The Impala is the only place that Dean still feels the same.
He’s always been hyper-aware of the engine’s every tick and rumble, having grown up and lived in that car, tinkered and fine-tuned until sometimes he feels like he knows its body and its inner workings better than he knows his own – and so even when he is now a little more sensitive to basic human things like hearing and touch, he can pretend it’s the way it’s always been.
He tilts the rear-view mirror so that he can’t see black eyes when he checks the road behind, and it’s almost like nothing has changed.
Things have changed.
It’s a tragedy, from the human perspective.
Cosmically speaking, the angels consider it the worst mistake ever made, and they have Lucifer as a point of reference.
You wonder what Dean would call it—eyes crinkling, mouth turning up from one corner as he laughs it off, because that’s what he does with tragedies. You wonder, as you consider the dawn breaking from one end of the earth, and he sleeps, or wakes, or eats on the other. You could ask. But what are the right words to form the starting question? Inept as you are with his customs—and they are countless as there are stars. So you stare, digging under skin for answers. They’re written across his soul, but the language is human, murky.
Though you’ve learned new words through him, the story is old. You’d been created knowing, bearing them within your epicenter like a mission statement, a pendulum or magnet, waiting eons for them to pull you to his gravity. Whatever it was meant to be, you’re responsible for the revision. And you know to the minute, to that divided millisecond, or nano-space in time when all things already ingrained in you seemed to magnify, when it changed-for better and worse. The story rewritten because he’s asked it of you.
Still, it has always started a tragedy.
You could lie. You could say rushing to his rescue, he’d been a beacon; unmitigated and bright—that he’d been beautiful from the beginning. Romantic, but untrue. He’d screamed profanities at the sight of you, touching down in his little corner of Hell; shunning your grace and all that it represented from the start. You had to pry him from the rack, hands still fisted in his last victim and he’d been terrible to consider; this patchwork soul working on thirty years of self hate, an additional ten learning how to weaponize it. You touched him out of duty, reached into the fetid charred thing he’d become, hoping to stoke the embers of himself, hoping forty years of Hell hadn’t burned out all that he was. And there you left your mark.
The next part is hilarious.
The branding went both ways. A filigree of doubt entered through your grace in place of the crack you already had in your chassis. No matter how many times you tell him you were broken long before he came along, he takes the blame for it anyway. That has always been his tragedy.
Dean Winchester is saved. It had been a premature declaration, breaking through Perdition to the surface with his incriminating weight.
Ultimately, you realize the failure of your mission—the futility. Because you hadn’t saved him at all. It doesn’t stop you from trying. You do it with lies, with deals, with shifting minds to broken things. You called yourself God, and then fell by the wayside with skidded knees. He calls you back to your senses by putting himself and all he loves in danger—and then speaks of choice. Angry, stupid, foolish, headstrong, Dean.
Dean who follows, when he should leave. Dean who prays with disbelief, and begs with fists and rage. Dean who asks you to stay with need, and tells you to go in the same breath.
All these things bind you together like a tragedy. But to the marrow of your bones, to the fire drawn from his eyes as you look into him like the first or the last, you know it for one thing.
From beginning to end, you’ll call the story love.
:inspired by this
Castiel goes to hell. Dean gets Sam, and a much more human Cas back in return. It looks great on paper, except for the part where Meg is involved. Sam won’t let it rest, Cas won’t spill what deal he made. Dean wanted to not think about it. It thought about him.
Warnings: some incestuous undertones, dubcon/noncon, momentary domestic violence/abuse
Word Count: ~14.5k
For that instant, you were back in time: you were a shield again, nothing but that, something you could place between him and death. In you was the might and will you used to wield so effortlessly, in the flexing of your fingertips. You were powerless flesh, but you forgot it. You forgot everything.
Word Count: 3023
Castiel and the Winchesters find themselves in a rut, searching for clues as to where Gadreel and Metatron could be hiding out. Thankfully, Cas still has some informants up his sleeve, one of which happens to be the lead cherub. Although Cas and Sam don’t walk away with much information, Dean walks away with more than he’d bargained for.
Magical items and ancient books of lore are dangerous things and only should be handled with the utmost of care - especially when the magical item once belonged to an archangel. What you’re looking for isn’t always what you find. S5, set between “Free To Be You And Me” and “Dark Side Of The Moon.”