#MY HEART ACHESS

[squibbledawg]

uh huh uh huh

Ever since I watched Randomalistic’s Turbo/King Candy video, I’ve been sinking back into my Wreck it Ralph hyperfixation which then made me come up with a crack au of dad Turbo

Like imagine if Turbo never went…..well…..turbo and his game remained plugged in the arcade with Felix over the years. He’s still an egotistic asshole but isn’t as murderous like in the film and sees himself as a role model/inspiration for the newer racing game characters.

But then Sugar Rush is plugged in and he now has a little hell spawn rival who is Princess Vanellope. She’s just as cocky as he is and they’re always spitting insults at each other with the little racer calling him “grandpa” and “bug face”. To her, it’s all fun and games while Turbo is so done with her!

But then he notices her racing and realizes she actually has skills. Maybe not as good as his (no one can ever be better than him) but still impressive. So he gives her tips on how to improve her speed, perform tricks, drive dirty and rough, etc. and then eventually bringing her to practice on his track in his game. Everyone is so astonished by this. Turbo not only openly acknowledging another racer but also teaching them?!

Whether they realize it or not, they develop a mentor/student or pseudo-father/daughter dynamic that has everyone in the arcade giggling at how funny and kinda endearing it is.

Every time Vanellope wins a race, Turbo brags about it to everyone, saying how “She learnt that from me!” And “Of course she won! I’m her teacher after all!!”

He is the ultimate soccer mom who brags nonstop about his winner child and is such a bad role model (encourages cheating and being a show-off) and always spoils her

[lesbianswarm]

thinking about those terrible fourth house teens

[thedeadthree]

OC LANGUAGE SURVEY

tagged by my dearies @marivenah, @florbelles and @dihardys to take this cutest survey for my darlings! ty so much beloveds! here is part one as well!

TAGGING: @griffin-wood, @risingsh0t, @queennymeria, @chuckhansen, @leviiackrman, @aartyom, @swordcoasts, @jackiesarch, @blackreaches, @noonfaerie, @arklay, @yennas, @confidentandgood, @celticwoman, @shellibisshe, @aceghosts, @multiverse-of-themind, @jacobseed, @saintsilver, @roofgeese, @pheedraws @rosebarsoap and you!

NO. OF SPOKEN LANGUAGES: 1 / 2 / 3+

TONE OF VOICE: high(-ish) / average / deep

ACCENT: yes (a little faint but its there) / no

DEMEANOR: confident / shy / approachable / hostile / other (INTIMIDATING and often seemingly unapproachable but not necessarily hostile?)

POSTURE: slumped / straight / stiff / relaxed

HABITS - head tilting / swaying / fidgeting / stuttering / gesturing / arm crossing / strokes chin / er, um, or other interjections / plays with hair or clothing / hands at hips / inconsistent eye contact / maintains eye contact / frequent pausing / stands close / stands at a distance

COMPLEXITY

VOCABULARY: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️

EMOTION: ⚫️⚪️⚪️⚪️⚪️

SENTENCE STRUCTURE: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚪️

PROFANITY

FREQUENCY: ⚫️⚫️⚪️⚪️⚪️

CREATIVITY (in regards to profanity): ⚫️⚫️⚪️⚪️⚪️

BOLD ALL THAT APPLY -arse. ass. asshole. bastard. bitch. bloody. bugger. bollocks. chicken shit. crap. cunt. dick. frick. fuck. horseshit. motherfucker. piss. prick. screw. shit. shitass. son of a bitch. twat. wanker. pussy.

THIS OR THAT -straightforward or cryptic (corpo things babes!) / finding the right word or using the first word that comes to mind? / masculinity neutrality or femininity? / formalities or with abrasiveness? / praise or equivocation? / frankness or lies? / excessive or minimal hand gestures? / name-calling or magnanimity? (neither they’re not worth her time for that jdjajk) / friendly or blunt?

IMPORTANT QUESTIONS:

DO PEOPLE HAVE A HARD TIME HEARING OR UNDERSTANDING YOUR CHARACTER? - almost always / frequently (accent/language barrier, very rarely meaning) / rarely / never.

DOES YOUR CHARACTER’S POINT COME ACROSS EASILY WHEN THEY SPEAK? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER INITIATE CONVERSATIONS? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER BE THE ONE TO END CONVERSATIONS? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER USE ‘WHOM’ IN A SENTENCE? yes / no / only AND ironically

YOUR CHARACTER WANTS TO MAKE A COUNTERPOINT. WHAT WORD DO THEY USE? - but / though / although / however / perhaps / mayhaps.

HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER END CONVERSATIONS? - walk away / ask if that’s everything / say that’s everything / give a proper goodbye / tell their company they’re done here / remain quiet / they don’t.

WHAT SOCIAL CLASS WOULD OTHERS ASSUME YOUR CHARACTER BELONGS TO, HEARING THEM SPEAK? - upper / middle / lower.

IN WHAT WAYS DOES THE WAY YOUR CHARACTER SPEAK STAND OUT TO OTHERS? - accent / vocabulary / tone / level / politeness / brusqueness / it doesn’t.

NO. OF SPOKEN LANGUAGES: 1 / 2 / 3+

TONE OF VOICE: high(-ish) / average / deep

ACCENT: yes (a little faint but its there) / no

DEMEANOR: confident / shy / approachable / hostile / other (INTIMIDATING and often seemingly unapproachable but not necessarily hostile?)

POSTURE: slumped / straight / stiff / relaxed

HABITS - head tilting / swaying / fidgeting / stuttering / gesturing / arm crossing / strokes chin / er, um, or other interjections / plays with hair or clothing / hands at hips / inconsistent eye contact / maintains eye contact / frequent pausing / stands close / stands at a distance

COMPLEXITY

VOCABULARY: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️

EMOTION: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚪️⚪️

SENTENCE STRUCTURE: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️

PROFANITY

FREQUENCY: ⚫️⚫️⚪️⚪️⚪️

CREATIVITY (in regards to profanity): ⚫️⚫️⚪️⚪️⚪️

BOLD ALL THAT APPLY -arse. ass. asshole. bastard. bitch. bloody. bugger. bollocks. chicken shit. crap. cunt. dick. frick. fuck. horseshit. motherfucker. piss. prick. screw. shit. shitass. son of a bitch. twat. wanker. pussy.

THIS OR THAT -straightforward or cryptic? (shes both! <3) / finding the right word or using the first word that comes to mind? / masculinity neutrality or femininity? / formalities or with abrasiveness? / praise or equivocation? / frankness or lies? / excessive or minimal hand gestures? / name-calling or magnanimity? / friendly or blunt?

IMPORTANT QUESTIONS:

DO PEOPLE HAVE A HARD TIME HEARING OR UNDERSTANDING YOUR CHARACTER? - almost always / frequently (accent/language barrier, very rarely meaning) / rarely / never.

DOES YOUR CHARACTER’S POINT COME ACROSS EASILY WHEN THEY SPEAK? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER INITIATE CONVERSATIONS? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER BE THE ONE TO END CONVERSATIONS? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER USE ‘WHOM’ IN A SENTENCE? yes / no / only ironically

YOUR CHARACTER WANTS TO MAKE A COUNTERPOINT. WHAT WORD DO THEY USE? - but / though / although / however / perhaps / mayhaps.

HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER END CONVERSATIONS? - walk away / ask if that’s everything / say that’s everything / give a proper goodbye / tell their company they’re done here / remain quiet / they don’t.

WHAT SOCIAL CLASS WOULD OTHERS ASSUME YOUR CHARACTER BELONGS TO, HEARING THEM SPEAK? - upper / middle / lower.

IN WHAT WAYS DOES THE WAY YOUR CHARACTER SPEAK STAND OUT TO OTHERS? - accent / vocabulary / tone / level / politeness / brusqueness / it doesn’t.

NO. OF SPOKEN LANGUAGES: 1 / 2 / 3+

TONE OF VOICE: high(-ish) / average / deep

ACCENT: yes (a little faint but its there) / no

DEMEANOR: confident / shy / approachable / hostile / other (INTIMIDATING and often seemingly unapproachable but not necessarily hostile?)

POSTURE: slumped / straight / stiff / relaxed

HABITS - head tilting / swaying / fidgeting / stuttering / gesturing / arm crossing / strokes chin / er, um, or other interjections / plays with hair or clothing / hands at hips / inconsistent eye contact / maintains eye contact / frequent pausing / stands close / stands at a distance

COMPLEXITY

VOCABULARY: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️

EMOTION: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚪️

SENTENCE STRUCTURE: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚪️

PROFANITY

FREQUENCY: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️

CREATIVITY (in regards to profanity): ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️

BOLD ALL THAT APPLY -arse. ass. asshole. bastard. bitch. bloody. bugger. bollocks. chicken shit. crap. cunt. dick. frick. fuck. horseshit. motherfucker. piss. prick. screw. shit. shitass. son of a bitch. twat. wanker. pussy.

THIS OR THAT -straightforward or cryptic (both!) / finding the right word or using the first word that comes to mind? / masculinity neutrality or (AND) femininity? / formalities or with abrasiveness? / praise or equivocation? / frankness or lies? / excessive or minimal hand gestures? / name-calling or magnanimity? / friendly or blunt?

IMPORTANT QUESTIONS:

DO PEOPLE HAVE A HARD TIME HEARING OR UNDERSTANDING YOUR CHARACTER? - almost always / frequently (accent/language barrier, very rarely meaning) / rarely / never.

DOES YOUR CHARACTER’S POINT COME ACROSS EASILY WHEN THEY SPEAK? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely (if she feels like messing with u ajnsjkn) / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER INITIATE CONVERSATIONS? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER BE THE ONE TO END CONVERSATIONS? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER USE ‘WHOM’ IN A SENTENCE? yes / no / only ironically

YOUR CHARACTER WANTS TO MAKE A COUNTERPOINT. WHAT WORD DO THEY USE? - but / though / although / however / perhaps / mayhaps.

HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER END CONVERSATIONS? - walk away / ask if that’s everything / say that’s everything / give a proper goodbye / tell their company they’re done here / remain quiet / they don’t.

WHAT SOCIAL CLASS WOULD OTHERS ASSUME YOUR CHARACTER BELONGS TO, HEARING THEM SPEAK? - upper / middle / lower.

IN WHAT WAYS DOES THE WAY YOUR CHARACTER SPEAK STAND OUT TO OTHERS? - accent / vocabulary / tone / level / politeness / brusqueness / it doesn’t.

NO. OF SPOKEN LANGUAGES: 1 / 2 / 3+

TONE OF VOICE: high(-raspy) / average / deep

ACCENT: yes / no

DEMEANOR: confident / shy / approachable / hostile / other

POSTURE: slumped / straight / stiff / relaxed

HABITS - head tilting / swaying / fidgeting / stuttering / gesturing / arm crossing / strokes chin / er, um, or other interjections / plays with hair or clothing / hands at hips / inconsistent eye contact / maintains eye contact / frequent pausing / stands close / stands at a distance

COMPLEXITY

VOCABULARY: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️

EMOTION: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚪️⚪️

SENTENCE STRUCTURE: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚪️

PROFANITY

FREQUENCY: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️

CREATIVITY (in regards to profanity): ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚪️⚪️

BOLD ALL THAT APPLY -arse. ass. asshole. bastard. bitch. bloody. bugger. bollocks. chicken shit. crap. cunt. dick. frick. fuck. horseshit. motherfucker. piss. prick. screw. shit. shitass. son of a bitch. twat. wanker. pussy.

THIS OR THAT -straightforward or cryptic / finding the right word or using the first word that comes to mind? / masculinity neutrality or (AND) femininity? / formalities or with abrasiveness? / praise or equivocation? / frankness or lies? / excessive or minimal hand gestures? / name-calling or magnanimity? / friendly (with people she likes) or blunt?

IMPORTANT QUESTIONS:

DO PEOPLE HAVE A HARD TIME HEARING OR UNDERSTANDING YOUR CHARACTER? - almost always / frequently (accent/language barrier, very rarely meaning) / rarely / never.

DOES YOUR CHARACTER’S POINT COME ACROSS EASILY WHEN THEY SPEAK? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely (if she feels like messing with u ajnsjkn) / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER INITIATE CONVERSATIONS? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER BE THE ONE TO END CONVERSATIONS? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER USE ‘WHOM’ IN A SENTENCE? yes / no / only ironically

YOUR CHARACTER WANTS TO MAKE A COUNTERPOINT. WHAT WORD DO THEY USE? - but / though / although / however / perhaps / mayhaps.

HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER END CONVERSATIONS? - walk away / ask if that’s everything / say that’s everything / give a proper goodbye / tell their company they’re done here / remain quiet / they don’t.

WHAT SOCIAL CLASS WOULD OTHERS ASSUME YOUR CHARACTER BELONGS TO, HEARING THEM SPEAK? - upper / middle / lower.

IN WHAT WAYS DOES THE WAY YOUR CHARACTER SPEAK STAND OUT TO OTHERS? - accent / vocabulary / tone / level / politeness / brusqueness / it doesn’t.

[issahardknocklife]

Smile

Smile - i’ll only do for you

Make me feel so beautiful

Uplift your queen.. im full

Full with devotion

Full with sudden motion!

Held my chin & told me to smile!

You’re my bitch

I feel empowered for a while

Sweet suckle cum

Come to me

Any day or hour im here if you need

With my submission

I give in

Wash me holy

Smile bitch i said smile

I’m putting words in your mouth for a while...

Suck it like you’ve been waiting all of your life

Pump it like you wanted to be his wife

Gag on the blast of blissful protien

Ouuuu i feel better again.. it’s time to go eat

But wait i still need.. kisses

Give this mouse her milk.. but not all of her wishes

Plump and so ripe.. your type washes my dishes

Wait please don’t dismiss..

Just one more cookie😩

This mouse it just getting needy

Don’t take it there.. don’t tell me you don’t need me

Heart achess again.. each step closer to paradox door

I beg of you my king ..

Please dont leave me with the poor😪

Almost there.. head lights on.. one last goodbye

Run off into the dark cave

He already heard your tremble

Don’t let your highness see you cry..

🧎🏾‍♀️

[indollent]

ARGH!!! My heart achess. Stan was calling his mom :( and the way his mom defended him :(( he's such a mama's boy. i'm crushed.

"and pretending he wasn't a fraud and a failure" WHAT IF I JUMP OFF A CLIFF

"but when it came to be his turn to hold her he enjoyed the warmth and weight of her." ARGH LET THIS MAN BE A GIRL DAD RIGHT NOW :( i'm so sad

"Maybe he would have been." OMG SCREAMING HINT HINT NUDGE NUDGE????

"because she looked particularly enchanting when she was kneeling down talking to them. Like she was always meant to be doing that." "because he seemed to be particularly enchanting when he laughed like that. Like he was always meant to be this carefree" FUCK THE PARALELSSSS

THE WAY HE'S COMPETETIVE AND HE KNOWS SHE'S BLUFFING BUT HE'LL LET HER WIN IF IT MAKES HER HAPPY I'M THROWING UP

arghhh they're so cluelesss!!! and gosh the yearning is crazyyy.

again, super well writtenn arghh!! another banger from moonieandi 🙂‍↕️

snapshots pt. 5 | stanley pines x f!reader 

summary: the second year of your life “married” to stanley pines, particularly concerning traditions 

warnings (TW): swearing, gambling, illegal activities, illusions of past abuse 

tags: fluff, affection, mutual-pining

notes: canonically no one knows anything about shermie really, which would be hilarious if I didn’t have to write about it \\ also i feel like there not too much fluff in this (could be really fucking wrong lol) but the next part i have drafted is sickingly sweet so just give me some time 

Also (again) i’ll begin linking a legit masterlist below with all the parts! I thought of renaming each era but the naming part of things is where im legit the leassst creative for some reason? maybe later idk? but anyway! so much love from everyone! thank you so much! you don’t know how much i appreciate the love and the comments, thats why i continue writing this ahhhhhhh! thank you!!!

word count: 4.4k 

| masterlist |

March, 1983 

It had taken her several months to come to terms with what had to be done for the sake of their identities. 

He had been more open with her concerning his past in that one two-hour conversation than he had in the past year in its entirety. Something that would shake a normal woman, but she had become so oddly attached to her new partner she almost didn’t care about the picture he painted of what he used to be - something he insisted he still was. Bad. He had said to her that night. That he wasn’t any good. 

The painting only flooded with more color, in those following months after said heart-to-heart. His conversation with his mother spoke of it. It also spoke of a man who truly honestly couldn’t be the picture he had painted. 

It’s something they had both tiptoed around, conversations of their parentage. Of course, because of Ford, she knew that they grew up in the typical American nuclear family home, with a mother who lingered in doorways and a father who raised his hands as frequently as his voice. But she didn’t know how intertwined Stanley had been with his mother in particular. 

Which was hard, considering he was now legally dead. 

That first frantic conversation they had had over the phone had shaken him, had him reconsidering. But watching Doc’ wait in anticipation and disbelief in the next room over quickly made him change his mind. It was so they would be safe, he reasoned. 

His mother had called believing she was calling Ford after she received the shattering news that her baby boy was presumed to be dead. Baby being used here loosely, seeing as Ford was only truly older by a mere fifteen minutes. 

His mother hadn’t been shocked Ford hadn’t contacted her in that past year, something he had shook off every time he passed the landline. He thought to call her. But she was quite hung up on not having heard from Stanley that past year, insisting in her ways that surely he would have called, her free-spirited boy was always much more inclined to call her, something she had never blamed Stanford for of course. Just a flippant difference between her two boys. One called and the other lingered in doorways, like her. 

Stanley had reasoned with her over the landline. Insisting that he, unfortunately, would not be able to make it to his own brother's funeral, something she had tisked at, raising her voice to who she assumed was Stanford. This is your brother! She had insisted. You loved your brother, don’t say you didn’t. Everyone makes mistakes, you need to forgive him now. 

It was not until after the event that she called again, telling him not to worry. That she had attended for him, but that his father was just as busy as him. Something unspoken between them, just as stubborn. She had meant to say. Just as ignorant. 

His mother spoke with him in a different tone over the phone, a difference in how she held cadence when she was talking to Stanford rather than Stanley, something he wondered if Poindexter ever noticed. 

His Doc’ knew the conversations drained an odd part of him, so she did her best to work around him when his mother did ring their landline. Something she did semi-frequently now that Stanley was officially dead. 

In the beginning, she had lingered in the next room, then drifted through doorways, and eventually made it until she sat at the kitchen table with him, playing with his fingers in hopes of baiting him away from the phone. If the conversation was shorter then surely he wouldn’t have to pretend to be someone he wasn’t for too long. 

She later realized this was a mistake, no matter how his impression of his brother gnawed at an odd part of her psyche. So she moved from him, doing dishes and cooking. But still oddly near him. 

It was easier to lean into domesticity when she played it so well around him, and it made the phone calls less nerve-wracking to take. Pretending his wife was doting on him, that his long-distance mother was calling to check in, and pretending he wasn’t a fraud and a failure. So he usually insisted on her presence. And he pretended that she played a role in it all and that his mother didn’t sound different over the phone. One big lie to make him breathe better. 

It’s after one of these phone calls that he slumps deep in his kitchen seat one day, and she turns from the dishes in the sink to ask what’s wrong. 

“We’re gonna have to tell her one day.” 

“What?” 

“That we’re married, doll.” He crossed his arms, a contemplative look overtaking him. The first time he’d said the word since that conversation in the car. “I don’t know how long until we have ta’, but I know we gotta.” 

“Okay.” She hums, hands still sudsy from the sink. “Is there any other family we may have to tell?” 

“My older brother, Shermie. But he’s in Cali not Jersey like my ma.” He hums. “Older than me, don’t know him as well. But he is closer.” 

“And will he be able to tell?” She asks. “That you’re not Stanford?” 

“Nah.” He sighs. “He’s got a wife though, and a kid from what I remember. A baby girl, probably about ten now.” 

“Oh my god, so you’re an uncle?” She laughs, a smile splitting her face once more. 

“Ya doll, have been since I was 18. Remember meeting her, but pretty soon after I hit the road.” 

He had been fond of her, from what he could remember. The baby girl had rarely left the crook of his doting mother’s arms, but when it came to be his turn to hold her he enjoyed the warmth and weight of her. And her gummy smile at his continued insistence. He still remembers her tiny hands, fisted around one of his fingers. She had been small, smaller than he had imagined babies could be. He bet she was still small, it felt hard to imagine her as more than a swaddle in the swell of his arms now. 

Silence breaks between them again. “Well for what it’s worth I think you’d be a great uncle, if you could have been closer to her that is.” She hums, moving back to the sink to wash some more dishes. Her hair curved around her soft face, beautiful in her usual careless way.

Maybe he would have been. 

June, 1983

They had started a tradition in their home. A young tradition, but she figured it still was one since they had promised to go about their day the same way as they had the previous year. Except this time they had thought to prepare. 

The town they resided in was odd for sure and had an affinity for the unexplained and perhaps more creepy pursuits. The town had a tradition of its own in which they held a Halloween event twice a year, Summerween they called it. 

Not that they had known of it their first year residing in the shack, but it was quite the surprise to open the door to trick-or-treaters in mid-June. The children had unknowingly interrupted Stan's attempt to teach her how to play poker. Unfortunately for the children, they didn’t have any candy on hand for them that year. Without anything to give them, the kids retaliated by tee-peeing their yard that same night. 

She had found it only slightly annoying, having to clean it up the next morning. But it quickly fell into amusement, watching Stan stomp and curse while pulling toilet paper from bushes and trees. He didn’t enjoy a prank that was not his own. And he wouldn’t be caught unaware the next year. 

Which was why they had wandered around town that last week, looking for supplies to decorate their porch and getting last-minute off-brand candy. She had scoffed at the shitty candy they had bought but figured it was more or less all they could afford. She had eyed up the bigger bags of nicer candy, chocolate had always been a weakness of hers. 

Stan had also bought what he called “Scary Stan” supplies. Silly string, odd meats, and fake blood found its way into their shopping cart. Along with supplies for caramel apples upon her insistence. 

They had made a night of it, decorating their porch with fake spider webs and the town's traditional carved watermelon jack-o-lanterns. She had gone ahead in making caramel apples also, bagging them up as she went for the children. Perhaps it would make up for the shitty candy. 

In keeping with tradition, Stan thought to continue their poker night as they had been doing the previous Summerween. So their night was spent in an identical fashion almost, with detailed explanations of correct poker etiquette from Stan with interrupted rushing to and from the door to give awaiting kids off-brand chocolate and homemade caramel apples. Except they sat across from each other in costume now. She had been amused when he had insisted on them being matching, he had flushed in embarrassment in the store that week, pleading his case after his initial insistence. Like it was only natural that they would match. She barely fought it, something odd aching in her chest at his rather sweet insistence.

“Come on! It’s a good idea!” 

“What are we Stan, twelve?” 

“No, we're married. Just as embarrassing.” He had said flippantly, his ears red in a flush as he shoved two capes into the shopping cart along with everything else. 

Which is how they ended up here tonight, sitting across from each other in the dim kitchen light, both dressed as a gaudy vampire couple while Stan explained for the fourth time the probability of getting a royal flush. Her feet propped up on his lap, like always. He had bent down to grab them, folding them into the curve of him. 

He had tried not to stare too long when she came down the stairs earlier, her matching velvet red cape and shitty plastic vampire teeth sat oddly in her mouth. But it was one of the first times she had done her makeup like that, all dark and creased around her enchanting eyes. And the first time he had ever seen that black shirt, which had a surprisingly low cut. All the more distracting. 

This is why he was stumbling through explaining what a royal flush was for the fourth time, and probably why she was looking all confused at him like that also. 

“Okay doll, let’s run through this a couple of times, then we’ll put in some real steaks here.” 

“Stan we are dead broke we are not gambling money tonight. You’d rob me blind!” 

“Shush!” He insisted, smiling across from her. “Just a couple rounds, I’ll show you some good hands and we’ll go from there, okay?” 

They were interrupted interspersedly from time to time during their practice rounds, Stan usually being the one to race out to the porch first, in hopes of scaring whatever little kid dared knock on their porch door. 

Of course, if the child was too young he’d call for her. She had put up a fight with him about scaring kids that were younger than ten tonight. Which he had been glum about until he watched her with them. 

She’d gush at the doorway, complimenting costumes and handing out her caramel apples she had slaved away over. She had this certain smile too, and silently in the back of his mind he thanked any little kid who knocked on their door that night because she looked particularly enchanting when she was kneeling down talking to them. Like she was always meant to be doing that. 

Anyone over ten was free for the taking though, and he took particular pride in scaring any poor sap who was old enough in her eyes. The fake blood in particular came in handy, and she would laugh when he’d routinely come back from the porch door slathered in it. She silently thanked those kids tonight, because he seemed to be particularly enchanting when he laughed like that. Like he was always meant to be this carefree. 

The poker games practice rounds were over though. And he had a particular surprise just for her. 

“Ta-Da!” He said, while pulling out a bag of candy from the very top cabinet she could never reach in the kitchen. 

“Oh my god, is that chocolate!” She gasped again, reaching for the bag. “Name-brand chocolate! Awe, you shouldn’t have Stan.” She encased it in her arms, hugging it like a stuffy. It was the bag she had been eyeing up in the grocery store not even a week ago.

“Ah-ah!” He moved to grab the bag back. “This is what we are betting with tonight, doll.” Candy back in his hands, he moved back to his seat. Opening the bag to evenly disperse the individually wrapped candy between the two of them. 

“How’d you even get that bag, Stan, we can barely afford everything else we bought.” 

“You don’t wanna know, hun.” He said, shuffling her candy pile in front of her. Okay, so he had stolen it, so what? He hadn’t called her “hun” in a while though. Distracting. 

He almost never called her that sickeningly sweet name now, something she thought about far too often for her good. She missed that term of endearment in particular for some reason. But perhaps Stan found it to be too domestic, too personal for what both resided between them now. Perhaps it reminded him of her mistake, of her tying herself to him for the foreseeable future. Her heart did something odd though, when he would call her that. She usually made note of it when he did call her “hun” now. Because it was so rare to hear it, and she hesitated to ask why. It would slip out of him in odd moments, moments he would catch himself unaware and relaxed around her. But it always made him flush now, too. 

The game followed similarly, his flushing smirk distracting her from her hand on more than one occasion. He was so charmingly confident when he was playing games, so competitive. She tried to shake it off, the way he looked like this. She wanted to play with him, too. 

“You’re full of shit doll.” 

“No!” She gasps, suddenly a good actress. “My hand is just that good bucko! I raised it by too cluster bars, are you gonna meet or fold sir?” She hummed, smiling at him over her hand of cards. 

This was probably the only time she was damn good at lying, he conceded. She liked to play it up, waving her hands and laughing everything off. She was pretty good at playing off a hand that had absolutely nothing in it. But he had memorized her tell long ago, memorized her face just the same. She looked the same every night, teasing him across this kitchen table over dinner. Her brow upturned just a little, her cheeks flushed. That was the look, her look. She had nothing in her hand. 

But he was wiping the floor with her. 

He hums, hand over his lips. “I guess I fold then.” He sets his cards down, pushing his stack of candy back towards her.  

“Yes!” She jumps up, reaching across to swipe his candy into her pile. An elated smile on her face as she dances in her seat. The kitchen light making shadows on her face, the sun having finally gone down to alleviate some of the June heat. She stops mid-dance, a realization blooming over her face. “Wait a minute.” 

“Hmmmm?” He says, munching on one of his candies. 

“I know for a fact you can count cards, Stan!” Her finger pointed accusingly at her. “That’s why they won’t let you back in Nashville. You should legitimately win every round, and I know that for a fact!” 

He leans back in his kitchen chair, laughing in his low gravelly voice. “Perhaps?” He questions, hands held up in guilt. 

“Gahh!” She yells, reaching across the table and the stacks of candy to throw a fist at his shoulder. “I’ll get you for real one day.” 

“You’re smart hun, I know you will.” That flush across his face. 

“You’re smart too though.” She says, stating what she knows to be true. He is smart, he proves it to her every day. He just would never actually take the compliment, something he figured was a lie. He’d never been called smart in his life before her. He’d let her lie about this one thing though. His head hung off the back of his chair. His Doc’ was a terrible liar, though. 

“Nah!” He says flippantly, hand waving away her truth. “Let’s watch a movie!” Jumping from his seat, scooping up her pile and his pile of chocolates, and racing to the T.V. They’d play again the next year, and he’d let her win again in hopes it would make her just as happy as she just was. And maybe then she’d believed she’d won and he’d believe he was smart enough to be out-witted by the likes of her. 

“Do you want anything to drink?” She inquires, head popping back into the living room. 

“No no, come here!” Waving her in, so she can plop down next to him on the floor. Candy piled high in between the both of them. A mischievous grin sneaks up on his face, hand already reaching for the movie she’d hate. She was terrified of zombies, for some reason. Something he takes advantage of routinely. Anything to have her curled up next to him, her heat seeping into his side as his hand made a home on the back of her neck. Like usual, like always. Something that still made him feel sickly sweet, her flippant affection for him. It must be nothing for her, to be this close to him.

“Scary movie?” 

She nods, mouth full of chocolate and shirt dangerously low. Her cape piled around her, and her eyes dark as she grins at him. Distracting. 

October, 1983

They had hit a metaphorical dead end when it came to the portal. Something they both feared voicing between the two of them. 

It was hard, almost impossible, to reverse engineer the plans drawn out in the one journal they had on hand. She knew there had to be two more out there, hidden in the woods. A homage to the three corners of the portal that she stared at day in and out. Stanford was like that in a way, flippantly sentimental about the oddest thing. 

Her old friend more than likely buried the other two journals somewhere on the property. Unfortunately for them both they did not know where the property line began and ended, but she more or less figured it was a lot of land to cover. Stan had backed up this claim, explaining to her that first night that Stanford had wanted him to take this first journal, take it with him to the ends of the earth. In hopes that the portal his brother had created couldn’t be replicated. Something they had both dared to do now and something they did not discuss in great lengths either. 

He had put them away in his haste, she figured. He was never one to half-ass anything really, but with the way Stan had described his brother that night he disappeared into the portal, she figured he was not necessarily himself. Not himself, actually at all. She had contemplated it a lot, the fear of otherworldly possession. But had a hard time believing Stanford would let anything into something as sacred as he believed his mind to be. He didn’t even let her up there. 

But the way he described his odd relationship with an entity that happened to be a shape was… distracting. It constantly had her flipping back and forth in the journal, looking for clues as to what Ford was doing in relation to an otherworldly being. He couldn’t help his own curiosity she figured, something she had never blamed him for except for now. Something she cursed him for, now. 

So they had both agreed to move in silence when it came to passing into the tree line of the property. She had more than hinted at their need for caution in communicating with whatever the hell Ford had previously encountered. Stan and Ford both considered themselves adventurers in their own right, which would be admirable if one of them wasn't missing from their current plane of existence. 

They had headed out together one October day, bundled up, and hoping to find signs of Ford on their property line. Hoping to find one of the journals, and nothing else. 

His red coat with a new patch was swung over his shoulders, as she had whined in the doorway that morning. She much preferred his things to her own nowadays. Much preferred to be swallowed by his shirts and jackets, not that he would ever comment. There was just more warmth to his things than her own now, and she preferred the imprint he left on the couch to her own in these colder months. Stealing his spot when he would up and leave for a new drink, laughing when he would come back to claim it. Stealing that imprint of him was her only joy, because it made him laugh and flush differently when she got close now. The closest he had allowed in months, the imprints and loose shirts he’d leave behind. Made something behind her chest ache thinking about it.

Felt slightly disjointed in their trek through the forest now, the thought of the unknown just beyond them both. And no warmth of his jacket to cool the part of her that achingly worried for him now.

But of course, they both had weighed the probability of them encountering some creatures that Ford had sighted in his journal, but she feared encountering something that was not listed in the specific one they had in their possession. Something out in the borders of their home, that they had no knowledge of. 

He was swearing with every step through the underbrush ahead of her, his hand held behind him in case she would need it when trekking through the uneven forest floor. His head held down as he stomped a path into the fallen leaves for her. Her head held up, looking for signs of their long-gone friend somewhere between the trees. 

“Fuck!” She swears, tripping over fallen branches. He reaches back, catching her with the length of his outstretched arm. The first time he had reached for her since he bent to fold her legs across his lap this morning. He felt far away. He was flushed though, worked up with the long trek they both had made. Some odd miles between them and their home now. 

He grunts, lifting her back to her feet with ease. Moving to wipe dead leaves and twigs from her hiking pants unconsciously.

“Should we map this out doll?” 

“Mhm.” She nods, as he reaches back into their shared backpack he had been carrying. Taking out a property map and a compass. He had thought to bring the map, commenting on how they could mark down when they would see odd things throughout the forest, and so they could track where they had already been. She had thought to bring the compass, simply to find their way home. 

She looks down at the unfolded map now held up in his hands, stepping to bend down under his arm, residing in front of his expansive chest and between his outstretched arms. He was warm, she noted, a part of her cooling. 

“Sooooo… I think I saw something around here.” She moved her pencil up, marking along their predetermined path where she thought she had seen tree carvings. She took a step back, running into his chest. Trying to get closer to him, before he would inevitably leave. “I believe we are about 1.5 to 2 miles out from the shack?” She questions, tilting her head back to look at him. 

He grunts, flushed by her proximity. Her back to his chest, he noted how warm she was when she was this close. Her eyes shining up at him in question. She shouldn’t be this close. 

“Mmm, feels like we’ve been walkin’ longer than that.” 

“You may be right.” She hums, her pencil held in her mouth now. “Should we retrace our steps? Get a better estimate? And look at that carving I saw?” 

“Whatever you say, boss.” He grunts, trying to move his eyes away from her. 

“Alright!” She steps back from him, suddenly cold. Ducking beneath his arm and stepping away from him as he begins to fold back up the map. She’d savor whatever he allowed. “Then we’ll be home in time for lunch.” She comments. 

“Can we have those fancy deli sammiches?” 

“Mmmm, sounds good to me.” She shrugs, letting him lead the way back to their home. Trying to find oddities in the tree line, but getting distracted by his shoulders the entirety of the way home. Missing that imprint of him along her back already.

[swiftsdibbles]

I can feel like my heart is being torn apart into a million pieces every time I listen to Soon You’ll Get Better. It really achess even more because I know how it exactly feels. And I never want to wish it upon anyone. The feeling of helplessness because you can't do anything but give your support and love. You wish you can take to pain away, but you can't.

It really makes you look at life from a different perspective. As Taylor said, you should be happy that you have today to live instead of wishing for 20 or more years to live. Tell your loved ones that you love them every day. Give them your attention and never end your day with an unresolved fight.

With that said, if anyone is facing a similar situation, I wish you love and I hope you can get through this difficult time ❤️❤️❤️

[ghostadas]

“Sometimes, I think all we have in common is the war. We were so different back then, and I didn’t know if either of us would live to see the end. It was easy to fall in love.” And then, later on, when we became ordinary people, our old selves faded quietly away…

someone please read this fic with me, i’m physically about to leave my body 

[wvffles]

awe my heart achess :( but at least he knows the truth now (she deserves another hug though :’)

It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader (...?)

Warnings: angstangstangstangstangst, canon violence, canon gore, manipulation, abusive dynamics

Word Count: 4338

Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

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Dean’s ghost sickness had actually been quite eye-opening for you. It made you realize that even though he had no idea what you’d done, he was still turning to you for comfort in his darkest moments. And by keeping this secret from him, you were hurting him and making him even more paranoid. 

You knew you needed to talk to him about what you’d done while he was in Hell. There was no way either of you could heal if you didn’t.

Even despite your revelation, you hadn’t exactly found the right way to bring it up to Dean yet; especially considering Dean wanted to jump straight into hunting again after his ghost sickness. 

An awkwardness you’d never had with him before had overcome the two of you. To call the two of you “extremely stubborn” would be a grave understatement. Neither of you would bring up Dean’s ghost sickness, and neither of you would bring up those dreadful four months.

Even still, you were at least able to have a conversation without ripping each other’s heads off. 

“C’mon, (Y/N), it’s almost Halloween,” Dean said. “Get into the holiday spirit, huh?”

“Yeah, I just feel like we have more pressing issues to attend to,” you replied. “Apocalypse, end of the world; ringing a bell?”

He scoffed and shrugged. “C’mon. This may be a nothing burger.”

“A guy coughed up razor blades, Dean, that doesn’t sound like a nothing burger to me. Sounds like a witch,” you replied. 

“Yeah, okay, you’re right, can we just take this one? Please?” he begged. 

“Fine, fine,” you replied.

****

Sure enough, you found a hex bag beneath the floorboards of the victim’s house. 

Dean sat on the couch in the motel room he shared with his brother, scarfing down a few pieces of candy. 

Sam grimaced. “Really? After that guy choked down all those razor blades?” 

“It’s Halloween, man,” Dean replied.

“Our everyday is Halloween,” you told him, looking over Sam’s shoulder at his laptop. “Found anything fun yet?”

“Well, we’re on a witch hunt, that’s for sure, but this isn’t your typical hex bag,” Sam replied, nodding at the contents of the bag scattered across the coffee table. There was a piece of silver about the size of a coin, a few small, charred items, and something that resembled a dried up flower. Sam picked up the latter, saying, “Goldthread, an herb that’s been extinct for two hundred years. And this—” he picked up the silver piece, “is Celtic, and I don’t mean some new age knock-off. It looks like the real deal, like, six-hundred-years-old real.” 

“Damn,” you muttered. You looked at one of the small charred objects. “Oh, holy shit.” 

“What?” Dean asked. 

“Looks like a finger bone. From… a baby,” you explained, looking a little sad. 

“Dead on,” Sam noted. “Metacarpal bone of a newborn.”

“Jesus,” you sighed. “Gotta be a pretty powerful one to put a bag like this together. More juice than we’ve ever dealt with.”

“What about you? Find anything on the victim?” Sam asked his brother. 

Dean scoffed. “This Luke Wallace? He was so vanilla that he made vanilla seem spicy. I can’t find any reason why somebody would want this guy dead.”

Sam huffed, running a hand through his hair. 

“Great,” you grumbled. “We’ll just wait for more bodies to show up, then.”

****

Sure enough, they did. Later that evening, you heard about a death at a high school party on the police scanner. A teenager’s face had been boiled off while she was bobbing for apples; of course, the witch had struck again. 

You saw the girl who’d witnessed her friend’s death talking to a police officer, and you took her aside. 

“It’s just so weird,” the girl— whose name you learned was Tracy— told you, “the water in the tub— it wasn’t hot, I had just been in there myself.”

“Did your friend know a guy named Luke Wallace?” you asked her. 

“Um, who’s Luke Wallace?” she asked. 

“He died yesterday,” you responded. 

“I don’t know who that is.” Tracy shook her head. 

You tilted your head to the side. “I’m not asking if you know him, I asked if she did.”

She looked at the floor, tucking a stray piece of blonde hair behind her ear. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I don’t think she did. If she did, she never mentioned him.”

You nodded. “Thank you. Didn’t mean to scare you. Be safe out there,” you told her, turning away. The look you gave her over your shoulder as you walked away seemed to make her greatly uncomfortable, and you took a little bit of pride in that.

****

While you were busy interviewing the witness, Sam found a hex bag in the couch cushions of the house. 

Dean sat behind your computer, scrolling endlessly while you flipped through a book on his bed. Sam was lounging on the other one, reading as well. 

“I’m telling you guys, both these vics are squeaky clean,” Dean sighed. “There is no reason for a wicked bitch payback.” Then, you realized something. “ ‘Cause I don’t think it’s about that.”

Dean scoffed. “Wow, insightful.”

“Don’t be a dick,” you scolded, giving him a look. “I think she’s working a spell.” You read from the book, crossing the room to the table Dean sat at. “ ‘Three blood sacrifices over three days, the last before midnight on the final day of the final harvest’.”

Sam noted, “Celtic Calendar, the final day of the final harvest is October thirty-first.” 

“What exactly are the, uh, blood sacrifices for?” Dean asked. 

“If I’m right about this, it’s a demon: Samhain,” you told them. 

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” 

You rolled your eyes. 

“Dean, Samhain is the damn origin of Halloween,” Sam explained. “The Celts believe that October thirty-first was the one night of the year when the veil was the thinnest between the living and the dead, and it was Samhain’s night. I mean, masks were put on to hide from him, sweets left on doorsteps to appease him, faces carved into pumpkins to worship him. He was exorcized centuries ago.”

“So, even though Samhain took a trip downstairs, the tradition stuck,” Dean said. 

Sam nodded. “Exactly, only now, instead of demons and blood orgies, Halloween is all about kids, candy and costumes.”

“Exciting stuff,” you remarked. 

“Okay, so some witch wants to raise Samhain and take back the night?” Dean gave you a skeptical look.

Sam scolded, “Dean, this is serious.”

“I am serious.”

“We’re talking heavyweight witchcraft,” you told him. “This ritual can only be performed every six hundred years.”

“And the six hundred year marker rolls around…?”

“Tomorrow night,” you said. Your mind was reeling, wondering how you’d magically happened upon this hunt. Uriel’s words of nothing being coincidence haunted you, and you suddenly remembered he hadn’t spoken to you in almost two months. 

You looked down at the page Dean had flipped to; a crude drawing of a demon standing on a huge pile of bodies covered it completely. 

“Well, it sure is a lot of death and destruction for one demon,” Dean muttered. 

“That’s because he likes company,” Sam told him. “Once he's raised, Samhain can do some raising of his own.”

“Raising what, exactly?”

“Dark, evil crap and lots of it, I mean, they follow him around like the fuckin’ Pied Piper,” the younger brother explained. 

“So we're talking ghosts, zombies… leprechauns?” 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Dean—”

“Those little dudes are scary,” the older man defended. “Small hands.”

You barely even registered what Sam said next. “Look, it just starts with ghosts and ghouls, this sucker keeps on going, by night's end we are talking every awful thing we have ever seen. Everything we fight, all in one place.”

Dean went quiet for a moment. “It’s gonna be a slaughterhouse.”

Your mind was beginning to flood with thought of the apocalypse, the seals, and everything you’d been hiding. Your breathing labored, time slowed, and you ran to the bathroom to throw your guts up into the toilet. 

****

Dean and Sam were obviously incredibly concerned about you, but you couldn’t quite spit it out.

“Dean, I promise, when we’re done with this bitch, I’ll tell you everything,” you assured him. “I just feel like I’ll throw up again if we talk about it right now.”

“Okay, alright, fine,” he responded in a grumble. 

You sighed, looking over at him from the Impala’s passenger seat. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. I trust you completely. Please, just… give me a little more time.”

Dean nodded in silent affirmation, still staring across the street at the Wallaces’  house.

“Thank you,” you said. 

His phone rang; undoubtedly a call coming from Sam. He put the phone on speaker. “Yeah?” Dean answered. 

Sam stayed behind at the motel to research while you went with Dean on a stakeout. “How’s it going?” the younger brother asked.

Dean snorted. “Awesome, yeah, we talked with Mrs. Razor Blade again. Been sitting out in front of her house for hours and got a big steamy pile of nothing.”

You huffed out a short laugh as you listened to him talk.

“Look Dean, someone planted those hex bags: someone with access to both houses. There’s gotta be some connection,” Sam replied.

“Yeah, well, I hope we find ‘em soon, ‘cause I’m starting to cramp like a motherfucker—” he stopped suddenly when he saw something in the house. “Son of a bitch.”

You followed his line of sight to where Tracy, the teenager you’d spoken to at the scene of Jenny’s death, was approaching the house. “Son of a bitch!”

Immediately, Dean headed back to the motel. He slapped his roomkey onto the table, and you stood across from Sam who laid on the bed with his laptop open. 

“So, our apple-bobbing cheerleader?” Sam asked when you’d filled him in on the situation.

“Looks like it,” you grumbled, crossing your arms over your chest. “The Wallaces' babysitter. Told me she never even heard of Luke Wallace.”

“Huh,” Sam replied, “interesting look for a centuries-old witch.”

“Yeah, well, if you were a six-hundred-year-old hag,” Dean began, sitting in the chair at the table next to you, “and you could pick any costume to come back in, wouldn't you go for a hot cheerleader? I would.”

You hit his shoulder lightly. 

“Well, Tracy’s not as wholesome as she looks. Did some digging, apparently she got into a violent altercation with one of her teachers; got suspended from school,” Sam explained. He turned the laptop around to you and Dean, allowing you to see the full page of information Sam pulled up on Tracy.

Thanks to it, the three of you were able to get to her high school. You were on the way to talk to Don Harding, the teacher she’d gotten into the altercation with. 

Various art projects littered the walls beside you and Dean, and he seemed to get particularly transfixed by one of the masks hanging up. It was a demonic-looking mask, and you were sure it was bringing back memories from Hell. 

“Bring back memories?” Sam asked his brother.

Dean looked taken aback. “What do you mean?”

‘Yep, definitely a Hell flashback,’ you thought.

“Being a teenager, all that angst.”

You giggled, looking down at your sneakers and trying to distract from Dean’s little moment. “I never went to high school, so, no.”

Sam tilted his head at you. “Really?”

You shrugged. “There was no need. Not like my parents could get arrested for not sending me if Uncle Sam didn’t know I existed.” You nodded over to the boy who’d witnessed the apple-bobbing incident. He was putting a big, bong-shaped piece into a kiln. “Now that brings back memories.”

The man you’d been waiting to see came out from around the corner. “You gentlemen— oh, excuse me, and lady— wanna talk to me?” 

“Ah, Mr. Harding,” Sam began.

“Oh, please, Don.” The teacher reached for Sam’s hand. 

“Okay, Don,” Sam smiled.

The teacher explained to you that Tracy had moved into town about a year ago and had seemed like an okay student up until recently. She would’ve “clawed his eyes out” had another teacher not intervened since Don confronted her about the nature of her drawings. The way he’d described them, they all seemed to depict graphic sacrifice rituals with various runes scrawled into the paper. He also told you she had an apartment; the witch had been posing as an emancipated teen.

However, when you went looking for her there, she was nowhere to be found. Her friends hadn’t seen her, and neither had the CCTV cameras facing the street outside her apartment building.

As the three of you headed back to the brothers’ motel room, Dean and Sam bickered about the fact that Tracy could be sacrificing another at any time. You pinched the bridge of your nose while Sam unlocked the room.

He immediately drew his gun when he’d gotten it open, and you were put on alert. You frantically searched the room for what Sam saw, and it was like the wind got knocked out of you.

“Whoa, whoa, Sam!” Dean said, making him put his gun down. “It’s Castiel, the angel.” He nodded to the more familiar figure in the room that you were having trouble processing was in front of you. “Him, I don’t know.”

“Uriel,” you breathed out.

Dean looked back at you in surprise while Sam approached Castiel.

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel told him. 

“Oh my God— er, uh, I didn’t mean to— sorry. It’s an honor, really, I- I’ve heard a lot about you,” Sam stuttered. He moved to shake the angel’s hand.

Castiel seemed not to understand what was going on for a moment but soon put his hand in Sam’s. “And I, you, Sam Winchester. The boy with the demon blood. Glad to see you’ve ceased your extracurricular activities.”

Uriel remained facing the window, but his voice sent a shiver down your spine. “Let’s keep it that way.”

“Yeah, okay, chuckles,” Dean grunted. 

“Dean—” you warned. 

His head snapped back to you in confusion as to why you were seemingly defending Uriel. You couldn’t stand to look at him. 

“This, the raising of Samhain, have you stopped it?” Castiel asked, looking directly at you. 

“Why?” Dean shot back, answering for you.

The angel was clearly not impressed. “Dean, have you located the witch?”

The older brother rolled his eyes. “Yes, we’ve located the witch,” he mocked.

“And is the witch dead?”

“No,” you answered.

“We know who it is, though,” Sam added.

Castiel walked over to the nightstand between Sam’s and Dean’s beds. “Apparently, the witch knows who you are, too.” He picked up a hex bag and showed it to the three of you. “This was inside the wall between your rooms. If we hadn’t found it, surely one or all of you would be dead. Do you know where the witch is now?”

You stepped forward, answering, “No.”

“We’re working on it,” Dean insisted.

“That’s unfortunate,” Castiel stated.

“What do you care?” the older Winchester snapped.

“The raising of Samhain is one of the sixty-six seals,” you explained, continuing to face Castiel and Uriel.

“Wh— Why do you know that?” Dean asked, coming around to stand by you. He apparently shook the thought aside and redirected his anger at Castiel and Uriel. “So, this is about your buddy Lucifer.”

“Lucifer is no friend of ours,” Uriel said. 

“It’s just an expression,” you said quietly.

Castiel carried on the conversation. “Lucifer cannot rise. The breaking of the seal must be prevented at all costs.”

“Okay, great, well, now that you’re here, why don’t you tell us where the witch is, we’ll gank her, and everybody goes home,” Dean demanded.

“We are not omniscient. This witch is very powerful; she’s cloaked even to our methods.”

“Okay, well, we already know who she is, so if we work together—”

Uriel cut Sam off. “Enough of this.”

“Okay, why should I care what you say?” Dean snapped.

“Dean!” you scolded as Uriel turned away from the window. “He’s a… a specialist.”

The angel in question stalked toward you specifically. 

“What kind of specialist?” Dean questioned, looking between you and Uriel. “What are you gonna do?”

“You need to leave this town immediately, (Y/N). Take the Winchesters with you,” Uriel ordered.

You nodded obediently. 

“What is he gonna do?” Dean asked, seeing as Uriel was providing him no answer. “(Y/N), what’s he gonna do?”

“Destroy it,” you responded, voice barely above a whisper. You knew almost everything about Uriel’s angelic powers, and you were far past questioning his practices. When an unbearable silence settled over the room, you started packing Sam’s and Dean’s things into their respective bags. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what are you doing?!” Dean demanded, looking at you in bewilderment.

“We’re out of time,” Castiel spoke over Dean. “This witch has to die; the seal must be saved.”

“There are a thousand people here,” Sam challenged.

Dryly, Uriel stated, “One-thousand, two-hundred fourteen.”

“And you’re willing to kill them all?” 

“This isn’t the first time I’ve purified a city,” the angel replied.

Castiel stepped in as you continued packing. “Look, I understand this is regrettable—”

“Regrettable?” Dean scoffed.

“We have to hold the line. Too many seals have broken already.” 

“So you fuck the pooch on some seals and this town has to pay the price?”

“It’s the lives of one thousand against the lives of six billion. There’s a bigger picture here.”

“Right, ‘cause you’re ‘bigger picture’ kind of guys.”

Castiel’s voice grew louder. “Lucifer cannot rise. He does, and Hell rises with him. Is that something that you’re willing to risk?”

“We'll stop this witch before she summons anyone. Your seal won't be broken, and no one has to die,” Sam tried.

Uriel spat, “We're wasting time with these mud monkeys.”

“I’m sorry, but we have our orders.” Castiel turned away from Dean to face Uriel.

“No, you can’t do this,” Sam pleaded, “you’re angels, I mean you’re supposed to—  You’re supposed to show mercy.”

“Says who?” Uriel responded.

“We have no choice,” added Castiel.

“Of course, you have a choice,” Dean argued, stepping closer to the two angels. “I mean, come on, what? You’ve never questioned a crap order, huh? What are you both, just a couple of hammers?”

“Dean, cut it out,” you pleaded from your spot where you’d finished packing his and Sam’s bags.

“Look, even if you can’t understand it, have faith. The plan is just,” said Castiel.

“How can you even say that?” Sam asked.

“Because it comes from Heaven; that makes it just.”

Dean scoffed, “Oh, it must be nice, to be so sure of yourselves.”

“All of you, fucking stop it!” you shouted, effectively stopping them from talking over each other. 

Uriel seemed proud while Sam and Dean just looked hurt and confused. You stood between the four men and faced Sam and Dean. “Arguing is pointless. Believe me, I’ve tried. We can’t stay here,” you told them. “Just… let it go.”

Dean looked at you like he had no idea who you were, and it broke your heart to pieces. 

“It’d do you well to listen to her,” Uriel stated evenly. “She’s the only one with sense among you.”

You kept your pleading gaze on Dean, but he stared straight over your head at the angels. “Well, sorry, boys; looks like the plans have changed.”

“Dean, no—”

Uriel scoffed. “You think you can stop us?”

The older Winchester marched right up to Uriel and stood in his face, and you were frozen to your spot in fear. “No, but if you’re gonna smite this whole town, then you’re gonna have to smite us with it. Because we are not leaving. See, you went through the trouble of busting me outta Hell. I figure I'm worth something to the man upstairs. So, you wanna waste me, go ahead; see how he digs that.”

The angel growled, “I will drag you out of here myself.”

“Yeah, but you’ll have to kill me, then we’re back to the same problem. I mean, come on, you're gonna wipe out a whole town for one little witch. Sounds to me like you're compensating for something.” He turned to Castiel, shoulders still squared. “We can do this. We will find that witch, and we will stop the summoning.”

Uriel shouted, “Castiel! I will not let these peop—”

Castiel held his hand up to stop him from speaking. “Enough!” He looked between you, Sam, and Dean. “I suggest you move quickly.”

****

And quickly, you did. Aside from communication about the hunt, neither Sam nor Dean spoke to you. You didn’t blame them, but you were more than willing to explain yourself to both of them after the fight was over.

Sam had just as much trouble making peace with the fact that angels were real, and quite frankly, horrible. Dean liked to believe that not all angels were bad, but you’d met several. All of them were terrible.

It was suffice to say your head wasn’t in the game for your fight with Tracy and the art teacher— whom you discovered was her brother— and, as a result, Samhain had been raised. Another seal was broken, and you couldn’t stop it. 

The demon successfully got his zombies out of the ground, and you and Dean had to fight hard to subdue them all. Your lack of focus had you making all kinds of mistakes you never would in hand-to-hand combat. 

And, much to your dismay, Sam used his powers again. Thinking back on the events of the night just made your chest hurt, and you preferred not to dwell on it much.

The drive back to the motel was absolutely brutal. You’d sustained gashes in the back of your left forearm and down your left side from a zombie throwing you into a jagged iron gate, but you tried your best to make it back to the motel without making a sound of pain.

Dean would stitch you up under normal circumstances, but you didn’t want him to have to help you after you’d hurt him so badly. You just needed to be in your room, alone with your first aid kit. 

The second the car was in park, you were hobbling back to your room. 

“Where do you think you’re goin?” Dean gruffly called after you. 

“Leave me alone, Dean,” you begged, tears flooding your eyes. You jammed your key into your door, stepping inside the room with Dean hot on your heels.

“You’re not gonna run away again, (Y/N)! Not after the shit you pulled with the angels.” He slammed the door behind him, startling you.

You wobbled and nearly collapsed to the floor if it weren’t for Dean catching you. When he pulled his hand away from your side, it was covered in blood. 

“(Y/N), what the fuck?” 

“ ‘S fine,” you slurred. “Jus’ need to stitch myself up.”

“No, no way. I got it.”

While you were grateful for his help, you felt horrible about the fact that here he was, yet again, having to clean up your mess after you'd hurt him.

As he worked on your side, you muttered, “I’m so sorry, Dean.” 

“I know,” he said gruffly. “But you better have a hell of an explanation, sweetheart. ‘Cause I’m pissed.”

“I know,” you responded shamefully. You took in a sharp breath as he tied off the last stitch to your arm. “Can- Can we talk now?” 

He nodded, standing from the floor and helping you up. You winced painfully and hobbled over to your bed. 

Dean sat at the table across from you. 

You took a shaky breath, trying to gain your composure. 

“That angel had you eating out of the palm of his hand, dude,” Dean told you. “Do you know what it felt like to watch that?”

You closed your eyes. “I know, I’m sorry. It’s not because I trust him, though. I didn’t want to leave a town of people to die.”

“Okay, then, what?”

You explained it all. You told him about your shoddy plan to save him from Hell, then, how Uriel had approached you, the men you’d tortured, and what you understood about the angel hierarchy. You told him of Uriel’s threats against Dean, how he frequently belittled you, and then, Dean asked a question you couldn’t avoid. 

“Why’d you listen to him, (Y/N)? I know you’re saying he’d hurt me, but you’re smart enough to know I’m valuable to Heaven if they were willing to rescue me from Hell,” Dean stated softly; it didn’t seem like he had fully processed everything you told him yet. 

“I don’t know if that’s true, Dean,” you said.

“Why?” 

“Because I think there’s something else going on here,” you began. “Michael wanted my… talents… for something. Uriel clearly wasn’t concerned about your health and well-being, and they had me helping with their ‘angel trials,’ or whatever, for months before you were saved.” You knew you’d have to tell him another portion of the truth you’d been dreading, but it was necessary. “And I agreed to do that for them because I saw you.”

Dean didn’t seem to understand what that meant. “Saw me? Like, a ghost? Or in a dream?”

“Nightmares,” you said. “I had them every night. And you don’t have to talk to me about what happened in Hell because I already know. I saw what happened to you every time I fell asleep.”

Dean’s mouth fell agape. “What?” 

You nodded. “He wouldn’t make it stop until I did what he wanted. And he— he said he’d make me do to you what Alistair made you do—”

“(Y/N)—” Dean dropped his head and swallowed harshly. “I can’t—”

“And now you know why I did what I did,” you finished. 

Dean couldn’t look at you. He stood from the table and hurried out of the room, leaving you alone in a heap of sobs.

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Ay ay Ziva scene is comming