"I'm cold, Dean." "Whatcha mean you're cold, Cas? You're an angel. Angels don't get cold." The Empty gave Castiel a night of fitful, dreamless sleep. For Dean Winchester, it was almost three and a half years. ---- This is *NOT* a sickfic!
hey tumblr ppl :3 i realised that maybe i should try letting folks know about my fanfic on social media, so here i am!! dead reckoning’s main themes are change & growth -- castiel (eventually) returns from the empty and has to navigate a group of people who have changed over the past 3.5 years. for cas, it’s barely been 24 hours since he was sucked into the empty, and when he returns, his body is dysregulated
i’m physically disabled myself, so i can assure u this isn’t a gross inspiration porn fanfic, nor is it a “woe is me my life is over” experience!!!!!
i’m posting chapter by chapter (just posted chapter 3, not including the prologue!!), so please feel free to come along for the ride!! :3c here’s a sneak peek :
Dean lumbered down the hall, largely unconcerned with the strange noise until the banging came again, but louder, heavier. He switched gears into a tried and true 'Dad-run' as he muttered, "Dumbass kids better not hit the gas tank...!" He hustled downstairs, thankful for the streak of rough carpet that had saved him from about a hundred slip-and-falls since he moved here, then smoothly glided over the torn, off-colour linoleum and through the bare kitchen doorway. Blindly, he slapped the kitchen's light switch and squinted at his reflection in the back door, trying to see past himself into the early-morning darkness. A whip of soil struck the kitchen window. "Woah, woah!" Dean shouted as he took cover behind the pans cupboard, raising his pistol at the back door. "Hey! Hands up or scram, douchebag, 'cus I'm comin' out an' I'm armed!" He paused, listening for running, chatting — hell, even a fucking Tiktok sound. Instead, he heard the sudden shattering of glass. Thin, tinkling. Hollow. Not a bottle. A jug, maybe... Or.. Claire's memorial lantern.
Castiel. A year ago, he might have felt something other than dread or panic as he hurled himself to the door, feet clumsy underneath him. A year ago, there might have been hope: what if he threw open that door and that angelic son of a bitch was standing there, halo of fine rain glowing around him, clothes artfully muddy, and that Spock-like eyebrow cocked? What if, what if, what if. A waste of precious fucking time, and thankfully, Castiel's return hadn't crossed his mind before he opened that back door. It was a scene of violent nonsense. The guts of Castiel's memorial grave were dripping down the walls of his house, splattered against the stucco and caked into the swirls and bumps. All that sun-browned topsoil, shucked away like tissue paper and blown apart like it was a Goddamn war zone. Flower bulbs with new, delicate shoots, fragile as baby hairs, were ripped clean from the earth and strewn across the soil-sprayed lawn. The decorations, the painted rocks, the commemorative plaques that had sat between perennials and wild grasses and every fucking memory and feeling poured into this patch of earth — gone.
