octuse replied to your post “i know it’s really looking like tyrell is one of elliot’s alters rn...”
SEE THE THING IS IT LOOKS LIKE IT IS BUT AT THE SAME TIME PEOPLE SPOKE TO HIM AT E CORP HE HAD A LEGIT BIG POSITION I THOUGHT THEY WERE THE SAME AT FIRST BUT UNLESS THEY BLOW HOLES IN THEIR CANON IDEK
same, same. after the season 1 finale for a little while i thought tyrell was an alter but then i debunked that bc elliot talks to tyrell’s secretary after tyrell goes missing and the secretary tells him she hasn’t seen tyrell so elliot can’t be tyrell or she would’ve recognized him....and now the fbi is looking for tyrell and they wouldn’t be if he was elliot and in prison....and other people would’ve recognized him as tyrell too like this doesn’t make sense. i started freaking out for a minute after that preview and had to remind myself that it doesn’t make Any sense
When asked to nominate someone who has made a positive impact in my life the first person to pop up was @octuse. It may seem strange to some for me to nominate someone I have never met in person, but in this instance I think technicalities can be bypassed for awhile. I met Jess online through our mutual love of Supernatural and Misha Collins. I was instantly drawn to her (and not just because we share the same name 😉) Jess is a literal ball of positive sunshine. She is beautiful, charismatic, intelligent, selfless, and loving. Jess isn't afraid to let herself shine. Whether it's making silly kazoo videos to wish people a 'happy birthday', laughing at her own memes, or just plain being excited about something, she doesn't hold back. She just.....reacts. I find that particular attribute amazing. I WISH I could be like her; let me be me. I'm not there yet, but I'm trying. And following in Jess' example seems like a great place to start. As I've been writing this, I've realized that this isn't about winning a contest; but about being grateful for those in our lives and letting them know that. Cause after all, you never know when they may leave you. SO. Jess, I want you to know how much I appreciate our friendship. We've helped each other through some times and I am grateful to know you. Remember that you are a beautiful soul, both inside and out. You are one of the most passionate people I have ever known and I hope you never let that go. I love you pretty lady. And remember win or lose in this particular contest, know that you've already won the awesome human award haha (sorry I had to, I was getting too emotional) Thank you Misha and @officialgishwhes for setting up this opportunity to tell my friend how much she means to me and for allowing me to #givelovetoday
@octuse my love, I want to thank you for kazooing me Kashmir. I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time and you are a champ entertaining people for 24 hours. Stay hydrated. <3
If you’d like to help Jess conquer the world one kazoo improv at a time, you can donate to her campaign and watch the live kazoo concert.
Coda for 11.02 because @octuse went on about blankets and I love cuddling.
It’s the warmest he can find: thick gray wool, army grade. Musty. Not the softest, but the goal is to get Cas’s body temperature up. Dean shakes out years of dust and wraps the blanket around him. Cas thanks him through chattering teeth.
Both his eyes are hemorrhaged, his shirt bloody and torn--Dean hasn’t asked yet. He keeps a careful distance, gun at his hip, blade in sight. He trusts Cas but something’s not right. What I have, you can’t help me, Cas said on the phone. Well. What he’s got right now is hypothermia, a roof over his head. Two people who care a hell of a lot about him.
Sam makes tea. Dean rolls his eyes at the mug Sam proffers, opting for whiskey. Neat. Knocks it back, welcoming the burn in his stomach, temporary distance from the day.
Cas has a cut on his forehead that Sam dabs with peroxide. They try to pretend he isn’t miserable, taking out their laptops to catch up on strange headlines, anything that could give them insight into the Darkness. Cas’s fingers tremble against the blanket where he clutches it; his face contorts with pain and he mentions a spell. His tea goes untouched.
“I’m gonna grab a shower,” Sam says after a while. Dean’s fairly certain he says it as an excuse to leave, sidestep the elephant in the war room in the form of a mound of books, evidence of a fight he hasn’t cleaned up yet, but he doesn’t say anything when Sam gets up. He ought to put on a maid’s outfit himself.
“Can’t you…” Dean taps two fingers against his forehead when they’re alone. Closes the laptop. Cas shakes his head, eyes cast to the floor.
“No. Hannah tried and wasn’t able to heal me.”
“Oh, yeah? How’s she?” Dean says. He infers the answer from Cas’s silence. “Sorry. I know you two were...close.”
“Not as close as I’d thought.”
“You wanna tell me what’s going on?”
Cas shakes but does, ending with the question of what he is, what he’s become.
Dean crouches next to his chair. “Who cares what they think, Cas?”
“They’re my -- were. My brothers.”
“Yeah, well, you know what I believe about family.”
Cas’s tears appear red before they fall.
“So I’ll get you set up in your own room tomorrow, but you’re bunking in here tonight. I’ll take the couch.” Dean switches on the light, opens his dresser and roots for something Cas can wear. Comes up with sweatpants, a long-sleeved tee.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Cas shivers in the doorway, back lit by the hallway light. He draws the blanket around him. “I’d recommend you restrain me for the night.”
Dean shrugs one shoulder, throws the covers back. “I usually get a couple dates in before I get kinky.” Cas chuckles, though it dissolves into a coughing fit. Dean waits until it calms, then motions to the clean clothes. “Look, I promise I’ll slap some chains on you if you get out of hand, but right now I don’t think you’re capable of much.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Cas says.
“Makes two of us.”
He turns his back while Cas changes, until he gets into the bed and stops moving. Cas lies shaking in the negative of Dean’s usual spot, head resting on the pillow Dean doesn’t use, knees drawn up to his chest. Wrapped in the blanket underneath the sheet and comforter. Sometimes, Dean believes in signs.
He tucks in behind Cas fully clothed, on top of the covers. Pulls Cas back against his chest. Drops his face to Cas’s neck, the gray blanket wrapped around him. He can overthink this in the morning.
“You’re worried about me after everything I--”
coda for 11.01 because That Phone Call *_*
Later, much later, in Dean’s bedroom, they held each other in the dark. Kissed until Dean couldn’t remember why he’d ever said they shouldn’t, why he’d ever locked this away. With Cas’s face in his hands, their tangle of legs, whispered names and shared breath between them, Dean finally found peace.
He was almost asleep, warm and boneless beneath flannel sheets, when Cas reached for the light. Dean squinted against it. Cas still looked worn from what his brothers had done. Sickly. His bloodshot eyes called up Rowena’s spell, though it had been gone for weeks. But it would never be gone, not from Dean’s memory, like their fight in the bunker that played on an endless loop, fist clenched around a blade he didn’t hold and had never wanted to.
The lamp buzzed, its glow intensifying for a heart beat. Cas touched Dean’s bare forearm; Dean gulped and turned his face away.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” A challenge, not a question. Cas waited the minute it took Dean to answer.
“How can you stand to look at me, after what I did to you? After what we unleashed?”
The lamp’s humming grew louder and Cas drew him, shuddering, into the circle of his arms. Sighed into his hair.
“When will you understand, there is nothing that can stop my love for you -- no curse, no evil. Not even you.”
“Cas, I don’t--”
Cas pulled back just far enough to meet his eyes. “You don’t what? You don’t deserve it?”
The answer stuck in Dean’s throat and made his chin quiver.
“Luckily, that’s not your decision.” Cas smiled, lowering his head, and kissed the quiet place the Mark used to burn.
I wasn’t going to write this, but I couldn’t get it out of my head, so please indulge me and look away if you don’t like Hannigram. Hannibal S3 finale coda, 480 words. on AO3
The last thing Will remembered thinking before they hit the water was the adage, It's not the fall that kills you.
The ocean forced them apart, a wall of water smashing them against a wall of rock. The surf was cold and unforgiving: literal salt in his wounds. He repeatedly swiped his hand through the surge in search of Hannibal's, but came up empty. He sputtered, gasping for air through a mouthful of saltwater.
Something brushed his leg—an arm? A hand? He thrashed in the water and the thing bobbed up beside him.
“Hannibal,” he rasped, shocked by his appearance: ashen skin and lips deep gray in the moonlight. The blood had washed away.
Hannibal’s blink was sluggish, but he opened his eyes. They grabbed each other, almost drowning from the tangle of limbs. Hannibal's arms locked around Will’s neck, forcing his mouth and nose underwater. But it was the survival instinct that drove Hannibal to do it. Will held his breath until he could surface. The ocean beat and beat and beat against them.
He was woozy and disoriented because of his blood loss, both of them in danger of hypothermia, but adrenaline forced his hands onto the rock the next time the ocean pushed them toward it; gave him the resolve to try and guide them, ever so slowly, along the base of the cliff toward the shore.
There had to be a shore.
For seemingly hours, he pulled them inch by inch, hand over hand, along the cliffside. Hannibal shivered against him, panting into his neck. Will guided them despite his exhaustion, despite the blisters and lacerations that formed on his palms and fingertips from the slippery rock. His hands throbbed and bled, and he kept moving.
He saw black and stars, Molly and Willy and the dogs, his farm house in Wolf Trap. He ground his teeth and forced them through the dark waves, surprised the stag didn’t tread water beside them.
At last, the shore—a mirage, he thought at first; a trick of the light—but he crawled up the sandy incline on one arm, as weak and desperate as the first fish emerging from the ocean. He heaved Hannibal with him, exhausting the last of his strength, collapsing on the sand and closing his eyes. Hannibal didn’t move, a heavy, wet weight on top of him. Every part of Will’s body ached, but he couldn’t get up. The waves rushed up around them, then retreated.
Maybe it would have been better to bleed out on the clifftop. If they managed to survive, how long would Hannibal let him live for this newest betrayal? It had been a coward’s way out. It had been his way out. Bedelia was right: he couldn’t live, with or without him.
It’s not the fall, he told himself as Hannibal shook above him and went still, and the waves, ever moving, came again.
