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!)
Cas knits his brows. “That question is - irrelevant, in many ways. Purgatory does not have time, as you understand it.”
“Okay, but my heart keeps beating, right? So - how many heartbeats have we been here?”
“I don’t know,” says Cas.
“You don’t know?” Dean stops dead, his boots digging into the powder-fine sand. “How can you not know?”
“You can’t keep time here, Dean, not by any method.”
Dean shuts his eyes and sticks two fingers against the steady throb of the artery under his jaw.
“Shhh!” Three, four, five … he gets to eleven and then. He. Four, five … No, wait he already … wait. Five. Four?
“Goddammit. Five. Six. Sev-en.” His voice wavers strangely on the last number. He has a moment of vertigo.
“Dean, stop.” Cas tugs at his arm, pulls his hand away from his throat.
He’s sitting on the ground, he realizes. “How … but we. The hugging, Cas, how do you know when I need -?”
“You tell me,” says Cas.
“How do I know? I mean, it lasts for a while, right?” Dean grips at his hair, which has not grown an inch their entire stay here. “How can we even have a conversation? Or memories? If time isn’t - this is hurting my head, man.”
Cas sighs. “Then don’t think about it.”
“Dude.” Dean shoots him a reproachful look. “Now I’m definitely going to think about it.”
Cas looks behind them, where the gentle warm wind was slowly erasing their footsteps. “You are a living human. To some extent, you impose yourself on the stuff that Purgatory is made of. Your will is powerful, fueled by the marriage between your soul and your body. You perceive things a certain way and, to some degree, they bend themselves to your perception.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
Cas sits next to him, crosslegged, and leans forward, digging his lean, graceful hands into the sand. “Purgatory is not a place. It is a purpose, shaped by the will of God. Only one being in all of creation was given a similar will.”
“Humans,” says Dean. He stares upward at the spill of stars above them. “So, is this even really a desert?”
“Yes,” says Cas. “And we are crossing it. Because you will it so.”
“Are you getting cryptic on me, man?” Dean digs the heels of his hands into eyes that aren’t tired or dry or aching.
“You are the one asking questions with no answer,” says Cas. There is a thin edge of amusement in his voice.
“Okay, but you said, at the portal, the one with the fire, you said ‘time slippage.’”
“Short hand for a concept that has no equivalent in any human tongue.”
Cas is eyeing him again, this time speculatively. He draws a breath, pauses, and then nods once, shortly. “Tell me if this hurts.”
That was a phrase that Dean didn’t like in the slightest but before he could protest, Cas opens his mouth and
“Oh,” says Dean, once his bones have stopped ringing like struck crystal. “Ok, that, that actually makes sense.”
Cas is smiling, a little smug, a little delighted.
“Wow,” Dean adds, unnecessarily.
Cas stands and offers him a hand up. Dean takes it and glances down at the weird crackling sound they are making as they move.
The sand around their feet has turned to glass in a streaky, uneven starburst pattern, the arms of which stretch out for dozens of feet in all directions.
“Dude,” says Dean. “How much more awesome are you going to get in here?”
“I am as I ever was,” says Cas. “It is you who is changing.” He reaches out, taps the curve of Dean’s left ear.
“Is that a good thing?” Dean asks, although the sense memory of Cas’ true voice is still vibrating like a song through his body, better than a thousand Magic Fingers.
“I don’t know,” says Cas. The ever-present light-rimmed shadows of his wings twitch a little, nervously.
“Well, personally, I don’t see any down sides,” says Dean. He wiggles a finger in his ear. “Eardrums intact. Not even ringing.”
Cas’ mouth curves on one side and his wings relax, unfurl a little. “I remember the gas station,” he says.
“Yeah, so do I. This is definitely preferable.”
“I’m glad.” Cas lifts his head, eyes narrowing. “There is a shift coming.”
“Yeah, I feel it,” says Dean. “Take it? Stay?”
Cas casts him a look filled with challenge. “I am interested to see the effect of my true voice on actual denizens of Purgatory. Now that we know you can withstand it. Shall we make an experiment?”
Dean looks down at the glass and then back up at Cas. “Fuck, yeah,” he says, pulling his knife.
Cas sets his shoulders, lowers his head, and flings his wings open wide. “Let them come,” he says. The sand makes crazy squealing tortured sounds as it fuses. Then the world tips sideways and spills them into chaos.
Dean leaps to meet it, teeth bared in eager joy, and Cas’ battle cry is like a great wave that bears him forward.