last01standing: ([SPN] Brothers Winchester)
[personal profile] last01standing
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[livejournal.com profile] spastic_visions



In the days after the Apocalypse, shooting stars fill the sky. Astronomers are baffled. It's the brightest celestial showing in recent memory and there'd been no forewarning, no signs. The show lasts about a week, trailing off with a single shooting star, flickering like a farewell.

The news stations play it off as an oddity, giving it thirty seconds at the end of shows—a curious counterpart to the ramped violence of a world where Lucifer had so recently roamed. Experts find no explanation but until the ratings start to drop everyone has a theory. The seven day span will remain a choice topic for scientists at their doctoral reviews for years after but only a select few recognize the phenomenon for what it really is:

In the days after the Apocalypse, angels fall by the dozen.


PART ONE


When Dean wakes up, the Apocalypse is over.

He doesn't realize it's over. Not when bits of Cas are splattered all over the car, nothing left of him but a blood stained trench coat. Bobby's body is lying a few yards away. His angle is so wrong that all he can see is his pair of boots and the brim of his hat. He tries to scramble to his feet but a pain shoots through him so intense that he thinks he's going to die from grief.

Sam is nowhere in sight which means Lucifer is nowhere in sight. Adam either. From his slightly higher vantage point, he can make out the vaguely surprised look on Bobby's face and the red-stained trench coat filled with nothing that even resembles an angel. He feels like his stomach is splitting in two.

He looks down.

That's because there is an alarming amount of blood leaking through his jacket.



He bleeds for a full day before he's found. By that time, Dean's mostly incoherent. He's managed to roll onto his side to avoid choking himself on blood or vomit but moving more than that is out of the question.

He can see the stars though.

It might just be his vision blurring but it looks almost like they're moving. A time lapse photo that sends shocking trails of silver streaking towards the ground.

"Jesus," a voice hisses. "Jesus, man, are you all right?"

"Angels are falling," Dean mutters. "It's the end of the world."

"Fuck, that's a lot of blood. Just keep cool, Dean. You're going to be all right. I promise."

"Chuck?" Dean's bleeding out. He estimates losing another pint will push him past the point of no return. He's surprised it's taken this long. "Chuck, is that you?"

His eyesight is graying out. He can still see the vague outlines of Bobby's boots.

"It hurts, Chuck."

"You're going to be all right, Dean."

"I don't believe you."

The next six months pass in a blink of an eye.



He loses track of how long he's in the hospital. He's out of it completely for about four months and sleeps most of the following two away. He hears the doctors speculating that he has simply lost the will to live. He thinks they may be right and decides it's as good a time as any to try being listless.

Unfortunately the lack of activity in the physical realm sends his brain into high gear and he dreams instead. It seems like he can't do anything except dream. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Bobby's body keeling over and Castiel's knees giving way just before his head explodes. Lucifer sneers at him with his brother's patented bitchface and every third night he still finds himself trashing in the throes of nightmares of Hell.

During the months of self-induced silence, his body knits itself back together. The only visible sign left is the sunken left cheekbone that caved under Lucifer's fist and the newly crooked slant to his nose. The months of silence following the months of unconsciousness have convinced most of the doctors he's a possible psychiatric case so they haven't kicked him to the curb. He only checks out because the doctors won't let him drink himself into a stupor.

Getting into the Impala hurts more than he would have thought possible. The goddamn toy soldier in the ash tray claws at his eyes and his brain is stuck on a permanent loop of Sam, Sam, Sam.

The bender lasts three days, filled with liquor, girls and two new scars. When he wakes up, there's a throbbing between his eyes that feels like it's splitting his head in two. He spends the morning swilling coffee while cursing God, the Apocalypse and sunlight before putting on his sunglasses, going to the Impala and driving seventeen hours straight to Pontiac, Illinois.

Amelia Novak greets him at the front door. She looks stretched thin, her skin drawn out tight across her face. Her eyes cold and suspicions. "Dean," she says curtly. "No offense, but the last time I saw you I got possessed by a demon and my husband left me to fight the Apocalypse."

Dean tries to offer her a smile. "Kind of think the Apocalypse is over."

She uncrosses her arms, her eyes softening. Dean remembers this. The Novaks are good people. They deserved what happened to them even less than Cas and Bobby. "What happened?"

"Jimmy's dead." It's important to put Jimmy first for once. Dean expects it's been a very very long time since Jimmy was first in anyone's minds. "Cas too. And Bobby." Sam, he doesn't say.

"Jesus," she whispers.

For a single wild moment, Dean wants to tell her off for taking God's name in vain, but since they're both so very far past that being the slightest bit funny, he can't bring himself to say it.

"Me and Claire are about to eat dinner," Amelia says. Dean starts to turn away when he hears the offer in her voice but she catches him by the shoulders. "You're going to eat with us and you're going to tell us about all about the Apocalypse and what happened to Jimmy because I need to hear it." She tugs him inside. "And I'm guessing you really need to tell it."

Dean doesn't know if he's ever had a meal this awkward. Amelia fries an extra burger and dumps fries onto his plate. Claire stares at him silently, her eyes wide. "Dad's not coming back, is he?"

"No," Dean says, hiding his discomfort in a bite of burger. There's a homemade mix of spices in the meat and Dean thinks of Castiel downing over a hundred burgers because Jimmy's flesh craved it. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Claire mumbles to her plate. She doesn't look Dean in his eyes. "We knew he was gone a long time ago."

Castiel inhabited this little girl once. Dean tries to wrap his head around it. Wonders if it would have been different with anyone but Jimmy wrapped around Cas. This little girl seems a bit like Castiel right now. Like her eyes are a thousand years older than she is.

"I don't know if we would have won without your dad," Dean says. "You probably already guessed but angels are grade-A dicks. I tried getting through to Castiel more than once on my own but it always took a while for anything to sink in. I always kind of figured it was Jimmy who talked some sense into him."

Amelia smiles and Dean knows it had been the right thing to say even if he doesn't believe it for a second. Castiel had made his choices due to a combination of blind faith in Dean and his own sense of what was right. Jimmy had been far from the deciding factor.

The Novaks coax a PG rated story out of him. One that has nothing about Sam drinking demon blood or Castiel exploding like a water balloon. After dinner Amelia insists he spend the night. He tries to protest but Claire tells him that only hobos sleep in old cars.

The guest room has salt lining all the windows. Dean traces a finger over the unbroken line. Jimmy picked a good one. There's no doubting that.

He can't sleep and doesn't think he can handle another guilt ridden meal with the Novaks even though he feels slightly less raw then he did before he got there.

It's four AM and Claire is sitting on the porch scaring up at the sky. "Hello, Dean," she intones and it sounds so much like Castiel that for a moment he stops dead in his tracks.

"How'd you know I was going to sneak out?"

She turns to look at him, blond hair oddly luminous in the moonlight. "I had Castiel in my head for a few minutes. You pick up a few things about Dean Winchester."

"You going to stop me?"

Shaking her head, she cranes her neck back up to the sky. "I'm thirteen. You really think I could?"

"Good point," Dean allows and sits down next to her on the porch, turning his own eyes skyward. "What are you looking for?"

"Falling angels," Claire answers simply.

"You see a lot of falling angels?"

"Not so much anymore." She pauses. "You know Castiel used to think about it. He was really messed up about something but all he could think about was falling and you."

Something clenches in Dean's throat. "I'm sorry I didn't manage to bring any of your Dad's things back."

"Mom always hated the trench coat," Claire says and then leaves forward to hug him. It's unexpected but not unwelcome. By the time he manages to react, she's already pulled back. "Bye, Dean. It's not your fault my dad didn't come back."

Dean ruffles her hair. "It's not your fault either."

"Thanks."

It's the first time in months his smile doesn't feel completely fake. "Remember to salt your windows before bed."



It takes him more than a few months but he winds up on the doorstep of Lisa Braeden. She stares at him, slack jawed for a long moment. Dean half thinks that if he doesn't say anything they might stand there until the world really does end. "Uh." His voice sounds rusty with disuse. "I was wonder if I could take you up on that beer?"

"The beer I offered you almost two years ago?" Lisa stammers after a moment.

"Yeah. Is the offer still good?"

Lisa slaps him across the face. Hard. "You dick, I thought you were dead!"

Funny, he would have expected this from Amelia not Lisa. Dean had gotten Amelia's husband killed. The only thing Dean had done to Lisa was vanish without a trace. It had honestly not occurred to him that she'd worry. "I'm not. Guessing that beer is out of the question."

"No," Lisa says. "You're not dead. This is good. I'm sorry I slapped you."

"I think we stopped the Apocalypse," Dean says. "I don't remember exactly how, but if the Devil was still on Earth, I kind of think there'd be more hellfire."

"I'm really glad you didn't tell me that two years ago. Like I didn't have enough to worry about."

"Sammy's dead." It's like a damn breaking inside him. It's the first time he's said it aloud. He knows it's true even if there was no body. Lucifer absorbed him or Sam absorbed him and now they're just not here anymore. At least he could see what happened to Cas. What happened to Bobby.

"Sam?" Lisa says, confused. It takes a moment for her to follow up, "Oh, your brother, Sam. Dean, I'm so sorry."

Sam told him to find Lisa. But he doesn't know Lisa at all. Beautiful, gorgeous Lisa who was supposed to be his normal life. He can't stay here with someone who doesn't even know Sam's name. He knows it's going to turn out wrong even before he catches the glint of her engagement ring on her left hand.

He sleeps on their couch for three weeks, telling Ben monster stories in his free time.

Then Lisa's fiancé figures out Dean isn't Lisa's old college friend but rather her old one night stand and he finds himself back on the road.

It takes two days to drive to the Grand Canyon, winding his way on back roads, driving as fast as he can without totaling the car. Himself he could care less about but dying in a tangled twist of sheet metal would be disrespectful to the one thing that has never abandoned him.

The Grand Canyon is breathtaking. The colors at sunset set the entire scene ablaze. It seems to go on for miles. Dean's heard the Grand Canyon is called one of the seven wonders of the world.

Castiel looked for God here once. In this sprawling expanse of natural beauty. Dean had woken up to a text message with a tiny blurry picture of something he'd only ever seen on postcards. He'd sent back something along the lines of u find god?

No,
Castiel had replied. But I think I like it anyway.

Dean decides it's a good time to get spectacularly drunk, so he does just that.

He wakes up folded awkwardly in the back seat of the Impala. He's placed three calls that he can't remember. The first is to Castiel. The second, Bobby. The third, placed the latest in the night to Sam.

The Grand Canyon is just as beautiful in the light of the rising sun as it was at twilight. It is also just as empty.



He boots up Sam's computer in an internet cafe in Phoenix. There's a half eaten donut in front of him along with some lukewarm coffee. His fingers are shaking as he pulls up an internet browser and types in the password to Sam's yahoo account.

Most of the messages are spam, advertising things like Canadian Viagra and free penis enlargements. There's also one for breast enhancements and he wants to give Sam shit for that but Sam isn't here.

The messages in the inbox are almost non-existent. Most of Sam's college friends stopped contacting him when they became wanted men and the few that had refused to believe it had stopped after they'd supposedly died alongside Hendriksen and Nancy. There are a few saved messages at the bottom. One from Andy Gallagher. One from Sarah from the haunted painting gig so many years ago. Dean doesn't touch those. They're both unopened. Andy's is from the day before he died. Sarah's from about a year ago.

The only other not-spam message is from Chuck Shirley. That one Dean clicks on. He can almost hear the prophet's nervous stutter in the salutations.

Hey Dean,


It takes him off guard for a moment. Because who sends a message to a dead man's e-mail that's intended for his brother? Especially when you have the guy's phone number. Then again, prophet. Having God kick in the door to your brain didn't exactly leave room for a whole lot of common sense.

Hey Dean,

I have no idea if this is too late or too early or whatever to send this. But you should know that when you find him, it is who you think it is.

Does that make any sense at all? I feel like that doesn't make any sense. But I really don't know anything but that. First vision I had in months. Let me tell you, I forgot how much this freaking hurts. But I'm guessing you're not too interested.

It's going to get better, Dean. I mean that's not a vision or anything but it will. You deserve it.

I hope something in this makes sense. Take care of yourself man.
-Chuck

PS. Reading your dead brother's e-mail is creepy, dude.


"You were so shitfaced when you wrote this," Dean mutters to the computer screen before signing out of Sam's e-mail because Chuck's right, it is a little creepy.

He gets wind of a case a few towns up. It's probably nothing but Dean's suddenly overcome by the need to do something, anything. Hunting's all he knows.



The case has a body count by the time he makes it there. The worst thing about it is he can't figure out what kind of monster it is. He'd rigged up an EMF out of a walkman he'd picked up at a yard sale the day before but either he's out of practice or there's nothing here to leave a signal.

The autopsy reports on the mother were brutal in a way he hadn't seen since he worked a werewolf case alongside his dad back when he was eighteen.

Victim had a kid too. Gone for two days by the time Dean makes it there. Police had combed the neighborhood for him but the end result was just the same: a missing two year old named Lucas Green. He has dark hair, light eyes and in the only photograph circulated, he looks happy. The police had written him off as dead in the best case scenario, hostage in the worst.

Dean feels sick to his stomach but there's also a sense of purpose that hasn't been here since the Apocalypse. He likes kids and anyone going after little kids deserves worse then Dean's worst years in Hell.

The murder scene is in a nursery, the pale blue splattered in patches of dried blood that look more black than red when light by flashlight. He rolls through his mental checklist of beasts. The attack had screamed werewolf but the hearts were still there. A black dog or hell hound would have left completely different kinds of wounds.

As much as he doesn't want to think it, this could easily be the work of something human. He'd almost rather fight one of those black-eyed sons of bitches.

There's a muffled sound from somewhere in the closet. Unwillingly, he flashes back to Adam and the ghoul in the vents. Steeling himself for the inevitable rush of violence, he draws his gun, takes a deep breath and throws open the closet door.

Nothing but a few ugly sweaters, a vacuum and a collection of sun dresses. Dean's breathing hard, waiting for the adrenaline to wear off when he hears it again. It's coming from somewhere behind the walls. He steps into the closet, the EMF in his pocket still quiet.

It's been a long time since he's done this. Even longer since he's done it without backup.

There's a false back in the wall. It's almost invisible so Dean taps lightly until he finds the hinge and slides it open.

All at once, there's something right on top of him. Something about knee high that nearly knocked the legs out from under him. Dean pulls the gun up automatically and takes aim before the flashlight flickers across the thing's face.

The thing which has a pale, scared face and impossibly bright eyes. "Fuck," Dean breathes and immediately wants to kick himself because this isn't a monster. It's a little kid. The women who'd been murdered had a little kid that the world had already written off as dead.

He catches him by the shoulders as gently as he can. The little guy's shaking and cold to the touch but he fights everything. "Hey buddy, calm down. You're going to be all right. Calm down. Lucas, right? I'm Dean. It's safe now. I've got you."

The kid sags against him, burying his face in Dean's shoulders. Dean can feel the dampness of his tears on his neck. He lifts the flashlight to the crawlspace where the kid had been hiding.

A stack of cash and a thick black plastic bag that Dean is willing to bet is filled with something illegal. In a flash he sees the whole pictures. Classy, really, hiding a kid in the same place as you hide your stash. Kudos on being a good mom.

Anger boils to the surface. What freaking right did people have to slaughter each other over drugs when he'd worked his ass off his whole life to keep them out of the way of the supernatural?

The kid shifts in his arms. Dean sighs, standing up and hauling the kid up onto his shoulder. He's distressingly light for a two-year-old and keeps turning his head away from Dean but at least the tiny fists of fury have subsided. "Let's get you out of here, Lucas." Dean mutters.

He looks again at the wads of cash stored in the walls and back to the solid lump in his arms. Getting mixed up in drugs is about the last thing he needs so he leaves the cash and takes the kid.

He deposits him in the back seat of the Impala, putting on the seat belt even though he realizes that it's probably in violation of six kinds of safety laws. "Going to get you to the police station, buddy. Make sure we find you someplace safe."

Pulling out of the driveway, he tries to plot his way back to the police. He takes the turns twice as carefully as normal, mindful of the toddler in the back seat.

When he's only a block away from the police stations, the little boy in the back quietly but very deliberately says his name.

"Dean."

Dean glances back into the rearview mirror and for the first time notices the mixture of dark hair against big blue eyes in the back.

Unbidden, Chuck's e-mail drifts to mind. It is who you think it is.

"Holy hell," Dean hisses. "Cas?"

The kid doesn't react to the name, just tilts his head sideways in an all too familiar gesture of confusion.

Dean drives past the police station and keeps going.



He checks into a hotel that's significantly more upscale then his usual ventures and herds the nearly silent child who he still can't quite think of as Castiel into the room before placing him carefully on the bed. He's asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow. Dean looks at the bed, remembers all the times Sam managed to roll straight off when they were kids and places a couple pillows on either side of the tiny body. Then he goes to the bathroom and dials Chuck. "What the hell, man?" he hisses.

"Dean," Chuck says. "Hi. You got the e-mail."

"Yeah and I'm really freaking interested in hearing about why I got a two year old Angel of the Lord asleep in my hotel room."

"Dean, he's not exactly an angel right now."

Dean continues, ignoring him completely. "Or how about the fact that you seemed to know he wasn't actually dead."

"I didn't think you'd want to know that!"

"Want to know? I've been alone for pushing three years, Chuck. Outside Sam, he was my best friend. I would have wanted to know he was freaking alive."

"No," Chuck says, unexpectedly firm. "No, Dean, you would have tortured yourself about going to see him when he was probably happy with the family he already had. You would have torn yourself to shreds over it."

"I'm already tearing myself to shreds here!"

"Don't yell at me!" Chuck snaps. "It's not exactly every day I get these things after Lucifer went back down under. And it's not like you try to keep in touch."

"Keep in touch?"

"I've been living with you in my head for something like eight years. I'd have liked to know what was up every once in a while."

Dean sits down on the toilet seat, turning a bottle of hotel room shampoo over in his hands. "It's really him though? Cas, I mean? If it's not too out of line, how the hell is he not dead?"

"I sent you the pages." Chuck sounds nervous, just like he always is when he's talking about the Winchester Gospels. He's started to publish again. Dean knows it's true but as long as he avoids comic book stores and certain parts of the internet, he can pretend none of it is happening. "I think it's going to answer most of this stuff better than I can. I barely remember writing the thing."

Dean sets the shampoo bottle down and nudges open the door. Castiel, Lucas Green, is asleep on the bed. He can see his chest rising and falling. Castiel's never used to do that. He'd been almost deathly still, not breathing more than necessary to talk.

"What are you going to do?" Chuck asks, his voice static over the phone.

"What, you didn't see it?"

"No," Chuck replies and this has got to be just about as sober as he's ever heard the prophet. "But I think I know you pretty well. And I'm pretty damn sure I know what you're going to do. I think you know it too."

Dean rubs his hand against his temple. "Thanks, Chuck."

Chuck heaves a sigh. "Take care of yourself, Dean. Take care of Cas too."



From a state away, Dean pulls up what he can about the case he'd been working and watches it unfold. They find the rival dealer who knocked off Laura Green, nothing supernatural involved. They also find the stash of heroin.

They don't find the son, Lucas Green, and without a family member driving the search forward, a week passes and they stop looking.

Dean turns to look at the kid. He's amassed a certain amount of kid stuff in the past few days. A car seat. A few changes of clothes for the kid and a teddy bear. He looks to the kid, the miniature version of the angel who helped him stop the Apocalypse. His head lolls against the car seat, his lips slightly parted as he slumbers.

"What do you say, kid? Want to be a Winchester?"

The question is more a formality than anything else. There is no way Dean is doing anything else but keeping him and Cas has been a honorary Winchester for as long as he can remember. He counts the kid's snores as a yes.



There's only really one place to go. Bobby had mentioned to Dean more than once that if anything happened to him, Dean was still welcome in his home. Neither Winchester had ever let him get farther than that but he knew the end.

If Bobby died, this place was his.

Dean hasn't been back to Sioux Falls since the Apocalypse ended. It's a reminder of all he's lost but at the same time, he can't help but love the place. Love all the memories of Bobby scattered through the junk yard.

He calls in his favor with Sheriff Jody Mills and leaves Cas at her place for the five hours while he systematically removes guns from all Bobby's hiding places and locks them up the best he can. He moves the various stashes of alcohol to high cabinets, out of the reach of a toddler's hands.

When he gets back to the sheriff's house, Cas is in tears. He's tucked himself in the back of a closet, kicking the shoes out in his wake. Sheriff Mills had tried to coax him out earlier but earned nothing but screams.

"His mom was slaughtered in front of him," Dean says by way of explanation. "He's a little skittish around new people."

The sheriff apologizes profusely as Dean gets down on his knees and cracks open the door. He doesn't make a grab for him, he's seen his share of freaked out kids on the job. He knows that sudden moves are only going to startle. "Cas, buddy? It's Dean."

The only sound from the closet is soft, muffled sobbing.

But even that is wrong. Kids his age should be bawling. Big, messy, sloppy tears, not the quiet controlled ones of people who had been schooled in quiet.

He doesn't know what he says to get Cas out of the closet. He's never been one for speeches. Not even in the teeth of the Apocalypse. So he just talks, keeping his voice low and even, kneeling there on the floor of an unfamiliar house as Sheriff Jody Mills watches like an interloper.

It takes almost half an hour to coax the boy out but when the tiny arms wrap around Dean's waist, he smiles for the first time in what feels like years.



It's almost six months before Dean has the time to look at the pages Chuck sent him. Well, when he's honest with himself, he'd put it off. He doesn't want to read Castiel's death scene just like he doesn't want to read about Bobby's or Sam's. But one night when the kid's asleep in what has become his room, Dean takes a deep breath and opens the document.

Castiel has a plan. He'd explained it to Bobby on the long drive down to Lawrence. Bobby had called him an idjit angel, had argued that it was stupid, suicidal and likely to get him killed.

It's not a good plan. Castiel knows that. But after the reaction from Bobby it practically has the Winchester seal of approval.

The car ride is uncomfortably long. After Sam's failure, they both feel the sting of guilt. They supported this plan--encouraged him even--and his failing feels like their failing. They'd only talked long enough to determine what to do next.

Dean won't let Sam die alone.

Neither Castiel nor Bobby will let Dean die alone.

"We're going to die," Bobby says to him just before they leave the care. "You know that, right? We're going to fight the Devil and we're going to die."

Castiel fidgets in the seat, turning the bottle full of holy oil in his hands. He has picked up nervous habits in the past few weeks, little ticks that make him almost human.

But he is not human. Not yet. There is a difference between falling and Falling. Castiel has always known where that particular line lay. He's more than halfway to human, more Winchester than angel but he's not Fallen.

"Then we die," he tells Bobby.

Bobby claps him on the shoulder like Castiel imagines he has touched Dean hundreds of times before. He feels a rush of warmth for this man, his comrade, his family. "I'll see you on the other side, son."

Castiel's first instinct is to correct him. He is thousands of years older than Robert Singer, has seen things the other man cannot dream of but he stops himself because it's the first time he's ever been called son. He's never heard his own father's voice and if this man is willing to offer something that God himself is unwilling to give, Castiel cannot do anything but accept.

It is strange to see Lucifer and Michael in possession of vessels Castiel himself has known. He cannot even see the ghost of their true forms but he can count the external differences. They both seem calmer somehow, resigned. Both Sam and Adam had been willing to fight for everything, every moment, every person...

He wants to go out with a bang. Some cocky quip that Dean would be proud. Bobby lights the Molotov cocktail in his hand and all he can think of is, "Hey, assbutt."

Lucifer rounds on him after Michael disappears and Castiel knows there is nothing more he can do for Dean, Sam and this world.

The act of Falling is strictly governed by the laws of Heaven. Castiel has become almost completely human since the Host has cut him off but he's not become a human as Sam and Dean think. There's still a speck of angel in him. That last flicker of Grace that defines him, makes him an angel of the Lord rather than a mortal.

"No one dicks with Michael but me," Lucifer hisses in Sam's voice.

Castiel steps back unconsciously and it pains him that this body does things without conscious thought. It never used to before the angels blew him to bits and God brought him back without Jimmy to help him.

He's still got a plan, and where there's a plan there's still hope. Dean will have his chance and if Dean fails and Castiel survives this, maybe, just maybe, he'll be able to take that next shot in twenty years.

Lucifer raises his hand and Castiel reaches deep inside himself, locates that last remaining sliver of Grace and pulls.

It's an act of Faith, an act of desperation, a vow that even if it does end right here, right now, it's not really an ending. It's The Big Fall and it hurts more than he could have imagined but there's pride in there too.

He's dying for humanity so he can start living with them.

He kind of likes that. This isn't the end. If he's learned one thing from Dean Winchester it's that nothing is over as long as there's still someone left to fight.

Lucifer snaps his fingers and explodes an empty vessel.


"You sneaky bastard," Dean whispers fondly.

The next fifteen pages are what happened to Sam in the showdown. The climatic Lucifer and Michael fight.

He reads that too.

2 )

(no subject)

25/8/10 12:00 (UTC)
Posted by [identity profile] iwrotethissong.livejournal.com
i am loving this fic all the way. this is really pulling me in.

as long as he avoids comic book stores and certain parts of the internet, he can pretend none of it is happening.

heh, denial.

Stealing himself

did you mean 'steeling himself'?

(no subject)

29/8/10 19:28 (UTC)
Posted by [identity profile] trolllogicfics.livejournal.com
AH! A TYPO! (is fixed now, thank you)

(no subject)

22/6/11 21:41 (UTC)
Posted by [identity profile] cotymundi.livejournal.com
I am so delighted to have found this. I see you write Gen, and I love it! I'm always more interested in the dynamics than the sex, which I find often gets in the way of the story as well as the more complex emotional interaction. This is so good, it's better than the show, I am so impressed by how you have tweaked it to make more sense and the missing backstory is awesome in its perfect fit. I am feeling it as I read it. Really, really good job. I have read one fic before where Cas became a little kid and I loved that too. Brings out the very best in Dean. This is just so well-thought-out, food for the mind. Also, I love your style of writing, it just flows and draws me in; it seems effortless, but I bet it's not!

(no subject)

23/6/11 00:31 (UTC)
Posted by [identity profile] trolllogicfics.livejournal.com
I'm glad you've found it too! It's always nice to run into someone who's a fan of gen fic. Most of the time I feel like I'm in the wrong fandom. I'm still surprised there's not more people writing Cas falls fics as Cas becomes a kind because that's kind of the canon way.