The season finale of Supernatural has sparked many fans' imaginations. This blog is a place to collect and appreciate all the pic-fics and tag-fics that are being written. If I've overlooked one, please message me to let me know. A list of tags is linked at the bottom of the page.
(My personal tumblr is ilovehowyouletmefall, my name is Marissa. Hi!)
It’s there, between them, unspoken so far in the unending gloom of no-time that seems to be the norm for Purgatory. It hangs heavy between them, soggy like the air here and laden with disappointment. It’s fucking oppressive, is what it is, Dean thinks.
Sam, he thinks, would appreciate the word “oppressive”. It’s the perfect descriptor of Purgatory: like a noose made of rusted iron, it’s weighted and old and it never goes anywhere.
He wonders what Sam’s doing these days. He feels in his gut that Sam made it out of Sucrocorp, and Cas has told him to trust that feeling. That feelings are reality here, something that is sparked from Truth with a capital “T”. Dean wants to scoff, but he needs whatever hope he can cling to to get him through every moment of every day here in this limbo.
Purgatory touches on every dimension, Cas tells him at one of their arbitrarily-designated rest times. It’s full of unrealized realities, Cas had explained; things that were never meant to pass or futures that had been altered - they all came here to die or be held in stasis, or to be reborn into the world when needed.
Purgatory was never intended as a prison, he said, that it was, instead, something like God’s storage unit. He explains that it’s entirely possible that what Dean feels is him touching on his own plane of reality through the curtain of Purgatory that spreads out over all other planes.
Dean takes it to mean this place is huge and there’s no way out unless someone lets them out.
And what’s left unsaid is always: This is all your fault, Cas.
He doesn’t know if he really means it anymore. It seems like just another burden to carry with him on their unending hikes, another scar on his body or cancer in his heart. It’s just so hard, sometimes, to keep moving when there’s so much pressed down inside his head that it bows his shoulders.
Sometimes, when he looks over, or behind him, or ahead of him, and he catches a strip of the startling white of Castiel’s hospital scrubs, he feels so damn lucky to not be alone here. Sometimes, he feels a violent spark of anger. He has to quash those quickly; anger seems to be something tangible in this place, like fear, something that can be smelled and tracked and hunted.
He thinks it’s pretty ironic to be the hunted these days.
He wonders sometimes if there’s always going to be this gulf between he and Cas; if Cas is going to carry his guilt and he’s going to carry his own anger and they’re going to just press against each other until one of them shatters. He wonders if they’ll ever have the easy camaraderie they once had, or if it’s always going to just be this: His anger the irresistible force; Castiel’s grief the immovable object.
Unrealized realities, he thinks, and keeps walking.