On 26 June, 1995, a car accident in Greensville County, Virginia, took the life of a man by the name of Michael Eric Hager, but it also took the life of a young hitch-hiker who was in the passenger seat. The man had no identification on him but he was wearing a Grateful Dead Anniversary Tour T-Shirt and had a ticket from a recent Grateful Dead concert in his pocket. Because of this, he became known as “Grateful Doe”. In his pocket he also had a note from two women who addressed him by “Jason”. Regardless of knowing his first name, his identify remained unknown until January, 2015, when somebody saw his composite sketch and thought he bore a striking resemblance to an old acquaintance who was a Grateful Dead fan by the name of Jason Patrick Callahan. His mother was traced to South Carolina and when questioned, she confirmed that she hadn’t spoken to her son since 1995 and never reported him missing because of his transient lifestyle. DNA testing is currently underway, and as you can tell from the image above, the resemblance is uncanny.
UPDATE: On 9 December, 2015, Grateful Doe was successfully identified as Jason Patrick Callahan.
Notes: A super-early Christmas present to DtA readers who wanted another snippet of this. Yes, my project sucks like whoa, but that does have the advantage of putting me in this kind of mood. I guess spoilers for that part of Chapter 10. I have no idea, I have like six of these, for when one writes one’s id, one should really not think about it too hard.
In the Pit, there is silence, the first in all of Time. That Crowley is the only one brave enough (or perhaps stupid enough) to enter says a great deal (though what, he’s not sure, other than he’s very stupid or very brave).
The bleak landscape is transformed into devastation; the burned out twilight sky stained crimson like fresh blood and spreading thin rays over the newly formed labyrinth of mountains and crevasses, abysses torn through solid stone. Distantly, he can sense the depth of the rack and the business of corruption continues as usual, their screams undiminished but unheard; he’s not sure anything has ever been quite so unsettling as the realization that unnatural silence is artificially maintained and with so little effort.
Gone is where Alistair once sat in state, a gaudy potentate on the massive iron throne inlaid with human eyes and human bone, millennia of power pulsing around him; there’s now a Black Mountain of jagged stone and icy steel piercing the bloody sky. There’s no question of the completeness of the new ruler’s conquest, but the sickening, spongy squish of red stone beneath him, the faint sobbing cries at every step, tells of brutality and ruthlessness beyond any nightmare in Hell.
That does answer the question Crowley had no desire to ask regarding what happened to those purged; they now pave the Pit itself.
So Dean’s waited years to find out what Cas’ skin tastes like.
And when he finally does, everything goes wrong again, because his life
is just that much fun, and goddamit.]
Written as a tumblr thank you.
So Dean is a lying liar who lies, but even by his standards, this day is going to be one for the fucking ages.
“And you noticed when you woke up?” Sam asks, and, again, he does
that frown, like he’s trying not to laugh, because he’s a good brother
and wants to be supportive and Dean should definitely remember that the
next time he’s about to scrub his armpits with Sam’s toothbrush or
(He won’t, though.
Not a chance in hell.)
“Yes,” Dean says, firmly.
(A sigh. A moan. His hands desperately seeking more skin, pressing
under Cas’ shirt, almost completely unbuttoned. Looking up in the sudden
flash of a passing car’s headlights, and seeing his own face staring
down at him.)
“And you don’t remember what you were doing, you know, before?”
“No,” Dean says, even more firmly; and then he adds, for good measure, “Just normal stuff, I guess.”
(Cas standing up, almost stumbling in the unfamiliar body. Cas
blushing when he’d realized his fly was undone. Cas looking at him, as
if begging him to say something, anything, and then disappearing in the usual flutter of disturbed curtains and papers.)
“Mh,” Sam says, his eyes moving around the motel room before looking
Dean up and down. “You’re going to be weird about this, aren’t you?”
“No,” Dean says -
(How can it not be weird, though? If this had happened at
any other time, he’d probably be cursing in exasperation and then giving
in to the sleazy, unforgivable, inevitable curiosity - he’d be undressing himself, discovering what Cas’ body is like - his body, goddammit, because this is not a vessel, not anymore.
But now -)
- and, of course, he’s lying again.
Sam acts like he doesn’t notice that because his arm is still in a
cast, and that means that despite his freakish size, Dean could totally
take him and Sam knows it.
(He did get 174 on his SATs, after all.)
“Well, first thing we gotta do is find Cas.”
“Yeah, thanks, Sherlock - think I haven’t tried that yet? I called him and looked for him and prayed to the damn bastard -”
“We don’t know if Cas is in any shape to be seen or answer calls,”
Sam points out, reasonably. “Your body was never made to be his vessel.
Maybe it exploded, or something.”
Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. Of course, he’s seen Cas
standing up and zapping out in his, Dean’s, body, but that doesn’t mean
Sam couldn’t be right. That doesn’t mean Cas’ actually okay, and not
pink mist on a wall somewhere. That doesn’t mean squat.
Sam sees the expression on his face and backtracks at once - in a very awkward, unconvincing way.
“Which I’m sure would be fine. Cas can probably put it back. He did it before, right?”
Yeah. When he raised Dean from literal Hell, and how can Sam be so fucking casual about this - how can he talk about Dean’s body as if it’s nothing, just an it kind of thing that can be discarded and replaced at will -
But thinking about his own body, and what Cas is doing with it right
now, and what he was doing with Cas in the first place - that’s
something Dean can’t do, so he lets the whole thing slide.
“Dean?” Sam adds, and God, he still looks so goddamn earnest -
“My body was made for the archangel Michael, bitch. I think it can
handle a dorky seraph,” Dean snaps, and that’s the complete truth, for
whatever it’s worth.
Sam kind of smiles and kind of hums in agreement, then moves to the
desk, even if there’s nothing there, and that means Dean can now see
himself in the mirror that’s right in front of him.
And, goddammit, Cas looks so hot in his clothes.
Because, yeah, Dean was not about to stand around in his underwear
and wait for Sam to find him, but getting dressed was still, very
clearly, a mistake, because his life is unfair and wrong on every level
and Jesus fuck, look at the guy - Dean’s jeans are a perfect fit, and the old Grateful Dead t-shirt makes him look different, but good different, somehow; dangerous, but not in Cas’ usual I’ll smite you right now dangerous - more of a I give the best head in the state but I’ll use my fucking teeth if I fucking want to vibe.
“Where do you think we should look?” Sam asks, now fidgeting with his
tablet, and Dean turns away from the mirror, because he’s not about to
get a goddamn boner when looking at himself - or, even worse, at Cas.
No matter what happened last night.
Which was clearly a mistake, and something Cas now regrets.