor. He stares blankly at the space where Dean last stood. His lips are dry. 

Hope, he thinks, wryly.

If there is a more difficult thing, Castiel hasn’t yet found it.

CODA TAGLIST

# - C

@7faerielights​ @abbadonttouchme​ @anaturalsuperfan​ @angelwingsandhunterdreams​ @anironundomiel​ @arandomindividual​ @armellin​ @athene-noctua08​ @ayremis​ @bilibiche​ @bold-sartorial-statement​ @boykingdom​ @boysinperil​ @burntblackfeathers​ @cabinboyjackles​ @calliopecookiejar @captainhaterade @carnilia​ @cas-you-assbutt-dean-needs-you​ @casolantern​ @cassbutt-and-the-righteousbi​ @castielfallenangelwinchester​ @castielsmoon​ @casttielle​ @chevrolangels​ @chill-legilimens​ @cloud-dreamer​ @coldbroke​ @convallariini​ @ctrl-alt-destiel​

D - H

@darthshreydar​ @dauntless-dean​ @deanismypatronass​ @deanmonsandangels​ @deans-top-13-zepp-traxx​ @deanwinchcester​ @dellez​ @destiel-aye @destiel-est-2008​ @destiel73​ @destielrose​ @destielsangel​ @divineinterventioning​ @donttouchmyfrenchtoast​ @dramaqueenrolf​ @dream-and-slash​ @ecbeau​ @eccentricas​ @fandomsfeelsandcrap​ @fandomfeelswithhellagayotps​ @fangirlingtodeath513​ @freedomcraziness​ @fromflametofire​ @gabbymcauliffe​ @gaelicblue​ @geaneric​ @geekily-yours​ @gentle-hands19​ @ggonaks​ @godshipsit​ @guusana​ @hanooon1997​ @holy-fucking-damn-shit​ @hotpotatosack​

I - Q

@i-lostmy-sammy​ @ialwayscomewhenyoucall​ @iamaqt314​ @ilovelucey​ @imthewarmpenguininthemiddle​ @itsfunnierinenochian​ @iwaslazy​ @jaguarw0lf​ @jamalona​ @jeanjeaniethings​ @jenmdixon​ @karategirl80 @lanaserra​ @lapotatoqueen​ @livingonaprayerstiel​ @lmejia13​ @mattory-reylo-shipper-offical​ @meadowsofcas​ @melioristcas​ @melmassacre​ @mistymarvelgirl @mnwood​ @natmoose​ @nieveskaia @ninamariiee​ @njk13093​ @notsolittlelight​ @nubismosher​ @paige-losechester​ @papayastems​ @patrcolvs​ @peacemturner​ @profound-boning​ @protagonist-influence​ @quotecurator​

R - T

@randomfandoms153​ @reader-meg​ @reading-greek​ @rollsapple​ @rubbishbin​ @rylyshar​ @samhyland​ @samikitten​ @sammyzwifi​ @santamadredidios​ @saywhatjessie​ @selahbela​ @sensitivelass33​ @seraphmisha​ @shadowpaintedrose​ @shehungthemoon​ @sherlpotternatural​ @sirena-art​ @skella-bro​ @snovolovac​ @spnramen​ @spokenfireflies​ @starbentone​ @starcastlesinthesky​ @sunnshine0510​ @sunshine-hunters​ @super-powerful-queen-slayyna​ @supercasifras​ @supernaturalfangirlworld​  @supernim​ @sup3r-pott3r-lock3d​ @swax​ @tankewinchester​ @tardisheart134​ @teaandjumpers​ @thatcolourfulsomething​ @thatsuperawkwardgirl​ @thedauntlesshufflepuff​ @theruledangel​ @tricja​

U - Z

@venusdebotticelli​ @waiting-for-chapter-33​ @waywardren​ @who-the-fuck-is-bucky​ @whyjm​ @weathergirl83​ @whitmerule​ @wigglebox​ @wingsandimpalas​ @winchesterwithwings​ @withthedemonblood​ @woefulcas​ @wordstothewisereaders​ @write-nerdy-to-me​ @zolaliz​

[ozonecologne]

13.16 coda

Ok so I have to post this as one big long thing because the tumblr textpost formatting is glitching something FIERCE right now, I’m so sorry :\

If you’d like to be added to or removed from the taglist, please send me a message!

--

Sam catches up with Castiel on the sidewalk fairly quickly. He bumps their shoulders together as the cop cars pull away with their lights flashing, crowding him a little as they walk. 

“How long do you think it’s going to take for Dean to stop talking about Scooby Doo?” he murmurs, bending down.

Castiel rolls his eyes. “If this is anything like the time with Hitler, we’ll be hearing about it for the next eight months.”

Sam groans softly. Dean’s loud protests ring out behind them as he rushes to catch up.

The two of them reach the Impala before he does. Castiel tries the backseat, but the car is predictably locked. Castiel's eyes roll skyward with his whole body as if this is the greatest inconvenience in the world.

“Here,” Sam says, slapping a large palm down on Castiel’s shoulder. “You take shotgun.”

He eases Castiel over and easily slides into the space he once occupied, waiting towards the back. Castiel frowns at him, but goes where he’s led. “Why?” he asks anyway.

Sam shrugs, smiling. “We haven’t seen you since you left for Syria, man. I think Dean will want to have you close for a while.”

Castiel squints. “Right.”

“Hey,” Dean wheezes, finally jogging into the picture. “What are you waiting around for?”

“It’s locked,” Castiel icily informs him.

“Alright, alright,” Dean huffs, fishing the keys out of his pocket. “Keep your trench coat on.”

“Are you winded?” Sam asks incredulously.

Dean makes a face, finally unearthing the keys. “You know what, Sam? Eat me.”

Sam pulls open the backseat door and clambers in while Dean rounds the hood. Castiel remains where he is, waiting for his cue.

All three of the Impala’s doors slam shut in sync: the driver, the passenger, the backseat. Dean chuckles to himself as he settles into position.

“Actually? Nah. Even your bitchy attitude can’t ruin this night for me, Sammy,” he announces. Sam grimaces at him. 

“Man,” Dean continues, shaking his head. “Just...” he whistles, long and low as he turns the key in the ignition. Castiel impassively buckles his seatbelt.

“Nothing is ever going to top this, guys. Nothing.”

In the backseat, Sam rolls his eyes. He’s already got his phone in his hands and is working on untangling a pair of headphones, evidently planning on ignoring Dean and all of his gushing on the ride back to the bunker. Castiel still catches the mirth in his eyes in the rearview mirror.

He also catches the way that Dean’s smile dips for a second in the silence, the way he hesitates before changing gears. His hand jerks from the steering wheel to his neck before he aborts the movement entirely, halfway and awkward, and returns his hand to the wheel. Only then does he reach down for the gear shift and put the Impala into reverse.

“Right,” he says to himself.

Castiel narrows his eyes in suspicion.

Dean guides the Impala away from the pawn shop’s curb, and Castiel realizes that he still has the charred pocketknife in his coat. He takes the piece out carefully, turns it around in his hand a few times, and scratches his thumbnail along the side. A bit of ash flakes off into his lap and he doesn’t brush it away. 

“Feels shitty to just chuck something like that, right?” Dean asks softly from the driver’s seat.

Castiel nods. He scrapes off a little more ash with his nail. There are initials carved into the butt of the knife, nearly illegible now, just clumsy scars and letters. A ‘t’ maybe. An ‘r.’

“What do we do with it?” Castiel asks him.

Dean shrugs and gives a yawn in response. “Put it with the others, I guess,” he says, grunting as he repositions himself in his seat a little. The Impala bumps as the front left tire dips into a pothole. “We got a lockbox back in the bunker for lost stuff. Or we could bury it.”

Castiel nods. He slides the knife back into the pocket of his coat. “I like that plan.”

Dean nods. His eyelids are only at half-mast after the day they’ve all had, but he quirks an easy smile. “Better than soap and coconuts, anyway.”

With a fond hum in agreement, Castiel turns in his seat to look over his shoulder. Sam is leaned against the door with his feet propped up along the bench seat. His head is turned, but Castiel can see that he has headphones in and is busily tapping away on his phone. The blue of the screen lights up the sharp angles of his face like a television set.

“At the end, there. The child,” Castiel broaches, as he turns back around. “That got to you.”

Dean doesn’t bother denying it. There’s no reason to try; he’d felt the prickle of tears on his lower lashline as clearly as Castiel must have seen them, and Sam’s not even listening hard enough to judge him.

“Kids,” he says, as if that’s the end of it.

“No,” Castiel insists. “This kid. This show. Something’s bothering you.”

Dean takes a breath. He drifts into the left lane without turning on his blinker. He taps his fingers against the steering wheel and glances, out of habit, in every mirror. He swallows.

“I was telling Sam,” Dean starts out, with his voice low and his eyes bashfully darting to and away from the side of Castiel’s face. “Growing up on the road, getting dragged around by Dad, I grew up with the Scooby gang. It was good times. And it made me feel a little better once I found out the truth too, you know? Braver.”

Castiel nods. “I can see the appeal,” he admits. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “They are quite diverting.”

“Right. Yeah. And, thanks, Cas, you know. For saving Shaggy and Scooby back there. That was really, uh. Something.”

Castiel only shrugs, but Dean clears his throat anyway. They don’t look at each other, just stare out the windshield at the open road without speaking for a moment.

“Point is... I don’t know. I got to be a kid again for a minute there,” Dean confesses.

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Yes. Unhinging your jaw to eat eighteen-layer sandwiches, wearing nightgowns and ascots, chasing after your childhood crush – ”

“Look, what I have with Daphne Blake is special – ”

“You were living your dream. Doing all the things you wish you could do as a child.”

Dean pauses, and then sighs. “Yeah. Until it got real. And then, I don’t know.”

They come up to a stoplight, sluggishly blinking yellow in the tinged-blue dark. Dean slowly rolls the Impala to a stop, but he doesn’t pull past the painting line in the street. He keeps them here, idle at the intersection, for long enough that Castiel feels he should angle his body and turn to look. 

In the backseat, Sam removes an earbud out of curiosity before quickly putting it back and surreptitiously raising his phone back to eye level. Castiel, meanwhile, gives Dean his full attention.

Dean shrugs one tense shoulder with a blank face, playing down his own discomfort. He reaches up and loosens the knot around his neck. The orange ascot cloth slips between his fingers as he speaks, satin and slick. “Just got a solid reminder that I’m not a kid anymore, I guess. That I never really was.”

Castiel clenches his teeth and curls his hands into fists against his thighs.

Dean quirks another half a smile. It’s not a happy one. He wrings the ascot lightly between his hands, exposed throat now bared to the chill with his flannel unbuttoned. “Thought I’d grow up to be Fred, but I think I actually turned out to be Fred’s worst nightmare.” He laughs once, self-conscious and bitter. “Think maybe that’s why he got on my nerves at first.”

A frown deepens along Castiel’s face as Dean bunches the ascot in the front pocket of his jeans. “Dean,” he interjects.

Dean ignores him with a quick wave of his hand. A corner of orange still peeks out from his pocket. A crease has formed between his eyebrows, his lips pulled down in concentration. “And the kid... he said he just wanted to see his dad again,” he muses, quietly enough that Sam won’t hear. “That’s all he wanted. With Mom gone – ”

Dean finally cuts himself off with a click, throat tight.

Castiel takes the knife out of his pocket again because it’s all he feels his hands are capable of at the moment. He flips it around a few times and blows a sharp breath out through his nose, squeezing tight around the blackened husk. He’s never really understood why fathers are so eager to pass down weapons to their sons.

“We’ll bury this,” Castiel decides. “We’ll treat it with gentleness.”

Dean scoffs, but he still doesn’t put his foot back on the gas. He avoids Castiel’s gaze.

“Look, it just brought some stuff up, is all. Most of the time, hell, that really was the coolest thing to ever happen to me. No lie.”

Castiel smiles. He nods as he says, “I feel like I’ve seen so much of you lately. First Tombstone, now Scooby Doo.”

Dean grins, and for real this time. “Oh, man. And you missed the Indiana Jones hunt. I Kate Capshaw’d the hell out of that one.”

Castiel smiles, still turning the pocket knife around in his hand. A relic of lost childhood. A gift from father to son, now lost to fire and grief.

“You have played the part of every one of your heroes,” Castiel says. “Lived out every fantasy of your youth.”

“Hm.”

Before Dean can have the chance to reply beyond that, Castiel flips the knife around and holds it out across the space between them. Dean looks down at it with a furrowed brow.

“So now,” Castiel says, inclining his head. “Maybe it’s time you realize that you can be your own hero.”

Dean meets Castiel’s eyes, then glances back down the knife. He takes it gingerly, reverently, with gentle hands. Their fingers brush together and linger, and Castiel doesn’t think it’s an accident. The lines in his face soften under the soft buttered glow of the stoplight.

“You don’t have to be Kurt Russell or Kate Capshaw or Fred Jones,” Castiel says. “You don’t have to – Dean, you are – you can just be – ”

“Yeah,” Dean says, voice thick. “Yeah, ok.”

Castiel nods. He settles back into his seat, facing forward to the road once more. The light blinks over them.

They sit and fidget and Castiel waits, with his hands curled into fists in his lap. He breathes. The three of them linger in the purring car. Dean’s father’s car. The night is still and three-dimensional around them.

“Dean?” Castiel inquires, after some time has passed and they still have not left.

Castiel hears him sigh. He hears him scrub the back of his hand along his eyes - maybe just tired, maybe choked up. It could be both. He takes a moment to collect himself.

“Hey, uh,” Dean says at last, twisting to face front in his seat again. He sniffs and wraps his free hand around the top of the steering wheel, the one not weighing the pocketknife in an open palm. “I got something to show you when we get home.”

Castiel relaxes a little, sinking back into his seat. “Oh?”

“Mm. I spruced up The Dean Cave a little. Sam wasn’t too impressed, but I’ve got a foosball table down there now.”

“I noticed that. Very nice.”

“Two chairs. Recliners. Right in front of the – well, where a new TV’s eventually gonna go.”

“That sounds good.”

Castiel can hear the smile in Dean’s voice when he asks, “I’m hoping you’ll be down for another movie night when I finally get it fixed up again.”

Castiel feels his own mouth start to turn up. “A classic, I presume.”

“Only the best,” Dean replies.

Castiel’s hands begin to uncurl. His teeth unclench. Another piece of Dean that he is willing to share, willing to show Castiel on his own terms, offered up on a silver platter. Enthusiastically, even. How could he say anything else?

“I am… down,” he promises.

Dean drops the pocketknife into the cup holder immediately to his right, so that it rests between their knees. He finally eases his foot onto the gas, in no hurry, and rolls through the intersection, leaving the stoplight and another mystery behind them. 

He reaches out, and instead of grabbing a ghost’s thigh, he grabs Castiel’s.

“Groovy.”

--

CODA TAGLIST

# - C

@7faerielights @abbadonttouchme @anaturalsuperfan @angelwingsandhunterdreams @anironundomiel @arandomindividual @armellin @athene-noctua08 @ayremis @bilibiche @bold-sartorial-statement @boykingdom @boysinperil @burntblackfeathers @cabinboyjackles @calliopecookiejar @captainhaterade @carnilia @cas-you-assbutt-dean-needs-you @casolantern @castielfallenangelwinchester @castielsmoon @casttielle @chevrolangels @cloud-dreamer @coldbroke @convallariini @ctrl-alt-destiel

D - H

@darthshreydar @dauntless-dean @deanismypatronass @deans-top-13-zepp-traxx @deanwinchcester-archive @dellez @destiel-aye @destiel73 @destielrose @destielsangel @divineinterventioning @donttouchmyfrenchtoast @dramaqueenrolf @dream-and-slash @ecbeau @eccentricas @fandomsfeelsandcrap @fandomfeelswithhellagayotps @fangirlingtodeath513 @freedomcraziness @fromflametofire @gaelicblue @geekily-yours @gentle-hands19 @godshipsit @goodtidingsdean @guusana @hanooon1997 @hotpotatosack

I - Q

@i-lostmy-sammy @ialwayscomewhenyoucall @iamaqt314 @ilovelucey @imthewarmpenguininthemiddle @itsfunnierinenochian @iwaslazy @jaguarw0lf @jamalona @jeanjeaniethings @jenmdixon @karategirl80 @lapotatoqueen @livingonaprayerstiel​ @lmejia13​ @mattory-reylo-shipper-offical​ @meadowsofcas​ @melioristcas​ @melmassacre​ @mistymarvelgirl​ @mnwood​ @natmoose​ @nieveskaia​ @ninamariiee​ @njk13093​ @nubismosher​ @paige-losechester​ @papayastems​ @patrcolvs​ @peacemturner​ @protagonist-influence​

R - T

@reader-meg​ @reading-greek​ @rollsapple​ @rubbishbin​ @samhyland​ @samikitten​ @santamadredidios​ @saywhatjessie​ @selahbela​ @sensitivelass33​ @seraphmisha​ @shadowpaintedrose​ @shehungthemoon​ @sherlpotternatural​ @snovolovac​ @spnramen​ @sseb​ @starbentone​ @starcastlesinthesky​ @sunnshine0510​ @sunshine-hunters​ @super-powerful-queen-slayyna​ @supercasifras​ @supernim​ @sup3r-pott3r-lock3d​ @swax​ @tardisheart134​ @teaandjumpers​ @thatcolourfulsomething​ @thatsuperawkwardgirl​ @thedauntlesshufflepuff​ @theruledangel​ @tricja​

U - Z

@venusdebotticelli​ @waiting-for-chapter-33​ @waywardren​ @who-the-fuck-is-bucky​ @whyjm​ @weathergirl83​ @whitmerule​ @wingsandimpalas​ @winchesterwithwings​ @withthedemonblood​ @woefulcas​ @wordstothewisereaders​ @write-nerdy-to-me​ @zolaliz​

[ozonecologne]

13.17 coda

Welp tumblr still hasn’t fixed its textpost formatting issues so here’s another long coda post :’)

If you’d like to be added to or removed from the taglist, send me a message! Love you all <3

---

It reached not for an anchor, not for Solomon’s seal, no. In the moments before its inevitable doom, it reached for its mate.

When Ophelia Avila began the unholy chant that would to banish it back to where it came from, that tentacled god dragged Sandy – well, what was formerly Sandy anyway – back with it through the rift like it was nothing. It wasn’t an attempt to pull itself through to the promised land, but a desperate grab for the familiar, for the beloved and the dearly, deeply missed. It forced her back to a world that has been emptied, and she screamed. At the top of her borrowed lungs, the god trapped inside the fragile body of a human being wailed and cried until her being shook with it. Maybe she knew what she was going back to. Maybe she was aware of what she would lose. This world was a “delicious” one, ripe for their taking, and neither of them would ever see it again. Her hands flexed and splayed as the tentacles wrapped tighter around her body, fingers straining in the sleeves of their skin and muscle and like her very bones were trying to escape, tendons snapping in liberation.

From his position on that cold, flat altar, Dean could see Sandy’s eyes before the rip finally closed again. They were wet with tears, but wide with relief. Love has a way of undoing us all, even the gods.

The two of them were going home together, but they were also going home to starve. There’s nothing for them back there, on their side. Everything is here.

And Dean has always believed in a love that saves, but that just – how could one make the choice for the other? Damn the both of you because you just couldn’t bear to be alone? It seems like a fate worse than –

“We should wait for Cas,” Sam grumbles, dumping their ingredients into a bowl.

Dean’s hands itch. Sam’s not grinding the fruit into the mortar fast enough. He thinks about grabbing the pestle and finishing off the spell himself.

“It’ll be fine,” Dean promises, holding himself back.

Sam huffs and grits his teeth, but he knows better than to disagree with his brother when he’s got his heart set on something.

While Sam works on unraveling the very fabric of time and space, Dean eyes the empty spaces in the bunker. He imagines that preternatural glow cast from the rift blinding through their shelter, the only safe place any of them know, and projecting itself onto the books, the walls, the floors worn down by so many footprints. This is home. They are desanctifying it by doing this here, but there is nowhere else for them to go. Things come through the rift in both directions, and they need to be contained. The sheer amount of danger in this mission is not to be taken lightly, nor does Dean underestimate the severity of his decision to go this alone.

I could go with you.

Dean glances down at his watch, tick tick ticking away.

“Come on, Sam. Daylight’s – ”

“Burning, yeah, I know,” Sam snaps back.

Dean raps his knuckles on the table and nods. He tries to swallow the growing lump in his throat and fails spectacularly.

This is a risk none of them are really willing to take. But if they don’t do this now, while Castiel’s not around, there would be no stopping him. He’d throw himself into yet another celestial war zone where he is a valuable target. He’d kick and scream his way to certain death, all for Dean, always for Dean. Because Dean has to go, he has to do this for his mother and for his family and for himself, and he knows what Castiel would say if he were here. It’s what he always says when Dean gets ready to throw himself in the line of fire.

I could go with you.

Dean chews the inside of his lip until he tastes blood and eyes up Ketch next, lurking at the other end of the table like a poltergeist. Like a shadowy question mark.

They can spare Ketch. Dean doesn’t care if Ketch dies across the rift.

Sam, though. Cas.

There isn’t a chance in hell that he’s going to be the monster here.

He is not going to be the one to decide that they die for him.

Sam’s still taking his time, so Dean takes some initiative. He yanks a couple of hairs out from the back of his head and tosses them into their bowl. “Something that’s been there, right?”

Sam doesn’t look up. He dutifully stirs them into the mix, swirling them together with fruit juice and holy blood.

“Alright,” Sam announces, as the contents of the bowl starts to glow. He still doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes as he mumbles, “Remember: it’s only twenty-four hours.”

Dean looks down at his watch again. Syncs it up and sets a timer. Sam holds the seal over the bowl and begins his chant, and then they’re off.

And Dean, predictably, fights off the tears in his eyes.

The good thing about working with Ketch is that he’s sharp, catches on quick, and adapts. It’s what you do when you don’t have cumbersome things like a personality or attachments to slow you down, probably. 

The bad thing about working with Ketch is that he talks. And he also has a wealth of illegally-obtained information to use against Dean at absolutely any time he wants, no matter how inconvenient.

“Your pet angel will surely be cross about this,” Ketch observes, as they trek through ash-covered hills. “Will I have incurred his wrath as well, then? Shall I seek protection from him when this is over?”

Dean grimaces and spits, the hot dry air turning his tongue into sandpaper. “First off, you shut the fuck up about that. And B, if this world doesn’t waste you, then I sure as shit hope that Cas does.”

Ketch huffs, dragging his feet behind Dean. “Wonderful. Out of the frying pan…”

Dean, agitated, snaps. “Yeah, look. About that. Let’s get something straight, Ketch: I see right through you, ok?”

Ketch freezes for a second, which is interesting, but his tone is clipped and cold when he asks, “What do you mean?”

Dean’s lip curls, but he doesn’t turn around to face him. He doesn’t really want to see how Ketch’s face might change when he says, “You’re not just running from Asmodeus. You’re sweet on Mom.”

At Dean’s back, Ketch says nothing.

“You collapse under the weight of your tactical gear back there or what?” Dean calls back.

“Preparedness is next to godliness,” Ketch recites.

Dean runs a hand through his sweaty hair, scattering the ash that has collected there like newly fallen snow. “If you think I’m letting you within a hundred feet of her after what you did, you’re dead wrong.”

Again, no reply.

Dean nods. Silence is good. Silence is efficient. Better for the both of them.

But Ketch, like with most things, has to ruin it. His voice is quiet and deadly when it finally resurfaces, a mile or so deeper into charred and sparse forests.

“Perhaps it would be best if we simply refrained from judging one another’s hearts.”

Dean scoffs, genuinely amused. “Heart. Like you’ve got one.”

“If it bleeds, it bleeds,” Ketch quips. “Despite my very best efforts and though it pains me to admit it: I am still human. Just like you, Dean.”

Ketch’s hand comes up to grip Dean’s shoulder. Dean spins and knocks it off with a glare that means business, pressed nearly nose to nose and ready to throw down.

Ketch meets his eyes without a problem, with no hesitation. But for the first time, Dean sees a little bit of fear there. Maybe the same kind he saw in Sandy before she got pulled through space – fear of the end. The hopelessness of doom.

Ketch wants him to see it.

“And I still feel,” he admits.

They stand there, in this broken and deserted wasteland, assessing one another. Someone has to break first, and Dean swallows his pride to make sure that it’s him. He doesn’t have time for this bullshit.

Dean shakes his head as he turns back around, hitching his go bag higher up onto his shoulder. “Well, I hope you feel it when one of us finally stabs you through the chest,” he grumbles.

Ketch sighs and follows in Dean’s footsteps. “If your angel is one of mercy, he’ll make sure that I don’t.”

“He’s not really big on that, it turns out.”

“He’s shown you plenty over the years, despite your obvious shortcomings.”

Dean can’t help flashing a dirty smirk over his shoulder. “I’m the exception, buddy. Not the rule,” he explains.

Ketch rolls his eyes, and then they’re back to not talking again. Dean needs to conserve his energy anyway; he can’t be wasting his breath on this bastard who thinks he knows something about the human heart.

If he’s lucky, Dean will slither in through the backdoor of this nightmare, grab Mom and Jack, and then duck through the rift again before Cas even notices he’s gone. Bring home the win. Easy.

(But when has a Winchester ever been lucky, anyway?)

((And especially, that is, in love.))

The rift is still open, so there is a point of contact that still exists between his world and this one. The line, as it were, is still open. And though he tries to avoid praying so as to keep Castiel in the dark for as long as possible, Dean secretly hopes that the angel can hear him when he recalls those famous words uttered as a hostage in an inhospitable bind:

I’m doing this for you. I’m doing this because of you.

Don’t be too mad, he tacks on. Just in case. Please understand.

Being in Apocalypse world is kind of like being in Purgatory again, and it makes Dean a little sentimental. He rags on Castiel a lot for doing stupid things, but he thinks he can understand that impulse a little better now that he’s thinking about it with a clear head (when he has time to think about things here other than survival, that is). This is exactly the kind of thing that Dean would be furious about if Castiel pulled it himself, so he gets it. He really would rather be stupid than selfish.

This is just the way they are, he supposes. He hopes that one day - if both of them can manage to survive long enough - they can get to a point where this stupid self-sacrificing doesn’t sting as freshly as it did the very first time. Because no matter how often they seem to fall into this pattern, it just doesn’t stop eating away at them. It’s only been a few hours, but Dean can already feel a weight settling down on his chest during his time apart from Castiel that he’s sure will stick around for the duration. He misses the easy trust and coordination of his brother in arms, he misses the playful conversation of his best friend, he misses the soft touches in stolen moments of his lover. Separation never gets easier.

In fact, it might just get even worse with time.

He doesn’t really blame “Sandy” for doing what she did. After a hundred years apart, he’d be tempted to kill, too.

They’ve done it before, after all. Kill for one another. Kill to find one another. Kill to bring the other one home.

Dean knows his limits well.

But every choice comes with a price, and missing Cas, missing home to go it alone, is his.

---

CODA TAGLIST

# - C

@7faerielights​ @abbadonttouchme​ @anaturalsuperfan​ @angelwingsandhunterdreams​ @anironundomiel​ @arandomindividual​ @armellin​ @athene-noctua08​ @ayremis​ @bilibiche​ @bold-sartorial-statement​ @boykingdom​ @boysinperil​ @burntblackfeathers​ @cabinboyjackles​ @calliopecookiejar​ @captainhaterade​ @carnilia​ @cas-you-assbutt-dean-needs-you​ @casolantern​ @cassbutt-and-the-righteousbi​ @castielfallenangelwinchester​ @castielsmoon​ @casttielle​ @chevrolangels​ @chill-legilimens​ @cloud-dreamer​ @coldbroke​ @convallariini​ @ctrl-alt-destiel​

D - H

@darthshreydar​ @dauntless-dean​ @deanismypatronass​ @deanmonsandangels​ @deans-top-13-zepp-traxx​ @deanwinchcester-archive​ @dellez​ @destiel-aye​ @destiel73​ @destielrose​ @destielsangel​ @divineinterventioning​ @donttouchmyfrenchtoast​ @dramaqueenrolf​ @dream-and-slash​ @ecbeau​ @eccentricas​ @fandomsfeelsandcrap​ @fandomfeelswithhellagayotps​ @fangirlingtodeath513​ @freedomcraziness​ @fromflametofire​ @gabbymcauliffe​ @gaelicblue​ @geekily-yours​ @gentle-hands19​ @ggonaks​ @godshipsit​ @goodtidingsdean​ @guusana​ @hanooon1997​ @hotpotatosack​

I - Q

@i-lostmy-sammy​ @ialwayscomewhenyoucall​ @iamaqt314​ @ilovelucey​ @imthewarmpenguininthemiddle​ @itsfunnierinenochian​ @iwaslazy​ @jaguarw0lf​ @jamalona​ @jeanjeaniethings​ @jenmdixon​ @lanaserra​ @lapotatoqueen​ @livingonaprayerstiel​ @lmejia13​ @mattory-reylo-shipper-offical​ @meadowsofcas​ @melioristcas​ @melmassacre​ @mistymarvelgirl​ @mnwood​ @natmoose​ @nieveskaia​ @ninamariiee​ @njk13093​ @nubismosher​ @paige-losechester​ @papayastems​ @patrcolvs​ @peacemturner​ @protagonist-influence​

R - T

@randomfandoms153​ @reader-meg​ @reading-greek​ @rollsapple​ @rubbishbin​ @samhyland​ @samikitten​ @sammyzwifi​ @santamadredidios​ @saywhatjessie​ @selahbela​ @sensitivelass33​ @seraphmisha​ @shadowpaintedrose​ @shehungthemoon​ @sherlpotternatural​ @snovolovac​ @spnramen​ @starbentone​ @starcastlesinthesky​ @sunnshine0510​ @sunshine-hunters​ @super-powerful-queen-slayyna​ @supercasifras​ @supernim​ @sup3r-pott3r-lock3d​ @swax​ @tankewinchester​ @tardisheart134​ @teaandjumpers​ @thatcolourfulsomething​ @thatsuperawkwardgirl​ @thedauntlesshufflepuff​ @theruledangel​ @tricja​

U - Z

@venusdebotticelli​ @waiting-for-chapter-33​ @waywardren​ @who-the-fuck-is-bucky​ @whyjm​ @weathergirl83​ @whitmerule​ @wigglebox​ @wingsandimpalas​ @winchesterwithwings​ @withthedemonblood​ @woefulcas​ @wordstothewisereaders​ @write-nerdy-to-me​ @zolaliz​

[ozonecologne]

Head’s up, y’all! Since hellatus has officially begun, I uploaded all of my season 13 DeanCas codas onto AO3 today. You can read the whole series here, but keep an eye out - there’s more coming soon!

As always, you can also find them on tumblr in the #colognecoda tag as well.

Love you all! Thanks for sticking with me this season! <3

[ozonecologne]

13.09 coda

If you’d like to be added to or removed from the tag list, please send me a message!

“You gonna call Cas?” Sam asks, eyes trained on his laptop. 

He’s been alternating between combing through security camera footage for possible Jack sightings and searching for another copy of Bart’s tracking spell for what feels like days, and it feels like he’s hit a good point to take a break. This is what they usually do on their breaks: check in with one another.

But Dean... hesitates when he suggests it now.

So Sam looks up.

“Dean? You hear me?”

Dean nods, chewing on the inside of his cheek like he does when he’s unhappy. “Yeah, I heard you.”

He doesn’t move from where he’s standing on the other side of the war table. Sam is about to ask what’s wrong with him when Dean beats him to it. 

“I think you should do it.”

Sam reels, frowning. “Me? Why?” Dean’s eyes narrow incrementally before Sam hurriedly adds, “You usually call him. He always answers when it’s you.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “That was one time, ok? Let it go.”

Sam scoffs. “It was, uh, more than once. But.”

Dean doesn’t look amused, so Sam decides to spare himself the angst and just throws up his hands. “Ok, I’ll give him a call.”

Dean nods. “Thanks. I’m gonna go make a food run.”

He turns and leaves the room then, hanging his head as he goes. Sam watches him go, confused and frustrated.

That was certainly... out of character.

Sam shakes his head, bringing both his hands up to his face. He scrubs angrily down his cheeks, noting that he could probably stand a shave. His eyes feel too dry. When did he sleep last? Brush his teeth? He’s been staring at too many screens, he thinks. 

But he takes one for the team and scrolls through his contact listings to pull up Castiel’s latest cell number, thumbing wearily at the call button. This is just another part of the well-oiled Team Free Will machine.

“Yes?” comes the familiar, gravelly voice.

Sam can’t help smiling a little at the sound. “Hey, Cas, it’s Sam. Just calling to check in, make sure everything’s ok on your end.”

“It’s fine, Sam.”

Sam waits for an explanation, but in typical Castiel fashion, no further information follows. 

“So, any more news from the angels?” he prompts. “Any leads on Jack? Run into any demons? What do you got for us, man?”

Castiel sighs, which is admittedly not unlike him. “I’m following a lead in... Tucson. I can’t talk for very long, Sam, I’m busy.”

Sam nods. “Right, totally get it. But, uh, hey. Before you go - do you know what’s up with Dean?”

Castiel is quiet on the other end of the line for a long minute before he answers, “I’m not aware, no.”

Right, so, that’s obviously bullshit. Sam just hums. “Ok, well. Thanks anyway. Good luck in Arizona.”

“Yeah.”

The line clicks off. Sam sets his cell phone back down on the table and blows out a breath. His stomach rumbles almost in sync, and he has to seriously applaud Dean’s instincts for running to get food just now. He always seems to know what’s going on before Sam himself does, even if it’s just an empty stomach.

He clicks through his email waiting for Dean to get back and contemplates turning in early, but ultimately decides against it. Dean’s on the phone again with Patience not half an hour later, bag of takeout firmly in hand.

“Any word from Cas?” he asks once he hangs up, voice low and without making eye contact.

“Yeah, uh. He says he’s still looking for Jack. Working a lead in Tucson.”

Dean doesn’t reply. He’s saved from doing so by the phone ringing, and it isn’t even who Sam expected it to be.

Hm.

It’s a piece of graffiti that reminds him of the weirdness of the phone call thing. Tension has been hanging over them all day, thick like a blanket. Sam’s sitting in the car waiting for Dean to get back with some coffee, and in between turning pages in Dad’s journal and scrolling through a dead dreamwalker’s email his eyes catch on painted wings plastered on the brick wall in front of him.

“Huh,” he says aloud. Because that’s always the answer when it comes to Dean, isn’t it?

Dean returns shortly and they head out to the facility where Kaia’s currently staying, Sam relaying directions until they’re comfortably cruising down the highway. He keeps the image of the wall art in his head as they roll past road signs and mile markers. When they’re about ten miles into it, Sam decides to risk it and clear his throat.

“So,” he begins. “You want to tell me what’s up with you and Cas lately?”

Dean’s mouth twitches and his hands clench incrementally on the steering wheel. “No.”

Sam nods. “Right.”

Dean shifts in his seat, wincing a little when his sore shoulders pull with the motion. “He just.” 

He gives up on his sentence and shakes his head.

"He just what?” Sam asks.

Twin dimples appear at the top of Dean’s mouth. “Something’s off with him. I don’t know whether it’s something leftover from the Empty or what, but...”

Sam matches Dean’s frown with one of his own, turning more fully in his seat to look at him. “He sounded normal to me this morning,” he says. “How can you tell?”

Dean shrugs. “Well, he... you know. He, uh.”

Sam narrows his eyes.

Dean relents.

“He doesn’t... he doesn’t always pick up like he used to,” Dean mumbles.

Sam processes this. Blinks a few times. Dean bears his scrutiny in silence.

“You’re giving Cas the cold shoulder because he hasn’t been taking your calls?” Sam repeats.

Dean blows out a sigh. “It’s not like - ”

“Wow,” Sam interrupts. “Are you twelve?”

Dean sniffs. “Look, things are just - I thought that things would be different after he came back, alright? And obviously they’re not. Our lives are still shit and he’s still not here and, yeah, I’m not exactly thrilled about it.”

Sam watches his brother’s brow dip, sadly now and not in anger. “It’s like he doesn’t even want - ”

Dean cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Whatever.”

Sam regards him again in a new light, this time with a little more sympathy. His brother is right that it’s not fair for them to have to go it alone like this so soon after finding one another again, but some things just can’t be helped. This is the job. This is the life they both signed up for, and it does get lonely. Sam can’t really blame his brother for taking that out on everyone that leaves him in the dust.

And the emotion in Dean’s eyes when he saw Castiel waiting under that streetlight was impossible to ignore. He knows it cuts deep that Castiel has a new priority.

“Dean,” Sam says, as delicately as he’s able. “You called Patience Turner six times today. And she didn’t pick up either.”

Dean’s jaw works for a second. “Yeah. So?”

“So, maybe it’s not that he doesn’t want to pick up? I think you might just be a little...” Sam shrugs. “Um. Clingy?”

“Fuck you, Sam.”

“No, I mean - ” Sam huffs, smacking his head back against the headrest. “I mean that you’re letting the stress get to you, man. It’s making you see things that aren’t there. It’s not some big conspiracy, ok? Cas is fine. He’ll be home before you know it. You don’t need to have me running interference for you.”

Dean shakes his head. “I’m telling you, Sam. I’ve just got a bad feeling. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be for - for us.”

Sam thinks that’s going to be the end of it, but he’s wrong.

“And...” Dean adds, deflating a little. “And I miss him.”

Sam purses his lips and turns to look out the windshield. “Yeah. Yeah, I know you do.”

They drive the rest of the way to Kaia in silence, and it’s only a matter of time before everything predictably goes to shit once again.

They wake up in a freaky new world with no way home, and tied to a tree in an unfamiliar and humid forest Sam finds himself hoping and praying that someone, anyone, is listening. 

The drama can wait for another time, but some small part of him (the part that’s not too busy running from dinosaurs) really does hope that Dean doesn’t die here before he and Cas can sort themselves out.

Castiel sits on the floor of his cell with his eyes tightly shut. His chest rises and falls rhythmically, naturally, but it is not meant to mistaken as a sign of comfort. He is gathering his energy, centering himself, finding his focus, and listening.

He is developing an escape plan.

“Hey,” a voice whispers to his left. “Hey, Cas.”

Castiel breathes out a low, irritated hum. “Go away,” he intones, in the way that a yoga instructor might say om.

Lucifer responds with what could almost be classified as a whine. “You’re really just going to sit here? At a time like this? Thought you were a man of action.”

Castiel doesn’t move. He breathes. He listens. “I’m waiting.”

“Oh for the love of - waiting for what?”

“Anything,” Castiel replies, brow furrowing. He’s beginning to lose his concentration. “Leave me alone.”

Lucifer scoffs but he abides, if only for a minute.

Castiel takes another breath. For days now he has been holding onto the familiar ache pressing on his chest as a tether to the outside world, as a source of strength and hope. 

Dean’s longing grows more intense every day that they are apart, and this time Castiel finds himself grateful for it. It’s been his constant companion in this dank, rotten hole in the world that he has been forced to inhabit at present. His reminder that love is alive, and that he has a reason to get up and keep fighting.

Soon enough, Castiel thinks to himself, the demons will make a mistake. I will have learned their routines, they’ll expose a weakness in this facility, and I’ll follow this feeling back to the Winchesters. He repeats it like a mantra, a clear plan of attack.

It certainly makes him feel more useful than sitting around waiting for Asmodeus’s underlings to come around and prod him for information that he just doesn’t have. He’s anxious to put it into practice.

He misses his family. He misses Dean. He escaped one prison just to fall right into another.

“Cas, seriously,” Lucifer says. “This isn’t fun anymore. I’m ready to leave. When are we getting out of here.”

A small growl rumbles forth from behind Castiel’s teeth. “If you’d just let me concentrate, maybe I could figure a way - ”

Suddenly, the very air seems to shift around him to the quiet sound of the entire universe rearranging itself. Castiel’s breath is stolen away as the weight is lifted away from him, like a cable between two poles being snapped in half and stinging on the recoil.

Dean’s longing is entirely gone. Cut off, abruptly, unable to be sensed. Castiel can trace no piece of it.

“No,” Castiel mumbles, feeling tears spring to his eyes.

Lucifer frowns against the bars of their cells. “Problem?”

It’s as constant as the north star. It’s his trail of breadcrumbs, and has been for so many years. Dean is steadfast and loyal and oh so very dear, and Castiel knows, knows viscerally that the only reason he wouldn’t be able to sense Dean aching for him across time and space is because Dean is -

Castiel jumps to his feet and rattles the bars with his hands, eyes wild. 

“Asmodeus!” he thunders. “Asmodeus, what did you do!”

He doesn’t get a response, but he does hear a dark laugh echo down the hallway. Castiel is furious, rage overtaking his panic like a wildfire. If that abomination so much as touched him -

No, he tells himself. Dean is not dead. But you’re going to have to make sure for yourself.

Cunning and scheming be damned. He is getting out of here, tonight, and he is going to find Dean.

“Help me with this,” Castiel demands, pressing close to Lucifer’s face. “Help me destroy them and I will personally ensure that you have an audience with Jack.”

Lucifer’s eyes glow red, flickering in the low light as a slow smile spreads up his face. 

“You got it, bro.”

CODA TAGLIST

# - C

@abbadonttouchme​ @anaturalsuperfan​ @angelwingsandhunterdreams​ @arandomindividual​ @armellin​ @ashthimble​ @athene-noctua08​ @ayremis​ @bilibiche​ @bold-sartorial-statement​ @boykingdom​ @boysinperil​ @bringedlundback​ @burntblackfeathers​ @cabinboyjackles​ @calliopecookiejar​ @captainhaterade @carnilia​ @cas-you-assbutt-dean-needs-you​ @casolantern​ @castielfallenangelwinchester​ @castielsmoon​ @casttiel​ @celesteandherfandoms​ @chevrolangels​ @cloud-dreamer​ @coldbroke​ @convallariini​ @ctrl-alt-destiel​

D - H

@dauntless-dean​ @deanieweeniesangel​ @deanismypatronass​ @deans-top-13-zepp-traxx​ @deanwinchcester​ @dellez​ @destiel-aye​ @destiel73​ @destielrose​ @divineinterventioning​ @dochunterwitch​ @donttouchmyfrenchtoast​ @dramaqueenrolf​ @dream-and-slash​ @ecbeau​ @eccentricas​ @fandomsfeelsandcrap​ @fandomfeelswithhellagayotps​ @fangirlingtodeath513​ @firthermore​ @francescaoteri​ @freedomcraziness​ @gaelicblue​ @geekily-yours​ @gentle-hands19​ @godshipsit​ @goodtidingsdean​ @guusana​ @hanooon1997​ @hotpotatosack​

I - Q

@i-lostmy-sammy​ @ialwayscomewhenyoucall​ @iamaqt314​ @ilovelucey​ @imthewarmpenguininthemiddle​ @iwaslazy​ @jaguarw0lf​ @jamalona​ @jeanjeaniethings​ @jenmdixon​ @karategirl80​ @krcstar​ @lapotatoqueen​ @lmejia13​ @loveallmyotpswaytoomuch​ @mattory-reylo-shipper-offical​ @meadowsofcas​ @melioristcas​ @melmassacre​ @mnwood​ @natmoose​ @ninamariiee​ @njk13093​ @nubismosher​ @paige-losechester​ @pantiesinawod​ @papayastems​ @patrcolvs​ @protagonist-influence​

R - T

@reader-meg​ @reading-greek​ @rollsapple​ @rubbishbin​ @samhyland​ @samikitten​ @saywhatjessie​ @selahbela​ @sensitivelass33​ @seraphmisha​ @shadowpaintedrose​ @shehungthemoon​ @sherlpotternatural​ @snovolovac​ @sseb​ @starbentone​ @starcastlesinthesky​ @sunshine-hunters​ @super-powerful-queen-slayyna​ @supercasifras​ @supernim​ @superporp17​ @sup3r-pott3r-lock3d​ @swansongcas​ @swax​ @tankewinchester​ @tardisheart134​ @teaandjumpers​ @thatcolourfulsomething​ @thatsuperawkwardgirl​ @thedauntlesshufflepuff​ @theruledangel​ @tricja​

U - Z

@venusdebotticelli​ @waiting-for-chapter-33​ @waywardren​ @whyjm​ @weathergirl83​ @whitmerule​ @wigglebox​ @wingsandimpalas​ @winchesterwithwings​ @withthedemonblood​ @woefulcas​ @wordstothewisereaders​ @write-nerdy-to-me​ @zolaliz​

[ozonecologne]

13.06 coda

Some domestic grumpy husbands for y’all <3 I love me some fan fiction gaps.

If you would like to be added to or removed from the tag list, please send me a message!

By the time that Jack and Sam finally file out of the room, Dean has barely even unglued his eyes. The steam curling up from his coffee mug helps – the fragrant warmth loosens the tightness in his face, smoothes out some of the wrinkles like an iron on a pressed shirt, well-loved.

Castiel moves to get up from his seat, but Dean stops him with a gesture. Not yet.

Castiel sits back down. He folds his coat up around his legs so he’s more comfortable in his chair.

And he stares. He watches Dean drink his coffee and pet down his hair and yawn and itch at his face, at the stubble growing in from the night.

He smiles a little to himself, but manages to hide it over the lip of his mug. He’s missed that look. This coffee tastes better than anything Dean’s had in days, just because Cas made it for him.

Castiel patiently does not say a word until the mug is empty. Dean draws it out for as long as he can, relishing the peace. The quiet. The contentment of being alone together, which is still so new after what feels like so long.

“Alright,” Dean relents, when he can’t delay any longer. They do still have a case to solve. He sets his empty mug down on the coffee table. He rubs his hands along his thighs and pushes himself to his feet, grunting a little as his joints wheeze with the effort. He stretches his arms above his head and his shirt rides up a little bit - he can feel it catching on the curve of his stomach. Castiel’s eyes track the movement, but he says nothing.

“I reek,” Dean proclaims, itching at the exposed skin. “You want to grab a shower?”

Castiel follows Dean’s example and stands, but it’s only to move forward and collect Dean’s dirty mug from the table. “No, thank you, I – ”

Dean catches his eye. Makes a face.

Castiel’s fingers dance across the mug where his two hands wrap around it.

“Oh,” he realizes, eyes a little wide. “I mean... yes.”

Dean laughs under his breath. “Meet you in there.”

“Mhm.”

Dean shakes his head and pushes on the fake saloon doors with gusto.

Castiel slides in behind him in the shower while he’s got shampoo in his eyes, head turned against the spray. Dean suspects that he timed it this way on purpose, playful and bashful all at once.

He hums contentedly as one of Cas’s huge hands slides up his hip, guiding him back where he wants him. “Howdy,” he greets, voice still sleep-rough and hoarse.

Lips press gingerly against the back of his neck. “Howdy,” Cas replies.

Dean smiles and opens his mouth to swirl around some water. He spits into the drain and turns, wiping the soap from his eyes. “Cool room, huh?”

Castiel looks like he’s barely resisting rolling his eyes. “Yes, very cool. I know how you feel about… all this.”

Dean grins, toothy. “Damn right.” He slings his forearms over Castiel’s shoulders, caging him in when he crosses his wrists behind his head. “Gonna get you in a hat. We’ll match. It’s gonna be great.”

Castiel does roll his eyes then, blinking hard when he manages to get water in them. His hair is starting to plaster to his head in that dumb, drowned rat way that Dean loves. “Is that really necessary?”

“Absolutely,” Dean tells him. He leans back against the shower wall, dragging Castiel with him, and is exceedingly pleased with himself when he manages not to slip. 

“We just gonna stand here yapping all morning, or what?” he asks, smirking.

Castiel leans in then and catches Dean’s mouth. They don’t do much talking after that.

Steam clouds the bathroom long after Dean has shut off the hot water. He scrubs a towel through his hair, walking bare around the suite bathroom, and tosses another one at Castiel. They brush their teeth and shave side by side, catching each other’s eyes in the wiped-clean mirror and fighting smiles the whole time. Their arms press together at the sink and Dean’s face feels awfully warm – which, of course, he will blame on the steam.

Castiel puts on his suit again lightning-fast, with only a thought, having left it folded and ready on the couch in the other room. Dean, however, is confined to doing things the human way. Humming to himself and maybe taking more time than he needs to, he pulls on his underwear, his socks, his undershirt, his collared shirt, his pants, his jacket, his frankly awesome snakeskin boots, and –

“Hold on,” Castiel intones. He seemed to content to sit and watch Dean go about this part of his morning ritual alone, but he breaks his silence now.

Dean frowns. “What?”

Castiel strides up to him, way into his personal space, and reaches a hand up to Dean’s collar. Dean tilts his chin up on instinct to allow Cas access.

Castiel tightens the bolo around Dean’s neck, straightening and adjusting it a little more than is required. “There.”

Dean lowers his head and finds their faces very close together. Castiel just smiles at him, a soft thing that Dean is powerless to repay with one of his own, before he steps back.

(They’re so giddy to be back. It would almost be disgusting if Dean actually gave a shit about being anything other than completely over the moon right now.)

“You seem to be missing the most important part of the costume,” Castiel observes, regaining his composure.

Dean scoffs. “Oh, don’t you worry, buddy. Saved the best for last.”

He snatches his Stetson off the top shelf in the small closet, above the hanger and garment bag for his suit, and sticks it happily on top of his head. His hair isn’t totally dry yet and it probably won’t sit right for the next day or so, like he cares. He can’t resist being flashy about turning and posing for Cas with his hands splayed. 

“See? Really completes the look.”

Castiel shakes his head, but ultimately acquiesces with a slight smile, amusement shining in his eyes. “It does,” he admits.

Dean beams. “They’ve got some cheap ones for sale down in the lobby. My treat.”

Castiel groans. “Dean, please, don’t – ”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Dean says, holding up a hand. “You’re wearing a hat, capiche?”

Castiel raises his hands and then dejectedly slaps them against his sides. Resistance is futile. “Yeah, I capiche,” he grumbles.

Dean darts forward and says, “Good,” before pecking him quickly on the lips.

Their peace doesn’t last, of course. Jack is so eager to please and so quick to the draw that he ends up making one hell of a mistake - nothing catastrophic in the grand scheme of things, not like what the Winchesters have gotten used to at this point, but seeing the empty and hopeless look in Jack’s eyes is a sobering moment for all of them.

Mood dampened, the reality of their work setting in for the first time on a novelty case like this one, Dean suggests that Sam and Cas take Jack back to the bunker. Castiel instead volunteers to take over the case, and the resulting hunt for the ghoul.

“No,” Dean says, softly but clearly, so that his intention is known. 

He just got Castiel back. He’s not willing to lose him again so soon, even on a training wheels hunt like this one. The thought alone that something might go wrong and Dean wouldn’t be there to back him up puts a sour taste in his mouth. 

Castiel’s eyes stay fast where they meet Dean’s, some of that old stubbornness rising to the surface as they silently hash the responsibility out, but Dean can practically see the moment he folds. Just like always, as with everything, Castiel goes where Dean leads him. He breaks their eye contact and accepts Dean’s point that Jack needs someone to comfort him right now, someone powerful enough to shield Sam in the event that Jack loses control in a guilty rage. 

He doesn’t trust anybody but Baby with his family. Dean helps them load everything into the Impala before taking off for the undertaker’s place, bags and suits and boots and half-angel kids piled too close together. Castiel handles the latter with a gentle hand on Jack’s shoulder, guiding him to the backseat.

“Watch your head,” Dean hears him say, as Jack folds himself into the car, numb and slow.

Dean purses his lips and kicks up a rock on the asphalt. He looks up at Sam, a few steps away by the driver’s side. 

He tosses him the keys, and Sam catches them effortlessly. “Got your phone?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, weary. He runs a hand through his hair.

“Is it charged?” Dean asks.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah,” he repeats. “I’ll text you when we get to the bunker.”

Dean nods. “Atta boy.” He reaches up and grabs Sam in a one-armed hug, which is quickly returned. “You watch out for them.”

Sam sniffs. “I will.”

Dean pats him on the arm, and that’s all the dismissal he needs.

Castiel wanders up to him next, hanging back until Sam has gone. Jack doesn’t pay them any attention, just staring out the window into nothingness, and Sam knows enough by now to avert his eyes and pretend he doesn’t hear them.

“Hey,” Dean says, hanging his head.

“Hello,” comes the easy reply. Castiel doesn’t dare reach out and touch him, but he does say, “Please be careful. Don’t do anything rash. Please.”

I just got you back, Castiel means to say. Dean can hear it reverberating around in his own head, so he knows that’s what Cas is thinking. They are so alike in this respect, and for once they’re on the same page.

Dean nods. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You know me, always Mr. Responsible.”

Castiel hums, and nods. “Call if you need backup. I can get to you as quickly as you need.”

Dean nods. “Good to know. Uh, thanks.”

Out of things to say, Castiel chews his bottom lip. It’s a nervous gesture that Dean doesn’t quite recognize. “Well. I’ll...”

Dean tips his head up. “I’ll see you at home,” he says.

Castiel meets his eyes, blinking wide, some unknown emotion swirling behind his own. “Yes,” he says quietly. “See you at home.”

Without making too big a deal out of it, Dean snags Castiel’s sleeve and pulls him in, kissing his cheek before wrapping him in a quick hug. Castiel tilts his head against Dean’s and returns it without hesitation.

“Good luck out there,” Dean tells him.

“Back at you, cowboy,” Castiel drawls, in that stupid fucking accent.

Dean laughs as he pulls back, rubbing his thumb along the seam of Castiel’s sleeve. “You still got that hat?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t lose it,” Dean requests. “We’ll revisit that later.”

Castiel smirks infinitesimally. His attempt at levity is greatly appreciated. “If you say so.”

They part ways after that, Dean beckoning him off with a hand raised in the air. Sam returns the wave on all their behalf before pulling out of the parking lot, headlights cutting through the dark. The last thing that Dean sees is Jack’s sad form silhouetted in the back windshield, small and broken.

Dean sighs and shakes his head before stomping back into the motel room. He eyes a dark blue Dodge at the other end of the parking lot, ripe for a hot-wiring.

Back to work. Time to bring home another win.

CODA TAGLIST

# - C

@221fandomwitches @anaturalsuperfan @angelwingsandhunterdreams @arandomindividual @armellin @ashthimble @athene-noctua08 @ayremis @bilibiche @bold-sartorial-statement @boykingdom @boysinperil @bringedlundback @burntblackfeathers @cabinboyjackles @calliopecookiejar @carnilia @cas-you-assbutt-dean-needs-you @casolantern @castielfallenangelwinchester @castielsmoon @casttiel @celesteandherfandoms @chevrolangels @cloud-dreamer @coldbroke

D - H

@dauntless-dean @deanismypatronass @deans-top-13-zepp-traxx @deanwinchcester @dellez @destiel-aye @destiel73 @destielrose @divineinterventioning @dochunterwitch @donttouchmyfrenchtoast @ecbeau @fandomsfeelsandcrap @fangirlingtodeath513 @firthermore @francescaoteri @freedomcraziness @gaelicblue @geekily-yours @gentle-hands19 @goodtidingsdean @guusana

I - Q

@i-lostmy-sammy @iamaqt314 @ilovelucey @imthewarmpenguininthemiddle @itsjilytober @iwaslazy @jaguarw0lf @jamalona @jeanjeaniethings @jenmdixon @karategirl80 @krcstar @lapotatoqueen @lmejia13 @loveallmyotpswaytoomuch @meadowsofcas @melioristcas @melmassacre @mnwood @natmoose @ninamariiee @njk13093 @nubismosher @paige-losechester @pantiesinawod @papayastems @patrcolvs @protagonist-influence

R - T

@reader-meg @reading-greek @rollsapple @rubbishbin @samhyland @samikitten @saywhatjessie @selahbela @sensitivelass33 @seraphmisha @shadowpaintedrose @shehungthemoon @sherlpotternatural @sseb @starbentone @starcastlesinthesky @sunshine-hunters @super-powerful-queen-slayyna @supercasifras @supernim @superporp17 @sup3r-pott3r-lock3d @swansongcas @swax @tankewinchester @tardisheart134 @teaandjumpers @thatcolourfulsomething @thatsuperawkwardgirl @thedauntlesshufflepuff @theruledangel @tricja

U - Z

@venusdebotticelli @waywardren @whyjm @weathergirl83 @wingsandimpalas @winchesterwithwings @withthedemonblood @woefulcas @wordstothewisereaders @write-nerdy-to-me @zolaliz

[ozonecologne]

13.04 coda

scream with me, children

and send me a message if you’d like to be added to or removed from the taglist!

This weird… feeling follows him around for the rest of the day. Just out of nowhere.

It’s probably left over from his talk with Sam. His guilt eases a bit. He feels impossibly lighter – even though their situation has not changed, everything is just as hopeless as it was yesterday, and yet, in the middle of the day and for no real reason at all, Dean feels better. Like something has just gone right with the world, even though that’s impossible.

He leaves Sam by the telescope and Jack in the kitchen, where the poor kid stood stock still until he was sure that Dean had left the room, and decides to go somewhere else, somewhere he knows he won’t be bothered.

The archives.

He looks around the corner behind him, and then down the hallway in front of him. He looks behind him one more time, and it’s with this weird feeling buzzing around in his chest and only when the coast is clear that he unzips his inner jacket pocket.

“Here,” Mia had said, holding out her hand.

Dean pursed his lips. “What’s that,” he grumbled, though the answer was obvious.

“My card.” Mia’s hand shook where she held out the small white business card, but she squared her shoulders and held her ground. “I know you don’t believe in it, but if you ever change your mind. If you ever get tired of being angry. You let me know.”

Dean looked at her, looked back at the card. He knew exactly what his dad would say, and probably did say a few times in those early years: screw you and your mind games.

But despite what Sam thinks, Dean is not his father. So he takes Mia’s card.

And now, alone in the underground and overwhelmed by something he doesn’t fully understand, he uses it.

“Mia Vallens,” the voice on the line answers. Her personal number.

“Hey, uh. Mia.” Dean clears his throat. “It’s Dean Winchester.”

Mia’s voice isn’t smug when next she speaks. She doesn’t say, “I told you so,” She doesn’t say, “I knew it,” she doesn’t even say, “I’ve been expecting your call.”

All she says is, “How can I help you today, Dean?”

There are tons of blank notebooks in the Men of Letters archives. Tons. Dean grabs a few at random while he stays on the phone, ignoring the ones with leather covers in favor of the canvas ones with thick, pressed paper. He carries them gingerly back to his room and stows them under his bed.

He doesn’t touch them for hours. He doesn’t even look at them. He rolls his eyes every time he catches himself chewing his thumbnail and thinking about them.

“Were you being sarcastic in there?” Mia asked. “When you admitted you journal.”

Dean reflexively rolled his shoulders. “Do I really look like the kind of guy that sits down and – ”

“Dean,” Mia interrupted. “This is only going to work if you’re honest.”

Dean blew out a breath, tracing the spine of a random book at chest level. “Ok, yeah. Sometimes. I never save them or anything. But sometimes I write stuff out. When it gets…” His breath catches. “My, uh. My dad used to keep a journal.”

“I remember. Sam said that earlier.”

“Well, it didn’t help him very much.”

Mia made a considering sound on the other end of the line. “You should start again. And don’t throw them out this time, ok? You never have to read them, but just… hold onto them.”

“Maybe.”

Dean sits at the edge of his bed now pondering the empty pages. He already knows that he’s going to do it. He knows. But god, where does he even begin? What does he even start with? The first page of his new therapy journal might as well say, “It all started when I was born.”

He winces and rubs at his chest with his knuckles, right along the ridge of his sternum. That weird weightless feeling is still following him around, stubborn and annoying as hell. He feels like bursting into laughter, which is probably a sign that he’s finally cracked.

The very legitimate fear that Dean’s sanity is lost forever is what finally motivates him to pick up an empty journal, and a chewed-up ballpoint pen.

The ink comes out blue.

It’s, like, the very next day that Sam announces he’s taking Dean on a hunt, just the two of them, like old times, to get his mind off things. It’s nice, the bonding time. It is, especially since they haven’t been seeing eye to eye lately. 

Sam eventually matches Dean’s apology with one of his own. It’s unnecessary, but appreciated. This whole “using your words” thing is new for the both of them.

There are still things that he doesn’t talk about with Sam. Not even on the long drive back to the bunker when all they do for hours is sit side by side in contemplative silence, not even when Sam very obviously catches Dean writing in their shared motel room late at night by the light of the desk lamp or the TV or even by the moon.

Progress, by nature, is slow.

Reading his diary over the phone is, was, and will be probably the most embarrassing act ever committed by Dean Winchester. But he got through it, clumsily and red faced, and Mia didn’t say anything for a very long time. It was a short entry, sure, but Dean still bounced his knee and bit his nails with anxiety when his mini tirade was only met with silence.

“It wasn’t just your mother, was it?”

“What?”

Mia hummed. “You’re grieving for your mother, but not like Sam is. There’s very clearly something else eating at you, something that he doesn’t understand or that you can’t talk to him about.”

Instead of answering, Dean picked at his bedspread and kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his ankles crossed. His feet were bare; he clenched his toes.

“It was sudden, you said,” Mia continued. ��I can only assume that it was a hunter’s tragedy. And that your mother wasn’t the only one caught in the crossfire.”

Dean sucked in a breath. “I lost – we.”

“Honesty, Dean.”

He swallowed. Closed his eyes and grit his teeth. “Castiel,” he says. It was the first time he’d said his name aloud in what feels like years.

He could almost hear Mia’s smile over the phone. “Ok. Here’s your homework for this week: write about him.”

“What’s that?”

Dean snaps the journal closed. “Nothing.”

Jack frowns down at him. “Was that the good kind of lie, or the bad kind?”

Dean only replies, “Just buzz off, kid.” He pulls his journal closer and ends up sticking it under his thigh, feigning nonchalance. He pulls his laptop closer instead and halfheartedly starts searching for cases.

Jack leaves him alone. A good little soldier, following orders.

Dean rubs at his eyes with his hands. Shit, he really is turning into his dad. He swore he never would, and yet –

And there it is again, without fail. That dumb giddy feeling, exploding outwards like a sunset beneath his ribcage, casting all of him in head-to-toe warmth. For a brief moment, all the tension Dean has been carrying around fades out of him. The peace lasts for exactly one breath, one amazing second where a tiny voice inside convinces him that everything is ok, and then it fades. Like an interrupted signal, like radio waves getting caught in the wrong transmission. Dean shakes his head free of the sensation, so fleeting that he can almost convince himself he imagined it.

He twirls his pen around in his fingers and keeps clicking through articles on the Internet, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“Hey,” he calls out, just before Jack is totally lost within the maze of the bunker’s hallways. He catches himself on the doorframe and turns, looking expectantly towards Dean.

Dean purses his lips. “You haven’t been feeling any… I don’t know. Energy spikes lately, have you?”

Jack frowns and then tilts his head, as if listening for something. “No. What kind of energy?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says. He waves a hand. “Forget it. Never mind.”

Jack keeps standing there for a while. Dean’s still playing with the strategy that if he just ignores him, he’ll go away, but Jack in fact does the opposite. 

He comes closer and tells Dean shyly, “I got to see my mom.”

Dean shakes his head. “No you – ”

“I did. Mia showed me,” Jack insists.

Dean shakes his head. “Not really your mom,” he tells him, forcing down the bile building in his throat. “Just a trick.”

“I know it wasn’t really – ” Jack sighs. “It still helped. It did.”

Dean clears his throat. It takes him a minute to realize that what’s making him so uncomfortable is actually jealousy. “Yeah, well, that’s great for you. Hurray.”

Jack shakes his head. “Why are you so...? I’m just trying to help. I don’t understand why you don’t want to be helped.”

You don’t think you deserve to be saved?

Dean freezes. He doesn’t even pretend to be ignoring Jack now, he just stares at the flat, reflective surface of the table.

Jack fidgets. “Dean?”

“I do.”

Jack frowns. “You do… what?”

“I do want to be helped,” Dean admits. Quietly, like it’s shameful. “I’m working on it.”

Jack narrows his eyes. Dean finally looks up to meet them.

Jack clears his throat, flustered. All that time spent staring at Dean and now’s the one time his eyes decide to settle anywhere but on him. “Well, that’s… good.”

Dean nods. Jack opens his mouth to say something more, but at the last second he seems to change his mind. He fiddles with the hem of his t-shirt and says, “Goodbye,” and leaves, just like that.

Dean watches him go. He slowly pulls his journal out onto the table again.

It feels like a tiny star’s being born in his heart.

He has a voice recording.

The voice mail, which he refuses to let anyone know that he calls sometimes, just to hear his voice. “Make your voice… a mail.”

He has his voice in the palm of his hand, every day.

Sitting in his room talking to Mia was a lot like sitting in the dark of that confessional. No one to see him or judge him, but that freedom of admission still eases him. 

There’s – there’s things, there’s… people. Feelings that I… I want to experience differently than I have before. Or maybe even for the first time.

Dean shook his head. “There’s a lot that I left unsaid, you know? I never told him – I never – ”

Mia saved him from having to go on. “Dean,” she said softly. “You know what I do. What people ask of me.”

Dean swallowed. “Yeah. The catharsis.”

“Right.”

Dean shook his head. “I’m not… I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

“That’s fine,” Mia told him. “But think about it, maybe. If that’s something you think that would help you move on – to tell Castiel all that you feel you didn’t when he was alive – I’d be more than happy to help you with that.”

“I know,” Dean said. “And, uh. Thanks.”

“That’s my job.”

Dean laughed. “Which I don’t pay you for.”

“You gave me my life back. And you let me keep living it. We’re square.”

With a nod, Dean flicked off his desk lamp and cast his room in shadow.

Dean turns his phone around in his hands. He has Castiel’s voice. Through the telephone, through the window of a technological confessional, Dean could finally say what he needed to. He could put it all into words, he doesn’t even have to look him in the eyes when he says, “I love you back, you total fucking bastard,” for the first time.

He could do it. He could ask Mia to – to do that for him.

It worked for Jack, right? Jack said that it helped him. And he does want to be helped. He doesn’t want to feel like this anymore, low and angry and tired.

Except that he doesn’t, not all the time, not anymore. When he finds himself dipping like this, it flares again. The tiny star cushioned between his lungs. 

It’s absolutely maddening – this one little piece of him that just won’t let him move on. Maybe it’s self sabotage. Maybe it’s faith. Dean doesn’t know what the fuck it is.

“What the fuck are you?” he grumbles, glaring down at his chest.

Nothing happens, obviously. But he still feels unsettled, he aches and he feels himself being pulled by some sort of invisible force so he seeks out the same comfort that he usually does.

He calls Castiel’s cellphone.

He waits the usual number of rings, waits for the inevitable beep, waits for his meager “make your voice a mail.”

But instead of all that, the line clicks.

“Hello?”

Stunned, Dean blurts out, “Uh. Hello?”

“Dean?”

Dean sits up, ramrod straight. “Who the fuck is this?”

“Dean,” the voice laughs on the other end of the line. “Dean. Oh, thank god.”

“I’m god damn serious,” Dean mutters. “Mia, if this is you somehow – ”

“I don’t know who Mia is,” he says. “This is – You changed your number. Dean, your number changed and I’m making my way to Kansas but...”

Dean gapes. He opens and closes his mouth a few times and just stares at nothing.

This is not happening.

Oh, but it is. Because that wonderful, familiar voice is now asking, “Dean, how did you know? How did you know to call?” right into his ear, tender and shaky with relief.

Dean rubs a slow circle into his chest, where his heart beats rapidly and his very bones seem to burn.

“I don’t know. I don’t know, I just did,” he says. “Cas, is that… is that really you?”

“Yes,” he promises. “Yes.”

Dean hears him say it. His whole body sings with it, with Castiel’s “yes,” and he knows it to be true.

CODA TAGLIST

# - C

@221fandomwitches @anaturalsuperfan @angelwingsandhunterdreams @arandomindividual @armellin @ashthimble @athene-noctua08 @ayremis @bilibiche @bold-sartorial-statement @boykingdom @boysinperil @bringedlundback @burntblackfeathers @cabinboyjackles @calliopecookiejar @carnilia @cas-you-assbutt-dean-needs-you @casolantern @castielfallenangelwinchester @castielsmoon @chevrolangels @coldbroke

D - H

@dauntless-dean @deanismypatronass @deans-top-13-zepp-traxx @deanwinchcester @dellez @destiel-aye @destiel73 @destielrose @divineinterventioning @donttouchmyfrenchtoast @ecbeau @fandomsfeelsandcrap @fangirlingtodeath513 @francescaoteri @freedomcraziness @gaelicblue @geekily-yours @gentle-hands19 @guusana

I - Q

@iamaqt314 @ilovelucey @imthewarmpenguininthemiddle @itsjilytober @iwaslazy @jeanjeaniethings @jenmdixon @karategirl80 @krcstar @lapotatoqueen @lmejia13 @loveallmyotpswaytoomuch @meadowsofcas @melmassacre @mnwood @natmoose @ninamariiee @njk13093 @nubismosher @paige-losechester @pantiesinawod @papayastems @patrcolvs @protagonist-influence

R - T

@reading-greek @rollsapple @samhyland @samikitten @saywhatjessie @sensitivelass33 @seraphmisha @shadowpaintedrose @sseb @starbentone @starcastlesinthesky @sunshine-hunters @super-powerful-queen-slayyna @supercasifras @supernim @superporp17 @swansongcas @swax @tankewinchester @tardisheart134 @thatcolourfulsomething @thatsuperawkwardgirl @thedauntlesshufflepuff @theruledangel

U - Z

@venusdebotticelli @waywardren @whyjm @wingsandimpalas @winchesterwithwings @withthedemonblood @woefulcas @zolaliz

[ozonecologne]

13.03 coda

MY BOY IS BACK THIS WEEK AND THAT’S ALL THAT MATTERS.

Shoot me a note if you’d like to be added to or removed from the taglist! <3

“Now you might be able to forget about that, but I CAN’T!”

Dean’s words pierce the air like a gunshot. They splinter against Sam’s face like shrapnel that leaves an obvious wound, fresh and deep.

“You can’t,” Sam repeats, a little softer, more like a question. “You can’t?”

“What part of this don’t you get, you fucking robot,” Dean snaps at him, voice cracking. He can barely meet his brother’s eyes anymore in the bloody aftermath. 

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

He walks away without another word, and Sam is too shocked to go after him. Buffering, still. Processing. He feels like he just got slapped across the face, but Dean didn’t even try to lay a hand on him.

He’s distantly aware of a minor altercation in the hallway – “Damn it, get out of my way” – but he doesn’t do anything about it.

Sam walks back to his seat at the war table like the robot Dean seems to think that he is: unfeeling, stiff, cold. He sits and stares blankly at his laptop screen for a while, hands resting limply on his thighs. A tingling starts at the back of his skull; a niggling idea that won’t leave him alone.

He didn’t get to see much of it when he was younger, because Dad tried to keep that stuff from him for as long as possible and Dean always fancied himself the keeper of Winchester family secrets, but once he finally had the time and space to do so Sam sat down with his father’s journal and leafed through the pages. In these most recent years Sam has found a surprisingly great need for it and likes to keep it close.

He only thinks about it now because he had brought John into their argument, unearthed like a buried hatchet that he will continue to sheath in his brother’s back until the day they die for good. At the very beginning of his small and treasured volume, tucked into the front leather flap all yellowed and spotted and creased, are his father’s words. His father’s grief. 

December 11: I close my eyes and she’s there. It always starts the same, I’m seeing her as she was before that night, beautiful and happy and alive. And I’m not seeing it, I’m living it, it’s like I’m there… it’s so real, I know I can reach out and touch her. And so I do… I reach out… and suddenly I’m back to that night, to the blood and the fire and Mary, Mary is on the ceiling, and how did she get on the ceiling… she can’t be on the ceiling… Here’s the weird part. When I wake up, sweating and panting… I swear there is something there. I can feel it, hovering over me, over my boys. It’s watching, it’s waiting, I think it’s even mocking me… You couldn’t stop this. You couldn’t keep her safe. You can’t keep them safe.

Sam traces the familiar lines of the page again and again with his fingertips, slow and pained. There are still spots of discoloration on the paper from an assault of teardrops. Sam never saw his father cry as a kid, not even once, but he finds the evidence here, hidden away like some shameful secret.

“I can’t,” Dean had told him. Exploded at the seams with it up into his face. “I can’t.”

December 25: Didn’t sleep again last night. It’s not right that she’s not here, and that’s all I could think about today. I’m so angry I can barely see straight – I want my wife back.

Sam swallows against the lump in his throat. It never gets easier, reading these early entries. It always kindles an ache that burns at his core.

But he’s still grateful to have them, because he’s a robot. Because he does not feel the same way about Castiel’s death that his brother does, and these words are his only clues to unraveling the knots in their family.

December 29: I don’t know how to talk to him about it. He’s not even five years old. Most kids his age don’t even have a clear idea what death is, and he’s seen it up close and personal. What do I say to him? How old does he have to be before I tell him the truth?

Sam decided at an early age that he would never be like his father. But as he sits alone in the bunker’s war room now, holding that very man’s most powerful doubts between his palms, he almost has to laugh at the irony. 

What do I say to him? John had written.

What do I say to him? Sam asks himself.

Jessica, Jess had been. She. It was the first and best relationship he’d ever had. And then he lost her, and he was so angry and so guilty and so sad for so long. But even he can acknowledge that it isn’t quite the same. Sam had known Jess for not even four years. They were young and their lives were uncomplicated. Sam had to deny half of himself just to be able to devote himself to her and the life he’d wanted to give her. He’s certainly not a god damn robot thank you but it was so long ago and so much has happened in the meantime that he barely even remembers the feeling of her arms around him.

Castiel was not Dean’s Jessica. Sam’s experience with love falls short, a series of close enoughs and could have beens, and he doesn’t know how to make up for it.

Castiel was not Dean’s Jessica. Castiel was Dean’s Mary.

Sam shuts his father’s journal, holding his hand over the cover to ground himself. When he finally dares to take a breath in, his fingers tremble faintly against the leather.

This is the first time that Sam allows himself to consider that Dean might not only be devastated in a way that Sam literally cannot relate to, but also that he might be afraid. “Can’t” is an admission of powerlessness, a confession of a failure to control, and Dean has never liked either of those. If even Castiel, bad ass mother fucker of the lord and “everyone except me” Winchester, can be killed right in front of Dean’s eyes – then who’s next? What lasts?

Can love even survive in a world like theirs?

It’s the kind of loaded question that one holds to their temple. 

Sam slides John’s journal away from him on the table and puts his head into his hands. He started the day promising himself that he would stick to his guns and stay angry at Dean for how he’s treated Jack, but just like always he can feel himself slipping. He can’t ever stay mad at Dean for long and especially not when he’s hurting.

He does have to admit that he isn’t entirely blameless for his brother’s suffering. He gave Jack a room in the same corridor as Dean’s. This is the guy that let Crowley live under the same roof as Kevin Tran for the remainder of his very short life. He keeps making the same mistakes when it comes to these things. Just this morning, he nearly made a Nephilim cry because he pushed him too hard. “I don’t understand why it’s so hard,” he had bemoaned, without really realizing at the time how childish that sounded.

Maybe he has also pushed Dean… too far. Past the point of what he can reasonably handle while he grapples with something as insurmountable as losing the love of his life.

He gets up from the table. He leaves the journal behind and he heads to the door with a new plan of action.

Jack is predictably huddled against the wall, with his knees drawn up to his chest. 

“Hey,” Sam says quietly. “How much did you – ”

“All of it,” Jack mumbles. 

Sam winces. “Dean’s hurting, bad, and that’s warping his sense of reality a little bit. Cas dying wasn’t your fault. You didn’t cause that.”

“I didn’t lie,” Jack insists. “I never lied to him.”

“I know,” Sam says.

Jack bites his bottom lip. It’s going to get chapped if he keeps that up, and then Sam will have to explain lip balm. “I’m going to move the pencil,” he announces.

Sam nods. “I know,” he says again.

He comes to a stop outside Dean’s closed bedroom door.

He knocks, but no one answers. He knocks again, a little louder, but there’s still no answer. He hesitantly tries the knob and is relieved to find that it’s unlocked. 

Another unbidden image returns to Sam’s head as he steps into his brother’s room, which he shares with no one but his own thoughts.

1983 November 16: Dean still hardly talks. I try to make small talk, or ask him if he wants to throw the baseball around. Anything to make him feel like a normal kid again. He never budges from my side – or from his brother. Every morning when I wake up, Dean is inside the crib, arms wrapped around baby Sam. Like he’s trying to protect him from whatever is out there in the night. Sammy cries a lot, wanting his mom. I don’t know how to stop it, and part of me doesn’t want to.

Sam has cried for Castiel. He has. But Dean, his big brother, is drowning on his own here and it’s only ever Sam that has been his life raft. 

It’s dark in the room, but with the strip of light flooding in from the hallway Sam can see that Dean is laying on his bed with his headphones on, Charlie’s pink iPod loose in his hand. Sam knocks over something like 11 empty beer bottles on his way through the door, and the noise is enough to cause Dean to look up. 

His eyes are wet.

“Um,” Sam says. “Hey.”

Dean says nothing at first, just manages a weak glare. He does take the headphones off, though. “What.”

A flash of anger rises up in Sam’s throat, but he forces it back down. No more yelling today. Soft love only. Tough love can wait.

“I’m, um. I’m not sorry for asking you to have my back on this. I still think Jack deserves to be saved, just like I did and just like you did once upon a time.”

Dean doesn’t even blink.

“But,” Sam says, rocking onto his heels. “I’ve been a jerk about a lot of other things. And if I want you to back me up on stuff that matters to me, I need to back you up on the stuff that matters to you.”

Dean doesn’t say anything as Sam sits down on the edge of the bed. The toe of Dean’s work boot brushes up against his arm.

“So, I just wanted you to know that I’m here,” he says. “You’re right; I don’t know what you’re going through with Cas. And that sucks. So tell me what I can do to make it better.”

Dean shakes his head. “You can’t. You can’t do anything.”

Sam grinds his teeth. “Don’t believe in ‘can’t,’” he admits. “I can do something, even if it’s just cooking dinner two nights a week.”

“No amount of emotional trauma is enough to get me to let you near the stove.”

Sam snorts. “Jerk.”

Dean hesitates. “Bitch,” he says, and some of the tension does ease from his shoulders.

Clumsily, Sam careens over into Dean’s chest, arms thrown wide across his body.

“Sammy – ”

“Take the hug, Dean,” Sam gripes.

Dean relents, relaxes into his pillow, and closes his eyes. 

And for just a minute, everything hurts a little less. A little bit of light shines through the darkness.

Elsewhere, in a deeper darkness, Castiel draws himself up to his full height. The persistent burning beneath his ribs has less to do with Lucifer’s killing blow and more to do with an undeniable pull towards home. Magnetism, longing, unyielding. 

“Dean?”

CODA TAGLIST

# - C

@221fandomwitches @anaturalsuperfan @angelwingsandhunterdreams @arandomindividual @armellin @ashthimble @athene-noctua08 @bilibiche @bold-sartorial-statement @boykingdom @boysinperil @bringedlundback @burntblackfeathers @cabinboyjackles @calliopecookiejar @carnilia @cas-you-assbutt-dean-needs-you @casolantern @castielfallenangelwinchester @castielsmoon @chevrolangels @coldbroke

D - H

@dauntless-dean @deanismypatronass @deans-top-13-zepp-traxx @deanwinchcester @dellez @destiel-aye @destiel73 @destielrose @divineinterventioning @donttouchmyfrenchtoast @ecbeau @fandomsfeelsandcrap @fangirlingtodeath513 @francescaoteri @freedomcraziness @gaelicblue @gentle-hands19 @guusana

I - Q

@iamaqt314 @ilovelucey @imthewarmpenguininthemiddle @itsjilytober @iwaslazy @jeanjeaniethings @jenmdixon @karategirl80 @krcstar @lapotatoqueen @lmejia13 @loveallmyotpswaytoomuch @meadowsofcas @melmassacre @mnwood @natmoose @ninamariiee @njk13093 @nubismosher @paige-losechester @casttiel @papayastems @patrcolvs @protagonist-influence

R - T

@reading-greek @rollsapple @samhyland @samikitten @saywhatjessie @sensitivelass33 @seraphmisha @sseb @starcastlesinthesky @sunshine-hunters @super-powerful-queen-slayyna @supercasifras @supernim @superporp17 @swansongcas @swax @tankewinchester @tardisheart134 @thatcolourfulsomething @thedauntlesshufflepuff @theruledangel

U - Z

@venusdebotticelli @waywardren @whyjm @wingsandimpalas @winchesterwithwings @withthedemonblood @woefulcas @zolaliz

[ozonecologne]

Introducing #colognecoda!

Hello there!

More than a few people have asked over the years if I have a specific tag for my episode codas, so that they don’t have to scroll through my entire fic tag to find old ones and/or so they can track a specific tag for each episode. In the past, this hasn’t been the case. But I’m going to change that now!

Starting with today’s coda for 13.14, I’m going to be tagging all of my SPN episode codas with #colognecoda! 

This will be in addition to the taglist, so now there will be at least TWO ways of finding my work after an episode has aired, or going back to view old ones. 

I hope this system proves helpful! Thank you guys for the feedback and please let me know if there is anything else I can do to help improve your reading/blogging experience <3

[ozonecologne]

13.07 coda: Jack

My boy was missing tonight! Can’t have that!!

High above the world, Jack careens through the air on shaky limbs, eyes open and stinging as space bends around him, funnels in and squeezes him out like a tube of toothpaste from the inside, twisting and shifting with color and sound that he doesn’t have the time – time? – to dissect. Panic rises up into his throat; how will he know when to stop? And where? He has already gone too far, he thinks.

Jack slams his eyes shut and lands like a blind dart at a target, and goes crooked. He stumbles after his body as it settles, stationary, into the present, eyes blinking and chest heaving under the strain.

He slowly shakes his head and listens for the sound of his heart.

Still there, still beating.

There, he thinks, almost happy. He has unfurled his wings and he can manage flight. That’s good. It will get easier every time he practices, just like with the pencil. He can do this. He can keep himself free and on the run.

The small giddy grin that had graced Jack’s face for a moment slips down until it feels as low as the dirt. He is alone, now, well and truly. He realizes, with great horror, that he didn’t think to bring the laptop with him as he flew away from the bunker. The footage of his mother is lost to him forever now, and so her voice is hidden from him too.

He stares at his shoes. He is alone and it hurts something awful.

But pain is a part of life, he repeats to himself. Accepting pain is a sign of maturity; Dean taught him that in the tattoo parlor. So he allows himself to feel his pain and acknowledge his loneliness. He steeps in it.

He looks around as his eyes begin to adjust to the world better. There are no people around him, and Jack is glad for that. (He was dreading crashing into somebody by accident.)

He recognizes this place. In front of him loom the mountains, doubled in the crystal mirror of the lake positioned at their feet. The few sparse pines on the shore sway lightly in the breeze. And to his left, there it stands: the house he was born in.

His walks slowly, treading lightly. He doesn’t leave so much as a footprint in the sand. He knows better. He should leave no trace of himself, not anywhere. As if he never existed. 

If only.

He walks up the steps, listening to them creak. He runs a hand over the sill of one of the ground-level windows, dusty and cracked. Paint chips off under his nail when he picks at it. The glass has gone spotty with age. One of the panels is cracked.

Jack tilts his head at it. He walks inside.

The downstairs is unremarkable. Small. Confining after growing accustomed to the vastness of the bunker, but he loves the clean smell of the mountain air. It’s cold up here. He doesn’t feel it, he just knows it to be true. He takes his time going up the stairs main, trailing his hand on the banister and staring at the empty walls. They would have hung pictures, he decides. Him and his mom. Pictures of them and of their family, of Castiel and Sam and Dean. He gets a splinter in his palm for his trouble.

One wall upstairs still says, “JACK” in big, happy letters. Hand-painted, he knows. He can feel his mother’s touch in every stroke of paint. He walks the path of his own footprints in the wood – scorched, singed, because he is an evil, smoldering thing – and reaches out to touch. The letters glow golden for a second when he reaches out and he doesn’t mean for them to.

He leans his forehead against the wall, right on the A. He breathes in the dust. He misses a life that never was and a person that he can never be.

He stretches his fledgling wings and takes off again, ever moving, ever a mystery.

Even still, his ears are tuned to one frequency, a rhythm and a cadence he knows so well only because he chose it, because the voices lulled him to sleep and to safety so many a time.

“Anything?”

“No. Thanks. I put out an APB to every single hunter we know…”

Jack closes his eyes and fights off an impending wave of nausea as the world twists and reshapes around him once again.

[ozonecologne]

@caaelum is an enabler

“Is that a grenade launcher?”

Dean grins. “Yes it is.”

They stand there for a minute in appreciative silence. Max’s grin widens.

“So...” he singsongs. “You want to show me the backseat next?”

Dean looks up, does a double take.

Max raises his eyebrows. “Later, maybe,” he suggests. No shame, all gall.

Dean gapes. He says the first thing that comes to mind which happens to be, “Uh. I’m - it’s - complicated.”

Max’s smug look slips off his face. “Oh, my bad. Didn’t mean to -”

“Nah, man. It’s cool.”

They both clear their throats at the same time.

Dean just can’t shut his stupid mouth. He’s been trying to talk about this all day with Sam and he got the stone wall. “It’s, just. My, um. The angel, you know?”

Max’s eyes widen a little. “Huh. Ok. Didn’t think there was anything to that rumor.” He purses his lips. “Nice.”

Dean coughs. “Yeah, it’s. Yeah. Sam!”

[ozonecologne]

a horrifying concept

The knock comes at a quarter to three. Dean, of course, is still awake. Drinking in the library. Ashamed as he is to admit it, his heart still lurches with hope at the sound.

He wipes off his hands and tries to convince himself that he’s not rushing up the stairs, heart pounding all the while. He opens the door and his face hardens into a frown. 

“What do you want?” he spits.

“You know why I’m here.”

Dean shakes his head, wiping a hand down his face. It’s still cool with the condensation from his bottle. “Yeah, well, you’re too late. Sorry.”

He abandons the front hallway and walks back to the library, not caring if he’s followed. Judging by the quiet sound of tinny footsteps on the stairs, he is. His eyes follow his guest as she takes the seat across from him at the table, eyeing his bottle of liquor. He doesn’t offer her any.

He’s hit with an idea, sitting here and staring at her. It’s all but a shout. “Teach me,” Dean blurts.

“I can’t,” she says. “You know what it does.”

Dean grits his teeth. “I don’t care. I want you to teach me.”

“Why?”

Dean’s fists unclench, his shoulders drop. “Because I lost someone too. And I need to do something.”

A chair slides back from the table with a quiet squeak. Dean doesn’t raise his eyes, sure that this is the end. His last resort slipping through his fingers. But war-hardened hands take his and he does look up, right into the vacant stare of someone too far gone down the road of revenge.

Lily Sunder nods. “I’ll help you.”

Dean doesn’t feel afraid. He's very good at making deals.

[ozonecologne]

after 12.23

(yes, more angst. i love to suffer.)

He’s seeing him again. Everywhere. 

Back when he was fresh from Purgatory he couldn’t be sure that what he was seeing was even real, but he knows now that this is not. 

Well, except that it is, in a way. Shimmering blue light in the distance, not grace but something else entirely. Real as the far-off twinkle of the stars, beautiful and unreachable in all the same ways. He stares for a very long time into the burning center of wisping shapes, cold and familiar. The heavy expression fixed on the face is endlessly unnerving, like the eyes see right through Dean and into the fabric of the world behind him. Dean always ends up turning his eyes down in shame. Out of grief that he’ll never get to move past.

He bundles himself up in jackets like he had when he was young and just as scared and alone as he feels right now. Swimming in them because of all the weight he’s lost. Not on purpose, it just... happened that way. The joints in his hands stick and crack when he cleans his guns. He takes up smoking again just to get some warmth back in his chest.

We could make this go away, Sam tries to tell him. Dean won’t have it. The chill in his bones is a comfort, and he’ll fight to keep it even if it ends up freezing him from the inside out.

Them in the passenger seat again together. The Impala’s chassis doesn’t balance out the way that it does when there’s two people in there, leaning on the turns and squealing in the wheels, but he can still pretend. He hangs an elbow out the open window and taps his cigarette out onto the oil-slick asphalt. He keeps his eyes straight ahead when they pull up to a red light. He shivers and fights the urge to turn his head, stare into dead eyes.

Dean tried to talk, the first few times. But there’s just not enough of him left to dredge up an answer, Sam thinks, not even the affectionate syllable of a name. There’s not much they can do about that, but Dean loses sleep over it anyway.

It’s Dean’s curse to be haunted by what he wants and loves. Ghosts, sometimes, they’re not tied to things. They’re tied to the people that hold too tightly to them.

[ozonecologne]

Hello! I finally got around to compiling all of my season 12 canon!verse fic (including the episode codas) into one massive AO3 work. They’re all labeled for easier navigation.

Click here to view them all!

[ozonecologne]

12.19 coda

holy fuck that hurt

It’s amazing, really. Castiel has blown him off, lied to him, stolen from him, and broken his god damn heart too many times to count today. But when Dagon raises her hand at him for what Dean thinks must be the last time, it’s still the worst he’s felt all week.

“No!” he screams, before all the breath is punched out of him at once. A golden glow takes over Castiel’s eyes, one that he hasn’t seen before.

He forgets to flinch when Castiel offers to fix his arm. He exposes the most vulnerable parts of himself, again, he never learns, and allows Castiel’s hand on him. His fingers hesitate over the folds of his sleeve, pressing more insistently when Dean doesn’t move away. He hates that he’s being cautious. No, he’s grateful for it. No, he - 

The familiar cold pulse of grace taking root steals his breath away.

“Are you ok?” he asks. Fragile and weak, like it always is with them.

The golden glow has left, but Castiel is still different somehow. He doesn’t slouch; he holds himself with all the confidence of someone that thinks themselves blameless. He’s seen that look at least once before, back when Castiel still liked to lie and go behind their backs for ultimately selfless reasons.

And he still asks Dean to trust him.

He would. He’s spent his day tracking phones and fixing trucks. It might hurt like a bitch, but this is all he has.

“Don’t,” he begs. A plea, a prayer.

Castiel drops his fingers to Dean’s head, and he doesn’t hesitate at all.

He dreams.

He usually doesn’t, when he’s whammied like this.

But he can tell that he’s dreaming because the world shakes and shimmers, and his heart doesn’t ache so much where it still sits cursed in his chest. It’s like Amara in reverse.

“I’m dreaming,” he announces.

No, he hears. You’re not.

Look.

Dean turns his head and listens to the dust shiver around him. It’s humid, and sluggish. Lush and bright and green. Wait a minute; he’s been here before once, a very long time ago.

“Well, everything seems to be in order,” someone says behind him.

He shifts his weight and tries to hide behind an overgrown palm, but it doesn’t seem to matter. The person that comes around the corner looks right through him like he’s not even there.

Dean’s surprised enough to freeze right where he is in the middle of the path. Castiel smiles, but not at him.

“It does, doesn’t it,” Castiel murmurs. “I can’t thank you enough for your work, Charmeine.”

He’s lost the trench coat. His hands are in his pockets and his sleeves are rolled up against the heat. His…

Dean breath catches. Castiel’s face is soft and assured. His eyes shine kindly in the perpetual rising sun in the spaces between the leaves. He rocks back on his dress shoes like he fits into his own skin and is actually happy about it.

The other angel with him, Charmeine, nods. “I’m honored for the opportunity, Castiel. Truly.”

Castiel ducks his head. “You were under Joshua’s tutelage for many years. I’m confident that you are up to the task of managing the Garden in his absence.”

They stare at each other for a minute before Castiel shrugs.

“Well,” he sighs. “I guess that’s… everything.”

Charmeine fondly rolls her eyes. She’s wearing a full suit, but the top button of her shirt is undone. “Go home, Castiel. Everything will be fine.”

Castiel looks up at smiles at her. “Yes. For once, I think it will be.”

Castiel turns and walks away from the spot, with his back to Dean. As he goes, he trails his fingers along the edges of the wild grasses encroaching on the path. The backs of his hands are tan and smooth.

Maybe this isn’t a dream after all, because Dean’s heart pounds so hard in his chest that it makes him dizzy.

He follows, before he loses him again. Even if it does turn out to be only a dream.

He steps around the giant mushrooms, tramples the wildflowers, and sticks close. Castiel walks leisurely. He absentmindedly pulls his cellphone out of his pocket and twirls it around in his hand. He starts to whistle.

“What kind of bizarro world have I been whammied into?” he mumbles to himself.

It’s still your world, the voice from before tells him. It’s just the future.

Dean freezes. Castiel keeps walking and starts to put distance between them.

“The future,” he repeats skeptically.

Yes.

Well, it’s not drugs and sex, that’s for sure.

Dean fixes his jaw. Castiel’s hair glints in the sun as he rolls his shoulders. “So you’re him. The - the nephilim.”

Of course.

“How are we even talking right now?”

We don’t have long. When Castiel healed you, a part of me -

“Screw it, I don’t actually care,” Dean mumbles. He’s still watching Castiel walk away from him, further and further into the Garden. Or, out of it, really. “This isn’t real. This is just what you want me to see.”

The voice - the nephilim spirit or what the fuck ever - doesn’t speak again. Dean’s left standing alone in a mostly empty garden in the center of heaven, and birds sing all around him. Water trickles somewhere nearby. Flowers roll their petals in a phantom breeze, waving in time with the Song.

Castiel is almost a speck in the distance, but Dean can still hear his ringtone when it sounds. Zeppelin, like the mix tape.

“Hello, Dean. Yes, I’m heading home now. Ok. Yes, I know. Yes. Alright, I will. I’ll see you soon. I love you.”

Dean shuts his eyes.

He wakes up in tears. It takes him a second to figure out that they aren’t actually tears, but the same light dusting of dewdrops clinging to his lashes that coat the collar of his jacket. Sam is still knocked out. The Impala’s parked a little ways in front of them.

No fresh footsteps in the sand.

He sits up and groans, running a hand through his hair. More dew. He shivers. All the warmth from his dream in the Garden has left him.

Just like everything else, apparently.

“Hey,” Dean croaks, kicking Sam’s shoulder. His leg barely even responds to the command. Damn, Castiel really has powered up. “Wake up, Sammy.”

Sam stirs and groans like Dean had. He decides to take the initiative and slumps over, grabbing two fistfuls of Sam’s hideous coat. “Come on. Up.”

Half-asleep, he and Sam manage to stumble back to the Impala. It takes Dean two tries to fit the keys into the ignition, but he gets them there in the end. Sam conks his head against the window and doesn’t move until they’re halfway home.

“Did you grab - the Colt, Dean,” Sam slurs.

“Who cares,” Dean mutters, focusing his hardest on just staying in his lane. His eyesight’s still kind of wobbly. “It’s useless anyway.”

He’s expecting a token protest. That beautiful mind whirs and it never stops, always searching for a way out, always planning the next step, Sam’s always been dreaming for a brighter future. He’s reliable that way.

But this time an objection doesn’t come. Dean glances over and his brother looks positively murderous, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists against his thighs.

“Sam?”

Sam shakes his head. “That bastard. That fucking -”

“Hey,” Dean objects.

“How are you still defending him?” Sam whips his head around, suddenly much more awake than before. “After what he did to you!”

Dean whiteknuckles the steering wheel. As much as it pains him, he can still see Castiel walking away from him in the garden on repeat, with his soft smile and his wrinkled sleeves. He swallows hard and loosens his grip. “I just...”

Sam’s fight goes out of him all at once. “Yeah, ok, I know.” A wry laugh punches itself out of him, his body jerking with the motion. “Under your pillow, man.”

Dean’s face heats. A horn blares behind him and he corrects the car’s position at the last second. He gets a finger out the driver’s side window for his trouble, and isn’t that just great. “You learned sign language for a Skype date, Sam, you don’t get to judge me.”

Sam barks a laugh and sinks into his seat again, smoothing his hair down. It’s a self-conscious gesture, an apology wrapped up in nervous fidgeting. “We’re fucking hopeless. You and me. We have the worst luck in love.”

“Seriously, we’re cursed,” Dean mutters.

His phone in his pocket - miraculously - chooses that moment to start ringing.

Sam grabs it before Dean can.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Dean scolds.

Sam rejects the call and flings it into the backseat. “You’re driving, dude. Pick it up again when we get back to the bunker.”

Dean glares. “Was it… Um. Did he -”

Sam frowns, shoulders sagging. “It wasn’t him, Dean.”

Dean purses his lips and nods. “Then it can wait.”

Sam nods too, and he does the only thing he can think of. He flips on the radio. 

He throws an elbow into Dean’s side with a companionable grin. “Hey, Zeppelin! Your favorite.”

Dean slams it off, and the car is drenched in silence.

Sam waits for an explanation.

He doesn’t get one, but he still knows.

He knows.

There’s a lock on Dean’s bedroom door that he’s never used. The key sits untouched in a desk drawer.

He might hate himself for it later, but even after everything, he’s not about to start using it now.

Coda taglist: @jenmdixon, @bold-sartorial-statement, @castielsmoon, @boykingdom, @sunshine-hunters, @lmejia13, @armellin, @cas-you-assbutt-dean-needs-you, @lapotatoqueen, @burntblackfeathers, @destiel73, @whyjm, @zolaliz, @swax, @starcastlesinthesky, @tardisheart134, @righteoushuman, @bringedlundback, @chevrolangels, @athene-noctua08, @wingsandimpalas, @guusana, @divineinterventioning, @krcstar, @thatannoyingbooknerd, @samikitten, @superporp17, @angelwingsandhunterdreams, @sunshine-hunters, @wingsandimpalas, @deancasheadcanons, @seraphmisha, @mxbuckybarnes, @saywhatjessie, @prettyboydean, @theruledangel, @amadtributewithaship, @thatcolourfulsomething, @fangirlingtodeath513, @gentle-hands19, @dauntless-dean, @profound-boning, @freedomcraziness, @ashthimble, @calliopecookiejar, @cabinboyjackles, @tardisheart134