#but Danny and Ruby are complete weirdos

[angstandhappiness]

Neat

Conversation Prompt

“Thank you for not giving up on me. I didn’t - well, I didn’t expect anyone to have that sort of faith in me.”

“I don’t think it was faith. Not really. I feel like - if you died, I’d know it. I knew you were still alive out there, somewhere, because I felt like I’d know it the second your heart stopped beating. Is that strange?”

[wanderingcas]

5 times Dean had work to do, and the one time he actually enjoyed it.  pairing: dean/cas a commission for @jensenackhles <3 2k words

One 

Dean first heard the phrase a few weeks after his mom died.

John had checked them into a motel—one of the many that they had cycled through in the past few weeks. Sam was asleep in the crib, and John was on the opposite bed. Dean had woken up to a strange sound; he rolled over and saw John at the foot of the bed, head bowed, shoulders shaking.

Dean had never seen his dad cry before. Even right after the fire, when he was telling the detectives what happened at the police station: completely dry-eyed. So seeing his dad cry was… strange. Dean wanted to make it stop. 

He pushed back the sheets and hopped off the bed. Walking on unsteady, sleepy toddler legs to his dad, he put either hand on John’s knees, looking up at him. John was clutching a worn picture of Mary between his fingers.

“Are you okay, dad?” Dean asked.

John continued to stare at the picture of Mary’s smiling face. After a moment, he sniffed. Wiped his face that was striped with tears with the back of his hand. He ruffled Dean’s hair and said gruffly, “Yeah, kid. I’m fine. Get back to sleep, okay? We got work to do in the morning.”

And the next morning in the car, when Sam was crying in his carseat and kicking up a storm, Dean patted his head and said, “It’s okay, Sammy, shh. Stop crying. We got work to do, okay? So you can’t cry. We got to work.” 

Sam just stared at him with big teary and trusting eyes. Dean didn’t even know what he was really saying at the time; what he was getting them into.

Two 

He didn’t make it a habit to say the words out loud often. He said them more to himself, as a mantra to keep himself on track. But sometimes they would slip out, when he really needed to orient himself: when he really needed to kick his own ass into gear and push down the emotions.

The second time he remembers saying it was when he was 25. He was driving to a case with Danny, the son of one of John’s hunting friends. John was out of commission from a nasty encounter with a wendigo, so they were tag-teaming the ghoul hunt. 

Dean felt his phone buzz, wedged between the driver’s seat and his leg. He pulled it up, glancing at it, just in case it was important. His stomach immediately sank when he saw Sam’s number.

Got to Stanford okay, in case you were wondering. Too hot here. Miss you and Dad. 

The muscles in Dean’s jaw jumped as he clenched it tighter.

“Who’s that?” Danny asked, cocking his shotgun. “Somethin’ about the case?”

“No,” Dean said. He pulled into the driveway of the house where the hauntings were taking place. Eased the Impala into park. “Focus up,” he commanded, cocking his own gun aggressively. “We got work to do.” 

Three 

The seal to the gates of hell are open. Ruby tricked them, and Sam triggered the apocalypse. 

Dean doesn’t know what to say. 

History is repeated again, where Dean is sitting helplessly on one hotel bed, Sam crying on the other. He’s bent at the waist, shoulders hunched, tears silently streaming. 

Dean knows that he’ll blame himself forever. He knows that this might break him. 

He knows he needs to say something.

Getting up unsteadily, he walks over to the bed and sits down on the other side of his brother. The bed creaks from his weight. “C’mon, Sam,” he says into the silence. “We didn’t know, okay? We couldn’t have seen it coming.”

Sam remains silent, glaring at the ground.

A lead in his gut, Dean reaches out a hand, and places it on Sam’s shoulder. “We gotta keep going, okay? We just… we gotta keep fighting. We can’t just sit down and take it.” 

“What’s the point, Dean?” Sam asks. He shrugs off Dean’s shoulder and twists around to glare at him. “Why even try, if I keep fucking everything up? Huh?”

“Because people need us, Sam,” Dean snaps. “We need to finish what we started. We gotta make sure the world is safe, okay? There’s no time to sit around and feel sorry for our damn selves.”

Sam stares at his hands, stonily silent.

Dean stands. Holds out a hand to his younger brother. “C’mon. We got work to do.” 

Sam glares at Dean’s hand for a moment before sighing resignedly. He takes it, and stands.

Four 

When Dean met Cas, a lot changed.

His view on angels not so much: he still thinks they’re a bunch of dicks. But the way that things aren’t always so black and white. That people—angels—can change. That Dean can maybe be… loved. Saved. Worthy of it. 

At least Cas seems to think he’s worth it, anyway. 

He tucks all these feelings into his back pocket; doesn’t want them to see the light of day. Because if they did… well. Then he would have more than his brother to be worried about. And in his line of work, any attachments are frankly a terrible decision.

Except, it’s Cas, and Dean can’t keep his eyes off him. 

And he stares at Cas a lot. He knows he does; it’s almost like there’s a magnet that pulls his eyes to Cas’s face and stays there. Sam notices it; Cas notices it; everyone notices it. Dean just… can’t seem to help it.

Maybe it’s that otherworldly look that he always has on his face. Maybe it’s the perpetual five o’clock shadow that paints his sharp jaw. Maybe it’s because Cas is usually staring right back at him, all up in Dean’s personal space no matter how much Dean complains about it (even though he really doesn’t mind. Not at all. He’d love to have Cas even closer, actually). 

Maybe it’s just because Dean has a damn crush on an angel and he doesn’t know what to do about it. 

“So, you’re sweet on my brother, huh?” Gabriel asks Dean with a leering grin.

Dean snaps his eyes back into the room instead of watching Cas’s back leave the room. “What the fuck? No.” 

Across the room, Sam puts a hand over his mouth to hide his smile. Dean wants to punch him so that he’ll finally respect his damn elders.

“Liar,” Gabriel says. 

“C’mon, that weirdo? In a trenchcoat? What are you smoking?”

“He has a… jeno se qua,” Gabriel says with a wave of his hand in the air. “A certain sexiness, if you will.” 

“I’m not sweet on him.” Dean can feel the blood rising in his cheeks, and he hates it. 

“Sure, Dean-o.” Gabriel winks. “Sure.” 

Cas walks back into the roomthen , looking adorably confused, and of course Dean’s blush increases. He tries to look casual as he leans against the wall with a glare, avoiding Cas’s eyes. 

Sam sputters as he tries not to laugh at Gabriel batting his eyelashes in Cas’s direction. 

“Okay, knock it off, you idiots,” Dean snaps. “We got work to do.” 

Cas tilts his head in that adorable way, asking, “What do you want me to knock off, Dean?”

“Your pants,” says Gabriel casually. 

Sam loses it then, bursting into laughter. 

Five 

The apocalypse is done. By some miracle, they all lived through it—Cas, Bobby, and even Sam, who managed to push Lucifer out before throwing him into the pit. 

There’s no imminent danger, no immediate threat—which is probably why Sam decides to bring it up.

“Are you going to tell him how you feel?” Sam asks. They’re sitting at Bobby’s table, each nursing a beer. Sam is still exhausted from his encounter with Lucifer, so he’s not getting out to hunt much these days; they normally spend their nights like this, just soaking in the quiet before the next inevitable storm.

Dean looks at his brother incredulously. “What’re you talking about?”

“Don’t play stupid,” Sam says. “I’m not an idiot, Dean. I see the way you look at him.” 

Dean grumbles, sipping at his beer. 

“Dean.” Sam sets his beer down. “The world is quiet. For once. The apocalypse is avoided, Michael and Lucifer are in the cage, just—there will be crap that comes up later. It can’t be avoided. But at least now, in this quiet moment, you can figure things out. With him.”

“Just leave it alone, Sam,” Dean sighs. He doesn’t even have the energy to argue with him anymore. Snatching his beer off the table, he says, “Think I’m gonna finish this outside.” 

He ignores Sam’s worried eyes that follow him out of the house. 

Leaning against the porch railing, he sips at his beer, glaring out into the salvage yard. Something familiar catches his eye: a figure wrapped in a trench coat, head tilted back and staring up at the stars. 

Dean takes a steadying pull of beer before stomping down the porch steps. He stands next to Cas, the neck of his beer bottle hanging loosely from his fingers. Cas gives him a nod of acknowledgement before looking back up at the twinkling stars above them. 

Clearing his throat, Dean says gruffly, “So, you thinkin’ of going back there?”

“Back there?” Cas asks.

“To, you know.” Dean waves his beer at the sky. “To Heaven.” 

“Heaven is not in the sky, Dean,” Cas chides.

“Okay, whatever. Just answer the damn question: are you going back?”

Cas lifts one shoulder in barely a shrug. He looks at Dean then, blue eyes sparkling in the night. “I might not go back—if I have a reason to stay.” 

“Well, you might have one,” Dean says. “There’s plenty more shit to take care of down here. Rumor has it Raphael is pissed about you rebelling against the apocalypse, so he’ll probably stir some shit up that you have to—”

“Dean.” Cas turns to him, suddenly very serious. “Do I have a reason to stay?”

Dean can feel his breath catch in his throat. He realizes that he could lie. Could laugh it off with a joke or a snarky comment, like he usually does. But he knows it’s now or never. Cas could leave. He’d do anything to stop that. 

“Dean,” Cas says again. There’s a filter of emotion that comes through to his eyes—it looks like hope. That makes Dean crack. 

“Maybe you do have a reason,” Dean says. “Maybe we want you to, I don’t know—stay.” He looks at the ground. “Maybe I want you to stay.” 

Cas takes Dean’s hand. Dean’s heart rate increases as Cas rubs his thumb against Dean’s calloused knuckles. “I want to stay, too.” 

“Good, that’s, uh.” Dean smiles wide. Steps closer to Cas so that their chests are nearly touching. “That’s good, Cas.” 

+1

Dean asks Cas to marry him six months later on the hood of the Impala, burgers and beers between them. 

He doesn’t see the point in waiting when he just…. knows. Cas seems to know too, since Dean can barely get out the question before Cas is tackling him to the hood and kissing him senseless, whispering Yes between each breath. 

Sam cries when they tell him. Of course. Bobby pretends not to get emotional, but Dean sees him wiping at his face a minute later. The angels are, of course, pissed—but Cas couldn’t care less. 

Apparently Cas had been planning to ask Dean from the beginning—he and Charlie had even been making a wedding scrapbook with Charlie in the past few months.

Cas pulls out the scrapbook to show Dean the next morning, both in their pajamas and sitting at Bobby’s kitchen table. His cheeks are stained from embarrassment, unsure how Dean will take it.

But Dean finds it the least embarrassing thing in the world—he just flips through the pages and pages of wedding decorations, tuxes, and rings, and gets increasingly choked up. He almost loses it when he sees the Enochian words for “Forever” inscribed on a ring that Charlie made in photoshop as a mock-up. 

Dean puts down his coffee, and kisses his fiance soundly. When he pulls back, Cas is smiling, bright as the rising sun. 

Shutting the book, Dean stands, and grabs Cas’s hand with a wink. “Well, Cas. Looks like we got work to do.”

[sleekervae]

Young God [0.1]

Masterlist

July 2011

Her alarm didn't wake her up, but the carnivorous notions of the oncoming day did. Taylor's first show was today. Her first show in America, to be precise. The very idea that she had touched down and was in California in the first place was enough to send goosebumps rippling down her arms and her palms break out into sweats. And Taylor used the phrase 'carnivorous' in the sense that if she didn't put on a good show, she'd be eaten alive by the crowds and never be able to break out across the pond.

Steadily now, Taylor threw the blanket off her head and ran her fingers through the knots and tangles in her blue hair. Behind her was the soft down pillow, and she frowned when she saw the faint stains of black makeup in the linen. Oh, fuck me, she thought to herself. She wiped the crusties from her eyes, and as her vision came into focus she found various liquor bottles scattered across the coffee table. In a bedroom? Oh, that's right; she slept in the living room, on the pullout sofa to be specific. That was why her head was pounding... and why her clothes smelled like the inside of a dirty pub.

Taylor stood on shaky legs, frowning when she saw she was only dressed in an oversized sleep shirt and her panties. Fuck, where were her clothes, now? Taylor held her head as she wandered through the flat, cursing to herself when she suddenly stubbed her toe on the corner of the base boards.

"Oh! -- Motherfuck..."

In the kitchen she found a few more glasses randomly distributed across the countertop, some empty, others smudged with various shades of lipsticks and dirty finger prints. Taylor picked up one, in the glass a liquid that consisted of a ruby red pigment. She didn't care much for what it was, she'd brush her teeth later on. Taylor knocked back the leftover drink, vodka burning down her throat while the sour tinge of the cranberry juice it was mixed with made her lips pucker. Afterwards she went to the sink and filled the glass with cold water, then downed that as well in a single gulp.

Her weary legs took Taylor to the bathroom. The door was closed, and Taylor grumbled when she found it was locked. Inside, she could hear the echo of the shower beating against cold tile. Fucking shame, she needed to take a piss and she smelled like a mini fridge after New Years.

"I fuckin' -- good Lord, Worsnop," she raised her fist and knocked briskly against the door, knowing fully well what a whore Danny was when it came to his showers, "Danny! Hurry up! I need a whizz!" she called through her banging.

"Wait two minutes, Tay!" his usual soft, Yorkshire accent was gravely and gruff. Taylor then pictured Danny as some sort of hybrid singing werewolf because of it.

"No! Either get out or I swear to God -- I'll squat over your ferns!" she shouted. At that, the beating of water quickly ceased, and Taylor stood back with a sly smirk on her face as she heard the bathroom door unlock. It opened and out came a sopping wet Danny with water dribbling down his beard and a towel wrapped firmly around his waist. He shivered as he stepped aside for Taylor, chuckling to himself.

"You're a right prick when you're hungover, Taylor," he said, "The Geordies would be so ashamed of ya!"

"Oh yeah," Taylor sighed, "Look how broken up I am about the fucking Geordies. And clean up that mess out there; you want the people to think we're slobs?" and with that, she slammed the door in his face. Immediately, she was engulfed in the pleasant scent of men's shampoo.

Danny knocked on the door then, "Oi! Why do I gotta' clean it up? You helped make the mess!" he called.

"Yeah! But it's your flat!" Taylor called back, "And I'm your guest,"

"They don't say flats here, Tay," Danny chuckled. Taylor rolled her eyes as she heard his footsteps swish away.

"Whatever," locking the door behind her, Taylor turned to face the mirror and examined the ugly reflection of frizzy blue hair, dark circles and blackened eyelids -- a true indication that she was indeed hungover and on the cusp of a breakdown.

Well she was young, ripe at twenty years of age, and either of those fit well.

She pulled a gag face and tended to her business with the toilet. Afterwards, she ran the cold water from the alabaster sink and proceeded to splash cold water onto her face several times over, scrubbing at her skin with a wash cloth to get rid of the old makeup. Unfortunately, her taste in makeup was good quality, because all the makeup did was slide and stick to her skin.

I don't have the patience today...

Taylor squirted a bare-minimum amount of toothpaste onto her toothbrush and popped it into her mouth, shuddering when she heard a knocking at the door.

"How long ya' gonna' be?" Danny asked, "Not that I'm trying to rush you," Again, Taylor rolled her eyes and unlocked the door, to which Danny took as an invitation to enter. He couldn't help but laugh when he saw the makeup streaked over Taylor's face.

"Not funny, you wanker," she spit through the blue foam.

"I'm not laughing at you, Taylor; I'm only laughing with you," he replied simply.

"I heard that bullshit before," she spat out the fluff and started again, "What time do we gotta' be at the park?"

Danny reached past her face, opening the medicine cabinet to grab his razor and shaving cream, "Somewhere around ten-ish," he replied, "We got some time to kick around, grab a coffee. How ya' feeling?"

"Like I crawled out of a garbage can," she said.

Danny chuckled again, "Besides the hangover, love,"

Taylor spat out the rest of her toothpaste and wiped her mouth with her wrist, turning to Danny with sunken eyes, "Honestly -- I wanna' go home,"

He squirted a bare amount of shaving lotion into his hand and proceeded to smear over and around his soggy beard, "No. Why?" Danny asked.

"Because," Taylor replied, "I ain't gonna' fit in, Dan. I know I won't,"

Danny scoffed back as he switched on his razor, "Taylor, none of us fit in. That's why we go to Warped Tour -- for the weirdos," he said, "And you're the perfect weird addition to our fucked up little family,"

Taylor glowered back at him, "That was a backhanded-compliment, Dan," she stated.

"I'm sorry, Tay. But I can't be as charming when I'm hungover," he said. Taylor threw down her toothbrush and brushed passed Danny, charging into the flat to look for her bag. It wasn't in the living room and it wasn't in the bedroom, where the fuck did he put it?

"It's not just the tour, though," she said, "It's America," she threw her hands up as though to make a dramatic point.

Danny shuffled along in his large bath towel, a quarter shaven and visually following her manic movements as she scoured through his flat, "While I admit it may not be the greatest country in the world, it ain't fucking bad," he said, "They're age restrictions are a little whack,"

"You're telling me. Can't drink until you're twenty-one, fucking bollocks," Taylor huffed as she tried not to trip over the remaining bottles on the floor, "I'm just a little worked up over performing to an American crowd. I don't know how they're gonna' react to me, is all," she said.

"Babe, come on," Danny awed at her, "You was a smash in England, you'll be a right smash in America, too,"

"You're just saying that 'cause I'm your friend and you feel obligated to make me feel better," she replied, then suddenly growling out loud, "Where is my fucking stuff!?"

"In my bedroom," Danny replied oh-so-matter-of-factly. Taylor glowered at him.

"Why is it there?"

"I told you it was there, you said you'd unpack it later on,"

"That was before you got me drunk,"

"We was celebrating!" he cried, "You're big American debut!"

"American debut my skinny arse!" she charged into his bedroom without another word. Danny meanwhile snickered to himself as he shuffled to his fridge, he was suddenly feeling a tad peckish.

"Oi! Finish shaving before you go snacking!" Taylor called suddenly, "You'll look like a rabid dog," Danny's only response was a dramatic, long-winded dog howl.

Andy lit his first cigarette of the morning and leaned against the cold wall of his bus, unpleased at the rising heat that coated his pale skin in a light sheen of sweat. The blue sky still had wisps of the previous evening's indigo and the sun was burning down more intensely than he'd prepared for, which left him feeling rather stifled and uncomfortable, a stark contrast to the cool, air-conditioned environment of the bus he'd been in moments before. It was California days such as this that made him consider cutting back his long hair.

There was more time than usual to kill before the show today and Andy had hoped that everyone would partake in a drink or two whilst they threw around some new ideas, but the boys had instead wandering off for a pre-show meal before their own soundcheck. Left to his own devices, it hadn't take long until he had resorted to a shot of whisky in his coffee, then, feeling miserable, full of self-pity and not at all in the mood to write, he had wandered outside for a smoke.

He puffed his hair from his face feeling it already begin to stick to his forehead. Maybe it was time for a trim. He wondered what he'd look like if he buzzed it all off or changed his style completely. As he smoked, he considered the setlist they'd compiled, he checked his phone and scanned through his messages, he yawned several times and contemplated going back to his bunk, then he took a final drag deep into his lungs, watched it escape through his lips and disappear into thin strands of wispiness above his head before crushing the cigarette with the heel of his boot.

His boredom had gotten the best of him to the point that he decided to wander around the park to kill some time. With it being still early, vendors were still popping and setting up their tents and buses were slowly rolling into the parkade. He felt the eyes of some onlookers, either taking notice for his metal aesthetic or they recognized his long dreads and skinny physique from the posters and t-shirts that were being laid out for fans to purchase later on. Andy grinned suddenly when the familiar twang of rippling guitars ghosted through his ears and he headed towards the MainStage.

A few hours later Taylor stood to the side of the stage, feeling somewhat refreshed, though her head still clung to the smallest trace of a headache just to make her miserable. As if anything could be worse, she was still jet lagged and wanted to go back to bed. She tried to sleep it off in the van, but her tour manager, Robin, barely gave her a moments rest as she went through Taylor's schedule for the next week. Taylor was extremely grateful to have Robin as her manager -- she was the perfect composition of organized and kick-ass. But bloody hell, she was fucking persistent when it came to Taylor's scheduling. Perhaps that was why she had the job in the first place?

Danny was a fantastic showman, he held this charisma that just commanded everybody in the audience -- well, soundcheck -- to pay attention to him and his band: Asking Alexandria. Or perhaps everybody was just staring at that ridiculous fedora he had on today? When they got to soundcheck, Ben refused to let up on how ancient that hat made Danny look, as though he stepped out of a scene from The Great Gatsby.

"You said you'd love me for better or worse, Ben!" Danny cried dramatically.

"I didn't say I'd love that fucking hate, mate," Ben chided back.

Taylor loved watching the band perform, though today she found she couldn't get into their energy as much. She was too on edge, perhaps from the three cups of coffee she'd consumed before she left the flat -- sorry, apartment. She was too nervous for her own gig. Taylor looked over her shoulder at the empty field, a field which would soon be filled with cheering -- or jeering -- audiences. Taylor was new meat, one of the starting-acts, and that was daunting enough to make her stomach turn; and not just from the hangover.

She could still remember her first show back home in Gateshead; many of her friends were there, and they invited friends of friends and so on. Many loved her, others booed at her. Taylor could still hear the ridicule of one audience member who called her Joan Jett wannabe. That just made her want to work harder, prove to them that she was fantastic on her own. She wasn't trying to be the next Joan, or the next Debbie Harry, or Stevie Nicks. Taylor wanted to be the first Taylor Wray.

"This next one I'd like to dedicate to our good friend, Taylor Wray," Danny spoke into the microphone, eliciting little reaction from the stagehands and roadies who watched them. Taylor meanwhile grinned and gave Danny a little wave.

"This one's called 'I Used to Have a Best Friend, But He Gave Me An STD'," and with that, Taylor's smile vanished and she flipped her middle finger at him.

"Fuck you, Danny!" she shouted.

"Right back at ya', love!" Danny called back. With that, the band tore into the song and started jamming out.

Taylor rolled her eyes and instead pushed herself up to sit on the guard rail, tapping the heel of her leather boot in time to James' drum set. She jumped suddenly when she felt a buzz reside within the back pocket of her jeans. Her phone lit up with a text from Maxeen, the bassist of her touring band. She was just wondering what time soundcheck was.

The MainStage was within Andy's line of sight and he wandered through the grass and weeds to watch Asking's set. Watch -- and maybe heckle a bit. From the stage, Ben caught sight of his long-haired mate crossing the threshold, and he stopped mid-strum to wave him down. Lifting his head as he turned back to face his friend, Andy crosses the field, eager to watch his friends but stopped dead in his tracks when his brain caught up with his vision and he realized he wasn't the only spectator in the park.

Sat on the guardrail was a young woman, swinging her legs back and forth as her feet could just touch the second bar in her heeled ankle boots. Her vibrant, teal blue hair immediately caught Andy's attention. When she noticed Ben waving, she shifted to turn and spotted Andy coming her way. When Andy's gaze caught hers, he nearly lost his composure.

He knew it could have only lasted for seconds, that there was no way in which the consistency of time could have altered for him and his own sudden and ridiculous longing, but he could have sworn then, just for a moment, as he laid eyes on her for the first time, that everything fell deadly still around him and begged him to notice her.

And notice her he did.

Her eyes were big and round, lined in black eyeliner and glittered with green, shimmery eyeshadow that brought a warmth to her brown irises. Her jeans were ripped in the knees and the tattoos on her bare arms were on display in the oversized Abbey Road muscle tee she wore. Her thick teal curls flowed in the wind as she ran her free hand back through her locks and he noted the effort it took to detangle her fingers from the strands.

There was an abundant softness about her that made him sigh out loud, a gentle spunk that made him feel as if he'd damage her just from the intensity of his stare but she still gave off an ember of effervescent vibrance when she turned the corners of her lips up at him, his heart thudding against his ribcage just from the bravery in the way she held his gaze.

As if she could feel the way in which he thirstily drank her in, Taylor slowly looked him up and down, catching Andy off guard. He blinked once or twice, just to have something to do besides marvel at her and bit the inside of his cheek to confirm he wasn't dreaming, but now certain that she was looking at him, that her friendly smile was for him -- Andy just about melted.

[pynkhues]

It’s officially ~spooky szn~ which means we need a brio Halloween fic, pleaaasee!! Like can you imagine Beth insisting on making costumes for all five kids?? Anyways, even if you don’t have time for this just want you to know that I love your writing and I look forward to any and all fic updates :)

Thank you so much! And haha, happy spooky season, anon. Hope you like it. :-) 

Set in The Centre and Circumference / Domestic Fic universe

“You know, I actually think it looks kind of cool,” Annie tells her, eyes on Beth’s blue-dyed fingers as Beth fiddles with her makeup palette, comparing the shades of skin toned foundation a few shades lighter than Annie’s own. “Like you’ve been finger banging one of those aliens from Avatar or something.”

And just - - god. Beth blanches before she can stop herself, stopping in her ministrations long enough to shoot Annie a look, before refocusing on the task at hand.

“Please never say that again,” Beth says, shaking her head as she throws a dash of grey face paint into her mixing palette with the foundation – gets it all thick and moonish. She tests it a little on her own hand before grabbing her make-up brush, lathering it up and starting on Annie’s face.

“Fine, sorry I’m trying to make your weird blue monster hands less terrifying.”

Rolling her eyes, Beth uses those weird blue monster hands to lay the first layer of ghoulish foundation on Annie’s face. It’s not like Beth isn’t used to it anyway – has dyed enough fabric in her time to know that dying your hands is just an unfortunate side effect. Still, she’s tried everything to get it off – all her tried and true measures, but nothing’s worked, so Beth has resigned herself to the fact that it’s just going to take time.

It’d all been worth it anyway – to see Marcus’ face light up as soon as his eyes had locked onto the Captain America costume. She feels like she’s spent the better part of the month making costumes – dying and sewing and cutting up fabrics, and sure, it’d been exhausting, but somehow not as exhausting as previous years, even with the extra one to make. And god, as weird as it is to think about, she’s pretty sure that that comes down to Rio more than anything else. The second he’d realised he couldn’t talk her out of making them from scratch herself, he’d been more helpful than she thinks even he’d realised – whether that was in organising dinner so she could work on them, or stopping by the craft store, or distracting the kids so she could work, or even just staying up with her, reading on the couch while Beth poured over her sewing machine, taking them both to bed when she stopped making any sense.

“All I’m saying is you could throw something together if you really wanted to come out with us,” Annie says, sucking in her lips when Beth does in instruction, twitching back when Beth paints the make-up hard over her mouth. And Beth knows she shouldn’t be annoyed by this – knows there’s no accusation there, no shame, more just a double check that Beth is really happy for Annie to take the kids trick or treating without her.

It’d become something of a tradition years ago – that Annie would show up and bundle all the kids together and take them out – her endless energy when candy was involved meaning they didn’t turn around until all the kids were dragging their feet, instead of after three or four houses when Beth’s own exhaustion from the lead-up would inevitably start begging her for bed. Annie was forever the Fun Aunt, and Beth was forever - - well, not the Boring Mom, but the Mom Mom. The mom you wanted making costumes, not the one you wanted tagging along to trick or treating and asking if you really needed that extra houseworth of candy, and honestly? Beth was pretty much fine with that.

Anyway, Annie had seemed extra keen this year.

(“With this new neighbourhood?” Annie had said with a scoff when she’d offered. “You know they’re handing out the good stuff, and Sadie deserves every opportunity to gorge on fancy candy as your kids do.”

“Sadie?” Beth asked, arching an eyebrow, and Annie had replied with a shit-eating grin.)

“I’m good,” Beth says now. “Seriously. I have a date with a glass of bourbon, a pizza and whatever spooky movie is playing on TV.”

“You know you don’t have to play Russian Roulette with basic cable anymore, you can actually like, choose your spooky movie now. It’s through this brand-new start-up – I think it’s called - - Netfilm - - no wait, Netflix, I think? Gotta tell you – I think those guys are onto something.”

Beth snorts, getting more make-up / facepaint onto her brush, and opening her mouth to reply, when Emma twirls back into the dining room, her golden dress billowing as she moves. She comes to a stop in front of Annie and Beth, who are sitting opposite each other on the same side of the dining room table – their chairs turned to face each other, the tools of Beth’s day – make-up, sewing kit, hot glue gun, curling iron, sprawled out across the table beside them.

“Mommy, I can’t find my tea set,” she says with a pout. “I want to take Mrs. Potts.”

Emma’s Belle costume from Beauty and the Beast had come together surprisingly well – or not surprising, Beth corrects herself, remembering Ruby’s words earlier that day (“What? Something you made looks amazing? Shocker. You gotta learn to own your talents, B, seriously.”). She’s good at this, after all, and she already had the fabric templates from Emma being Anna from Frozen last year (although Beth had added a few more layers to the Belle skirt to give it volume).

“I think it’s in the playroom, honey,” Beth says, and Emma darts out of the room in a puff of glitter hairspray and gold satin. Turning back to Annie, Beth grabs a small sponge, finds the bruise-purple eyeshadow she’d set aside earlier, only to blink at the look on her sister’s face.

“Okay, so, please remind me why we were robbing grocery stores when you can do that. That costume is - -” Annie kisses her fingers, and Beth grins, batting her hands away from her mouth.

“You’re going to smudge your make-up.”

Which wouldn’t be ideal, Beth thinks, shifting back in her seat. It’d be good to get the kids out of here – Annie’s the last one after all. Beth has already put the finishing touches on Kenny’s Hopper costume from Stranger Things (fake beard and all), Danny’s Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle one, and Jane’s, which was - - weird, to say the least. Or - - maybe not. The shiny-obsessed crab from Moana feels pretty on brand for her. Hell, she’d even put together Sadie’s - although deciding to go as Karl Marx meant it mostly only entailed getting him a suit which Annie had done, and finding the right wig and faux beard which fell strictly in Beth’s jurisdiction.

At the thought of Sadie, Beth glances out of the dining room, down into the living room, where he’s helping Danny play Jacks (Glenvale Elementary has a Retro Games Club, which is intensely sweet, but also makes Beth feel about a million years old. It’s not like she played Jacks, but she knew what it was.)

She’s pulled from her thoughts by the front door springing open, and she knows who it is from the delighted reactions on the kids’ faces more than anything else. Doesn’t see him though until he steps light-footed through the living room, carrying the seven plastic, pumpkin-head candy buckets and an enormous bag of ghost-shaped candies – each individually wrapped for any trick or treaters they might get tonight. She sighs in relief, mouthing a thank you as Rio spots her, tilting his chin up in acknowledgement. God, she can’t even believe she’d forgotten to pick them up in the stress of finishing the costumes.

Leaning down to fist bump Sadie, then Danny, Rio promptly gives Kenny the pumpkin buckets, directing him to pass them out to the other kids before they head out. Darting over into the dining room, Rio moves easily into Beth’s space, leaning down to give her a quick kiss that makes her blush despite herself, before glancing over at Annie, who’s zombie hillbilly look is almost complete.

“Thought you said your sister was wearin’ a costume?” Rio asks her, forehead furrowed in faux confusion, and Beth bites back a grin, rolls her eyes a little as Annie yanks out her prosthetic teeth to scoff.

“Funny,” Annie says with a snort, scowling over at Rio. “You should take that act on the - - wait. Was that a dad joke?”

Her jaw briefly hangs open, and Rio huffs out a laugh, adjusting his grip on the bag of candy in his arms and heading into the kitchen, away from them. It’s enough to make Annie surge up in her seat, briefly checking the kids aren’t listening before whisper yelling:  

“Don’t give up your day job as violent gangleader, I think your career in comedy is lacking!”

Rio just waves an arm out at her, jogging over to where Marcus and Jane are sprawled out on the kitchen floor, colouring in an enormous haunted house picture Beth had picked up from the PTA. They grin as they see him, and Rio ruffles Marcus’ perfectly quaffed Captain America hair just to make his son gasp, and then immediately starts laughing as he gets his first real look at Jane’s blinged out crab costume. Red cheeked and outraged at Rio’s response, Jane opens her mouth to yell, but then Rio’s swinging her up into his arms, rocking her around, making her cackle like a little lunatic, and just - -

Beth exhales happily, turns back to Annie only to pause.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Annie says, then shrugs, smiling. “Your face. Weirdo.”

“What?” Beth repeats, rubbing at her cheek, like there might be something on it, but she knows whatever Annie saw wasn’t - - well. Beth blushes, dips the sponge back in the bruise coloured eyeshadow and finishes the last one off. “I think I’m done, anyway, so you should probably get the kids out of here.”

“Sure sure,” Annie says knowingly, and when Beth squints at her, she adds: “So you can bone daddy over there.”

“Annie,” Beth groans, a bright flush finding her cheeks as Annie leaps to her feet, grabbing the vanity mirror off the table to check out Beth’s work.

“Not bad, not bad,” Annie says, shoving her prosthetic teeth back in and grinning at Beth in a way that just makes her shake her head, not quite able to hide the affection in her grin. With her messy hair and her pallid skin and her buck teeth and her flannel shirt - - she sort of has the zombie hillbilly look down.

“To the streets, my pretties,” Annie calls, and the kids seem to materialise around her like she’s summoned them, a bustle of energy and attention and joy, and Beth’s grin only falters when Annie leans down and adds: “I’ll text you when we’re on our way back so you can, y’know, hide your shame.”

With that, they’re all out the door and into the bustle of the night.

Beth huffs out a breath, briefly collapsing back into her seat at the dining room table, furiously swiping at her face, the exhaustion of the last few weeks finally catching up to her. Still, it had felt too good, giving them all what they wanted – her four and Marcus and Sadie and Annie too – making them feel so good. She can’t bite back her grin, can’t help but feel the worth in it, even as she leans forwards to start to bundle up her make-up and her craft supplies to pack away.

Only she’s interrupted when Rio suddenly leans over the table in front of her, his body bent as he eyes her off, lips twisted into a soft, barely-there grin. Beth raises an eyebrow at him, her fingers curling around her make-up brush again,

“Sorry, did you want me to do you too?” she asks, brandishing the brush in his face, and Rio rolls his eyes, but grins, pinching the brush from her fingers, grabbing a tissue from her collection to wipe off the last of the make-up. He makes neat, easy work of it and - - right, Beth reminds herself. Sisters.

“You gonna chill now?” he asks her, and it takes Beth a minute to process the words, to lean back in her seat, looking up at him, but then - - she nods, leaning back into her chair at the dining room table, folding her arms over her chest. She looks a little wistfully at the door, that contentedness she’d felt seeing them out of it warming in her belly all over again. But then again - - she wrinkles her nose. 

“At this time of year? Maybe for a week,” she says, her voice dry. “Thanksgiving is just around the corner, after all, and then there’s Christmas, and New Year’s too.”

She’d already found at least four new recipes she wanted to try too – experiments alongside old favourites. The menu for both Thanksgiving and Christmas already half-set in her head.  

“Thanksgivin’, we gonna go to my sister’s place.”

The words are enough to jerk Beth out of her own thoughts, to blink up at Rio, surprise evident in her look, and Rio stares back at her, then away, twirling the make-up brush in his hand.

“Carmen’s always wantin’ to host it, but she’s usually workin’ at the hospital. She got it off this year. Wanted to let her do her thing. Only found out yesterday.”

Beth turns the thought over in her head. It’s not that she’s adverse to it, rather - - she’s just not used to it. Annie’s never wanted to host, and Thanksgiving is the only holiday that Stan’s parents insist on, meaning Beth hasn’t had a Thanksgiving with Ruby since her and Stan were married. And after Dean’s dad died - - well, the expectation was that he’d host it, as the eldest son, and Dean hosting it always meant Beth hosting it, but - - but she’s not married to Dean anymore, she’s with Rio, and all the rules are out the window.

She looks back at Rio, who seems almost a little uncertain, like this wasn’t how he planned on broaching this with her, like maybe he expects a fight, and in the end - -

Well.

“We still have to take something,” Beth says, and Rio’s gaze darts up towards her, filled with a look that he gives her too often – something between amused and annoyed, before it gives way to something that’s just - - just deep and warm, and Beth can’t even begin to explain the feeling it unlocks in her own chest. But then Rio’s flicking the tip of her nose with the end of her make-up brush, and Beth rolls her eyes, going to grab it off him, but he holds it steadily out of her grip.

“I’m givin’ you a cap then, mami. One dessert, one side.”

“There are seven of us,” Beth counters easily. “Plus, Annie’ll need to come, so eight – maybe even nine if she has Sadie too.”

“Then Annie can go buy that nasty ass pasta salad she always does and bring that too.”

“Your son loves that nasty ass pasta salad.”

“He does, and if you don’t think I hold that against your sister, you kiddin’ yourself, darlin’.”

And Beth just laughs, wrinkling her nose, because the pasta salad really is awful, so she figures it’s fair, and her reaction is enough to make Rio boop her nose again with her make-up brush.

“One dessert, one side,” he repeats, dropping the brush back into her make-up bag before flicking off her hot glue gun and her curling iron. “That’s an order.”

And - - well, Beth arches an eyebrow at that, folding back into her seat, staring up at him, still mostly amused.

“An order?”

“Mmm,” he hums, pushing her crafting gear and make-up palettes aside before planting his ass on the table in front of her, kicking his legs out briefly like she’s seen Marcus do, before he’s knitting his hands together in front of him, dipping his head. “It’s a thing bosses do, yeah? Delegatin’. I know you’re allergic to it or somethin’, but - -”

“Last I checked, you weren’t the boss of me,” Beth interrupts, tone a lot less amused now, and Rio just laughs, the sound easy and lyrical in a way that makes her heart leap and also tells her that he fundamentally disagrees with that statement, and Beth rolls her eyes, opening her mouth to tell him all the ways he isn’t, when Rio smacks his hands down on his knees and looks over at her.

“So in all this craftin’ and knittin’ and stitchin’, you get yourself a costume?”

And just - - what? Beth blinks, head reeling back as she eyes Rio off. They’d had only the briefest conversations about Halloween – one that mostly revolved around the kids, or Annie (hell, she’d been surprised by the visible pleasure he’d taken in the prospect of Annie taking Marcus as a part of the Boland kid tradition, but then - - Marcus seems a little more enamoured with Annie than she thinks Rio’s realised). Still, she’d figured it wasn’t really his thing, and she’d been glad for it, particularly since Dean had always insisted on the goofiest, most embarrassing ways of celebrating it.

“I don’t really do costumes,” she says slowly, and Rio arches an eyebrow at her, before pointedly looking behind himself at the stacks of fabric offcuts and the make-up and her sewing kit.

“I mean, for me,” she replies. “Honestly, I just always run out of time, and I can’t exactly just run out and buy something. Nothing ever fits.”

He lowers his gaze to her chest then, reaches out, hooks a finger in the top of her blouse in a way that makes her breath catch. He tilts his head from side-to-side, considering.

“Worse things than a shirt that don’t fit.”

And well – that’s enough to make Beth laugh out loud, her hand finding his wrist, pushing it out of her top.

“I’m not talking about sexy, tight things, I mean like - - buttons that won’t do up and like - - too much fabric in places, and not enough in others and - - okay, you are not hearing me at all.”

Because he’s not, if the hot, amused look on his face is anything to go by, and it figures, she thinks. Guys really don’t get the intricacies of how much women’s clothing has never seen a woman’s body. She hits his leg, and he laughs, head back, and her gaze travels his throat, the long line of his neck, and she really must be tired because all she can think about is how much she wants to lick it.

She shakes her head, cringing a little at herself, before she looks away from him, out across the dining room, towards the kitchen, where Jane and Marcus’ colouring in is still sprawled out across the floor.

“Did you want to dress up?” she asks Rio tentatively, because maybe he does, maybe she assumed too much, but then he barks on a laugh, and Beth jerks her head back around to look at him, wrinkled nose and all.

“Fuck no.”

“You just said - -”

“Wanna see you in a costume. Well,” he laughs hoarsely in a way that pools hot and low in her. “Want to get you into one to get you outta one.”

He hums a little, considering, and it really is incredible, she thinks, a little hysterically, how easily he seems to be able to undress her in every sense of the word.

“Nurse Elizabeth,” he drawls. “You could give me a bath.”

And god - - that pulls her out of any reverie. She knows him sick now, knows him fevered, knows exactly the kind of patient he is, and just - -  

“You would hate that,” Beth says, laughing, and he huffs out a breath, but agrees all the same.

“Hmm,” he tries instead. “Maybe a witch then, huh? Or a librarian?”

Beth snorts, looking up at him, and immediately regretting it. There’s a heat in his look that she’s too used to – but - - there’s something else too, something she can’t place, something that runs deeper, and she shifts a little in her seat, electricity bolting from her knee when he knocks it with his calf.

“Mermaid or some shit.”

“You are not creative with costumes,” she says, trying to lower her temperature, and Rio hums in agreement. The next thing she knows, he’s tugging her up by the arm, and Beth lets herself be tugged, lets him move her between his legs, lets him brush her hair back, lets him unbutton her blouse to her belly button, pull it open enough to press a kiss against the top of her chest.

“Panty model,” he decides, and Beth scoffs – a sound which quickly turns into a gasp when Rio bites the curve of her breast. “Centrefold.”

“You’d hate that too,” she breathes, and Rio laughs.

“Mmm, don’t want nobody else lookin’ at you,” he agrees, and Beth shivers when his hands slip around her back, unhooking her bra with a practiced ease. “Then shit, it’s just pretend, ain’t it? We ain’t us.”

“I like being us though,” Beth breathes, and Rio exhales against her breast.

“Me too, ma. Don’t mean I don’t want to see you in some sea shell bra though, huh?”

And that’s enough to make Beth laugh, to rock against him as he unbuttons her shirt the rest of the way, slips it off her shoulders, and pulls off her bra. He makes a sound in his throat which is just - - so pleased, and it makes Beth keen before she even realises she’s doing it, makes her breathless, makes her shift a little closer, and then he’s sucking a hickey into her breast, his hands groping at her ass, pulling her closer - - so close that his half-hard cock digs into her lower belly, and her own nails are scratching through his short hair, her panties soaking, and god, she thinks, this isn’t fair, how quickly they get here, how much this - -

A yelp suddenly pulls her from her thoughts, and Beth’s head jerks around to find Annie standing in the doorway, her eyes wide and her lips broken into a sort of mortified grin. Beth jerks backwards, covering herself, before changing her mind and throwing herself at Rio instead, poking her head up over his shoulder, using him as a human shield.

“Is this a haunted house, because this is certainly straight out of my nightmares,” Annie says, with a half laugh, and Beth scowls at her.

“What are you doing back here?!” she hisses, and Annie rolls her eyes, striding into the living room and plucking an orange pumpkin bucket off the coffee table.

“Relax, sis, I just forgot my candy collector, not to be confused with your vagina, or like - - gangfriend’s mouth right now, apparently.”

“Annie.”

“I’m going, I’m going, jeez, I thought you were supposed to lighten up when you were getting some on the regular.”

“Ain’t you babysittin’?” Rio asks sharply, hand at Beth’s back, pulling her safely into his chest, and Annie huffs out a breath.

“Yes, sir, I have briefly tagged Sadie in, but I’m going straight back. Right now, in fact. So. Anyway, enjoy your - - this.”

Annie steps back, and Beth glances up at her, her blush only deepening when Annie offers her a pointed thumbs up before disappearing back out the front door. Briefly, Beth hears the chatter of her children, of Marcus and Sadie too – buzzing with excitement still for the night and just - -  

“Oh my god,” Beth says with a groan, burying her face back in Rio’s shoulder, feeling him shift beneath her, before suddenly leaning back, heaving her up off her feet, on top of him on the table.

“Don’t stress,” he tells her, settling her weight on top of him, his fingers gliding over her thighs, briefly squeezing her ass, and Beth just laughs emptily, cringing, because god, Annie will never forget this, and there’s no way she won’t immediately tell Ruby - - hell, she’s probably already texted her.

“I - -”

“No,” Rio says beneath her, kissing her. “Nuh-uh.”

He kisses her again, longer this time, harder, and when it breaks, Beth blinks down at him, her cheeks still flushed, his hand warm now on her back.

“I will stress about it after.”

“I know,” Rio tells her, letting her push up off his chest, folding her arms across her own as she straddles him lightly.

“I can never sit with Annie at this table again.”  

“Don’t think about it too much.”

“I  - - ”  

“Elizabeth.”

Beth stops, looks down at him – at the length of him, his handsome face, his tapered torso. Her blush briefly deepens, the heat in her resparking.  

“We got maybe an hour and a half til they get back.”

She blinks, surprised, almost flails an arm out to gesture but then remembers that her arms are the only things covering her (and god – her hands are still so fucking blue). She shakes her head instead.  

“That’s a lot of time.”

Making a noise in the back of his throat like he disagrees, Rio lowers his hands, settling them on her hips. He nudges up against her, his cock shifting against her cunt through both their jeans, and really - - it shouldn’t be legal – how much she wants him.

“You ain’t got no costume,” he drawls after a moment. “But you can try me on if you want.”

And well - - that’s enough to make Beth snort. She looks down at him, wrinkling her nose, and Rio just gives her a shit eating grin in reply.

“That was bad,” she tells him, and he hums in agreement, before surging up and closing the distance between them.

“Yeah, but shit, ma. Works for us.”

And well, she thinks, pressing her lips hard against his.

He’s not wrong.