#my poor neglected monster bat bastard...

[see-arcane]

Well, that unfortunately explains a whole frustrating lot about some questions I had pre-release.

Dracula is, while not their exclusive character (thank you public domain), one of Universal's oldest classic draws. Him, Frankenstein's Creature, and the handful of side bogeymen are the biggest hitters of the Universal Monsters crew. And unlike Renfield, TLVotD is the definition of classic horror! The Count's own gruesome bloodstained roots! It should have been promoted everywhere! Explosively!

And yet all this time, there's only been the one trailer. Barely any clips. Barely any interviews or BTS snippets I could scrape up, all of which would have been finished well before the WGA and SAG-AFTRA Strikes.

When you have to actively dig for movie updates instead of being bombarded with them in the inescapable ad barrage…that means there's nothing to promote with. Because nobody bothered to take care of the promotional needs for the movie.

No, The Last Voyage of the Demeter's not a masterwork of cinema. But it's a good period piece old school scary Dracula tale! It's a hundred times better than the generic Count Sexypire slop that's been churned out for decades! This movie was made for the fans of the book, fans of the monster! Which we almost never get to have! And it's getting screwed over because of studios' haggling and more of those lovely layoffs. Ugh.

If anyone out there has plans to see the movie in theaters, now's the time to get your ticket. With it getting axed on international releases and folks being only half-aware the thing's even happening, there's no knowing what a short shelf life it'll have on the big screen.

[pinknerdpanda]

Guilty Pleasures

Word Count: 1,500

Characters: Reader, Dean, Sam (mentioned)

Warnings: Slight language, fluff, Adele, poor food choices to name a few.

A/N: This was written for two challenges. The first one was for @sdavid09’s “What If” Challenge - link to my prompt is here. The second was for my sweet @hannahindie’s Party like it’s Pawnee, Indiana! Follower Celebration - my prompt is bolded below. Congratulations Hannah! You deserve all the followers and all the love! I hope you like this, sweets! Love you! Xoxo

A/N 2: Masterbeta’d by my soul sister @wheresthekillswitch. Thanks Boo...love you! :)

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As always - feedback is so appreciated! :)

x

Guilty Pleasures

Alone time is not something that happens regularly (if at all) for you.  If you aren’t in the middle of a case or researching for it, you are driving to one or looking for a lead. On the rare occasion that there’s nothing supernatural on your radar, your days are filled with supply runs, laundry and all of the other adult responsibilities that too often go neglected when you’re on the road.

And through all of it - every monster, every pit stop, every greasy fast food meal - your best friends, Sam and Dean Winchester, are there. Always. Without fail; for better or for worse.

Most of the time, the knowledge of their unwavering presence in your life is the rock to which you cling. And it’s not that you want to get away from them; they are the closest thing to family you have left in this world. But there are times when you dream of having every square inch of your top-secret-super-fortress to yourself (in part so you can call it that without Dean giving you side-eye).

Sure you all have your own rooms, and there has never been a time when you’ve felt like living with the boys has been uncomfortable. But there is just something inexplicably appealing about being able to take the longest, hottest shower you can stand, without worrying that you are using up all the hot water; walking around the bunker muttering to yourself and wearing nothing but your t-shirt, with no fear of Dean catching you and giving you a hard time. It’s the little things, really.

So, when your last hunt had resulted in a sprained wrist and a mild concussion and another case hot on it’s heels, you were more than happy to accept Sam’s offer that you lay low at the bunker while he and Dean took care of whatever was snatching people from their beds at night.

Yesterday was the first day back. You’d slept in, stretching and yawning into the cool silent darkness of your room. You’d lazed in bed, playing on your phone until you were ready to take on the day. Having the bunker to yourself was everything you’d hoped it would be. You’d sat in blissful silence on the floor of the tub during your shower while the scorching water rained down on you, slowly cooling the longer you’d sat. Without Sam’s eyes - the most judgmental shade of hazel you’ve ever known - there to guilt you into portion control, you’d inhaled an entire platter of homemade nachos all on your own for dinner.

Today has gone even better; another hot shower and this time you decided it was the perfect opportunity to brush up on your shower karaoke skills. You’d given Adele quite the run for her money; girlfriend had you Rollin’ in the Deep and Settin’ Fire to the Rain and not a Winchester within earshot to give you hell about it.

Now that you're all scrubbed and polished and shaved and plucked and moisturized, it’s time for dinner. You pad into the kitchen, your bare feet thudding lightly against the concrete floor. The large fridge is not-so-surprisingly void of any real food; unless ketchup, beer, a box of baking soda, and a collection of takeout containers, all of indeterminate spore growth, qualify. The freezer yields a slightly better selection - an expired TV dinner, two bags of frozen veggies that you are fairly certain had recently doubled as ice packs, and half a box of Snickers Ice Cream bars. Yahtzee. Grabbing two Snickers, you close the door before reaching back into the fridge for one of the three remaining bottles of beer.

Your make-shift dinner seems to be desperately calling out for a Netflix binge-a-thon of Doctor Sexy, MD, and what kind of person would you be to deny your ice cream this one last luxury before it passes into the great beyond known as your belly?

Four episodes, two snickers bars and a terribly intense cliffhanger later, your bladder has convinced you it’s time for a break. While you’re washing your hands, you carefully examine your reflection in the mirror. Have those blackheads always been there? You scrunch up your nose in disgust and rummage through the medicine cabinet. Finally, you find your charcoal deep-cleansing mask, opening the lid you breathe in the minty freshness. Ah, yes. Those tiny blackhead-bastards don’t stand a chance.

You apply a thick layer of the cold, black mud to your face before closing it back up and replacing it in the medicine cabinet. The worst part of any face mask is the waiting, but you decide you can make it through almost half of a Doctor Sexy MD before you have to go rinse it off. Besides, is there a better way to spend the time than ogling Dr. Sexy from the comfort of your own bunker? You decide there isn’t.

The distant murmur of voices coming from the living room catches you off guard and you freeze, straining to hear more clearly. Soon, the Dr. Sexy MD theme song is sounding through the cavernous rooms of the bunker and you breathe a sigh of relief. I must have clicked the wrong button and it kept auto playing.

Just as your turn the corner, the sound of a small sniffle makes you freeze again. You press your back against the wall, just outside of the doorway leading to the living room. You survey your surroundings for something to defend yourself with, but come up empty. The theme song ends and the room is silent for a split second; maybe you’d imagined it all?

You summon your courage and square your shoulders before entering the room. The room is empty. You are ridiculous, y/n.  You roll your eyes and make your way to your seat. Suddenly, Dean’s head pops up from behind the couch and you both scream.

“What the hell, Dean?” You suck in a few breaths, trying to slow your racing heart.

Dean’s green eyes are wide with shock and you can see his hand trembling slightly as he rounds the couch to face you. You’ve rattled him and the sight of it is strangely satisfying. “What the fuck is wrong with your face?!”

“You sure know how to make a girl feel all warm and tingly inside, Winchester.” You scowl at him, and the movement feels off, as though your skin is too tight; the face mask. How could you forget the face mask? Dean looks horrified, and he reaches up with one finger to poke your cheek.

“It’s called pampering, Dean.” You bat his hand away. “You could try it sometime, old man. Why are you back already?��

“Well, aren’t you a pocketful of sunshine, sweetheart? Case turned out to be a dud, but Sammy decided to hang back so he could catch a lecture at the college there.” Dean sniffs and rubs roughly at one eye.

“Are you…��� you squint, leaning closer to him. “You are! You’re crying!” Now it’s your turn to poke at his face with your own finger.

“I’m not crying, okay?” He swats your hand, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “I’m just allergic to jerks.”

“Doctor! Isn’t there anything you can do?”

“I’m sorry Janet, we’ve done all we can for him. It’s his turn to fight now.”

The TV interrupts him and Dean’s eye crawl toward the sound, his head not exactly turning as he sucks in a quick breath. You study his face carefully and are surprised to see that he looks crushed. You are unable to contain the giggle that escapes your lips. Dean’s gaze snaps back to you.

“What’s so funny? This is a serious moment, y/n. I haven’t seen this one yet.” Dean’s voice is soft and tinged with emotion.

“I just didn’t realize you were such a fan, Dean.” You purse your lips together in an effort to sober your expression. Just when you think you know him, Dean Winchester continues to surprise you.

“It’s a compelling story.” He crosses his arms over his chest, his brows drawn together.

“Well, I tell you what. How about I go wash this off,” you wave a hand in front of your face. “And then we can watch it together.”

One side of Dean’s mouth quirks upward and he nods. “I’ll grab some drinks.”

Fifteen minutes later, your face is feeling refreshed and squeaky clean as you settle in next to Dean. He reaches up, tugging the throw blanket down as you pull your legs up on the cushions, wedging your feet under his thigh. When you are both covered and comfortable, you point the remote at the TV and hit the button to restart the episode from the beginning. Dean reaches up, wrapping his hand around yours.  

“What’s wrong, Dean?” You look at him, puzzled. His face is serious and his jaw is set.

“When this is all over, this never happened. You understand? Sam can never know about this.”

-----

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