#032423

[deanwinchesterswitch]

When the Walls Come Down

Summary: Memories and longing chip away at the walls they built to protect their hearts, but as their defenses begin to crumble, shame and regret seep through the cracks threatening to leave love buried beneath the rubble.

Pairing: Dean x Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ Angst; A tiny bit of fluff; Dean being Dean; Language; Implication of sex work; Canon divergence; Descriptions of high emotional distress; Possible triggers

Betas: @princessmisery666 and @wayward-and-worn

Word Count: 7,532

Part Two

Jody was kind enough to inform them of the other’s impending arrival. Jody didn’t tell them that Dean had texted the day before the get-together to say that Sam would be coming alone and that Y/N had called not ten minutes later with a lame excuse of her own for not attending. 

With Baby parked in the old barn to keep her safe from the elements, Dean picks the lock on the back door and sighs, remembering their conversations about the home he would build for them. Dropping his duffel just inside the door, he sets the cooler next to it and scrubs a hand down his face. After a quick look around, he heads out to check the perimeter and gather firewood.

Staring out the windshield of her truck, Y/N scans the area for movement. With no harbinger of untoward beings, supernatural or otherwise, she pulls her sketchbook and leather pencil case from her bag and slips out of the cab. The place appears to be a little more rundown since the last time she was here, and she takes a moment to assess the new damage.  

Settling on the truck’s hood, she begins sketching the cabin's exterior, adding a wrap-around porch, a large updated chimney, and landscaping. It’s unconscious at first, but as the graphite scratches over the paper, images taking shape on the blank pages, she soon realizes that she is drawing all the amenities Dean and she had discussed for their dream home.

It’s getting late, but he’s finally finished checking the warding around the property's perimeter. There seemed to be a few more than he remembered. Dean reflects on his decision to come here as he quickly gathers firewood on his way back to the cabin. 

He’d had every intention of going to Jody’s, hoping for a chance to talk, wanting to end the pattern of avoidance, even if that, ultimately, meant moving on without her. He’d prefer to see her safe and happy than to be completely removed from her life.

Yesterday, he’d awoken with an uneasiness churning in his gut and decided to take a drive to settle his nerves. When he unexpectedly found himself at the Kansas-Nebraska state line, he made another decision. As Baby’s engine loudly idled at a crossroads, he quickly texted Sam, then put the car in drive and headed Northwest.

At a stop to get fuel for Baby and himself, he texted Jody that he wouldn’t be able to make it after all and was going to use the lull in cases to check on the safe house in Montana.

A tear smudges the edge of the illustration just completed, a vignette of side-by-side rocking chairs. Swiping the back of her hand across her cheek, she flips the book closed, tucking it beneath her arm, and slides off the hood. The sun is getting low in the sky, and she needs to check the perimeter and collect firewood. Sliding her duffel from the bench seat, she slips the pencil case back inside, pulls a key from her pocket, and carefully makes her way across the decrepit porch to the front door.

Closing the door behind him as he enters the house, Dean stops in his tracks, hearing the creak of wood coming from the front porch. Setting the armful of logs on the floor, he pulls out his gun and quietly makes his way down the two steps to the main living area.

The door handle rattles and his senses go on high alert, but his heart plummets to his stomach when a key is slipped into the lock. He hadn’t considered that someone may have taken over the property after all these years.

The gun wavers in his hand at the sight of the person standing before him when the door swings open. “What the hell?” The purple flannel she stole from him hangs loosely on her frame, billowing in the breeze, the sleeves unevenly rolled, one hiding half of her hand, the other skimming above her wrist.

Hearing the muttered curse, the items she’s carrying hit the floor with a thud, the sketchpad falling open when it skitters to a stop between them as she quickly reaches for her gun.

“Hey, whoa. It’s me.” Dean’s hands are in the air, gun pointed at the ceiling as she stares him down over the barrel of her engraved Remington Rand, a gift from him for her thirtieth birthday.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she shouts. “You’re supposed to be at Jody’s.”

“So are you,” he challenges, brow cocked. He lifts his chin toward the gun still pointed at him, when she doesn’t respond. “Do you mind?” 

The silence stretches between them, each steeling themselves against the onslaught of emotions at seeing the other. When she finally lowers the weapon, re-engaging the safety before tucking it into the back of her jeans, he does the same. She bends to lift her duffel, and he steps forward, picking up the sketchbook. Fingers hovering as they follow the charcoal-colored lines, he grins at the images, “These are-”

“None of your business.”

His fingers narrowly miss being smashed between the pages as the book is roughly snapped shut and pulled from his hand.

She has one foot across the threshold before he can even say sorry. He needs to act quickly. It’s not what he planned, but it’s an opportunity he needs to take advantage of. “Wait. Don’t leave… please.”

The waver in his voice stops her mid-step. The words, reminiscent of her plea to his retreating steps almost a year ago, blindside her.

“You were here first.” She addresses the space in front of her, not daring to look at him for fear of turning into a weeping puddle of goo.

“The sun’s setting. You won’t be able to make it down the mountain before it gets dark.”

Few things genuinely scare her but driving down a narrow, overgrown mountain trail in the dark is high on the short-list. Dean experienced her anxiety firsthand while driving through the Appalachians en route to a hunt.

Though unprepared for the unexpected encounter, she knows it’s a chance for them to talk without prying eyes and ears around. Maybe an opportunity for her to finally come to terms with everything and let him go. Eyes closed, nails digging into her palm around the worn canvas strap, she inhales deeply, slowly expelling the air before turning to face him. “Fine. I’ll leave at first light.”

Making a wide arc around him, she drops her things next to the couch. Noticing the pile of firewood on the floor, she asks, “I’m guessing you’ve checked all the warding?” 

Dean nods, “Yeah, there’s a lot more than-“

Turning her back on him, she shrugs out of the flannel. Flinging it onto the nearest chair, she walks out the back door without another word. Simultaneously relieved and disappointed when he doesn’t try to stop her. Happy to see him but woefully unsure of what to say to him.

Deciding it might be best to give her a few minutes, he begins a search of the kitchen area, which reveals a set of matching dishes, silverware, pans, kitchen towels, and a stock of cleaning supplies. It all appears to be relatively new. A more thorough perusal of the cabin reveals additional changes. Cataloging the modifications, he wonders who was here last and how long ago. 

During his brief initial inspection, he’d noticed that the furniture had been covered against dust but had pushed it down his list as he needed to check the area outside before it became too dark. Dean’s curiosity is thrown into overdrive as he connects the dots with the fact that Y/N has a key. He figured that she knew of the safe house from Bobby but wasn’t aware that she had ever been here.

Dean sets about cleaning the dishware and uncovered surfaces and plugs the refrigerator back in, mulling over this newfound information and what it might mean. He glances out the window while wiping down the last countertop and catches sight of her wrapping her arms around herself. The sky is a watercolor background—a blaze of orange and fading pink, seeping into a twilight purple haze—to her silhouette that brings forth a memory he turns to when the nightmares threaten to overwhelm him.

She shivers against the cold as a gust of wind buffets the thin fabric of her shirt and chastises herself for removing the flannel she’d been wearing. It was a foolish, futile attempt to save face. The shirt is a crutch, a piece of him, something she turns to for comfort. He doesn’t need to know that, though. 

Rubbing her hands over her arms, as another burst of wind swirls around her, she decides to head back inside when she’s unexpectedly surrounded by warmth. It’s still surprising to her how someone so large can move so soundlessly. The plaid draped over her shoulders carries his scent, and emotions threaten to drown her.

Inhaling sharply, her jaw clenches, and her eyes squeeze shut against the tears that immediately spring forth. How many times had he done this for her? A small gesture followed by a kiss to the forehead or a quick embrace. One of his many ways of showing how much he cared about her… loved her—reduced to nothing more than a courtesy as he immediately moves away.

“I’m sorry.” Misinterpreting her reaction, Dean quickly steps back. She had tossed his other flannel aside like it meant nothing, apparently no longer giving her the comfort he knew it once had. Why would she accept this gesture? It hurts, but he understands that the small intimacies they once shared no longer hold the same meaning, but habit had made him act before thinking, the desire to ensure she was comfortable and cared for still ingrained in his psyche. “I couldn’t stand to watch you shiver one more time.”

A moment of stilted silence passes, and then a hesitant, hushed question. “You were watching me?”

“Not as creepily as that sounded,” he chuckles.

“Hmmm.” She gives him a faint smile, “Thanks,” grips the plackets, and then quickly looks away. 

There’s so much he wants to say, but he’s uncertain where to start. Taking it as a good sign that she didn’t throw the shirt back in his face, he presses on. “I saw you through the window.”

No shit, dumbass. Real smooth.

“You, uh, looked so beautiful framed by the sunset. It reminded me of that rest stop in the mountains. After that shit show in Oregon. You remember? You wanted to stretch your legs while Sammy and I sat at the picnic table chillin’ with a couple of brews.”

She remains guarded, and he grows nervous, rubbing his palms over the denim covering his thighs. The urge to turn and walk away is strong, and the thought of how easy it would be to blow this opportunity makes his mouth go dry and his heart thrash against his ribs, so he wills himself to stay put. Letting the memory and the fact that she hasn’t walked away bolster him.

Remember? 

She longs to tell him that she remembers every moment they’ve spent together, that she lets them play out in her head like a movie marathon, that those memories are what sustained her the first few months of missing him, fortified her, and kept her breathing. Yet, she remains silent, not ready to share and wanting to know why he’s dredging up memories that will surely break her heart all over again.

“I, uh…  When the sun started to set, I looked around to find you sitting on an outcropping, that beat-up tin of art supplies you carried everywhere right next to you, sketchbook in your lap, coloring away with those little paint stick thingies-”

She timidly laughs, and his heart swells at the sound. It’s an unexpected glimmer of hope that has his heart thudding for an entirely different reason and the corners of his mouth lifting in response.

Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpses his cautious smile. It warms her, gives her a sense of optimism, and she senses he’s hoping for more. She can hear the nervousness in his voice, spies how he shifts his weight from one leg to the other, and realizes that she needs to engage so he doesn’t close himself off or misinterpret her silence. “Pastels,” she supplies, turning to lean back against the railing, eyes downcast as she slips her arms into the sleeves of the plaid, cuffs hanging well past her fingertips.

“Yes!” Snapping his fingers, his smile grows. “Pastels. Your fingers always looked like a muddy rainbow after using them, and you’d always wind up with a couple of streaks on your face that I’d have to clean off.” 

Just as she thought, the recounting of his memories spurs a surge of grief for the loss of his gentle touch, warm smile, and playful teasing as he would wipe the traces of color from her skin. Shifting on her feet, she closes in on herself. Crossing an arm over her chest, her hand grips tight around her bicep, fingers of her free hand fiddling with the hem of the flannel. 

Dean’s smile fades a little at her reaction, wondering if she’s thinking about those shared moments and dislikes being reminded of them or misses them as much as he does. Hopeful it’s the latter, he clears his throat and continues, “Uhm, anyway… you were sitting on that rock, framed by the glow of the setting sun. Just like now.” He tilts his head and runs a hand over the side of his neck. “It was one of the most beautiful sights I’d ever seen.” He nervously chuckles, “Just like, well… now.” 

Her smile widens as she bobs her head in acknowledgment and peeks at him from the corner of her eye. “Be still my heart. Did you turn this into a chick flick moment, Mr. Winchester?”

Ears tipped pink and hands stuffed into his pockets, Dean rocks back on his heels, twisting his mouth with a grunt. “Phffft. No. But pretty sure you did with that whole,” he waves a hand between them, “be still my heart, Mr. Winchester bullshit.”

His tentative smile is disarming, and a heated flush spreads over her skin. The toe of her boot kicks along the faded deck boards as she haphazardly rolls up the shirt’s sleeves in frustration. She looks out over the side yard and says, “We should probably talk.” It’s hushed, barely over a whisper, and with no immediate response, she wonders if he even heard her, and then in usual form...

A chuckle. “I thought we were.” His attempted joke falls flat. Pulse skittering with fear at the purse of her lips, he quickly tries to recover. “Shit, I’m sorry I-.” Voice strained and hushed, he moves closer, “I’d like that.”

As his hand lightly closes around hers, she flinches in surprise, fingers trembling as he raises it between them, and he inwardly sighs in relief when she doesn’t pull away. Gliding his fingers over her palm, he instructs, “Leave it up.” Teasing, “You never did learn how to do this properly,” as he rolls the right cuff.

“That’s because I liked the way you did it,” she murmurs, eyes glistening and intently fixed on his chest even as he wills her to look up at him.

Her statement confirms what Dean had often wondered, that she enjoyed the connection too, a random little moment of closeness that the two of them shared. To keep her from retreating into herself again, he goes for a neutral topic, “You know, I always thought you could make a living with your art,” as he moves on to the left sleeve.

The gentleness in his grip and tender brush of his fingers startles her, only to be followed by what feels like a settling of her soul, the relief of finally being home after a long journey. Lip trembling, she blinks back tears as he smoothes the fabric in place on the second sleeve, his comment drowned out by her thudding heart and the rush of blood in her ears as she silently pleads, don’t, don’t do it, please don’t do it, knowing that what’s coming will most certainly break her.

The tear that breaks free of the waterline at her lashes and her anguished expression give him pause—momentarily stopping him from completing the task the way he’d always done. It doesn’t feel right not to, though, so he bows his head.

A tender kiss on her wrist—a simple gesture executed in a single heartbeat.

Dean inhales deeply as his lips brush supple skin. She still wears the same perfume he bought her for their first anniversary. She rarely had an opportunity to use it, though. Only being able to wear it on a few occasions—the night he gave it to her, a couple of date nights, a dinner at Jody’s. She could wear it now whenever she wanted without fear of giving away her location to whatever monster they were hunting. It frays his edges a bit more, thinking she’s wearing it for someone else. 

The brush of his supple lips against her skin causes her heart to cease functioning, and the air in her lungs crystallizes as nerve endings flare. She imagines this is what it feels like to be sucked into a void, a split second of complete and utter inertia before her entire being twists and shatters. There’s no holding back the choked sob.

Lips lingering on her pulse, fearful eyes meet hers, and then he steps forward, tugging her arm until she’s secured against his chest, sheltered in his hold.

Hands fisting in the back of his Henley, arms crushing her body against his, her tears dampening the front of his shirt while his seep into her hair. The potent relief of once again being in the familiar embrace of the other forestalls further conversation.

The tears begin to wane, and confusion creeps in. She thought he had moved on, but his actions—the emotion swirling in his eyes, the gravitas behind his words as he recounted the memory, and the way he held her—spoke to something different. Emotions surge and crash, threatening to drown her as they fight for dominance or release. Wanting nothing more than to stay in the safety of his embrace, she resists the urge to cling to him. She releases the grip on his shirt and pushes back against his hold. So much needs to be said, so much guilt that needs to be addressed. A large, stiff drink is what she needs first, though. 

Dean reluctantly drops his arms to his sides when he feels her body shift and tense beneath his hands before she steps back out of his reach, wiping her face with the hem of the plaid. He hadn’t meant to make her cry. Truthfully, he’s a bit confused by her reaction. If she’s let him go and found someone else, is happy, why is she so upset? They need to talk. A hefty shot might help that along a bit.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he jokes, “I don’t think I’ve ever made a girl cry with a kiss before,” and receives a weak smile in return before an awkward silence falls between them as the sun sinks past the horizon.

“We should-“ They say simultaneously, followed by matching nervous chuckles. He opens the door and gestures for her to enter. Dean remains standing near the door after locking it while she moves to the middle of the room, neither sure what to do nor say, wondering what the display of emotions might portend. Each yearning for the connection once shared, the comfort of the other’s embrace, yet the fear of rejection blinds them to the regret and longing etched into the countenance of the other lovingly staring at them.

She startles when he claps his hands together. “Are you hungry?” he points to the cooler by the back door, “I can make some sandwiches.”

“Yeah. That… sounds good.” She nods, avoiding eye contact. “I, uh, have a cooler of food in the truck if you want to use anything from it. Just give me, uh…,” she gestures to her face, “then I’ll go get it.”

“Take your time. I can get it.” Dean practically sprints out the front door as she makes a beeline to the bathroom, firmly closing the door behind her.

Exiting the bathroom several minutes later, she finds her sleeping bag and spare blanket on the floor next to the fireplace, alongside the blankets from the Impala. 

“Figured you might want to sleep on those instead.” She turns to find Dean eyeing her as he sets two plates of food on the table and discerns that she spent more time in the bathroom shoring up her emotional walls than she thought.  “No tellin’ what might have crawled up into those mattresses after all this time.”

“Thanks,” she replies, walking over to the bunks closest to her, “but I replaced them all a few months ago. Left the plastic on to protect them,” and lifts the tarp to show him.

Dean’s shoulders slump slightly in disappointment, a brow arching in surprise. He’d hoped to have her lying beside him in front of the fireplace, even if it wasn’t how they’d imagined. “Were you staying here?” he asks, confused, his earlier musings coming back to him. “Hey, why do you have a key?”

“Bobby gave me a key after Rufus was k- died.”

Brow furrowed, he tilts his head in question, and she shrugs her reply.

“My lock-picking skills weren’t so great back then.”

“Huh. I never got a key,” he pouts.

Reminded of how expressive his face can be, she swallows the chuckle. The confusion and tinge of jealousy in his tone spur her curiosity about how he’ll react to her next declaration. “When I switched my mailing address to Jody’s, some paperwork finally caught up with me. Apparently, Rufus left it to Bobby, and then Bobby left it to me.” 

“You own the cabin now?”

“Yeah,” she shrugs, still having difficulty believing it herself. Dropping the sheet back onto the mattress, she adds, “And, well, the surrounding forty acres, which include a lake.”

“F- forty acres? And a lake?” Expression highlighted with shock, he chuckles, “Well, damn, who knew Rufus was such a real estate mogul.”

“I know, right? Anyway, I, uh, I was going to mention this place the next time we talked… dreamt about getting out. I thought we could check into buying it. By the time I found out I already owned it, well…” His pained expression of understanding is too much to bear; she tucks her chin and runs her fingers along the bed frame.

“Me too,” he mutters. “I- I mean, I was going to suggest we check into this place. Thought it would be perfect for what we, uh, talked about. Didn’t realize we’d be looking at a mountain retreat.” She shrugs, lips pressed together in a tight smile.

Damn, none of his attempts at humor are hitting right.

She used to always laugh at his jokes, no matter how lame. The air around them becomes thick, almost stifling. Dean takes a step toward her, then stops, watching as she chews at her bottom lip, head bent, fingers nervously dancing over the metal bar. Every molecule of his body screams for him to pull her into his arms and never let her go again. Instead, he asks, “Beer?”

“Yes, thank you.” Seizing the change in subject with welcome relief, she offers him a soft smile. Her steps are controlled, willfully constrained to prevent herself from throwing herself at him, begging him never to leave her again and promising to do the same. Instead, she takes the seat opposite him at the table. 

Several minutes pass as they eat in silence, furtive glances cast between bites of food and sips of alcohol. When she can no longer bear the thick tension weighing on them, she asks, “So what did you tell Jody about why you weren’t going to be there?”

“Told her I was gonna check on the cabin since it had been so long.”

Nearly choking on the bite she just swallowed, the sandwich slips from her fingers, landing half off the plate. “So she knew you were coming here?”

“Yeah, why?”

“When did you tell her?”

Understanding takes a few seconds to sink in, and then he purses his lips. “Early yesterday. I take it you told her you were coming here too?”

“Yep, called her yesterday morning. She already knew one of us was coming here when she talked to the other.”

They share a chuckle over Jody’s sneaky but well-intentioned omission of information before falling silent again.

Shoving the last bit of sandwich into his mouth, Dean stands, plate in hand. “Are you done?” 

Pushing the unfinished half of the grilled ham and cheese she dropped earlier back onto the plate, she nods. 

“You sure? There’s no rush.” His hand hovers next to hers, another inch closer, and he’d be able to feel soft, smooth skin beneath the rough pads of his fingers, watch goosebumps rise on her skin as he skims them over the back of her hand and up her arm.

The heat he emanates warms the air around her. If she turned her hand, just so, she could caress the tender skin of his wrist, trace the vein, feel his pulse. Wondering if it’s as feverish and intense as hers, she pulls her hand into her lap and breathes, “Yeah. I’m done.”

Dean places her plate on top of his and picks up her empty beer bottle. When she tilts her head to smile at him, “Thank you. It was good,” she absently licks her lips, and his breath hitches. Surprised that the neck of the bottle doesn’t snap in his grip, he quickly turns toward the kitchen. Setting the dishes on the counter, he takes a moment to calm his breathing.

He pushed her away for a reason, and that hasn’t changed, but this is his chance to clear the air with her. Maybe, eventually, even become friends again. Fantasizing about kissing her, having her laid out beneath him, her hands roaming his heated flesh, is just that—a fantasy. It would only serve as a quick release followed by more anger and heartache. He can’t do that to her. Honestly, he’s not sure he can do it himself.

Even though he is the one that forced this upon them, he can’t deny the agony he felt when he came back in the pre-dawn to find her gone, that she never reached out to him in the aftermath, or that she hadn’t seemed to care about what was happening in his life. 

He knows how messed up that sounds; what a double standard it is. He lost count of the times his thumb hovered over her name in his contacts, but like now, he had no idea what to say to her, so he’d never called. No matter how much he longs for her to come home, to hold her as he falls asleep and wake to the warmth of her beside him, he knows she deserves better.

She sighs, watching the muscles in his back flex and tense seconds before his shoulders slump as he stares out the window. She knows exactly what he’s doing, what he’s thinking, but if there’s anyone to blame for this limbo they find themselves in, it’s her. There’s only one way to change it, and that is through. They will just have to deal with whatever is on the other side when they get there.

“Whiskey?” she asks with forced cheerfulness. “I brought the good stuff.” 

Dropping his head, Dean laughs, “Your timing is impeccable as always.” Tossing the empty bottles in the garbage, he turns to face her, a large smile plastered on his face. A smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. She accepts the gesture for what it is… a tentative olive branch. “Wanna grab some glasses?” She tips her chin toward the cupboard behind his right shoulder, heading toward her duffel.

The soft clunk of the tumblers being set on the table emphasizes the silence that again surrounds them. Though they didn’t always need words, they’d never had this much trouble talking to each other. She huffs out a breath as she again takes the seat opposite him. “So…  I heard you killed a shifter with that additive the Leviathans created?”

“Yeah, Vamptonite,” he gushes, happy dimples making a rare appearance.

“Let me guess… you named it.”

“Of course,” eyes rolling like he can’t believe she could think otherwise. “It works on werewolves and ghouls too.”

“Good to know,” she hums. 

They fact-check a couple of more stories between them. The single malt Macallan eases tensions and fortifies courage as walls begin to crumble.

“I heard you ran into a Chupacabra?”

She shakes her head, laughing. “Nah, just a rumor. Turned out to be a rabid dog. I stopped hunting after that. Guess you were right. I wasn’t cut out to be a hunter after all.” She didn’t mean to say it. She doesn’t want to start a fight. The words slipped from her lips before she even realized they’d formed. Dean shifts in his seat, and a lowly hissed ‘Shit’ has her scrambling to change the subject, her frazzled brain landing on something far worse, “Heard you were picking up waitresses again,” she attempts to tease. Regret is swift and severe. 

 “Son of a bitch.”

This time the expletive is harshly ground out between clenched teeth, and his hard, fixed features send her heart plummeting with the thought it must be true if he’s so angry about her knowing. Biting into her lip, she struggles not to tell him she takes it back, that she doesn’t care, doesn’t need to know.

“You know that’s a rumor, right?” He knows his tone is clipped, anger seeping into the fear around the silent plea for her not to believe what she’s heard. 

Hand shaking as she pours him a healthy shot, the neck of the bottle clinks against the glass. “Is it?” Again, remorse is swift. 

What happened to not needing to know?

Hearing the quiver of her voice, the uncertainty in those two simple words, he berates himself for not setting the record straight before it got back to her. It infuriates him to think about the twisted embellishments that were most likely added, another regret steamrolling over his chest at imagining how she must have felt hearing the gossip. 

Concerned that the tumbler he’s holding might shatter in his grasp, he loosens his hold and gently but deliberately pushes it to the side. Flexing his fingers, he leans forward, frustration setting in when she leans back, muscles tensing at his movement. “It is,” he huffs, trying to keep his voice steady. “I wouldn’t, couldn’t, do that.”

He scrutinizes her face, silently willing her to look at him, but her eyes remain focused on the drink she’s pouring for herself, filling the glass nearly to the brim. He watches in awe when she lifts it to her lips and swallows every drop in one go with not even a flinch before setting the cut crystal back on the table. Her thumb swipes the corner of her mouth to catch a wayward drop. Licking it clean, she declares, “I couldn’t blame you if you did.” 

Exasperation and outrage at her words quickly suppress the desire that swirls in his gut over the sexiness of the gesture. How can she possibly believe he would replace her so easily in his life, his bed? The realization that she doesn’t have any proof to the contrary hits like a gut punch. They’ve known each other for a long time. She knows his weaknesses and saw how he dealt with the tragedies and craziness of his life before her. Well… how he hid behind the vices of booze and sometimes women.

Man, this is fucked up.

The part of him that protects the tiny scrap of hope he keeps buried deep thought that even though he’d shunned her, she at least understood why he’d done it. 

Frustration swiftly turns to fear at the implication behind her words. Eyes narrowed, he scrutinizes her features. She’s gauging his reactions, either building her defenses back up to lessen her pain or testing the waters because there’s something she’s afraid to tell him—like maybe she has moved on. Maybe the teary-eyed outbursts are a final goodbye to the life they had, the loss of the dreams once shared.

That’s what he wanted. He’d pushed her out of his life so she could have one. So why does it feel like his heart has just been ripped from his chest by a wolf? The urge to grab her, hold her against him, lay his soul bare, and share his vulnerability with her again, is tempered only by the need to know where her feelings lie. So, even though he’s terrified of her response, he remarks, “I heard you moved in with some douche named Coop.”

A laugh bubbles at his play on words but is quickly quashed. “His name is Cooper,” she guardedly replies. Hurt still encases hope, but she’s eager to finally be able to tell him—the only person she ever wanted to share it with—what’s been happening in her life. “You should see the place. It’s huge. Oh, and the pay is phenomenal.” Pulling her phone from her pocket, she misses his change in expression.

“Wh- What?”

“He even introduced me to some of his friends.” Rising excitement as she searches for the pictures she wants to show him obscures the edge in his tone. “The places I’ve been to, the things I’ve gotten to do… amazing, but so ridiculously over the top. You would have loved the working horse ranch. Straight out of the wild west.”

She spares him a quick smile before going back to scrolling. “And don’t even get me started on the bar and restaurant VIP perks. We could eat for an entire month on what they spend in a night. I had to get used to the fancy clothes. It’s been years since I’ve worn a cocktail dress and heels. I never thought I could get paid for something I love doing. Well, I knew I could get paid for doing it. Although, I never thought I could garner such high fees or that my services would be in such demand. Ah, here we go.”

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?” The words explode from him, filling the entire cabin with his rage.

Inhaling a sharp breath, she slowly raises her head. The tense stillness, cold, set features and harsh tone evoke the night her heart went up in flames, and the gleam of elation and hope are reduced to cinder. “W-what?”

Anger writhes in his gut, slithering through vein and muscle, coiling around bone. She can’t be doing what he thinks she’s doing. Can she? Shit, this is his fault. He shut her out, left her on her own, and made her feel worthless. 

Confusion is evident in her features as she cuts off his spiraling thoughts. “Wait. What do you think I’m doing?” 

He can’t bring himself to actually say the words, so he glares at her, brow rising and face contorted in a ‘you know exactly what I’m thinking’ expression. 

Narrowing her eyes, she rapidly tries to decipher their conversation, and shock ripples through her as he raps his knuckles on the table, solidifying her comprehension. “No, th-” 

Guilt and the need to alleviate his concerns momentarily rise, but his implied accusation fans the smoldering embers of the pain and grief she thought had been snuffed out. Flames of anger spark and flicker, igniting the ashes of her heart, blindly driving her to dig at his vulnerability. 

“For whatever they request,” she calmly replies, raising a brow of her own.

Dean’s eyes narrow, his top lip twitching with rage. She knows nothing good will come of it, but the damned up emotions break through the levee. 

“I don’t want for anything—private beaches, yachts, spa treatments, luxury suites. No more crappy diner food,” she flicks a hand toward the bottle between them, “or rot-gut alcohol. No more slumming in shitty motel rooms.” Though the words belie her true feelings, she’s no longer in control of how they spill out of her and derides, “or living out of a car,” pulse rate jumping with the intake of his breath.

Never once did he imagine his actions would lead to this outcome. Guilt, shame, and fury slither and twist to skewer his heart and snarl in his brain. It’s his fault, he doesn’t blame her, but he’s angry with her. Angry at himself, the world, and the life he’s stuck in. The thought of her with another guy was one thing, but this… He sees red at the thought of how many… 

Wood cracks beneath the slam of his fist, and a glass shatters against a wooden cabinet after being viciously swiped from the table. “Well, it sounds like I did you a favor by kicking you out. Gave you a chance to make yourself a happy little life. Livin’ high on the hog without a care in the world.” 

The clench of his jaw and the sadness in his eyes fleetingly register, but her rage is blistering, ablaze beneath her skin. Slamming her fists on the table, she sneers. “You know, for someone so smart, you can be an utter dumbass sometimes.” Dean blinks at her, confusion knocking his anger back a bit. “FUCK YOU!” she shouts, knocking her chair over as she stands. His confusion morphs into offense, mouth agape in shock. She would have laughed, under different circumstances, but there’s no solid ground where her feelings can safely land. Before he can formulate any words, she unleashes the teeming tsunami of emotions she’s floundering in.

“You think you did me a favor? That I didn’t struggle? That there was no PAIN? You didn’t GIVE me ANYTHING! YOU TOOK FROM ME!” Chest heaving, nails digging into her palms, she huffs out a breath, a wasted attempt to try and rein in some of the more volatile feelings. 

“How did you picture everything going? You didn’t think about the aftermath, did you? DID YOU?” she accuses. “Your only thought was that I would be better off without you. That somehow I would be happier… safer… no longer have a target on my back. What you failed to realize is that none of those things could ever possibly happen. We made promises to each other, you and I. We promised to trust, love one another unconditionally, and keep each other safe. To always have each other’s back.”

She paces, no longer able to keep her vibrating limbs still. “Do you honestly think I was safer without you around? I didn’t feel safer when Crowley showed up with Juliette in tow at the summer camp where I was teaching a drawing class. Not when those yahoos, Walt and Roy, initially mistook me for the shifter I discovered on that ranch in Colorado. And certainly not when I had to take out a wraith on my own in Chicago because no one could get there soon enough to help. YOU DIDN’T HAVE MY BACK FOR ANY OF THAT!” 

Lips flinching like a fish out of water, he blinks, dumbstruck. There are no words to describe how badly he’s fucked things up. He rubs his hands over his thighs before clenching them into fists as his focus briefly drifts to Walt and Roy. He should have beaten the shit out of both of them when he had the chance. They won’t get off so easy the next time he sees them.

The heavy scrape of wood on wood draws his attention back to her as she rights the chair. Struggling to comprehend how quickly they went from the tentative but encouraging inroads they were making to… this, he closes his eyes, sharply inhaling as she continues.

“Not that it’s any of your fucking business, but I’m not doing what you think I am.” Tears form in her eyes as she stares him down and quietly states, “And I certainly wasn’t happier without you.”

No amount of torture would ever match the pain he currently feels. All he’d wanted was for her to have what he couldn’t give her. Instead, he released her into a world of danger and uncertainty, offered her up on a silver platter to any supernatural being gunning for him. If she had been injured… or worse… The blame would lie entirely on his shoulders. Standing, he quickly slips around the table, “Y/N, I-” faltering when he reaches for her, and she steps back.

“No.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t want an apology. I don’t want to hear your reasons why. I know what they are. I excused the pain caused, tempering it with that knowledge and my own guilt. And here we are!” 

With a shaky breath, she states. “Get out.”

Dean scrubs a hand down his face, unsure what to do. He’s screwed up royally. If he leaves, he might not get another chance to fix it, and that scares him. He holds out his hand one more time, “I don’t-” and she roughly slaps it away.

“You don’t even see it. You’re so blinded by all the crap you carry around. The labels and responsibilities that were forced upon you. You sacrificed your life and continue to do so every day but refuse to acknowledge that others would do the same for you. They love you. I love you. Every one of us would sacrifice for you because your life matters too, but you can’t accept that. THE Dean Winchester doesn’t need anyone because ‘Everyone’s going to die or leave me.’ So, you push people away. You pushed me away.” 

Anger incites the words, though pain­—heartache—is the driving force. “Yeah, and you left.”

“I didn’t want to leave! I didn’t want a life without you in it! I still don’t,” she throws her hands up in frustration. Panting, she stares at the ceiling, hands on her hips, rocking on her feet. 

As with the night that laid the foundation of all their suffering, she doesn’t want to fight with him. Lashing out serves no purpose. Unlike that night, she can’t ignore the sadness and frustration, the resentment and regret that have built like a steam train picking up speed initiated by his actions. She simply wants to make the stubborn jackass understand why it has culminated in… this. 

“You did this to us.” Voice quivering, she wraps her arms around her waist to hide the shaking in her hands. “Get out of my house.” There’s a finality to the words that surprises both of them. 

She doesn’t want him to leave, not really, but she can’t think straight. Mind, heart, and soul are all cleaved cleanly in two. Warring, yet scrambling to stitch themselves back together. Despising the desire to feel the comfort of his arms, yet craving his touch… his warmth… his love. She needs a moment. Just a moment. 

“NOW!”

“I am sorry,” he whispers, turning to leave. 

His feet drag across the floor, hoping she’ll call after him to stay. The epiphany that this is how she must have felt when he destroyed everything good they had together rolls over him like a freight train of devastation. The jagged edges of his heart beg to be mended, smoothed over, and sealed together. 

Had he learned nothing over the years? When had keeping those he cared most about at arm’s length ever worked out? Hadn’t it only ever made him miserable and left them vulnerable and sometimes on the verge of death? What made him think this time would be any different? How did he convince himself that his actions would have no negative consequences for her? Why hadn’t he stopped himself when he knew it was wrong? 

Knowing the answers is no consolation. As much as he tries to control it, the anger is always simmering, so ready to punch through, eager to take control and keep the suffering masked, making it easier to let go than try and hold on. He hates himself for giving in to that compulsion. He deserves this, not her forgiveness or love, but her ire.  

Despite the bitterness of loss, there is a palpable sense of happiness. She survived. She’s free from hunting and living a good life, even if it’s not in the way he imagined. 

But why the hell hadn’t anyone told him what she was doing or about the danger she’d been in? 

Thoughts conflicted, a violent collision of anguish and acceptance, he tries to process it all. He needs time. Just a bit of time.

The front door clicks shut.

Part Four

Love Me Some Pie

@123passwort // @akshi8278 // @asgoodasdancingqueen // @calaofnoldor // @compresshischest09 // @deans-baby-momma // @deaneverafter // @deans-spinster-witch // @deanwanddamons // @flamencodiva // @globetrotter28 // @iamsapphine // @idreamofplaid // @jerkbitchidjitassbutt // @justagirlinafandomworld // @justrealizedimmascifygurl // @ladysparkles78 // @lyarr24 // @michellethetvaddict // @mimaria420 // @mrswhozeewhatsis // @mvdeanw // @princessmisery666 // @shawnie74 // @thinkinghardhardlythinking // @thoughts-and-funnies // @waynes-multiverse // @wayward-and-worn // @waywardbaby // @weepingwillowphoenix

[bling-blings]

mar__ri.n ☀️🍃 やっと春きたか〜早く桜見たいなあ。 이제 진짜 봄이 왔나봐~~좋다좋다~~

[hash-tag-official]

peach_jellys 해삐 수아데이💕 생일 축하해줘서 고마워요🫶🏻 해삐 덕분에 행복한 생일 보냈어요🥰 #해시태그 #hashtag #수아 #happybirthday #hbd

[talltalestogo]

Nourished

Nourished by March rains, /

the evergreen candytuft /

charms spring with its white.

.

.

#spring #march #charm #nourish #rains #evergreen_candytuft #photo #poem #haiku #oldnorthknoxville #davidebooker #Friday #032423 #2023

[lettwr]

032423.

[zennybb]

i forgot how much fun tf2 was, please enjoy this quick late night doodle.

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[divinum-pacis]

March 22, 2023: Indonesian Muslims perform evening prayer, “tarawih,” marking the first eve of the holy fasting month of Ramadan, at Istiqlal Mosque in Jakarta, Indonesia.

(AP Photo/Achmad Ibrahim)

[allaboutrings]

Vintage 10k Gold Citrine and Enamel Ring

[shefanispeculator]

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[nunleyart]

032423 “It's Gina's phone, leave me a voicemail. I won't check it 'cause it's not 1993.” #marchofrobots #marchofrobots2023 #mech #mecha #robot #scifiart #conceptart #sketchbook #sketch #sketchbookpro https://www.instagram.com/p/CqYv9DIPdQM/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[kard-dealer]

[032423] Instagram

somin_jeon0822:

Instagram Story

[talltalestogo]

“Nourished”

Nourished Nourished by March rains, / the evergreen candytuft / charms spring with its white. . . #spring #march #charm #nourish #rains #evergreen_candytuft #photo #poem #haiku #oldnorthknoxville #davidebooker #Friday #032423 #2023

[frailfish]

Hey it’s me. I’ve gained so much weight. But I’m a few days back in the game. I honestly missed the feeling of hunger a little bit. The willpower and the strength it takes not to stuff my face makes me feel like I can do anything. This time around I’ve also been working out more. Trying to be careful as I’m getting older and sometimes can feel faint because I’m eating less than 600 calories a day but most times as I workout with limited food intake I’ve been okay.

Too ashamed to weigh myself right now but I give myself until maybe June I’m back to where I was before I started bingeing again.

Also I changed my GW & UGW. I realized the weight that I want to be is unrealistic for me due to age. Naomi Campbell says once you get a little older you can’t lose too much weight or it’ll age you.. and I’m way too vain to let that happen so instead of trying to be super underweight for my height my goal is to get just skinny enough to where I don’t look helpless and ppl don’t question me much 😅

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[pansamantalamo]

032423 . FRIDAY . 12:35PM

Tungunung mindset yan! Utak bonak talaga. Shutaaa mag pepeninsula manila tapos ang gusto ipasuot khaki pants with black coat tapos yung sapatos Jordan. Hahaha! Taena mung gago mayayaman makakasama tapos naka ganun lang. Mukhang naka pang opisina lang na pupunta ng event.

Tungunu! paglalaban ko talaga na wag ng mag costume kung ganun din naman. Ayoko mag mukhang ewan sa event ng boss ko sa monday. Hayufff naka tayo pa sya e. Kung gusto nya maging panget dapat sya nalang, mandadamay pa.

Sinali sali nila ako sa sayaw ng sapilitan, tapos mag dedesisyon sila na pang clown! NO WAY BRUHHH! di ako papayag masira porma ko sa event.

[0613magazine]

032423 Rolling Stone

Jimin Is Ready to Show the World Who He’s Become

The multi-talented star and BTS member talks about his solo debut album Face — and shares how much his bandmates supported his creative process

Before Jimin was sure he could release a solo debut album, his fellow BTS members believed in him first. 

It was last spring, and the group was in Las Vegas, carrying out the last shows on their “Permission to Dance on Stage” stadium tour. In between nights, he opened up to his brother-like band members over drinks and told them about the self-doubt he’d been experiencing during the pandemic. That’s when he received the encouragement he needed from the group, who will celebrate their 10-year anniversary this summer, and felt prepared enough to embark on his own project.

“I was thinking things like, ‘Why am I living like this? What am I doing right now?’” he tells Rolling Stone through an interpreter, speaking on an early spring morning from the HYBE office in Seoul. His bandmates assured him that everyone goes through these growing pains. They suggested that expressing himself through music could offer a way forward.

Now, the 27-year-old artist from Busan, South Korea is preparing his vision as a solo pop star with Face, a captivating six-track album. Across the project, which is full of various sonic moods that veer from spiky and hard-hitting to velvety and sleek, Jimin portrays the conflicting feelings he’s had about himself and his journey as an artist. Though he wasn’t originally a singer when he joined Big Hit Entertainment at age 16, he’s developed one of K-pop’s most unique voices: It’s sweet, with delicately sharp edges, and he contorts his vowels as if they were soft curls of smoke. Through these subtle inflections, he conveys bitter isolation on the melancholic R&B song “Alone,” but then quickly switches to explosive anger on “Set Me Free Pt. 2.” On that boisterous, horn-laden hip-hop track, he proclaims that he’s entering a new era where he “won’t hide anymore even if it hurts,” singing as if he’s gritting his teeth. 

The project is a bold evolution from Jimin’s work in BTS, where he’s shown his penchant for making emotional R&B through tracks like 2016’s “Lie” and the sultry Latin-pop-inflected “Filter.” In 2018, he showed he could take on an acoustic singer-songwriter approach with his debut solo single “Promise” — which recently got an official release after living only on SoundCloud for years. For the upcoming Face singles, he’s also been teasing meticulously prepared performances, which have become a signature for the skilled dancer whose fluid yet powerful style is informed by his background in modern dance and martial arts. (To see the full scope of his talent, fans can watch his viral contemporary dance to “I Need U” at the 2019 MMA awards, where he flips and spins effortlessly as if he were wind personified, or his scene-stealing performance in 2020’s “Black Swan.”) He’s come a long way since he was a teenager impersonating the sensual performance style of his role model, Big Bang’s Taeyang; this January, he experienced a full circle moment when he was featured on the K-pop veteran’s long-awaited solo track “Vibe.”

Jimin explores a mesmerizing mix of emotions on the album’s lead single “Like Crazy,” which will come in both English and Korean versions. He found inspiration in the 2011 Drake Doremus-directed drama of the same name. Struck by the film’s depiction of a passionate romance between a British woman and American man whose relationship can never stabilize because of visa issues and their respective careers, he tried to convey these ambiguous feelings through the song’s choreography. He’s a perfectionist to his core: When I tell him that I’m looking forward to these performances, his response is simply, “I’ll work hard.” 

This album is called Face. What does the title mean to you?  In this album, I look back at myself. I heard that the word “face” has many different meanings. Of course, it has the meaning of the noun, face, but it also means, “to face, to [confront],” as a verb. So in order to stand at this new starting point and begin a new journey, I thought it would be necessary to look back at myself and face myself entirely. 

When you looked back at yourself, did you discover something new?  I wouldn’t say that I felt something new. But when I look back at myself during the pandemic and the emotions that I felt then, I actually didn’t really realize the feelings I had back then. [I thought] I was fine. I was happy. I was just enjoying things. But looking back, I realized that those weren’t the only feelings [I had]. After realizing that, I just thought that I should overcome [these feelings]. I think I kind of learned how to become a grown-up. I realize that I felt various emotions during the pandemic.

When you look at the lyrics on this album, there are themes of loneliness, wrestling with yourself, and of finding freedom. What kind of thoughts and feelings did you have while writing these lyrics? I’m actually not good at beating around the bush, or indirectly saying things, and that’s the same with my lyrics. I just wrote the emotions as they were, exactly how I felt two years ago, and the emotions that I felt in every situation [at that time]. So if you just listen to the music, you’ll understand the lyrics right away. 

How did you want to express yourself musically or production-wise on this project?  Since for every song, the emotions are all different, I wanted to express those feelings the way they are through the [production]. In the first part [of the album], there’s anger. The main track [“Like Crazy”], it feels happy, but there’s also loneliness behind it. Also, the choreography for the main track and the pre-release single, “Set Me Free Pt. 2” are totally different. 

“Interlude: Set Me Free” is a song by SUGA, from his 2020 mixtape D-2 as Agust D. How is this song and your song “Set Me Free Pt. 2” connected?  I think it would be hard to say that they’re actually connected. But when I was working on this song, I just thought that the phrase “set me free” would be the perfect title for it. Then I realized that there’s a song with the same name on Suga’s mixtape already. When I listened to that song, I realized it’s also a song about the struggles of becoming more mature, becoming a grown-up. So I thought it would make sense for my song to become the “part two” to that song. If we do have a chance or opportunity, I think it would be nice for him to do a feature on my song. [Laughs]

The first song, “Face-Off,” starts out with a melody that sounds like carnival music. What is that supposed to represent? It doesn’t actually have a specific meaning or significance. But when I worked on this song, the producers and I started fooling around with different pianos and instruments. When you listen to it, you realize this song is very intense, rebellious, and has a lot of anger. But starting it like that [with the carnival sound] would be a stark contrast to the rest of those vibes. So they said, ‘You know, if you start the song like this, it would be kind of paradoxical or ironic, and it could be pretty fun.” 

With “Interlude: Dive,” there are sounds of water and then sounds of you talking on stage. What kind of story is that track telling?  Originally, the first track was “Face-Off,” which is really intense and rebellious, and the next track was the main track, “Like Crazy,” which has a feeling of dreamy intoxication. I thought it would be nice to have something in-between that would bridge those two tracks, so that’s how we came up with “Dive.” If you listen to the track, you might hear sounds of someone panting for air, or me running somewhere. I wanted to give this feeling that I was lost and wandering. So I tried a lot of different things [for that song]. I actually recorded myself running around using my phone, and it was a fun process. 

For “Like Crazy,” you were inspired by the film Like Crazy. What did you like in particular about this movie, and how did it influence the song? I was actually on YouTube, and I came across this video of a mashup between this song “In Return” by Breakbot and clips of this movie. I was like, “Oh what is this?” and that led me to watching the movie. I thought it would be very romantic and sweet, but it turned out that it’s actually a very realistic and stark depiction of a breakup. So when we were talking about the main track, this movie suddenly came to my mind, and I thought it would fit well with the kind of song [we wanted to make]. So I watched the film again, and I included different points of inspiration [into the song]. There are some interesting excerpts of dialogue at the beginning and at the end [of the track] that express exactly what I wanted to say.

Can you share what the “Like Crazy” choreography and performance is going to be like? I tried to express the feelings of that movie… You know, the somewhat complex, somewhat lonely, somewhat happy emotions. I tried to express all these ambiguous and subtle emotions in a slightly sexy way, but I’m not sure how it’ll end up being received by people. [Laughs]

I know that you have a background in modern dance, as well as different martial arts like taekwondo and kendo. How do you think these different movement forms influence your dance style now? Honestly, when I started to learn choreography, I thought my background in modern dance and different kinds of movement would be a hindrance to me. But when I was establishing my own way of expressing choreography after debuting, I think those things actually became hugely helpful. What I thought would be bad habits ended up having a positive impact. I could see dances with a different perspective than other people, and I could mix in my modern dance style or incorporate powerful acrobatics into the choreography. So I think those foundational forms actually built who I am now. 

When you were preparing this album, how did the other members help you? Or how were you influenced by them during the process? Actually, my members were the people who made it possible for me to start preparing this album. This all began at the [Permission to Dance on Stage] concerts in Las Vegas last year, and at the time, I was struggling with the emotions that ended up in [“Like Crazy”]… While we were talking over drinks, I told them, “I don’t know if I’m doing well. I don’t even know what I’m doing.” But the members said that it’s perfectly fine to feel that way, that it’s okay to feel lost sometimes. They suggested, “Why don’t you express these emotions through music?” 

So the moment I returned to Korea from the United States, I met up with the producers and started working on music right away. I’m so thankful to my members for inspiring me to start working on this album. I don’t know how people are going to react to the music, but I actually was able to completely resolve and move on from all those feelings of being lost. I’m perfectly okay now, so I’m so very thankful to them. 

What was it about the Las Vegas concerts that brought up all these emotions for you? As you know, we couldn’t meet our fans in person during the pandemic. At that time, I didn’t feel like I had enough space or time to be able to reflect on myself. So I [lived] not really knowing what I was doing, or why I was working so hard up to that point and for what. Each day, I had all these different thoughts and emotions. But during the Las Vegas concerts, I had the chance to talk with my members about how they were also surviving during this time. Before, I thought that I was the only one who was feeling and acting weird, and that all my members were still working really hard and still looked really cool, that they were shining on their own. I thought I was the odd one out, so talking to them really helped me get back on my feet. 

On a different subject, what was it like working with Taeyang on “Vibe?” It was such a happy memory for me. As you know, he has been my role model since I was little. So the fact that I could meet him, listen to him sing right next to me, be able to closely observe him working on music, dance with him, film the music video, and perform together… All of it made me so happy.

When Taeyang appeared on SUGA’s interview series, Suchwita, he said that you’re someone who works really hard. Hearing this, how do you view yourself? I contacted him a lot during the entire process of recording and practicing “Vibe.” I actually took a lot of time recording my parts on my own, since it’s not a very easy song. I think everytime I made a new recording, I sent it over to him, like, “This is today’s version of the recording, could you listen to it please?” Then the next day, I would send a new recording and say, “I fixed these details, what do you think of today’s version?” After he saw me doing that, I think that maybe that’s why he said that and saw me in a positive way.

Can you describe the way that you practice while preparing to release a new album? There’s something I always say to the producers I work with: “Practice is the answer.” If I have some time after I finish work in the evenings, I practice singing with the producers. I practice dancing. I keep trying to spend as much time practicing as I can. It’s just an infinite cycle of practicing. 

Source: Rolling Stone

[oneeachday]

032423