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ofgarnett · 3 months ago

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She’s thought about this more times than she’ll ever admit—how Jameson is the monster she made. Not born, not summoned, but built, piece by piece, in the crucible of her own failings. She gave him love like a loaded weapon and then turned her back when it misfired. Whispered promises into the soft hollow of his throat, then vanished. She didn’t kill him, no—but she left him dying. And what crawled out of that wreckage, the thing with too many sharp edges and grief like a second spine—that was her doing. Love twisted into ruin, devotion calcified into rage. A monster, yes. But one stamped with her fingerprints, still warm on his skin.

Cait hits the ground hard when he hits her. Jaw rattling. Spine lit up with shock. But what lands harder is the audacity—the goddamn nerve—of him. She tastes iron. Feels blood bloom on her tongue. And something snaps.

She's on her feet in half a breath. The air shivers. Magic crackles, ozone-thick and mean, heat rising off her skin like a furnace door swinging open. Her fingers twitch at her sides—not fidgeting. Calling.

“You hit me?”

It’s not a question. It’s a curse. Her voice is thunder, low and livid, trembling with everything she’s been burying to keep the peace. To protect Dorian. To protect Jameson, even now.

“Oh, you fucking—”

Her hand goes up and the spell’s already there—raw and ready, a whipcrack of kinetic force, all her fury in one white-hot bolt. It sings in the air between them, inches from launching. She wants to hurt him. Wants to burn him into the mud for daring to raise a hand. For daring to act like she is the danger. How dare he. How fucking dare he think she’d try to get rid of Dorian—as if the fingers he tore from her, bone-first, meant nothing. As if the nights she spent convulsing on the floor, trying to hold him in when he wanted to rip himself out, were just theatrics. As if the magic she’s been building—layer by bloody layer, spell by agonizing spell—wasn’t all for him. And Jameson—Jameson, who only had to house him for two measly years —dares to accuse her. Like she’s the villain. Like she hasn’t already given up half her soul just to keep Dorian tethered to this plane. Like he didn’t look her in the eye one night and say mine—and she said yes.

“Yeah I swore to him and I'm keeping my fucking word! I don’t fucking know where he is! You wanna play judge, jury, and executioner while you lay your hands on me? You don’t get to act like the loyal one when you just drew blood on the only person who's kept him safe for a decade!”

Cait kind of wants to kill Jameson in this moment. Not in theory. Not in passing. In the raw, real way that lives in the marrow—feral, final. For daring to doubt her. For daring to hit her like she was some pawn to be knocked off the board. The hurricane screams around them, wind clawing at her hair, rain slicing down her cheeks like the sky’s trying to peel her open. It’s not weather anymore—it’s wrath, and it’s hers. The storm is her echo, her rage made manifest. And Jameson’s still standing there like he has a right to breathe the same air as her. She could end him. Right here. Right now. Snap her fingers and grind him into the mud, let the bones twist until he begs. It would be so easy. It would feel so good.

And that’s when she feels it. The thought, sharp as a needle sliding into the base of her skull. A spell. A beautiful, perfect little spell to break every bone in his body—snap by snap, joint by joint, like someone pulling wings off a bird just to hear it scream. It unfurls in her mind like a flower blooming in fire. Old magic, but she knows it. She’s read it. She’s written it, in the margins of books she was never meant to open. All she needs is the anchoring piece.

His eye.

It happens fast. Her boots slip in the mud as she lunges, hands outstretched—not to strike, not to cast—but to take. Her fingers jam into his face, slick with rain, her palm grinding against his cheekbone as her thumb finds the socket and presses. He’s screaming, he’s grabbing at her, trying to pull away—but she won’t stop. Not until she feels the pop, the horrible wet snap as the globe tears free, nerves and tissue slick and twitching like roots torn from earth. Blood spills hot and fast down his cheek and across her knuckles.

She holds the eye in her hand like a relic. Sacred. Glowing with the promise of what comes next. Her mouth is slack with breath, panting. She’s trembling—but not from fear. From power. From rage. And as Jameson screams behind her, clutching his ruined face, Cait’s voice is steady as stone.

“You arrogant, sanctimonious prick. If you ever raise a hand to me again,” she says, voice like cracked stone, “I will rip the spellbook out of your spine and use it for kindling.” She’s just going to settle for breaking every bone in his body right now. “ You want to see me as a monster?” she hisses. “Fine. Look.”

And then she’s drafting the spell—not calmly, not cleanly, but with fury bleeding from every syllable. Her mouth moves in a snarl, whispering Latin like it’s a knife she’s sharpening against her teeth. The words don’t come from memory; they come from wrath. From betrayal. From the gaping hole Jameson just carved into her trust. The eye—his fucking eye—is slick and pulsing in her palm, twitching like it still wants to see. Good. Let it watch. Let it witness. The gold on her wrist - AJ's doing - glints in the stormlight, catching like a fuse, like a brand. That matters. That’s critical. It doesn’t just anchor the spell—it completes it. Finishes the shape, draws the sigil across air and skin and rage. The magic curls around her like a living thing, hungry and incandescent. And Cait? She feeds it. She fuels it with every time she’s been doubted, every sacrifice dismissed, every fucking moment someone thought she was the danger instead of the one holding the line. She raises her hand—eye clenched, gold on her wrist burning hot—and aims it right at him.

@everroy

Everett doesn’t know how he got here.

Well logistically he guesses he does. The messages from Cait had been pinging in constantly and more frenzied since the storm had started, and he should have been more surprised when she came barging in at the early hours of the morning, grabbed his car keys and strapped a pendulum to his hand.

The Pendulum was the only part that had truly surprised him. Caitlin Siltshore was perhaps the last person on earth who still believed there was a magical bone in Everett’s body, the amount of projects and homework assignments she had given him over the years to try and unlock any sort of magical aptitude rivaled something akin to an IRS audit of a multi-million dollar corporation.

And then there was that name. Dorian. It was one of the few details he could make out in her frenzied explanations for why they were driving into the eye of a magical hurricane. She had lost contact with Dorian. Whatever that meant.

Everett vaguely remembered a far away woman’s ramblings about a similar name. But that had been the ravings of a mad woman, Jameson had said so. And that had been a long time ago an ‘unsafe situation’.

And Jameson had delivered him from that situation to Cait and Brennan, Garnett, somewhere ‘safe.’

While Everett could admit, while he was sitting in the passenger seat of his own vehicle, a weird device strapped to his palm, and Cait driving with unnerving focus towards the heart of a cyclone, didn’t feel safe; he trusted Cait, and by extension Jameson. This was important Garnett business and he would do his best to be of assistance.

Even when Cait jerks the car to the side of the road, Everett doesn’t doubt that she’s onto something. And when approaching headlights herald the arrival of another figure, he shouldn’t be surprised that it’s Jameson.

His brother’s focus is all on Cait, as it had always been and as Everett watches the two engage in a screaming match that rivals the roar of the storm, Everett feels like he’s 17 again. Before Jameson died, before the everything fell apart, again.

As they argue, Everett strains to listen. Jameson asks what seems to be a pertinent question ‘What the fuck am I doing here?’

And Cait answers again with that name ‘I can’t feel Dorian!’

Everett watches a war ignite in his brother’s eyes. Jameson knows that name, this name means something to him. As much as it obviously does to Cait. Everett has no idea what this Dorian is, but his family obviously needs them. And while Everett knows neither of them invited him into this conversation, he knows they are highly unlikely to reach a conclusion without outside prompting. “You two can argue in the car, but we should get moving.”

Nothing. Neither of them even spare him a glance.

“We aren’t going to find answers out here in the mud.”

Again nothing, except maybe an eye twitch from Jameson. But that could have also just been errant raindrops falling in his eye.

Everett takes a breath, mustering a voice he once didn’t have. Grabbing the arms of both his lost brother and his overburdened coven leader, he barged in, “Dorian needs both of you, and the storm is moving. So let’s go!” And Everett stalked off toward the passenger door of his own car, not bothering to glance back to see if the two others followed.

#tw: mutilation #tw: blood #tw: violence #tw: eye stuff #just a lot of bad stuff going on here #( caitlin ; interactions )#( caitlin ; jameson )#( caitlin ; everett )

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theshopislocal · 4 years ago

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corinth rains

New and improved Heaven may well be the Happiest Place (not) on Earth. But Dean, it turns out, is still Dean.

(also on AO3)

chapter four

Time passes in Heaven much like in a dream. In brief, grappling moments of clarity, Dean can retrace his steps, determine the decisions and actions that landed him wherever he’s found himself. But he finds those moments are few and far between, slipping through his shaking fingers the moment he unfists them.

More often than not, Dean’s afterlife feels much like his before-life: stumbling buzzed and ill-prepared from set piece to set piece, shoulders at his ears and a tension headache waiting for its cue.

Dean hunches forward and crosses his arms on the bar. His beer’s gone flat - par for the course with El Sol; it’s usually sat on the same shelf as Natty Ice, after all. He remembers a time when he was fifteen or so, and Bobby had cracked one open for him after Sammy had conked out. Dean had held in his grimace as long as he could, but the dregs had been skunky and tepid, flat as Sam’s Ovaltine. Bobby had rolled his eyes, grumbling ‘Well, drink faster, boy!’

These days, Dean could probably down a sixer of the stuff before the bubbles went out. And with Heaven’s littering policy vanishing all his empties, it’s entirely possible he already has.

A vague silhouette appears behind the bar, tan hands sliding onto the counter at the top of Dean’s eyeline. Dean clenches his jaw and keeps his eyes down, half expecting it’s the barkeep come to cut him off.

A husky laugh comes from somewhere above his head, drawling and achingly familiar.

“Keep thinkin’ so hard, you’re gonna sprain somethin’,” she says.

Dean’s spine goes stiff, eyes widening. He hasn’t heard that voice in ten - no, fifty - years. Not since its owner had bitten out a raspy ‘Don’t miss,’ and then burned alive in propane fire.

Dean’s eyes crawl upwards, catching on the broad hips and trim waist, the curve of her chest up to the freckles across her clavicle.

She looks just as she did the day he met her - jaw rounded and taut, mouth a straight line, a no-nonsense brow over slitted dark eyes. Her auburn hair frames her face, its golden tips brushing over her wide shoulders.

He’d never said as much (for fear of getting cuffed over the ears), but he’d always thought she was a looker. Sun-weathered and artless - a dust bowl beauty.

Dean’s jaw clenches. “Ellen Harvelle,” he says, voice pitched low.

She quirks an eyebrow and matches his tone. “Dean Winchester.”

For a moment, he’s transported to a roadside dive. He sees himself: twenty-seven, undead, orphaned and sick with it. So damn angry he can barely see straight. He sees Ellen, a matriarch with a .38 special and eyes made out of flint.

She looks much the same now. And just as it did back then, her scowl splits in a toothy smile, ruddy cheeks dimpling.

“Well?” she says, leaning forward against the bar. “You gonna hug my neck, or what?”

Dean gives a gusty exhale, shoulders sagging, and hoists himself to his feet. He leans across the bar, arms wrapping tight around her back, and he squeezes his eyes closed, pressing his nose into her hair. She smells like charred barrels and gunsmoke, sweet hops and ballistol.

“Damn,” he sighs out. “It’s good to see you.”

Ellen gives a little chuckle and pulls back, dusting off Dean’s shoulders.

“Ditto, kiddo,” she says with a crooked smile. “Though I should throw ya out, drinkin’ that piss water at my bar.” Her eyes cut down to his nearly empty bottle, and she raises a sharp eyebrow.

Well, she ain’t wrong. Dean snorts and squints his eyes, one corner of his mouth quirking up in a sly grin.

“You got somethin’ better?” he leers.

The panty-dropper act had worked like a charm in his twenties - sixty damn years ago, now - but Ellen’s always been made of stronger stuff. Her brow drops low in an unimpressed glare that has Dean smiling wide.

Ellen huffs and rolls her eyes, then stoops down behind the bar, rifling through her wares. She comes up a moment later and slaps her prize down onto the counter, a triumphant smirk around her mouth.

Dean furrows his brow and peers down at the bottle. It’s crystal and shapely, its contents a deep, glittering amber, and Dean’s eyes catch on the shiny inlaid lettering across the front: O.F.C.

Holy shit. “Is that...?”

Ellen grins while Dean gapes like a damned fish. “Buffalo Trace, Old Fashioned Copper,” she confirms, and Dean’s eyebrows nearly climb off his face. “Thirty years old.”

Dean’s never been much of a one for pomp and provenance; he’d as soon shoot three fingers of Bobby’s old rotgut as sip at a decanted Lagavulin. But Dean’s pretty sure he’s seen this very bottle on a pillowed pedestal behind a glass wall, and hell if he isn’t itching for a taste.

His eyes follow the curves of the bottle, and he runs his tongue over his lips. “We drinkin’ slow or shootin’ like heathens?” he asks, peering up at Ellen.

Her lips go wide in a smug smile as she slips her hands under the bar. They reappear a second later, three scuffed little shot glasses clinking in each, and she slides them onto the counter.

Her brow arches in a double-dog dare. “What do you think.”

Dean’s smile goes sharp, and he leans forward on his stool, jutting his chin out to the side in a gamely nod. “Rack ‘em.”

Ellen gives a humming laugh and sets about lining up the little glasses. She grabs the bottle by the neck, and the stopper gives a satisfying pop as she pulls it.

“How ya doin, kid?” she asks, tipping the mouth of the bottle over each glass.

It’s a loaded question, one Dean’s heard about a hundred times since he hopped the pearly gates. Skirting it has become something like second nature.

He watches the glasses fill in succession. Ellen pours like a master - quick and efficient, not a drop lost. “Better now,” he says, eyes fixed on the glinting lip of the final glass.

Ellen spits a laugh and turns the bottle in her hand, gravity chasing the drippage back down the neck. “Ain’t we all,” she murmurs and pops the stopper back in.

She slides three shooters across the bar in a little line. They slosh, but don’t spill, and Dean watches the tiny legs evaporate on the musty air.

Ellen takes a glass between her thumb and middle finger, hunching her rounded shoulders forward. “Ready to put some hair on that chest, pretty boy?”

Her mouth is a straight line, but there’s a smirk in her eyes that has the corner of Dean’s lips ticking up in a cocky grin. “Big talk,” he says and grabs a shot in a loose fist. He holds it up in a vague toast, grunting a sporting, “Cheers.”

The first goes down smooth like warm honeyed water, with a bite at the end that has him reaching for the next. The second is bite all the way through, spiced and peaty against the flat of his tongue. He takes a short gasp of breath before the last, and he’s glad he did; it hits him like wildfire, scalding his throat with brine and accelerant - a salt n’ burn in a tiny scratched glass.

Ellen makes a sound like ‘hoo-ey’, and Dean looks up at her through watery eyes. Her face is screwed up, tongue running over her teeth, and Dean huffs a laugh that feels like smoke in his lungs.

“Damn,” he says, voice thick in his throat. He sniffs and blinks back tears around an open-mouth smile. “You know you ain’t gotta liquor me up if you wanna take advantage, right?”

Ellen grumbles and runs her hand through her hair, before pointing a chiding finger at Dean. “Mind your tongue, boy,” she says and drops her hands to the edge of the bar. “Bill hears you talkin’ like that, he’ll put one between your eyes.”

That brings Dean up short. A startled beat passes as Ellen stacks up the shot glasses, and Dean stares at the top of her head, slack-jawed.

His voice comes back to him on a stuttering exhale. “You got Bill back,” he murmurs.

Ellen’s hands freeze, and she glances up at Dean, circumspect. She holds his eyes for a brief moment, then smiles down at her little glass tower.

“Yeah,” she says, settling her elbows on the bar. “First thing I laid eyes on after your boy fixed up the joint.” She snorts under her breath, shaking her head. “Bout fell over when I saw him. It was...” Her voice cuts out, and she pulls her bottom lip through her teeth, eyes far away. “A moment.”

Dean watches her - the way her eyes flick back and forth, a tiny smile curving her mouth, the dim fluorescent light glinting off her hair. She stares on, blithe and lovely, an understated joy hovering around her.

Dean’s eyes cut down to his hands, one clenched so tight it shows white at the knuckles.

“Well,” he says, mustering a smile. “I’m real happy for ya.”

He means the words - entirely, wholeheartedly - but there’s a blue note in his tone that he can’t quite suppress. He broadens his smile, lets his crow’s feet show, and slips his last glass on top of the stack.

Ellen tips her head, sharp-eyed and considering. Dean holds his counterfeit smile for a moment, the weight of her gaze pulling his lips down; then he drops his eyes to his hands, fingers laced and wringing on the bar.

Digging his fingernails into his knuckles, he wonders when exactly he forgot how to play it cool.

Ellen gives an inscrutable hum, then slides the glasses off the bar and into the sink, spinning the rusted chrome spigot. Dean watches the water pour from the spout, wondering idly if it’s holy.

“You could have that too, you know,” Ellen says, eyes fixed on the basin. “A Moment.”

Dean’s mouth drops open of its own volition, and he snaps it shut with an audible click. He scrubs a hand over his face, hiding the sudden warm spots.

“Yeah, well,” he says, gruff. “I never really had, uh,” he wets his lip, shaking his head, “a Bill.” He gives her a tight smile, pressing his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The words taste wrong - but then, so does everything else.

Ellen’s eyes narrow for a split second before her face goes carefully blank, eyes falling back to the sink. “You could have.”

Dean’s eyes snap to her face, still downturned, and his jaw clenches tight. A frisson of panic runs through him, crystallizing into a hard mass somewhere behind his sternum. It’s heavy and dense, with a beguiling gravity that pulls him in - in to the Empty space where he thinks his soul might have been, in to the trussed up ma’lak box of Shit He Doesn’t Think About. This close to it, he can just make out the whispering voice—

Happiness isn’t in the having.

A shaft of sunlight pours in through an open window, bright and garish against Dean’s eyes. He shakes his head, quick and spasmodic, and glances back up at Ellen.

Her eyebrows are drawn together in a guileless frown, the errant ray of sunshine lightening her hair, and she looks so very, very much like—

Joanna Beth.

Of course, Jo.

Everyone with two eyes had seen the flickering flame between them - always teetering between roaring to life and sputtering out. In the end, he’d kissed her mouth as she lay dying, and watched her burn in salted fire. He’d soldiered on, dry-eyed and numb, and added her name to a bill he couldn’t pay.

You could have. Dean almost laughs.

“Yeah, well,” Dean grumbles, voice rough in his throat. “Jo’s probably the sweetest girl I ever met, but—”

Ellen barks a dry laugh. “Oh honey, it never woulda worked with you and Jo.”

Dean peers up at her askance, and she stares back, face straight but for a tiny wry smile.

She grabs a damp dish towel from the sink and dries her hands, giving a loose shrug. “You were too old for her.”

Dean huffs a brittle laugh and nods down at his hands. That much is certainly true, but- “No tellin’ the jailbait that,” he mutters.

“Nah, I ain’t talkin ‘bout numbers,” Ellen counters. “Even if she’d been your age...” She breathes out a sigh, and Dean looks up at her. The little rag is balled up in her loose fist, her lip caught between her teeth.

She’s silent for a short beat, unfocused eyes downcast. Then she sucks in a short breath and shakes her head, eyes cutting over to Dean’s. “She was a kid,” she says, and gives a soft chuckle. “She’s still a kid, and she’s been dead fifty years.”

Dean gives a weak smile at that, though it hurts like a fresh bruise. He’s not run into Jo since he made it topside, though he’d seen her once after she died. He remembers her, sitting bleary-eyed and sallow next to that bald fucker Osiris - defending Dean’s wasted soul as best she could. He remembers standing in a ring of salt, waiting - hoping - to die by her cool, white hands. You carry all this crap you don’t have to, she’d said. It gets clearer when you’re dead.

A pit yawns open in Dean’s stomach. He’s found a lot of things in Heaven - some he’d lost, some he’d never had - but clarity sure as shit ain’t one.

“You, on the other hand,” Ellen’s voice cuts through Dean’s rambling thoughts, and he peers up into her frowning face. She shakes out the towel and runs it over the countertop between them, giving Dean a furrow-browed look, all sympathy and sufferance. “I don’t think you been a kid since you lost your mama.”

Even softened by the balm of her compassion, the words pull at him, stinging like a paper cut. Dean folds his arms on the bar, hunching his shoulders forward. “Jo lost her dad,” he returns, and winces at the sharpness.

Ellen is unfazed, as ever, and she tips her head, giving a mild hum. “She was older than you were,” she says. “More independent. And she didn’t see it happen, just...” she shrugs and tosses the rag into the sink. “One day, Daddy didn’t come home.”

Dean’s eye twitches in a flinch, but he nods and digs his fingertips into his elbows.

“It hit her,” she goes on, “and hard, but...” Her lips press together in a firm line, and she gives a definitive nod. “She coped.” She glances up at Dean, eyes wise and soft, her voice pitched just above a whisper. “Moved on.”

The implication hangs in the air between them, and Dean gives an imperceptible nod. Dean’s no Dr. Phil, but he knows himself well enough to acknowledge this particular truth. And Sam had pulled enough armchair psychiatry on him over the years to nearly convince him there was no shame in it.

Nearly.

Dean harrumphs around the tightness in his throat. “How is she?” he grunts. “Jo?”

Ellen blinks at him for a moment, brows raised. Then she breathes a tiny sigh and nods her head. “Good,” she says mildly, leaning forward against the bar. “Real good.” She laughs a little and settles her elbows on the countertop. “Joined the Arch practically the second it was formed. Think she mighta been their first recruit.” Another soft chuckle. “If you could even call it that, champin’ at the bit like she was.”

Dean didn’t know Jo’d joined up, but he supposes he could’ve guessed. Hero complexes, piss and vinegar, after all - the sword Jo’d lived and died by.

Dean shifts in his seat, shoulders tightening. “She likes it?”

Ellen’s eyebrows pop up, and she smiles wide. “She loves it,” she crows, tipping her head toward the bar’s saloon style doors. “She and Bill’re runnin’ rounds as we speak.” Her eyes go distant and the slightest bit shiny. “Huntin’ with her daddy,” she intones with a soft smile, “like she always wanted.”

An image floats to the surface of Dean’s mind: Jo, young and gung-ho, twirling a little knife inscribed with her dad’s initials. Dean had told her how John had taken him shooting when he was a boy, how he’d hit every can dead on. He must’ve been proud, she’d said, and Dean had snorted. Yeah, John was proud of him. When he made the shot.

Dean’s hand clenches into a fist, fingernails rasping against his palm. “She’s happy?” he asks, eyes fixed on the countertop.

Ellen is silent for a long, gravid moment. The weight of her gaze pushes down on Dean’s shoulders, compressing his spine.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “Yeah, she’s real happy.”

The tension across Dean’s back lessens by a fraction. It’s the least Jo deserves - the least all the Harvelles deserve. He nods to himself as the sun comes in through the window again, illuminating the smooth planes of Ellen’s face. The glare hurts Dean’s eyes, but he’s glad it’s shining on someone.

“But,” Ellen starts, and Dean’s eyes snap to hers. She tilts her head, considerate and a little sad. “You’re not,” she says plainly, a frown etched into her forehead.

Dean blanches for an instant, a ribbon of shame tugging through him as the pit in his stomach gapes wider. He gives himself a little shake and smoothes his face into a crooked smile.

“That’s not—” he starts, then shakes his head, lips pursing. “I’m fine,” he says, bald and unyielding. “I’m good.”

Ellen’s eyebrows form an oblique line, doubtful and sympathetic. Dean almost laughs; Ellen never took his bullshit before, he’s not sure why he thought she’d start now.

She holds his stare until his eyes flutter down, his shoulders rising on a deep sigh.

He tries for honesty - the sort of frankness that always terrified him when he was alive - but his voice comes out defenseless and confused, all the bluster of a moment ago dispersed like smoke. “I dunno,” he grunts. “I got Sammy, got—” he hides a stutter behind a grumbling harrumph, “—got Mom and Dad.” He nods his head towards Ellen. “Got you guys, and this...” a vague wave toward the sunlit window, “...place.” He pauses, weighing the validity of the words against the hollowness in his chest, and shakes his head. “Got everything I ever wanted.”

Ellen is silent for half a moment, then gives a pensive hum. He sees her hand slide along the bar toward the whisky bottle, a forgotten MacGuffin sitting half empty.

Her fingers wrap around it, smoothing over the embossed lettering. “Got everything you thought you wanted,” she returns.

Dean feels his face shift into a frown, and he arches an eyebrow at her. “You think there’s somethin’ I want more’n all this?” he counters, a stiff forefinger waving in an all-encompassing gesture.

Ellen’s lips turn down, and she grasps the bottle between her palms. She turns it idly for a moment, then reaches into the sink for a shot glass, plopping it down on the counter between them.

“I think,” she begins, pulling the stopper from the bottle, “there might be something you thought you couldn’t have.”

The breath freezes in Dean’s chest, and his muscles stiffen in a full-bodied flinch.

The one thing I want, comes the whispering voice, gravelly and bleak like something dragged across a tundra. It’s something I know I can’t—

Dean bites his cheek so hard he tastes copper, and he drags his eyes back to Ellen’s downturned face.

She carries on, heedless of Dean’s momentary lapse. “And because you’re,” she huffs a dry laugh, “well, you...” She peers up at his face, and whatever she sees has her brow furrowing deep. She shakes her head once and grabs the bottle, tipping the mouth toward the water-spotted glass as she says, “I think you taught yourself not to want it.”

Dean breathes out a long sigh, and his eyes fall closed. He gets that odd feeling, like something’s swelling behind his breastbone. It spreads like a weed, or a drop of blood in a puddle of water, and the whispering voice takes a breath, as if to speak.

Dean presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, running the tip along the indents from his teeth. “And what might that be,” he says, dull and a little bitter.

Ellen sets the bottle down and slips the stopper back in. Dean doesn’t look up at her - though her gaze on his face feels like a touch - as she slides the little shot glass towards him.

Her voice is warm and too-soft, edged with a wistfulness that greets Dean like an old friend. “Beats me, kiddo.”

chapter three | chapter five

table of contents

#corinth rains #destiel #deancas #fanfiction #post-canon #slow burn #dean-centric #tw: alcohol #chapter wc: ~3.5k

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breziarchive · 7 years ago

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Majimako, no conditions. Requested by my dear ass friend @persante, who wanted to retract her request on the fear i had too much on my plate.

no you fucking fool. i want this.

(inb4 the dumb referential names i picked are ALREADY ESTABLISHED CHARACTERS BUT I CAN’T BE ARSED TO CHANGE THE NAMES NOW)

also there’s blood and murder and laffs “majimako no conditions” means blood and murder

valentine’s day boogaloo - guidelines - ko-fi

(requests closed, badbbadbadfffffdfdfd)

Majima stumbled as the floor spun, the metal tips of his boots gleaming like they shouldn't have. Shaking his head did nothing to bring things back to normal. Blood spatters on the concrete beneath his feet looked dark and surreal, even though the bat in his hands was painted with much the same. Disregarding that he may have been worsening the mess, he brought his free hand up to dig at his scalp, panting wearily. Thank fuck there was no one around to see him now.

Or that they were already dead.

He breathed. In. Out. In. Out. His hands shook. Yeah he had killed people before, no it wasn't a case of 'it never gets easier'. It was a case of one of the two bodies in the room was not his doing, and that first dead body caused the second.

His stupefied eye wandered to see twisted feet dressed in delicate heels, slamming his eye shut before it followed pale, willowy legs to a distorted face. What the hell had this guy been doing? How much of it had he done? Keeping some woman's fresh corpse in his office space as he lit up cigarettes without a damn care in the world—Majima almost felt righteous that he barged in here, because it gave him the opportunity to make up for it. A corpse for a corpse—not really a righteous policy, but one that Majima had little control over when he saw an innocent dead on the floor.

Whatever. He hadn't come in here to kill someone, be that it turned out that way. Although he was glad he did—the files he had plucked out of cabinet spread against the askew desk proved it. Majima pressed his leaden hand a little too much against the files, spreading them farther out. Makoto's name littered them—documents of the exchange over the Empty Lot, documents of her lineage, whereabouts, just information about her in yakuza hands still. He had spent the past five, or was it ten, years hunting down whoever held documents like this, burning each and every one he came across. With men like this holding onto recent files of where and what she was doing, Majima was glad he was dead.

Hyper-focusing on the files instead of speculating who the woman in the corner might've been, Majima slid them off of the desk, neverminding the spatters of blood he disturbed, and sat on the edge of a plant pot. The dead yakuza's legs served as a footrest as his one eye skimmed over each paper. On a different day he'd be more thorough and take his time in the office to make sure he didn't miss a single copy, but today...Today? Fuck it. Majima stuck a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, then lit the files on fire.

His eye glazed over, watching the papers burn. For her. For her and always for her. Fuck. That woman was dead in the corner for some unknown reason that wouldn't ever be good enough. How close had Makoto come to being that woman? How close was she now?

For some damned reason an address on the paper burned in his mind before the flames burned it. He blinked, but the memory remained even as he dropped the papers on the pant leg of the dead yakuza to curl. Part of him wanted to just burn the whole building down now, with him inside it. Now that he knew the address, it was only fair, right? Even he didn't keep any files about her. Not even a picture.

Not even a picture.

He closed his eye as the fire changed sounds as it started to lick at the pant legs, fizzling on hair beneath. The address. The address. The dead woman in the corner. The address.

A strangled noise crept through his chest and he stood up, stomping the fire out and nearly tripping and falling from the uneven ground the legs made. The address.

Fear and hope pinched his heart and he stumbled off the dead man. Address.

That what he was going to do might've been considered stalking was only a small voice in his mind, and even though it nagged the pain dragging his face down and the fear kicking his head to pieces spoke louder. The address kept repeating itself over and over and over in his mind as he slammed the door holding the two corpses shut. He couldn't trust to write it down, because someone else could've seen it. He had to trust his memory, and when it came to her his memory was agonizingly clear.

Though, for his own sanity, he should've let a few days pass. He couldn't let more than a few hours of vivid sleep go before he was ripping through his wardrobe. It hit him all too quickly that he had, absolutely, no fucking clue what normal people wore. All he had were flashy suits and absolutely gaudy shit that would make him stick out like a sore thumb. The address he had memorized, he knew it was in the suburbs somewhere beyond the outskirts of the city. The thought made him honestly ill, him, trawling about a quiet neighborhood with snakeskin and tats out. Not to mention leather pants that clung a little too tightly in the right places to...accentuate. Taunt, or whatever it would do for him.

After far too long he finally settled on black slacks and suitcoat he hoped wasn't too flashy, because the least intimidating thing he had to wear underneath was a goldenrod button-up. (He almost went with red, but red held too much power. At least he skipped the tie.) After that, he made the quick decision to slip his eyepatch into his breast pocket and cover his eyes with a pair of aviators. Couldn't risk her recognizing him. Couldn't risk anything—this whole escapade could cost her so, so much more than he was willing to put her through. But he had to check, he had to know.

It burned like the files in his mind as he hopped on at least one more train than necessary, taking the longest way to the suburbs possible just in case. Just in case.

When he stepped off the train it was like walking into a concrete wall. He had made such a huge, huge mistake. There were kids running about, mothers pouring over grocery lists, no criers in the streets, no broken needles or used condoms, teenagers laughed normally and rough-housed with each other in ways that didn't cause broken noses and black eyes. This was not a place where he could even pretend to blend in, much less convince someone that he was just there to make sure someone was safe. Yeah. Didn't seem like he was gonna stake the joint at all.

He had just, after all, killed someone.

Majima swallowed, hoped he didn't stand like an idiot for too long in the small train station, then headed off, address burned in his mind. No one had followed him, unless they had better clothes to disguise themselves with than he did. Making sure the aviators were firm on his face, he counted the street numbers until he arrived at the correct block, secluded and ending in a small cul de sac surrounded by cute houses clustered together like trees in a forest. It wasn't lonely, but it was secluded. Early morning was giving way to mid-morning, and the houses lazily bustled with the promise of school starting soon. He had already passed more than one uniform-clad group of young teens, and had spied more than one child's backpack bouncing happily as they walked the streets unattended.

Shit, man. The second thoughts he had were screaming until his head rang.

A few kids, their backpacks resting against low yard fences, played as they waited for what Majima presumed to be a larger line of kids to go to school with. Those days had been so long ago for him now they might as well have been repressed. Some of the kids' heads perked up like meerkats as he tried to look casual, strolling down the street, but for the most part they didn't raise the alarm. Awkward and knowing it, Majima tried to look particularly interested in a weed sprouting from a crack in the asphalt, already turning around some bullshit excuse in his mind as to what he was doing. Botany, sure. Suburban botany. Yeah fuckin' right.

Why did it have to be now, when he had already traveled at least two hours, shitty disguise fooling nobody on, that he realized that discreetly finding out about her was impossible? Even if he waited for the kids to leave for school, what then? Knock on doors like a fuckin' missionary? He wished he could take his head off and curb-stomp it for its stupidity—yeah, a missionary, who had to use their voice, talk to people, interact—

“Cloudy day, isn't it?”

Majima froze, pulled from his stunt of suburban botany, and slowly turned around, spine stiff and jaw clenched. There she was, standing pleasantly. Orange and pink flannel peeked out just from behind a pastel windbreaker; it looked like she was only expecting to be outside for a moment, perhaps monitoring, watching the children. His heart crashed into his feet—one of them could be hers. Of all the stupid things he was already doing, he made it worse because his instinct twisted his head back to look at the kids tossing a ball back and forth. It was so mind-numbingly normal and stereotypical it seemed surreal, even Makoto's pleasantries didn't seem right.

Before he could really study and find out if any of them could be her kids she spoke again, just as pleasant, “Excuse me, sir, did you have a question about the kids?”

Majima blinked and looked back to her. Well, it wasn't out of the blue, but it wasn't quite as sterile as a comment about the weather. She smiled at him all the same but something was off—it was like he was watching an actress act, not someone truly smile. Trying to hide a swallow, he shook his head.

“Good,” the word was forceful from her lips despite the pleasant tone, but before Majima could nod and scuttle away like a log had been lifted over a cockroach she stepped up into his space and her eyes became sharp and dangerous, lips curling into a snarl, “Because I will drag you to hell if you so much as look at them wrong,”

Thankful that the aviators shielded most of his expression, Majima blinked rapidly, eye wide and struggling on whether to show how impressed versus how intimidated off the bat he was. Makoto kept herself planted in his space, glaring into her own reflection on the aviators. When she finally let him be it wasn't at all like she had backed down. He imagined that her hackles were still raised and teeth were bared behind her sweet lips, even as she walked away to tend to the children.

“Takeru-kun,” she chastised, too much of a bite to her words to show Majima that his suspicions were correct, “Throw the ball a little gentler, Ken-chan's still learning,”

Takeru, the boy in question, let out a comical whine of protest before retorting, “But Ken-chan's dad said—,”

“I don't care what he said,” Makoto huffed, firm, “It's on you to learn to be gentle or not, but I'm here to ask you to be gentle,”

The harshness of Makoto's voice seemed to take Takeru by surprise, and, holding the ball wide-eyed, he murmured a sullen 'yes, Makimura-san', softening his play. Majima watched her, noticing that the arcs of her shoulder blades were barely showing from behind the windbreaker from how much he put her at unease. More than that, the comfortable use of her surname—her unchanged surname—told Majima that, perhaps, none of these were her children.

The eldest of the children, a beanpole of a girl that Majima guessed would be ditching the elementary backpack for a uniform soon, cautiously approached her from the side. Busying himself with the breadth of suburban flora in the asphalt, he tilted his head a little to hear better.

“Makimura-san, is everything...alright?”

Makoto didn't seem to move, though her arms were crossed in front of her. Her voice remained tight, watching Takeru learn to adjust the power and bounce of the ball to the youngest kid there, “Is your brother coming out, Yumi-san?”

The girl nodded, but her gaze was steady and concerned on Makoto, “He's late, as usual,”

Makoto hummed, unhappy. Suddenly feeling as though he was surrounded, even if it was nothing but just eyes, he felt himself start to sweat and panic. There was no way in goddamn hell he was going to be able to convince Makoto of all people that he meant no harm while he was loitering around, especially not in front of children that it seemed she had been tasked with watching over until school started. God fucking help him if any other mothers or fathers or whoever started emerging from their homes, all to judge and pitchfork him. In truth it didn't matter too much to him if he was burned at the stake or not, but the idea that he had made everyone's lives in this quiet little town worse, that maybe, if he met his end here, white-knight sorts of yakuza would come hunting for revenge—goddamnit he really should've planned this out more than not at all.

“HEY! Hiroki-kun!”

Majima jolted upright.

“CATCH!”

The ball did not make it to Hiroki. Majima was honestly just thankful the ball hit so square into his face that any noises he did make were squelched. Clamping his teeth down on the insides of his cheeks both out of reflex and out of desperate courtesy to not shout something, thus bringing the pitchforks to his attention and scaring the children in the process, Majima stumbled until his ass met the iron fence behind him. His gloved hands went to his face immediately, cupping around his nose. Again, out of reflex. The ball could never in a million years hit him like a punch could, and the loud, hollow THOONK sound it made as it bounced off was the sound of no real harm done. Grunting and grinding his teeth on his cheeks, he pinched the tip of his nose and shook it back and forth like he had to put it back in place, glancing up to see a shocked kid standing in front of him. New, from the house that had been behind him. Presumably the Hiroki that the hotshot Takeru greeted with a ball to Majima's face. Not only was he shocked but he seemed absolutely horrified, too, like Majima would do something. He blinked, readying an expression to show the kid that he was okay when he realized something.

The aviators had been knocked off.

Shot with panic, he slapped a hand over his missing eye and ducked down to scramble for them at the same time Hiroki ducked to chase the runaway ball. Majima's outstretched fingers curled in pain as he watched the kid's shoes destroy the aviators. Teeth now visibly clenched onto his lower lip, Majima hissed through them in a barely disguised wail of defeat.

No real harm done, huh. No wonder the kid looked horrified. Fuck.

“Hiroki-kun!” Makoto ordered, jarring the kid to her side, ball in his short arms. Majima stammered on several fucks, whispered so low he couldn't even hear himself as he turned to keep his good eye towards them, no matter how conspicuous it looked. The moment Hiroki made it to her side he pulled on her arm, making her lean down though her intense gaze was thoroughly fixated on him. Suspicion cut through him like a laser—she was tensed on the balls of her feet waiting for how he would truly react.

The kid said something to her about his eye, he caught on to enough of what he said to know that. Queasy and dizzy, Majima tried not to pant too hard, struggling to straighten his back. The tension was so palpable Majima could've been pushed back all the way to the train station. Hell, all the way back to Kamurocho. Used condoms and broken needles would be a welcoming sight over kids and kickballs.

Like a short legion from heaven, down the street came the joyful clamor of kids from the surrounding neighborhoods, all clustered together as they headed for school. Red and black backpacks bounced in various ways according to the care the kid gave their bag, some even so bold as to swing them along while others balanced them on their heads as they tried to keep walking. All the kids behind Makoto looked to the line then back to him, back to Makoto to discern her judgment on the situation. Finally Yumi nodded to herself, ushering the kids forwards down the street before she followed.

“Makimura-san—,”

“Have a good day at school,” Makoto called, putting on an overly normal tone despite everything, “Stay safe.”

Majima winced, staying put until the kids disappeared around the corner. He twitched to move but before he knew it Makoto was in his space again, gripping his elbow without fear and staring him down. It wasn't until he could no longer hear the kids that she let him go and took a step back.

“Who are you, what are you here for?” She demanded of him. Majima gulped, feeling it all the way down his throat and into his stomach. Should he answer and give himself away immediately? Keep quiet and try to leave? One was more suspicious than the other, but the other got her much too involved. Makoto's eyes drilled into him and he knew he still wasn't over just the general idea that she could see from the way sweat beaded on his temples. He'd have to make a decision soon or the neighborhood was damned.

Without warning, Makoto dropped her gaze. Majima blinked, watching her in nervous curiosity. Her arms were still crossed in front of her but her feet weren't so firmly planted anymore, drawing unseen lines on the asphalt until the toe of her shoe nudged against the complete wreckage of the aviators. When she looked back up Majima was caught off-guard, stricken by how tired and sorry she looked even if he could still see the walls up around her.

“I'm sorry, at the very least,” she was eying the hand that was still clamped over his bad eye. His stomach twisted, knowing that some part of her recognized him from the incident right before he had walked away. Wincing again, Majima almost opened his mouth to tell her she didn't have to be. Almost. It was his fault he came out all this way for practically nothing, anyways. He should've had more faith in her building a life for herself, keeping herself safe, keeping others safe.

But then again, he didn't need to be roped to a pole and have his other eye dug out to be told that even the strongest, safest people could be fucked over. Maybe the yakuza was just a filekeeper.

Maybe he was going to do something with the files.

Majima didn't realize that Makoto was studying his eye until it was too late to change his entranced expression. She glanced around her neighborhood, holding herself a little tighter, then hardened her expression.

“Come. If you have business, we'll do it inside.”

Makoto gestured for him to move first. It took a while for him to not only get, but agree to move, nervous that he obviously was. Despite all this she thought herself sacrificially suicidal. She didn't know why this man had appeared when he did, she didn't know what connections he had other than she vaguely recalled one of the harassers from so long ago referring to him as legendary. That incident was the only reason her guard was lowered, once she had realized that this man must have been one and the same. He certainly wasn't lost, since he was dressed somewhat appropriately for the suburbs, and Makoto knew that out of everyone that lived in this area, this sweet little neighborhood, she was the only one he would be magnetized to. She was the only one with any sort of...history. With this sort of thing.

Keeping him at her side or in front of her, never behind her, she led him to the backyard of one of the smaller houses. She followed him up the staircase that zig-zagged up the back of the house, cornering him by standing between him and escape as she unlocked and opened the door. She was the only one in the neighborhood that did lock her door. He didn't need to know that.

When he stepped inside before her he stood rooted to the spot, watching as she locked the door behind her, slipped out of her shoes and into the main hallway. Makoto turned around, staring at him eye to eye with the added step up from the front of the doorway.

Silence. Neither of them moved, but it wasn't clear who was refusing to give way versus who was just unable to do anything. Makoto narrowed her eyes. His hand dipped into his suit coat, watching her to note the tension in her muscles.

Out came an eyepatch. Makoto forced herself to relax as he cautiously slipped it on.

Then she left to the kitchen to make tea. She did so as quietly as possible, listening to him reluctantly take his shoes off and step into the second floor apartment proper. From the archway into the kitchen she eyed him in her peripherals as he slowly wandered into the dining room. He was taking everything in, the cozy snugness of the narrow halls, the practical decorations that she stuffed into whatever corner she could making the apartment even snugger than it was. Closed-in comfort. Room to breathe, but everywhere there was something to look at. Artwork, either purchased or made from the kids she watched over. Attempts at apartment horticulture, especially in the small windowsill spaces. Folded blankets, more than one person could use, all out for the world to see instead of stashed in a linen closet. The man saw it all, drinking it in with more interest than a bored yakuza would. Makoto watched as, eye still taking in details, he folded his long legs in front of the kotatsu.

Then he found the alcove.

Makoto watched as he studied it for a long time. It was in that small space that she filled with pictures of her family. Rather, filled with pictures of what she had lost. Taking up most of it was a picture of Lee, next to the most recent picture of her brother Kiryu could dig up for her before he had said good-bye. Behind them on a higher shelf were her mother and grandfather, though sometimes she turned their faces away from her in both shame and anger. Sometimes, even, she'd turn her brother and Lee away.

There was only one she couldn't change, and that was the empty space at the bottom edge of the alcove, off to the side. Set with flowers she had replaced just yesterday. A tulip resting in a bed of forget-me-nots—flowers she had learned the meanings of from one of her neighbors. She noticed that the picture-less offering wasn't lost on him, though if he knew what it meant, who could say. Part of him wished he hadn't seen it, hadn't disturbed its presence with acknowledgment.

The tea was ready—ready enough. Makoto forced his attention away by entering the room. She poured, quiet, but she broke the silence before the tea was fully served.

“Again. Who are you, what are you doing here?”

The man was quiet, but he looked at her like he had an answer. Crinkling her nose in distaste, keeping him in peripherals at all times, she snapped.

“I know it's about me. No one else in this neighborhood has any business with your kind.”

The man frowned, pulling the teacup away from his lips. Curious. Seemed like he disagreed with that statement and had reason to. Makoto clenched her fingers into fists, unclenched them, frustrated, then looked at him. She felt her eyes puff up already, emotional.

“It's over. Leave me alone. I don't want anything to do with this anymore.”

She wished she could say she hadn't flinched, but she did when he hunched down a little, perching his head forward as if he was listening far too intently. Trying to catch any other meanings to what she said. Makoto sneered, but she knew the desperation made it weak.

“Ten years of peace, but looking over my shoulder even when I don't hear a noise. Ten years and I almost got used to the idea that maybe I was free, but you, you here, knowing where I am...,”

Makoto stared at him, unaware that she was breathing faster than normal, “Either you're stalking me, or...or...,”

He pulled his gaze away then shook his head. Damn her, but she believed him. He was looking down at his gloves, as if trying to put together what to say even though he remained silent as ever. Makoto straightened her back, tea ignored as she stared at him. Though his blind side was facing her she dug into what she could see of his expression.

“...What do they know?” she murmured, bringing his attention back up. That was it. They knew something. They knew. About her? About the neighborhood? The names of the kids she looked after on the odd morning raced through her head, then their parents, then the regular employees she met and talked with when she was out, if she was out. The man watched her shoulders rise and fall in fear, but ultimately he was sympathetic, not worried, it seemed. That being said, he couldn't shake his head.

Clucking his tongue, he looked up to the ceiling to think, then he rummaged in his pockets to bring out his lighter. Flipping it open and flicking the flame on in one smooth motion, he handed it to her. Gingerly, she took it, looking to the flame then to him.

Whatever they knew, he had been destroying.

“Why,” she exhaled, “Why? Who are you, who are you to care, who are you to know—,”

The bombardment of questions he realized he couldn't escape from hit him hard, and he shook his head again and again—after all, she was already falling in way too deep just by knowing that her name was still floating around out there, in use or not. Makoto's palms were flat against the kotatsu, her nails scraping against the surface as she sensed that he was about to flee without answering.

“Who are you to come here and—what do you want, wait—wait!!”

Makoto caught him in the main hallway, trapping him with a slender arm that he refused to butt against. She breathed, heavy and harsh, staring at him. She opened her mouth to ask again.

She closed it and let her arm slip back to her side. Rubbing it self-consciously, she broke her gaze away from him.

“...Go,” she said quietly, “You can go.”

After all, she knew when she was asking questions that would plunge her over her head. Her and all the kids she looked after. But the regret and the pain in being left in the dark was as obvious as the pictureless offering.

It broke Majima's heart.

Fuck it. Fuck everything. All that business of keeping her safe—it meant nothing if none of it kept her happy on top of that. It wasn't just about her being alive, it was about her living.

It was easier than he would've expected, even though he knew that leaving would be harder than he was prepared for. Without warning her he stepped forward, opening his arms and pulling her into a hug. He felt her breath escape in a shocked gasp—wrapped in a momentary terror of not knowing his intent. Trying to keep himself soft he sighed, holding her gently so she could escape if she needed to.

Though she was stiff, she didn't move. Majima squeezed his eye shut, rubbing his thumb along her shoulder.

Makoto melted. Majima pulled her firm against his chest, realizing he had lifted her in the air when the initial kick of her feet brushed against his pant leg. Turning his head, he exhaled warmth to the nape of her neck. She shivered, just barely. The shivers intensified when he finally spoke, murmuring against the collar of her flannel.

“I'll stay. If ya need me to.”

Makoto breathed shallow and shrill, hands raising to claw at the backs of his shoulders—not to push him off but to bring him closer. Pressing his lips to the slope of her shoulder he exhaled again.

“I'll stay.”

Trembling in his hold, her suspended toes turned inwards. The length of her silence and the sudden fragility to her body made him set her back down, gently, gently. As he retreated enough to allow space between them he pressed his lips to her flushed cheek, definite but soft. It was both a statement and a question, reserved and patient. Still, he drew back, intent on freeing her while everything processed itself. Him, there, only to tell her she was safe and he'd continue to keep it that way if he had to, near her or not. That he was still thinking of her after all this time the way she still was.

Makoto threaded her hand through his hair to the back of his head, stopping him from retreating further.

“I didn't keep anything from back then...,” she murmured as she guided him back to rest on her shoulder, “Only memories, and singular photographs...,”

Majima kissed her pulse, spurred by how it quickened yet she relaxed. Remaining slow and kind in his movements, his lips kissed her more as she spoke, the bristle of his beard prickling her skin and causing goosebumps as he traveled to her exposed collarbone, kissing the heart of it.

“But...,”

Majima kissed her again, reveling in her stuttered breath against his knuckles as he started carefully unbuttoning her flannel shirt until his hands could slip underneath and pull her waist closer to him, fingers brushing the edges of her camisole.

“I wish I could've kept you...,”

He left her skin for just a moment and she missed the touch of his beard against her chest. Hand still threaded through his hair, she helped him pull away to meet his eye.

“Not a photograph...,” she whispered, “Just you.”

Makoto pulled herself flush against his warmth and let herself be lifted in his arms again to kiss his lips.

#majima goro #makoto makimura #yakuza #ryu ga gotoku #valentine's day boogaloo #this idea has been knocking around for a few months #EXCUSE the length #but that's why #also i adore dormammu she's a wonderful friend #i've got soul but i'm not a soldier #i've got soulll but i'm not a soldierrrrr

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mysteriouslymysticalparadise · 6 years ago

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The cracking sound appears to come from tendons or muscles moving over the joint or from the popping of nitrogen bubbles normally found in the joint space. ... Sometimes the noise is related to worn cartilage in the joints and bones rubbing together, which can cause pain.Jul 1, 2018

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