#deanxbenny

[angeltiddies]

hold tight to me

[cherryberrynice]

wip wednesday

it's not actually wednesday any more here because timezones, but have some mary and benny being buddies because i am having a hard time making more words happen

Mary’s sitting alone in a motel room. Except for the flatscreen tv, the decor feels comfortable and familiar and modern to her, which probably means it’s dated as hell. The flickering light of the television fills the room, movie trailer casting moody blues and greys against the fading light against the setting sun.

She picks up her phone, adds its flat light to the room as she makes a call.

“Did you have colour television before you died?” Mary asks. Direct. Benny huffs out a laugh. It’s refreshing, having someone with whom she can discuss the complete weirdness of change. Dean, especially, gets tight around the eyes when she or Benny start talking about being dead. Sam and Dean have each died more times than she and Benny put together, but it was never for long. There is a decades-long disruption of the world Mary and Benny have to find their way in. Sam and Dean have died and more times than she can count - more times than they can keep track of, too, she thinks. It’s normal to them; the way their hearts go out, the following gasp of first breath hours or months later. Scars falling from their skin where hers picked up damage from years and years of sunlight she never actually got to tilt her face toward.

“Some,” Benny says. “Remember seeing one in a store window when Andrea and I got stateside. Nothing on that last tour of South America. Didn’t have one ourselves - they were a pretty penny. Andrea had the money, wanted to get one, but it didn’t seem worth it. Not with the broadcasts still mostly in monochrome, and us having better things to do.”

On the tv, the movie trailer ended when she wasn’t paying attention. Mary nods. Thinks of the slow bloom of television to colour throughout her childhood. She can’t pinpoint a tipping point in the way you can never really feel the slow change of an ecosystem you’re immersed in, but she thinks she was out of elementary school before black and white began to wane. “Took a while to catch on,” she says.

“We were going to come back to the idea in a couple of years,” Benny says. “Didn’t happen.”

“Yeah,” she says. Pauses. Thinks about the flickering light of the movie trailer that had her reaching for her phone. “There are eight Star Wars movies,” Mary says.

“So Dean and Charlie tell me,” Benny says. “Though if I recall correctly, they have an ongoing argument about if they should pretend some of them don’t exist.”

Mary laughs a little. Benny likes to pretend fond exasperation at Dean and Charlie’s pop culture arguments but she knows he stores their fond, easy bickering away close to his heart.

A woman with too-white teeth has a bottle of brightly coloured syrup and is playing doctor mom to her children and husband. She thinks of the mothers on the shows she grew up with in the 50s and 60s.

“Return of the Jedi came out when Sam was three weeks old,” she says. John had paid a girl from three doors down $5 to babysit the kids so they could have the night out, and they’d taken the Impala to the drive-in. They’d both fallen asleep before the previews were over, popcorn falling sideways on the front seat between them as exhaustion clawed behind their eyes and titled them away from each other and into the rolled-up windows.

“I’m sure Dean and Charlie would be willing to set up a movie night, if you wanted to watch it,” Benny says. Pauses, when she doesn’t respond.

Sam is four months old. Sam is 36. Return of the Jedi came out when he was three weeks old and she hasn’t gotten a chance to see it yet.

“Sure,” Mary says, feeling stiff and out of place. She is 28. She is 40-something. She doesn’t know how she’ll feel watching a movie with her grown children, not one she was supposed to see a few months ago when Sam was asleep, burbling, in his crib. Mary exhales. Behind her eyes, she can see Dean colouring at the kitchen table with the babysitter while at the drive-in she and John slept, exhausted, while the movie played around them. The drive-in speaker echoing explosions and lasers not near enough to wake them, their children were safe in a home with only weeks left before it burned.

“Or I could watch it with you sometime,” Benny offers.

Mary feels like she should push through, ignore the pain. It’s been decades. It’s only been a few months. “I’d like that,” she says. “It’s not--”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” Benny says. Of everyone she knows, he understands about how time goes funny.

Mary takes a deep breath. Tries to figure out if she <i>wants</i> to explain herself. Honestly, she’s tired of it. “We could get them to set something up for the rest of the movies,” she offers.

“They’d like that,” Benny says, softly.

They talk for a while after that. Nothing heavy. Blades and guns and possible monster murders and the most ridiculous lyrics they’ve found in new-old pop music.

Eventually, Benny says “Pardon me a second,” and Mary can hear Dean’s voice, muffled and filtered through Benny’s hand over his phone. It sounds warm and lazy, no strident urgency or sharp command or threat-response in it, and she bites her lip and grins. Benny’s voice comes back on the line. “Sorry, but--”

“Go,” Mary says. Waves her hand like she can see him. “I’ve had a long day here, should probably turn in anyway. Tell him I send my love.”

[minorkeepsakes]

i think it’s very nice to assume that when Dean said purgatory was pure, he was talking about his relationship with Benny, the simplicity of their bond, the complete lack of baggage between them that meant he was able to trust him implicitly. The bond between Dean and Benny was always one of equals; one of them was never more or less responsible for the others well being. It was never a power struggle, it was never toxic. It was odd and unlikely because hunter+vamp, but that’s what made it all the more striking. That’s was the poetic irony of it all. Dean had to go to purgatory and befriend a monster in order to feel, for the first time, that he could trust someone with his whole heart. 

[sad-trash-hobo]

Why did they give Dean the most badass weapon in season 8, and then just.....take it away? Where did it go? Why must we watch them lose their angel blades again and again. #bringbackthepurgatoryweapon

[good-things-do-happen-dean]

dear @sweatercas this is for you and anyone who needs more soft deanxbenny! (which is everyone.)

it knits together all the same

read on ao3

Dean’s faced a lot of monsters in his day. Countless monsters, really. All manner of horrible, evil things. But as nasty as some of those monsters have been, Dean thinks he’s never faced anything quite as horrible as this goddamn skein of yarn. He’s got half of it rolled into a ball, which took a frankly embarrassingly long time. But now the rest of the fucking skein is knotted so tightly around itself that Dean can’t even loosen the knots with his fingernails, let alone pick them apart. And his seemingly brilliant idea of fishing the other end of the yarn out of that snarl and starting a new ball from there? Yeah, that made everything worse. Now he’s got one decently-sized ball of yarn (Demon Yarn Ball #1), one tiny one (Demon Yarn Ball #2), and a mess of knots worse than that time Sammy got not one, but two wads of gum stuck in his hair without realizing it and slept that way (Demon Yarn Ball #3).

He isn’t even sure how Charlie talked him into doing this in the first place. Dean can use a needle and thread of course, in the dental-floss-stitches way and the traditional way. He’s patched up his and Sam’s clothes for years, mending tears and hemming and letting things out a few months later wen Sam grew yet another four inches. But this is…something else entirely. Dean glares daggers at the snarled mess in his hands, willing it to unravel itself. Or burst into flames.

When it does neither, he sighs and pulls out his phone to call Charlie instead of doing something stupid (but potentially satisfying) like heading to the shooting range and using Demon Yarn Balls 1-3 for target practice.

“What’s up, nerd?” she says brightly after just one ring. “Status report.”

“Charlie,” Dean warns, tossing the stupid fucking thing onto the library table. “I’m this close to doing an exorcism.”

‘That bad, huh?”

“Yeah, that ba – fuck.” Dean can only watch in dismay as the decently-sized ball rolls off the other side of the table. It doesn’t undo that much work, but the most recent bit he actually managed to wrap took nearly an hour. All that for maybe three more inches of unknotted yarn. “How did you talk me into this again?” Dean says, bending to pick up Demon Yarn Ball #1.

“Just think how happy you’ll make him, Dean.”

Okay, so that’s how she talked him into it. And keeps talking him into it, apparently. It’s the middle of spring, he’d argued originally, even as he clicked over to a new tab to look up yarn, for chrissake. Yeah, but it’s your first time, dude. And just imagine his face when you give it to him.

Dean sighs again. “Fine, you win.”

He can hear Charlie’s grin over the phone when she says, “Be gentle with it. Love you.”

And because it’s Charlie, Dean grins too.

***

It turns out Charlie’s right about being gentle with it. What started out as a battle, a fight to the death really, becomes something soft and warm, Dean realizes as the months slip by and the thing takes shape. It’s not a perfect thing, by any means. It’s lumpy and Dean drops a few stitches here and there. But even though the yarn is pinched thin in places from the worst of the snarls, it knits together all the same. Just like him and Benny.

And suddenly it’s November and Dean can’t believe he made this thing with his own two hands. He’s staring at it at the library table, holding it up so he can inspect it from all angles, and he doesn’t hear Benny come in.

“Dean?”

He nearly drops the thing in shock, but catches it and yanks it close to his chest. “Supposed to be for Christmas,” Dean says, heat rushing to his cheeks. He tucks the sleeves back and folds it carefully before casting a glance over his shoulder.

“Is that –“ Benny, ever-confident, surefooted Benny, can’t seem to find the rest of his sentence. He’s just looking at Dean, at the thing Dean has cradled in his arms.

“Yeah,” Dean says, standing then and offering it to Benny. “Yeah, it’s – I made you a sweater.”

Every kiss with Benny is good, grounding. Loving. But the one they share in the library with the sweater pressed gently between them becomes Dean’s favorite. It actually fits pretty well, Dean discovers when Benny pulls it on immediately and kisses him again, whispering je t’aime cheri, je l’adore into Dean’s mouth. And that kiss becomes his favorite. And the kiss Benny gives him the first time Dean darns the hole Benny wore into the elbow from use becomes his favorite. And after a while, Dean stops picking favorites and learns to just be gentle with it.

[lauralying]

Okay, but what if dean sees Benny again in purgatory

Someone write that, thank you

[contranymss]

@allshipscreationschallenge | @gordonwalkr ↳ Prompt: Dean/Benny + Vampire

Give me a vampire and I’m good

[good-things-do-happen-dean]

this thing they have

rating: general

pairing: benny lafitte/dean winchester

read on ao3

Dean isn’t sure how Benny expects him to resist the big mixing bowl full of beignet dough just sitting there on the counter. Normally, Dean is pretty good about leaving Benny’s ingredients alone while he’s cooking. Well, all right, sometimes he is. Well. Okay, there’s a reason why Dean isn’t supposed to be in the kitchen when Benny’s cooking, but that rule gets broken all the time. Everything just smells so good, babe, I had to try it! Dean will say with a winning smile around whatever he’s just snuck from Benny’s work station. Then, Benny will snap him with a dish towel and maybe chase him around the prep table and maybe, if he’s lucky and something has just gone in the oven, crowd him up against the door to the freezer and make him forget about the chill at his back for a while.

So yeah, Dean isn’t supposed to be in the kitchen, but all he did was poke his head around the door and spot the big mixing bowl out on the counter and Benny heating up some oil on the stove. It isn’t Dean’s fault that he knows what that means. Beignets. He sneaks in, knowing that he doesn’t really need to and knowing that Benny knows he’s sneaking in anyway, and just admires the broad lines of Benny’s shoulders for a moment as he beats the last of the eggs into the dough. He’s made it about halfway across the kitchen before Benny says, “Touch my beignets with unwashed hands and lose ‘em, cher.”

“The beignets or my hands?” Dean says, heading to the sink.

“Both.”

Dean laughs then. From the sink, he can just see Benny’s mouth curve into a smile over his pan of oil. It’s good, this thing they have. It’s good and gentle and warm and not at all what Dean expected from two guys going in pretty rough around the edges. Somewhere along the way they smoothed each other out. They smile easier. They laugh. And Benny lets him steal bites from whatever he’s making and at night he curls a strong arm around Dean’s middle that’s softer now than it used to be and loves him just the same. More.

The oil sizzles as Benny slips the first scoops of dough in. Dean’s dried his hands now and steps over to hover behind Benny, not quite hooking his chin over Benny’s shoulder. “Smells good,” he says, dropping a kiss at the back of Benny’s neck.

“Me or the beignets?” Benny says and Dean can hear the smile in his voice.

Dean sniffs deeply, then buries his nose where Benny’s neck meets his shoulder, kissing him there too for good measure. “Both.”

Benny shrugs him off gently and grins broadly at Dean over his shoulder. “You think sweet talkin’ the chef’ll get you the first one, huh?”

“Seems to be a pretty effective strategy,” Dean says, reaching for the mixing bowl to scoop some dough out with his finger. He laps at his dough-covered finger with more vigor than is strictly necessary, watching Benny watch him all the while, and makes an appreciative noise. “Taste even better than they smell. Wonder if the chef’s the same way?” he says, leaning in for a kiss.

Dean gets a poke in the stomach and a fond eyeroll instead because “They’ll burn if you don’t stop distractin’ me,” so he presses another kiss to the back of Benny’s neck. By the time he fetches the powdered sugar from the pantry, Benny is slipping the last of the beignets onto a towel and dabbing the excess oil from them. Sprinkling the powdered sugar is always Dean’s job, which means sprinkling becomes something more like dousing and they both laugh at the puff of white that accompanies Dean’s first bite. The beignets are delicious, of course, but what Dean likes most of all is the kiss that follows, soft and sweet, partly because they’re both covered in sugar, but mostly because it’s good, this thing they have.