#you know I had to set this prompt in the gummy worms universe

[password-door-lock]

Mystictober Day 7-- Festival/Music

[Set after Gummy Worms.]

You find Saeran backstage, tuning his guitar for what has to be the fifteenth time this evening. “Nervous?” You ask, ignoring the comfy-looking office chair to establish yourself on the floor beside him.

“Hm,” Saeran agrees, “Needs new strings.”

“Well, if only you had like a million of those,” you quip, withdrawing a package of strings from your bag and tossing them to him. “You're welcome.”

“Thank you, prince(ss),” Saeran deadpans, though you can tell he's serious about his gratitude— after all, he leans in just a little bit closer, brushing his shoulder against yours. “I thought I was going to have to keep coming back here for tuning all night. How did you know?”

“I may not be a guitar expert, but I know that lots of tuning means it needs to be restrung,”  you explain, “And I knew that security would lose their minds if you tried to leave, Mr. Headliner. Good thing I'm non-essential, right?”

“You're essential,” Saeran assures you, already laying his guitar down to begin restringing it. “And they couldn't stop me from leaving.”

You suppose he does have a point— Saeran has a history of showing up late for his own performances, though, in  his defense, instances of this have become few and far between since he broke his contract with Mint Eye Entertainment and established himself as an independent artist. You suppose that nobody would be able to do very much about it if he decided to leave the festival and come back later, even if he missed his set time. “Well, you have me,” you point out, “So you don't need to.” You wrap your arm around his waist, careful not to disrupt his careful work.

“I'm glad,” he hums, clearly focused on removing the old strings from his favorite guitar. For the vast majority of Saeran's career as the idol Unknown, he smashed almost every instrument that he purchased , so he never had much time to get attached to them. Now that his shows are few and far between, he's had the freedom to develop a bond with this specific guitar, which he has affectionately nicknamed MC.

“Are you nervous?” You can’t help but ask again. It's his first show in a while, after all.

“Not really,” Saeran admits, “I'm looking forward to playing. It's been so long since I had a big audience.”

“You've got a lot of fans out there,” you report, “I think I even saw some Unknown merch.”

“Hm.” You can tell that Saeran is lost in thought as he works on changing the next string.

“What's on your mind?” You ask, tightening your grip a little bit. It's so nice to be alone together backstage before the chaos really begins— the openers will be here soon, and, like everybody else, they'll be chomping at the bit to meet Saeran. You suppose you can't really blame them— he's pretty cool, after all.

“This festival invited me four times,” he reports after a few more moments of consideration, “But Mint Eye turned them down every year. They wouldn’t let me do anything that didn’t make them any money.” Of course the festival that Saeran is playing at this evening would fall into that category— its claim to fame is that all of the proceeds from ticket sales go to charity. 

“Oh,” you breathe. “They wouldn't let you play charity shows?” From what you know about Mint Eye, this revelation is not exactly a surprise.

He shakes his head. “That was why I set the bass on fire.”

You can't help but smile, remembering the famous stunt. “Of course it was.” Even when he was trapped in that horrible contract, Saeran was never afraid to stand up for himself. He's one of the bravest people you know, and he always has been. “I'm proud of you.” You press a kiss to the top of his head. “You're gonna do great out there.”

“Mhm,” Saeran hums, clearly flustered by your sudden display of affection. But he sets his guitar down, halfway through restringing it, to squeeze your hand in silent thanks. “Of course I am.”  He replaces his expression of open-mouthed wonder with a smug smirk. You really should have seen that coming.

“I love you.” You figure that you'd better let him know now, before the backstage area gets too crowded. Saeran isn't big on public displays of affection for a multitude of reasons.

“I love you, too,” he replies, giving you a kiss on the cheek before returning to his work.

[fantasmalresplendent]

Dean died at the ripe old age of 85.

In his lucid moments during the days leading up to his passing, in which Dean was just as sharp and as bright as he was fifty years ago, he remarked that people must think he’d robbed the cradle with a “hot piece” such as Castiel hanging around him. 

“You don’t mind that I’m a wrinkly, senile, crotchety old bastard?” Dean had asked, more than once, but he had always said it with a smile. And Castiel would smile back, replying with the same answer the answer many times, in many ways:

“You’re not senile.”

“Old, but not a bastard.”

“I thought I was the crotchety one.”

“I don’t mind.”

Then Dean would smile, and it would light up the room, and Castiel would wonder again how he came to deserve the focus, let alone the affection, of such a man.

“It’s not about deserving, Cas,” Dean had said, half-whispered in the middle of the night a few short months after they had begun to share the bed they laid in. “It’s… fuck, well I don’t know what it’s about. But people don’t get what they deserve, not most of the time.”

Castiel frowned, furrowing his brows. “They should,” he grumbled.

“Well if people got what they deserved, they’d… I don’t know, Sam would’ve actually become a lawyer, stayed in school. Jo, Ellen, Bobby, they’d all still be here. I’d get mauled by a werewolf or something, go out with a bang, and Baby,” Dean said sternly, as though chastising the universe itself for such an injustice, “Would never get so much as a scratch on her.”

“You think that’s what you deserve?” Castiel’s voice was soft, not wanting to disturb the still of the night, but steely as he considered even the possibility of Dean’s violent end. 

Dean registered that, swallowing, “I don’t know. I guess I just never thought I’d even make it this far. Hunters have the shortest lifespans of any human subspecies,” Dean cracked a smile, but his heart wasn’t in the joke. Castiel knew Dean was doing the math in his head. He knew Dean was mentally recalling how long it had been since Bobby left for heaven. Tallying up the number of people who were gone because of self-sacrifice, mistakes, pure dumb luck. Counting exactly how many years he had outlived his own mother. 

Castiel had wrapped his arms around Dean then, embracing him, surrounding him, and they curled into each other completely. Burying himself in Castiel’s neck, Dean had never felt so close to him, and yet so far away. “You don’t have to follow the same patterns if you don’t want to, Dean,” Castiel stated, as if it were that easy. “Do you want to?”

“Want to what?”

“Get mauled by a werewolf?”

Dean sniffed in laughter, and that was answer enough.

Castiel found himself stroking Dean’s hair, an action he felt suited him. He thought for a moment in the stillness and in the space between their breaths. “Maybe it’s idealistic of me, but I still think people should get what they deserve. Even- no, especially you.”

Dean took his time answering, opening his mouth several times before actually saying, “Sometimes I don’t think I know what I deserve.”

“I guess we’ll just have to figure that out together then. We have time,” Castiel kissed Dean’s forehead and he sighed at the touch. “We have plenty of time. Heaven will wait for you, no matter how long.”

Dean looked up at him then with a pout, “You sound pretty confident in that statement for a dude who hasn’t shown up to heavenly chorus practice in a few years.” 

Castiel smiled, “I’d rather be here with you. Always have.”

The man blushed. “Well, if I go… I mean, wherever I go… Where will you end up?”

“I could go with you.”

“Where?”

Castiel closed the distance between them fully, thumbing across Dean’s cheek as they kissed. “Anywhere. If you want me there, I will be there, whether it’s here or heaven. I’ll be there.”

“For how long?”

“For however long you want me to be.”

Dean kissed back, his fingers tangling in Castiel’s hair. “Yeah. Okay.”

  Sam went not long after Dean. It wasn’t a surprise; it was his time as well. His children were grown, his grandchildren almost grown, Castiel knew they’d miss him but that they’d be all right. And they knew to call on “Uncle Cas” if they weren’t, even the little ones who didn’t understand exactly how they were related, or why Great Uncle Dean's husband was only about as old as their parents.

“I mean I love the little gremlins,” Dean had said, cracking open a beer after a long few days of babysitting Sam and Eileen's girls while the expecting parents were in the hospital. He was exhausted, they both were, but beaming from meeting the newest member of the Winchester clan: a healthy baby boy named Robert. “But have you seen Sam’s house? Goddamn mess in there.”

“You… don’t want to have some of your own?” Castiel had asked carefully, taking the beer Dean held out for him.

“You’re making them sound like trading cards. I don’t know, I- I guess I never thought too hard about it.” Castiel could tell this was a lie by the way Dean didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Wouldn’t know what to do with a kid if I had one.”

“Do you think you’d be a good father?”

Castiel had met John Winchester, in Hell. Well, he hadn’t exactly met him. He had really only passed by John’s cell, stole a glance at the infamous hunter on his way to retrieve Dean’s soul. He’d never told Dean what he saw, they were not close enough at the time. He wasn’t sure if Dean would even want to know. Castiel had almost spoken about it many times, but whenever Dean talked about John, “Dad,” a look crossed over his face, sometimes for only a second. A furrowing of brows, a tight smile, a quick transition to happier subjects.

The same look crossed over Dean’s face as soon as Castiel had asked the question.

“Wow. Um, loaded question there, Cas.”

He waited for Dean to meet his eyes before continuing, “I think you would be.”

“Do- wait,” Dean shook his head, trying to understand where Castiel was going with all of this, “Do you want kids?”

“I want you to live a normal life, Dean. I want to be able to give you what you want.”

“Okay, lots of stuff to unpack here. First of all, a normal life isn’t and never was an option,” Dean leaned back against the counter, “I think we can agree on that. Second of all, you didn’t answer my question.”

“...And third of all?” Castiel prompted.

“No, second of all first. Do you want kids?”

Castiel sighed, taking a swig of his beer, considering his words. “I’m an angel, Dean-”

“Is that so!” Dean raised his eyebrows, then squinted as if in deep thought, “Weird, somehow I never noticed.”

That deserved a well-placed eyeroll, but Castiel still had a point to make. “We don’t- I’m just trying to…” he set his beer down. “I don’t know. But that doesn’t matter, what matters is that I would love and care for a child, if it were ours. If we decided that was something we wanted, I would be so happy to raise them, with you. I’d be terrified,” Castiel admitted, “At the enormous and important responsibility, but I would love doing it, if… if it was with you. I just want you to know that, I guess,” Castiel shrugged, “I don’t want you to think it’s not an option for us, if you want it to be.”

“Okay…” Dean was thinking, swirling the beer around his glass. He pointed the mouth at Castiel, “You’re still avoiding my question,” Castiel really rolled his eyes this time, “But I don’t really think it’s for me, all that white picket fence stuff. If you really wanted a kid, I would definitely hit the library and read all those, I don’t know, fucking parenting guides, and take the Mommy and Me classes, whatever. And I think you’d be a good father, better than me, I’d just let them eat gummy worms and shoot slingshots.”

“Children love gummy worms. They listen and will behave better when offered gummy worms,” Castiel knew this for a fact from very recent personal experience, “I don’t see how gummy worms could pose an issue. Slingshots, however-”

“Okay so maybe I’m overestimating your abilities a little,” Dean held up a hand, “But still, I… I like this,” he gestured to the space between them and around them, “I like us. I like waking up to a clean kitchen and sleeping in on weekends. I like not having to ask more than one person whether or not I can take a drive by myself or crank my music really loud at midnight. And I fucking hate Paw Patrol.”

Castiel smiled.

“Sam and Eileen always need babysitters. That’s good enough for me right now.”

“You’ll tell me though, if this is something you really want,” Castiel insisted, “If you think about it and decide something else.”

“Sure.”

“Promise.”

“Okay, fine, I promise,” Dean took a step forward and leaned in for a kiss then. Castiel could taste the beer on Dean’s tongue and sighed. Dean smiled against Castiel’s lips, lowering his voice to a comical level, “We could, uh, you know, try and make some babies,” Dean waggled his eyebrows and Castiel pushed Dean’s laughing face away, but grabbed his hand, turning towards their room.

They hadn’t spoken about it again, not seriously anyway. They got a dog. Dean opened a vintage car garage. Castiel learned how to bake. They took long road trips to the beaches in California, wandered through roadside attractions like Carhenge in Nebraska and Cadillac Ranch in Texas. They bought decidedly way too much merchandise at Oklahoma’s National Cowboy & Western Heritage Museum. And maybe they killed the occasional vampire, the wayward poltergeist, but the occasions became less and less. There were younger, more spry hunters on the road now, always welcome at the bunker to look through their library or ask advice on a particularly troublesome spirit. Sam even coerced Dean into holding what became a yearly “conference,” “What are we, a tech startup?” for the next generation of hunters to learn from the legendary brothers.

So maybe they spent more time at home than on the road, but home suited them. Routine suited them like Castiel never could have predicted it would. It wasn’t a white picket fence, but it wasn’t a lonely highway either. Dean would joke about how “boring” they’d become, but Castiel reveled in the repetition. The three hundredth time Dean brought Castiel coffee in bed was just as lovely as the third. The five hundredth time Castiel cooked dinner passed without fanfare, though Dean hugging him from behind, chin hooked over Castiel’s shoulder as he whisked, felt like fanfare enough. The one thousandth kiss they shared was in their bed, lazily breathing each other in as the first beams of sunlight shone through the window after a week of straight rain. Home, a thing he and Dean had never known in their youth, held the majority of their most precious, most banal memories. But still, Castiel always looked forward to those moments speeding down a desert highway when Dean would reach for his hand, turn his head to meet Castiel’s eyes, and smile.

Time took its time with them.

It seemed the opposite with Sam’s children, who grew up faster than Castiel could keep track of. And as they grew from waddling toddlers to full-fledged human beings, Castiel was fascinated, enamored, but Dean was simply proud. He attended their tournaments, their decathlons. He went to their graduations, weddings, barbecues, and Castiel went with him. They took the kids to concerts and movies, parks and shooting ranges, and Castiel never got tired of the smile on Dean’s face when they threw their small arms around Dean’s neck and called him their “Cool Uncle.” “Hear that, Cas? That means you’re the No Fun Uncle. The No-Funcle.”

And as the crowned Cool Uncle, he teased Sam mercilessly about his minivan and his “#1 Dad” mugs, but Castiel knew how proud Dean was of him too. How glad he was that Sam got the future he wanted, and how grateful he was that that future included him.

The brothers still fought. They still bickered, pranked, and glowered. Sam complained that Dean let his kids use power tools too young when they visited, and Dean complained that Sam’s kids were too old to have never heard “Stairway to Heaven.” The usual, the routine, many times over. But they never lied to each other, at least not about the important things, not anymore. And Castiel was welcome in Sam and Eileen’s house and lives, an honor he felt he didn’t deserve, but as Dean said, maybe it wasn’t about deserving.

It was Eileen who noticed Castiel first as he entered the hospital room the day he'd been informed that Sam Winchester was finally coming home. He didn't have to tell Eileen; she saw it on Castiel's face. They’d already spoken, he’d prepared her for the eventuality a few days prior. Eileen smiled, looking back at her husband, teasing him lightly, but Castiel knew she was holding back on her usual snark because Sam looked, well, tired. Turning away from Sam, Eileen signed, “Are you here for him?”

Castiel shook his head. “No, but someone will be here soon.” 

“You mean they haven’t given you reaper duty yet?” Sam joked from his horizontal position, speaking and signing with his usual quick wit, but not with his usual articulation. Castiel had seen him argue with Dean for fifty years like it was his job, he was accustomed to the precision with which Sam had always wielded his words. Not today.

“I don’t think I’d be very good at it,” Castiel stepped closer so that Sam wouldn’t have to crane his head, “I’m not very persuasive.”

“No kidding,” Sam shakily clasped Castiel’s hand and grinned. “I’m surprised Dean even went with you.”

“It took less persuading than you’d think.”

“How is he?” Eileen asked, but she was smiling, so she knew the answer.

“He’s good,” Castiel smiled back, “Getting what he deserves.”

Sam smirked, but his head sunk back into his pillow as if relieved. “And I bet he’s complaining about it non-stop. Asshole never knew how to take a vacation.”

“Neither do you,” Eileen levelled her husband with a fond look.

“We’ve taken vacations!”

“You always wanted to go somewhere exotic and then you’d just end up in the library. Remember Berlin?”

“They had… well I wasn’t going to find those editions in America, and-”

Sam and Eileen bickered for a bit, and Castiel did end up backing Eileen’s points more often than not, so eventually Sam recognized that he was outnumbered on this particular case.

Castiel bid his goodbyes just in time as the nurse entered the room to check Sam’s vitals. Her tone was cheerful, but Castiel could tell that she too knew what was coming. 

“Well… I’ll see you soon, buddy, huh?” Sam smiled at Castiel as confidently as he could muster for Eileen’s sake, but Castiel knew behind those laugh lines Sam wasn’t so sure of himself. Castiel supposed that worry wasn’t to be unexpected from a chosen one of Hell, Lucifer's vessel, the boy Castiel had once called an “abomination.”

But Castiel smiled, giving Sam’s shoulder one last firm squeeze. “You will.”

  When Dean died, at the ripe old age of 85, he knew what to expect.

He’d visited heaven before. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. Not an exciting place, but exciting wasn’t necessarily good. Hell had been exciting, and he was in no hurry to return there. Purgatory had been exciting in a different way, years later he swore the stench still lingered on his skin. Sometimes, when he would lose himself in his “senior moments,” he thought he was back in that bloody in between. Or back in hell. Or had gone to heaven. “Times and places are difficult to navigate when your brain’s turning into gummy worms,” he told Cas once. He didn’t remember saying this a few hours later, but that didn’t make it any less true.

His brain was sure full of them gummy worms now as he clung to his body and to his life. He wasn’t completely sure where he was. Bobby’s? The bunker? His childhood home? Sammy had come to see him earlier, at least the kid had looked like Sammy… No, fuck, that was his grand-nephew, Cas had reminded him of that. Sam, his brother Sam, was in the next room. That's right, he’d told the asshole to give him some space, stop smothering him. He sort of wished he was here now though. And Cas, Cas was here, he knew that, but only because the angel was right in front of him. Cas, his friend, was holding Dean’s hand, talking about what their grand-nieces and nephews were doing in school. Dean could swear he already knew these things, but they still sounded new when Cas said them.

Dean looked over at him, and Cas was smiling.

He tried to speak, but the words stuck in his throat. Cas helped him swallow some cool water. Dean cleared his throat, “Bet you’ve been waiting for this for a while.”

Castiel cocked his head, the smile fading. Fifty some odd years and he still had that same confused look. “Waiting for what?”

“Me to beef it, finally. I know this hasn’t been easy, watching me… seeing me like…” Dean took a shallow breath. “No matter where I go next, at least I won’t be a senile senior citizen.”

“Dean,” Cas said, rubbing the back of Dean’s liver spot-covered hand, “Please listen to me very carefully.”

“Got my hearing aids in, go ahead,” Dean joked.

Cas smiled softly again. “It has been the greatest privilege of my life, my existence, to watch you grow old. I feel honored that you allowed me to experience that. Time’s different for me too,” Cas kissed Dean’s hand, “Space and time were never precious to me, not in the stretch of infinity. Not until you. Not until I was able to see you live your life and live it well.”

Tears welled in the corners of Dean’s eyes. He furiously tried to blink them away, but Cas was already there, dabbing carefully with a handkerchief. “I’m… I’m scared, Cas. I know I shouldn’t be, I’ve seen it all. I’ve beefed it a few times already. But maybe that’s why I’m scared? Because… I know what comes next. What could come next. And this is it, right? No more resets?”

Cas nodded.

Dean took a deep, shuddering breath. “If I don’t end up in heaven-”

“You will.”

“If I don’t, that’s fine, maybe it’s what I deserve, and that’s fair. But… will I see you again?”

“Dean,” Cas said sadly, but with his trademarked firmness, “You are going to paradise. And if for some reason, a completely incorrect and insane reason, you don’t? I dragged your soul out of the flames once, I will do it again. I would do it as many times as I needed to.”

Dean shook his head slightly, “Not fair.”

“It’s not about fair. It’s about the truth. Whether you believe it or not, ET goes home.”

Dean chuckled weakly. He was tired. He didn’t want to let go. He wanted to let go so badly.

He felt the bed move as Cas climbed under the covers with him. The angel curled around him, enveloping him. Dean could swear he felt the brush of feathers cradling him and pulling him closer, but he couldn’t muster the ability to reach for them, stroke them like he used to. “Sleep, Dean. I’ll be here when you wake up. Wherever, whenever here is. That’s where I’ll be. Wherever you go, I’ll go with you.”

“Swear?”

Castiel kissed his forehead. “I swear.”

  Dean opened his eyes.

The phrase, “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore” popped into his head, but he suspected, greatly, that he was, in fact, in Kansas. The blowing fields of wheat tipped him off to that.

No, wait. That wasn’t a field, it was a… sandy beach. It looked kind of like that beach he and Cas had stumbled upon driving down the Pacific Coast Highway, what was it called? The one where they’d had to hike down from the lookout point? The one where after they’d trudged back up the trail, they’d sat in the car and looked out over the sea as the sun set? The one where Castiel had smiled at him and the light glinted in his blue eyes and Dean had kissed Cas for the first time ever because he just couldn’t stop himself?

Muir Beach, Dean remembered, blushing at the memory. 

But just as soon as he’d reached the end of that thought, it wasn’t the ocean anymore. It was a lake. On the lake was a pier. He’d seen that pier before, couldn’t remember exactly where though.

Then without warning, but without alarm, Dean saw someone standing on the end of the dock. A young man with light brown hair and a sweet smile Dean would recognize anywhere.

Jack waved, walking up casually, “Hey, Dean.”

Dean grinned and pulled him into a solid hug. “Jack. I missed you buddy, how have you been? Where, uh… are we in…”

Jack chucked, “I think you know where we are.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know know, this could… I could be dreaming or some shit, and I guess even in a dream you could say whatever I wanted you to say, so-”

“Dean,” Jack stopped him, “This is heaven. You are in heaven.”

A relieved but small smile spread over Dean’s face. “Cool…” 

“I’m not usually here to meet people who pass on, but we weren’t going to miss your arrival.”

“We?”

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean turned around. There was Cas, beaming at him.

“Cas…” Dean reached to embrace him too, only now noticing that the hands that reached out were not as wrinkled as they’d been when he last saw them. He hugged Cas tightly, relieved more than he wanted to admit. “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” Cas’s hand went to Dean’s cheek, holding him in a kiss. They separated, foreheads resting against each other. Cas’s eyes twinkled, “We had an appointment.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean took a step back, seeing Jack grinning out of the corner of his eye. “Is, uh… is anyone else coming? Or is this the welcoming party?”

“They’re all waiting for you,” Cas put his hand down, and as he did, it was stopped mid-air, as if resting on something solid. Dean blinked, and there was Baby, new as the day she was made, parked on a long, long road that stretched far out of sight. “Any time you’re ready,” Cas tossed something in Dean’s direction, “we can go.”

Dean caught the keys on instinct, they jingled on the simple ring. 

Any time you’re ready, we can go.

He twirled them around the end of his finger a couple times, a thought itching at his brain. Or a couple dozen thoughts.

Cas gave him a look, then turned to Jack, “Could you give us a moment?”

“Yeah, I’ll go get everything ready,” Jack blipped out. 

“Get what ready?” Dean asked.

“Dean,” he turned around to face Cas whose brows were knit in worry, bright blue eyes narrowed, “Are you okay?” Dean realized he hadn’t seen Cas clearly for a few years, not since before the cataracts. He’d never gotten completely used to that piercing gaze. 

Dean blinked. “Yeah, I… I just… I’m here. Really here.”

“Yes, Dean.”

“And… you’re here.”

Cas gave him that look like he was being patient on purpose, “Yes, Dean.”

“And… fuck,” Dean stood at sudden attention, “I left Sam down there, is he okay?”

Catching Dean's hands in his own, Cas rubbed comforting circles into Dean's skin. "Sam is fine. He was there when you left. That's why I was a little late, Eileen had only just gotten home and I didn't want to leave before she could be there beside him.

"Okay," Dean took a deep breath, concentrating on the physical contact, grounding himself in Cas’s movements, "Okay. I mean I know he's gonna be fine, he was always fine without me," Dean said, almost to himself.

"And you'll see him soon."

The abrupt return of Dean’s panicked look made Cas smile a little, shake his head, "Not that soon, Dean. Don't worry." 

"Right. Of course, yeah,” Dean looked around, down the road, the back to his car, out past the waving grain that had returned inexplicably. “Well,” Dean flashed what he thought was a very convincing smile, letting Cas’s hands go as he tossed the keys once and caught them, heading towards the car, “Time to hit the road, huh?”

"Wait,” the suspicious squint was back as Cas caught Dean’s arm, “Something else is bothering you."

Dean turned around, and the ocean was back. The ocean he’d taken a trip to see, had selfishly insisted Cas come along for the ride for.

He sighed. "I just…” Dean ran a hand through his hair, “I don't know, I guess it just don't sit right that I’m… I'm gonna see Mom and Bobby and Jo and Charlie and… everyone. How am I going to look them in the face and not feel guilty that I got decades that they’ll never have? And what did I do with that time, sit on my ass? Judge local car shows? Go to freaking baseball games?"

Cas nodded slowly, simply listening. He then hopped up and sat on the hood of the Impala, shoes and all. Dean shot him an offended look.

“She’s a memory of a car, Dean,” Cas rolled his eyes, “She isn’t going to dent.” He patted the spot next to him.

Dean hesitated, but under Cas’s stare, relented. When he was settled, Castiel laced their fingers together.

“I’ve been trying to convince you for all the time I’ve known you that you’re worthy. That you deserved to be saved. That you deserved to rest.” Cas looked down at their entwined hands, “I don’t think I ever really succeeded.”

“Sorry,” Dean muttered.

“You don’t have to apologize. I know you’ve been doing a thankless job ever since you carried Sam out of your burning home. Shit, even before that,” Dean cocked his head, Cas hardly ever cursed, “you were always trying to be the hero for your mother. Some people are at fault for that,” Cas’s eyebrows furrowed briefly, “but it’s human nature to be hard on ourselves and praiseworthy of others. You, in your limited experience, could not possibly know all of the things that you’ve done that have made a difference. But we’re-”

Jack suddenly blipped into existence, giving Castiel two big thumbs up, then blipped out again.

Dean turned, looking from the space Jack had stood back to Cas then back again, “What-”

Cas shook his head with a smile, “I could never tell you exactly what you’ve meant to the world. But we had a, uh, few volunteers that wanted to show you.”

“Cas, could you quit monologuing for a second and-”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw movement. The endless sea became endless plains which became endless trees, the landscape changing at a rapid rate.

Dean looked back to Cas in confusion, but he didn’t look alarmed. He gave Dean a timid smile, kissed him behind his ear, and whispered, “Just watch.”

Dean watched. For a moment, the scenery couldn’t seem to decide what it wanted to be. Then, it decided not to decide. Grains of sand took the form of towering trees, a picnic table, a bench. Green lake water formed the shape of a small boy, hunched over and scribbling on the table. Lastly the wheat twirled and spun and became an all-too-familiar-looking young man wearing a jacket too big for his frame, walking over to the bench and sitting down across from the kid.

Lucas. The name came to Dean from deep in his memory, he was that quiet kid who drew Dean pictures of the ghost in the lake. The grain animated Dean’s smile as he talked, the figure of Lucas showed Dean his sketches. Their forms dissolved as the scene changed and Dean's form was pulling Lucas out of the water, the sheriff having paid his due.

The figure of Dean left, but Lucas stayed and was joined by his mother, Dean remembered her too. They embraced, and the figure of Lucas grew, changed into a young man, a husband, a father. Soon a half dozen figures were standing there, waving to Dean, and then they disappeared, melting back into water. Lucas was the last to go as he was the first to arrive. He signed a phrase to Dean, and Dean knew the words: Thank you, Dean Winchester.

Then the sand reformed into a schoolgirl, the shapes in the green water plaguing her with images of mirrors and Bloody Marys until Dean stepped in front of her, holding a mirror of grain in front of the cruel, refracted specter. It dissolved, and Dean’s form bade goodbye, but the girl remained. She grew too just like the boy did, becoming a professor, graduating with honors, writing dozens of books, and changing dozens of lives. She smiled, and waved, and dissolved as well.

The shapeshifters appeared next, the sand in the form of Sam’s friend Zach, his sister Becky, and even Dean’s false shifter form, but the true form in the too-large jacket blew them all away, leaving Becky waving goodbye. She too welcomed a family that appeared by her side, and they all looked so happy and grateful to have each other.

Again and again the scenes changed. Green waters showed the cities he had passed through, the homes that were kept from destruction, entire communities that were healed. The water formed and reformed into smiling faces and waving hands. Some of the people, Dean had known on Earth. Many of the places, Dean had remembered driving through. Most of the people and places, however, were foreign to Dean. He lost count of the number of strangers who appeared, the cities he’d never been to. He struggled to keep track as they cycled faster and faster, as numerous as the grains of sand and droplets of water they were made of. It seemed that a whole generation of people, all over the world, would-be victims of an apocalypse they never even knew was happening, knew him. Through words and cheers and song, they retold the tales of Dean and Sam Winchester, the tales they had only learned once they had passed on. 

Throughout all of this, Cas pressed his shoulder to Dean’s, his presence grounding but not distracting. Dean’s grip on Cas’s hand grew tighter and tighter. Cas did not let go. 

Eventually, the images and figures departed. The sand blew away, the waters swirled and dispersed, and the landscape made its final decision. Only a simple field of golden wheat remained, waving and rippling in the wind.

Only in that newfound silence did Dean notice he was crying. He shook his head, wiping the tears away furiously.

“Dean,” Cas whispered, and Dean turned to face him, vision blurred, Cas looking at him pleadingly. “You sacrificed so much for so many for so long. You don’t have to be strong right now. You don’t have to be strong ever again if you don’t want to. You have done enough.”

Castiel wiped an errant tear from Dean’s cheek, holding his face between his hands firmly, tenderly.

“You are, and always were, enough. Your job is done. Let. Go.”

Dean did.

Cas silently pulled Dean into his shoulder as he sobbed. Dean didn’t even know why he was crying, didn’t know what for. Maybe he was happy. Maybe he was grieving. Maybe he just felt… relief. He wasn’t sure the last time he felt such relief. He wasn’t sure he ever had truly felt it.

After some time, longer than he’d like to admit, Dean sniffed, wiped one hand over his face, and raised his head. Cas was waiting for him, looking at him with care. With love.

“I, uh… I don’t gotta sign any autographs, do I?”

Cas smiled, and pulled Dean in for a kiss. They stayed like that for a bit on the hood of the car, feeling the breeze, breathing in the fresh air. Dean thought he could hear music coming from somewhere, realizing that it was the car’s radio playing softly from the cab. He knew that any time he wanted, he could hop down from the hood of his car, slide into the driver’s seat with the love of his life on the passenger’s side, and carry on his wayward way. Down the road, through the endless fields, towards the ones he had loved and lost. But not yet, not quite yet, because he had time. Maybe in the end, time was all he had ever really wanted, even if he could never allow himself to ask for it. 

Infinity stretched out in front of him like the fields of grain. It wasn’t an exciting infinity, but it was his. It was a long road, a family that waited for him, a shoulder to lean on. It was, at long last, a place to lay his weary head to rest.

[santiagoswagger]

when i first saw you, the end was soon

For week 6 of @b99hiatuscreations, and the prompt was Peraltiago. As if that’s not all I write.

After a long six months in Florida under witness protection, Jake was finally coming home.

Or, the plane ride back to New York.

Read it on ao3.

She felt the sticky Florida humidity blessedly evaporate from her skin as the plane finally, finally took off into the air. After a long six months of separation, Jake was coming home.

She and Gina had stayed behind an extra day in Florida while Jake and Holt were in the hospital with their injuries, and the rest of the squad traveled back to New York in Terry’s battered minivan. Holt and Gina had scooped up the last two seats on an earlier flight, leaving Amy to deal with Jake on her own.

Under normal circumstances, Jake was an exhausting traveler. When they flew to the Caribbean for their romantic cruise, he had brought a supply of gummy worms fit for an army, resulting in an epic sugar crash by the time the plane landed. That had been bad, but it was nothing compared to an injured Jake on morphine.

“Amy,” he sang in a blissed-out slur. “You’re the prettiest lady in the world, in the universe even.”

It turned out that drugged-up Jake was much more openly affectionate than sober Jake. It almost made up for the hassle of having to fumble with both of their carry-on bags while simultaneously wheeling her uncooperative and easily-distracted boyfriend to their departure gate in a wheelchair.

“That’s really nice, babe, thanks.”

He turned in his aisle seat to grin at her dopily with lidded eyes, giddy that he would never have to set foot in swamp-infested Florida ever again. He grabbed her hand and leaned over to kiss her sloppily, one of many kisses he’d initiated since leaving the Fun Zone behind for good. She was sure he was making up for lost time, that they were his way of saying he’d missed home – missed her – more than he could ever say out loud.

He passed out on her shoulder almost immediately after takeoff, his days on the run and the drugs finally taking their toll on his body. Jake was only ever quiet in sleep, and she took the rare opportunity to study him. He had a tiny new crease on his forehead and the bags under his eyes were puffier and more prominent than she’d ever seen them, but he was still the same Jake, frosted tips be damned.

She’d really missed him. She hadn’t fully appreciated just how empty her life had been without him for the last six months until now. Seeing him again felt like having an open wound sewn shut.

She rested her head on his and felt sleep take her for the rest of the flight, the excitement of the rescue mission and the late hour finally catching up to her.

Amy awoke three hours later to the sound of the fasten seatbelt button turning off with a cheerful ding. She took in her surroundings and realized the plane had landed. She turned to wake Jake, somehow still fast asleep on her shoulder despite the amount of noise and rustling from the other passengers preparing to leave.

Amy stroked his hideous bleached hair and softly whispered his name, attempting to wake him delicately due to the bullet wound she had inflicted on him. When he continued to snore, completely unaffected by her ministrations, she resorted to firmly shaking his shoulder until he sat up quickly and whipped his head around in disorientation.

When he finally realized where he was, he turned to look at her. The haze in his eyes was gone and he was no longer struggling to keep them open, so she assumed the drugs were wearing off. He just looked tired and slightly pained now, but there was a spark in his eyes that had been missing when they were back in Florida. New York City didn’t know what it had coming.

“Ames?” He said it with such relief, such care, and she wanted her brain to play it on a loop forever.

“Yeah, Jake?”

“I’m home.” He smiled and she knew, without a doubt, that they would never be out of sync again.

“Yeah, you’re home.”

[we-mad-guys]

fic: forgetting the future

two days in William Scully’s life, set around US independence day, 2007, in an au where mulder and scully are trying to raise him as normally as possible while actively fighting colonization.

Will awakens abruptly, sensing someone in the room with him. He twists his head around to face the doorway. “Mr. Skinner.” He blinks in surprise and confusion, still disoriented with sleep.

Skinner feels a little uneasy. He and William are somewhat friendly, but he isn’t a regular babysitter, not by any means, and he doesn’t quite know how to talk to the boy. “Your parents, they had to run an errand,” he explains. “I’m going to take you to summer school today.”

William’s parents’ instructions for how to deal with Mr. Skinner are complicated. On the one hand, he is expected to be extra well-behaved and respectful (the only other people he has to call “Mr.” are teachers), but on the other, his dad once said that if he ever gets a bad feeling about him, he should “kick him in the ‘nads and run like hell.” His mom later agreed, then taught him the proper technique for such an action, and also that the better term is “genitals.” They still have regular self-defense nights, which William loves, because he gets to beat up on his mom and dad, and they always have ice cream afterwards.

William stares evenly, expectantly, at Skinner. Skinner knows what he is waiting for, but part of him wishes it wouldn’t have been necessary. When Mulder called him at four o’clock that morning, he’d warned, “He’s going to be weary of you at first. Don’t take it personally. There’s only a small list of people he’s allowed to trust implicitly.”

“And I’m not on it,” Skinner guesses grimly, correctly.

“It was Scully’s idea, Sir. But I think it’s a good one. Just to be safe. If you give the password, there shouldn’t be a problem.”

Seeing that Mulder was spot-on about the boy’s weariness, he sighs and relents. “Theresa Nemman,” he grumbles, glancing up at the ceiling uncomfortably.

Will immediately perks up, and swings his legs over the bed. Skinner points to a pile of folded clothes on the dresser in the corner. “Your parents set those out for you today. Do you…can you…dress yourself?”

Will laughs. “I’m not a baby, Mr. Skinner.”

“Right,” Skinner answers, feeling stupid.

“Do you know how to make breakfast?”

“Depends. What do you usually have?”

“On school days, Dad makes me cinnamon toast.”

Skinner nods sagely. “I think I can handle that.��

William joins Skinner downstairs a few minutes later, looking presentable except for his socks, which he’s pulled on over the cuffs of his jeans. Skinner delivers passable cinnamon toast, except for his mixture, which could use a tad more sugar.

Forty five minutes later, William is climbing down from the backseat of Skinner’s SUV, ready to begin his day. Before they say their goodbyes, though, he looks at the older man and asks, “So, where did they go? Are you picking me up?”

Skinner shrugs. “They wouldn’t say what they were doing. And I’m not picking you up, but they told me they promise to call you tonight, before you go to sleep.”

William nods, taking Skinner’s explanation at face value. His parents always keep their promises.

William is surprised and elated to find the Lone Gunmen waiting under the huge shade tree with all the parents when he and his class march, single-file, out of the building that afternoon. He is always allowed to trust them and, more than that, they are practically family and he loves them fiercely.

He bounds toward them. “Hey there, Willy,” Frohike greets with affection, reaching for a hug.

“Will,” Langley follows, dryly. “My man.” They fist bump, while Byers ruffles Will’s hair.

Byers carefully explains to him, once they get him buckled into his booster seat in the van, that his parents will be gone for a few days, that Will is to spend the night with them, and that they will drop him off the next morning at his grandmother’s. “But,” he adds, unknowingly repeating what Skinner had told him that morning, “they promise to call tonight before bed.”

Will is very concerned with their immediate plans, though. “A sleepover? Can we play games on your computer, Langley?”

“You know it, kid.”

Byers, Langley and Frohike don’t get Will to themselves over night very often, so they want to make it an evening to remember. After they leave the school, they get ice cream cones at a drive-through (four bubblegums with gummy worms on top) and then explore the air and space museum. There, in addition to learning about the wonders of the universe, the Lone Gunmen teach William how to identify and evade detection from security cameras.

Afterwards, they go back to the gunmen’s lair, where Frohike sets off to prepare dinner, while Langley makes good on his video game promise. After that, Byers insists on reading a story to William, to ensure that his time with them doesn’t stagnate his developing mind. William, though a live-wire of a little boy, enjoys the quiet, imaginative time with Byers, as well. Soon, Frohike has dinner ready.

There is some argument as to their late-evening activity. Byers and Frohike suggest they watch a movie, but William reminds them that they have an unfinished campaign left over from his last extended visit, so the boys set about gathering character sheets and dice.

After they’ve been playing dungeons and dragons for nearly three hours, and not completely by the rules, because Will’s attention span and comprehension levels aren’t yet up to the task—not to mention his proclivity for physically acting out every battle, including swatting at the gunmen with a rolled-up newspaper to emulate his shortsword—the boy has become so sleepy that his eyes start to droop every time his turn ends. “You sure you don’t want to go lie down, Willy?” Frohike, the night’s dungeon master, asks, for the fifth time in the past hour.

“I’m sure,” the boy replies, almost in a whisper, blinking his eyes rapidly to help bring himself back to full consciousness.

“We could all have a sleepover in the main room, if you want,” Byers adds helpfully, “and put a movie on. You don’t have to go to sleep if you don’t want to.”

The boy makes eye contact with Byers, and he sees worry etched in the smooth lines of the child’s face for the first time that night. “But Mom and Dad haven’t called yet. If I fall asleep, I’ll miss them.”

Byers, Langly and Frohike look at one another, momentarily at a loss for how to respond to the clearly distressed boy. Yes, Scully had promised on the phone that they would call before Will went to sleep. But it is already ten o'clock, nearly two hours after his usual bedtime, and they’ve heard nothing from the pair. Any myriad of circumstances, from completely benign to unfathomably not, could explain why. In any case, they don’t dare try calling them themselves, as that could exacerbate an already-distressing situation.

“Buddy,” Frohike begins, “you know that your parents can’t always call.”

“But they said they would call, right?”

Will’s worry is not for his parents’ safety, nor does it signify to him a potential devastating or life-altering event. He just counts on his parents to keep their promises, and misses them whenever they leave, which has been increasingly frequently, of late.

Byers looks at the little boy with an air of sympathy. “Will, why don’t we all camp out in the front room. We’ll put the phone right next to you, so that if—when—your parents call, you’ll know.”

Will is a bit too exhausted to argue anymore. “Okay,” he sighs out, resigned, and sets out to the bathroom to perform his nightly routine. After settling into the well-worn couch, he is asleep within minutes.

His parents never call.

The next morning, the boys awaken to find that they’ve all overslept. It’s nine thirty and, per Scully’s request, they are to drop Will off at her mom’s house by eleven. It is roughly a forty five minute drive to Mrs. Scully’s place, so that barely leaves enough time to prepare a six-year-old for the day.

Will seems to have forgotten his troubled thoughts from the night before, especially when Frohike promises homemade waffles with whipped cream and strawberry compote for breakfast. He eats voraciously, getting syrup and strawberry everywhere, prompting Byers to perform a bit of magic with some wet wipes. By the time they are all clean, fed and ready to go, it is with just enough time to make it to Mrs. Scully’s.

While they are en route, Will remembers his parents. “So, what did Mom and Dad say on the phone? Are they bringing me a present? Did they catch the bad guys?”

Byers, Langly and Frohike look at each other for a long moment. Finally, it is Langley who has the courage to say, “they never called, little dude.”

His face crumples. “Why?” he whines indignantly.

This question is even tougher for the gunmen to answer. There are lots of reasonable explanations, really, that do not mean that anything has gone wrong. But the boys also know how close they’ve been getting lately to…well, figuring out what they’re close to. The goal of this last-minute mission of theirs is only to scope out an area, not to make any sort of major invasion or attack. Still, the danger is there.

“I’m sure you’ll hear from them soon, Will,” Frohike soothes.

His reassurance does little to allay the boy’s anxiety, though, and his dejection is clear on his face and in his demeanor when they reach Mrs. Scully’s. They pull up to the house and find that the Scully yard is buzzing with activity. It looks like a party of some kind is going on. “What’s the date, Frohike?” asks Langley.

Squinting down at his watch, he says, “it’s the fourth—oh.” The fourth of July. Of course. The boys do not keep track of holidays like this, especially where fireworks are involved, because they feel they’re used as excuses to burn down U.S. farmland in order to cover up nefarious genetic experiments. But, at the urging of his parents, they’ve agreed to wait a few years before teaching William about the harsh realities of the world. “Hey, buddy—it’s the fourth of July. There’s gonna be quite the fireworks display tonight.”

He shrugs. “Okay. When are mom and dad supposed to be home again?”

As they usher him out of the car, taking care to grab his backpack and overnight bag, Frohike puts his hand on the boy’s shoulder and says, “tomorrow night. You’ll stay at your grandma’s until then.”

Mrs. Scully, needing no effort to spot the van which has pulled up across the street, meets the four at the front gate.

Still a little unfamiliar with the gunmen, though not for a moment doubting Fox and Dana’s trust in them, Mrs. Scully smiles politely and greets them with a subdued, “Hello.” To her grandson, she is openly warm and affectionate. “William, get over here and give me a hug.” She crouches down and opens her arms to him. The boy complies, though his heart is clearly not in the embrace. “What’s wrong?” she asks him.

Ignoring the question, he says, “Can I go put my stuff in my room, Grandma?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

Turning halfway around, he remembers his manners and fires off with, “thanks for dungeons and dragons and waffles.” With that, he reaches out for his overnight bag from Byers and makes his way into the house.

She then turns to the gunmen, her eyebrows furrowed, mostly in concern, but somewhat in suspicion, as well. “What’s wrong with him?”

Byers steps up to the plate. “His parents didn’t call last night.”

“And they said they would? I know sometimes they have late flights…”

“They promised they would. They picked a certain flight just to make sure they could call him this time.”

Langley jumps in. “He’s pretty worried about it, too.”

Mrs. Scully sizes them up for a moment. “And you three aren’t? They always call when they say they will.”

Byers hedges, “We’re optimistic.”

After a short stare down, Mrs. Scully shrugs. “Well, thank you for taking care of him. I had a doctor’s appointment yesterday.”

“It was our pleasure,” Frohike says. “We love the little guy.”

That afternoon and evening, the Scully family and their close friends have to cajole the boy into having a good time. They manage to get him to swim in the kid’s pool, bribe him with sweets, get him into a game of basketball. It all works, for a few minutes. But as soon as an activity’s ended, he’s gone right back into his funk.

By eight o'clock, Will, worn from his long day of pouting with brief intervals of respite, is sitting in the grass of the backyard, apathetically playing tug-of-war with one of the party guest’s puppies. Just as the little creature is losing interest with Will’s lack of interest, Mulder and Scully come bursting through the back door.

“Will!” Scully calls, causing him to abandon the creature and turn toward the voice he’s been waiting nearly twenty four hours to hear. She runs toward the boy, Mulder not two steps behind her.

“Mom, dad!”

When they get to him, Mulder scoops him up, and William wraps all his limbs around his father, laying his head on his shoulder. Scully puts her hand on her son’s head, runs her fingers through his hair. “We’re so sorry, sweetie.”

“You were supposed to call.”

Mulder pulls the boy back from his shoulder and looks at him. “Our phones were out of service, Will.” He pulls Will back against his chest and begins rocking him from side to side.

“We came back early, just for you,” Scully whispers into his hair.

Will looks up at his mom and reaches his arms out toward her. “Mommy?”

“C’mere, baby.” Mulder gingerly passes their son over to her, a smirk on his face. “What?” Scully asks him, suspicious.

“He dwarfs you, Scully. And to think, I’d always assumed you couldn’t possibly look any shorter…”

She reaches out and pinches his side, making a face at him. Will laughs. And then so does she.

Someone calling, “Dana!” from across the yard puts an abrupt end to the Kodak moment.

“Bill. Hi.” She sets her son down and reaches out to hug her brother. Will immediately goes back to his dad, who squats down to his level, hugs him protectively once again, and places a kiss on the crown of his head.

Bill pauses to watch the affectionate display. “It’s about time you two showed up. He’s been worried sick all day.”

“Bill, we realized that might be the case, so we came back early.” Lowering her voice, she adds, “If you want to stand here and insult my parenting skills, I’d appreciate that you not do it in front of my child.”

He looks back down at the father/son pair and sees that Will has buried his head in Mulder’s neck, almost like he’s trying to escape the unrest between his mother and uncle. He grabs Dana’s wrist and drags her out of earshot, underneath the covering of the patio.

“Dana, I know you don’t like to hear this, but you have to stop being so reckless. You have other priorities now.”

“Bill,” she sighs, exasperated and jet-lagged from a 13-hour flight, “he’s six years old. I’ve had these other priorities for a long time now, and I remain very much aware of them, thank you.”

“Well, I thought you were. Those first few years, you know, you were teaching, you had a regular schedule. But when Mr. Little-Green-Men started to get bored playing stay-at-home mom, which I warned you would happen, by the way, you started putting yourself in danger again. For him. Again.” Scully opens her mouth to speak, but Bill fills the space with his bluster. “And that self-destructive, obsessive bullshit was fine when you were the only one being destroyed. I didn’t like it, but I knew that you were an adult who made her own decisions. But now you’ve got a child to worry about, Dana, an innocent in all this. You’re going to end up getting yourselves killed, and someone is going to have to explain to your little boy why mommy and daddy won’t be coming home this time, no matter how convincingly they promised they would.”

He is breathing heavily now, very worked up after his outburst. Scully is more or less unaffected, and answers in a dull tone, despite her pointed language. “Bill, your concerns are valid, and the same ones plague Mulder and me all the time. But we cannot, in good conscience, ignore the information that we have been given, and the danger that it poses to the future of our lives, your life, the lives of everyone in this world, including and especially William’s. The fact that you think I would deliberately harm my son in any way, regardless of the mystical hold that you believe Mulder has over me, is insulting and categorically untrue. What I suggest, then, is that you mind your own business and enjoy the holiday. I see Aunt Olive brought her famous potato salad.”

And so she strides away, toward her son and his father. Mulder is sitting up in the grass of her mother’s yard, now, leaning back on his hands, legs sprawled out in front of him. Will is apparently trying to wrestle Mulder onto the ground, and has his arms around his dad’s neck in an attempted choke hold.

“Told you I was as strong as Superman,” he brags to his son.

“Dad, you can’t be as strong as Superman. He’s from Krypton. You’re just human.”

Mulder looks extremely offended by that. “I am not just human. I am Super Mulder, and you will bow down to my super strength.”

“Mooom,” William whines, noticing his approaching mother. “Dad is not as strong as Superman,” he tells her, but there is a questioning lilt at the end of his statement. “He’s lying, right?”

Scully scrutinizes her two boys, both of whom are awaiting her response with bated breath, identical almond-shaped eyes looking up at her beseechingly. She tilts her gaze from Will, to Mulder, and back to will. Finally, she nods to her son and says, “through his teeth.”

The boy is delighted, and uses his excitement to try to pull his father’s torso to the ground, again ineffectively. “Let me help,” Scully offers. “Step away from Dad for a second, Will.”

Before Mulder can adequately prepare, Scully quickly rolls to the ground and pulls Mulder’s arms out from under him and he falls backwards. Will doesn’t waste a moment and sits down on his father’s chest victoriously. Scully is now on her knees next to them. “See, Dad, told you, told you. You’re not stronger than Superman. Mom’s stronger than you.”

Will leans over his father’s face, mercifully blocking the setting sun from Mulder’’s eyes. Mulder, thinking of how adeptly she accomplished that quick, harrowing trip to North Africa with him (and looked damned good doing it, too), blindly reaches out his hand and finds Scully’s, where it rests on her thigh. Scully, suspicious of Mulder’s intentions, does not respond to his touch. “Actually, kiddo, I was telling the truth the whole time. I am stronger than Superman, but your mom,” he pauses and turns his head to look at Scully, “she’s stronger than the both of us.”

Will looks between his two parents for a moment, conflicted about what to believe. Though everything he’s seen and heard about Superman tells him that no human could be as strong or even stronger than him, his dad is speaking in his serious voice, the one he uses when he talks about all the secret, dangerous, things that he isn’t allowed to tell anyone else, not even his best friend.

He looks to his mom for confirmation. She rolls her eyes at Mulder, but a gentle smile creeps onto her face, and she turns her hand so it is palm-up, interlaces their fingers. No one is even looking at William. “Hey!” he exclaims, standing up and walking between their hands.

“Sorry, sweetie,” his mom tells him, breaking eye contact with his dad and finally assessing the situation at hand. “Are you hungry? Have you eaten?”

“Grandma gave me watermelon,” he responds, before adorning his face with an evil smile, “and ice cream and two popsicles and three cookies.”

“Jesus, it’s a wonder you weren’t able to knock me down,” his dad remarks.

“Well,” his mom decides, “let’s go get you some real food, shall we?” Scully stands and then reaches a hand out to both of them. Just as they turn to go to the food table, though, Bill’s voice begins booming out over the din of the small party.

“Okay, everybody,” he announces, hands cupped around his mouth, “we’re ready to head to the dock now. Make sure you have a life jacket if your little one is younger than 16, and follow us on over. We can provide directions if you need them.”

Will looks at his parents. “We’re going to watch the fireworks, right?”

“Of course we are, Will,” his mom answers. “I just really wanted you to have some food, especially before going out on the boat…” She trails off, glances to Mulder for inspiration, but finds he’d slunk off when she wasn’t looking. She finally spots him, and he is jogging back in their direction, some unidentifiable object in his hands, wrapped in a napkin.

“Come on, go, go,” he urges, guiding them back through the house, toward the driveway. “I’m not letting your cousins get all the good seats again this year, Scully.”

“Mulder, how you’ve managed to make an enemy out of every single member of my family is completely beyond me, and I’m beginning to think it’s pathological.”

“Did you ever consider that it’s not me who’s the problem, but your greedy, suspicious, relations?”

“My—”

“Mom,” William interjects, ever the analytical one, “I’m your family, but dad’s not my enemy.”

“That’s what you think,” his dad warns, then abruptly scoops him up and spins him around a few times before opening their car door and depositing him in his booster, William screaming and laughing throughout the ordeal. “Oh, yeah,” Mulder adds, “take this. I snagged it for you.”

Scully looks back from her seat in the front. “A chicken leg, Mulder?”

“The offspring needed sustenance, Scully,” he replies as he slams the door on the driver’s side. “I am the patriarch of this nuclear unit, the papa bear, the alpha male. I bring food. I bring meat. Family eats meat.”

She looks at him for several beats. Giving up on an intelligent retort, she goes with the old standby: “Mulder, shut up.”

From the backseat, Will chuckles, and mocks, “yeah, Mulder, shut up.” Scully barks out a laugh before stifling it, hiding her smile behind her hand.

Mulder huffs in the front seat for a moment, opening and closing his jaw in bemusement. “William, eat your chicken leg,” he admonishes finally, then revs the engine and peels out onto the street.

Mulder’s haste pays off. They manage to snag the small bench at the back of her aunt’s luxury motorized boat, ensuring an excellent view of the show. Mulder and Scully are sitting pressed up against each other, their son across their laps, wearing his life preserver. His torso leans heavily against his father’s chest, legs sprawled out over those of his mother’s.

Will has his own blanket, adorned with characters from his newest favorite show, Danny Phantom, tucked tightly from his chin all the way down to his toes. He got it as a birthday present from his parents a few months ago. He likes the show because, one, it feels more grown-up than the cartoons he usually watches, and two, because Danny fights all the evil monsters that no one else knows about, that no one else can even see, just like his mom and dad. Just like Will himself, in a way.

The fireworks begin shooting off in the sky above them before long and, even though they boom loud overhead, they somehow have the effect of making the rest of the world quieter, of making time suspend, maybe stop altogether. And anyway, the safe feeling Will gets underneath the bright display makes him braver. “Did you catch any bad guys?” he whispers near their ears, despite a great aunt, great uncle and second cousin also occupying the boat with them.

His mom squeezes his ankle in understanding, maybe even in apology. “Not really, buddy,” she admits.

Will’s face falls. “So you’re gonna leave again.” Not a question.

His Dad leans over so he can look at him. “Eventually, yes, William, we will probably have to leave again. And then again after that. And we’ll keep leaving, and coming back, until one day, way in the future, we can stay forever.”

“When I’m grown up,” Will says, the thought only just then coming to him, but conviction flooding his voice more forcefully with every word, “I’m gonna go with you.” He just knows it, can feel the truth of the statement ringing somewhere inside of him.

His parents share a heavy look. They’ve been trying their best to shield him from the darkness, to carve out moments of normalcy for him, to surround him with people who love and support him, to encourage his humor, curiosity and imagination.

The truth is, however, that they may need him someday, if he is anything like he’s been prophesied to be, and his childhood could very well be coming to an abrupt some time in the near future. This thought both keeps them up at night and also makes them rest easier. He is their not-so-secret weapon.

But these are not considerations suitable for a holiday, such as it is, nor for a bright and happy six-year-old, such as he is.

“Look, William,” his dad says, to distract everyone, “that was a really big one.”

“Cool!” he exclaims, watching the gold aftershocks glitter down from the sky, setting aside thoughts of the world’s problems that one day might, despite his parents’ best efforts, fall onto his shoulders.

“What if I was a firework?” he suggests, an engaging smile lighting up his previously-pensive face. “I’d be like…boom, boom, boom!” He jumps around on their laps frantically, imitating a firecracker more than a firework, sparking light being shed on their dark thoughts. His mom then reaches over and tucks his blanket over his toes and his dad squeezes him even tighter to his chest, gentle smiles warming their faces.

With levity momentarily restored, all three return their attentions to the sky and, in this moment that exists out of time and place, allow themselves to forget about the future for a few minutes.

[clonerightsagenda]

So the tuesjade folks announced that today’s theme is hairdye, and although I mostly play spectator for this stuff (esp. since the prompts are more suited for art) I figured that was a sign from the heavens telling me to dust this thing off, even if she only thinks about dying her hair and so I won’t bother dropping it in the tag.

I promise this is the last time you’re going to get whacked by any ‘kat writes fic’ monstrosities for a while (besides, you know, the inescapable AU comic). I’m just cleaning out a bunch of stuff that’s been sitting around for ages.

The concept for this came from wondering if grimdark/grimbark mode left behind physical traces, which I could have taken in an angst direction, but I didn’t. A personal first? Incredible.

Sharing a bathroom with a crowded household is never easy, especially when some people take their time. Dirk is the worst – he once spent over an hour fixing his hair until Roxy pounded on the door and yelled “I gotta PISS, Strider!!” so loudly Jaspers tried to squeeze himself under your bed. Jade’s usually in and out – a quick hairbrushing makes up the bulk of her regimen – so when she shuts herself up in the bathroom for a while, you check on her.

There’s no lock on the door – everyone decided that was for the best – so you knock and then walk in when she doesn’t tell you not to. (You would even if she did, except then you might have hurried.)

“Hi, Rose,” she says, not looking away from the mirror. You’re still getting used to the way she knows who’s entered a room by their scent or the feel of how space bends around them. It’s the kind of power you would use to annoy or unsettle people, but she’s matter-of-fact about it. “I’m trying to check something out, but I can’t see well. Will you look at my hair for me?”

Jade’s hair hasn’t grown back yet from the haircut Jack started and you finished. With the weight of its length gone, it has sprung into a looser version of the curls Jane no longer relaxes. You walk up behind her, wondering if she wants you to say she needs a trim. But when you’re closer, looking down on the top of her head as she leans against the counter, you see it.

“I think the color’s going-” she starts, and you finish.

“Gray.”

Jade blows a breath out from puffed cheeks, clouding the mirror. “Is that bad?”

“It happened to me.”

She straightens up, almost clipping you in the chin. “Really?”

“Not all over, just here and there. It wore off eventually, although I think I have a bit left.” You catch some of your hair and roll the strands between your fingers, looking for a gleam of silver. “It wasn’t as visible as it is for you.”

Jade gingerly touches the top of her head, where some of her roots are growing in pale. “Because of what happened to you with the horrorterrors?”            You nod. “Channeling powers we weren’t prepared to on our own, I think, overstretching ourselves. It stayed even though I wasn’t in the same body anymore. I wouldn’t be surprised if Jane had some too.”

“Poor Jane.” Jade shakes her head. “At least I didn’t have a robot in my brain.”

“I wasn’t like either of you,” you say. “Nothing made me do anything wrong. But the power… they did give me that.” Everything seems so simple with power at your command. The distance between a problem and the solution is a straight line. You catch yourself that way still sometimes, your mind a straightedge, powering off in one direction as soon as you even think you’ve caught sight of your destination. When it had come time to rewrite the universe, you’d been tempted to make it your idea of perfect. The Light part of you wants to see reality labeled and pinned to a card, but it can’t live then. “You can get carried away.”

“Or get even.” Jade shrugs when you look at her. “That’s what it was for me. I’m not pretending it wasn’t.”

“The cliché is power corrupts. Do you think any of us would be able to resist the One Ring?”

Jade purses her lips. “In the story, the hobbits did best. Who’s shortest?”

“You think moral superiority lies within those closer to the ground?”

“Do you have a better theory?”

Someone knocks on the door, and both of you jump. “There’s more than one bathroom in the house, you know,” you call.

“This one’s closest,” John complains from the other side of the door. “Besides, I was checking to make sure everyone was still alive in there.”

Jade rolls her eyes. After six years, the two of them have finally learned to stop being so careful and talk to each other like normal siblings. Now, you think they enjoy their squabbles. “You’re too late. We’re dead.”

“Let me know if you need any help with that,” he says, and you hear him amble off.

“You could dye the gray parts,” you say, returning to the subject at hand – or at head. “Most of mine grew out in a few months. Or you could make it part of your “look”. Call it silver instead of gray – that sounds more Romantic, the kind with a capital R. Black and silver, night and starlight, that sort of thing.”

“Oh Rose,” she teases, “that’s almost poetic.”

“I try.”

“Have you ever thought about dying yours?” she asks. “It’s so light, it should take color well.”

“I thought about it a few times,” you admit, “but if I had my mother would’ve gotten me a junior beautician’s set before it dried. That’s what happened with the lipstick.” You’d worn black to shock her, but she’d taken it as an opportunity to try to bond and unloaded most of a Sephora counter on you, which you’d used to make a self-portrait entitled Masque of the Beauty Industry – Female Socialization into Self-Objectification. The juvenile games you played with your mother are embarrassing now. She’d been trying to make up for her excesses with more, and you responded to imagined slights by lashing out. You’d both acted like children, even if you thought you were so mature. “Do you think I’d look good with purple hair?”

Jade claps her hands together. “Let’s find out!”

 #

A packet of Kool-Aid later, you’re dripping whorls of purple into the bathtub. Jade examines her fingers, where the dye has left her dark skin looking corpse gray. “Gross hands and zebra hair,” she says with a laugh. “I can be the bride of Frankenstein.”

“Frankenstein’s monster,” you correct, because it’s expected.

“All in all, I’d prefer to be the scientist.”

The dye has to sit overnight, so you seclude yourselves in Jade’s room. She guards the door from any unauthorized entry, shooing Kanaya away by telling her you’re preparing a surprise and whacking anyone who tries to phase through the wall with a pillow. Dave restrains himself to sending you 27 texts in a row before you turn your phone off. The two of you eat gummy worms by the fistful and look up silly animal videos. Jade has to drag you away from an argument in the Youtube comments section. She shows you pictures of dresses she likes, and you argue over which model is prettier. You feel like the child you could have been, if you’d ever dared to bring a friend home to spend the day or sleep over, if you’d ever let yourself relax into your youth instead of chasing your mother’s missing adulthood.

It’s nice.

The two of you fall asleep on the floor despite your sugar intake, and you wake up to see that you’ve left a purple stain on the carpet. “It’ll wash out,” Jade assures you. “We need to rinse your hair now.”

It looks terrible - a streaky mess of light and dark purple – but Jade guides you away from brooding in the mirror and shoves you into the shower. Then the color evens out. It’s a little darker than the lavender you would’ve preferred, but Kool-Aid dyes fade fast. You run your hands over it long enough that she asks, “Do you not like it?”

“What do you think everyone else will say?”

“That you look pretty.” That’s Jade, delivering all her assurances with conviction. Even though you know now some of them were feigned, she sounds sincere. “They’ll love it.”

“Have you decided what you’re going to do about yours?”

She touches her roots, where the gray is just starting to show. “I think I’ll leave it. I’ve covered up enough. Hopefully Jake won’t think I’m his grandma.”

“You’re a few wrinkles short.”

“Memory is funny sometimes. The littlest things throw me. He coughs just like my grandpa used to. I hear it and always have to turn around.” She tugs out one strand that’s gone completely gray, wraps it a few times around her finger, and ties it off. “A reminder,” she says. “Even if I don’t need them anymore.”

 #

Jade has to coax you downstairs, but eventually you both walk down to the kitchen. Terezi, who against all prior behavior has chosen today to get up before noon, sniffs. “Does anyone smell anything different?” You make a slashing motion across your throat, (she sticks her tongue out), but the damage is done. Karkat nudges Dave, who looks up at you and chokes on his coffee. Kanaya’s eyebrows rise, and words line up on your tongue. It’s childish. A joke. It’ll wash right out.

“I think it suits you,” she says.

“Forget Rose,” Roxy says. “Who’ll turn my hair pink for me?”

“My hands are already ruined,” Jade says, holding them up.

Roxy high-fives her, to her surprise. “Perfect. But I want a turn at the exclusive sleepover times. Except with 100% more science. I’m talking bubbly rainbow shit in beakers, the whole shebang.”

“Am I on the ban list for this round?” you ask. If there’s one thing you can count on Roxy for, it’s lightening the mood. “I may not be part of the scientific community, but I can be present to scoff at mankind’s fumbling attempts to comprehend the mysteries of the universe.”

“That’s why you have to leave those kinds of probing questions into the fabric of reality to womankind. You can stay if…” Roxy pauses for dramatic effect. “You let me do your nails.”

“Roxy, do you know how to do anyone’s nails?” Jane demands from across the table.

“I’m a fast learner. Or… you could hold a workshop.” She waggles her unmanicured fingers at her. “Wanna volunteer?”

“I’d love to see how it’s done,” Calliope chimes in.

Kanaya raises her hand. “I’d like to be included in this, whatever it is.”

“Massive all-girls sleepover, that’s what it is. Or what it’s turning into. You can’t come,” Roxy adds to Dirk, who looks like he’s trying to decide whether to be disappointed or not.

The table dissolves into chatter, and you shake your head. “The last time I even heard the word sleepover, I must have been eleven. It always seemed like kid stuff.”

“I know,” Roxy says, and raises her hand to high-five you too. You meet her hand with a decisive clap. “Isn’t it great?”