#Bobby gets his hands on chains and hes showing them off and Phil freaks the fuck out

[cosmic-d1ce]

if any of the kids were to accidentally trigger something for phil durring babysitterza days, what would they do ? would they try to help or just instantly send someone out to call for an adult (and if so which adult(s) would they call for?) - 💿

Its inevitable that one of them would. Given how a lot of eggs are, Bobby and Ramon in particular, they are bound to trigger Phil at some point

When they do, Richas is absolutely the first to act, he stops everything and gets everyone's attention because he has seen this before. He has been with Phil for months of his imprisonment and he knows how to deal with it. He can work out what triggered him and get rid of it quickly

Chayanne is the one that gets help from an adult, usually Missa, and if he's not available, Bad and sometimes Wilbur bc even if hes evading his own guilt he still wants to help

And if Richas isn't there, Tallulah tries to help as best she can. She's a very smart kid, despite being the least developed and "youngest" egg. She's very good at comforting Phil and having a kid around helps calm him a lot

All of the eggs stop what theyre doing as soon as they notice and have varying methods of helping. Bobby shuts everyone up, Chayanne gets help, Dapper makes sure the environment is calm, Ramon takes Chayanne's place as protector egg, Tallulah sometimes plays music and Richas figures out what went wrong

Phil feels really bad that the kids have to help him but they all make sure he knows its okay and he cant help it and theyre big kids now and know how to help!!

[fanfic-from-a-67-impala]

A Supernatural x Reader Story Chapter Twenty-Seven: Man’s Best Friend with Benefits, Part Two

Word count: 4119

(You can also find it on Wattpad here)

Master Post

"You know what you're going to do about this, uh, witch thing?" Dean asks.

You sit across the table from the boys, inspecting the pages from Bobby's book laid out in front of you, and allow yourself to peek up at his grave eyes.

"Well, there's an entry in Bobby's journal about this spell," you tell him, not matching the sternness in his voice as you slide the page across the tabletop, "'Creating False Memories into Another Witch's Mind,' so it is possible, at least."

"Awesome," he says, barely glancing at the paper. "But that's not what I meant."

"I know what you meant," you reply, teeth clenched. "But what am I supposed to do? Call up Crowley, tell him to get the Hell out of me?"

Sam, whose gaze has fallen on you as well, scoffs. "That's not funny."

"You see me laughing?" you retort. "God, the both of you... Whatever happens or doesn't happen, it can wait until we wrap this up, all right?"

You eye them both, and they each look as if they have more to say, but concede to dropping it for now.

• • • • • • • • • • • •

"Portia tells me my friends in the community want me burned at the stake," James says as you and the boys walk into his room.

"I'm not gonna lie," Dean says. "It's getting ugly."

"And the cops may have more on the case than they're saying," Sam informs him, "including a thick dossier on you."

"Me?" James questions, disbelieving.

"Yeah, I get the feeling whatever they have is under lock and key at the precinct," Sam adds. "Room C-110."

"Then we need to break in," James states.

"Sure," Dean scoffs. "Yeah, a locked room in a joint crawling with cops twenty-four-seven. Why didn't I think of that?"

"Dean," James says, "a witch can go to a place without having to go to a place."

Dean gives him a blank look. "What, like phone sex?"

"Astral projection. I can project my awareness anywhere, from the comfort of right here," James clarifies, then holds up his hands, the iron chains clanging as they are pulled up with his wrists. "But these have got to go."

"Not gonna happen," Dean answers.

"Irons on, no magic," James explains. "No magic, no break-in."

You and the boys glance at each other, Dean's eyes full of doubt, but Sam raises his brows in consideration.

"Okay," he says, "but only if we can go with you."

James looks skeptical about taking extra people on the journey, but Sam and Dean show no signs of negotiating further.

Soon, the shackles have been dropped back into Dean's zipped bag, and Sam and Dean sit on either side of James, shoulder to shoulder, at the foot of the bed.

"James, are you sure you're still even able to do this?" Portia asks.

Dean look over to James, then back to her. "Oh, well, that's a confidence builder," he remarks. "Anything else I should know before I become some disembodied thing, completely at his mercy?"

"My gas tank's been running low since all this started," James admits, "but there is another energy source I could pull from."

You don't realize that he is looking at you until every other eye in the room has turned in your direction.

"I-I don't know how..." you stammer, shaking your head.

"You don't need to know how," James says. "You just need to let me draw from your power. It's the only surefire way I won't run out of energy in the middle of the spell."

You see it in your mind, how these things escalate. How drawing power leads to performing spells leads to practicing magic leads to hurting...

"I'm sorry," you say. "This– I can't."

"(Y/N), please," Portia says at your side. "We need this to work."

You tear your eyes away from her pleading ones to Dean, perhaps the person whose judgement on this matter you most trust, but he fixates on the ground next to him, avoiding your gaze. Mistakenly, you turn to Sam, who meets you with understanding eyes, letting you know it is your decision to make. You feel your resolve breaking under his gaze, realizing the risk you would be placing upon all of them if you refused.

Almost as if he can see your decision as you make it, he holds out a tentative hand toward you, and you take it in yours.

"Fine," you yield.

James nods at you. "Everyone close your eyes," he says, placing a hand on their shoulders, and you all obey.

"Libera me occulta," he chants, "cognoscere veritatem."

Through closed eyelids, you see the five of you crowded in the bedroom from an aerial view. Within seconds, you have traveled out of the house and over the city to a police station, where you enter the room labelled C-110.

Inside, a surly-looking man takes a seat at a desk. Nearby, another man stands in front of a cork board lined with dozens of papers – pictures, maps, and crime scene reports – all of them seeming to be evidence of the murders James saw in his sleep.

The longer you are in the spell, the longer it seems to take your vision to focus on words and images, and you can sense James rushing to get the information.

The first man's computer displays a picture of James and a list of his records. The man flips through a stack of stapled papers until he lands on a sheet titled Witness Statement. At the bottom of the page, a line indicates a signature by the witness, Philippe LeChat.

James focuses on the signature and, before you register what you are seeing, you are pulled out of the station and back to the house, where a sharp blast of air sends your consciousness back into your body.

When you open your eyes, the room is spinning and you have to grip Sam's shoulder to steady yourself, wishing you had the mind to sit down before the spell. Dean says something in a heated tone to James, who has stumbled forward next to Portia, but you can't process what he is saying.

You expect the feeling to pass, but your stomach still turns over and you can't seem to get enough oxygen.

Your weak legs stumble through the dizziness in the direction of the door. "Do you have a –"

"Second door on the left," Portia gestures.

Running your hands along the walls for balance on the way, you reach the bathroom and drop to your knees to vomit into the toilet.

When it seems your stomach has emptied itself, you rest the side of your head on the cool porcelain of the seat until you manage to steady your breathing, push the flush lever, and drag yourself up to the nearest sink.

With one arm bracing yourself to the counter top, you raise a shaky, clammy hand to turn the faucet and let the cool water run on your fingers before splashing it on your face, letting it mix with the tears that have fallen sideways, running down your jawbone, dripping off your chin, down your neck.

Once you manage to assuage the spinning in your head and focus your eyes, you catch yourself in the mirror – pale and trembling, almost unrecognizable.

In the distance, a crashing, a shattering of ceramic, comes from the bedroom. You turn your head, too quickly, and the room spirals again, knocking you to your hands and knees on the vinyl floor.

You compose yourself again and grip the door frame for support, rising to stagger back down the hall, aware of every quivering breath.

From the doorway, you see Dean, face down, his lower body at the head of the bed, among a pile of broken furniture.

"Dean," you call, sliding a nightstand away so you can shake him into consciousness, holding his face in your hands. "Dean? Hey!"

His eyes blink open and squint into focus. "You look like crap," he comments, his voice groggy.

You let out a relieved laugh, clapping a hand on his shoulder as you make your way to the other side of the room, where Sam has landed in a corner. A broken lamp and a laundry basket seem to have avalanched over him.

"Sam," you say, clearing the debris away and reaching out to grasp his shoulder.

He stirs, shaking his head as if to clear it as he rights himself.

Seeing he is all right, you collapse to the side, leaning against the bed frame. "What happened to you two?" you breathe. "Where are James and Portia?"

"The detective working the murders," Sam slurs, holding his head in his hands, "he's building a case against James. I think he kind of freaked."

"And Philippe, the witness," Dean says, walking around the bed toward you and Sam, "he's a familiar to one of the witches here. I think I know where to find them."

"What happened to you?" Sam asks you, brows furrowed in concern.

You run a hand down your face, still moist from sweat and bathroom water. "The spell," you say. "It was just a little draining, I think. I'll be fine."

You grip the side of the bed and pull yourself off the ground, not trusting your knees to support your weight, but you have already begun to feel stronger, more in control.

"You think James went after this Philippe guy?" you ask Dean.

"Yeah. My money's on that witch den Portia took me to last night," he says.

"Do we go after him?" Sam questions, standing. "Philippe did try to frame him for the murders. Might be best to let them duke it out on their own."

"Something's not adding up," you muse. "A witch needs to perform that memory spell."

"Phil belongs to this witch, Spencer," Dean explains. "But it seemed like he and James were buddies."

"And witches are so trustworthy," you mutter, earning double glances from the boys, which you ignore. "If they were friends, then he could get close enough to James to cast the spell."

Dean takes on a concerned tone. "It looked like Spencer was a big leaguer. And James has been playing the game for what – a year, tops?"

Sam gives him an nod in acknowledgement. "We gotta get down there."

• • • • • • • • • • • •

You follow Dean's car into the city, where he leads you and Sam into an old building, down a marble staircase, and into an elegant bar, empty except for James and another man in a suit.

"...broke the code, put your passions before the community rules," the man – Spencer, you think – sneers, "well, the arrogance, the entitlement was too much. Your total ruination seemed appropriate."

He turns his head to the side where you, Sam, and Dean have stepped into the room.

"The wiccan from Detroit," he says.

"So, James didn't kill those –" Dean starts, but Spencer has already waved a hand, sending the three of you off your feet and colliding with the wall behind you.

You land on the corner of a table, which jabs a sharp pain into your ribs before falling on its side, letting you fall behind it. Sam and Dean have landed beside you, sprawled over nearby tables and chairs.

A loud crashing sound harmonizing with an electrical hum comes from James' direction, and Spencer stumbles backward into your view.

"Seriously?" he says, regaining his balance. "You want to take me on?"

He motions to James with an even louder crash, sending blue light his way and taking some kind of hold on the other witch.

Sam and Dean pull themselves to their feet, and you follow as Dean scrambles to get the spell bottle out of his jacket pocket.

Spencer casts a hand in your direction, sending an electrical jolt through you and the boys.

"It's not only James' head I can get inside," he says.

Though your eyes are open, the room goes dark before images flood your vision – horrifically familiar ones that haunt your nightmares, but also ones you thought you suppressed, cast into the deepest, darkest corners of your subconsciousness.

Hell comes in flashes, each more gruesome than the other. You see yourself in the midst of a fiery lake, your flesh burning. You see your heart crushed under the pain of being forced to watch a mother see her daughter bleed out, being forced to feel Ellen's pain as she loses Jo. You see Dean take a knife and slice it into your skin, and you hear yourself cry out.

Your vision goes dark again, and you are in a familiar room. A basement. Two figures, your mother and father, whose faces you forgot until now, stand over you, eyes black. Their hands run over your small body, forcing their way inside you until you let out a raspy scream.

A bright blue light snaps you back into the bar, and before your eyes, a large dog has brought Spencer to the ground. Portia.

As the witch struggles, Dean pulls out the bottle and holds out the cloth wick to Sam, who lights the end of it as you utter the incantation.

Dean hurls it at Spencer, who has thrown Portia to the side, and he is enveloped in a dark grey cloud, wailing in pain as he is reduced to a splattering of blood on the floor.

• • • • • • • • • • • •

The rain-soaked pavement of the motel parking lot reflects the moonlight, mirroring the glistening droplets on the Impala's black sheen.

"You sure you don't want to stay and fight this?" Dean asks James.

"We can help you," Sam adds.

"Spencer was right," James says. "Ed Stoltz has built enough of a case against me to make life hell for a long time, and the community here wants no part of us."

"We start over," Portia says. "It's the way it's always been, for all of us."

James meets your eyes. "I have a few connections outside the city. I could make a call, get someone to help you learn about all this."

You shake your head. "Like I said, witchcraft isn't in the cards for me."

"I know you have your beliefs, but you also have a gift," Portia says, her tone gentle. "You're not even going to try to use it? You're just going to live your life?"

"Hunting is my life," you reply. "It's all I need."

She nods, understanding, and looks over to you and the boys. "I'll miss you. Maybe even you," she adds with a pointed look to Dean.

"I like dogs," he shrugs, unconvincingly.

"No, you really don't," she says with a smirk, climbing into James' car.

They pull out of the lot, leaving the open space feeling empty.

"Let's clean up and hit the road," Dean says, turning to the door of the room.

"Whoa," you hold out a hand to stop him. "You don't want to get some rest? Did you two sleep at all last night?"

"It's still early, Mom," he chuckles, continuing on his way. "And there's a nice, clean bed that doesn't smell like mold that I can't wait to get back to."

Giggling, you are about to follow him inside, but Sam gives your arm a soft touch and you turn around again.

He peers over your shoulder until Dean is out of earshot. "So, you're not going to consider practicing magic?"

Your smile disappears and you blink at him, sure you must have heard him wrong. "What?"

"Just... hear me out," he pleads. "It might not be all bad. We've met some white witches before, and you saw what James does."

"We almost molotov'd James," you deadpan. "It just as easily could have been him killing those people. I'm not saying he hasn't done some good, but power corrupts, Sam. You know I can't take that chance."

He draws back slightly at your acidic words, scanning the ground.

You let your eyes close, realizing how tired you are, how you are not upset with him, but rather at this part of you that can turn you into this abominable thing.

"Look, I'm sorry I snapped earlier. I know you meant well," you say, taking the sting out of your tone. You swallow back the lump in your throat, though your voice still catches on your next words. "But you have to let me figure this one out on my own. If anything happened to you or Dean –"

"Hey, you don't need to worry about us," he murmurs, taking your hands in both of his. "And I'm sorry, too, okay? I shouldn't have pushed. But I want you to know that I'm here, whatever you choose to do."

He says it with a sort of helplessness in his voice, like he knows there isn't a lot he can do.

You look away from him as you blink back stubborn tears that have infiltrated your eyes, nodding in thanks.

A cold drizzle of rain hit your face and your wrists, which peek out from your jacket.

"I'll find a way to deal," you promise. "Let's get inside."

As you break apart to head toward the room, he clears his throat, but you don't stop to turn around until he coughs with force, taking a small gasp between throes.

"You oka–?"

You stop short at the sight of a drop of blood at the corner of his mouth.

His mouth forms a question, confused at your alarmed expression, until he inspects his hand as he pulls it away, the palm splattered with the same bright red.

"The trial?" you question.

He wipes away the blood with his fingers. "I'm fine."

"The hell you are," you mumble.

"(Y/N), I need to get this done," he says.

"I know you do," you sigh. "But if this gets worse, you tell me."

He opens his mouth to argue, but can't find words of defense.

You catch his eye again, meeting it with a stern gaze. "Okay?"

He stares at you until you have made it clear you will not take no for an answer, and he nods in concession.

Continuing on your path toward the door, your mind catches on a dreaded thought: It can only get worse.

• • • • • • • • • • • •

Scanning the web for another case, you drum your fingers against the desk.

When you feel a jolt through your hand, you glance down to see a growing blue light surrounding it in sharp flashes, like the bolts exchanged between the witches earlier tonight.

In the blink of an eye, the light spreads to fill your vision, the room, the bunker. In surprise, in fear, you let out a scream.

Another blink. The walls crash down around you. Clouds of dust surround the piles of rubble at your feet.

You stumble into the library, calling the boys' names, but you can't get your voice above a whisper. Books and blocks of concrete line the dusty ground. Your eyes scan the room and land on something protruding from a mountain of debris. An arm, sleeved in red flannel.

"No, no, no," you whimper into the dusty air. You pry the slabs of rock from the pile, but each time, the hill seems to grow taller, the blocks heavier, each breath more strained as the soot coats your throat.

Song insert: John Lennon – Imagine (YouTube) (Spotify)

Your vision goes dark, though you blink your eyes open, letting tears fall from the corners sideways, hitting your ears. You shoot up (how did you get on your back?) and gulp in the clear air.

A banging sound fills the room with light, and a figure rushes through the doorway, gun raised.

"Dean?" you exclaim.

Your palms, though no longer bloody from the sharp edges of the rock, feel damp with the same cold sweat that moistens your forehead, your back, your neck.

"Dream," you breathe, afraid a longer explanation would give away the shakiness of your voice. "Sorry, go back to bed."

His gun-wielding hand falls to his side and he lets himself relax against the doorframe, dragging a hand across his sleepy eyes.

"You want to talk?" he asks, his voice gruff from the abrupt awakening.

You flinch at the thought as you swipe at the tears that have run down your cheeks. "No."

He strides over to your bed anyway and rests his gun on the nightstand before he sits down next to you. "All right, then you're going to listen."

His eyes travel from yours to the rest of the room, landing on the duffel bag at the foot of your bed, still unpacked except for two days' worth of clothes, which you shoved back inside when you got to the bunker tonight.

"You know what I've always hated about witches?" he says as he turns back to you.

"Their tendency to conjure knives in your stomach?" you suggest, remembering a hunt from what seems like ages ago.

"Yeah," he agrees. "That, and the fact that they choose to... wreak havoc. Demons, ghosts – I mean, they've all gotta go, but they didn't want to be who they are. It's just their nature. But the witches that we hunt – it's their choices that put them in that position. But I know you, (Y/N), and you're a good person." He casts a pointed frown at the duffel. "And all of this doesn't make you not you."

You let your breathing slow with his words, searching his eyes for anything but the distinct sincerity you find.

"You don't need to say all this," you whisper. "I know how you feel about it all."

"And how's that?" he questions.

"Come on, Dean," you say. "This thing inside of me? It's dirty, and it's risky to keep around and you know that. You've barely been able to look at me since we found out."

His forehead crinkles as he tilts his chin down at you. "That's what you think? That I'm going to leave behind one of the best friends I've ever had because you might go Wicked Witch of the Midwest on us?"

"I remember a time when you would shoot anything supernatural on sight," you remark.

He pauses, and you can see the recollection flash in his eyes as they turn away from you. "That's not what this is about," he murmurs.

You tuck your legs underneath your body so you can face each other more comfortably.

"When I got out," he gulps, "and you didn't... call it survivor's guilt, whatever it was."

"I-I know," you stammer, recalling the second Segment of Hell, where your soul was sent back to Earth and you were forced to feel all the pain of the people you loved. You remember Dean's guilt in particular, this constant, crushing thing, being some of the worst of it.

"I think all of this just brought it back up," he admits. "I didn't know how I was going to face you. Tell you I was sorry."

"Dean, you don't have anything to be sorry for," you say. "I know you think you do, but you don't."

"Maybe," he muses. "But it's you who was in there for years, (Y/N). And now you're the one who has to deal with all of this."

"You were in your own Hell," you note. "You had to deal with the devil. You died. You watched Sam die, and Bobby. And on top of all that, you're carrying this around – this guilt."

He grips the side of the bed, still avoiding your gaze. You reach out to place a hand on his cheek, coaxing his eyes toward yours.

"Please, for me," you whisper. "Let it go?"

He closes his eyes and nods into your hand. When he opens them again, his eyes catch on the duffel once more.

"If you need to leave, if you need a break, or just to be on your own, Sammy and I'll be here for you," he says. "But we need you to not give up. You have choices, free will, and we need you to keep kicking."

Choices.

The word echoes in your mind, playing over and over, like waves weathering the sharp edges of your broken glass, leaving it soft and pearly, still broken, but no longer precarious, no longer able to do any damage.

You let the waves lap over you, a reassurance that if even Dean can put faith in your stained soul, you owe it to him and Sam, to yourself, to try. The thought brings a small smile to your lips.

"I was thinking I'd stick around for a while," you say. "Can't get rid of me that easily."