#saving lives with sam splints

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[jordli]

@riordsam ╱ starter call.

one second, they were celebrating being able to shift again. having escaped from the maze of cate's mind and brought back to reality, they'd saved their own lives once again! the next second, all the joy had dissipated and they're having a showdown with luke's younger brother— the one who'd been presumed dead for years. the one they managed to save from a life of entrapment. the one who, at any given moment, could murder every single person in this room. [cate can hear their thoughts; she knows what they're thinking. if the look on her face towards sam reads anything, it's something along the lines of attack them.] fuck, fuck, fuck. a blink of an eye and suddenly, they're on the ground— a piercing feeling at their chest, as if bones had just cracked and their lungs had been punctured by the splints. they shift to masculine > their chest begins to heal.

“woah— what the fuck?!” rising to their feet, a glance over sam's shoulder reveals the doorway him and emma had entered through: nothing too powerful to kill him, but enough to send him back. another seamless shift to feminine > an energy blast is sent towards sam and jordan watches as he's sent catapulted through the door— earning gasps from the rest of the group, including a distressed emma pleading to not hurt each other. jordan doesn't want this. [they don't want to fight luke's younger brother? they didn't want any of this to begin with.] but they'll protect themselves; they won't go down without a fight.

“i'm not your enemy— none of us are! we're trying to help you, sam!” something tells jordan, it'll take more than that to convince sam they're not the bad guys.

[wkemeup]

Graveyard

summary: As the unofficial healer for the Avengers, you pride yourself on the ability to mend heroes with the touch of your hand. Only, your gift comes at a heavy price — one you keep secret from your friends —and when Bucky asks you to do the impossible, they’ll discover why your gift is called a sacrifice, too.  pairing: bucky x healer!reader word count: 10k warnings: canon level violence

As a child, you were told it was a gift; placed upon a pedestal above the quaint suffering of a rural town and removed of your innocence for the good of strangers. You’d been made to be revered – honored – for the touch that could mend the broken.  

It began with a cut upon your father’s finger – a slip of a kitchen knife that had left a small bead of blood in its wake. Curious eyes glanced up at your father as he hissed at the sting of it and you’d reach forward to place your infant hand upon the cut, a grip so mall it barely wrapped around his finger. He stilled as a soft glow began to emit from your palm. When you removed your hand and began to cry, your father was stunned to find his skin perfectly intact – no trace of a scar in its place.  

They told you it was a gift, celebrated you as if you were a blessing from Heaven itself. But they were cruel in their rejoice, selfish in their praise. They had not considered your gift was not a gift at all – but a sacrifice.  

Like energy, pain could not be destroyed— but it could be absorbed. It could be transferred. Your father’s cut had not simply disappeared, but instead manifested on the finger of an infant for a few short moments before it faded into your skin; laid to rest amongst a sea of foreign injuries that did not belong to you.  

“Look sharp, kid! We’ve got incoming,” Banner’s voice startled you from your thoughts as he stood at the doorway to your lab. Arms folded over his chest, an amused smirk upon his face, he must have caught sight of the quinjet landing in the hanger from the windows overlooking the loading dock.  

You nodded, setting down the drill beside the stun absorption pad you were engineering for Stark’s newest suit. You didn't have to wonder long who was on the latest mission and currently on their way to your office, because a familiar bickering began to carry down the hall and into the lab, forcing a smile onto your face.  

For a mechanical engineer, you saw more of the Avengers post-mission than the med wing did these days. You’d been hired for your multiple PhDs and borderline genius IQ, but once you’d rushed across the room to spare Stark from a rather unpleasant laceration on his palm from an experiment gone haywire, your lab had quickly become a rotating door of injured Avengers.  

Sure enough, Barnes and Wilson stumbled their way into the lab, Sam draped over Bucky’s shoulder, barely able to put any pressure on his left leg. While Sam tossed you his charismatic grin and those big, round, puppy dog eyes, Bucky favored to dispose of his partner on the lab table with an aggravated grunt.  

“What do we have today?” you smirked, rolling up the sleeves of your coat as Bruce shook his head in amusement.  

“Broken ankle, I think,” Sam replied, gesturing to the mess of bandages and improvised splint.  

You nodded as you stepped closer, examining the injury before you brushed a hand over the swollen joint. Sam whined at the contact, the pain clearly breaking through the lighthearted grin upon his face though he tried to suppress it. His hand curled into a fist.  

“You know I’m not a medical doctor, but I’d have to agree,” you nodded, planting your hands on your hips.  

“You could just get the x-rays and go through PT like a normal person,” Bucky grumbled off in his corner of the room, narrowing his eyes in warning upon his partner. “She’s not here as your personal healer, Wilson.”  

Bucky was always hesitant of your powers. He never said why, but you wondered most days if he was still seeking penance for the evils he’d committed under Hydra, if maybe he felt as though giving you his pain absolved him in a way he was not worthy of.  

Or perhaps it was a degradation of his pride. Men often found strength in their ability to withstand pain. Though, it seemed to bother him when the others would come to you for injuries like this, too, almost as if he worried they were taking advantage of you.  

He was a good man; certainly, more concerned with your consent in healing his friends than your parents and the town who spent your childhood exploiting you ever were.  

“I don’t mind, Bucky,” you told him, smiling encouragingly back at him until he started to relax his shoulders and uncrossed his arms, softening under your gaze. “If it means less time on the bench and more time out there saving lives and having your back, I don’t mind at all.”

“Yeah, Barnes, who’s going to watch your back if I’m held up in a cast?” Sam teased, chuckling under his breath until Bucky stepped forward and not so subtly bumped his hip to the side of the lab table. The sudden disruption of the table moved his ankle just enough to instantly wipe the grin from Sam’s face.  

“Try to relax for me, Sam,” you eased, stepping forward as you started to remove your gloves. You leaned over the edge of the table, slowly removing the splint and the bandage surrounding the swollen muscle. You handed it off to Bucky as you examined the dark purple and blue discoloration on his ankle.  

He hissed as you laid your palms on his leg, clenching down on his jaw.  

You closed your eyes, concentrating as you felt for the break beneath the surface. A crack splintered through the bone, the surrounding tissue swollen and aching.  

A gentle glow began to emit from your palms, a warmth that spread from your hands and directly onto Sam’s skin, through the muscle, and deep into the bone. You could feel the subtle fragments as they began to mend, the swell in his joint as it shrank, the slight movements as he regained feeling.  

Exhaling a tense breath, you shifted your stance onto your right leg as the pressure started to build in your ankle. It wouldn’t last long, just a few minutes in comparison to the weeks of treatment and months of physical therapy Sam would have endured – an easy trade for a man who spend his days so selflessly on the line in the service of strangers.  

You could sense Bucky watching you and you were careful not to let the pain show on your face. There was a privilege in healing the Avengers like this. It gave your life meaning beyond the injuries of your hometown; of careless teenagers falling off skateboards or angry men in bars who took an argument a drink too far. You’d happily take on a few moments of pain in service of heroes.  

Not that you’d let them know.  

“You should be good now.” You held your hands up, the soft glow fading away from your palms as you tucked your hands into your pockets. Careful of the momentary break in your ankle, you took a cautious step away from the table to lean on the chair at your desk. No one noticed the wince in your expression as you put the slightest pressure on the fresh injury.  

“I will never get tired of that.” Sam looked down at the foot in awe, rolling at the ankle and amazed to find the swelling and bruising disappeared completely. He jumped down from the table, bounding on his feet just to test out the freedom in his mobility.  

“Alright, Wilson. Enough,” Bucky rolled his eyes. “You’re going to hurt yourself again and Y/n’s not going to be so generous next time.”

Sam smirked, pausing for a moment as he contemplated. “Nah, my girl will always take care of me. Won’t ya, sugar?”  

It didn’t slip your notice when Bucky tensed up at the pet name. You started to laugh, the teasing smile dropping from his face as his hands curled into fists. Sam really knew how to press his buttons and it seemed, surprisingly enough, you were one of them.  

“Bucky’s got a point, you know. Fancy healing powers are reserved for field injuries these days.” You were only teasing, both of them knowing you’d have healed a papercut if they’d ask. Still, Bucky smirked, taunting Sam over your shoulder as if he’d won.  

You eased yourself off the chair as you started to regain feeling in your ankle, giving more pressure to the heel to find it barely noticeable. You rubbed at the joint with your right shoe to find the swelling had disappeared as well.  

A few moments to spare him weeks of pain. Easy trade.

“What about you, Sergeant?”  

Bucky paused, raising an eyebrow at you.  

You took a step forward, glancing over him in search of injuries. Nothing more than a few cuts that his own advanced healing would take care of overnight. Still, there was one injury you’d been trying to convince him to allow you to heal in the year since you’ve known him.  

“You going to let me work on your shoulder yet or are you still being a masochist?”  

Sam snickered under his breath as he crossed the room to watch what Banner was doing over his shoulder. Bucky gave you that knowing smile of his, the one that pushed up into his eyes and left behind beautiful creases and lines on his face; an exhale of a laugh on his breath.  

“It’s not necessary, doll. I’m fine.”

A frown tugged at your lips. “You always say that, and yet...”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Bucky shrugged. He was watching you with those sweet eyes of his, creating a warmth that spread in your chest entirely independent of the powers in your hands.  

“You shouldn’t have to handle it in the first place,” you pressed, a pain in your voice as he placed a hand on your shoulder, letting it slide down your arm. It was an intimate gesture, more contact that he had with most people, and he offered it willingly. You tried not to let the shivers show in your spine as he pulled away.  

It looked as though he wanted to say more, but Steve suddenly appeared in the doorway, causing Bucky to take an abrupt step away from you. You hadn’t realized how close you’d been standing to one another.  

“Debrief in five,” Steve ordered, eyeing Sam and Bucky, though paused as he saw you, offering a short smile in acknowledgement before disappearing down the hall.  

“I’m not letting this go, just so you’re aware,” you teased, pointing at Bucky’s shoulder as he started to wave Sam towards the door. He smiled, keeping his back to you until Sam was clear of the room and he leaned into the open frame, one quick glance back at you.  

��Wouldn’t expect anything less, doll.”

***

The next month saw another broken leg, a fractured clavicle, two minor lacerations, a sprained wrist, and a number of superficial cuts – all from various members of the team. Though there was always the one exception who wouldn’t accept your offer no matter how badly he was favoring his right arm.  

The clavicle was certainly a challenge to get through, but the world needed Natasha Romanoff in the field, not strung up on a gurney and a brace for a handful of months. It took longer than some of the other injuries to heal, but you’d managed, even if you had to excuse yourself to the restroom as soon as you’d finished, even if you had to shove a towel into your mouth to keep from screaming as it mended itself together under your skin.  

The truth was you liked being useful. You liked the stunned smiles on their faces and the appreciation in their eyes. You liked seeing them run a hand over perfectly smooth skin where an open wound had just been. It gave you a purpose.  

And sure – your work on SHIELD tech was important and perhaps not all of the injuries in your hometown had been a waste of your abilities, but there was something exceptionally gratifying in mending someone who was untouchable, in healing the people who saved the world.

You’d take a dozen broken clavicles for them.  

It was late after your evening shift and you’d taken to running a few laps on the indoor track around the gym. Blow off some steam, use the state-of-the-art equipment Stark spent thousands of dollars on, give your mind something to think about beside how you were going to rewire Sam’s wings to expand in a more fluid motion.  

You’d just started to break into a sweat when you noticed Bucky setting up at the row of punching bags. The gym was otherwise empty as the sky favored the stars over the sun, and you started to smile as you watched Bucky shrug off his jacket and drop the bag at his feet. He rolled back his shoulders, concentrating on the bag as he readied his fists. But as the first punch hit the bag, the smile quickly fell from your face.  

It echoed up into the rafters, startling you enough to still your sprint abruptly. He let out a grunt as he pummeled at the bag; left jab, right hook, kick, until it broke at the seams and split open to spill sand in heaps upon the ground. He moved on to the next one.  

You clasped a hand to your mouth, looking around the gym to confirm you were in fact alone with him. He’d been on a mission as far as you were aware for the last week. You’d missed him hanging around the lab, asking questions as you worked on new advancements on the stun guns for field agents. He must have gotten back a few hours ago and something clearly went wrong.  

“Bucky?” you called, voice far too soft to be heard across the gym and above the thunderous clash of his knuckles to leather. You jogged a few paces closer, wincing as he threw the entirely of his momentum into a hit that would have broken an ordinary man’s hand. “Bucky? Are you alright?”

But he didn’t hear you. You took a cautious look back at the doors, wondering if you should go find Steve, or maybe even Sam – someone who might know what happened, someone who might be able to talk him down. But you were the only one around. You cleared your throat, stepping up just behind him.  

“Bucky?”

You hit the ground before you knew what had happened.  

A blinding pulsing in the back of your head, the wind momentarily knocked from your lungs, you opened your eyes to find Bucky hovering over you. He held a closed fist in the air, the other digging sharply into your shoulder between his grip, pupils blown wide and dark. It took a moment before he seemed to realize who was laying under him.

“Y/n?” He blinked, confused. His stare flickered to the fist held above your head, knuckles dripping red and bloody, and he pulled away instantly, a flash of horror written over his features. “Shit-- I didn’t... What are you doing here?”

You rubbed at the back of your head, brushing over a slight bump that would certainly mend itself within a few minutes. Slowly, you sat up, careful of the sudden darkness that swept over your eyes, though something cool grabbed onto you before you could fall back against the floor.  

“Hey, come lean against the wall, okay?” Bucky urged, carefully guiding you to adjust your position until you could press your back to the chill of the plastered walls. You sighed in contentment, the pain in your pain already dissipating. Bucky swallowed nervously. “Did I hurt you?”

“I don’t stay hurt for long, Buck,” you told him with a teasing smile, though he did not return it. You set a hand on his forearm, squeezing it lightly before returning it to your lap. “I’m alright. I promise. Are you?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes.

“You were beating that punching bag within an inch of its life,” you clarified, chuckling as you gestured to the exploded bag on the floor, and then to the one still hanging with sand streaming down the seams.  

“Rough mission,” was all he said, his eyes downcast.  

You nodded. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head.

The two of you sat in silence for a while, listening to the soft buzz of the air conditioner and the faint chirp of crickets outside the windows. You didn’t expect him to say anything. Bucky was a man of few words, but you hoped the company was enough. He didn’t make an effort to move away, not even when your thigh brushed against his.  

He was trying to close his fist when you heard him hiss in pain. His right hand was coated in dried blood and fresh, open wounds on his knuckles. They’d barely started to crust over and with every attempt to close his fist, they cracked open, drawing a painful sting in their place.  

“Will you let me heal your hand?”

Bucky paused, setting his hand down on his leg. “Y/n, it’s not necessary. I won’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering,” you countered. “Besides, it is necessary, actually. How are you going to punch the bad guys if you can’t close your fist?”

“I’ve got another,” Bucky argued back, though a smile had etched its way onto his face. He raised his left hand, making a show of it as he curled his fingers into a fist one by one. “This one’s pretty indestructible so...”

“Please, Bucky.” You turned towards him, folding your legs as you held out your left hand for him to take. “Just this once. Let me do this.”

A stormy array of ocean blue and thunderous skies stared back at you, unsure. His eyes flickered down to your hand. Always so hesitant to ask for help, always so reluctant to accept the good things when they were offered. But as he watched you, searching for signs to run, to back out, something softened.  

He swallowed and slowly, placed his right hand into yours.  

You smiled, adjusting your grip gently on his hand. You placed it to lay on you knee as you hovered your left hand over his knuckles. The warm glow illuminated from your palm and Bucky’s breath hitched as he must have felt the sudden rush of energy it produced.  

The scars began to mend before his eyes and just as you felt the stinging prick on your own knuckles, you quickly pushed your right hand into the pocket of your jacket to hide the scars as they formed.  

“That’s incredible,” Bucky exhaled, withdrawing his hand as soon as you were finished. He held it out in front of him, examining the dried blood coated around perfectly intact skin. He shook his head in disbelief. “You’re incredible.”  

A rush of heat burned in your cheeks as you looked away, a smile breaking onto your lips. It was enough to distract you from the stinging in your hand tucked away in your pocket.  

“Do you want to watch a movie or something?” you asked, biting on your lip nervously. “Think you could do with the company and I’d like to keep you from breaking more of these expensive punching bags.”

Bucky laughed at that, nodding. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

He stood and offered you his hand, thinking out loud about which one of the movies on his list he wanted to try out next. You pulled your hand from your pocket and took his as he offered it to you; the knuckles already clean and healed.  

***

“You should see it, Fitz! It’s a goddamn stroke of genius.” You held up the ventilator no bigger than the pad of your thumb up to the light, admiring your work.  

“I’m sure Stark will be thrilled,” a thick Scottish accent crackled through the speaker on the com beside you. “Send me the schematics, will you?”

You pursed your lips, a smile etching through. “Think you can one-up me?”

“No never,” Fitz laughed. You could hear him tinkering in his own lab on the quinjet, the small clicks of metal and the buzz of a drill humming over the speaker. “Just want to see if I’m still head of our class or not.”

“Pretty sure we both know that title belongs to Simmons.”

There was a slight pause, then, a dreamy, “yeah, you’re right.”

A sudden knocking at the edge of the lab startled you as you spun around in your chair, nearly dropping the ventilator for Stark’s suit. Bucky stood in the doorway, clutching at his left shoulder as fingers dug into the muscle. He wore a sort of guilty look upon his face though he pushed out a smile and waved.  

“Hey, Fitz, I’ll call you tomorrow, alright?” you said over your shoulder to the speaker, waited a moment for his response and ended the call. You turned back to Bucky as a smile grew upon your face. “What can I do for you, Sergeant? I didn’t miss movie night, did I?”

“No, you’re in the clear,” Bucky chuckled, though it was tense. He stepped further into the lab, relaxing a little as he noticed no one else was around. It was pretty late for you to be working, but you were so close to finishing the ventilator, and well, time easily got away from you with Fitz on the other end of the phone.  

“Coming to keep me company then?” you teased. “I’m actually about done anyway, so we could set up the next movie on your—”

“No, I— um...” Bucky started, losing his nerve rather quickly. He exhaled a tense breath, eyes casting down to the floor. “I was, um, wondering if you could work on my shoulder?”

You raised an eyebrow. Even after that night in the gym, Bucky was still hesitant to your offers to heal his various injuries from the field. He’d give you that sweet smile of his, a soft pink in his cheeks, and tell you that he’d be fine on his own. You never doubted that, but it didn’t mean you couldn't spare him just a few hours of that pain.  

“The, um,” Bucky winced, gritting his teeth as he pushed his hand deeper against the tissue, “the nerve endings are acting up. Shuri said it’s to be, uh, expected given how Hydra butchered my arm all those years ago, but...”

“Come here.” You were already removing the files and paperwork from the table, gesturing for him to take a seat.  

His whole left arm was slack at his side as if he could barely tolerate to move it. Shallow breaths hitched in his lungs as he leaned against the table, settling against the hard, metal surface.

“Can you take this off?” you asked, nodding to his shirt. Bucky’s cheeks flushed and you cleared your throat nervously, playing with the ends of your hair. “It’ll be more effective if I can touch the area directly.”

He removed his right hand from the muscle at his shoulder and gripped at the hem of his shirt. Slowly, he started to pull it over his head, though you could tell from the harsh exhale in his breath that it was causing him considerable pain.  

“Here, let me help you.” You stepped forward and helped ease the fabric up his torso and gently guided it off his right arm, over his head, and eased it down his left. He seemed more at ease with the shirt removed, but a chill swept up his spine in the cool air of the lab.  

You kept your eyes on his, determined not to let your gaze fall to the hardened muscles on his chest and stomach.  

“I won’t be able to heal the scars,” you told him as you moved around to stand behind the table. “Just try to relax for me, okay? I’ll do what I can for the pain.”

Bucky nodded, his hands clenched into the lip of the table, enough to warp the surface. He could barely muster out a response.  

“My hands are a little cold, so...” you muttered out nervously, rubbing your palms together in an effort to warm them.  

Then, you set your hands against the mess of scar tissue surrounding his shoulder, starting at his shoulder blades as the glow illuminated bright enough to light up the corner of your lab. Bucky gasped, the first breath in a long time completely filling his lungs as he felt the relief within your touch. You could practically feel the tension melting off his shoulders.  

It didn’t take long before the pain made its way to your body. Starting out slow, in numbing aches, until it was so sharp, it felt like a dozen edges of sharp blades puncturing into your shoulder. You clenched your jaw, held your breath, thankful that Bucky couldn’t see your face when you bit down on the inside of your cheek and tears sprung into your eyes.  

“God, that... shit...” Bucky sighed, his grip releasing on the table. You could hear the smile in his voice, the relief, and it helped to push aside the pain as it manifested in your body.  

You moved your hand up his back, sliding along the scars where his skin met metal, taking as much of his pain as you could. Bucky was exceptionally strong, able to withstand far more than you could without passing out completely. You couldn’t take it all, especially if you wanted to keep him from knowing how your gift truly worked, but you took enough.  

You swallowed back the lump in your throat, preparing yourself as you moved around to face him. There was more on his chest, by his clavicle, you couldn’t reach from behind him. You'd had years of practice, learning how to keep the pain from displaying on your face. You could get through this for him.  

As you stepped in front of him, keeping a steady hold on his shoulder, you could feel his eyes watching you. The glow under your palms was bright enough to illuminate the lab, but it was a gentle light, as soft as the burn of a candle or the golden rays of a sunset. Bucky watched you with a kind of awe that made your stomach twist into knots.  

You guided your hand along the scar tissue on his chest, doing your best to ignore the goosebumps as they rose in your wake. Your heart was stammering, louder than the pain radiating in your shoulder, though it lessened the more you worked. The pain had nearly left him entirely as he started to take in more even breaths, relaxing his muscles as you felt them soften under your touch.  

You exhaled a tense breath through your nose, concentrating on gathering as much of the pain as you could, on mending the broken nerve endings as they misfired and frayed under the torn appendage. You barely noticed as Bucky crossed his right hand over his chest and laid his hand palm against your hands.  

“Thank you,” he whispered, his fingers curling around the undersides of your hands until he gently tugged them away. The glow faded until the lab was only lit by the soft light of the lamp at your desk and the reflection of the moon peering in through the window.  

You met his eye, the pain still prominent in your shoulder though you forcibly softened the clench in your jaw as he looked over you. His eyes flickered down to your lips for only a second, but it was enough. Your heart skipped.  

Bucky slowly released your hands, letting them fall gently against his thighs, as he leaned forward to cup the sides of your face. Fingers tangling into your hair, you stepped closer, pressed against the table between the parting of his legs.  

You wondered if he could feel how fast your heart was racing, or if he could hear it, because you were certain it was going to beat straight out of your chest. The fading pain in your shoulder you’d taken for him was nothing but a forgotten memory as he pressed his forehead to yours, just waiting.  

The moment his lips touched yours, you lost your breath; fireworks and butterflies, twists in your stomach and clamoring in your heart. You could feel his smile as it spread into his cheeks, your hands seeking more of him as you slid them up the sides of his bare chest. He was beautiful and perfect and so incredibly wonderful, you’d take hours of his pain, years even, if you could keep kissing him like this.  

“Hey, Y/n, I thought you were already done for the—oh, sorry!”

You jolted away from Bucky, restless and a little disheveled, Bucky’s cheeks flamed red, as you turned to find Banner standing awkwardly in the doorway. His hand was shielded over his eyes, his back quickly turned to you as papers littered the floor at his feet. You started to laugh, hand clamping over your swollen lips as you looked over at Bucky.  

“It’s no worry, Bruce,” you giggled, quickly skating over to the door to help him pick up the files. Bucky meanwhile shrugged his shirt back on, fixing the flyaways in his hair.  

“So sorry,” he mumbled again, clearly embarrassed by his intrusion as he glanced over at Bucky apologetically. He gathered the papers into his arms. “I’ll be going now and, um, I won’t come back, okay?”

You couldn’t help but laugh as Bucky’s eyes blew wide in Banner’s quick escape.  

“Still want that company?” you offered with a smile, extending your hand to him. The pain was long gone from your shoulder as he shook himself from the flush in his cheeks and nodded. He took your hand and led you down the hall to the living room. There was another movie on the list to get through.  

***

You couldn’t remember the last time you were this happy. Your cheeks began to hurt from how often you were smiling, as if it were a permanent fixture on your features. You’d even caught yourself humming along to the radio as you dusted the surfaces in your lab the morning after Bucky had kissed you goodbye on the landing dock in front of at least a dozen agents.  

He’d been away on a mission for the last few days, but he called when he could. You’d spend whatever spare minutes he could get on the satellite phone with him, distracting him from whatever was going on in his end of the world with talk about your latest project with Stark or old stories from the academy with Fitz or what the next movie on the list was going to be.  

He wasn’t a man of many words, but you liked knowing he was on the other end of the line. You could picture his smile perfectly in your mind, the way he chewed on his lower lip, how his eyes fell downcast to the floor by your shoes, the flush of pink in his cheeks. It was enough.  

“So, things are really heating up with you and Barnes,” Natasha commented as she sipped the top of her steaming coffee before it could spill over the edge. You shrugged, though it was hard to contain your smile. Natasha grinned. “I think it’s good for him. You, too. Don’t know the last time I’ve seen him this happy. He seems more relaxed. Like maybe he’s not carrying the whole world on his shoulders anymore.”

“Helps when he’s not in excruciating pain on a daily basis,” you added, tapping at your left shoulder. He’d let you work on it a few times since that first night. It always took some convincing, but the pain was never as bad as it was that evening. You could take it. You’d do it a thousand times for him without question.  

Natasha nodded, a pleased look upon her face. She parted her lips to say more, but a sudden commotion at the end of the hall stole the words from her tongue. You set your coffee down on the counter, peering out around the tables to find agents jumping out of the way of an oncoming train.  

“Y/n!” Bucky shouted, voice breaking in the effort as he sprinted down the hall and slammed into an unsuspecting agent. Papers flew into the air as he sprinted towards your room. “Y/n!”

“Bucky?” you called stepping out into the hallway where he could see you.  

He skidded to an abrupt stop, his hair flying over his shoulder as he turned in your direction.  

“Y/n! Thank God.”  

It wasn't until Bucky stood in front of you that you realized he was covered in blood; soaking into his hair, caked under his finger nails, drenched into his suit, and stained to his skin. Your eyes widened, breath all but leaving your lungs, as your hands clutched against his jacket. He tried to pull you back towards the stairs, but you couldn’t budge, not with that much blood all over him.  

“What-- What happened? Are you hurt?” You started seeking out exposed skin an effort to draw away any pain you could, even if you couldn’t see any exposed wounds.  

Bucky's hand slid over yours, pulling it away. He softened, though you could still see the frantic rise and fall of his chest.  

“It’s not my blood. It’s Steve’s.”

Your stomach sank; relief mixed into an ugly shade of guilt and grief. Natasha was already sprinting down to the med bay, coffee mug cracked and spilled upon the tile floors. Her footsteps echoed through the hallway, the sudden clanging of the double doors startling you from your daze.  

“Please, I—I need you,” Bucky begged, his voice shaking. Tears were burning in his eyes. You’d never seen him this afraid; this shaken and helpless. “It’s not good, Y/n. He’s-- He’s--”

“Okay.” You pressed a hand to his cheek, brushing your thumb sweetly across his face and smeared the tears as they cleaned the dried blood away. You didn’t need to hear anymore. All you wanted was to take his pain, even if your gift couldn’t touch it as it nestled deep into his heart.  

By the time you reached the med bay, a storm of chaos had already barreled through. Lab equipment was knocked over on its side. Dozens of agents frantically running around, shouting orders at one other. Papers and schematics lined the floor with imprinted of boots damaging the print. But it was the trail of blood that drew your attention.  

Droplets trailing from the loading bay of the jet to down the med wing to the surgical room. Dark red and oozing. Taunting. Far too much for any ordinary man to have lost. You tried to stifle the gasp as it hitched in your breath the moment you saw him.  

Steve was strung up on a gurney, suit cut down the middle and flayed open, exposing his chest and the three bullet holes expelling pints of blood. The hands of several agents were pressing down onto him, trying to keep pressure on the wounds, deep red slipping out from between their fingers. The look on their faces said enough – he wasn’t going to make it.  

“Where’s Helen?” you gaped, staring at Steve.  

“Ten minutes out.” Tony stumbled into the room as he rounded the corner, holding a stat phone in his hand. “She’s in the chopper.”

“He can’t wait ten minutes.” Bucky gripped tight to you hand and you could feel the tension radiating in his muscles. You wanted to take it for him but he pulled his hand before you could, turning to face you. “You’re all we have. Y/n, please. I can’t lose him.”

Bucky had never once asked you to heal someone like this. He could barely muster the will to ask you to heal his own wounds, to ease the constant stream of pain in his shoulder, and the open wounds on his hand. But with Steve’s life in the balance, he didn’t have room to be hesitant anymore. He couldn’t risk his best friend’s life.

But he didn’t know it would risk yours in the process.  

You swallowed, glancing back nervously at Steve. “I’ve never healed anything this bad before, Buck. I don’t know if I can--” survive this.  

Could your body heal fast enough to take on his injuries? Could you do them one by one? Would he live long enough to even try? Would either of you?  

“Y/n, please. He’ll die without you,” Bucky begged, his voice wavering. Tears reflected in his eyes; gentle pale blue obstructed by a swarm of fear and guilt and desperation, a redness straining into the surrounding white until his cheeks were wet. The dried blood cleared in streaks as they traveled down to his jawline.  

You watched him as he bit down onto his lip, shielding his face from the others as he waited. The frantic beeping of the monitor strapped to Steve’s chest was growing frantic, irregular, and you knew there wasn’t much time left.  

The worst you’d ever attempted to heal before had been the stabbing of a stranger. You’d found her clutching stomach in an abandoned alleyway in Queens, contents of her purse spilled to the pavement, jewelry torn from her neck. You'd knelt down beside her and took her pain without so much as a second thought.  

As her wound began to close, your skin split open, blood soaked into your shirt, your vision grew dark and hazy, until it was nothing at all.  

The last thing you remembered of that night was the horror in the woman’s eye as she scrambled away from you and ran back to the safety of the open streets. You woke in a pool of your own blood hours later – longer than it had ever taken to heal before.  

A scar remained on your stomach from that night. The only one on your body. A warning.  

Test the limits of your gift again and learn why it’s called a sacrifice.

But as you looked back at Bucky, at a man who never dared to ask you for anything until it was unbearable, who wore his own scars and healed his own injuries in fear of exploiting your gift, who was impossibly gentle for the evil he was surrounded in for decades – you couldn’t find it in yourself to say no. You didn’t want to.

Bucky must have noticed the change in your expression because his shoulders softened immediately, a heavy sigh sinking through his body. He pushed forward and pressed a quick kiss to your lips; short, chaste, and still—filled with a world of emotion, of gratitude, of relief. It gave you the courage to do what needed to be done.  

Tony began to shout for the room to clear the moment you approached the table. You stared down at Steve, whose skin had grown nearly translucent, the monitor above displaying his heart beat as it evened out to a nearly thin line. He was fading fast. You wouldn’t have much time.  

Everything around you became muted, distorted, as you channeled your focus; the huddled whispers of the agents hovering over Steve with their hands pressed to open wounds sounded as if they were miles away.  

Bucky stood at your side, watching anxiously though he tried his best to remain stoic and unaffected, though you knew he was splintering apart at the seams. Natasha and Sam were huddled in the far corner, talking quietly amongst themselves as they tried to put the pieces together as to what happened out in the field. Tony was shooing away stay agents with the threat of force, while Banner did his best to remotely disengage the power on Tony’s glove.  

None of it registered. Not beyond the flow of blood coating Steve’s chest and dripping onto the floor, your shoes stepping into the pool below. It was a miracle he was still alive at all. The serum was the only thing tying him to this Earth.  

You stretched out your hands, hovering over his chest and the agents quickly dispersed. You didn’t dare steal a glance in Bucky’s direction as the glow began to emit under your palms, afraid he might see the goodbye in your eyes or the apology for what he was about to witness. There wasn’t time.  

The pain was sudden. Sharp. Like you’d felt the bullets rip straight through you as if you stood on the battlefield in Steve’s place. You cried out at the impact of it, nearly thrown from your stance as you clutched into Steve’s body.  

Bucky jolted beside you, startled as you cried out again, desperate to choke down the screams before they passed your lips. He stared at you, wide eyed, as you clenched your jaw.  

“Y/n? Are you—”

Another scream tore through you and Bucky visibly flinched. You didn’t have the energy to hide the pain from him, not with three bullets tearing through you. You had to save Steve; put the full force of your power into healing his wounds before they consumed him whole. Damn the consequences. Damn the sacrifice of your gift.  

Your body was always meant to be the host of broken bones and bullet wounds and bruises. Made to be broken and mended. A host to others. A graveyard of injuries that did not belong to you.  

It was what your parents had told you from the time you were a child; that you were a gift to others, that you were a vessel to better the world. But it came at a price; one, it seemed, you’d soon enough pay.  

Your legs began to shake as a wave of darkness cast over your vision, tunneling, consuming the space around you. You could only vaguely make out Bucky’s voice calling your name, his tone laced confusion and concern, but you blocked it out. Daring to look in his direction now would only hinder your resolve and you needed to save Steve’s life.  

Concentrating your power, a scream ripped through your lungs as the glow illuminated the entire room, enough that Bucky was forced to shield his eyes.  

The wounds were taking hold on your body. One at your stomach. Another along your ribs. The third, just above your chest. Exit wounds opening on your back. You could feel the drip of blood as it slid down your skin; thick and unrelenting.  

You were growing light headed as the pain started to dissipate. But the wounds were still fresh on your body, still open and bleeding; the pain shouldn’t have faded so quickly.  

The steady beep of the monitor indicated that Steve was stabilizing, the flesh had nearly closed, and you barely registered Helen’s voice as she rushed into the room, ordering her team to take over.  

“Hey, hey, you did it, sweetheart. You did good,” Bucky exhaled. He had the most beautiful smile on his face; filled with a sense of pride an awe, stunning and handsome beyond belief, even with traces of concern still evident in his eyes.  

But you were stone. A statue. You couldn’t move without fear of collapsing completely.  

“He’s stable now, Y/n,” Bucky eased, trying to pull you gently away from the table. “Come here, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

Bucky hand set against your stomach when you didn’t follow and he froze; the sticky wet residue of fresh blood on his hand. He stared down at his palm in horror as the blood began to seep through your shirt in three distinct spots, all perfectly aligning with the ones on Steve’s chest.  

Bucky darted forward, pushing up your shirt to find the wounds he’d seen healed on his best friend moments ago littered over your stomach. His mouth went dry, throat lined with sandpaper, rocks shoved down into his lungs. His hand trembled as it reached out and touched the bullet wound on your ribs. His breath hitched as he felt the warmth of blood and the tear of flesh in your skin.  

He couldn’t breathe.  

“Is Steve alive?” Your voice was barely a whisper and you wondered if Bucky could even hear you at all. His eyes were glossed over in fresh tears, lips parted in shock as he stared back at you. You could hardly keep your eyes open.

Before he could respond, your legs gave way and you stumbled back out of Bucky’s hold. Your vision was closing in, a dark cloud of black swarming around you as your foot caught on the edge of toppled lab equipment. You were in Bucky’s arms again before you made it to the floor.  

You didn’t hear him screaming for help, didn’t hear the shattering crack in his voice, or the crash of equipment behind you as Simmons raced into the room. You didn’t feel his hands as they desperately pressed onto the open wounds, or the heat of his breath as he begged you to ‘stay with me, sweetheart’. But you felt the warmth of his embrace.

It was comforting as the darkness pulled you under.  

***

A heaviness draped over you. Soothing. Pressing you into the soft cushion below. A repetitive chime rang above; even in tone, consistent. It drew you back from the kind embrace of shadows, calling you toward a flicker of light.  

Pressure squeezed at your hand. Cold and warm at once. Solid and soft.  

You listened for the chime; allowed it to guide you as the rest of your senses awakened.

The chatter of voices in the distant too muffled to distinguish. The distinct smell sterilizing alcohol that burned in your nose. The heat of a thick blanket tucked around your legs. The chill of a breeze streaming from the humming vent above. Scratchy bed sheets and laundry fresh clothes a few sizes too big for your frame.  

You groaned, trying to adjust to the influx of light as you opened your eyes. It was a room you recognized. White. Clean. Far too bright. You’d been within the walls dozens of times before, but never laid upon the bed. It was a strange view.  

Glancing down, you found yourself dressed in a dark grey t-shirt that didn’t belong to you. The logo was faded on the chest but it was still recognizable. Vintage. An eagle at the center of a circle, it’s wings remarkably similar to the symbol of the Howling Commandos. Around the edge: Strategic Scientific Reserve. You’d seen Bucky wear it until the hem frayed. Sure enough, as you reached for the bottom of the shirt, you found the split seams.  

A slight squeeze on your hand again drew your attention to your right. There, you found Bucky hunched over the side of the bed; both hands encasing yours, his forehead rested on the very edge of the mattress.  

A smile tugged at your lips until it started to ache. Unused muscles, must be. You wondered how long you’d been out this time. Must have been longer than a few hours. Bucky’s back would need your attention after the way he’s been sleeping.  

“Bucky,” you tried to call, but found your voice was nothing more than a breath of air. You winced, testing it again. “Bucky?”  

He only hummed in response. The sweet vibrations nestled against your arm. It took him a minute as he lifted his head, stretched out his upper back, matted hair fallen down into his face, before he caught your eye; glancing around the room, checking the door, the heart monitor above, like it had become routine, until he realized you were watching him.  

He froze, eyes wide. “Y/n?”

You nodded sleepily, pushing out a smile. “What’d I miss?”

Bucky didn’t laugh. His hands were still gripped tight to yours, squeezing at them as if he were checking to make sure you were real.  

Your smile began to fall the longer he stared at you. “How long was I out? Is Steve okay?”

Bucky cleared his throat, nodding, though it seemed strained. “Y-yeah, Steve’s fine. Doc said he’d make a full recovery thanks to you.”

“That’s good,” you replied, but Bucky couldn’t so much as force a smile. He couldn’t seem to look at you, his hands playing with the lines in your palms. It was then you started to notice the dark circles under his eyes, the wrinkles in days old clothing, the hallowed look upon his face. Your stomach sank. “How long was I out?”

Bucky’s paused for a moment, his movements stilling as he traced your lifeline. He sighed, resuming again. “Six days.”

“Oh.”

A silence swept over the room. You’d never been under that long before. Frankly, you were a little surprised you woke up at all given the extent of Steve’s injuries. Your fingers dipped under the hem of Bucky’s old t-shirt and grazed over the bullet wound on your ribs, feeling for the raised edges of a fresh scar. It didn’t heal, as you suspected the others hadn’t; laid to rest next to the knife wound from the woman in the alley. Injuries you were never meant to survive.  

“Were you ever going to tell us?”  

You looked up, startled by Bucky’s voice as it wavered. He brushed at his eyes; red and glossy.  

“Were you ever going to tell me?”  

“No,” you admitted and Bucky’s shoulders slumped. He sank back further into his chair and you could read the disappointment on his face. You gritted your teeth, preparing to deliver the same speech you’d been telling yourself for years. “My body could handle it, Buck. It was only a few minutes of pain to trade for weeks or months of your own. It kept you in the field and off the bench. The world needs you guys. It was worth it for me. I could handle it.”

“Until you couldn’t!” Bucky snapped, startling you as he tugged his hand from your grasp and began to pace around the room. His fingers raked into his hair, gripping at unwashed strands. “You almost died, Y/n! You almost died because I fucking begged you to use your powers to save Steve and I—Jesus, Y/n — if I had known what it does to you, I never would have asked you to do that!”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you,” you replied gently, wanting nothing more than to ease him. Bucky shook his head, unwilling to accept your answer. “Bucky, if you knew that healing a papercut hurt me, you wouldn’t let me do that either.”

He paused; arms folded over his chest though he wouldn’t look at you. “No, I wouldn’t.”

You softened, sitting up in the bed, though a dull pain rushed made it rather difficult, leaving you to clutch at your stomach. It ached as you moved, an unfamiliar feeling, and the tension quickly faded from Bucky’s shoulders when he heard you whine.

You pushed through the pain in your stomach, holding up a hand as Bucky started to step forward to help you. It would fade. It always does. You’d heal and move on, until the next injury came through. It was routine. It was your life.  

So, you told him as much.  

“I’d do it again.”

Bucky frowned. He looked like he wanted to just lay on the bed beside you, curl up against your chest and sleep. He was exhausted. And still—he couldn’t let it go.  

“You almost died—”

You shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

“A sacrifice?” Bucky’s face contorting in horror. “Are you insane? You're not a sacrifice, Y/n!”

You nodded, determined; the words of your parents, the village elders, ringing in your ears. “That what this gift is, Bucky! I can’t actually heal anyone other than myself, but I can transfer the injuries and the pain to my body. That I can heal. It’s what I was born for! It’s my purpose. I was made to be a sacrifice.”

“Not for me!” Bucky held his ground, voice firmer than you’d ever heard it. “Nothing is worth that to me! Do you understand that? I won’t trade your life for anyone’s, not even Steve’s, and I sure as hell don’t care how many bones I break or how bad the nerves in my shoulder misfire. I won’t put that on you again. The team won’t either.”

You clenched your jaw, heart starting race. No one had ever challenged you on this before. No one had ever questioned whether your gift should be used at all. No one ever seemed to care of the effect it had on your body, never thinking to look past the extraordinary abilities to the mutilation under the surface.  

No one until Bucky.  

You curled your hands into the thin sheets at your waist. “Bucky, don’t be ridiculous. I’m saving you all from weeks of unnecessary healing. I can handle the pain. It’s an easy trade for—”

Bucky’s fist met the wall. “You’re worth more than just a vessel for our pain, Y/n!”  

“What the hell is going on in here!?” Helen Cho rushed into the room, eyes darting between Bucky standing by the corner of the room, shaking out his hand, and you as you laid in the bed at the center, the heart monitor above pulsing far too quickly.  

Bucky seemed to notice the frantic beeping of the monitor and the anger quickly drained from his face.  

Helen glared at him as she stepped closer to you, beginning to check your vitals. “You should leave,” she shot over her shoulder. Your stomach twisted to knots as Bucky nodded defeatedly and walked to the door.  

“No, don’t--” you called, voice small, nervous. He paused in the frame, glancing back at you with a raised eyebrow. “Please, Bucky. Stay.”

Helen set a hand on your shoulder as if to ask if you were sure. You nodded.

“You may be able to heal yourself, but you’re still recovering,” Helen advised, tapping on the IV drip. “Take it easy, alright?”

Bucky remained stoic by the door after Helen left. He didn’t say anything for a while, his eyes focused on the tile floors at his feet, waiting until the heart monitor chimed in even, steady counts.  

“Will you sit down? You’re making me nervous,” you chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. It got him to look at you, at least. While he couldn’t muster a smile, it was clear he was drained of the anger that had quickly taken hold of his body; anger that was never once reserved for you, but for the voices in your head that deemed you unworthy of more than a body to be used by others.  

Bucky sank into the chair at your bedside.  

“When’s the last time you slept, Buck?”  

He stayed silent. It was enough of an answer. You didn’t dare ask the last time he left this room, not with the shiny reflection at his roots and the red strained in his eyes. Six days at your bedside, hunched over on a cold, unforgiving chair, clutching your hand. It ached deep into your bones.  

“I mean what I said,” Bucky mumbled, slowly brining himself to meet your eye. He reached out for your hand, letting the comforting chill of solid metal lay below as the warmth of flesh and muscle laid on top. He brought your fingertips to his lips and gently kissed at your knuckles.  

You sighed at the feeling. “Bucky, I...”

“You’re more important to us than your abilities,” he pressed, a sincerity behind his words and laced delicately into sweet shades of blue. “You do a lot of good to keep us safe with the tech you’ve been building and the adjustments to the suits. You’re incredible at what you do, Y/n. Your worth isn’t based on how many injuries you can heal or how much pain you can handle. We care about you. I care about you. Isn't that enough?”

You didn’t know.

You’d never known anyone to prioritize you over your gift. You parents had exploited it from the moment it was discovered your ability; showing you off, treating you as an idol to be worships and adorned. They put their child through broken bones and lacerations and asthma attacks. They sat back and watched as you healed strangers of arthritis and sprained ankles and migraines. Their child cried as they collected their winnings.  

Were you afraid it would happen again? Is that why you kept it from the team? From Bucky? You’d convinced yourself it was noble to silently suffer in their place, but you started to wonder if it amounted to little more than your parent's words whispered into your ear: your ability is a gift to the world, a sacrifice unto yourself.

“Would you ask any of us to suffer in your place?” Bucky questioned, drawing you from the mess inside your head with the gentle vibration in his voice.  

“I just want to help you...” you murmured, tears slipping past your cheeks.  

Bucky reached forward and brushed the tears as they fell, sliding his hand against your cheek and nestling against your hair. You leaned into the touch.

“So, we find a middle ground, okay?” Bucky offered, smiling enough to push into his cheeks, though his eyes were still heavy. “No trivial injuries. No life-threatening injuries. We take the stuff in-between case by case.”  

“Your shoulder,” you added, determined. Buck started to shake his head but you pressed harder. “Five minutes of pain to spare months of yours, Bucky. No lasting damage. Don’t argue with me on this one.”

It brought the smile back to Bucky’s eyes as he eventually nodded. You knew he had no real authority to decide what injuries you could and couldn’t heal, but you’d never had anyone who dared to put you first. You trusted him to do that; you trusted him more than yourself, anyway.

“We decide the rest together,” you told him. “I get the final say but... I need you to tell me if I’m pushing it too much, but I won’t be too cautious, either. No discriminating against Sam.”

“No promises,” Bucky chuckled, playing with the ends of your hair dreamily. “The other stuff I can deal with.”

“Okay,” you exhaled, relief sweeping through your body.  

“Okay.”

“Think I’ll be lucky if anyone on the team even lets me touch them for a few months after this ordeal, though, huh?” You laughed and though it ached in your stomach, it was considerably less than it was moments earlier. You didn’t mind the dull pain. It was familiar, almost a comfort. Steve was alive because of it.  

“Yeah, can’t say anyone was thrilled to find out how your powers actually worked,” Bucky chuckled. “But they’re happy you’re alright. I’m sure Steve will be, too. He was pissed when he woke up and learned what you did.”

You clenched your jaw. “Never good to be on Cap’s bad side...”

“No, it’s not,” Bucky agreed, wide smile pressed to the back of your hand, his lips touching over exposed skin. “He doesn’t like when anyone else pulls a self-sacrificial move. It’s kinda his thing. Diving into the Atlantic and all. We don’t really need two of you running around...”

“Alright, alright,” you laughed, swatting Bucky away. Your cheeks hurt from smiling, the pain in your stomach long forgotten, or maybe it had finally healed. You supposed it didn’t matter.  

They were scars that would never heal. Like the knife wound. Like mesh of hardened tissue around Bucky’s shoulder, stretching out onto his chest and back. Reminders of when you were too both close to the edge, to the brink of darkness. Reasons to push back towards the light.  

read the sequel here!

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

[supernaturallyobsessedchic]

Emergency! Part 1

Part 1 – Plane Crash

Summary: Dean and Cas are partners at Fire Station 51’s paramedic squad and are responding to their first of many. A plane crashes into an apartment complex, multiple fire stations respond to put out the fire and rescue any victims trapped. But RN, Y/N Y/L/N, happens to live in the very complex involved in the plane crash. Though unharmed, she commits her time to aid and assist in the victims coming out of the building and the plane. The rescue turns sideways on Dean when a beam drops onto Dean, damaging his oxygen tank, he quickly turns into a victim as he quickly succumbs to smoke inhalation and becomes Y/N’s patient.

Warnings: Mild angst (relationship), slight language, fluff?

Square: Firefighter!AU ( @supernatural-jackles​ Tell me a story Bingo)

Word Count: 1,784

Mobile Masterlist

Series Masterlist

A/N: DOA = Dead on Arrival. Y/L/N = Your last name. But I hope you guys enjoy!

~

She got up at her usual time of 5am to be at the hospital by 6:30am.

Not much of a coffee drinker, she just got her a mug filling up with soda, the soda being her caffeine for the day.

She got into her scrubs, grabbing her nametag, pens and her personal notepad.

Ready to hit the road before traffic begins to pick up on the freeway in Los Angeles, she grabs her wallet, phone and keys she locks up to leave for her day at work as a Registered Nurse at Rampart emergency hospital.

Just as she got to the street to her car, there was a loud noise growing louder. She looked in the direction of the noise to see a plane, crash landing into her own apartment complex.

Ducking beside her car at the impact of the plane she was also thankful for her timing.

Quickly she dials 9-1-1.

Dean got up at his usual time of 4 in the morning to begin his 24-hour shift at the station.

Dean is a paramedic and squad member at station 51.

He pulled his truck into the parking lot, still trying to wake up.

His partner was already there.

“Cas, do you ever sleep man?” Dean asked.

“Slept on the couch again.”

“Are you and Hannah okay?”

“No, we had a big fight again last night. I don’t know what I can do for her anymore.” Cas says, defeated.

“Just end things man, you need sleep, and you need some peace of mind. I got room at my house for a roommate if you need a place.”

“Thanks Dean, but I already had plans of ending things with Hannah, last night was just the nail in the coffin of yet another failed relationship.”

“She failed it man, you did nothing wrong.” Dean encouraged.

“Thanks man.”

Dean offered a kind smile and a pat on Cas’s shoulder.

“Ready for another long shift?” Cas asks.

“As ready as I’ll ever be, my dad here yet?”

“Yeah, he’s in the office why?”

“Wonder if he got the invite to Sam and Jess’s wedding.”

“Bought damn time that kid popped the question honestly.”

“I know, he and Jess dated for what seemed like forever.”

“You really think they’re still sore at each other, I mean John of all people should know he can’t control what his kids want to do.”

“Yeah, I don’t know, that’s why I was gonna ask if he got it.”

Cas nods.

“I saw you put in for a three-day weekend, what’s going on?”

“Just wanting to take a trip out to the campgrounds outside of town to the family cabin, Dad says the deck could use some work and I was gonna kill two birds with one stone. Camp out and help dad fix up the deck.”

“That sounds cool.”

The fire stations alarm sounded.

“Truck 27, squad 27, engine 47, squad 47, Engine 51, squad 51, structure fire at Purgatory Apartments 1366 south Millard Ave.”

“Lots of trucks and engines responding, must be big.” Cas states. Jumping into action.

“Must be.” Dean says running to the squad truck, jumping into the driver seat, Cas jumping into the passenger.

Dean turned the keys in the ignition, roaring the Ford Truck to life, and turning on the lights and siren. Heading out onto the road, with the firetruck, Engine 51 following behind.

 “This is RN Y/N Y/L/N, I have multiple victims at 1366 Millard Ave. A plane crashed. 3 already DOA, I need help right away.” She says into the phone.

“We’re working on it; we already have multiple firestations responding to your location. Just keep aiding in the victims as best as you can Ms. Y/L/N.” dispatch for 9-1-1 says.

She continued chest compressions on a victim and did 2 rescue breaths. And checked his pulse, still no change.

She sat her phone off of her shoulder and on the ground, so she could focus on reviving the victim.

One more attempt at cpr, she checks his pulse, still no change. Placing his hands over his chest, she says a silent prayer.

“I’m sorry.” She tells the people watching over her as she worked.

“Where is your help?” a lady asked furiously.

“They’re on the way, LA Is a large ass city, and you know how traffic is in this town.” She says.

She was already frustrated with the losses she didn’t need an attitude from anyone.

The sound of wailing sirens in the distance brought relieve to the nurse as she worked tirelessly on the victims.

Engine and squad 27 and 47 being the first on the scene.

“There are people trapped in the buildings, and there were about 45 passengers on this flight. 4 are DOA so far.” Y/N stated to the captain of the two fire stations as they approached her.

“Alright, I’ll send my guys in.” Captain of station 27 stated.

“I’ll let the other stations as they come in to assist.” Captain of station 47 stated.

Another fire engine’s siren wailed as it approached.

The men jumping into action.

“Winchester!” the captain of station 47 shouts as he approached engine 51.

“What do we got?”

“Unknown number of victims trapped in the complex, 45 passengers or so from the plane. 4 of them were DOA. Oh, and she’s a nurse, thought I’d mention that she could help us out.”

“Right,” John Winchester, captain of station 51 agreed.

“Alright guys, we got to work fast, there are people trapped in these two buildings, we need to clear them out. Tran, get the engine ready so we can use the hose. Gabe, and Michael, work on the fire with the other stations, Benny, Raph, and Charlie, aide the paramedics, either from 27, 47 or Dean and Cas, we need to save as many as we can, alright?”

“Yes sir.”

“Get to it.”

Everyone went to where they were instructed to. Dean and Cas got their equipment from their truck and went into one of the buildings, full fire fighter gear.

“Dean!” John called out.

Dean stops, giving John his attention.

“Be safe in there son.”

“I will dad. Don’t worry.” He says, running in.

There were a good handful of people able to move and get to safety on their own, and another handful Dean and Cas had to carry out of the building.

One woman, sprained ankle from trying to escape hastily, as Cas carried her out she nearly flew out of the man’s arms.

“My daughter, she’s in her room!” she cries out.

“I’ll get her, Cas, get her out of here.”

Cas nods, doing as told.

Dean inspected the rooms, finding a seven-year-old girl, hiding beside her bed covered in a wet blanket.

“Hey, I’m Dean, I’m gonna get you out of here.”

The girls nods.

Dean kept a protective arm around her as they exited her room.

A beam creaked, and gave way above Dean, hitting his back.

He heard a loud pop, like a large pop can exploding.

He found it hard to breathe through his oxygen mask.

Taking off his mask and tank he saw rupture in his tank.

“Shit.” He hissed.

His lungs were quickly taken over by the smoke, he started coughing immediately.

He noticed the girl was already gone.

He tried to get up to hurry and save himself but he felt a sharp pain in the back of his leg.

He looked behind him, he saw the beam pinning him down by his leg.

Overcome by the coughing, his world began to turn black.

 Y/N finished placing a splint on the womans ankle when a child ran up to her and the group of firemen.

“Jamie! Baby!” her mother cried out, holding her arms out to her daughter.

“Mommy!” she cried.

“Where’s Dean?” Cas asked.

“A beam fell down and knocked him down. He’s stuck.” She says.

Without another word exchanged Cas took off to the apartment they rescued the woman.

The fire was slowly getting under control and it was easier to see inside the apartments. Cas was able to spot Dean out in the apartment easily.

He laid on his stomach, still and unmoving. Cas can see the beam pinning against Dean’s thigh.

He saw the beam was not supporting much of anything. He ran out, seeing Michael carrying an axe.

“Mikey, I need that!” Cas shouted.

“What’s up?”

“Dean’s stuck.”

Michael ran towards Cas and he saw Dean, inspected the beam. Saw the same as Cas, the beam not being much of importance to the structure, he begins working on breaking the beam in half.

The wood was badly damaged by the fire, he was able to break it in three strong hits.

Once he was free, Cas picked Dean up and carried him out over his shoulder fireman carry style.

Once he reached the nurse, she prepared an area she could work on Dean.

“Is he breathing?”

“He didn’t have his mask on, the tank was damaged.” Cas answered.

“More than likely smoke inhalation, lay him here and I’ll start working on him.

He did as told, laying him flat on his back.

She checked his pulse, and breathing, matching up to the fireman’s statements. And began chest compressions.

After 35 chest compressions she gave 2 rescue breaths. And checked his breathing, he’s breathing but it was shallow.

She placed on an oxygen mask over his mouth.

After ten minutes or so of the mask being on him, he began having a coughing fit as the air returned back to his lungs.

“He’s gonna be okay but we need to get him to the hospital, need to check out that leg.” Y/N said.

The men and women of station 51 nodded, agreeing with the nurse.

 Later that night as she made her rounds, she walked into Dean’s room.

“Good evening Mr. Winchester, how are you feeling today?”

“Sore.”

“That’s expected having a beam pin your leg down, and the smoke inhalation.”

“You saved my life, thank you, Miss….”

“Y/N, Y/N Y/L/N. And it’s no big deal, all part of the job.”

“Right, saving people.”

“The family business.”

“You’re family work here?”

“Yeah, my mom was head nurse at this very hospital, and my dad was a neurologist here. I was basically born and raised here.”

“Nice, my dad’s captain of station 51.”

“Awesome. But other than that, no pain at the moment, you don’t need anything?”

“No, just a number.”

She smirked, with a nod.

Writing on her notepad, her number. She ripped the paper out, handing it to him.

“Call me sometime, Winchester.”

He held the paper, unable to hide the wide grin.

“Definitely will.” He says as she walks out, continuing her shift.

~

Are you excited yet? I’m posting as I write this, probably a bad idea, but story of my life. Like what I got so far? Let me know, ask, reblog. Feedback is fuel. :3

~

Dean girls:

@pandazombie69​, @luci-in-trenchcoats​, @supernatural-jackles​, @becs-bunker​, @jayankles​, @mlovesstories​, @winchesters-favorite-girl​, @jeaniespiehs20​, @akshi8278​, @lyarr24​

~

Copying and reposting someone else’s content is plagiarism and illegal. This work is property of supernaturallyobsessedchic. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. These works contain material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of these works may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher. An electronic reference link to the original posted work may be provided for purposes of promotion or assistance of publication by the readers discretion, if proper credits are given to the author in the re-post. 3/18/2021

[zmediaoutlet]

For a while, after everything with Jack, it’s quiet. Sam gets up at the same time every morning out of habit but there’s no real need. It feels like there’s something—untethered, in him. A flying line that used to be caught on concrete, and now that the anchor’s gone he doesn’t know what to lash it to. Dean seems to be doing better but Sam knows it’s the same for him. They stay apart a little, in those first days, but they keep running into each other in the library—Sam looking at the bookshelves and Dean coming in from the garage with grease on his hands, and they look at each other and kind of shrug, kind of smile, but it’s—strange. Like there’s been some weight, counterbalancing the world, and now that it’s gone—

Sam goes for runs. Dean works on the car. They watch movies they meant to see when they were in theaters, and which can be watched now in the den Dean built for them, a six pack of beer between them and Dean hogging the popcorn. They drive through Lebanon together, pick up mail and groceries, and they argue over whether they’re having that tater tot hotdish recipe Donna sent again or whether they’re going to eat something that has a single vegetable in it, at all. They go out onto the empty abandoned farmland behind the bunker, and Dean’s found some battered lawnchairs from somewhere, and they sit with their feet kicked out into the long grass and pass a bottle of whiskey back and forth, and they watch the day slowly sliding into sunset, and then into night, and when there’s stars overhead Dean says, “Damn,” softly, and Sam laughs, just as quiet. Yeah. Yeah, that—about sums it up.

There’s a hunt, finally. Sam wasn’t even really looking, but he’s got the Google alerts set up and the hunt finds them, instead. He’s sitting in the kitchen with the remains of breakfast around, staring at his laptop. Missing women. Strange details, from the police reports. A mystery, that the locals can’t solve, and he’s got his teeth in his lip and he’s half-considering whether to just close the laptop lid and go—another run, another chore, just to not see it, even though it’s not like he doesn’t want to go—when there’s a scuff, and Dean says, “Hey,” easy, and then he’s caught, sitting, and Dean pauses and then comes up behind him, and leans in with one hand on the table and the other on Sam’s back, reading over his shoulder. Sam takes a deep breath. It’s like a thousand times before. A piece that had been missing starts to slide into place.

“Huh,” Dean says. His breath smells like coffee and Sam wrinkles his nose. Dean reaches around his arm and scrolls down on the webpage, reading. “Shapeshifter?”

Sam lifts a shoulder. “Could be,” he says, and he tries not to put any inflection in it. He doesn’t even know how he feels—he doesn’t want to affect what Dean might feel, either way.

There’s a look, aimed at the side of his face. Dean’s fingertips on his back dig in, just a little, warm and heavy. “Only a five hour drive,” Dean says, slowly. He stands up straight, but his hand doesn’t move. “Three women?”

Sam closes his eyes. “So far,” he says, and Dean’s fingertips slip away, and when he looks again Dean’s standing there in his robe with wet hair, healthy and burden-free and giving Sam this—Sam doesn’t even know how to read that face. Steady eyes, soft curve to his mouth. He shrugs one shoulder, too, hands in his robe pockets, and Sam huffs, smiles and doesn’t know why. That it can be a shrug, maybe. That it doesn’t feel like the end of the world. Just a job.

“I could get packed up in fifteen,” Sam says, offering, and Dean’s eyes crinkle, but he nods, and turns on his heel, and that means—a decision. Sam takes a deep breath and feels that dangling tether latch onto solid ground again. It’s been a month, free, but that’s the thing. They’re free either way.

*

Sam breaks his ring finger. Dean gets hit so hard on his shin, the bruise sinking so deep and painful, that they both think there’s been a hairline fracture, but the x-ray is clean and he’s just told to keep his weight off it for a few days. Sam drives home, Dean snoozing solidly in the passenger seat, and Sam keeps the radio down low but listens to the albums he picks (Zeppelin II and then Presence and then Zep III, both sides repeated twice), and he keeps smiling, off and on, the whole way home through the dark, because—they saved two women and stopped a fourth from being hurt, and they got the shifter, and it turns out—there’s still a reason, here. Still something.

He gets a crutch from the infirmary so Dean can stump down the stairs, bitching the whole way. It’s two in the morning but Sam’s not tired. Dean says something about a shower and disappears into the halls, grumbling about asshole shifters who get in lucky shots, and Sam’s left standing in the library with their bags, and he—god. God.

He pours a drink, from the good stuff Dean keeps in the crystal decanter. He sips at the glass and then presses it to his forehead, and smiles at nothing, thinking back. What an annoying goddamn week that case was. And yet, and yet. It was…

He sits, at the table. He sets his glass on a spare bit of scratch paper and runs his fingers over the carved-in marks. His and Dean’s initials are already worn smooth, nearly, from nights just like this. When he couldn’t sleep, and he couldn’t bear it. He can bear it, now. What a—gift.

Sam licks his lips. He sets his hand flat on the table, his splinted finger sticking out awkwardly. “Jack,” he says, to the empty air. The carved letters are rough, under his palm. “I guess—you can hear me. I haven’t—I haven’t been praying. I don’t know. It felt stupid. Weird. If you’re really a god now, then you know everything I might say. But maybe it…” He shakes his head and closes his eyes. The wood’s getting warm, from his palm sitting there. He takes a deep breath. “We went hunting, this week. I didn’t know if we’d—but it was exactly what we needed. We saved people, and we fixed something that was bad. Dean’s leg is gonna be okay. My hand hurts. But it’s—good. We did good. And it’s because of you, that we could do that, so I just wanted to say thank you.”

That’s what he’s been feeling, he realizes. All through the drive home. Just—thanks. That this is their life. That they can live it, now.

“Sam,” he hears, in Dean’s voice, and he opens his eyes, and—

Jack’s standing there, quiet, in the library. Dean’s leaned against the archway leading down to the map room with his crutch clutched in the other hand, and he glances at Sam but his eyes go right back to Jack.

He looks the same. Jeans, and that white jacket Sam picked out for him at the thrift store, and his hair falling softly over his forehead, and his face, set in gentle lines.

“Are you—” Sam cuts himself off. He doesn’t—what to say? What to ask?

“I heard you,” Jack says. He looks at Dean, frozen on the top stair. “Both of you.”

Sam’s attention snaps to Dean, who’s starting to flood up red in his ears. Jack smiles, small.

“I guess it’s…” Sam chews the inside of his lip. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to distract you or anything.”

“You didn’t,” Jack says, and of course not, because he’s—god.

“Why did you come?” Sam says.

Jack’s smile gets a little smaller, but doesn’t disappear. He doesn’t answer, either. Dean hitches his weight, puts a hand on the wall.

Sam licks his lips. There’s so much. “I guess—you already know anything I’d say, right?” Because he’s god. It keeps flooding up in Sam. That this kid, this sweet innocent kid that they’d done their best for, who Sam had taught to hold a gun and who Dean had taught to tie his shoes, he’s—everything. The alpha and omega, the spark of life in every cell. But that means he’s gone from them, too. Sam looks down at the table, trying not to show it. Knowing that Jack knows, either way.

“I know,” Jack says, like an echo. “But it’s good to say it, either way.”

Heat rises, at the back of Sam’s eyes. He smiles, even if it feels a little shaky, and when he looks up Jack’s just—himself. Exactly like Sam is going to remember him.

“Miss you, kiddo,” Dean says. His voice is thick. “And no one’s eating those dumb Sugar Smacks you made me get, either.”

“Yes, you are,” Jack says, giving Dean a look, and Sam laughs out loud, tears smarting at his eyes. “And you don’t have to miss me. I’m right here.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, and Jack smiles at him a little sidelong and then is—gone, without a rustle of feathers or a thunderclap or anything.

The library’s quiet. Amber lamplight, and the slight papery-dust smell of the air, and the wood under Sam’s hand. He pulls his hand back a little and looks. Dean’s knifework—angular but legible, and the edges still rough. He runs his thumb over the lines of the J. It’ll get smooth, eventually.

A flinching step, and Dean’s there, at his side. A hand, on his shoulder. “I’m no good at it,” Dean says, low, “but say thanks from me, too, okay.”

Sam knuckles away the wet from his eye. “Yeah,” he says, and has to clear his throat. “Yeah, I will.” Dean squeezes his shoulder. “And keep buying the Sugar Smacks, okay?”

Dean snorts. “I was gonna do that anyway,” he says, and Sam smiles, and gets a splinter from the table in his thumb. Dean helps pick it out with tweezers, under the lamplight. They get some sleep. They wake up again, to a cool and sunny morning, and get to live the life they choose.

[depressedacadamia]

Do you want to keep your opinion or your knee caps?

Prompt + pairing: College au, ‘Photo’ + fierrochase

A/N: So tHiS wAs A rEqUeSt- thank you to the anon who requested this! You'll notice that the duolingo owl meme has inspired the title of this and towards the end, I have Alex quote Lemony Snicket. I dont have much else to say except the list of prompts that I had pinned on my tumblr dashboard is now a link on my masterlist. Currently pinned is Will solace's birthday week prompts- I hope you guys enjoy this and please comment! <3 from persephone!!

Read on a03           Masterlist          WritersMonth 2021

“T- Jeff, Give that back right now!” Magnus yelled as the 6 pack of red bull- which he had slammed on his desk 10 minutes to midnight- was snatched away from his very eyes.

“Hell no!” his best friend shouted back. “ I’m not watching you throw away your health! Hey Sam- Back me up here!”

Samirah, who had only entered the dorm to steal another one of Magnus’s good pens which he had probably stolen from Alex or T-jeff, simply shrugged. “ I’m pretty chill if he wants to shorten his lifespan by a couple of decades.”

“Seee! That's what a good friend does- ignores all your terrible mistakes and lets you live your own life.”

Samirah, had taken a red bull from T-Jeff, because god help him if he had tried to stop her. “I’m not your friend.”

Now , you, the reader may be wondering- what on earth am I witnessing right now before my very eyes?

Allow me to kindly explain. What you are viewing is what is called the ‘ College phenomenon’. Currently, on the 19th floor of their dormitory building, Magnus Chase was about to drink 6 red bulls in an attempt to keep himself awake for the entire night; why would anybody do this to themselves, you may ask?

Because, college.

And in reality, Magnus had a very long project that- of course- was due tomorrow. Sure, his cousin Annbaeth was smart but even Annabeth left work to the very last minute. He could feel his head pounding from the previous caffeine consumed when he decided it would be a good idea to chug several espresso shots.

He could feel his boyfriends smirk as he entered the room. He felt slender arms wrap themselves around his neck as a tinge of green hair fell down to tickle his cheek. A warm cheek pressed against his, in a somewhat comforting manner.

“You look like shit,” Alex pointed out.

“Thanks, that’s exactly what I want to hear from my boyfriend,''Magnus grumbled. He frowned and suddenly, he felt a light peck on his lips.

“You’re cute when you’re grouchy.”

Despite his awfully foul mood, Magnus couldn't help but feel a small blush paint his cheeks and burn to the tip of his ears from hearing such a compliment- after all, he looked like shit (and felt like it) and yet here was his prim and gorgeous as ever boyfriend telling him that he looked cute.

“I came here to steal your stationary Magnus, not witness an awkward first date,” Samirah took another sip of the red bull.

Magnus pouted. “ How come you let her drink the red bull, but you don't let me?”

“Uh- Because she’s terrifying,” T-Jeff retorted.

“Thank you,” Samirah smiled, flicking her headscarf over her shoulder.

“And there’s no way I’m letting you drink all of those,'' Alex reminded Magnus.

T- Jeff continued, “ And he is also terrifying.”

Annoyed and frustrated, Magnus slammed his head directly onto his desk. He ignored the blearing pain that struck through his head like lighting due to the stupid hit. He ignored the annoying words that began to blur into one another as he drifted off to sleep- and perhaps he ignored -or, or maybe he didn’t notice- his boyfriend moving him to his bed and snuggling up next to him as they fell asleep.

The next morning, Magnus was semi surprised to find that he was A- in his bed, B- not suffering from a headache and C- lying down next to Alex. When did he even get into bed, let alone with Alex?

“Your staring is interrupting the quality of my sleep,” he groaned as he shifted himself slightly, resting his head on the blond’s chest.

“When did you get here?”

“And that's a question I never want to hear from you in the morning,” Alex mumbled, “ I put you to bed idiot- you’re sincerely welcome.”

Magnus felt a flush rising to his cheeks as he sat up. “ O-oh.”

Alex yawned as he grabbed Magnus by the arm and yanked him back down to the -let's be frank here- uncomfortable mattress of his dorm.

Soon they were both fast asleep, in each other’s arms; not aware of any of their surroundings or of Mallory snapping a photo of them.

“Delete it now!” Magnus cried as he tried to grab the phone from T-jeff who was currently showing off the photo that Mallory had sent the group chat.

While Alex seemed quite unfazed by it, it seemed to have caught the unwanted attention of all of their friends- therefore pushing Magnus into a very uncomfortable spotlight.

Magnus couldn’t help but feel like he was 15 again- out on the cold streets, people staring at him as he cowered away from the harsh glares, sympathetic whispers but no true hands being held out to help him. He couldn't stand the idea that every one was watching him, staring at him, talking about him. But this was infinitely worse because not only could they all be talking about him but they could also be talking about Alex.

He could feel his face burn as his friends laughed with innocent delight at the cute photo of the couple sleeping in each other's arms. His eyes were stinging, blurring together reality and his confused nightmare and maybe it was real or maybe it was his confused version of reality but he could have sworn to have seen a sliver of concern flash across Alex’s face.

“Delete the photo.” Her firm voice rang out. Magnus watched, half stricken with awe and the other half still shaken with fear, panic and misery.

“What?” T-jeff and the rest were confused. “ C’mon Alex, it’s just a cute picture of the happy couple.”

“The couple is no longer happy because of the photo- delete it.”

“You seem pretty happy to me.”

“Do you want to keep your opinion or your kneecaps?” Alex hissed, her eyes narrowed into slits, anger portrayed like the eye of a hurricane nearing the ocean- like a tornado near a lit splint. Nodding eagerly, they all agreed to delete the photo. Subtly calling for Magnus for some couple related reason, she managed to get them alone.

Bonus:

His hands came to cup Magnus’s face, the tears finally falling. None streamed down his face as he kept his head bowed slightly- hiding it from Alex.

What was he meant to say? How do you comfort a crying person?

“Was it really that bad?” Alex asked, trying to keep his tone soft. “ Did you really not like them taking photos of us?”

Magnus shook his head.

“I need you to talk to me, Magnus.”

“I… I didn’t like it.” His voice was meek, soft, and purely vulnerable; and as he slowly raised his head, Alex was all too stricken with the sight before him. Magnus’s eyes somehow still seemed gorgeous, red rimmed and shiny from the tears that befell from them. His cheeks were flushed,his ears tipped in red and his blond hair sheltering his face like a small child.

“Why?”

Magnus paused. He was hesitant to answer the question, after all- who wouldn't be nervous to tell their partner about all the previous trauma they’ve endured?

“It reminds me… of a bad time,” Magnus’s voice only seemed to get quieter. “ I..”

“You…”

“Iusedtobehomeless.”

Despite his innocent attempts to prevent Alex from understanding him, he felt two hands hold his face very gently and bring it closer to his boyfriend who stood before him. He felt uncomfortable as Alex burned his eyes at him. Their pupils locked onto one another and Magnus wasn’t sure whether he should look away or not.

“...What…?”

“I was just wondering if you had fallen down and broken your head in the process,” Alex thought aloud.

“What?” Magnus’s confused voice and expression was something Alex told himself he’d have to save in his head to view later.

“I’m not going to judge you because of the misfortune you’ve lived through. I’ll love you as misfortune loves orphans, as fire loves the innocent and as justice loves to sit down and watch everything go wrong,” Alex murmured as he placed a small kiss on Magnus’s nose.

[twdmusicboxmystery]

FTWD 6x16: The Beginning - Analysis

Wow! This episode was amazing! Lots of symbolism that got me super-excited. So, let’s just dive right in!

***As always, spoilers abound for Fear 6x16 below. Don’t read until you’ve watched!***

As both the group and the episode are already conveniently segmented, I’ll just use that same segmentation to talk about everything.

PROMISE ME YOU’LL FIND SOMEONE

First, we have Rachel and her daughter. I’ll admit, it took me a minute to remember who this was, but this segment is replete with symbols. She’s trying to change a flat tire and not having much luck. She hears Morgan’s message, but decides he’s wrong. 

While still trying to change the tire, the car falls off the jack and onto her leg, resulting in an open fracture. (Ouch!) She splints herself with duct tape and then tries to walk with her baby girl (named Morgan). A ways down the road, she gives up, puts the baby on her back, ties herself to the dog, and then commits suicide. It’s not immediately obvious, but she knows she’ll turn and she’s hoping the baby will be safe on her back and the dog will find someone who will raise the child.

We aren’t entirely sure what the flat tire symbol foreshadows. But it we usually see it in conjunction with new information, meeting new people, or discovering a new community. We saw it somewhat with Abraham’s group in 5x05. They didn’t discover a new community, but they did discover Eugene’s lie, which changed things. The one I always think of is from 6x10 when Rick and Daryl chase Jesus after he takes off with their truck. He has to change a tire which is how they catch up to him. It leads to them discovering Hilltop for the first time. Here, what happens with Rachel does lead to new beginnings. 

First, an emotional one for Morgan and Grace who will probably end up raising the baby together. (It’s fitting, both because Grace lost her baby, and because this baby is literally named after Morgan. Not to mention, the baby was born at the beginning of the season, right when Morgan was given a second chance at life). Secondly, because in this episode, the group is, for the first time, fully and openly meeting with the CRM. More on that later.

But that’s not the extent of the symbols here. The leg thing might be part of the lost foot symbolism, but more specifically it reminds me of Sam’s girlfriend in 4a who had the compass rose tattooed on her leg, and lost that leg when walkers got to her. I won’t say tons more about that right now, but this is definitely a symbol we’ve seen before.

Finally, there’s the “find me” theme. She tells the dog to find someone so her baby will live. Obviously that’s big ever since the Leah episode. We can tie this directly to Daryl in that episode. But also notice that we have a baby (Child and Baby symbolism around Beth) who needs to be rescued after its parents die. And Rachel ties herself to the DOG (Sirius symbolism) who finds the larger group and saves the baby. If that doesn’t scream a foreshadow of Beth, I don’t know what will.

DAME! EL ARMA! (Translation: Give me the gun!)

Next we shift to Daniel’s group. Daniel, Lucy, Charlie, Will, Sarah, Rabbi Jacob, and Rollie are in Al’s armored truck. They’ve taken Riley prisoner. Daniel heard a voice giving coordinates telling them a safe place to go but he doesn’t trust his own mind. So, he can’t be sure of what he heard. Instead, they head toward what they think is the hotel where Alicia is being kept. Riley told them where it was. The bottom of their truck gets damaged and Sarah fixes it. The short of things are that Daniel figures out that Rollie is a traitor and shoots him. Riley charges him and Charlie shoots him. He wasn’t actually taking them to the hotel at all but was just trying to keep them running in circles. So they head to the coordinates Daniel heard on the radio.

Okay, lots of great stuff here. Let’s talk Daniel. Remember before he didn’t trust his own mind. Here, the same was true. In this case, what he heard was true and was also the means to saving everyone, but because he didn’t trust himself—specifically because he’d had a weird hallucination before—he didn’t follow his instincts right away. But along the way, he picked up some betrayal and trusted himself enough to at least try for what he heard. And it paid off.

I 100% think this is a template for Daryl. His hallucination is Leah. And in the show as things are right now, it’s unclear if he knows that or not. Probably not. But at some point he’ll realize he was hallucinating and not trust his own mind anymore.

Because of that, he’ll hear something on the radio (much as Daniel did here) but not trust what he thinks he heard. I don’t know what it will be. Maybe Beth’s voice? Maybe Rick’s? It’s worth pointing out here that the voice belongs to Althea. Her and Isobel have HEAVY parallels to Beth and Daryl. We also have a situation where she left the group for a time, clearly found someone inside the CRM, and returned to save her friends/family/group. So that could possibly translate to Rick as well.

So, I understand better now why they did the whole memory thing with Daniel earlier in the season. It was partly to set up the situation in this episode, and I’m sure there will be more to this arc as we move into S7. But it’s also just a very specific template and foreshadow of things that will happen in TWD.

Another important thing to mention is that the word “phoenix” is mentioned twice in this scene. In fact, that’s how Daniel realizes Rollie is a traitor. I actually think he probably became suspicious earlier than that. If you watch it closely, Rollie is driving and seems to swerve to hit several walkers, which is probably what damaged the bottom of the truck. I think that made Daniel suspicious, but he couldn’t be certain Rollie did it intentionally. He might have just been driving erratically, and everyone’s nerves are really frazzled at this point.

Then Rollie gets out to kill walkers and Riley mentions the world rising like a phoenix. Rollie didn’t hear him say that because he was outside. So when Rollie says the same thing a few minutes later, Daniel realizes they’re working together and using the same terminology.

If you didn’t catch all that the first time, don’t feel bad. I watched this episode like 3x before I caught all the nuances.

But clearly the phoenix symbol is a big deal to begin with. Phoenix = Beth, as well as a general resurrection symbol. And they’re using it here to describe the world coming back from this nuclear attack. I also think it’s probably intentional that this is how they came to realize betrayal was afoot.

And to expand that, it’s also what led them to what would actually save them. I’m not sure exactly what this points to as a template, but I’m sure it’s pointing to one. And that Beth is involved.

As a side note, I want to point out that just before they exit the truck, Sarah called Rollie Kemosabe. That’s a Lone Ranger Reference. This tiny little tidbit caught my ear, led me down a rabbit hole and to some big conclusions about the Lone Ranger symbolism we’ve seen a lot in the main show. That’s a totally different theory for another day, but I wanted to note the reference here.

Two more symbols of note in this section. Sarah hooks her welder to a car battery to get it to work. Battery theory.

Also, Riley says something about how he wants to see everyone’s faces when all their efforts to build a better world turn to ash. That got me thinking about the “ash” symbolism, the most famous use of which was in Consumed, when Daryl said, “we ain’t ashes.” We understood what he meant in context, of course. And it’s always been a potent symbol. Phoenixes rise from the ashes. And ashes are the one of the most pure substances on earth because their impurities have just been burnt away. So it was always an interesting symbol. And of course he says this WHILE he and Carol are searching for Beth.

Well, in this episode, Riley equated the nuclear attack with ashes. And we (crazily) saw Dakota physically turn to ash when the blast hit. So, you could say that those who survived “ain’t ashes.” But my point is that ashes (around Beth and Grady) this nuclear storyline, and phoenixes were all equated in the same sentence. (Coincidence? I think not!)

They end up going to the coordinates, and nothing seems to be there, until a helicopter shows up. It’s not just the CRM. It’s Al and, I’m assuming, Isobel, who save them.

This is huge. I don’t know if Isobel has gone rogue or has the CRM’s blessing on this rescue, but either way, they’re coming face to face with the CRM, and I think that’s super important. Obviously a setup for future storylines.

ENJOY THE VIEW, ASSHOLE

Let’s move on to Sherry and Dwight. First, they’re looking for a SCHOOL. I really gotta nail down what the school means. I’m thinking maybe it represents a place that people think will be safe, or should be, but isn’t. Something along those lines. But we’ve seen them a lot, including very prominently around Father Gabriel in Coda.

In this case, they can’t find the school. They have a map but they either made a wrong turn or it just isn’t there anymore. They’re just looking for some kind of shelter from the blast.

Eventually, they happen upon a cabin. On the outside, it’s very reminiscent of the moonshine shack or even Leah’s cabin. On the inside, it’s actually very nice and well kept. It reminded me of the funeral home in Alone being very clean and well kept, and Daryl saying someone had been tending to it.

Sherry says they should go in. Maybe there will be pretzels and beer. While both of those thing are clearly Dwight and Sherry symbols, and have been used extensively for their arc, they’re also well-established Bethyl symbols. Beer, cuz obviously. Pretzels are a religious symbol signifying the Trinity. But we also saw these around Richonne in 7x12. So, it’s not even JUST Bethyl, but something that’s around couples who get separated/“lose” each other, and then find each other again. No, that hasn’t happened for either Bethyl or Richonne yet, but we have ample evidence that it will. Through the Sherry/Dwight parallels if nothing else.

After Sherry suggests the cabin, Dwight says, “You serious.” Cut to me, laughing and pointing at the screen because this symbolism is SO obvious at this part.

So they go into the cabin, find some beer, and have a discussion about how they wished they could have had more time together. How much time they’ve wasted apart. *coughs Bethyl*

It turns out, someone WAS tending to the cabin. A family had lived there until recently. They saw the missile go up and tried to get into their own storm shelter, but some of Teddy’s scumbag followers kicked them out. Dwight and Sherry go about getting the shelter back. They rip the doors off and when two guys come out, they kill one and badly wound the other. Dwight says they’ll leave him alive so he has a front row seat to the destruction he helped cause. This is where we get the line, as Sherry says, “Enjoy the view, Asshole.”

Dwight and Sherry go into the shelter with the family and that’s how they survive.

A few other things of note, here. Sherry’s line that heads up this section (Enjoy the view, asshole) sounded familiar to me. I was thinking we’d heard it before, but wasn’t sure when. Maybe with Negan or during AOW sometime? Then, it occurred to me. We heard something very similar from Tara in S4 when Abraham, Rosita and Eugene showed up. After killing the walkers, she saw their truck and said, “hope you enjoyed the show, assholes.”

I’m not sure exactly what the correlation is there, but it’s interesting.

Also, when Sherry first goes into the cabin, she sees pictures of the family living there. In the pictures, the couple has a baby in their arms. When they show up, the man even calls his daughter his “baby.” But she’s actually like 8 years old. (Just a guess; they don’t tell us her exact age.) Clearly the pictures were from her birth and that was a while ago, but I had the thought that maybe it’s a hint about time passing, 8 years later, something like that.

YOU HAVE NOTHING TO BE SORRY ABOUT

Next, we move to Teddy and Dakota, driving in a truck. He takes her to the top of the ridge so they can watch the destruction when the warheads hit. She apologizes for saving Morgan, who is the one who foiled Teddy’s plans. Per the line, he tells her she has nothing to be sorry about. She also thanks him for accepting her as she is. They hug. I gotta say, it was slightly creepy and pedophilic, if you ask me.

Then John, Sr. shows up. He says he isn’t there to take out Teddy so much as to save Dakota. He tries to convince her to come with him. At first, she’s completely loyal to Teddy and won’t hear of it. Teddy attempts to kill John, but June shoots the gun from his hand. She came with him and also tries to convince Dakota to come with them. They both say that they forgive her for what she did to John, and that has a huge impact on her, but not enough for her to do as they want.

When John kicks a gun away from Teddy, his boot hits metal and he realizes there’s a shelter under the place Teddy brought Dakota to. So, much like our old terrorist buddy Saddam Hussein, Teddy is utterly full of crap. He expects others to die for his cause, but he was always planning to save himself.

This really messes Dakota up when she realizes he’s been lying to her all along. He has to back pedal pretty hard and claims that he was only going to save himself so that when the dust settles, they can go back and set off the rest of the nukes. John figures out that Teddy doesn’t really care about Dakota. He needs her because the two keys needed to set up off the nukes are on opposite sides of the room, so they need two people to detonate them.

John and June take refuge in the shelter, but Dakota refuses to go with them. She kills Teddy (he has the nerve to look surprised) and then we see her literally turn to ash when the warhead hits. Crazy stuff.

I CAN HEAR HER

Morgan and Grace are still at the sub and he’s floundering for an answer. Grace basically convinces him they should kill themselves, because she doesn’t want to have to deal with radiation poisoning again. They almost do it together, but then they hear a baby crying. She thinks it’s Athena, come to get them at the hour of their death. But, it’s an actual baby. It’s Rachel and Isaac’s baby. Morgan goes to get her and declares her a “gift from Athena.” (Let’s totally get into the Greek mythology of THAT.) Clearly he and Grace will raise this child together.

And given the Child and Baby symbolism around Beth, as I mentioned earlier, we can relate this to her. But there’s something else, something broader, that strikes me. If Rufus (the dog) = Beth, who saved the baby, well, Rufus went straight to Morgan. I’ve long wondered if maybe Morgan is the person who found Beth and either took her to Grady or nursed her back to health in some way.

I’m still not going to commit to that being the case one way or the other. Maybe, maybe not. We simply don’t know yet. But once again, with this interesting template, what I will say is that Morgan is mixed up in Beth’s arc somehow. And with Daniel’s group coming into direct contact with the CRM, I think there’s a very good chance Morgan and Beth could meet soon.

The only other thing of note in this section is that before the bomb hits, Morgan, Grace, and Baby Morgan take shelter under a semi truck. We actually see Rufus jump into a car with it’s back door open. We don’t see the dog again, but I’m gonna go out on a limb and say he survives. The car with the back door open is a direct callback to this. I.e. Beth’s survival.

WHAT MAN ARE YOU?

Strand’s section is kinda the big cheese here, and I’m doing it out of order because of that. Strand’s scenes here reminded me of 5x06, Consumed, and then Grady itself. And Consumed was leading to Grady, so it all amounts to the same thing. It’s about Beth’s S5 arc. The symbolism here is HUGE. Yes, even huger than Dwight and Sherry’s cabin.

Let me just illustrate how it’s like Consumed and Coda.

1) Strand rides into a city and under an overpass. In 5x06, Daryl and Carol drive a van off an overpass. Also note the yellow scaffolding in the background.

2) He goes into a high rise (sort of ) office building, which also reminds me of Chokepoint, but that, with it’s elevator shaft, also pointed back to Atlanta. Daryl and Carol spent the night in the shelter, the interior of which looks a lot like this building Strand is in. They then went into the high rise office building and that’s when they saw the Grady van on the overpass.

3) In general, we see a lot of parking lots and building with walkers in them, same as Consumed.

4) Strand finds some indoor campers. Corpses in sleeping bags with tents strewn around. Daryl and Carol found the same thing in Consumed.

5) Eventually Strand makes it up into a part of the building that is either a parking garage or at least unfinished, as the walls, ceilings and floors are made of concrete. Daryl and Carol went through several parking garages in Consumed. In fact, right after they saw the indoor campers and Noah took their weapons, they were in one. That’s when we see Daryl drop the book about childhood abuse. So the sequence is even chronologically the same.

6) Strand sees a walker (dead, not animated) wearing a cop uniform. The camera focuses on it twice for about 5 seconds each. Clearly, we’re meant to notice this walker. A callback to Grady.

7) He meets a man living in the structure (Howard) who has TONS of paintings, and wears glasses. The reason I mention the glasses is that I had a moment where I really thought this might turn out to be Doctor Edwards. It wasn’t, but they hid the guy’s face for a while, he wore glasses, and he had PAINTINGS. Tons of paintings. (Remember, Edwards had the one of Peter.)

Now, I could say a LOT about these paintings, but I’ll save most of it for other theories later in the week. Just know that many of them look colonial, and they support the Revolutionary War (and some other wars around the same time) templates that we’re now recognizing.

The line, “what man are you” applies to Strand telling Howard he’s Morgan. It made me think of episode 9x06, Who Are You Now. It kind of refers to choosing who you want to be in the wake of disaster and tragedy. And that was definitely a theme Beth brought up at Grady when she told Dawn, “this is who you are, until the end.”

Strand and his new friend ultimately survive. Either they aren’t close enough to the blast or it’s just not big enough to take out the building they’re in, so they both live. But they were both clearly prepared for these to be their last moments. Now take a look at what Strand says when he realizes he won’t die. If this is meant to be his Grady, tell me these words can’t apply to Beth:

Howard: Why are you laughing?

Strand: Because I’m alive. After everything I did, I’m still here.

Obviously, the “I’m alive” applies. But more to the point, this is a situation that Strand expected to die in, but he didn’t. And the “I’m still here?” That isn’t just a symbol, folks. Beth literally said that to Carol at Grady. Coupled with everything else, especially the cop walker, that’s pretty compelling.

He then goes on to talk about how he’s a survivor and has to rebuild who he is several times. *coughs Beth* He says they can now rebuild the world with art (Beth and Edwards), books (all the book/library symbolism we’ve seen), music (Beth) and good bourbon (alcohol = Bethyl).

Then he says, “it’s the dawning of a new day.” Guys, that theme has been literally hanging around in the background since 4x01 at the prison. This is what they’ve been pointing to and looking toward since Gimple took over in 3x16/4x01.

I KNOW HOW TO SURVIVE

Strand says this, but we actually see it as a section heading before we see how EVERYONE ends and survives. When I realized that, it occurred to me that each of these lines that serve as section headings are about surviving somehow. About how someone in the group ended up circumventing death.

“Promise me you’ll find someone” was about Rachel made sure her baby survived. “Give me the gun” (in Spanish) was Daniel figuring out Rollie’s deception and getting his group to the CRM coordinates so they lived. “Enjoy the view, Asshole” was Dwight and Sherry getting the family’s shelter back, which was how they survived as well. “You have nothing to be sorry for” is a little different. They were talking about Dakota saving Morgan at the beginning of the season. So it might be geared toward his survival. But I also think the world at large will survive without Teddy and Dakota around, and this also led to their demise. “What kind of man are you” was about Strand doing what he had to, even despicable things, in order to survive. And then of course the last and obvious one, “I know how to survive.”

So, in the end, most of main characters survived. The only deaths were Teddy, Riley, Rollie, and Dakota. The rest managed to find shelter. They’ll all be dealing with radiation sickness for sure, so it will be interesting to see how they handle that next season.

My final, bird’s eye view takeaway is this: much like TWD 10x18, Find Me, I think each of these story lines represent parts of Beth’s arc in some way. Some past. Some future. Maybe in some cases, both at the same time.

Rachel at the beginning may represent the fall of the prison, but also future arcs for Beth. The cabin clearly is a callback to Still and Alone. As I discussed, Strand’s part is a callback to Grady/Atlanta. The Daniel stuff represents future Daryl searching for Beth. (Notice how they end up with the CRM, and in 10x21, we saw the same thing symbolized for Daryl when he came across those army walkers.) And even Teddy and Dakota’s bit represent the demise of the bad guys, while the good guys (John, Sr. and June in that case) survived somehow.

So this was a super-cool episode. Very symmetrical in it’s symbolism and a great end to a very epic season. In truth, other than John dying (which SUCKED) the back half of Fear S2 has really been stellar. And that’s mostly because it’s lining up perfectly with all the things we’ve been theorizing for quite a while. Which of course makes me happy.

What did everyone else think of the finale?

[that-one-gay-girl]

The Book Store - Ch. 1

Pairing: Sam x Reader

Word Count: 1351

Summary: One evening Y/n’s life is threatened and she makes a decision that change her life, for better or worse she has yet to find out...

Warnings: domestic abuse, violence 

A/N: My first Sam series! I’m so excited to write this series! Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list!

Pulling the roast out of the oven you sing along softly to  ‘Silent Night’ as it plays softly throughout the house. Cutting up the meat and putting it into the fancy china dish you can’t help but smile as the snow continues to fall. It truly would be a white Christmas this year.

You’d loved snow since you were a child growing up in vermont. Now you lived in Montana with your husband, he was the police chief in your town, adored by all. If only they knew what happened behind the walls of this house. Hearing a car door shut outside you quickly glance at the clock realizing your husband will walk through the door any moment.

Pouring a glass of whiskey quickly you walk into the living room to greet your husband as the door opens.  “Welcome home honey, how was your day?” you ask with a wide smile as he hangs up his jacket.

“Work was work, arrested the bad guys and saved the city” he grabs the drink from your hand walking into the dining room. “Food ready?” he grunts.

“Yes, I made your favorite roast and that chocolate cake you love” you respond as you bring out the dinner, dishing his food first.

Dinner is quiet for the most part, as you dish cake onto his plate he grabs your wrist tightly. “You think I’m stupid? Think I don’t know when you try to talk to other men huh?!” he screams at you

“Chance please, I don't know what youre talking about. I haven’t been talking to anyone.” You cry as you hear a snap in your wrist, pain radiating throughout your hand.

Backhanding you, he stands up, hovering over your fallen body. “You think my boys won’t tell me when they see my wife being a whore at the grocery shop!” red faced, he kicks his foot into your abdomen repeatedly.

Pained screams leave your mouth as you try to get away. “You think it's going to be easy for you? You are going to regret everything you little bitch!” Grabbing the knife from the roast he plunges it deep into your leg. “I think it’s time for some...training” He says with a sick grin. As he drags the knife down your leg.

His large hands wrap around your throat tightly choking you as you gasp. “Please!”

With fear racing through your mind you manage to kick him making him stumble back. You kick him once more as you cough gasping for breath.  He falls to the ground with a pained groan the hell of your shoe stabbing into his cheek. You take the moment to jump up, running out the backdoor into the cold snow as blood runs down your leg.

“y/n! Get back here!” his screams echo through the neighborhood as you continue to run ducking into an alley between houses. Going into a backyard you recognize you crouch down behind the fence as police sirens wail past you.

You wait for another 20 minutes in the freezing cold, shivering, bleeding on the cusp of unconsciousness when the backdoor of the house opens. You recognize Jo Harville as she runs out looking worried. “Oh my god. y/n! Are you ok?!” She shoots questions rapidly.

“Help.” is all you can manage between shivering gasps. Helping you into the house she sets you on the couch wrapping blankets around you and starting a fire. She grabs a first aid kit quickly stitching up your leg and wrapping your wrist.

“My mom works on the force with your husband, should I call him?” she asks cluelessly.

“No!” you panic sitting up. “Please...he did this to me, I need to get away” you beg as tears fall from your eyes

“I know a friend who lives down in maine. You could stay with her for a while…”

-2 days later-

Since Jo had found you hidden in her backyard she had done everything possible to help you, she stitched you up, helped you get a train ticket to Maine and dropped you off at the station. You’d even gone as far as to cut and dye your hair, hoping not to be recognized.

After two days traveling by train you’d finally arrived at the station in Maine, looking around you see a woman with dark hair holding a sign with your name. “Are you Eileen?” you asks

“That's me” she responds with a smile, helping you gather your bags and she guides you to her car. “You’ll love it here.” Driving down the small towns streets Eileen points out different buildings to you, trying to make small talk.

It only takes another 10 minutes for Eileen to pull into the driveway of her house, you grab your small bag following her into the house. “I can stay somewhere else, I really don’t want to be a bother” you tell her quickly.

She smiles at you softly, “Jo told me what happened...y/n i know we just met but i want you to know you will never be alone, and i'm here for whatever you need” you nod slowly as tears build up.

“Thank you, I promise I’ll get a job and help out” you tell her as she shows you your room.

“Just take it easy for a bit, get used to the town and everything. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.” She closes the door softly as you sit there taking in everything, thinking about everything that's happened to you in just two short days. Laying down you close your eyes, hoping they don’t open for a long time.

-1 week later-

Since you’d arrived in Maine you mostly kept to yourself only leaving your room when necessary, you were terrified your husband would find you, but Jo would text you if Chance knew anything. It was that small piece of knowledge that had you walking down the snow covered street as you wondered around town. This was the first time you’d stepped foot outside of Eileen’s since you’d arrived.

You were freezing and had been walking around the town for a while. Stopping on the street you smile as you see a small bookstore with a sign in the door advertising free hot chocolate. Opening the door you step inside shaking off the snow from your body. A small smile creeps its way onto your face at the smell of old books.  

Stepping further into the shop you find the hot cocoa, pouring yourself a cup as you browse. Too caught up in browsing the books on the shelf you don’t hear the heavy footsteps behind you.

“Miss? Is there something I can help you find?” A deep voice asks kindly.

Startled you jump in your own skin, hot cocoa spilling onto your hand “Shit! Thats hot!” you set the cup down quickly holding your burned hand.

“I'm so sorry, i didn’t mean to startle you” The mysterious man replies grabbing napkins for your hand. As his hand brushes yours you step back quickly, afraid.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you” you say quickly looking down.

“Really, it's me who should be apologizing. I can’t tell you how many times I get lost in a book” he chuckles. “I’m Sam winchester, the store owner.” he holds his hand out for you to shake

When he notices you don’t reach for his hand he drops it, “Can I help you find something…?” he asks

“Y/n, and no I'm just browsing” you say quietly.

“Well if you need anything just let me know, otherwise enjoy the books” he smiles softly as he goes and sits back behind the counter.

Finding a book you like you sit down on one the couches reading the book as you sip the rest of your drink, unbeknownst to you, a certain shop keeper can’t keep his eyes off you.

Sitting behind the counter he can’t help but notice the bruising marks peeking from behind your scarf and the splint on your wrist. Something happened to you and it leaves an uneasy feeling with Sam.

Chapter 2

Sam/Jared Taglist: 

@hobby27​

[jay-and-dean]

Rescue You  Chapter 7 : November 11

Dean x reader

Summary : My name is Y/n. I’m the outcast of my witch community. This is the story of how I rescued Dean Winchester, the story of how he saved me.

Serie Warnings : Swearing. Injuries. Smut. Fluff. Angst.

Chapter warning : Fluff of the doom, Smut and of course Swearing.

Words : 3.4k (I broke my own rule again, but... smut.)

***Rescue You Masterlist***

***Want to read more ? => MASTERLIST***

________________________________

November 11, 4:27am

             A sharper turn makes me fall, and my head hits the car window, waking me in a gasp. I fell asleep again…

           I really try to stay awake, but this car is so warm and I’m so exhausted… Gently rocked by the vibration of the engine, I rub my eyes to get rid of the veil of sleep.

“Sorry Y/n” says Sam behind the wheel. “I almost missed the road.”

“Are you okay sweetheart ?” Dean asks, his low voice resonating so beautifully in this little space.

I nod and he turns a little to catch my hand like he did when I slept next to him in our cabin. A heavy sigh of relief escapes me the instant his fingers reach me. I grab it and lift it to put a light kiss on it, still a little shy, like I couldn’t believe I’m actually allowed to touch this man. I look for the wounds I took care of for days. Nothing.

           When he takes his hand off, I need a second to let go, my sore body begging him to stay close.

“Do you need me to drive Sammy ?” he asks, and his brother tells him he’s good.

So he opens his belt and gets up the best he can in the car.

“What are you doing  ?” Sam shouts.

“Shut up and drive” Dean grunts, stepping over the seat to join me on the back.

He’s too tall and almost falls, but catches himself heavily on the seat, his huge frame threatening to crush me.

           He manages to sit, and offers me a wide smile. My heart melts, I have no words to express my love for him, and despite the screams in my head, peace finally wraps me.

“Hey” he cups my face. “Those bruises and burns, Cas is going to heal them, like he healed me.”

I close my eyes while he puts a cautious kiss on my bruised jaw. I can’t believe how tender he is. I was used to my Dean -the hurt, weak one- to be tender, but the Dean sitting next to me right now… It’s like my wounded wolf had gone back to be the dangerous alpha of the pack, and still treated me like he did. He impresses me, he fascinates me, I adore him beyond words.

“I couldn’t heal you so good…” I whisper with a hint of sadness.

“You’re braver than any angel” he whispers.

His nose grazes my cheek and he bends a little to make our lips meet, not really kissing me at first, just touching my mouth.

“You scared me so much” he whispers with a suddenly sad look. “It never ends well in my life and… When you left me in that car… I thought I had lost you already. I couldn’t even scream, I couldn’t move... Don’t ever do that again.”

“I’m sorry…” I sigh. “I won’t leave you again, unless you want me too.”

He smiles and brushes my lips with his.

“Why would I want that ?” he smiles against me.

“I love you” I state shyly, shaking like the first time, looking down to see his mouth through the darkness of the night.

He kisses me, not eagerly, not hungrily, but like he needed me to feel safe, like he needed to be close to me, as we always were in that cabin. We were used to be just the two of us and I wonder how he can ignore his brother that much right now, like he didn’t care.

           I catch a glimpse of Sam’s astounded face in the rear-view mirror, the lines of his lips forming a discreet smile on the corners; but I quickly look away.

           Pecking my lover’s lips a few times, I finally wrap my arms around him and without even realizing it, start to cry, still shaken by all that happened these last few days. His now very strong arms circle me, his forearms crossing on my back, allowing both his huge hands to grab my shoulders. His grip is so firm, I feel like I could let my body go totally, he would still hold me.

“I’m sorry…” I apologize in his neck, my tears falling on him.

“You have nothing to be sorry for” he states. “You did literally everything you could. And you saved me…”

I squeeze him harder and suddenly stop, afraid that I could hurt him, like I used to worry.

“Oh… Dean, sorry…” I mumble. “Are you…”

“I’m healed” he cuts me, lifting his shirt to show me his stomach.

I can’t believe it, there is nothing there…

           With hesitant fingers, I touch the skin where his wound was, a cut so deep, so many stiches… Nothing. He bends to catch his jeans and lifts it on his splint leg to show me everything is gone, I let out a smiling sob, and run my hand on his hairy leg.

“I’m stronger baby” he says, the shadow of seriousness darkening his face all of sudden. “I’m the one protecting you now, no one is laying a magic finger on you, okay ?”

I snuggle next to him and rest my head on his shoulder, my hand under his shirt, stroking the soft skin in the place where there was blood and scab.

“What is that dress ?” he smiles when I put my feet on the seat, resting my knees on his thighs.

His hand shyly touches the cold skin of my scratched knee.

“My prom dress” I whisper. “And the dress of my own mourning, the exec… execution dress…”

“I can’t wait to see you in comfy clothes of life then” he states, kissing my forehead. “Sleep a bit, we’re taking you home…” Then his lips come closer to my ear and the last thing I hear before I drift peacefully this time is a whisper : “I love you.”

 November 11, 6:41am

             I frown when an intense light pierce my eyelids. Hiding my face against Dean I whine.

“Hey Y/n, wake up, we’re home” Dean’s voice calls me through the fog of my confused dreams.

I take a deep inhale of his smell to give me courage and open my eyes, the artificial light burning my pupils at first.

           I look around and my sleepy eyes widen : we’re in a garage, a huge one, with a lot of cars. I realize now that I never asked how their home was like, I guess I just imagined it humble and hidden, like another cabin in the wood maybe or, a farm. But this garage… it looks like the batcave, except there is no modern gadget, only vintage cars.

“Wh- Where are we ?” I mutter.

“This is the bunker’s garage” Dean says grunting when he finally gets up, stretching his legs. “We live in a bunker, long story. I’ll tell you everything later.”

He offers me his hand and I step out of Sam’s car, exploring the place with my eyes. Not letting my fingers go, he shakes his head with a groan and Sam seem to understand what he means.

“We will get her back” he assures Dean.

“My baby…” Dean pouts and for a second, I’m a little concern.

“The car you found Dean in…” Sam tells me. “Is Dean’s most important treasure… besides… you, I guess” he winks at me.

“If those bitches touch my car, I swear…” my love says and I can feel his palm actually crush mine involuntary.

“It’s out of the sacred ground” I say. “In crisis, no one is supposed to go out of the sacred ground. So… I guess they won’t touch your car… I hope.”

He offers me a tender smile and leads me to the door.

           After a few stairs, Sam opens a door and my breath got stuck in my throat.

           This place is incredible, I almost can’t see the ceiling, a huge table with a map presides in the middle, and I can see other rooms even bigger. There is something a little old about this place, but also very majestic and quiet. My eyes try to register everything, I have never seen anything so beautiful. It’s like entering a secret world.

           I stumble because I’m staring at the ceiling and the stairs, but catch myself on Dean’s jacket.

“Hey…” he says putting his hand on my back.

“This place is…”

“I know. It’s our home, welcome” he smiles.

           Sam turns on us and frown.

“We need to call Rowena and ask Cas what he found about the town…” he states. “Y/n, you have to tell me everything you know so I can understand…”

“Sammy” Dean cuts him. “Y/n is exhausted and went through a lot… What do you say we give her a few hours…You call Rowena, I take Y/n to the bathroom and let her sleep a bit, okay ?”

I look up at him and tears almost escape my eyes. Is that possible that such a man exists ? Sam nods and sighs.

“Y/n…” he says. “You rest a little, no witch can find this place.”

 November 11, 7:28am

             Dean showed me the bunker, explaining how they got it and how it works ; now I’m even more impressed.

“Hey, what do you say we take a hot shower” he smiles.

I can’t help but hum at the thought.

“I won’t need help for once” he states proudly, opening the bathroom door.

Even the bathroom is impressive but I don’t get much time to look around because Dean opens the zipper of my dress.

“I have no other clothes…” I sigh.

“We will get you knew ones” he murmurs from behind, pushing the dress off my shoulders slowly with a little kiss on my skin.

“I have no money, I don’t even have my ID card or anything” I start to stress.

“You don’t need money for now” he lets the dress fall on my feet and wraps his arms around my bare chest. “And the rest, we will get it back, I promise.”

He kisses my neck and I let my head back for it to rest on his shoulders.

“Dean ?” I ask while he nuzzles on my neck.

“Yeah ?”

I turn around in his arms and bite my lip shyly, pushing his flannel off his shoulders. I’m aware that he never saw me naked, and I can feel my cheeks burning.

“Can I undress you ? I miss taking care of you…” I ask low.

He gives me his most radiant smile and lets go of me, his arms falling on each side of his body. I can feel his eyes on me, on my chest and on my stomach, I start to shake a little. Maybe he’s disappointed, maybe he doesn’t like my body so much, we only made love once after all.

“You’re beautiful” he whispers and his hand come to my right breast cautiously.

I shiver and struggle to take his t-shirt off but he helps me with his other hand.

           Everything is fixed. No wound, no scratch, the tattoo is intact and his skin is soft… I run my hand on him and a single tear falls on my face. Closing my eyes, I come closer and take him in my arms, crushing my chest on his in a sigh.

           I know his body by heart. Every freckle and every mole, each line, each curve ; every reaction and contraction of his muscles… And the suffering that was so ubiquitous on him disappeared completely. He doesn’t move, free of shyness, when I take his pants and boxers down ; he just doesn’t have anything to hide.

           What I know less about his body is that strength and confidence, that way he walks, that way he stands. The relaxed look on his face. I was used to hear whines and groans of pain, but that relieved moan when the hot spray coats him of deliciously hot water… I never heard that.  

           I get wet just watching him. So when his large and powerful hands devour my body with that delicious foam, when his thumb stroke my nipples while going up to my throat, when his half hard cock twitches at the sound of the moan that just escapes me… I start rubbing my tights on each other.

           He smiles in a kiss he puts on my mouth.

“Is that need ?” he grins.

“I’m sorry…” I whisper looking down, but his cock twitches again.

“Don’t be…”

His mouth reaches my jaw, his hands are everywhere. They go down my ass and front, teasing my inner thighs and folds just a little. I gasp.

“I wanted you…” he moans. “I could barely move and I wanted you…”

“Dean…” I grab his shoulder and kiss him.

“You’ve seen me in the worst circumstances and still wanted me… Why ?” his hands caress my folds and his middle finger slips between them, teasing my clit.

“I just…” I pant. “I love you… ah…”

“Loving me is not a good idea baby…” his finger teases my entrance but never gives me what I crave for. “It’s dangerous…”

“It’s the safer I can get” I sigh, rolling my hips a little. “You know where I come from…”

           Suddenly, he takes his hand away and kisses me softly.

“Let’s get out, you need to go to bed” he states, rinsing his hair.

“No… Dean…” I plead him, running my hands on his chest and shoulder. “I want you.”

He doesn’t answer and when I send my fingers down a bit, brushing next to his navel, almost reaching the curly hair above his cock, he steps out of the shower.

“Dean…” I whine and he smiles biting his lips, the adorable wrinkles of his eyes appearing to taunt me.

“Come here” he orders putting a towel around his waist.

I walk toward him and sigh in frustration. I need him, really bad, each cell of my body calls him but he welcomes me with a towel, wrapping me in it. He rubs my body firmly, drying my skin vigorously like he did for him, and I cling to him not to lose balance.

           When I enter his room, two things scream in me : the amazing feeling of him letting me here, where his smell is everywhere, in the only room he had in ages, from what he told me ; and the coldness of it. Weapons as the only decorations on the walls, this is a soldier room and it breaks my heart a little.

           Before I find the words I need to tell him how thankful I am to be invited here, he tugs on my towel, making it fall on the ground. His forehead lays on mine and his arms wrap me.

“Do you still want me baby ?” he whispers and I take him in my arms too, by the neck, as if we were dancing.

“Always” I state, arching my back to be even closer to him.

“I never brought a woman here…” he kisses me. “The bunker is a secret place…”

Saying that, he lets his hands roam my body, until he’s cupping my ass. Through his towel, I can feel his cock hardening slowly and my heart races at the thought of him wanting me.

“Dean…” I whine without realizing it.

“Let me take care of you” he whispers before he kisses me, this time a little eagerly.

           He walks back, never leaving my mouth, until his legs hit the bed and he sits. Before I straddle him, I open his towel and bite my lips, running my hands on his waist and broad shoulders.

           Our kisses are never ending. Our entire bodies move : hands on his hair, on his chest, hips rolling… But our mouths, they know their places ; until he starts kissing my jaw and my throat, making me lift my chin.

“You’re delicious baby…” he says licking a line on my pulse point.

           He suddenly escapes me, moving to lay on the bed, entirely naked, with still no ounce of coyness. Craving, I climb the bed on all four and come back to him, this time sitting on his crotch.

“Oh fuck” he mutters, catching my lips with his teeth.

With a cheeky smile I didn’t know I had in me, I grab his cock and suck a hickey on his now intact skin.

“Y/n” he moans, grabbing the sheets when I start pumping a little. “Wait…”

I don’t listen to him, and feel my juice dripping on my hand around his length.

“Oh fuck…” he whines. “Wait…”

When I start to lower my hips to line with him, his strong hands grab my waist, preventing me from sinking on him.

“Dean…” I whine, taking balance on his chest. “Why… I need you…”

“I know baby” he smiles.

And with a fast and sharp movement, he tugs at my thighs, until I’m keeling above his face.

“Wh- !” I gasp, looking at him under me with a sudden awkwardness.

No man ever did this to me, Aiden went down on me once or twice under the blanket, but this… I’m both shaking with embarrassment and dripping in anticipation. When a drop of my juice falls on his chin, my eyes widen.

“I’m so…” I start but his powerful arms catch my thighs firmly and force me to lower my hips. “AH ! JESUS ! FUCK !” I cry out when his plumb lips suck on me.

“D-Dean… This…”

But his tongue joins his perfect mouth and I start panting. I look up, unable to stare back at him for now. He finds my clit, circling it with tongue and lips, humming, and I put my two hands on the wall, letting sweat marks on the grey paint.

“Dean… Oh… Jeez… Dean… Dean…” I moan out of breath.

           I need more and my hips start to move a little, despite my efforts to stay still and not too close. But when I finally look down, and meet his lust full eyes, something snaps in me.

           Shaking like crazy, I sit on him and let go of the wall with one hand to grab his hair. He’s sweating and moaning, his mouth open, his tongue flat just caressing me a little while I desperately grind to him. I never thought I would have done something like that, but Dean… There is no complex or restraint with him. It’s just us. It’s just love.

           His right hand disappears from my thigh but I don’t need it anymore to stay on his face. I guess he touches himself because his eyes roll for a second, and I can feel him moving a little. I would love to see him, but I’m drowning in an intense pleasure.

           When my back arches, my clit touches his nose and I cry out, scratching his scalp.

“Fuck…” I whine out loud but the second whine doesn’t come out, my breath stuck in my lungs.

           The bomb in me explodes and I see stars. My body convulses and my head falls loudly against the wall. I can hear the pathetic whimpers coming out of my mouth and feel my juice soaking my thighs.

           After a few seconds, minutes maybe, I finally look down. Dean’s eyes are closed, and he’s breathing very deeply against me. He puts a light kiss on my over sensible entrance and I push on my thighs to put both my knees on the same side of his head.

“You hurt your head…” he whispers lazily with his eyes still shut.

“I’m okay…” I state, turning my head to see him.

           His hand is still around his cock and cum spattered his stomach. The vision makes me moan again.

           I bend to kiss him and wipe his face.

“Dean ?” I call with another kiss to make him open his eyes.

“That’s was not my plan” he smiles still out of breath. “It wasn’t supposed to make me come… I wanted to…”

I sit next to him like I have done a hundred times, only now, he’s not hurt. I run my finger on his chest and go down to touch his cum from the tip of my fingers. When I bring my index to my mouth, he groans. I taste him with a hint of pride, even if that can seem weird…

           A knock on the door. We ignore it, I’m too caught on my insane love for Dean, and he’s sitting to kiss me with passion.

“Dean ! Y/n !” Sam calls through the door. “A witch called me, Miss Griffin…”

My heart stops at the evocation of her name, Dean frowns.

“They told me Aiden is not dead and if Y/n doesn’t surrender, they will kill him, her mother and sister… I’m sorry… You… You have to come now.”

__________________________________

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[caranfindel]

Fic: Every hand’s a winner and every hand’s a loser

A fix-it fic for 15.10, “The Heroes’ Journey,” because never have I seen an ep more in need of a fix-it.

---

They end up borrowing a 4X4 Jeep Cherokee from Donna. The Impala wasn't made for snowy roads, let alone frozen tundra, they don't have enough credit to rent a car (fucking Chuck), and Sam refuses to take a stolen car through an international checkpoint. Which is ridiculous. It's Canada, not the Soviet Union; no one's even going to look. But Dean's not gonna argue. Sam's kind of messed up right now. Has been, since he shot God, since he spent a day and a half under Chuck's loving ministrations, since Eileen left. Since Garth pronounced them no longer God's heroes. Obsessively researching Alaska, spewing random facts about Utqiagvik and tundra, to distract himself from the shitstorm they stumbled into.

(Barrow is now known as Utqiagvik. Thanks, Sam.)

The thing is. The thing is that "between Barrow and Kotzebue" sounded like they'd be driving down a road from one small village to another, looking for you'll know it when you see it. But on further review, there's about a hundred million acres of frozen tundra between Barrow and Kotzebue. And no roads. Even Mapquest cheerfully suggests you can't get there from here. And Dean's supposed to be the man with the plan, but he can't wrap his head around a hunt whose lore is limited to you'll know it when you see it. He's having problems with get to Alaska and start exploring a hundred million acres of frozen tundra. Maybe that's why Sam is furiously researching Alaska itself. Because he's got to research something.

(And no, Dean is not interested in yet another verse of Sam explaining that the entire state of Alaska is not frozen tundra, and much of the area they're looking at is actually transitional boreal forest, thank you very much.)

Anyway. Scraping up some cash sounds like a good first step. So that's why Dean's lurking in the shadows a block away from a pool hall in Bozeman, Montana, counting his meager winnings. Of course he didn't count it in the pool hall, or even in the parking lot. He's not stupid. You never count your money when you're sitting at the table. Words of wisdom are words of wisdom, even when they come from Kenny Rogers.

Hustling pool was easier when he was younger. A guy in his 20s saunters in, cocksure, too pretty for his own good? (And that's not ego talking, he's heard it often enough, seen it in the eyes of potential marks who murmured that they were sure we'd be able to come to an agreement when it looked like he might not have enough cash to cover a bet, and damn he loved taking their money.) Yeah, everybody wants to take that guy down, and Dean always gave an Oscar-worthy performance in that role. But when you're old enough to look like you might know what you're doing, and maybe looking so down on your luck that no one wants to win the little bit of cash you've got in your raggedy pocket… it's just harder, is all. Especially without his wingman, since Sam declared himself unfit for the job and went off to plunder a couple of local stores for supplies instead.

Dean did okay, though. Even after putting aside half for his stake the next night, he's got enough for a couple of tanks of gas and a night in a hotel. Maybe four or five tanks, if Sam agrees to sleep in the Jeep. It's cold, but they've got decent sleeping bags and a big vehicle. It wouldn't be the worst night they've spent in a car.

They've actually… spent a lot of bad nights in cars. And abandoned houses. And worse. It sparks something in the back of Dean's mind.

That train of thought is interrupted by the arrival of the borrowed Jeep. It's late — well, technically, early — but they need to put some miles between them and the scene of the crime. Maybe he can catch a catnap while Sam gets them out of town. Dean moves to get in the passenger seat, but Sam hops out. Doesn't even trust himself driving right now, for fuck's sake. He even keeps a hand hovering over the Jeep, in case he needs the support if he stumbles, and it makes Dean see red.

"How'd you do," Dean asks, when Sam settles into the passenger seat.

"Not bad. Nonperishables, hot packs, but mostly medical supplies. Got some antibiotics, pain meds, bandages, stuff for stitches and splints"

"Thought you were gonna get some camping supplies?"

"Had problems at the REI." Sam pulls out his laptop and hunches over it.

"What kind of problems?"

Pause. "It's no big deal. We'll stop at a different one."

"Sam."

Sam sighs. "I couldn't get in, all right? There were security cameras and the lock, and I just…" He trails off and buries himself in his laptop, clearly miserable. Dean could suggest, again, that the mom and pop outfit they saw on their way into town would be easier to break into, but he knows Sam prefers raiding big chains. We're saving the world, Dean would say. Doesn't mean we have to be dicks about it, Sam would always retort.

(Are they even saving the world, right now? Or just their own asses?)

After a few quiet minutes, Sam speaks. "Did you know Will Rogers and Wiley Post were killed about 11 miles outside of Utqiagvik, trying to land their plane?" Because obscure Alaskan trivia is easier to think about than, well, everything else.

"No, I didn't know that," Dean responds, "because I've never even heard of Wiley Post."

"Early aviator. Charles Lindbergh type. The Utqiagvik airport was renamed after them."

"Naming an airport after two people who died in a plane crash? That's messed up, man."

"Oklahoma also has two separate airports named after the two of them. I think Will Rogers would probably appreciate the irony."

Oklahoma. The last time Dean was in Oklahoma, he was fleeing Texhoma with an old friend's blood still caked under his fingernails. He doesn't want to think about fucking Oklahoma. Instead, he slides back to that earlier thought, the one that pinged something. The fact that they spent so much of their life sleeping in really shitty places. That they weren't worried about mortgages and utility payments not because they were above all that, but because they never had the opportunity. That they haven't, in fact, been leading the charmed heroes' life, free from sweating the small stuff, that Garth described.

"Sam?" he says. "Do you feel like we've been living a charmed life?"

"No." Sam huffs a humorless little laugh and keeps pecking at his keyboard. "I mean, I didn't, for obvious reasons. But compared to now? I guess."

"Okay, but listen. I think I was right when I said we were cursed. The reason we're having problems now? It's not because Chuck was giving us something we never earned and he decided to stop. Everything we do, Sam? We fucking earned that. Blood, sweat, and tears, man. We trained and studied and practiced and earned every skill we have."

Sam looks up now, brow furrowed. "You think?"

"I do. I mean, how long did you practice lock-picking? Because I remember you asking Dad to buy you different kinds of locks to practice on. I remember listening to you clicking away in the back seat for miles. You did that, Sam. Chuck didn't give it to you."

"Okay…"

"And tripping over your own feet? Do you really think you can only walk a straight line bec ause Chuck made it possible? He didn't make us special, Sam. We made us special. And he's trying to take that away from us."

Sam gasps. "Job. He's pulling a Job on us."

"Damn straight." Dean smacks the steering wheel. Chuck and his Biblical reboots. "And we are not gonna let him do that."

"But how do we stop it?"

That's the question, isn't it? Dean drives for a couple of miles, deep in thought. "I say we go to Alaska anyway," he decides. "Even if we didn't lose our own luck, this might be a way to pick up some extra mojo."

"But remember what Garth said. There's always a catch. You know he's right."

"So? If we decide it costs too much, we just don't play. We can do that."

"Can we?" Sam chuckles. "Because, historically, we're not actually very good at that."

"We are now. Starting right now, you and I are good at anything we want to be good at it. And Chuck can screw himself."

Dean spots the sign for the scenic turnoff just in time, jerking the wheel to the right. "You all right bedding down in the car tonight?"

"Not the worst place I've slept," Sam replies, smiling. No, it's not.

The bed of the Cherokee is long enough, with the back seat folded down, but it's pretty narrow. It's fine. Dean's going appreciate being pressed up against his furnace of a little brother tonight. He wriggles into his sleeping bag, turns his back to Sam, and says "Okay, geek boy. Put me to sleep. Tell me something about Kotzebue." He drifts off to the tune of sled dogs and average January temperatures.

---

The title is, of course, from "The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers.

[ketchupcrisp]

Ask Strange, Part II for today

Content Notes: First response includes representations of physical violence from an enhanced teenager toward an adult, as well as discussion of grieving the loss of a parent. I also want to note that the POV character sounds and likely is vaguely suicidal at the beginning of the response. He's not making any definite plans beyond using time travel, but given that the context of said time travel would be rather different than in the canon, it takes on a different valence here. If you want to avoid the most direct discussions of that, start reading several paragraphs in at "He came to suddenly and violently."

Thanks for sharing, doc, this and the other intel, especially your note about the people who wouldn't listen to Tony earlier having to live with the consequences (that's something I'd love to hear a bit more about, sometime, if you are at liberty to say)

and

Hey, Doc! If it hasn't already been asked I'm desperately curious about the aftermath of whatever Tony did in his world. Particularly whether he did save Natasha, and how his subsequent loss has affected everyone (especially those who didn't appreciate or listen to Tony as much as they should have). And if it's not too personal, how do you feel about your role in all of this? Obviously you know where Tony is and how he's doing but I can't imagine it's easy when dealing with Tony's loved ones.

My feelings about my own role…well, as one would imagine, they’re complicated. There was little love lost between Stark and I, but I still regretted that this was the only possible ending to his story. He deserved better from this universe.

My own visions are not perfect, especially when I am under the kind of constraints I was on Titan. My initial impression was that Stark would perish during the final battle against Thanos. So initially I was relieved to realize it was otherwise. It is rather difficult to keep the truth of his existence in another universe from those who love and are missing him, and Peter in particular is not making it easy. He and Mr. Keener are secretly (or what they believe to be secretly, anyway) attempting to seek Stark out, correctly believing he is not dead. If they get far I may have to intervene; Stark is correct in assuming that contact between the universes could be catastrophic, resulting in (among other things) both his and Natasha Romanov’s deaths, or even the potential undoing of the team’s success against Thanos.

As to others who have regrets, there are unfortunately many to choose from in this regard.After all, practically no one listened to Stark when they should have.

For now, however, this particular vision should provide some valuable insights about one in particular.

*

The morning of the memorial, Steve was dozing in a motel room bed. It was a terrible bed even by 40s standards; springs dug into his back every time he moved, and it had a whole series of odors he had to actively work not to recognize. It didn’t really mater, though, because this half-sleep state was the closest he managed to get to actual rest anymore; Bucky had tried to remedy this with several over-the-counter sleep aids, and then some stolen opiates, but the serum burned through everything too fast, leaving Steve vaguely nauseated and even more irritable.

After a few days, even Bucky had mostly stopped coming by. Bucky mourned Tony, and Steve knew he regretted that the two of them had never had a chance to really make peace about everything that had happened in Siberia. But Bucky, like the others, also wanted to get on with the work of re-making the world and his own life, honouring Tony’s sacrifice by not wasting any more time.

For a guy so frequently reminded that he was out of time, Steve felt like he was swimming in the stuff these days. The future he’d fought so hard to preserve was here, laid out before Steve in an endless expanse of unsoiled promise. (He hated it. Hated everything about the idea of a future that didn’t include Tony Stark.)

Bucky knew what Steve was planning. Maybe he wasn’t clear on all the details, but outside of his Winter Soldier persona, Bucky wasn’t a subtle man. His disapproval had been just as easy to spot as the signs of his recent and extremely happy reunion with Sam. (Bucky wanted a future, a life here. He didn’t need Steve anymore, didn’t deserve to be weighted down by Steve’s stagnant refusal to move forward.)

He came suddenly and violently to full consciousness several minutes later when he was hit in the ribs with enough force to make him gasp. Another blow landed against the side of his head, and it was oddly lucky that Steve’s reflexes were as slowed as they were, or he would have responded with lethal force before he could have registered the familiarity of the disheveled curls in his face.

“Peter? The hell?”

The boy looked exactly how Steve felt: as if he had given up. Except while Steve’s approach to hopelessness had been to languish, Peter was just as full of rage and denial as he had been the day of the battle. Steve caught him by the wrists, but Peter was almost wild in his fury, and he struggled with every bit of his enhance strength. They rolled onto the floor, Steve’s head glancing off the corner of the night-table.

“You’re leaving? I heard Barnes telling Wilson last night—Tony did all this to save the world, to save your fucking friend for you, and you’re just LEAVING him and everyone else? Fucking off to the forties to live happily ever after?” If Peter kept landing blows against Steve’s arms and chest with this kind of force, there was a not improbable chance he’d end up hurting himself; reluctant though he was to use his own strength, he rolled them over and pinned the boy’s arms to the floor above his head. “He would have done anything for you, you fucking asshole! You left him half dead in Siberia and he still would have done anything!”

Containing Peter’s body only seemed to intensify his anger, so Steve loosened his grip just enough that the boy could feel it and act. In seconds they were both their feet, and Peter had slammed him against a wall.  (They would be lucky if they made it out of this without having to pay the motel for structural damages.)

Peter held Steve there and screamed until he was hoarse. He shouted accusations and curses and pleas, jumping from one of Steve’s faults to the next with little in the way of logical transition. None of it was anything Steve hadn’t thought of himself in the last several days, but there was still something particularly horrifying about hearing it all laid out by a desperate, broken teenager. (Tony’s desperate and broken teenager. This child was Tony’s just as surely and completely as any child had ever belonged to any parent.)

“What good am I here?” he asked hopelessly when the latest wave of temper had burned itself out. “I was already lost before. Now, the battle’s over, the world is saved…Peter, I’m tired.” This drew a harsh, bitter laugh which never should have emerged from someone as young as Peter. Steve winced.

“I am sixteen years old and I am about to bury my fourth parental figure. I died trying to save the world before I had even told the girl I like that I have a crush on her. Fuck you you’re fucking tired.” He started whaling on Steve’s chest again, but Peter’s strength was finally giving out, and he forgot to tuck his thumb properly on one of the blows. His thumb broke with an audible crack and Peter howled, collapsing onto the floor. “Agh god. Ow ow ow ow—no don’t you fucking touch me.”

For seconds that felt like hours, he watched Peter writhe on the floor. Steve imagined how the sight would have devastated Tony, what the man he loved would have given to cradle his child, soothe his tears and his pain. But it wasn’t just Tony he saw in Peter now. In the boy’s misdirected anger, his sorrow, his inability to even comprehend the scale of his own loss, Steve could see himself reflected just as clearly as when he’d actually battled his younger counterpart. Tony would never have wanted that for Peter, would never have wished for all the worst parts of Steve to take over his son.

Without another word, without pausing one more second to let himself think about the commitment he was making, Steve spun on his heel, seized the ice bucket, and marched down to the ice machine at the end of the hall. It was grimy enough that he wouldn’t have dared exposed the open wound of anyone who wasn’t enhanced to the contents, but for today it would do. He stomped back to the room, lifted Peter’s hand up onto the bed so it sat above his heart, and shoved it not entirely gently into the bucket of ice. Peter made to swear at Steve, maybe even hit him again, but Steve shook his head.

“We’re done with that now. Keep that in there while I try to find something to use as a splint.” Peter settled for glaring while Steve found the cleanest shirt he had in his bag, cut it into strips, and wrapped it carefully around Peter’s red, swollen thumb. “You’re right about…well, about almost everything. I made so many mistakes with Tony, there are more things that I wish I could take back than you even know about. But you can’t go through the world like this, Peter. It’s not what he would have wanted, to see you twisted and broken and cruel. You know that.”

“The hell does it matter to you?” Peter demanded, hissing as he pressed his hand deeper into the ice. “It’s not like you’ll be around to have to pick up the pieces. Not like you ever are.”

“Maybe…maybe this time I will be. For long enough to make sure that Tony’s kid is going to be alright, anyway. I owe him that much, don’t you think?”

“I’m not your absolution. You don’t get to feel better—”

“No,” Steve agreed quickly, before the kid could get himself worked up again. “I don’t get to feel better, not about him. But I loved him and he loved you, so you’re stuck with me until I don’t think you’re at risk of going all supervillain. Or worse…Captain America.” Peter snorted.

“Fat fucking chance.”

“Language.”

“Fuck you, old man.”

Anyway another question for you or for #AskStrange: to the good Doctor, we’ve been told/shown that the other Steve (MCU Steve) loved Tony and was going to admit his feelings. Did our Tony love his original Steve too? Ta.

Ugh, Stark and feelings. My least favourite combination of words. Now, to your question: my impression is that Stark had feelings for Rogers early on in their relationship, but that they were largely nullified by the events of the Civil War. He believed Rogers to have chosen James Barnes over himself in every possible way, so any romantic interest in the man was, while not immediately banished, certainly tainted.

The two did warm to one another considerably during their sojourn to the 1970s; there was, I believe, a very near kiss at one point. But before that particular spark could be much more than slightly fanned, Stark learned of his ties to the Soul Stone, and after that he kept Rogers at arms-length as best he could, fearing he would not live through the final battle against Thanos.

[fangirlingwhileblacktarot]

You Have Created A Monster

Summary: Dean x Reader, fluff, kid-related fluff, fluff w/ some angst. You are temporarily incapacitated and Dean offers to help you with a task. Sam is around as well.

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Reader

Trigger Warnings: Mention of a chronic, painful injury, physical disability, single-parent issues, death of a loved one

Word Count: 1900-ish

A/N: This is for Taylor aka @impalaimagining​’s “Things Nobody Likes Challenge” in honor of her Birthday! My prompt is “styling hair”. Thank you Taylor for your awesome beta-reading skills and Happy (Pre-) Birthday!!

Even after you insisted that you could manage alone, Dean and Sam had stuck around for a couple of days. Dean even showed you some extra kindness by offering to help you shower, before you declined (with some hesitation). The braces on both wrists were supposed to ease your ongoing carpal tunnel pain. Consequently, being nearly squeezed to death by the snake-like tendrils of an Echidna monster hadn’t helped your situation.

You were honestly having a pity party, yourself as the Guest of Honor. You were a grown-ass woman, used to doing everything yourself and most things for other people, including Maya, your six-year-old daughter. The current obstacles was styling her hair before an important visit. With the numbness in your fingers, the weakness in your arms, it was difficult to just make a straight part through her forest of dark, unruly curls. In frustration, you directed her to go watch her favorite tv show and laid back on the bed, accepting defeat.

Minutes later, there was a rhythmic knock at the door.

“You better be careful letting Maya hang with Sam,” Dean said after opening the door. “He’s telling her about The Neverending Story and the Dark Crystal. It’s an old-school nerd takeover. We better get in there before it’s too late.”

“He also introduced her to The Care Bears,” you said in Sam’s defense.

“Yeah - those things are pure evil. Nothing can be that happy all the damn time.”

Dean was dressed in a midnight blue t-shirt and jeans. His feet were bare on your hardwood floor, and his hair was still wet from the shower. You tried to ignore the delicious, toned muscles of his arms and attempt blindness to how good he looked in your bedroom.

“Oh, she’ll be fine. I’m the one who always ends up hurt when you guys show up.”

You were aware of how whiny you sounded, but you didn’t care.

“And we always save your butt. Like when an Echidna is going for the kill,” he reminded you. He was not having any of your bullshit that day. There would be no pity parties on his watch. “Besides, I think you like me patching you up. There are better, less dangerous ways to get me to touch you, Y/N. You can cut out the middle-man, or monster, in this case.”

“Maybe another time, like when my ex’s mother isn’t on her way to pick up my child. That woman is not my biggest fan, you know.”

“She’s obviously not right in the head.”

You needed the laugh that created. Dean’s loyalty to his friends, you included, was one of your favorite things about him.

“Yeah, she blames me for Jason’s death.”

“You know that wasn’t your fault, right?”

You nodded in agreement, though it still hurt.

“You did an amazing job with her.”

He was doing it again. You were perplexed, but reluctantly invested in how proud Dean acted toward you and Maya.

“Move over,” he softly directed. You made room on the bed, but stubbornly stayed lying down. The familiar, warm and flirty scent of your body wash drifted from Dean’s skin.

“How’s the web-shooters?” He asked.

“Fine,” you lied. “How’s your ribs?”

“Just peachy…I’ll live…Hey, I have a question about Maya.”

“Okay, what’s up?”

“Don’t take this personal but, what’s going on with her hair today?”

“Her hair?”

“Yeah, it’s always so…uh, neat. And now it’s…kinda not your style?”

“Oh God, even you noticed it! The witch will use it against me, just watch.” The panic began setting in.

“What can I do?”

“Give me a spell that would make my daughter’s grandmother a nicer human being? Otherwise - I got this. I just have to wrestle my child’s hair into submission, as usual.At least this is not the stupidest injury I’ve had. That was when I coughed so hard I blew a blood vessel in my eye. I actually made up a monster story to cover up my lameness.“

“Speaking of lameness…Y/N, I know you’re not okay.” His voice felt deeper, richer as it trickled down to you. “Come on, let me help you.”

“Help me with what?”

“Your daughter’s hair.”

You were about to laugh when you looked up at his face. He was serious. Her clothes and other needed items were packed. Her hair was really the last thing you needed to complete. That was your parental job. How did he think he could just…do it? He had no clue. You imagined what a bird’s nest he would leave on Maya’s head and inwardly cringe. Dean was good at many things, but this didn’t seem to fit his skill set.

“I gave my brother all of his haircuts growing up…”

“That’s nice, but not exactly…”

“How much time you got?”

You checked your cell phone. “Oh shit, 38 minutes!”

"Well, it’s either me, Sam, or it doesn’t happen. Or Maya could do it herself. I’m sure she’ll love that,” he said with a knowing smirk.

You cringed more remembering that time she put a bag of melted gummy bears in her hair…

“I can do it,” you insisted, willing yourself to sit up against the headboard with painful effort.

“I know how you are, but I can help.”

“How am I?”

“You know. You’re very DE-tailed.”

You couldn’t argue too much with his assessment.

“Exactly! I got this,” you repeated.

“Okay, if you insist,” he said, obviously not believing you because he had a working pair of eyes, and brain.

With perfect timing, Maya ran into the room with the sparkly pink container that held her hair accessories and climbed onto the bed.

“Mom, did you pack me some deodorant?”

“Maya, we’ve been over this. Your cousins are older than you, so they can wear deodorant. You, ladybug, do not need it.”

“I’ll just ask Grandma to buy me some,” she said dismissively.

“I love this kid,” Dean laughed. “Guess what, Sweetie? Your mom’s ready to do your hair,” Deans added, then he got comfy against the headboard, arms crossed, ready for a show.

“I want everything purple to match my outfit,” your child announced.

“Sure, ladybug – let’s get started.”

You sat her between the two of you, handed her a tablet for her to watch her favorite animated movie, and began. The results were sad. The wrist splints were awkward, getting in your way. You took them off and tried again. Damn!!! It HURT to do the smallest movement, even one you’d done numerous times before. Maya’s thick head of curls was normally a thing of beauty, but at the moment, it was just a source of torture.

Your cellphone decided to ring at the worst time. Reaching for it and answering was out of the question. Dean grabbed it.

“The Evil Grandmother,” he said, and swiped to answer the call before you can protest. “Hello…She’s in the bathroom…Yes, Mrs. Bridges. This is Dean…Yes, THAT Dean…No, but wouldn’t it be nice if I did? Yes, Ma’am. I will be sure to tell her.”

“What did she say?”

“She wanted to remind you that she is picking up her grandchild. She knows you have an awful memory for things. And she asked if I was now living here.”

You reached over and whispered in his ear.

“You know she’s convinced that I cheated on Jason with you and somehow, that caused his death…She watches way too much I.D. Channel. We weren’t even together-together when it happened.”

“Ha! Tell her that I was not the homewrecking side chick…” he started before looking at a very attentive Maya and then lowering his voice. “…That would be her son, since I met you first.”

He was opening the door to the inevitable discussion you needed to have. Unfortunately, this was…

“Not the time, huh?”

“Pretty much. But you win, I need your help!”

Having already expected this outcome, Dean rubbed his hands together, promptly grabbed the chair from your writing desk, bringing it bedside.

“Your Mom is allowing me the privilege of doing your hair today.”

Maya did a double-take, but moved to the chair when she saw you nodding that it was okay.

“Okay, but you gotta hurry. Grandma is gonna be here soon,” she told Dean before picking up the tablet again. Dean looked at you in surprise and you just laughed.

You were doing it again. The affection you had attempted to bury was digging itself up, cleaning itself off, and gaining oxygen and space.

Dean grabbed his weapon of choice, the hair comb.

“Okay, I’m going in.”

The comb edge made contact with the top her head. He was always so gentle, you knew you need not worry, but he was also so slow that you couldn’t help it. It was like he was afraid to break the child.

“How’s that?” Dean asked and stepped back from his work.

“That’s perfect…If the middle of her head was on the left,” you teased. “Try again Daniel-san,” you gave your best Mr. Miyagi voice.

Dean huffed at you in frustration, stretched his neck, rolled his shoulders back. He was ready to do battle again. As a hunter, whether it was fighting, shooting or working some kind of magic - Dean always made things look easy, almost effortless. You couldn’t remember when you’d last seen him concentrate as hard on something, as he was with Maya’s hair.

“Sweetie, can you turn around and look at me?” He asked.

“Like this?” Maya said, immediately turning to face Dean.

“Perfect. Sit still for second, please.”

Using her nose as a guide, he used the length of the comb to measure what should be the middle of her head. Once he marked his spot, he had her turn around and continued the parting line down the back of her head.

“Done!” he announced in triumph at the perfect straight line he’d created.

“Bravo! I think you did it even better than me on a normal day,” you said sincerely.

Sam walked in from the hall, clapping his hands, causing Maya to do the same.

“Great start, brilliant – what other tricks can you pull off Houdini?”

“I could put you in a headlock,” Dean offered. “But this lovely young lady has all my attention right now.”

You directed Dean on how to make a ponytail. After overcoming some roasting from Sam, he finished with time to spare. It all ended in success with two nice, not-quite-perfect, but passable, pigtails on Maya’s beautiful little noggin.

“Not bad. I guess those videos helped,” Sam said, while Dean gave him a dirty look.

“What videos?” You asked.

“He’s been on YouTube watching some ‘Daddies doing their daughters’ hair’ videos. He didn’t tell you?”

***

A couple of weeks later, on a lazy Sunday morning, Maya jumped into your bed, effectively waking you up in a whirl of kid-energy and excitement.

“Mom! Dean did my hair again. I look like a mermaid unicorn!”

You blinked, trying to get a better look. It was…interesting.  Lots of ponytails, colorful barrettes, and ponytail holders everywhere. Maya was overjoyed. You realized you had created one hairstyle-patenting monster in Dean Winchester. Maya’s new hairstyle was a hot-ass mess.

And also one of the most beautiful things you had ever seen.

[fandomoniumflurry]

Reckless Abandon- Prologue

The start of my new Supernatural series. Millie Winchester is Sam and Dean’s older sister. This is a series rewrite following the life of the oldest Winchester and her adventures with her brothers.

Warnings: Series will be full of swearing, sibling rivalry, bonding moments, canon style violence. sex, sass, sarcasm, pranks, drama and all that good stuff.

Prologue: 2.7k words

RA tags: @rosiezilla @fangirl-moment-x @a-fan-fighting-for-equality @50shadesofsubtext​ @oneshotsdeanshort

Then:

The baby was handed over to her younger brother. The four year old clung to Sammy and ran from the house as fast as his little legs could take him. The six year old girl with little blonde curls like her mother was clinging tightly to her daddy’s hand. She tugged and pulled as tears ran down her face, trying as hard as she could to make the man come with her. She wasn’t sure what was going on but it was enough to know that they needed to get out of the house. Her mommy was gone, there was no way to save her and the tiny girl knew that. As much as it hurt to let Mary go, little Millie didn’t want to lose her daddy either. Her brothers were safe, she knew that but she wasn’t leaving this house without John.

Finally, the heat became too much, the fire engulfing Sammy’s room until it was enough to drive John from his position. He scooped up his daughter and ran from the house where she had spent her entire life. She clung to his neck, looking over his shoulder as their life burnt to ashes. Things were never the same from that night on. The little girl wrapped her arms around her little brother, Dean who was still holding the tiny baby. She wasn’t surprised that he wasn’t crying, Dean was always a strong kid. He was only four and surely wouldn’t remember this night once he got older. She hoped he didn’t. She hoped that he didn’t see what she did, hoped that he would grow up a normal kid. She would do whatever it took to remind them everyday what their mother was like and how much she loved them. She would never be able to take Mary’s place but from that day forward she swore to be everything for her family.

The life of an eight year old is supposed to be simple. They shouldn’t have any worries or cares, their parents holding their life and happiness in their hands. They go to school, make friends, do their homework, go on playdates. A normal eight year old is just meant to have fun and play, no responsibilities outside of their small household chores. Growing and learning, their days should be light and uncomplicated.

Millie never had simple. Normal for her died with her mother back in Kansas. Ever since that day her life took on a drastic turn that no small child should have to take. No longer was she daddy’s little girl. Her dad was no longer the loving mechanic playing on the floor with her. He was never the same after losing his wife, love and softness overcome by cold-hearted vengeance and rage.

The Winchesters didn’t stay in one place for too long, getting uprooted every few days or weeks. John didn’t talk about what he was doing while the kids didn’t see him, but he put tiny Millie in charge of her two little brothers. She had to grow up and take the place of mommy at such a young age. At first, she asked her daddy why he had to leave them, why couldn’t they come with him, why did they have to stay with strangers? The more John denied her inquiries, the more he yelled and became angry with her incessant badgering, he less and less she asked until she just fell silent taking the orders she was given.

Timid and submissive, her eight year old life wasn’t the easy carefree existence it was supposed to be. It was eight years old that she learned what her father had been doing since Lawrence. She learned what his new friends were and what they were helping him do. The mind of a child is open and pliable making the idea of vampires and demons easy to accept. Her daddy was a monster hunter and he trusted her to take care of her brothers. She was like his faithful sidekick and though it was a great burden to place upon a child’s shoulders, she graciously accepted it. If her daddy loved her enough to give her this job, then she would do it no questions asked, even though she worried about him.

She held the secret for years, refusing to share this burden with her brothers. They were still too young, too weak of mind and heart to handle such a weight. She tried to make their lives as normal as possible, giving them as much of a family as she could manage. Playing with them, feeding them, going to school. Even if they stayed with John’s friends, Millie still took it upon herself to care for them. She never spoke up or complained, never back talked or questioned her duties.

John would still call her daddy’s little girl and pat her on the head with a smile that never quite reached his eyes. But there were no more kisses and hugs, no more playtime on the floor or princess videos on the couch. Instead, John passed out with a tumbler of whiskey or falling through the door and landing on the floor, bloody and beaten. But it didn’t stop her from cleaning him up as best she could before crawling up next to him and curling against his side. Her daddy was broken but he was a hero. Her daddy was a man rough around the edges, but he was still her daddy.

—–

Once Dean started getting old enough to ask questions, John reacted differently to him. Millie had tried so hard to shield the boys from John and his extracurricular activities. But John had given in so easy, telling her little brother everything without argument or agitation. This was the first piercing through her thick armor, the first twinge of anger and bitterness toward her father.

She had made Dean swear not to tell Sam. If she couldn’t keep the middle child out of the life, she would do all she could to keep their baby brother out of it. It wasn’t long before John began to train Dean, teach him how to hunt. The boy was being taught to be a soldier, a warrior, learning so young how to carry a gun, wield a weapon. And another chip grew on Millie’s shoulder. Never once had John offered to teach he anything, to show her how to protect herself and her family. So whatever was taught to Dean, the boy turned around and taught his big sister.

—

As Dean grew stronger and wiser, so did Millie. After a while, no matter how hard she tried though, Sammy learned the truth. Much to her dismay, it was the eldest boy that had to tell him. Sam had found dad’s journal and wouldn’t stop asking questions until Dean told him the truth. Millie couldn’t blame him, no one could deny those puppy dog eyes of his. She had held Sam that night, the boy in tears needing nothing more than his mothering older sisters.

Now that both boys knew of the job, John began to take them with him more. Either way, Millie was either left to fend for herself at the motel or with Bobby or other friends. Even though she was just as capable and strong as her brothers, Dean assuring her she was even more so, and yet since she was daddy’s little girl, John kept her out of harm’s way, never even giving her a chance to prove herself.

This put an even further wedge between  her and John and eventually her and Dean. The younger boy had always be Dad’s little soldier, falling in line so easy, going with everything John ever said. Where Dean used to help Millie train, he started agreeing with their father and a once strong sibling bond was broken. The two spent their teenage years fighting and arguing, Dean refusing fall under authority anymore. Where Sam and Dean grew closer, Dean stepping up more to take care of his brother but this left Millie alone and useless.

She spent her time mostly reading, getting lost in music, training herself on the guitar or training her voice instead of training to fight. She helped Sam with his homework and cooked from time to time to hold onto her last shred of usefulness within in the Winchester family. She cleaned and patched up wounds, iced sprains and bruises, splint broken bones and sewed stitches. She was no longer the loving motherly young woman but instead became the maid, the nurse, the tutor, silently blending into the background until she was needed.

—

Until one day, she could remain silent no longer. The tension between her and Dean finally grew to a boiling point, a bomb meant to go off at any moment. She could have left years ago, the nineteen year old more than able to take care of herself. But her love and loyalty to her ungrateful family had kept her there. She may have felt like nothing, less than family here, but this was all she knew. That particular Day, Dean had disrespected her, took her for granted for the last time. He claimed that he and Sam didn’t need her. He told her that she needed to stop babying Sam, needed to let him be a man. He informed her that he was glad that John started taking him out on hunts, then he didn’t have to be coddled and turned into a pussy like she was doing with Sam.

That was what finally broke her. She didn’t cry, didn’t say a word. She just stared her taller brother down with such a hard weighted gaze that he could feel the chill. His confidence faltered as she brought her petite form to stand toe to toe with him. He was aware of what she could do, aware of the power she held that she could use against him. But she didn’t speak, just her lingering glare sink into his bones before she walked away. Grabbing her duffle, she began to pack. Dean didn’t try to stop her when she walked out the door and she didn’t look back to say goodbye before she got in her car and drove away.

—

It didn’t take them long to go looking for her but she didn’t want to be found. She contacted them when she wanted to, a call here or there, mostly to Sam. The youngest informed her about how angry dad and Dean were, how hard they looked for you until they gave up, how much they all missed you. Every time he talked to her he would ask her to come home and she would feel that pain in her chest, that longing to run back to them. But then she’d remember Dean’s words and remember that she wasn’t needed there anymore. So she would smile and simply say, “Not today, Samuel.”

‘Not today’ turned into months and years, her time apart from her brothers bittersweet. She loved the life on her own, traveling, working, playing music, being the child she never got to be, letting go like the adult she was meant to be. But she missed her brothers. No matter how much she and Dean fought, he still meant the world to her. She wouldn’t be who she was today without him. And Sam was like her own child, having raised and taken care of him since he was six months old. The bond with them was enough to cause a deep ache in her heart that never truly went away.

She was more than proud to hear that Sam had gotten into Stanford. But she was far from shocked when John wasn’t pleased about it. She had encouraged him, even helped him get out to California. Sam and Millie reunited for the first time in years on campus and she found herself genuinely smiling for the first time in a very long time. She and Sam became close, going to concerts, doing Sam’s homework, frequenting bars, just normal things two friends do. And it was wonderful. Her baby brother was her home and she was glad they both had escaped their father’s rule to live a normal life. While Sam studied, Millie actually got a job bar-tending even played some music on the side. The youngest Winchester even got himself a girlfriend. Everything was going great. That is until Dean showed up.

Now:

“Fuck no, Dean.” The ragged blonde haired woman stood within punching distance of her younger brother. A cigarette rested between her fingers and a fire burned in her hazel eyes. With her untied combat boots and her skinny jeans ripped at the knees, she looked like a mess which had everything to do with the fact that Dean had woken her up at 3 o'clock in the morning breaking into her apartment. Dean’s arms were crossed over his chest as he gave her an incredulous look. The Impala was parked behind him and she refused to even cast it a second glance. It didn’t surprise her that the old car was passed down to the eldest boy. It wasn’t like she was the oldest child of John Winchester or anything.

“I need /both/ of you, Mills!” His shoulders lifted as his angry tone didn’t even seem to affect his big sister. “Dad’s missing! Don’t you give a damn??” At that, Millie’s head shot quickly in his direction. She quickly closed the gap between them to stand toe to toe with her little brother. She was a good head shorter than him, obviously not inheriting the Winchester height.

She poked a sharp finger against his firm chest. “Don’t you dare. Don’t make me the bad guy here.” She fumed as she looked at the man who she still considered to be that bratty little teenager she remembered. “Sam’s got a good thing going here and I’m not about to let you fuck that all up by sucking him back into your life.”

“Then why don’t you just come with me?” Dean’s features had softened, a genuine request for his big sister to come with him. Millie’s brow wrinkled, almost considering it just by the desperate look in her brother’s eyes. Her mouth opened to protest but he quickly cut her off. “Don’t give me some piss poor excuse that you have something better to do with your weekend. You work at a bar where you make shit tips and play guitar one night a week.” She was shocked that he knew so much about her day to day life when they barely had contact over the past few years.

She heaved a sigh and once again her mouth opened to respond but it was her other brother that cut her off this time. “Dean?” Sam’s voice was groggy as he came out into the hallway outside his apartment. “What are you doing here?”

“Lookin’ for a beer.” Dean answered with a cheeky grin in turn causing Millie to roll her eyes. Jessica came out next, wrapping her arms around Sam’s waist. Dean eyed her for a moment and before he could say anything, his sister slapped a hard hand against his chest with a stern glare. His lower lip pouted slightly as he rubbed his chest but he quickly found his friendly smile again. “Family meeting, Sammy. If you don’t mind, sweetheart.” He addressed Jessica with a smile and the blonde turned to go back inside.

“No.” Sam stated firmly, holding onto his girlfriend to keep her planted. “Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of her.” The other two siblings looked at each other before Dean looked at his little brother again.

“Dad’s been gone for a few days.” Millie filled him in. Sam looked puzzled, this not being something new at all.

Catching his look, Dean continued. “Dad’s on a hunting trip. And he hasn’t been home in a few days.”

Sam’s wide eyes made it obvious that it had finally clicked in his mind. “Jessica, you go on back to bed. I need to talk to my family.” It was that night, that the Winchester family reunited and their lives changed forever.

[deancasbigbang]

Title: Purgatory's Angel Author: Ltleflrt Artist: Moonlite Knight Rating: Explicit Pairings: Dean/Cas Warnings: Alternate Universe - Non Canon, Surgeon Sam, Physical Therapist Dean, Angel Castiel, Injury Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Wing Kink, Grumpy Castiel, Cheerfully Optimistic Dean Posting Date: 10/5/2017

Summary:  In an act of heroism Castiel sacrifices one of his wings to save lives. But he isn't sure he wants to live tethered to the ground, never to dance in the sky again.  Two stubborn Winchester brothers have faith that his future isn't quite so grim, and that flight may be possible someday.  Castiel thinks they're full of shit, but in the face of Dean's cheerful optimism it's hard not to believe.  

- - -

Ah, and there’s the rage again.  “What recovery?” Castiel snarls.  His feathers rise up with his anger, and pain assails him as his wings try to flex with his mood.  This time it’s Dean who walks him through the calming breaths, although he doesn’t touch Castiel the same way Sam does.  When he’s got control of his wings again, Castiel glares at Dean.  “I know what kind of damage I took.  My wing is useless.” “Yeah, it sure as hell is,” Dean says on a sigh.   The immediate agreement makes Castiel blink in confusion.  “Wh-what?” Dean turns his attention back to Castiel’s wing, waving a hand at it which makes Castiel look too.  “Well, I mean look at it.  Half the feathers are gone, and the skin is covered in stitches.  And I got a look at the chart, so I know exactly what all got sewn up.” From this angle Castiel can’t see all of the damage.  Most of the feathers are gone from the back side of the wing, and he only sees the underside.  Some feathers are still missing, but in smaller patches.  There are splints holding the part below the wrist joint straight, and another splint holding the wing out so he can’t fold it to his body.  The sling holds it up so it’s perpetually spread.   “I’m not gonna lie to you,” Dean says, turning his attention back to Castiel.  “It’s going to be a shitload of work to get it back to any kind of useful condition.” “Why bother?” Castiel mutters.  “I’ll never fly again.” “Never say never,” Dean counters with a cheeky grin.  Then his eyes grow serious.  “You may be right.  You may never fly again.” Tears prickle at the back of Castiel’s eyes, and he turns his face into the pillow to hide them from this stranger.  This stranger who offers him hope and despair in one breath. “But I know you’ll definitely never fly again if you don’t try,” Dean continues.  “And if you ask me, some chance is better than no chance.” “No one asked you,” Castiel mutters into his pillow. Dean chuckles.  “True, but I’m real good at sticking my nose in other people’s business.” “You sound like an awful person.” “My patients would probably agree with you,” Dean says brightly.  “I’ve been told I’m a master of torture, and that working with me is pure hell.” Castiel turns his head enough that he can peek at Dean with one eye.  And sure enough, the man is grinning at him.  Proudly.  “I doubt it was meant as a compliment.” When Dean shrugs his whole body moves with it.  Shoulders, mouth, and eyebrows shifting before his expression settles back into a pleased grin.  “I get results.” He winks.  “And thank you cards.”

[trophyburro1]

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