foolondahill17

[foolondahill17]

Read chapter three now

wear a necklace of rope

On the day of Dean's last Reaping, the odds are finally in his favor. Next year, his name will be out of the drawing, and he’ll be able to dedicate more time to making sure his little brothers never have to sign up for tesserae. But his hopes go up in flames when his close family friend, Jo, is picked as the female tribute. When Dean’s name follows, it's almost a relief. He now has a single-minded goal to get him through the Games: This year, there will be a District 8 Victor, and it won’t be Dean.

Rated M

Read the first chapter now

[foolondahill17]

sometimes researching can be an absolute bitch yeah?

[foolondahill17]

so i missed deancas day but i’m making it up with some Parks and SPN

also did you guys notice that cas totally deflected this:

with “HMM MAYBE HE’S YOUR BOYFRIEND? SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT I SUPPOSE”

[foolondahill17]

girl dinner

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"Happy Birthday Final"

[foolondahill17]

bro fought multiple apocalypses and had an angel betray heaven for him

[foolondahill17]

For my 5k Milestone Celebration - Day 1: Favorite character // Smile ↳ Dean Winchester + his cheeky smile 😛

[foolondahill17]

[foolondahill17]

its only a bi 3 way if you take it in the ass while fucking a woman anything else is straight

so 3 dudes IS straight? thank god, i can finally settle this argument once and for all

[foolondahill17]

oh the cathartic impala grief rage scene my beloved. oh the staring off into the distance with the lip and chin wobbling. oh baby boy. he lost his dad. he loved him. he hated him. he didn't deserve what was put on him. he doesn't know what to do. he has the weight of the world (john's last words) on his shoulders. part of him is still forever just a little boy, curled up in a too big leather jacket, wanting his dad to just make everything ok. but he's all alone, shouldering his own grief and trying to keep up a strong front bc he knows sam is avoiding his own grief. gotta stay strong for sammy, gotta look out for sammy, the first order his dad ever gave him. holding that close to his chest while he swims in the agony of john's last order, save him or kill him. and it's all too much, it's all too much so he lets it all out, in arguably a perfectly healthy way, like screaming into a pillow or punching a bag (also he knows he will fix her right back up. he's done it before he will do it again). but the car is also a symbol for dean himself, all that anger hurt grief is still swirling around within him, still coming to blows within him. it's dean screaming at his own face in his mind as he one day will, saying he didn't deserve this!!! he didn't deserve what john put on him!!! anyways, i love you impala grief catharsis scene

[foolondahill17]

Sommersprossen

Painting with highlight layer 

And then without the highlight layer, but with a PS lens flare added. I am addicted to playing with light and these flares are so much fun…

Either way… Baby Dean and his freckles.

[foolondahill17]

I took my little brother (autistic, mostly non verbal) out and he was using his voice keyboard to tell me something, and this little boy (maybe 4 or 5?) heard him and asked me "Is he a robot??" I tried to explain to him that no, he isn't a robot, he just communicates differently, but my darling brother was in the background max volume "I am robot I am robot I am robot I am robot"

[foolondahill17]

pizza party

[foolondahill17]

o boy right in front of my salad??? 🤨

[foolondahill17]

he's shy :)

[foolondahill17]

back to our bones || 1.6k || dean & jack

Michael left. Jack is human. Dean cooks.

Dean doesn't know what to make of himself these days.

He doesn't know much at all, to be fair. His home is buzzing with constant activity of restless hunters who look at him with barely hidden fear and he doesn't know what to say to them. Sam has a beard and bags under his eyes and Dean doesn't know how to comfort him. Cas—Cas is brimming with anger and Dean doesn't know what to do to tame it. He doesn't know anything.

He feels empty, insides scooped out and strung on a rack, beating heart and burning liver and mouth torn in a silent scream. He feels hellfire on his heels behind closed doors, grace scorching his veins behind closed eyelids. He dreams and he's a puppet, hands not his, feet not his, voice not his.

He turns the lights off and hits netflix and stares at the screen. His mouth is dry and his hands shake. The darkness shifts and he doesn't look, can't look. Memories scream inside his head and he stares at another episode title. Nausea rises up his throat and he chugs the coke he ordered with takeout.

In his head, Michael, Michael, Michael. Alistair. Michael. The demon plunging his hand into Dean's guts, grin bright as Dean screams. Michael moving the fingers that are not his and voice that is not his and eyes that is not his and—

Knock on the door. Dean freezes.

A few seconds of silence, then again. He scrambles to his feet. Dusts off pizza crumbs from his shirt. He's still shaking, his voice still half-caught in a throat that only wants to wail.

"Dean? Can I come in?"

Oh, Dean thinks. That's just the kid.

He thinks, Come in, then remembers Jack can't hear him like that, not anymore. So he walks to the door and opens it, the handle cold against his skin. It sends shivers up his spine.

Jack stands outside, face set in a frown. He looks beyond Dean's shoulder into the room and his frown deepens. Dean doesn't blame him. He knows smell of sweat and beer is hard to miss. Tries to feel bad about it and comes up empty.

"I, uh," Jack says. His eyes snap back to Dean, full of sudden determination. "You cook."

Dean blinks. What? he wants to ask, but voice disobeys, and what comes out is, "Uh."

Jack rolls on his feet impatiently. "You cooked. Before. Right?" Dean stares, so Jack continues. "I'm hungry."

Dean's voice still disobeys. Jack doesn't seem to mind, rambling on. "Sam only eats salads or protein bars and hunters don't cook and Castiel is out and also can't cook. There's kale and cereal and I love cereal but I've been eating it for the past week and I don't want to anymore. Also I read on the internet that you're supoosed to have a balanced diet and Sam keeps saying we're gonna fix that but he always ends up distracted and he used to say you love to cook so can we please eat something that takes longer than five minutes to make."

"Kid," Dean finally manages. It comes out heavy. Raspy. Choked. His voice is a block stuck in his throat. He shakes his head, taps Jack on the shoulder and doesn't miss the way Jack's face minutely lights up.

Fuck it. Whatever. He can chew Sam out for not feeding the kid properly later.

***

The walk to the kitchen is excruciating.

There's a dissonance between the movement of time around Dean and in Dean's head. He feels like moving through the sludge one moment and surfacing out of it the next. He hears screams, deafening in his ears, fading in and out. He blinks and there's viscera covering his hands. He blinks again and it's gone.

Jack is impatient, walking faster than him then trailing back and trying to adjust to Dean's pace before inevitably bouncing off again. Despite everything, it tugs a smile on Dean's lips.

Jack is waiting in the kitchen when Dean finally comes. The bright light defeans out the screams, and Dean can breathe again.

He opens the fridge and takes in the sorry state of it. There are containers labeled with different names, and it seems his groceries have been eaten, replaced, or thrown out. He frowns. There's spinach and carrots he assumes belong to Sam, as well as some mushrooms. He takes them out and plops them on the countertop.

"Dean," Jack says, and when Dean looks up his face is sour. "Can we eat literally anything else except vegetables?"

Dean shakes his head and gets a package of hotdogs. Closes the fridge and opens the shelves. It doesn't take long for him to find oatmeal and get a hold of his spices, dramatically unused. If Sam tried to serve the kid unseasoned blanched spinach, Dean will kick his ass.

He leans on the counter, closes his eyes. Images flash before them, red and scared and angry, and he flies them open, grabbing the knife. He motions for Jack to get him a chopping board.

Jack watches as he chops up a carrot into small cubes, then a few mushrooms. Dean leaves the knife and the board to Jack and nods towards the spinach. Shakes his head when Jack takes a single leaf with a look of preplexed confusion on his face, grabs a handful and cuts down, leaving Jack to do the rest. Turns on the heat, gets a pot and splashes some oil onto it. Leans on the counter and waits for it to get hot.

Jack taps his shoulder to show he's done with the spinach, and Dean nods. Jack frowns. Then something seems to occur to him, and he gets out his phone, starts typing something.

Dean's phone buzzes in his pocket. He takes it out.

Jack: I'm still not sure the spinach is a great idea

Jack: I thought vegetables were Sam's thing

Dean rises his eyebrows. Jack holds his gaze.

Dean: nothing better than some vegetables after weeks of eating junk

Dean: also don't be dramatic.

"I'm not," Jack says, wounded, and Dean scoffs.

The oil sizzles when Dean drops a piece of carrot, so he throws the rest in. Mushrooms follow soon after. He frowns, looking at his spices: settles on chili flakes, garlic powder, dry parsley.

Jack watches intently.

Dean: don't tell sam i made you this capiche?

Jack: 😐👍

While the vegetables sizzle, Dean walks back to the fridge. There's no liquid stock, so he frowns and opens the freezer. If he's lucky, he might have some leftover from before the whole Michael shit. There seem to be a few cubes of frozen stock left, so he drops one into the pot. Throws in a generous amount of oatmeal and fills the rest with water. Stirs in the spinach, adds salt. Cuts up two hotdogs and throws that in, too.

Nothing left but to stir and wait for the pot to bubble.

Jack: I'm sorry

Dean: for what

Jack: I told Cas I didn't think you could be saved.

Well.

Jack's not looking at him, staring at the pot instead. Dean's hands grip the counter. Hands not his, eyes not his, screams not his.

Dean: i probably couldn't

Dean: we still don't know what the fuck happenned for him to leave

The pot starts bubbling, and he stirs it. Breathe in, breathe out. In, out, again, though all he really wants is to break down and scream until strength leaves his body. He wants to be four and for his mom to read him a night story and tuck him in and tell him there are no monsters under his bed.

Jack sits at the table. Dean wonders as to what he's thinking.

The oatmeal is cooked, and he gets two bowls. Jack eyes the porridge before him with suspicion that makes Dean roll his eyes. "I thought at least you would make some real food."

He grabs his phone, waiting for the oatmeal to coll down a little.

Dean: with what

Dean: i'm not jesus i can't produce food out of thin air there's only so much i can do

Dean: also it's good ok trust me

"Why won't you eat it, then," Jack asks, pointing his spoon at Dean. Dean rolls his eyes.

The oatmeal is hot, and it burns his mouth. Past that it's good, though. He came up with the recipe himself, a result of some experiment from the time having a kitchen was a novelty. Despite what Sam says, Dean appreciates a carrot when it's cooked his way.

He eats and watches Jack eat. The kid seems to get over the initial scepticism and eats quickly, silently. Something tugs inside Dean in response. He said yes, and Jack was human. His hands took lives and Jack was human. Jack was human and he wasn't there.

What will happen the next time his hands aren't his, his breaths aren't his, his eyes aren't his?

He stands up and walks towards a shelf. It doesn't take long to find what he was looking for: it seems this, too, remained untouched.

He plops the journal before Jack, who looks up in surprise. It's a fat thing, worn and used, oil stains on its cover, filled with cutouts and handwritten lists and rewritten steps. He thinks he got it when Sammy was fourteen and Dad complimented Dean's cooking, and Dean latched to the praise like a man dying of thirst.

For later, Dean wants to say, for when I'm not around. For when you're hungry and there's no one in the kitchen. For when it becomes too much and you simply want to make something with your hands that isn't breaking things, splitting knuckles, killing bystanders. For when your family is hungry and you want to feed them and make sure they're no longer lacking.

Instead he types on the phone.

Dean: top shelf, behind the spices. recipe book 👍

[foolondahill17]

went back and finished this old dean wip ! he is purple !