Okay, So I Really Thought About It (and Couldn't Help But Add A Tiny Little Bit Of Angst) And I Like

DAY 10: Did It Hurt When You Fell From Heaven? (Like A Bitch)

Castiel is learning to be human. It hurts. In more ways than one.

Why is Castiel so hard to write? I have a lot to say about him and his character but he's so self-unaware that it's impossible to write. I love him but he's very frustrating. Fandom: Supernatural Character(s): Castiel Words Count: 1,317 Triggers Warnings: - Glaring Self-Esteem Issues - Minor Blood and Injuries (at the end) No. 10: BLOW TO THE HEAD Slurred Words | Passing Out from Pain | "I can't think straight."

The cashier sighed heavily and Castiel looked up long enough to offer a small, embarrassed smile before continuing to count the coins in his hand. The credit card Dean had given him had stopped working and was requiring Castiel to enter the PIN. But Castiel didn’t know the PIN, it was written on a post-it note and hidden in a book in his locker. He hadn’t had to enter the PIN in the few weeks since he’d left the Bunker and had simply used the “contactless payment” but now the “contactless payment” wasn’t working.

Embarrassed, Castiel set the money down in front of the cashier, the coins falling from his open hands like a waterfall and clanging against the metal counter. Behind him, the line continued to grow as the supermarket’s customers grew impatient in hushed tones.

“Is that enough?” Castiel asked.

“Dude, seriously?” complained the cashier.

With a glare, the cashier began counting the coins, much faster than Castiel could have. He was an angel (not anymore) , he had been an angel with all the knowledge of the world, past and present, but he couldn’t count a few coins.

Being human was much harder than he could have imagined. The world was both brighter and dimmer than it had been. He no longer heard the prayers of Humanity but heard the birds singing when dawn broke; he no longer saw the invisible forces of this world but saw animals forming in the clouds.

He also had to sleep and eat and wash and relieve himself and it never ended. It was exhausting .

The experience gave him a whole new appreciation for humanity—for Dean and Sam.

(Castiel didn’t know if he could do it.)

(Castiel didn’t know if he wanted to do it.)

A feminine hand rested gently on his shoulder and Castiel resisted the urge to fight or flee as his skin quivered from his shoulder to his heart (a blade cutting into his flesh, the buzz of a drill approaching his eye, the cracking of his bones under a punch) . Castiel calmed his pounding heart and turned, staring into deep green eyes.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” the stranger smiled. “Do you need help?”

“Oh no, it’s fine—”

“There’s not enough,” the cashier cut in impatiently. “Twenty dollars short.”

Humans only had two eyes, but Castiel could feel the weight of dozens of eyes on him, as heavy and terrible as the forces of Heaven. Castiel didn’t know until then that he could be embarrassed.

“Oh, I’ll go put some items back in then,” Castiel replied.

“I can take care of the difference,” the stranger intervened behind him.

Castiel didn’t have the chance to refuse, the cashier practically snatched the bill from the stranger’s hands and signaled Castiel to make room for the next customer. Castiel put his groceries in his bag and waited for the stranger, wanting to thank her and reimburse her.

“Thank you for your generosity, I can reimburse you if you so wish,” Castiel offered.

“It won't be necessary,” the stranger replied kindly. “You needed help and I was able to give it to you.  A little help and kindness can go a long way.”

(Castiel couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t had blood—that of his enemies and that of his friends —on his hands.)

(Castiel couldn’t remember a time when he’d been kind .)

“But if you want, you can help me carry my groceries to my car. I hurt my wrist last week,” the stranger explained. “My girlfriend’s going to scold me again for moving heavy loads.”

“Of course,” Castiel replied, carefully taking the bags from the stranger’s hands.

“Thank you very much,” the stranger smiled. “My name is Claire, I’d shake your hand, but it looks like your hands are full.”

“Steve, nice to meet you,” Castiel said, his throat tightening inexplicably.

But the hardest thing about his new humanity was the guilt , the memory of all the people he’d hurt. How did humans function when they felt so much? On the best days, Castiel felt like he was going to shatter under the weight of his emotions.

“Are you new around here?” Claire asked. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

“It’s only temporary,” Castiel replied, knowing he was lying to himself.

(A part of him hoped Dean would change his mind, that he could go back to the Winchesters. But now that he was no longer an angel, he was nothing more than a burden, someone they had to protect and who would slow them down.)

(He didn't want to cause them any more trouble than he already had.)

(Dean had already been kind enough to give him enough money for the first few months.)

"I hope you like it here then," Claire said pleasantly, opening the trunk of her car. "It's a quiet but nice town."

"Thanks," Castiel replied, putting the groceries in Claire's car. "Have a pleasant day."

"You too Steve,” Claire returned the sentiment. “It was nice meeting you."

Castiel greeted Claire and left the parking lot towards the gas station. He still had time before his shift but he didn't want to be late. This job was the last thing he had in addition to being his place to live. He couldn't afford to lose it.

The sun was warm against his skin and a cat was lounging on the hot tarmac outside the supermarket. Castiel crouched down to pet it, a small smile forming on his face. The cat was grumpy, not appreciative of being woken up, and its scowl reminded him of Dean. Castiel pulled out his phone to send Dean a picture but changed his mind at the last moment. He didn’t want to bother him.

(He didn’t want to know if Dean would answer him or not. Probably because he already knew the answer.)

Castiel straightened up, the heel of his shoe digging into his damaged skin. Even walking hurted and Castiel didn’t want to spend too much money on bandages to cover his blisters. He just hoped he hadn’t bled through his socks again. He couldn’t vanish the blood off his clothes with a wave of his hand anymore. 

(Humans were so fragile. Castiel wondered how they didn't die immediately.)

“Have a pleasant day,” Castiel said to the cat who curled up to resume its nap.

Castiel continued on his way, quickening his pace, and more than ever missed his wings. Not necessarily because he could cross the globe in a second if he wanted to—although that was very convenient—but because he couldn’t remember the last time he had flown just because he could.

(His wings had been clipped—by Heaven, by the Winchesters , by himself—long before his Fall.)

(His feet had not left the ground these days, not even in his dreams.)

(He had only himself to blame.)

.

He wasn’t the only one who thought that.

A sharp pain spread through his skull as a metal bar came down hard on the back of his head. Ears ringing in shock, Castiel dropped his groceries, his carton of tomato soup exploding as it hit the ground.

Castiel staggered, leaning on the wall to keep himself from falling. His head spun uncontrollably around him. He felt like he was falling off a building. But no one was there to catch him.

A warm liquid flowed from the back of his head to the back of his neck, his blood pulsing mercilessly in his temples. Silent tears ran down his cheeks as he fought back vomiting from the pain.

He couldn’t hear anything, he couldn’t see anything.

The pain clouded his vision, turning the world into a series of blurry, indistinct shapes. Every sound seemed distorted, like a distant echo, as terror began to overtake the pain.

Green eyes glowing menacingly were the last thing Castiel saw before he lost consciousness.

Dean.

Fun fact, the story with the credit card at the beginning happened to me when I was eighteen and got my first credit card (the part where I forget my PIN after only using contactless payment for weeks, not the part where someone pays for my groceries). So Castiel is going to experience my embarrassment too. Poor Castiel, he discovers that being human sucks. You have to sleep and eat and even worse you Feel Emotions. And that's not the worst thing that will happen to him later. Speaking of later, I have ideas in mind but given the number of stories I have to write, I think I'll only write it if you're interested. (Or in several months but it's not sure.) Let me know what you think.

I'm in my Parent Benn Beckman Feels Era right now, so expect a fic in the next few days with lots of fluff and also lots of angst because I'm apparently incapable of writing anything else.

Luffy nodded, looking determined, and walked towards the sea, his bare feet leaving footprints in the sand behind him. Makino straightened up, clasping her hands under her chin and watching him go with a smile on her face. She looked immeasurably proud of him, a sort of parental pride reflected on his own face. Which was odd considering he had only known the kid for a few months.

But Luffy stopped a few meters from the sea, the waves lapping at his ankles making him take a step back. Beckman's eyebrows furrowed in incomprehension and even Shanks lost his stupid smile.

"What's going on, Anchor?" Shanks called, his hands cupped around his mouth to make his voice carry. "Are you afraid of the water?"

"No!" Luffy replied, his voice quivering.

Makino stepped forward but Beckman stopped her with a hand on her arm. He joined Luffy in a few strides, tossing his weapon to Shanks and leaving his shoes behind him in the sand before crouching down next to Luffy.

Beckman had never seen Luffy cry, or maybe he had never heard him cry.

Tears silently ran down Luffy's cheeks and Beckman's heart broke like it had never done before. Luffy was a happy, loud, radiant, sunny child—almost painfully so at times.

"Hey Luffy, what's wrong?" Beckman asked softly, running his hand down Luffy's back.

Beckman wasn't soft, he was a pirate and a criminal for even longer before he set sail. He had the blood of dozens of people on his hands—sinners and saints alike. And he didn't even like kids!

And yet, he was the one who had bought the t-shirt Luffy was wearing today, navy blue and white with an anchor on the back. He had spent entire afternoons coloring with Luffy in Makino's kitchen, building huts and pirate ships with him.

Beckman didn't like kids but somehow, Luffy became his kid. And that changed everything.

I Will Carry You On My Shoulders To The End Of The Road — PART III: DREAMS

"Beckman?" Luffy asked weakly, his voice stuck in his throat.

"I'm here, kid," Beckman replied, relief relaxing his entire body. "I'm here."

Luffy clutched at Beckman’s shirt, his shaking hand clenched into a fist around the fabric and refusing to let go. Tears pricked Luffy’s eyes and his lips trembled. “I didn’t cry, I promise.”

“I saw that,” Beckman smiled, closing his arm around Luffy, enveloping him in an embrace. “But you can cry if you want to, especially if it hurts.”

“Good,” Luffy said shakily, tears streaming down his cheeks freely, “because it really hurts.”

“I know, you were very brave. How about we go back to Makino now?” Beckman asked, gently running his hand over Luffy’s back. “She’s very worried about you.”

Luffy nodded wordlessly and Beckman helped him onto his back, his head immediately coming to rest on his shoulder. Beckman set off, his stride long and steady, as Luffy wrapped his hands around his neck to keep from falling. The breeze blew gently, turning the large blades of the windmills along the path to the village.

In the distance, the sun disappeared behind the ocean horizon in a green flash, the moon already rising to take its place. For a moment, only the sound of Beckman's footsteps and Luffy's occasional sniffles broke the natural stillness of the night, a comfortable silence stretching between them. Luffy was not a silent child by any means but to those who knew how to listen, his silence spoke as much as his words.

Luffy leaned against Beckman, exhaustion seeping heavily into his bones and Beckman let him. The rock the waves came to rest on.

“Shanks is stupid,” Luffy finally said, his voice muffled by Beckman’s shirt.

Beckman chuckled, the vibrations of his laughter making Luffy laugh as well, albeit faintly. Well, it was a start. 

“Nothing new here. But you know he cares a lot about you, right?”

Beckman felt Luffy nod, and even without seeing him, he could imagine Luffy puffing his cheeks in protest.

“It’s a lot of work being the captain,” Beckman continued. “So if you can, you should forgive Shanks for being stupid sometimes.”

“Why doesn’t he want me to come with you guys?” Luffy protested in a whiny voice. “I know I can’t swim, but I’ve been learning how to fight.”

Beckman hesitated for a moment, weighing his words in his head. Luffy, through his kid’s eyes, only saw the childish stubbornness that Shanks projected. And he was right in a way, but Beckman was the one who had found Shanks after Loguetown. He knew his captain.

But Beckman had been Shanks' protector for almost a decade, and that included his secrets. It was up to Shanks to decide what he shared with whom he wanted.

"Captain has his reasons," Beckman said instead. "And maybe he'll explain them to you one day, but for now, try to tell yourself that he wants the best for you."

"It's not easy when he spends his time making fun of me," Luffy retorted petulantly, before repeating. "Shanks is stupid."

"You'll just have to show him what he's missing by becoming a better captain than him when you grow up," Beckman replied amused.

They finally reached the first houses on the edge of the village and Beckman saw Makino in the distance, sitting on the steps of the bar, waiting for them to return. Shanks was with her, his arm around her shoulders, and looked up as he felt them coming.

"I'm going to!" Luffy declared loudly, straightening up and almost falling. "I'm going to become the Pirate King!"

"That's the spirit," Beckman complimented him.

You'll Need It More Than Me (She'll Need You More Than Me)

A little something inspired by the fifth headcanon because I couldn't help myself. Love me some tragic sibling relationships.

The sense of déjà vu tasted like ash and ozone in her mouth as Athena watched Hephaestus get banished from Olympus like she had been before him. Everything was the same as last time, down to the last word spoken by the God-King. Except for the tears silently streaming down Hera's cheeks.

This time, the Queen of the Gods was devastated to see her true child leave — flesh of her flesh, blood of her blood. Athena knew that if she could, Hera would offer her own life for Hephaestus’. But goddesses could not die, Hera could not move from her place beside Zeus' throne and this was perhaps the cruelest of punishments.

(Athena would do it too, take Hephaestus' place so he could stay by Hera's side. As a family. It wasn't like there was a place for her anymore.)

Ares' rage beside her seeping into the white marble like poison made her lose her mind, made her want to take that step forward and save Hephaestus from his fate. Or maybe it wasn't Ares, maybe it was all her.

A look from Hera, full of sorrow and anger, made Athena stop in her tracks. Obviously Hera did not want her help, did not need her. Athena's eyes sharpened beneath her helmet and she placed a hand on Ares' arm to stop him from doing something even more foolishly reckless than her.

Hephaestus looked so small in Zeus' shadow, scared and fragile. Almost human. Has she ever looked this small? Not in daylight anyway.

(She had never had the opportunity to be an infant.)

(But it wasn't about her. It was never about her.)

Zeus tore Hephaestus from Hera's arms and for a moment Athena's blood froze in her veins as she thought Zeus was going to yeet him from the mountain. She took an instinctive step forward.

“I’ll do it,” All eyes turned to Athena — Zeus's savage satisfaction, Hera's cutting disappointment, and Ares's corrosive disdain — but she composed herself, keeping her head high.  “I shall take him to the mortals.”

If there had been hope between Hera and her before, it was over. Not when Athena was the hand that snatched her true child away. 

Zeus smiled. “Great idea, child-of-my-mind. Come dispose of him.”

Athena stepped forward toward Zeus and he dropped the infant into his arms without warning. She made her forearm guards disappear before he could collide with the rough metal, cradling Hephaestus as gently as possible. She felt more awkward than a newborn fawn, all sharp elbows and violent hands. 

Without a backward glance, Athena left the throne room, her wings spreading behind her as she took flight.

.

.

.

Finding a mortal family she trusted to care for Hera's son, her brother, was surprisingly not the hardest part. Parting with him was. It felt like she was tearing her chest open and ripping out her own lung. As a goddess, she didn't need to, but it hurt to breathe all the same. 

She landed in a forest, away from men and gods, and carefully brushed Hephaestus' cheek. Hephaestus grabbed her finger and babbled, so happy that Athena's heart could burst with joy.

“I'm sorry you won't know your mother,” Athena apologized softly. “She… she’s wonderful. And you deserved to know her. I'm so sorry, Heph.”

Tears fell down Hephaestus' cheek and he looked up at her with big, round eyes, full of innocence, empty of judgment. It wasn't fair that Hephaestus had to grow up without his mother. Not when Athena knew how incredible it could be.

But maybe he didn't have to. 

Hera had once promised her that she would be loved forever, perhaps Athena could pass on that promise even if it no longer applied to her. Summoning to her the necklace Hera had given her centuries ago — hidden in a pocket dimension, never on her person, never too far away — she placed it around Hephaestus' neck.

She smiled in spite of herself when she saw the iridescent colors of the little metallic peacock. She had truly trusted Hera and her promise at that time, and the necklace had continued to bring her comfort long after the rift between them had widened. 

“I hope you have a happy life,” Athena whispered as she kissed the infant's forehead. "Remember that you are so, so loved. More than you will ever know.”

When Athena left, Hephaestus clutched in his hand a peacock necklace and an owl feather.

Some Slipping through my Fingers headcanons (is it a hc if it's my story? Wouldn't lore be more accurate? Does it matter?):

Athena's first crafting-related hobby was embroidery from when Hera gave her an old project to occupy her with way back. She always kept that hobby, but she's switched to weaving more since she has her official domain to distance herself from her childhood.

Athena and Ares spent a pretty long period living in a palace with their parents before Hephaestus built their own palaces. Little Ares had a proper "Do you want to build a snowman?" phase with his older sister. Athena may or may not have soundproved her door for a while against his knocking (Mean, mean owl. XD Also peak sibling behavior)

Athena refused to settle down in Lake Tritonis for the longest time. She held onto hope that she'd be taken back to Olympus soon. She started training hard to be good enough to be allowed back, and feels extra guilty because Pallas' death gave her exactly that, though only once she didn't want it anymore.

Athena is actually not Zeus' eldest daughter, she's just the oldest he claimed. Persephone was born very very soon after the Titanomachy. (teen pregnancy go brr) and neither he nor Demeter like to talk about it.

Hephaestus has a necklace with a peacock pendant that Athena left with him when she brought him to mortal family to raise. It was the same pendant Hera gave her when she was younger to remind her she was always loved.

Aphrodite was washed up on the shore near Olympus in a shell a lá Birth of Venus. Nobody knows exactly how she ended up in the sea, not even herself.

Ares likes the smell of  olives but not the taste. (Yes he gives them to Athena)

Hera's animal form is a white peafowl (wedding dress birb fr), not a "common" female peacock. She does keep the peacock color scheme for herself tho cos it's pretty.

Post-Triton Athena only very rarely goes completely armorless outside of sleeping. That doesn't mean she always wears a full set, but she does mostly wear something on her torso at least. Something non-metal like leather would already be considered casual. 

Athena called Metis "Mama", so she would never consciously call anyone else that, even when she was younger. She got to calling Hera "Mom" tho (Hera cried a little. All her kids, bio or adopted, call her Mom btw), post-Triton, Athena calls Hera by her name. She addresses Zeus by "father", but refers to him as Zeus when speaking about him. When she feels extra like hurting herself, she'll refer to Hera as "your mother" around her siblings.

Chat, what do we think? :)

Snippet Saturday !!

This is just an excuse to show you this new paragraph in my WIP that I'm so proud of. And if all goes well, you'll be able to see the full fic tomorrow ;)

"Three swords pierced his heart as he clung to Marco like a rock in the middle of the raging ocean, the grief he had been running from for nearly two years pouring over him like oil on a fire. He cried and cried, the cracks in his facade widening with each sob, pieces of him falling to the ground like a broken vase. He would have shattered if it weren’t for Marco’s arms around him to keep him whole — to keep him afloat."

Reblog if you stand against order, civilization, and goodness itself

I graduated therapy today, yohoo!

I need the people's opinion, tonight do I study or do I write something for Destiel Day?

There are days when someone comments on every chapter of your WIP and it's the only thing you can think about for a week.

And of course I love writing for myself, but when you give so much time and energy (and a little tears too), seeing someone take the time to leave not just one, but sometimes several comments, on each of my chapters, it gives me the boost to write that I sometimes lack.

So thank you to everyone who has already left a comment on each of my fanfics, whether it's a long comment with each of your favorite parts, a linear analysis that would have made my high school French teacher proud, a keyboard smash, a comment in all caps because lowercase letters can't convey the message properly, or a series of emojis.

I cherish every comment I've ever received and I smile like an idiot when I get an email from ao3. Thank you for sharing a little piece of what's going on in my head with me for a moment and loving it as much as I do. I kiss you all on the forehead with love and gratitude and I hope your pillow is cold on both sides tonight..

DAY 3: Did You Get Me Some Pie?

Dean is going to die, Sam doesn't know what to think about it.

I think this story is one of my favorites, it was just so interesting to write. It was also a bit complicated, I wanted Sam to have an asshole vibe at the beginning but I'm not sure I succeeded. I also know nothing about the American justice system and capital punishment, I tried to do some research but it wasn't very conclusive. A bit of context for this story, it takes place in the Lebanonverse (I think that's the name) where John disappears in 2003 to go to the future. As a result, Sam becomes Kale!Sam and Dean is, we don't really know, a criminal, a hunter? Trigger Warnings : - Discussion of Capital Punishment - Major Character Death - Heavy Angst (That Shit Is Sad As Fuck) - That's It? Fandom : Supernatural (TV 2005) Character(s) : Sam Winchester Relationship(s) : Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester Words Count : 3,624 No. 3: SET UP FOR FAILURE Fingerprints | Wrongfully Arrested | "I warned you."

And this is hard to hear – performing at your best requires all of your mental energy. Every last drop. You see, it’s just not compatible with something like, uh… hobbies or, uh – or even having a family.

Sam slammed the car door behind him hard, drops of water falling from his hair onto the leather seat. He gripped the steering wheel in his hands, exhaling loudly. The rain fell heavily outside, hitting the roof of his car in a steady melody. It reminded him of nights on the road in the Impala, Dean humming in harmony with the rain, lulling him to sleep.

Back then, he felt like nothing and no one could touch him as long as he was with his family. Now, Sam knew it was his family that brought danger. It had been over fifteen years since Sam had last spoken to Dean, since he had refused to go with him to search for John. They didn’t even share the same last name anymore.

(It wouldn’t have been great publicity for a renowned lawyer like him to have such an obvious connection to a wanted criminal.)

Sam tugged at his turtleneck uncomfortably, pushing all nostalgic thoughts from his mind. Leaving Dean and John behind had been the right decision. Every wanted poster plastered with the face of the man Sam had once called his brother reminded him of that. He could never have accomplished what he had done today, his family would have slowed him down, prevented him from succeeding.

Sam meant every word he said during his conventions, performance, the pleasure of a job well done, nothing was more important. Everything else was secondary. And Jess had once agreed with him.

That didn't mean it was easy . But all the sacrifices Sam had made to get to where he was in his life had been worth it. He had the life he had always wanted as a child, the recognition of his peers, the pursuit of knowledge, the stability of a job.

Sam had no regrets about the choices he had made.

Sam ran his hand through his damp hair, brushing it away from his face, and turned on the engine. The radio automatically started, and Sam froze as he heard the last words of the news bulletin.

“The death penalty has been handed down for serial killer Dean Winchester, known for the mass murder of a dozen FBI agents in Monument, Colorado–”

Sam didn't hear the radio host finish their sentence, the blood pounding in his ears drowning out their words. He couldn't have said Dean . Sam would have known if he had been arrested, the whole country would have known. Dean had terrorized the United States for years. And it shouldn't have affected Sam, because he didn't know this Dean Winchester. He wasn't the same person who took care of him and protected him from monsters in the dark.

Really, he had no reason to change his perfectly established routine for a stranger, a criminal .

Dean and Sam Winchester didn’t know each other anymore.

Sam turned off the radio, the silence more brutal than he could have imagined. Sam was used to silence when the day ended, even welcoming it. It was synonymous with efficiency, tranquility, and security. He turned the radio back on, selecting a classical music program.

Starting the windshield wipers, Sam headed for his apartment.

Arriving home, Sam did something he hadn’t done since his divorce from Jess a few years ago. He pulled out a bottle of wine that a client had given him and poured himself a large glass. If anyone asked, he’d blame Dean. He sat on his couch, ignoring the urgent files waiting for him on his desk. If he was entitled to a night off, it was tonight.

Even after years, Dean was disrupting the life he had created for himself. Sam had fought so hard to get away from his family, but he felt like he could never completely escape them. But he had been right to do so. Where would he be if he had followed Dean? Probably in a nearby cell, also waiting to be executed.

In the distance, he could picture Dean behind bars—the one from the wanted posters, not the one from his childhood—his face blurred like an ancient memory, covered in scars, with a sharp smile and a glint of madness  in his eyes. Sam never could imagine himself being by his side. Whether they were face to face or thousands of miles away, those bars always separated them.

And now, they were going to be separated forever. Because Dean was going to die .

Logically, from the perspective of the frightened child who wanted to escape the monsters and his family and the monsters that were his family, this should have been a good thing. 

Sam wasn’t so sure.

Could he let Dean die? Could he let Dean live ?

Dean was a killer.

Years ago, Sam could have assuredly said that what Dean, John, and he were doing was a good thing. Now, he no longer saw the brother he had loved in the hardened features of the man on television. And a part of him thought it was possible that Dean had lost his way so much that he had actually committed the crimes he was accused of.

Blood was blood, and Dean had never known when to stop while there was still time.

Sam got up, unable to stand still when his mind couldn’t seem to stop meandering, and stood in front of the clear window. Below, darkness stretched over the city, hiding monsters and those who hunted them. Droplets of rain trickled down the glass, distorting the red and white lights of the city traffic.

Under the moonlight, the wine swirling in his glass looked like blood. Sam had been a killer too. And Dean had once been the one to wash the blood off his hands with all the devotion of a brother. Sam finished his glass in one go, red staining his lips and teeth.

Ignoring the late hour, he called his assistant. “Cancel my appointments on Monday and Tuesday, I have a… family emergency.”

XXX

Getting a last-minute visit shouldn’t have been this easy, but it had been for him . His name was synonymous with power, not the kind John would have wanted, but powerful nonetheless. Sam was capable of changing things, of making the world a better place.

A car with tinted windows came to pick him up and escort him to the prison, and after a pat-down that Sam submitted to without issue, he was issued a visitor’s pass. He left his black umbrella in the hallway and tightened his tie.

(It had been Jess—not John or Dean—who had taught him how to tie his tie. They were still just friends at the time; she had found him in the bathroom at the university, panicking before a meeting with his advisor. Gently, she had taken his hands and tied the knot for him, patiently explaining each step.)

(Jess and he were no longer friends.)

Fiddling with the two rings on his left hand—both for people he had loved, both now obsolete—Sam followed a guard through the unknown but familiar hallways. This wasn’t the first time Sam had gone to a prison to visit a prisoner. It was the first time he went for a personal reason.

It was the first time he went without the intention of getting the person he was visiting released.

The guard glanced at him every now and then, his face hesitant as if he wanted to question Sam. Sam’s commanding gaze made him turn back each time. Sam encouraged curious and eager minds, but not tonight . Not on this subject.

(This part of his life – the darkest part – was his. (Dean’s. John’s.) And if he wanted to forget it, to consign it to the furthest part of his mind and never think about it again… that was his right.)

(There was still time to turn back.)

They stopped in front of an armoured door, accessible only with one of the keycards the guard held in his hand. Behind the door was an airlock and yet another door, one that Sam could open freely this time.

Behind it was Dean.

(There was still time to turn around.)

"At your request, your conversation will not be recorded," the guard recited. "However, given the prisoner's security level, we ask that you respect the security instructions you have been given. Do you need them repeated to you?"

(There was still time to turn around.)

"That won't be necessary," Sam replied.

"Very well," the guard said, unlocking the door. "You have one hour, knock if you want to get out before the time limit."

(There was still time to turn around.)

"Thank you," Sam said politely, crossing the threshold of the door.

The door slammed shut behind him. It was a step, maybe two, to the next door. Sam forced his body forward, his hand hesitating over the handle.

(There was still time to turn around.)

"It's a little late for a lawyer, don't you think?" Dean scoffed as Sam opened the door, not even looking at who was entering the room.

(There was still time to turn around.)

"Sammy?"

Dean’s green eyes locked on him, a whirlwind of emotion—overwhelming and vivid—that Sam didn’t dare comprehend. But above all, hope . Dean laughed hysterically at the sight of Sam, as mad as the media portrayed him, but Sam couldn’t ignore the relief in his voice.

(It was time.)

Sam closed the door behind him.

“Don’t call me Sammy.”

The defense mechanism was automatic—forgotten but never gone, like the silt of a pond rising to the surface after someone threw a rock in it—and only made Dean laugh harder.

“Oh man,” Dean sighed, happy tears welling in his eyes. “I didn’t expect this.”

Dean had wrinkles now, and scars too. Sam knew that, he had seen them in pictures, but he never thought that time could have an effect on Dean.

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Mr. Campbell ?" Dean asked when Sam remained silent. "For someone trying to run away from his family, you're pretty bad at it. I didn't take you for a sentimentalist."

As he always did, Dean struck first. He had never known how to leave Sam alone. Always reaching out to him, dragging him along, forcing him to move on.

"Death row inmates get one last meal," Sam replied, putting a white plastic bag on the table.

But Sam had never let himself be pushed around, had always hit back, blow for blow - just like Dean had taught him - and his favorite pastime had always been wiping the arrogant smile off Dean's face. 

Dean's face darkened at that, the shadows on his face harsh under the industrial light of the prison. Sam wondered if he'd made a mistake. This wasn't the Dean he knew, his big brother, this was a stranger who shared the same blood as him.

(Dean was a killer.)

“So what? You’re here to get me out of here?” Dean’s tone was sharp, like he’d never stopped fighting, like he didn’t know how. “Because I’m afraid it’s impossible, even for you, Sammy.”

“No,” Sam sighed, pulling the chair in front of Dean, the metal scraping against the floor with a shrill thud. “No. I just wanted to… It’s been a long time.”

Sam was a brilliant lawyer and orator. He wielded words the way he once wielded blades, coldly, precisely, never missing his mark. People feared and respected him.

In front of Dean, he was a scared little boy.

(Leaving had been the right choice.)

"Sixteen years," Dean retorted with just a hint of reproach in his voice. "I see you've done well. Lawyer, that suits you well."

"And what about you?" Sam asked, not knowing how to behave around his estranged brother.

"Still in the family business," Dean grinned roughly. " Someone needed to take care of it after Dad disappeared."

"You didn't find him?" Sam asked surprised.

If anyone could find John, it was Dean.

A second later, it hit him. John was probably dead. Sam waited for his heart to clench at the news, for a weight to lift from his shoulders, for a tear to roll down his cheek. Nothing happened.

John was dead. Sam wasn’t sad, or relieved, or angry.

“ Oh .”

“Yes, oh!” Dean bit out, the anger unmistakable in his voice this time.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said, his words sounding more like a question.

Dean sighed heavily, running his hand over his face, the immeasurable weight of the years seeming to fall on his shoulders mercilessly. For the first time since he had entered the room, Sam looked at Dean.

Dean had hunted alone for a long time, without someone to cover his back, and it showed. His face was covered in scars, some still fresh, red-purple and blistered. A cut peeked out of his t-shirt along his windpipe, bloody and raw, and bruises dotted his arms under the tattoos and burns.

He looked tired. He looked ready to fight.

"What are you doing here, Sammy?" Dean asked. "Have you come to absolve me of my crimes? Have you come to beg for forgiveness?"

"I… I don't know," Sam confessed. "I just wanted to see you one last time."

“It's a little late for this, don't you think?” Dean laughed cruelly. “But it's not like you had sixteen years to do it.”

“Dean, please–”

Some truths were universal: Sam Campbell always won in court. There were creatures from your worst nightmares lurking in the shadows. Dean Winchester would do anything for his little brother.

“Okay, Sammy,” Dean agreed. His tone was kind but rough, as if without Sam by his side he’d forgotten how to be. “One last time for the road. I hope you got me some pie!”

Sam’s eyes flashed almost gold with mirth, coming to life for the first time in years. “See for yourself,” he suggested mischievously, pushing the plastic bag toward Dean.

Dean laughed again, with joy for the first time, and oh how he’d missed that sound. If Sam could live in one moment forever, this would be it, Sam decided. His big brother excitedly ripping open the plastic to reveal a supermarket pie, his smile aligning with his facial features in harmony, as it always should have.

“This is awesome ,” Dean said. “I haven’t had pie in months.”

Dean grabbed one of the plastic forks, the chains of his handcuffs clicking loudly against the table, and took a comically gargantuan bite.

“As delicious as always,” Dean said through his mouth full. “Would you like some?”

“No thanks, it’s—” Sam cut himself off, ‘ it’s too much sugar’, so what? “You know what, why not?”

Sam grabbed the second plastic fork and cut off a more reasonable portion before bringing it to his mouth. It was sweet , disgustingly sweet. Sam could feel the cavities attacking his teeth. He took a second bite. 

It tasted like his childhood. Sam ignored the sting of tears in the corners of his eyes.

“I’m not brushing my teeth and I’m going to die tasting pie,” Dean exclaimed with conviction.

“What?”

Sam’s hand froze in mid-air. Dean’s eyes widened in surprise.

“I thought you knew. It’s today,” Dean said gently, like he used to talk to Sam when they were kids. Dean cleared his throat, forcing all emotion out of his voice. “Today is the day Dean Winchester dies. For real this time.”

Sam put his fork down on the table, a knot tightening painfully around his throat. He felt like he was going to throw up his heart. Sam knew Dean was going to die. But not now .

(He thought he still had time.)

“It’s too soon,” Sam said, unable to keep the whining tone from his voice.

“I’ve been incarcerated here for almost a year,” Dean said. “It was a long time coming. There’s not a person here who doesn’t want me dead.”

( Me ! Sam wanted to scream. I don’t want you to die. But his words stuck in his chest along with his bleeding heart.)

“Escape then!” Sam exclaimed, slapping the table with the flat of his hand. “You’re a hunter, we’re trained to get out of situations like this.”

“You think I didn’t try?” Dean retorted. “They won’t let me escape this time. I’ve had about ten tracers injected under my skin since I set foot here. But I guess that’s what you get when you blow up a police station.”

Sam’s blood froze painfully in his veins. For someone who had desperately clung to the certainty that Dean was a killer, he had forgotten it pathetically quickly.

(The eyes Dean looked at him with—bright green and more alive than Sam’s could ever be—were nothing like the man on the television. Sam didn’t know which ones were real.)

“But you didn’t do it, did you?” Sam asked.

“If even you doubt me,” Dean laughed bitterly, “how do you expect me to tell the people outside that it was Lilith, the first demon who was trying to free Lucifer?”

“What?”

Sam was repeating himself tonight. The situation was slipping out of his hands at breakneck speed, the rope burning his fingers as he tried to cling to it with no results.

“You’ve been gone a long time,” Dean replied sadly. “But I don’t want to talk about that. Tell me about your new life, about Jess.”

Sam forced a smile as he watched Dean wiggle his eyebrows suggestively.

“We got divorced a few years ago,” Sam replied, swallowing painfully.

(His vision was still blurry through the tears.)

“Oh, shit, I didn’t know. Sorry Sammy,” Dean apologized.

“That’s… You couldn’t have known,” Sam stumbled over his words in frustration, hiding his face in his hand. How could Dean apologize for something as ridiculous as his divorce? Dean was going to die .“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

(He thought they still had time.)

Sixteen years of hard work and sacrifice were crumbling like a precariously erected house of cards in less than an hour in his brother’s presence. How weak he was, the powerful lawyer.

“Sammy,” Dean said, reaching his chained hand across the table to rest on Sam’s. “Everything’s going to be okay. It should be easy for you, you don’t even love me anymore.”

Dean’s joke—if it was one—fell flat in the dead silence of the room. Sam’s eyes filled with tears, silently streaming down his cheeks, burning like acid rain.

“I’m sorry I wasted so much time,” Sam whispered, biting back a sob. “I should have come with you.”

Dean stood, spreading his arms as wide as his chains would allow.

“Come here.”

Sam rushed to his brother, clinging to him like a lifeline in the raging ocean, a thousand-year-old, unbreakable rock. Dean closed his arms around him and Sam thought – selfishly perhaps – that Dean needed that embrace too.

“I’m proud of you, Sammy. For going and fulfilling your dreams. You have the life you always wanted, the one you fought for,” Dean whispered, a secret between him and Sam, the last one. “Don’t forget that.”

“I can’t do this alone,” Sam said, shaking his head negatively.

“Yes you can,” Dean replied, smiling sadly.

“Well, I don’t want to,” Sam refused.

Why was he realizing all this now? When it was too late to make a difference. If only he had done something sooner. If only he had left with Dean 16 years ago.

If only—

(He thought they still had time.)

Before Sam was ready to let Dean go, someone knocked on the door twice in quick succession. The knell tolled.

“Time’s up.”

Dean let go of Sam first, pushing him toward the door, the freedom and life that had been stolen from him—

It was Dean who had driven Sam to the bus stop when he left for Stanford. The ride had been in tense silence, neither of them knowing that they wouldn’t see each other again for a long time, for their entire lives. (Sam wondered if it would have made any difference.) But Dean had come.

– with his big brother watching him leave once again, Sam walked away, as scared as when he was eighteen.

“Sammy!”

Sam turned around (this time). He knew it was the last time.

“Can you come?” Dean asked. It was the first time he asked Sam something. Sam wished he had never asked. “I don't want to die alone.”

The tears on Sam's cheeks hadn't had time to dry before the guard closed the door, leaving Dean alone in the room, leaving Sam alone in the one next door.

XXX

Sam Winchester watched his brother die. He looked him straight in the eyes—bright green and full of life for the last time—never failing.

This was something the world would never know. Something that would haunt Sam until he died. Dean Winchester died with tears in his eyes, sugar on his cheek, and three words on his lips, spoken to his little brother through the window.

"I love you."

When Sam walked out of the jail, a few hours and a lifetime later, it had stopped raining. The sun was peeking through the clouds, a rainbow bridging the road as he started the Impala. A ghost settled into the passenger seat and the radio started.

Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole. Sam could make an exception this time.

Carry on, my wayward son

There'll be peace when you are done

Lay your weary head to rest

Don't you cry no more

They make me physically ill, why is it so sad? They haven't seen each other for sixteen years. Sixteen years! And when Sam finally realizes that he needs and loves his brother, it's too late. And if Dean hadn't told him it was today, Sam would have left without knowing that it was the last time he spoke to his brother. Like the two times before! They had so many chances and they didn't take any of them. And Dean. He watched his little brother leave him twice (three times if you count the time after John disappeared) because he knew that ultimately it was the best decision for Sam. Argh. I break my own heart.