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omniscientoranges · 3 years

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Dean gives Cas a book to read. Or, well, a passage from a book.

(basically, Cas reads a part of Lost and Found)

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"Hey, Cas, can I talk to you?"

Cas stops in place at Dean's voice, a few feet in front him. They're standing in the middle of the library, where Cas had just been trying to stealthy avoid Dean noticing him walking by.

It's been a little over a week since Dean (with some help from their friends) had pulled Cas out of the Empty. Since then, they've been not-so-obviously/obviously avoiding each other.

The reason being that, basically, they haven't talked about what Cas said. Yet. Maybe they wouldn't ever talk about it. Honestly, Cas would be absolutely fine with that, if it meant he got to keep Dean as a friend. That would be absolutely fine and not at all painfully heartbreaking in any way. Not at all.

Cas nods. "Of course, Dean. What is it?"

Dean shifts on his feet. "It's, well, it's kinda important."

"Okay," Cas says, smiling slightly even though his heart has started to beat erratically in his chest.

"Look, I- shit. This is-" Dean stops himself, and shakes his head as his eyes dart back and forth across the concrete floor. Then he pauses, eyes fallen on one of the shelves, and looks back up at Cas.

"Just gimme a minute, I'll be right back."

Cas squints, "Alright, I'll just-" he starts to say, but Dean's already ran off to some far-flung corner of the bunker — taking whatever he wanted to say and whatever idea he's suddenly had with him.

Cas stares after him, but stays rooted to the spot.

Time passes. It is — possibly — the longest string of minutes Castiel, former Angel of the Lord and current Angel of Absolutely No One (Except, Maybe, the Winchesters), has ever experienced.

After an eternity passes in 10 minutes, Dean walks back into the library. He's carrying a beat-up cardboard box, with a single book resting on top of where the box has been folded closed.

Dean drops the box onto a nearby table, and the old wood creaks under the new weight. Before Cas can see it, Dean quickly grabs the single book off the top and holds it tight to his chest. It's angled in a way that Cas can only make out that it is, in fact, a book; but not anything else about it.

"What are these?" Cas asks, moving the cardboard flaps out of the way to peer into the box.

"Books." Dean answers.

Cas rolls his eyes, "I know they're books, Dean, I mean what-" and Cas finally catches sight of one of the covers.

Carver Edlund.

"Oh," Cas says. "They're, um. Our books, I suppose."

Dean rubs a hand over the back of his neck. "Yeah. I guess, uh, I guess Chuck kept writing. Sammy found them when he went to check out Chuck's old place a few weeks back. Looks like the rest of his books never made it into circulation though. I think he just mojo-ed up some printed copies for himself when he finished with 'em, pompous bastard."

Dean's mouth forms a thin line at the thought of Chuck, but wipes it away as quickly as it came. "But anyways, here," Dean holds out the book he was carrying between them. "Take it."

Cas reaches out apprehensively, and pulls the book from Dean's grasp.

"I promise it'll all make sense," Dean insists. "Just, um, flip to the page I have marked."

Cas takes a moment to look over the book before opening it. The paperback is a stark black, contrasted by a stylized funeral pyre adorning the front, which is set at a distance so the majority is taken up but a long trail of smoke curling up until it disappears beyond the edge of the cover. 3 figures are silhouetted by the flames, and they stand apart from each other. Separate. The title reads Lost and Found by Carver Edlund.

Cas opens to where Dean has dog-eared the book only a handful of pages before the end, and reads.

Dean held the lighter close to his chest, almost like he was holding a candle at a vigil. In a way, he was.

Dean had been to a lot of funerals, built a lot of funeral pyres, but something about this one had broken him in a way he wasn't expecting. It broke him in a way he had spent years — decades, really — fighting against.

You see, Dean wasn't the kind of guy. He was a red-blooded, beer-drinking, pool-hustling, bacon-cheeseburger-eating, classic-car-driving, skin-mag-reading American male. Guys like that don't have game-changing feelings for other guys. They just don't.

At least, that's what Dean always told himself.

But standing in front of that pyre, watching the smoke rise, he told himself something different for once. Dean told himself it was all a bunch of bullshit, because he was still all those things he was before, and he wouldn't ever stop being those things no matter what. He was just something else extra, too.

Because Dean would have traded anything in that moment to get Cass back. Would have traded all the cheeseburgers and beer in the world. Would have traded his life. Hell, he would have traded his car if it meant he'd get another chance at this. Another chance with Cass. Just one chance to finally tell him what he'd been too scared all these years to say. Because Cass had always been around, even when he didn't need to be — he was there. But now he wasn't. And Dean wanted more than anything else in the world for him to be there so he could finally say—

"Dean," Cas says, voice wavering. The paragraph cuts off mid-sentence; if he wants to read the rest of it, he'll have to flip to the next page to see. "What is this?"

"Your funeral, after Lucifer killed you."

Cas shakes his head, not quite believing Dean's words, or Chuck's for that matter. Surely this couldn't be, he couldn't really mean—

Dean interrupts Cas' swirling thoughts. "It's Chuck's words, but it's- it's all me. He writes it more flowery than it really was, ya know, up here," Dean taps two fingers to the side of his head, "but it's the truth." He laughs to break the tension, but there's an edge of nerves there. Cas can almost hear his heartbeat across the room. "Don't tell Baby this, but I really would've given her up if it meant getting you back."

Cas shakes his head harder, tears springing loose and dropping onto the page, smudging the ink.

"Dean-"

"Turn the page."

"What's on the next page, Dean?"

"You know what."

"I-"

"Cas, just turn the page."

Cas turns the page with an unsteady hand. It's blank, likely formatted that way for dramatic effect, save for 3 words in the top left corner.

I love you.

Cas makes a choked sound and breathes out in disbelief, in sheer amazement. He runs his fingertips over the letters, traces the shape of them, feels their weight and knows it's heavier in his hands than any cheap paperback ever could be. It feels too much all of a sudden. Like something so remarkable shouldn't be confined to print — like 3 typeset and faded little words shouldn't be enough to shift the core of him so intensely that it makes his whole body ache.

Then, the feeling of hands brushing over his pulls him out of his own head, and he looks up to see Dean (Dean, of course it's Dean, who else would it be? Who else could it ever be but Dean). Dean shifts one hand over Cas' around the spine of the book, and uses the other to push Cas' fingers away from where they rest on the page. He gently pulls the book out of his grip, and sets it on the table next to them. They both stare at it for a long moment, and then Dean is moving his hands back onto Cas, bringing both of them up to cup his face.

Dean looks at him, eyes shining. "I meant it, I mean it. I know I'm not the best at showing it all the time, and I know I should've told you a million times before this, but I really do mean it."

"I know you do." Cas wraps one hand loosely around Dean's wrist, and lets the other dig into his hip; anchoring both of them in place. "I- I mean it too."

"Yeah?"

"Of course."

They smile at each other and rest their foreheads together, just standing there breathing the same air like it's the first time they've let themselves breathe for months.

When they kiss, it's not a storybook. It's not bargain bin horror fiction. It's not a bestseller. It's not scripted, or planned out, or lighted particularly well. It's a kiss. It's a little awkward, a little unpracticed, a little gross through the tears.

What it is, is the promise of another. And another after, and after that, and after and after and after. As many as they want for as long as they want.

Their life isn't a story anymore, not in the way that they're used to. And it's no longer getting written down to be conveniently handed to each other to read whenever they have a hard time expressing their feelings. But, for a time, it was a story. It was their story.

And it was a hell of a story, all things considered.

#its been like. over 2 months since i finished something lmao #destiel #deancas #destiel fic #deancas fic #spn #gina.spn #gina.writing #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic #&fic

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mylifeasevelyn · 7 years

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Revival

Though I take hit after hit, I realise the higher reason is accepting challenges as gifts. And through the fight I never really knew that I would find myself, that's why I give my thanks to you It doesn't have to be a world away. I can feel the sun like it's inside of me I know that if I get to know my pain, I unlock a hundred different doors to better days My life is what I make it. I choose to rise and take it from your hands This is not my punishment, this is my catalyst for growth I know I will survive this I'll be the strongest person I know

Hello dear stranger, it’s me, Evelyn. I’ve been meaning to type this post for the past three days and it’s time for it to leave my head. So yeah, here it goes... Mind you, I typed fuck a lot in this one.

After typing cleanse, I was 97% sure that this elated feeling I was left with was gonna last for two or three more days tops but fuck, how am I still in this state of mind?! The more days go by, the more I feel like this old self of mine is coming back, which I never thought possible. I like to think that each one of us changes in a way that some of our traits cannot be revived whatsoever. I guess I closed my mind into thinking that once you’ve been hurt past your point of tolerance, a part of you dies, living room for another self to pull through out of all the darkness that is now rooted within your soul… but if there’s anything that I’ve been reminded of these past few days is that I’ve still got a not-so-defectuous soul left in me after all.

Now, this post was born in my head three days ago when one of my dearest friends asked me “What are you so afraid of?” We were interrupted so I couldn’t give her an answer, yet that didn’t stop me from going through my head trying to figure it out… and the answer was so clear. For sooo fucking long I’ve been afraid to face the pain that tears me apart on a daily basis. I’ve been lying to myself for the last couple of months. I did choose the statu quo over the real deal. And for fuck’s sakes, how could I have been so blind?! I remember clearly how, decades ago, my heart was deeply hurt by a feeling that will always haunt me… today, that same pain is still there, along with what my mind and body can still remember. I’ve experienced three different types of heartbreaks and yet, here I am, still alive. But that’s not it. Fuck, that’s not even close enough. There’s still a part of me that needs to die before another part of me can break free.

I’ve experienced grief three times in my life. First, when I was 5, the second was when I was 12 and the third one when I was 23. And hell, I’m no different from that 5 year-old Evelyn. Whenever someone came to console me, I’d let them hold me but I never let them see my pain. I developed that statuesque façade when I was only 5 and I unconsciously kept it going my entire life. 'Til this day I can’t even hug someone without feeling awkward. I’m still as cold and distant as I was 20 years ago. People mistake it for shyness, whereas I, well, I just keep my feelings to myself. You see, my love comes through actions, not words. I’m no close to saying I love you than I was 20 years ago. I’ve only dropped the L bomb out of pressure, not out of genuineness. All my life I chose to be nice rather than a bitch. And that’s my problem. I haven’t quite figured out how to be at ease with how I’ve chosen to let my feelings out, thus I remain cold and distant, or awkward and shy… so yeah, when I hear someone telling me how much they care about me I just nod instead of saying “yeah, me too” or “yeah, I feel the same way”. Fuuuuuck. Funny enough, for the past two months, this new voice in the back of my head has been saying “I really want to hug my friend. Go on, do it now!” or “Tell her/him how grateful you are for having her/him in your life. Now it’s the time, bitch!” and I completely ignore those thoughts. Oh, well…

If there’s anything I’m trying to change at the moment, is shaking my comfort zone. I still haven’t made my smile reach my eyes and I really don’t give a flying fuck about what that means either. All I know is that I want to convey whatever it is that I’m feeling through real, outspoken words, not just on paper or here or whatevs. But fucking hell, it’s just abso-fucking-lutely hard. I see people throwing words and feelings at each other and I find it either overwhelming unfamiliar or obnoxious (some people abuse their use of words, man.) As far as I can remember, words have hurt me more than anything, so they’ve always had a very negative impact on how I feel… (except for when I listen to music or write something of my own.) But things are different now, I’m finally surrounded by people how truly care about me, instead of trying to use me for some fucked up purpose. Ugh. End of paragraph. Fucked up memories coming through.

It’s funny to think that breaking out of my comfort zone implies saying how I feel out loud without losing myself, when in reality I’ve been lost all along. I was born backwards, and this is what I get in life. I experienced everything in reverse. The fucked up stuff came way too early for me to learn how to kill it away and thus, it shaped this darkness within from early on… and now that it’s finally time to let the light in, I don’t even know how to deal with it. Everyone tells me how they live their lives and how they’re doing and I’m left here wondering: “wow, is that a thing? My life can actually turn into this ‘positive’ thing?” “Can I actually be a loner no more?” “Can I truly find peace by surrounding myself with the right people? But most importantly: “Is it possible for me to become a ‘proper’ functioning human being, leaving behind my tortured past?” “Is there really a chance for me to become this woman by reviving the Evelyn that was put to sleep 21 years ago?” “Will I be a vessel no more?” “Will I ever stop feeling like a stranger in another land?” Only time will tell. ‘Til next time, dear stranger.

Never give up, always fight.

Love,

Evelyn

#text #personal #post #My life as Evelyn #My life as Eve #mental health #like if you read #ty

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