#kelpeigh

GAHJGA I KNOW, RIGHT? bless this mess. he really didn't have to make his own life so hard, and yet, here he is.

I kinda-sorta-not-really sideways touched on this general topic of Danny's cover name in a fic I've been noodling with since November. Just for fun, here's the relevant bit:

“Phantom!”

It was Sam in the doorway, which was both a relief and a horror all at once. Danny winced a smile, unsubtly checking for any nosy partygoers that might’ve overheard Sam’s unfortunately overenthusiastic habit of using… that name in public.

He managed to relax into a real smile when he realized she was the only one in the foyer. “It’s Danien,” he corrected weakly. Every time he had to, it felt like a shard of glass in his throat. “Or, actually, even Danny at this point. Like, uh. My real name.”

“We only have one living Danny in town, and everybody knows who he is. Same goes for the unliving one.” Sam was rolling her eyes, but she was still grinning. Danny’s second wince went unnoticed. “How long have you been out here? I almost didn’t believe Tuck when he said he saw you lurking.”

gloria mundi: deancas, 4.5k, not rated, 13x01-13x06, based on an early draft of the 13x06 script where we find out Dean saved Cas’ ashes and spread them in a meadow

Dean's never been good at that—at surrendering. Letting go. Giving up. But he knows what an angel blade through the chest means, had watched the light burst from Cas' eyes and nose and mouth. He'd knelt by Cas' body until sunrise, held his hand until it went cold and stiff.

This is it.

"Well, goodbye, Cas," he says woodenly. "Goodbye, Kelly. Goodbye, Crowley." He takes a breath that smells like split wood and gasoline. "Goodbye, Mom."

"Dean, we don't know if Mom—"

"Yeah, we do," Dean insists. "We do, Sam. Lucifer killed her. The moment he realized we trapped his ass, he killed her. You know he did."

Sam swallows hard and looks away.

"She's gone," Dean continues, clenching his fists until his bruised knuckles sting. "They're all gone."

He sparks the lighter and tosses it on the pyre.

haha OH NO, I can see it. though, I've never watched much (if any) Hannah Montana so I can't say more than like, yeah, on the surface level, conceptually.,.,., man it's all there. time is a circle

hold your heart into this darkness: deancas, 15x03 coda, 3K, use of alcohol as a coping mechanism.

Warmth uncurls under Dean's ribs, the same warmth he's carried around for the last ten years. He knows what it is. He just doesn't know if it's his.

"You and Sam have each other. I think it's time for me to move on."

Dean doesn't say don’t.

He doesn't say wait.

He doesn't say anything at all.

+

It feels like a razor cut, so thin and sharp that it doesn't really hurt until Dean starts poking at it, doesn't bleed until he looks at the empty spaces in the bunker, at all the places Cas carved out for himself over the years. A pile of books in the library; a jar of peanut butter in the kitchen, a coffee mug with a triangular chip in its handle, a ballpoint pen from a motor court in Cheyenne.

A bedroom across the hall from Dean’s, rarely used. The air inside is cold and stale, and a thin layer of dust is covering the dresser and desk.

Gone.

Gone.

Dean sucks in a breath, shuts the door so hard it rattles in its frame.

+

"You're an idiot," Sam says.

The library's lights are low; Dean's nine hours into a bottle of Jim Beam. He pours himself another shot and grunts, "And?"

"And—" Sam huffs and runs his hands through his hair. "I can't believe you just let him leave."

"Let him," Dean mutters. "Let him. Nobody lets Cas do anything. He just—he just—" He cuts off and puts the shot glass to his mouth, drains it after adding, "Dumb sonofabitch just does whatever the hell he wants."

"Right, and you had nothing to do with it."

Dean shrugs, smears a droplet of bourbon across the table with the pad of his thumb.

"He tell you where he's going?"

"I didn't ask."

Sam makes a rough, irritated noise. "Dean, come on."

Dean's chest aches. He says, "Fuck off," and reaches for the bottle.

like a river to a stream: deancas, 1.5k, coda for 15x01.

Belphegor snorts. "C'mon." He tips his head back a little, enough to flash the scorch marks under his sunglasses. "I told you, I read the papers. You guys are legendary, with all the fighting and brainwashing and rebelling." He makes a slow, thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. "I heard you really threw a tantrum when Lucifer was possessing him."

"Nice digs," Belphegor says, dragging a hand down the banister. "I mean, it's not Hell or anything, but—" He glances around the war room and whistles through his teeth. "Wow."

Dean shoulders past him and tosses his bag on the map table. Now that his adrenaline's crashing, he—fuck. Fuck.

"I don’t know what I expected," Belphegor continues. The twist to his mouth is so Jack that Dean feels it right between the ribs. "I always thought hunters lived in weird, smelly vans. But, hey—" He spreads his hands like a gameshow host. "You guys are the Winchesters, am I right?"

Dean strips off his jacket and heads for the scotch.

Belphegor just follows him into the library. He says, "Not that I know anything about living spaces. When I was human, we'd just figured out how to use caves as shelter."

Dean knocks his shot back so fast that scotch slops down his chin. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve and barks, "Shut up, alright? Just—sit down." He kicks the closest chair away from the table and pours himself another drink. "Sit your ass down and—"

"Shut up?"

"Yeah."

Not Exactly Retirement: stevebucky, 9.9K, adult, Endgame fix-it.

Three seconds. Four seconds. Five seconds. Six.

Steve comes back through the portal with the shield in his hand and a sad, strange look on his face. Jaw set, mouth tight. He hasn't aged a day.

The tension in Bucky's shoulders ebbs out in a rush. He pulls Steve in for a hug, sinks his real hand into Steve's hair like he's always wanted.

"Punk," he whispers, his mouth too close to Steve's ear. He'd been so sure. "You're late."