#s15 codas

[theheartchoice]

post-15.19 coda  |  dean/cas  |  dean + sam  |  1.3k  |  ao3 

"We're all set here."

Dean hums as Sam brushes his hands together in his periphery. He didn't even realise they were so close to finishing the set up. 

"Now it's just a matter of timing." 

Timing. Cas had the worst timing. Saying something like that at a time like that, leaving Dean with more questions than answers. 

"Dean?" 

"..Huh?" 

"You okay? You spaced-out, for a minute there." 

"Yeah, I'm just—" he waves a hand around, trying and failing to capture what he's feeling. 

"Look, about Jack," Sam steps closer, voice dipping to a tone that means sympathy and support, the kind that gets a work out on a case. "I know things with you two have always been kind of complicated, and I can imagine that him not bringing Cas back has only made things harder—" 

"—Woah, Sam. No. I get it—really. He's hands off, y'know? Probably for the best. Meddling was Chuck's problem, it's how everything got so screwed up in the first place." Not that he's palming all his mistakes off on bad writing, but still. Jack not intervening is a good thing, in a way. 

"Yeah, I guess. Makes you wonder if he might not condone what we're doing here, you know?" 

Dean hums again. "But you'd think if he let anyone have one more get-out-of-jail-free card it'd be Cas. Who knows, maybe Jack's rootin' for us."

"Yeah, maybe," Sam chuckles. "Don't worry. It's gonna work."

That's sort of what Dean's worried about. 

"You seem nervous."

Maybe Sam could help. 

"You sure you're okay?" 

"I just—" how does he even phrase it? "When Cas was—I mean, before he saved me, he.. said some stuff." 

"What kind of stuff?" 

"Big stuff. Deathbed confession, type-stuff." 

"Confession? What did he—" and realisation dawns on Sam, because of-fucking-course it does. "Oh."

No use hiding it now. "Yeah, 'oh'."

"So. He finally told you." 

Wait what? "What d'you mean finally?" 

"Dean." And there's so much in just that one word. "Cas has been in love with you for.. well, I don't know how long, exactly. A while, I think. Years." 

Dean's lungs empty in a rush. "Okay, see, that's the thing: he's an Angel, Sam."

"Yeah, I kinda picked up on that."

Dean sends him a bitch face but Sam just smiles. "Tha—it's a human emotion. Angels don'—they can't feel that way." Right?

"Serafina did."

"Pretty sure she and Adam from the freakin' Garden of Eden knew each other for more than a few years. More like eons." 

"Since when does time determine love?" Sam gets a look Dean remembers from when he'd talk about the past, about Jess. Probably not something he wants to bring up right now, seeing as how Eileen's right outside. 

"Cas is my best friend, but he's literally older than the world." 

"So it's an age-thing?" 

"Wh—? No!" Dean takes a deep breath, to steady himself, steady his train of thought. "I know Cas is an Angel, okay? I mean, there's the mojo, and the not-sleeping, and he saw the first fish crawl outta the ocean—the whole nine. That's not what's botherin' me." Sam waits patiently. "I know he cares. I just don't know if.." If he feels the same way I do. "If he really feels the way he thinks he does. About me, about love, an'.." Dean swallows. "Love."

For all his tact in handling witnesses during a case (people who're at their most vulnerable), Sam fucking snickers. 

Dean glares daggers; half-hurt, half not surprised because isn't that how little brothers are supposed to act? They laugh at their sibling's relationship troubles? But Sam gets it, because his face softens. 

"Dean. Maybe Angels do feel things differently from Humans. In fact, it's pretty much guaranteed. But Cas has always been different from the rest of them. And I've been here over the years, you know. I've seen it." 

"Seen what?" 

"The way he looks at you. And I never thought it was some big secret, I mean—you saw it too! And you looked at him the same way." 

"Did not!" Sam gives him that: c'mon Dean you can't fool me here face, and he let's it go. Sam's probably not wrong. 

"What did you say? After he told you."

"I.." Nothing. He told Cas—begged him not to do it that way—but everything was happening so fast, and there was a decade's worth of doubt stopping Cas' words—those three huge words—from sinking in. Even after, as everything finally hit him and he curled up on the dungeon floor and cried his freakin' eyes out, even then, even now, he still doesn't know what he would've said if he had the moment again. "There was no time."

Sam nods. "Well, now there is. You guys can talk—"

"—What if I'm right?" Sam's brow crinkles at that. "I mean, no offence Sam, but I know him better than you do. What if.. what Cas feels, is.." he trails off, unable to get the words out. 

"..Are you worried he's not in love with you, or that he is?" 

One sounds better than the other. Both sound kinda terrifying. 

Sam sighs, and it's almost pitiful.

"I don't wanna lose him." As a friend, most of all. Because if Cas misunderstood the whole love-confession thing being for non-brotherly love then Dean won't say anything, obviously, but it'll hurt. Cas will be back but things will be different—worse actually, because that whole thing with The Empty made him confront his own feelings (or stop suppressing them, at least). Cas isn't just a friend to him, and it's not familial either. But can they go back to being 'just friends' after everything? Can Dean? 

"Dean, no matter what happens you're not going to lose him. Just look at everything the two of you have already been through."

Now there's a distracting and somewhat depressing train of thought. Apocalyptic times can't tear them apart, not for good, and even death is nothing new. It would be a painful joke of cosmic proportions if the thing that actually ruins their friendship is love. 

"Do you love him?" Dean's head snaps up to meet Sam's eyes. "Are you in love with Cas?" 

Eileen returns before he can think of a way to deflect, cutting off anymore talk about it. 

She gestures to Sam and he tells Dean, "It's time. You ready?" 

Dean's not sure what he would've said but the truth is best kept for Cas' ears anyway. And Sam's right. They have time. They can talk, and hopefully they'll figure things out and where they stand with as little heartache as possible. There's no avoiding it, not now, not after everything. He nods, steeling his resolve. "Yeah. I'm ready." 

At least he knows Chuck is no longer pulling their strings and that whatever happens from here on out it really is just him and Cas. The thought never even crossed his mind that Cas' confession might be Chuck's doing. Chuck didn't care enough about him to bother, and besides: Cas was always the rebel against God's story.

Dean steps over the threshold of painted sigils, taking his place in the centre of the circle. As Sam starts chanting he feels his worry over the truth of Cas' words ebb away and hope flow in to supplant it. The phantom scar of a handprint on his shoulder from when Cas rescued from Hell seems to flare to life and brand itself back into Dean's flesh, and the only thing going through his mind is: what if Cas really is in love with me? He smiles at the thought. 

As the glowing portal tears into existence before him he remembers something else Cas said to him, back when Dean was questioning his whole reality. Cas was steadfast and sincere as ever as he held Dean's eye and told him that they were real. And for the first time Dean knows that to be true. He feels it in his very soul. 

With his hand raised he moves towards the portal and braces for some kind of inter-dimensional shift, but he's not scared. This is the right thing to do, for both of them. 

Time to grip an Angel tight and raise him from perdition. 

[found--family]

looking forward to the new wave of 15x18 codas where Dean tells Cas he loves him too 👏😭 

[theheartchoice]

Hope Or No Hope 

post-15.18 coda  |  dean/cas  |  grieving!dean  |  900w  |  ao3 

Dean’s phone buzzes to life in his hand, bringing him back to the present. To this literal dungeon and this doomed fucking world and a God hell-bent on destroying everyone they care about before tossing the rest of 'em in the trash like his broken fucking toys. 

It's Sam. He'd meant to call Sam, tell him what happened. He'd tried—got as far as pulling his phone from his pocket, fingers moving on autopilot—but he couldn't make the call. How the hell could he? 

The weight of everything, this cursed fucking reality, is a heavy pull behind his ribs. Anguish burns hot and cold in his veins. There's a yawning chasm opening up where his heart should be, an emptiness as dark and all-consuming as the thing that took Cas. It hurts like entropy, like it's only a matter of time before he's swallowed whole from the inside out.

It's a worse fate than whatever Chuck could do to him. Sonuvabitch'd probably revel in it, too. He couldn't get the ending he wanted out of him and Sam but their suffering is his drug of choice, his fucking life-blood. He thrives on their pain. Who'd've guessed God was a sadistic fucker who gave the Devil himself a run for his money? 

Time passes, maybe. Grief wracks his body in aches and tears, his heart cold, his blood hot; rage surges in waves only to be quelled by an undercurrent of paralysing loss that numbs him to his bones; the ebb and flow of anger and despair like a storm at sea.

He's adrift. Lost. Alone. Surely close to drowning.

His cheeks are wet, cool tears tracking over heated skin—they don't stop coming, 'til they can't no more. Breaths come ragged and shallow, sapping what little energy he has left. 

He's so damn tired, in every way. Physically, emotionally, right down deep in his soul. Giving in, lying down and waiting on the end of the world seems like a reprieve. Billie's gone, Cas is—

There's no hope of beating Chuck now. 

But there's no rest for the cursed. His stomach turns against him, bile rising too quick to do anything but fold over and let it burn its way up and out of his throat. He manages to shove his phone out of the way just in time; the smallest of fucking mercies. 

He needs to get out of here. Out of this room, out of the bunker, get on the road and drive—drive to Sam, and Jack. 

His muscles protest movement, body strained and weak as he pushes up from the concrete floor and staggers to the doorway, chest heaving as every expand of his lungs taxes him. He waits there, braced against the frame as he works to steady his breathing and for some strength to return to his legs. 

He remembers what he said to Cas, that if this is the end then they should all be together. It's that realisation that bolsters him and propels him through the bunker with a single-minded determination to get in the Impala and fucking drive.

Plan or no plan, hope or no hope, he's gonna be with his family. 

Keys in the ignition he fires off a text to Sam—omw—and guns it outta Lebanon. It's not until he reaches the intestate and slows to miles of scattered, empty vehicles that he realises what Chuck's done, but he needs to know for certain. He manages to dial, then, four rings 'til Sam picks up and it's a blurted, overlapping frenzy of questions and half-hearted reassurances. Sam's okay. Jack's okay. Dean doesn't say the words, but.. in the silence that follows his brother's question about Cas, Sam knows. 

It's usually nine hours to Hastings. It takes about the same, because even with no highway patrol there are still obstacles to navigate. The radio is all static. When he reaches a good stretch of empty road he thinks about shoving a tape in, but.. music feels wrong, somehow. It's not the time for it even though he needs the distraction. The sky hangs low with storm clouds stretching to the horizon, but no rain falls. He drives faster. 

Baby's engine is white noise in his ears and it's the backdrop on which the day's events replay on a loop in his mind. Tears prick dried eyes and more bile threatens when he thinks of Cas. His soul aches. He pulls over more than once to dry-heave and the last time hooks a hand in the door compartment to keep from face-planting in the dirt. His fingers graze something—a cassette case, busted and empty—and everything goes quiet, 'til the silence turns deafening and resonates with the ever-present rage inside him. 

Cas was wrong. This anger has always been inside him and it always will be, no matter what else Cas saw, what Dean wanted so damn bad to believe could be true. 

He smashes the tape-deck with his fist, and when it's destroyed and his knuckles are torn and bloody he catches sight of more red in the door mirror: another hand, in someone else's blood, branded on his jacket just like it was on his skin all those years ago. 

He closes the door and pulls back onto the highway. As he drives the sky rumbles overhead. The clouds darken as he approaches the storm and the darkness inside him, the emptiness where Billie tried to break his heart, grows. There's nothing left to break. 

[found--family]

so who’s writing a 30k Dean/Cas Purgaytory 2.0 coda during the hellatus??? (asking for a friend) 

* please tag me in all your Destiel codas no matter length or locale!!!  

[theheartchoice]

dean/cas  |  15x13 coda  |  2.6k  |  (ao3) 

It feels strange, being back in his own clothes after wearing those of this world's Dean. Perhaps now that he's felt what is native to this universe against his skin, something from another universe, a place he called home, feels foreign in an understandable way. 

But it's more than that. Even back home he always felt like he was wearing someone else's clothes, living in someone else's skin. He loves hunting, loves his family, and at the very least has an appreciation for the funded support and security their life afforded them - especially after hearing what the other Winchesters have had to contend with. But at a certain point one may take stock of their life only to realise that the person in the mirror, however familiar, is also alien, somehow. 

However different their lives have been, the shock of meeting, of their paths converging, had worn off soon enough and was replaced with a respect for those differences. What this world's Sam and Dean have here is something he didn't know he wanted, and yet knows is vital to achieving true happiness. It was the very thing missing from his former life. 

Freedom. 

To not be dictated to, not have one's every move scrutenized, and not be restricted in the daily aspects of one's life - right down to the trivial, and moreover, the private. To wear what one wants, drink what one wants, live one's day as it comes and not be scheduled to the minute of every hour for months in advance. 

He mourns the loss of his world but he can't bring himself to miss it all that much. Things may be uncertain - which is a novel feeling - but they are no longer confined by Hunter Corp. or indeed the wishes (or rather, the demands) of their father. Here, they can live however they choose, and in meeting this world's Winchester brothers, in hearing their story, in learning about their world, he knows the possibilities outside of hunting are plentiful.

For the first time, retirement is a viable option. 

Laying the cherry-red-and-black plaid button-down on the bedspread, along with the dark crew-neck cotton shirt folded neatly, and the hip-riding jeans that do everything to flatter their respective bowleggedness, boots tucked in at the foot of the modest frame, he wonders if this world's Dean might allow him to keep one such outfit for himself. He's not certain if it's entirely his style, but he honestly doesn't know what his style is, yet. 

All he knows is that these clothes were comfortable; he's never known any garment to feel soft in that worn-in kind of way, a way his own clothes never had a chance to become. Blood stains and monster guts don't exactly wash out, even with their layers of top quality protective gear meant to keep it at bay, so every couple of months his wardrobe would cycle out and brand new pieces would filter in to fill his closet. It was like shedding one barely-worn skin for a stiff new one; nothing ever fit quite right, despite the tailoring. 

Slipping his beige jacket back on he reaches into the breast pocket and retrieves the pair of prayer-bead bracelets, sliding them back over his wrist. He hadn't wanted to remove them, but unlike his brother he heeded the warning of this world's Winchesters to make themselves appear authentic. His own clothes may not feel authentic to him - even less so now than they did previously - but these beads were chosen and paid for by him alone, with no middleman involved. They hold meaning, they are special, and perhaps the only thing not cycled out of rotation with the rest of his wardrobe when hunting made a mess of things. 

When he does change clothes again, he thinks, when he finds his own true sense of style and comfort, he knows these beads will stay with him; no matter what he wears, no matter where he goes, or who he discovers himself to be. 

There are three things that travelled with him through that portal that he knows are worth keeping, because they are real: his love for his brother, his love for his long-deceased mother, and his love for a lost Angel. 

  *  *  *

  Dean has said, as others have written, that soup is good for the soul. Now that Jack's soul has been restored - and his true appetite returned - it seems a fitting first meal. Which is why Castiel is currently defrosting a batch of Dean's homemade chicken soup in the microwave. 

He remembers the first time he tried to operate one of these machines; things did not go as planned. But the subsequent lesson from Dean had been worth cleaning up the mess. It had been just the two of them, standing side by side in the bunker's kitchen for what seemed to be longer than necessary to explain the basic functions and demonstrate to Castiel the best settings for particular needs - culinary, or otherwise. 

They've come a long way since then, despite their many painful trials. Castiel has learned much, and Dean's trust in him has grown. Even without words spoken, he knows this. He can feel it through the connection they share, have always shared, the profoundness of their bond; with his Angelic perception, Castiel can sense variations of emotion from Dean's soul. He can feel Dean's trust in him through the solid walls of the bunker just as he can see it in the form of a rotating container through a microwave window. 

There are some minutes left in the defrost-and-reheat cycle when the other world's Dean enters the kitchen. Castiel knows it's him before he speaks, before he himself turns around to see. 

"..Castiel?" 

It's Dean's voice, but not quite. Still, Castiel knows it as well as he knows Dean's soul: this Dean has something he wants to say. Castiel turns to face him, offering a friendly smile. "Hello, uhm.. Dean." It feels strange because it's Dean and not Dean, but it's not exactly the first time this has happened, so he pushes through the strangeness of it all. 

"Hi." His eyes are bright as they flick to the microwave humming on the benchtop. "I was hoping we could talk. Do you have a moment?" His smile is tentative, warm, but edged in sadness. It's familiar, in a way. The fidgeting of his hands is something new, but Castiel knows Dean to fidget in other ways when something is on his mind and making him restless, nervous, even. 

"Of course." Castiel moves to round the counter as the other Dean steps forward to join him. 

"There's something I want to ask you, before we leave." 

It had been a matter of tense discussion on the drive back from the church; while Jack slept beside Castiel, Dean, Sam and himself had talked about the Winchesters from the other world: where they should go, whether they would be safe from Chuck, whether they should stay in the bunker for a time - which was something neither Sam nor Dean found agreeable, and Castiel had conceded that it would not be sustainable. 

With Billie's plan in motion and Chuck's own endgame nearing, the safest place for the other Sam and Dean is as far away from the bunker as possible, for now at least. If they failed in their mission, however, no place in the world, or in any realm, would be safe for anyone. 

"You cook?" 

Is this the question the other world's Dean had wanted to ask him? "I.. microwave." A shy smile sneaks onto Castiel's face and the other Dean nods, looking perplexed. "Dean cooks, I just.. help where he needs me." 

"Oh." His face falls. "We've.. never needed to. Cook, I mean. There's always been room service, restaurants, and the like when we're away on a case. And we have―had―personal chefs at the estate, so.." 

"Ah. I see." The reminders of the loss of their world must be everywhere. Castiel wishes he knew this Dean well enough to know what to say to lessen the pain. Despite his mostly cheerful demeanor, Castiel can see the fluctuations in the wavelength of this Dean's soul; he is hurting. And this is familiar: observing Dean feeling one thing but expressing another. 

He can't help but wonder how much of the Dean he knows is carried through to other worlds, other Deans. Do they all have a love for cooking, or a desire to learn how to cook? Do they all have an unparalleled care for some sort of vehicle? Are there Deans out there who Castiel would not recognise by sight or sound? 

"You're an Angel." 

The statement brings his attention back into focus. "Yes." 

"And yet, you're so.." 

Castiel raises an eyebrow. 

"..human." 

Oh. It is possible, despite the spellwork needed for them to open a rift into an alternate universe, that this Dean has not encountered any Angels himself, or at least not ones who have made their home on Earth, among humanity; changing day by day, becoming more like humans in innumerable small - but not insignificant - ways. 

"It's just.. peculiar. My Castiel―" 

"―Your Castiel?" The clothing, the mannerisms, the stories of their world all differentiate this Dean from the one Castiel knows. But it's still jarring to hear that, of all things, in Dean's voice; to be claimed, in a way. Not like ownership but familiarity; intimacy. He's almost unwilling to let their conversation progress until this Dean clarifies what he meant. 

"Uhm," the other Dean clears his throat at what Castiel knows is his own visible confusion. "There was an Angel, in our universe, also named Castiel, but.." he looks away; at the floor, the wall, the microwave and it's container of soup. "We never met." Castiel waits, watching him as he watches the soup, until he says, quiet, "Not in the mortal realm, at least. He was.. out of my reach―quite literally―but.. he saved me, once. He watched over me.. And I would pray to him, now and then. Talk to him. Thank him.. Ask him how things were in the divine realm," he chuckles softly, ducking his head. 

"Did he.. respond?" Castiel keeps his voice equally quiet, suddenly eager to know as much as he can about this other Castiel and his relationship with this Dean. 

"In a way. Not with words, but he would.. visit me. In my dreams." 

Castiel has many questions, but the other Dean pushes on. 

"I was just wondering if you knew what happens to them. To Angels." He glances up at Castiel. "Where do you go?"

"Go? You mean..?" 

"I don't know what happened, exactly, but a few years ago the dream-visits stopped. And now, with our world gone, I just.." He lets go a sigh, shoulders drooping on the exhale. "You being an Angel, I hoped you might have a real answer. One way or another." His eyes are sad, his soul less luminous, for a moment, and it's achingly familiar; it's the presence of loss, deep in one's being. Castiel deplores the sight of it, the all too familiar pull of it. 

He wishes he knew the answer, if only because for certain things not knowing is worse than knowing, even if the outcome is not what one hoped for. It's a cruel reality, living with false hope. But, when there is no certainty, one cannot assume there is no hope. 

"Your world may have been vastly different to ours, in many ways―including your Angels, for all I know. But if there's one thing I've learned in my time here, in this world, it's that nothing is really impossible. You being here, now, proves that, I think." 

The other world's Dean brightens some, his soul noticeably less pained, however slight the change may be. The persistence of sadness dulls it in ripples, but sparks of hope shoot through the shadows. "Thankyou." His smile is less tentative as he turns to take his leave. 

The timer beeps, but before Castiel can retrieve a bowl from the cupboard the other world's Dean speaks up again. 

"He's lucky to have you." Castiel stills, glancing toward the doorway, seeing only earnestness in this Dean's face and soul just as he hears it carry through his voice. "I hope he knows that." With a small wave he disappears into the corridor, leaving Castiel to ponder on that sentiment, wondering whether the distance that his relationship with Dean has come in all these years is as far as it will ever go.  

 *  *  *

 It's instinctual. 

It's been a long time coming, and Dean feared maybe it never would, that Jack might never be himself again, but it's him. It's their kid, sitting hunched over and alone, tears of remorse flooding his voice and spilling down his cheeks. 

Dean's arms are wrapped around him, gathering him into a hug before he even registers his feet having moved. He tightens the embrace as Jack's chest jumps with hiccups, his hands grasping at Dean's shirt, tears soaking through the layers of cotton and warming his skin in a way that tears shouldn't; but this is Jack. 

As much as Dean can tell Jack's hurting right now, he also knows this is a good thing. The same way he knows it was a good thing when Sam got his soul back, and when Cas was freed of the Leviathan, and when Dean himself was rid of the Mark of Cain. 

They all have baggage. They've all done bad things they can't undo, and it hurts. But none of them were themselves when those things went down. And he's so tired of being angry, tired of defaulting to hatred, tired of not being able to change things for the better, to undo what's been done. 

But this right here―? This kid, pained and crying into his chest, snot and all―? It's a win. 

Sam sits on Jack's other side, rubbing his shoulder and back, letting him know he's there for him, too. They all are. Jack gravitates to him after a little while, leaning into his side as Sam pulls him near. Cas sits opposite them at the little wooden table, their family huddled together in the residual warmth of the kitchen, each of them silently reeling from the events of the day. 

They're one step closer to defeating Chuck, according to Billie, but for once it didn't cost them anything; instead of losing something, they gained something, someone. 

Dean catches Cas' eye across the table, presses his leg up against his where no-one can see. He smiles a tired, hopeful thing, wishing he was dumb enough or daring enough to reach across the scant space between them and take one of Cas' hand in his where they rest folded in front of him. 

Cas returns his smile, looking just as tired, just as hopeful, his leg pressing against Dean's under the table, and it feels like an answer to a question Dean still doesn't know how to ask. 

 *  *  *

 At a rest-stop by the Kansas state line bordering Oklahoma, while his brother fusses with a paper map and wonders aloud why on Earth this world's Winchesters don't have a dedicated GPS for each of their procured vehicles, Dean takes a moment outside of the car.

Under the fading stars as dawn approaches, prayer beads held in his hand instead of adorning it, he voices an invocation; murmured between his lips, held close to his heart, sent out into the universe―to every universe―impelled by his soul. 

Just one word, born of and survived by hope. 

A name. 

.. Castiel ..

[found--family]

once you get the 39k fanfics, can you reblog them here?

ohhh yes 🙏 I'll be on the look out for Destiel Purgaytory 2.0 (15x08 coda) fics from now until forever 15x09 airs! 😘📚 I'll be sure to reblog any that cross my path 💚💙