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abbotjack · 2 months ago

Text

Wounds Unhealed

pairing : jack abbot x ex-millitary-attending!reader (afab!reader technically if I pursue part two but overall the tone is gender neutral in this)

summary : In the chaos of the emergency department, an ex-military doctor who fled their past is forced to confront everything they’ve been running from when they come face to face with Jack. They struggle to navigate the remnants of their broken relationship.

warnings/content : Trigger warning for grief, PTSD/Survivor's guilt, self-harm, suicide attempt, trauma , emotional abuse(?), flashbacks to combat trauma, violence (graphic descriptions of injury and blood), language, potential medical errors (as I am a math major), dead dad mention. Very angst.

word count : 2,550

Not beta read. Please read responsibly.

a/n : Ok not sure how I feel about this one! But still wanted to share. If any of you are interested in part two let me know ♡

The emergency department didn’t sleep so much as it simmered.

The lights were too bright, the voices muffled just enough to make everything feel farther away, and the machines ticked with the slow, detached precision of something that didn’t care whether you were ready. You’d only transferred here six months ago, but the tension had never left you—not after the Army, not after your dad, and certainly not after you found out Jack was here. If anything, it had dug in deeper. The quiet in the ER didn’t soothe—it stalked. You didn’t rest between traumas. You waited for the next one to hit.

You weren’t supposed to be here. You came to The Pitt because your father died. Because Cleveland had become too heavy to carry. Every street corner held a memory, every routine a painful echo. Grief hung in the air, thick and suffocating, wrapping itself around everything like smoke. So you left it all behind. And somehow, you ended up here.

He died suddenly. A heart attack. One minute, he was in the kitchen, making your favorite dinner—because you’d promised to come over—and the next, he was gone. No warning. No time. Just a sharp ring in the middle of the night, followed by an all-encompassing silence. You weren’t even home. You were at the hospital—saving someone else. Intubating a stranger. Ordering labs. Doing CPR. You were doing your job.

But not the one that mattered.

You still weren’t sure you’d forgiven yourself for that.

Because you were a doctor. Because you’d memorized the signs. Because the worst part was—you weren’t even supposed to be on that shift. You were covering for a colleague who had a family emergency. If you'd stayed home, if you'd gone to dinner like you'd planned—maybe he’d still be here. Maybe he wouldn’t have died alone on that kitchen floor, waiting for someone who should’ve known better. Someone who was supposed to know how to save him.

And it wasn’t just him.

You thought of all the ones you couldn’t save. The patients back home. The ones you overseas. The ones who looked you in the eyes and trusted you to keep them alive.

You carried them all.

Pittsburgh was supposed to be a clean slate.

It was the kind of irony your dad would've grumbled about for weeks. A lifelong Browns fan, he'd have rolled his eyes at the idea of you living and working in Pittsburgh, of all places. You could almost hear the dry sarcasm in his voice—“So you traded in the lake for black and yellow? That’s how I raised you?”—and the ghost of that teasing made your chest ache more than you were ready for.

You didn’t come to The Pitt expecting to see Jack. It hadn’t even occurred to you that he might be here—until you looked up from a chart, and there he was. Half-turned at the trauma board, shoulders tense, voice low as he gave instructions. And when he glanced over his shoulder and your eyes met, it was like time stuttered to a stop. Your breath caught. Your pen froze mid-sentence. That one glance cracked something open in your chest you thought you’d buried for good.

You’d rehearsed this moment in your head more times than you’d admit—how it would feel to see him again. To stand across from Jack like no time had passed, like the distance between then and now wasn’t filled with everything you never said. You thought maybe you’d feel anger. Maybe peace. Maybe nothing at all.

But standing there, staring at him across the trauma board, it wasn’t any of those things.

It was everything.

The years collapsed in on themselves. Your chest tightened. The ache came back fast, sharp, and blinding.

And threaded through it all, the one truth you hadn’t been able to outrun :

Jack hadn’t come to the funeral.

You told yourself not to care. Told yourself not to expect anything. But part of you had searched for him—in the crowd, in the back, somewhere.

You knew he knew. Word like that didn’t stay quiet—not in your old circles. Maybe someone from the VA passed it along, or a mutual friend from deployment had sent out a quiet message. Jack had ways of hearing things no one expected him to.

But he never called. Never texted. Never showed.

And maybe that was the worst part. Because you didn’t tell him yourself.

You didn’t have it in you. You were too hollow to reach for comfort, too numb to believe he’d even care—not after all the silence, all the years. You hadn’t seen him in so long. Why would he care?

But he did.

You saw it the moment your eyes locked across the trauma board. The instant his breath caught and he looked away—like seeing you was both something he’d been dreading and desperately needing at the same time.

And in that moment, everything shifted.

It hit you because your father had met Jack—years ago, when things had felt simpler. You’d brought Jack home one winter, when flights were too expensive and the stay was brief. Your dad had poured him whiskey, made him feel at home, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

What you didn’t know—what Jack never got to tell you—was that your dad had pulled him aside the next morning. You’d been home less than twelve hours. You were still asleep upstairs, jetlagged and bone-tired. Jack was in the kitchen, helping with coffee, quiet and uncertain in a place that wasn’t his. Your dad had studied him for a long moment before simply saying it: that he’d seen the way Jack looked at you—steady, unflinching, like he’d already made up his mind. That there was a softness in you when you were around him, something rare and hard-earned. That it didn’t feel like he had to worry when you were with Jack.

He told Jack he was the one.

Jack had never forgotten that.

Weeks later, he picked out a ring. He didn’t tell you—not then. He thought he’d have time.

But everything that followed made time irrelevant. The war didn’t stop. The trauma didn’t ease. You both kept going, but never toward each other. After the blast, after the man you couldn’t save, after Jack found you—everything inside you cracked. And once it did, you didn’t know how to look him in the eye anymore.

You didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t explain. You just left.

Just transfer papers. A city with no connection. A number he couldn’t call, and a name that never showed up in his inbox again. You left like you’d never been there. And he let you—because what else was he supposed to do, when silence was all you gave him?

Now it was 3:00 AM, and your gut knew before the pager even buzzed.

Trauma incoming. Field lacerations. Exsanguinating. Unstable vitals. One of those cases that had weight before it even crossed the threshold.

The doors burst open. A man—mid-twenties, bleeding heavily, soaked in sweat and panic—was wheeled in fast. Dog tags around his neck. Vitals crashing.

“Attempted suicide,” the medic snapped. “Self-inflicted lacerations. Found him in his car, barely responsive. No ID except those tags.”

Your whole body locked.

Not because of the trauma. Not because of the chaos. But because he looked like someone you used to be.

And Jack saw it, too.

You could feel his eyes on you before he said a word.

“Back off,” he said quietly, already stepping in front of you.

“Jack—”

“You’re too close to this.”

The words didn’t sting. They steadied you. Like he knew he had to catch you before you broke.

You stepped back without thinking.

You passed Dana in the hallway. She didn’t look up. Didn’t see your hands shaking or the way your mouth trembled. You could’ve been a ghost. And that made it worse.

You found the supply closet and closed the door.

And it hit you.

The man in the trauma bay. The dog tags. The blood. The way he hadn’t screamed, hadn’t fought. Just lay there—silent, resigned, already halfway gone. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen that look. You’d worn it.

That night that changed you wasn’t just one casualty. It was a mass trauma. A convoy ambushed. Bodies dragged in faster than your team could stabilize them. You and Jack were stationed at the clinic tent, barely breathing between patients. You lost count of how many. Lost track of whose blood was on your hands.

One man—someone you knew, trained with—flatlined mid-intubation. You did everything right. You still lost him. And something in you broke. Quietly, invisibly.

When the last patient had been tagged for evac, you told Jack you were going to inventory supplies. Instead, you slipped into a small, dimly lit room off to the side. The door clicked shut behind you, shutting out the chaos. You sank to the floor in your bloodied uniform, shaking, numb.

You pulled the morphine from your personal pouch. Not logged. Not questioned. You knew the dosage. Knew it wouldn’t kill you—not outright—but it might make the noise stop. Might slow down the spinning.

You drew it up and injected it, the cold liquid slipping into your vein with a sense of finality. No hesitation. Just the quiet assurance that, for a moment, you might finally find some peace.

But then, as if on cue, Jack found you.

He didn’t knock. Didn’t call for help. He just knew.

He dropped to his knees in front of you, eyes quickly scanning the scene. One look at the syringe and the emptiness in your gaze, and he didn’t wait. His hands shook, but only for a second before he steadied himself. He didn’t have time for fear or doubt.

“Stay with me,” he said, his voice low, raw—something in it breaking as it reached for you. “Look at me, honey. I’ve got you.”

Without another word, he took the syringe from your hand, his grip firm, almost desperate. He grabbed the Narcan from his kit and pushed the syringe into your arm.

His eyes stayed locked on yours as he checked your pupils, his fingers pressing against your neck to count your pulse. The world outside seemed to disappear, the noise fading into the background. Everything was just about you now, and the panic in his chest was quieted by a single, quiet hope.

“Please,” he whispered, almost too soft to hear. His hands shook, but it was barely noticeable now—like the fear was there, but not enough to stop him from doing what he had to.

You could feel your breath slowly return to a normal rhythm, the fog in your head beginning to lift. The dizziness subsided, the sharp pull of your mind retreating as the rush of life gradually filled you again.

You didn’t cry. You couldn’t. But you leaned into his shoulder when he sat beside you, and he let you stay there for hours.

He never told anyone. Never wrote a report. And when you finally stood up again, it was with his hand at your back.

You never talked about it again.

But the patient in Trauma One—he reminded you. Of yourself. Of that night. Of the moment when all it would’ve taken was one more second alone.

That was the night everything changed.

You shut everyone out after that.

And now he was here. Opening the supply closet door like no time had passed.

“You always run here,” Jack said softly.

You didn’t look at him. “I’m not running.”

“No?” He leaned against the shelving. “Then what is this?”

You stayed silent, and Jack exhaled slowly.

“I’m fine.”

“You were cracking.”

“I didn’t know he’d look like that.”

Jack was quiet, the silence heavier than anything he could’ve said.

“You don’t get to act like you still know me,” you said, finally breaking the stillness.

“I do know you.”

“It’s been years.”

“I still know you.”

He stepped closer. “I should’ve come to the funeral.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Why didn’t you?”

“I thought maybe you didn’t want me there.”

“I didn’t want to be alone.”

Jack’s mouth tightened as he looked down, then back up at you.

“He told me, you know,” Jack said, his voice low. “Your dad. That night at Christmas. He said he thought I was it.”

Your breath caught.

“What?”

“I never told you. Didn’t want to scare you off. I had a ring.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

You stared at him, voice faltering. “I didn’t leave to hurt you.”

“But you still left.”

“I didn’t know how to stay.”

Jack nodded, slowly, like he’d heard it before. “And I didn’t know how to stop hoping you’d come back.”

The silence between you both stretched thin, filled with things neither of you were saying.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you whispered.

You looked at him. Really looked. His face was older, tired, but his eyes were still on you—like nothing had changed.

Jack's voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “You think this doesn’t kill me too? Watching you walk around like you don’t still have a piece of me under your skin?”

Your throat tightened. “I never meant to—”

“But you did.” His voice shook. “You left. You never came back. You let me go. And I still... I still see you every time I close my eyes.”

You stepped forward, just barely. “It wasn’t about you.”

“I know that,” Jack said, his words barely audible. “But it was always you for me.”

You looked down, your voice shaking. “I thought I was doing you a favor. I thought if I disappeared, you’d move on.”

“I don’t want someone else,” he said, his voice steady now. “I want you. Even now. Even when it hurts.”

You closed your eyes. “That’s the problem. I don’t know how to stop hurting.”

Jack swallowed hard. “Then let me help. Or don’t. But don’t keep standing in front of me like I’m the past, when I never stopped waiting for the future.”

You didn’t reach for him.

Not yet.

And this time, he noticed.

Jack blinked hard, like he was trying to push the moment away, trying to stop himself from falling apart. His jaw clenched once, twice, and for a second, you thought he might say something unforgivable, something final.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he took a slow step back, his gaze falling to you. “You’re so rigid,” he said, his voice sharper now, frustration cutting through. “You’ve been working here for six months, and yet your locker is still not unpacked. Like you’re waiting to run again. And I can’t... I can’t do this with you again, if that’s your intention. If you’re just planning to leave me again, like you did before.”

You looked up, lips parted, but no sound came out.

Jack shook his head, the muscle in his cheek twitching. “Don’t stand here pretending like you don’t feel anything. That’s not who you are. And that’s not who we were.”

He lingered for just a moment longer.

Then, he turned and walked away.

No door slam.

Just the sound of your breath catching too late.

Just the feeling that this time, maybe he wouldn’t come back.

#jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #the pitt #the pitt hbo #angst #shawn hatosy

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13tinysocks · 26 days ago

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My Dead Girlfriend

With water, your powers return. Only to be used in a betrayal that ends up feeding everybody.

[Part one] [Ao3] [8] [10]

TW: Major Character Death, Cannibalism, Nyaaa :3 Did I tell you guys nobody is safe :33

9 * Eat It [7.5k]

"So let your real flag fly, you fuckin' freak."

To Cleveland (And Beyond) - Go Hang

Day seven.

You can drink by your lonesome. Move and walk, but not very fast or far without feeling woozy. Use of your powers made your vision black out for seconds at a time. Gray advised against it until they could find food. They still hadn't found anything.

The cave extended beyond the chasm you'd landed in. Walls of stalagmites had to be carefully demolished to reveal off-chutes. Most of the Marks had gone into the dark to explore. You stayed in the main room, feeling like shit, hungry enough to think about eating sand but alive.

The cavern was shaped like a loaf of sourdough, that's all you could think of. Bread. Half of it was flat enough ground, slightly slippery with the humidity. Stalagmites coming up from the ground had been sliced in half, made into low stools. The other dropped down deep into a seemingly endless source of water.

Sheets of metal were brought down from above, laid on the ground. Topped with sand then the trash fabric. Best joint bedding the desert could buy. Gray and Baldie were still working on more trash fabric bedding for more beds, but the work was slow. For now, the first bed was yours, Gray who'd made the thing, insisted. It was tucked into a corner, the fire pit close enough to warm you, with more stools and makeshift benches wrapping around it. There was room for more on the mattress, but you invited nobody, letting them rest their heads on rocks or bundled-up cloth. Though Mohawk, Lensless and Scars tried to invite themselves to your side often. They were pulled away or told outright by you and your power, to buzz off. They just liked the fight, to see how far they could push until you couldn't shove back anymore. You were thankful to be alone on the bed now, watching the wind blow sand around hundreds of feet above the caves entrance.

Maskless was sleeping even though he was supposed to be watching you. You were glad to have someone on the same page. This whole babysitting thing was stupid. Okay, sure, you'd almost died from dehydration, but you weren't going to die now. Probably.

The others were above or below, searching. You were alone and safer than you had been in days. You sat up, blinking away the dizziness and doing your best to ignore the gnawing at the inner lining of your stomach.

The boots Baldie found yesterday come to the ground, the black GDA soldier pants swished around your legs. Baldie was out there somewhere wearing only his prison pants, you had kept the shirt.

No helmet or armor, but you were covered up enough to feel a little more comfortable. Warmer in the cool cave. There were complaints when your clothing returned, they just wanted something to look at. Some desert entertainment.

It was disgusting, and you couldn't tell the teasing from the actual threats, so treated all mentions of your body the same.

You crawled to the pool, a sunbeam from above guided you. You drank out your hands despite what Gray had said. All water needed to be boiled before consumption for safety. He'd taken a chunk of limestone, punched out its center (which took multiple attempts) and deemed it a pot. It was more of a shallow basin than anything, but you weren't going to argue. He wasn't around now and you didn't want to wake Maskless by starting a fire. He was part of the reason you were still alive, and you weren't going to say thank you, so being civil was the best you could do.

What had started as drinking from your hands, turned into scrubbing blood and soot from your face, turned into half pulling yourself into the water to take a fully clothed bath.

"Hey." Maskless didn't open his eyes. "Don't contaminate the water."

"Boiling it gets rid of germs." You don't go further in than you already had. Rational thought caught up with your body, you were definitely too weak to tread water at this point. Let go of the ledge and you'd slip under. Unsure if Maskless would save your ass and not waiting to find out, you slid back. "You not sleeping?"

"Can't. Listening for something."

You roll back onto your haunches. "For what?"

His eyes open with a scowl, "I can't hear if you're talking."

You decided you dislike him more than you already did. The others had something off about them, un-Mark-ish and bordering on inhuman. But Maskless was a dead ringer, same face, same inflection, same bitch attitude. You couldn't be in the same room as him.

You got up.

"You can't see in the dark." He says like you'd forgotten.

You pulled your phone out of your pocket and flicked on the flashlight. If you could leave a review on your phone case it'd be a glowing five stars. Thing was still working even after being thrown a few hundred miles into sand.

He sighed and floated off his ass to your side, "Let's go then."

"I'm going alone." You pick a direction arbitrarily, and move toward the opening.

"I'm not going to tie you down or anything, but if I let you leave and you die, they'll kill me." He says with very little enthusiasm.

"Poor you." You swallowed, gathering power, "Why don't you go sit back down?"

You sway, stumbling forward a step, and catching yourself on a wet rock. Maskless is halfway across the cavern to his stool when he stops and turns.

"They told me you'd do that." He stayed in place, waiting. "Why don't you go sit back down?"

"Fuck you." Breathe, regather, and, "Sit down."

You tip forward before you can see if it works. On the ground, you lie in a groaning heap. Hunger ebbing away at your very soul.

Maskless sighs, long and loud. He grabs the back of the jail shirt and half-carries, half-slides you back to the makeshift bed. "You can try that again when you didn't almost die two days ago." He drops face-first onto the garbage despite your protests.

Maskless floated back to his stool, crossed his legs, and tried to listen. The sound had gone. A faint, so very faint, skittering he could only hear if everything was still and he paid no mind to his own beating heart.

"You ruined it." It's more a fact than a biting insult. He is too tired to be as nasty as Emperor. Honestly, where the hell did the guy get the energy to be so annoying?

You didn't reply. Fighting unconsciousness before your brain kickstarted and you peeled yourself up. "You could've stayed where you were but you had to follow me."

You were so tired of the tails. You just needed to be alone or with someone who doesn't scare the shit out of you. But you can't. Groups are good for survival and the longer this goes on the more you realize. You couldn't kill them without food. The murders were postponed even further than they already had been.

"I already told you, they'll kill me." The sentence ends with a laugh, though nothing about it is funny. "I don't even know you." The intonation made you remember Mark in the GDA hospital wing. You're angry all over again at someone that is and isn't him.

You'd heard it before, but the words are an honest to God relief. He was a blank slate. Hated you right back. Now, this was a normal relationship to have while stranded in the desert.

Despite his assurance, you're suspicious. "Not even a little?"

"I mean I met you but I don't want to fuck you." He says it plainly. "I have a boyfriend."

Your ears perked up at that. "What?"

"William Clockwell." He throws the name at you like a knife.

A knife you pick up and examine. "Mark's best friend, who's dating that guy D.A. Sinclair maimed?" Thrown right back.

It hits him square in the chest, bullseye. His turn to say, "What?"

Invincible had long since turned tail and left Machine Head's business alone, which meant Machine Head would forevermore have his nose in Invincible's business. He had plenty of enemies and plenty of money to hire people to watch the family of his enemies. Nothing better than kidnapping and ransom to get people to do what you wanted. It was funny that the GDA did the same thing, just higher tech with more red tape. Maybe you wouldn't have minded a job there, you liked intel being thrown around like gossip.

"Rick something or other." The words are a one-two punch to his gut.

His brows knit, he leans forward a fraction, unable to hide his interest.

"That guy from high school?" Jealousy and bitterness soak through his tongue. You knew the tone and feeling all too well. Seeing the misery swimming in his eyes was like a baby's laughter and butterflies.

"They just graduated college together." You boasted like you were proud of them. Like you and William were still friends. "Going steady a few years now." You had him on the ropes now. Finish him! "Probably getting married soon." Honeyed eyes go black, and you knew you'd gone too far. You couldn't help push further, a thrill at getting a reaction. Hunger had made you worse than a cunt, you'd started acting like a man. "Unless they died when you guys ran through the planet."

The hand has closed on your throat before you could even think up the next insult. "Shut up. Shut up, you're lying." Yet his hand loosens enough for you to answer.

"The Mark Grayson in my timeline was only friends with William Clockwell." Fingers don't press in hard enough to bruise; he's careful. Knows if the others see he's fucked.

That wasn't the answer he wanted. "Where did they live?"

"Some college in Chicago."

His eyes go bug-fuck wide. "Chicago?" One of the cities they hit. His grip loosens, hands shaking. You'd said the truth, which was apparently the wrong thing. He floated back to his seat, head in hands, muttering, "Chicago, Chicago..."

You don't say anything and neither does he until the others return, when the sunbeam goes orange and soft and the cold starts to creep in.

Marks returned for the evening usual, a bonfire debrief where the only thing cooking was water.

Baldie built the fire. Orange light reflecting off his thick muscles. Nothing to report from his end. Lensless took the floor first, pacing as he talked about the winding caves he'd walked. It was hard to follow, but there were more caves than what he'd explored. Mohawk said he'd found another pool of water. Scars had no luck in the desert besides some more trash to weave. Tracksuit had nothing. Gray reported the cave system was bigger than thought. Warned it'd be easy to get lost like Lensless, but never find their way back. A map would need to be made. Warned that breaking through the roof of the cave system to the surface could collapse the tunnels. He said this with eyes on you.

"You've been awfully quiet." Mohawk flicked his fingers toward Phantom, who sat still on a stalagmite stump directly across from you. "Got anything?"

***

According to the numbers in his lenses, the nest was four hundred miles below the surface. He hadn't seen the narrow entrance at first, and when he did, didn't consider squeezing through it. Until a tiny spec of green lit the screen on his lens. A moving spec. Something living. He crept closer to the wall, the tiny holes coming into focus. More silhouettes outlined in green, limbs too fast and small, they looked like a blur.

He tore out a chunk of wall, set it aside and stepped into a new cavern. Bigger than the rest. Roof so high it could've been a cathedral. He'd come in by its apex, looking down at the comings and goings of the creature mass. Paths well worn deep into the earth where they moved, wide as pipes. Winding, twisting, into a wider network of dugout tunnels. But here, in this space, all roads led to one place.

Her subjects crawled up her body, holding morsels so small he couldn't see or detect it with his lenses. Fungus perhaps. They made their way under her twitching pedipalps. Drop the mold or sand morsels or whatever into her mouth, and make their way back down the body. Tiny, useless wings on her back flutter in buggish satisfaction.

She lay on limestone, a pool of water around her like a moat.

He leaves after a shallow investigation of the closest caves. Finding eggsacks buried in the walls in one cavern. Spore-filled air in another. He slid the removed rock back in place, careful to push it flush to the wall. The others were unlikely to find the secret hideaway. Unlikely to find you both if you left together in secret. Living off bug meat and cave water, forever. Disgusting, yes, but you'd have each other.

If only he could get you to come with him, unnoticed and without a fight.

***

Phantom shook his head.

"Of course, you have nothing." Emperor spat like he didn't also have anything to report. "We won't have anything unless everybody is pitching in." The white of his lenses flash firelight, set on you.

"Am I supposed to magically recover from almost dying?" You shoot back. "You think I like hanging around while you do shit?"

"What shit has he done since we've got here?" You almost don't hear his voice.

You have to look around to see who spoke and find Emperor glaring at Maskless. "Got something to say?"

"I found water." He says, hand coming up to gesture to Phantom, "we found water. All you've done is sit and complain."

Emperor scoffs. "Like you've been around to monitor my progress."

"I didn't have to be. People talk." He says as if you didn't catch him leave with Phantom a half hour ago into one of the caves. Since digging out your new home, they were definitely closer than the rest of you.

Tension starts to tighten in the air. Baldie and Mohawk shift on their asses, bring themselves closer to you to block any incoming strays from hitting you.

Emperor is off his seat, standing while everyone remained seated. "If any of you have anything to say to me now- say it!"

"Your voice makes my ears ring." Said Scars, who loved hearing himself talk.

"You do jackshit, dude." Lensless adds.

Emperor turns on them, waving a fist. "I've got a lot more on my mind than you idiots! My empire has to be falling apart without me, and I'm stuck with you useless, brain-dead, backwater versions of me! You can't even survive on a desert planet, how could so many of you not rule Viltrum- you are the bloodline of Argall! Are you too stupid to know that or just too weak to ascend!?" His words echoed around the cave. Lingering.

The detail hung over the Marks who did not rule Viltrum. Thragg did just fine ruling, so why should they? They saw no need, some never knew they were descendants of Argall, or anything about the lost royal bloodline. There were questions to ask but none of them spoke up, a show that what he said didn't matter. That his insults were unsubstantiated and weak, like him.

"On the second day of the attack, were you in Chicago?" Maskless says.

"Why does that matter?" Spit flew off Emperor's lip. Cheeks red under his mask when no one seemed to be bothered by his fury- widely feared in his universe.

Maskless was all even calm. Muscles relaxed, whereas Emperor was tensed up. "Yes or no."

"I don't answer to the likes of you." It was said in a snarl, "To any of you!"

Maskless blinked slow, cat like. Head turned slowly to you, "Make him answer."

The unexpected attention made you stiffen. You sat up a little straighter. Weighing the options. Don't, and be resistant. Do and cooperate. Either way you were picking a side you didn't fully understand. You didn't know which would provide the bigger bane or boon. So you went with what your heart wanted, to see Emperor get his teeth knocked in.

Emperor spun on you, finger up and wagging at you in warning, "Don't you da-"

"Answer the question." Your head falls, chin smacking against your chest before coming back up. Vision bobbing in and out. Baldie had scooted closer, hands poised to support you, but backs off against your wakeful sneer.

The power was watered down, though it should've been back full force by now. Starvation made you weak and the weakness made you edgy.

Emperor answered all the same. "Chicago was mine to destroy, so I did."

A muscle in Maskless's jaw ticked. You cough out the hammer so he could nail down his own coffin, "What about Upstate University?" You slump onto your thighs, a streak of blood dripped down your nose. Vision swimming and body uncooperative for a few seconds. Coming back to Baldie holding you upright by the shoulders, clear worry across his hairless brow.

"Burnt it to the ground," Emperor said even, uncaring.

You cared little about the answer. You tried to pat Baldie's chest, get him away but no words come out. Your head lolls forward, unable to hold it up and sneer at him.

He turned to Mohawk who'd apparently seen you use the powers before, "What do we do?"

"I dunno," He crawled forward, considers reaching for the codeine in your pockets before remembering how you'd almost vomited on him. "Just wait it out?" His palm goes to your cheek, lifting your head to look at your face, skin clammy, eyes glassy and unfocused. After a few days you seemed okay enough, but he wasn't familiar enough to know if this was normal. God damn it, why couldn't you just trust them with the details of your powers- of your past?

His machinations are cut short by a blur of movement. You catch it too, thanks to your head being held up.

Emperor is still stunned. Fingers twitched as your control slipped away, but Maskless was too fast. The side of his palm and wrist cut through the air. Slapped your face with wind and a splatter of blood. You could barely register what you're seeing.

One second Emperor was standing and Maskless was sitting. The next, Maskless was behind him, arm bloodied, body all tense rage. Emperor still stood proudly, sans an important addition. Too stubborn to acknowledge the blood rhythmically spurting out of his stump of a neck. His head toppled to the ground, rolling over once before Maskless's foot came down. Sinking into the skull and meat with a sickening crunch.

Then and only then does Emperor's twitching body fall to its knees. Arms jittering as his nerves try too late to fight for his life, before his torso finally drops, fwump, against the cave floor. Blood pooled quick, the smell already permeating in the air.

Gray is up with his fists but does not lunge. Mohawk and Baldie are a wall of muscle blocking Maskless's eyes from sliding on you. You watch from between their legs. Phantom is still, calculating what's to come. Tracksuit's hands go to the back of his head. Lensless is laughing. Scars looked down at the body, fallen directly at his feet, blood staining the yellow of his boots.

Maskless looks at none of them, turning back to his seat before settling back down. Seemingly oblivious to the fresh blood that soaked into his uniform.

Gray's muscles relax, deeming the threat neutralized.

"He was weak and uncooperative." He says, "But you couldn't have killed him any cleaner?"

"He killed my boyfriend." Is all Maskless can say.

Gray's nod is terse. Annoyance hid well. "The blood can not stay on the campsite." He'd already moved past the murder, like it was nothing. Onto nagging Maskless. "It is unsanitary."

"Unsanitary?" Tracksuit flipped out his hand, splaying his fingers, that quintessential New Englander gesture for 'what the fuck'. "He jus' killed that guy!"

"Yes, we all saw," Gray replied.

"He was a douche bag anyway." Mohawk said.

The wall of Baldie and Mohawk undid itself. Mohawk first beside you, hand on your back to support you. Baldie too slow, settled on his knees on the edge of your mattress, he didn't want to crowd you if it wasn't necessary. Despite how deeply in his bones he wanted to melt into your skin, to wipe the blood off of your face.

Phantom ignored the body. Watched Baldie's lingering look. Saw how you shifted away from Mohawk, toward Baldie. Your hand briefly landing on Baldie's as you tried to sit up. You didn't know it, but you'd chosen a favorite that was not him, Phantom. Something had to be done about that.

"Couldn't have left some action for the rest of us?" Lensless prodded the corpse with the toe of his boot. Smiling when it twitched, frowning when the movement stopped.

You supported your own weight, but just barely, pushing off of your arms to sit back upright. Used to death and not too deeply surprised Emperor was first voted off the island. You swat away Mohawk's supportive hand from your back. Hissing out a, "I'm fine."

He opens his mouth to fight, but Scars voice takes up all the air in the cavern. "We should eat him."

Tracksuit is the only one to voice, "Dude, what the fuck?"

"Think about it." Scars grabbed Emperor's limp arm. Warm, fresh, red meat. "We've searched this entire fucking planet for days and found nothing. This," he jostles the arm, making Emperor's wrist flap and violently snap, "is how we survive. How she," he pointed the limp hand toward you, "survives."

"No." The thought made you sick. Empty stomach churning around nothing, your hands going to cradle yourself. Insides growl in protest, wanting the meat but you wouldn't indulge. "I'm not a fucking cannibal."

Scars grabbed Emperor's hand, twisted it off at his forearm with a wet snap. "Do you want to die here?" The hand is discarded, Scars pulling to break the joint at his elbow like a crab leg.

You don't answer. Watch as Scars tears the fabric off the bloodied limb. Yellow-coated digits digging harshly under the skin. Pushing. The flesh bulges with the intrusion. Scars slowly peeled up the skin with a grunt, removing the humanity from the lean meat that would melt in your mouth if cooked. You felt sicker. He can see the urge to puke in your bobbing throat. "You'll come around."

"We could find food any day now and you're just gonna-" Tracksuit stopped himself when Scars bit into the broken end of the arm. Pulling out a slip of pinkish tendon with his teeth. "Alright, dude."

The meat slipped between his lips. Swallowed without a single chew. He moaned. Met the stump halfway with his lips and began to shred with teeth. Piece after piece torn off the bone. Blood stained his chin so completely it seemed like he'd never be clean again. You would've been able to hear a pindrop if he wasn't chewing so loud, so wetly.

You all watched. Rapt attention gone from Maskless to Scars in a matter of moments. Murder was one thing but this? No one knew what to say as he continued to eat, but you felt each swallow in the pit of your stomach, a creeping suspicion that he had done this before. You don't realize how hard you're gripping Baldie's hand.

Across the room, Phantom wants to throw up, though he cares little about the gore.

"We should preserve the rest." Scars set the remaining meat atop Emperor's unmoving back. "He won't last long." Before rot sets in. Or before he is eaten entirely. Which would come first?

No one spoke. Scars continued. "You," he flicked fresh bloodied fingers at Gray. "You took over a bunch'a planets, right?" Gray's nod is stiff. "So you know how all this survivalist bullshit works?" Another nod. He's comply but he would not trust, not after that show of loyalty to Emperor's body.

Scars lifted Emperor's still leaking corpse by the back of his suit, "You know how to make jerky?"

"Holy shit, dude." Tracksuit answered for Gray. "You can't be serious."

"I am." Scars says, "This is the only food on this entire fucking planet. Be a pussy if you want but I'm not dying like this. Now, do you know how to do this or not?" Scars jostled the body for Gray's attention. A thick splatter of blood hit the fire, sizzled, and released a scent that made your nose curdle, your nails digging into your stomach.

Gray floated from the ground, up and out the hole in the ceiling. Scars followed, Emperor's limbs swaying as they both rose. Blood rained in thick, lazy drops until they both were gone. A single rivulet landed under your nose, rolled down your cupid's bow and slipped between your lips. Your tongue darted out automatically. The taste lingered in your mouth as your stomach ate itself.

Lensless was first to move after a long, thick silence. He crouched by the smashed head, poking idly at the eye that blasted out it's socket, the other smashed in with Emperor's brains. "We should clean this thing up. Put it on the wall. Decoration."

Nobody in the room hadn't not killed somebody, but the suggestion felt wrong. Like a bad omen.

"Dude, no." Tracksuit said.

Lensless rolled the head, a gooey slab of brain matter stuck to the floor. Your throat twitched, a gag rocked your body. He grinned at you, fingers pulling out Emperor's front teeth. "Don't worry, if you clean it right it won't smell."

"I don't think..." You can't finish the thought before another gag rips up your throat. Nothing comes out.

Maskless rose from his seat and grabbed the basin. "I'll clean up, it's my mess."

He got to work, dousing the floor with water, guiding the dirty sludge to a slope leading to another cave as to not contaminate the drinking water. By the time he was done, Lensless had removed all the teeth from Emperor's mouth. He shoved the bloody things into his pockets, adding to his collection.

Maskless scooped up the remnants of Emperor's head best he could. Lensless pouted but didn't fight as Maskless floated to the surface to deliver the meat to the butchers. You stared at the red spot on the floor where it'd been, a single chunk of brain sitting in a dim sunbeam.

***

He touched down to the empty sand field. Directionally challenged, he was not, this was where he'd taken off a month ago. Yet the dunes were drastically different, shifted. There was no beginning of a tent or improvement or ruins. There was no evidence of anybody else. The chasm that had begun to yawn open in the depths of space, deepens.

He removed the oxygen mask. Newfound beard heating his face. He rose to the sky. Floated miles above the planet, pace meandering when he should've been frantic. He'd lost all hope for you to still be alive. You. Not the person he'd thought you'd be. The person he threw everything away for just to see one last time. He'd never know if it could have been worth it, if under the hurt and the fear you were still his. What a waste, for both of you.

He wondered if the others were still alive. If he left and they all killed each other. He wondered if he was alone, destined to go mad between the desert dunes.

A hairdryer breeze assaulted his face, a welcome change from the frigidness of space. On the wind he smells it, cooking meat. He is gone before he can think.

***

He was undressed like a pig skinned. Slices of thigh removed with a quick chop of the side of a hand. Holes poked through the cuts at their tops for a metal rod to be fished through before the slices were hung above the fire from a rickety rack. The setup wasn't ideal or very good at all, but it was the best they could do. It'd be days before the whole body was processed.

It'd be hours before the blood-sopped meat would dehydrate into jerky. Viltrumite bodies were resistant to lava in life, but upon death and the release of stress hormones and loosening of muscle- could be cooked. According to Gray at least.

"You done this before?" Scars had asked only because of how little time it had taken the man to set it up, almost suspiciously so. Like Gray planned on being the first to turn to cannibalism, already planning a jerky recipe.

"No." Gray said, "But my mentor has."

Scars does not ask who. He doesn't care about Gray's life. He only cares about you. "This'll make it safe for her to eat, right?"

Gray's jaw ticks. "It should, but you should know how weak human stomachs can be. Consuming the body in front of her was a poor choice. She will not wish to eat it, no matter the preparation method."

Scars snapped the other arm off Emperor's body. Unrolled the muscle from the bone, which he set aside on a rock. The marrow could be eaten. The bones could be boiled in water for soup. He began to sheer off arm meat, saying, "Don't be a pussy."

"Cannibalism is not common on Viltrum but we do what we must to complete our missions. You know this."

Scars knew some things about Viltrum. He had never gone, never absorbed the culture. What he knew had come from his Dad at an early age. He thought he knew it all, but upon meeting Gray, he realized he knew little. He should've let Dad live longer, if only to teach him more- but the idea was so absurd it almost makes him laugh.

"Sure." He says instead.

"But I will not eat until she does." Gray finished. He would not try to assuage you. He would wait patiently. You would crack and cave, you were not made for a hunger strike. Your human morals would fold like wet towels under the slightest pressure. To a Viltrumite enforcer like himself, a week of starvation was nothing.

Scars secured the meat slices onto a pole and set them aside. "Okay, pussy."

Unsatisfyingly, Gray does not react to his jabs. At least not visually, he just speaks evenly, "Father taught me humans are brought comfort by eating side by side with their mates. It makes the most sense to wait for her."

He remembers his Father and Mother together on Viltrum, so strangely in love. Him foolishly thinking he could have the same, taking you, becoming so unexpectedly infatuated. It softened him. Such a waste what had happened but then again, that chain of events brought him to you. The stronger, better version of you that would fit so well into Viltrum society. He feels soft all over again at the idea of your strange human courting rituals. So silly and unnecessary, but so tempting, so easy to indulge in. He nearly forgets to whom he is speaking.

Scars didn't know what to laugh at first. The reverence in his tone at Father or the word, "Mates?"

"Yes," Gray retrieved the latest wrack Scars finished and hung the swaying meats over the fire. His stomach clenched at the smell.

Conquering was the most Dad taught Scars of Viltrum culture, and conquer he did. "Why not just call it what it really is? She's a pet to people like us."

Gray considers kicking him in the stomach. Making him vomit up the meat and an apology on your behalf. He withholds, thinking it'd be a better idea to have Scars on his side. Scars was as strong as he was unpredictable. Scars under his thumb meant you being much, much safer.

"It is simply the word we use." He says, "Though Father said he called Mother his girlfriend, then wife back on Earth." The word girlfriend felt clunky in his mouth. Too many syllables, too simple, yet complicated, whereas mate just felt right.

Scars laugh is a whip. "You really care about those assholes, huh?"

Gray does not answer, for it is not Scars' business and also- it was rather obvious how he felt. Though Viltrumites shouldn't feel. He was considered a strange boy on his home planet, but he wouldn't trade his childhood and lineage for a thing. He felt justified in this just speaking to Scars. Looking at how a different, loveless life on Earth made him into a rude and impulsive man. Ugh, those garish colors and that cape. So ugly.

Gray senses the atmospheric shift and moves out of the way long before Scars thinks to.

Sand is kicked from the ground in a wave, dousing the afternoon fire, coating the still-wet meat. The man who fell from the sky did not care. He grabbed two slices at a time and shoved them into his chapped mouth. An uncharacteristic groan rumbling out of his chest.

Gray and Scars watch, poised from their vantage spot hovering over the ground, as Omni feasts.

"I thought you were dead." Scars is first to touch down, moving closer to the smoking sand and meats.

Omni chewed and swallowed, throat bulging like a snake. He grabbed two more slices of meat. "Hungry." Is all he says before biting down.

"Not even gonna ask what you're eating?" His gaze slid significantly to the mound of sand. Emperor hidden under the kicked-up sand.

Omni's mouth does not slow as Scars kicks the sand off Emperor's bare back. "Things went batshit after you left."

Omni does not process as he swallows. Realization hits when the meat reaches his stomach and his eyes focus unsteadily on the corpse. Oh God. He lunges, grabs Scars bruisingly hard by the shoulders. He was weak, exhausted, but now, pumping with adrenaline and desperation he didn't know he still had. "Where is (Y/n)?"

Gray does not want this haggard madman near you, but Scars does not give a shit about what Gray wants. Gray opens his mouth, "Don't-"

Scars pointed to the massive cone in the ground leading down to the caves, they were only a few feet away. "Down there, dumbass."

Omni is a red-white bolt streaking down the hole. Gray is at his heels but faster, reaching the cavern first and stopping in front of you before Omni can reach you.

The air splits at their sudden pause. You are sent backward, careening for the wall but Mohawk is there to catch you. The rest of the Marks are on their feet, bristling at this new threat, tense until they realize who they're looking at.

"You're back early," Gray says, standing tall, trying to block his view of you. He does not like how glazed Omni's eyes are behind the lenses. Does not like how they won't focus on him, the immediate threat, but over his shoulder, at you.

"It's been a month." His voice is brittle.

"It's been a week." Gray bites back.

"Time isn't right out there." Omni's voice doesn't feel a part of him. Nothing feels right in his body, because nothing is right about any of this.

"What'd you find?" Baldie asked.

Phantom crept up behind him, ready to strike Omni if Gray needed the backup.

"Nothing." Omni moved a degree and Gray moved with him. "Let me see her."

"Yeah, dude, just let the crazy guy touch your girlfriend," Tracksuit spoke when Gray wouldn't.

Mohawk sets you down but does not let go of your shoulders. Omni is looking at you like his dead puppy. You ache with hunger. Know you are weak.

Yet you say, "Don't touch me." Before passing out.

***

The explanation is winding. Nonsensical at best, but the other Marks turn it over in their heads, reexplaining it to each other while Omni fitfully rests in your bed. He did not get to hold you like he wanted, but seeing you alive, sharing a bed with you, no matter how unconventional, was enough for now. In moments when he awoke, sparse because of exhaustion in his body, he only looks for you. Mulling over in his mind how he could prove to himself, to you, that you were the woman he married.

You sit on the edge of the sandy garbage mattress as they tell you the bad news. Woozy. Aching with hunger that even excess boiled water could not quench. Twelve days you'd been stuck in the desert now. Twelve days of heat and near death and starvation. A week sat doing nothing in this suffocating cave. They refuse to let you move beyond the littlest things. Gray says you must conserve energy so long as your hunger strike lasts. But you had an eternity of suffering left. There was no other planets to go to, no one who could come save you. Just the slow creeping annihilation of the universe, and you, starving to death.

Mohawk was the first to cave when the first batch of jerky was done cooking two days ago. He ate across the fire, relishing the dehydrated thigh meat with a moan. Lensless rose to the surface for his own slice not long after. Tracksuit and Prisoner held out, but their morals were starting to get shaky by day ten. They could survive long periods without eating, but they were unused to the hunger pains, it was starting to get to them. Scars had not eaten since the first day. Claiming it'd be good to ration. Gray and Phantom held out, seemingly unaffected by the hunger.

Gray was steadfast. Phantom was not. He snunk away to the bug cave under the guise of exploration. Ate the fingerpad sized insects by the handful to satiate himself. Plans tumbling around in his head. He couldn't make the moves he wanted until you were strong enough to eat, until there weren't eight pairs of eyes watching you at all times. So he waited for you to give into the long pig jerky.

Baldie, Tracksuit, and you kept each other in check like a hunger pact.

"Just hold on, we'll find something else." Baldie would say, hand supporting your back as you swayed while simply sitting. You never swatted him away. Trust a slow, creeping thing growing between you like mold.

"No way I'm leaving a cannibal," Tracksuit says, fingers flexing on his knees. "I can't be the only one not leaving a cannibal."

Day Fourteen.

You wouldn't do it.

You pass out on the bed, wrapping yourself in Omni's cape to try and escape the cold of your body eating itself. Feeling the pain even in sleep.

Day Fifteen.

They search hard, find nothing. You are looking worse and worse. Snappish and downtrodden when awake, a rock when asleep. Phantom thinks of telling the others but sees how Baldie frets over you, how you don't swat him away, and doesn't. A plan, a real plan, started to form in Phantoms head.

Day Sixteen.

Scars hovers over you. Thin sticks of dried meat in his fist. You refused to eat, choose to die with the universe. He would not allow it.

You do not stir as he sits on your hips. Nobody stops him. Though Baldie says, "She doesn't want it."

He breaks a piece off one of the already slight pieces. "She's dying."

He goes to stuff the piece between your lips when his wrist is grabbed by Baldie. "I said-"

"Do you think letting her starve to death will get you pussy?" Scars spat. "She hates us regardless. Making her eat won't change anything, but she won't die." Baldie's hold falls reluctantly away.

"People have survived much longer than this without food." Omni says, watching your sleeping face and despite his proximity, doesn't stop it. None of them want to see you continue to suffer. With you out of commission, they were starting to creep more toward edginess. Snapping at each other, fighting over nothing. Only Maskless and Tracksuit immune to the status of your state but not of the men around them.

Piece after piece was slipped between your lips. You dreamt of the grocery store. Of being in the snack aisle and grabbing the closest thing to you, a Slim Jim. You tear open the wrapper, greedily swallow it down, taste it.

You wake, chunks of meat, slimy with spit, crammed into your mouth. You cough, gagging, and nearly choking. Brownish meat splatters onto Scars face but he doesn't seem to care.

"Eat it." He held the meat to your lips but you sealed them closed, sucking them in. He pinches your nose shut. You can't breathe. Head already starting to feel like a balloon, you thrash, trying to sit up despite his weight on your body, reaching to push his hand away. Omni moves, you think to save you, but he just holds your right shoulder down, his other hand holding yours as it spasms in panic. Baldie watches horrified. Mohawk moves around him and holds down your left, unable to look at you. Not for Scars safety, you couldn't hope to hurt him with human fists but to prevent you from hurting yourself. The ease with which he holds you down makes him sick, easier than it should be.

Screams are trapped inside of your throat, shrill, but they do not listen. Your vision darkens, darkens, darkens until your brain forces your lips apart to take a heaving breath. The meat is forced inside your mouth. Scars slams your jaw shut, sealing your lips with the warmth of his palm, his one eye watches you coldly.

The meat is freshly cured, almost melting on your tongue. Telling you to just give in. To enjoy the smoked pork taste but you can't, you won't.

You shake your head in their grip. Tears forcing themselves past your eyelids. You look from Omni to Mohawk, pleading with your eyes for them to help. They don't. You look to Scars, willing him to move his hand so you could give the order for him to die.

He sees it in your eyes and grins, leaning closer. "You wanna kill me, don't you? If you wanna kill me, you have to eat."

You do. You want to kill him so bad. For everything he'd done. For everything he's doing. For the fact that if it weren't for him forcing you to eat, you'd starve to death. You hate him so much. You cry looking into his one exposed eye. You willfully swallow.

"Good girl."

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balladofboothill · 4 months ago

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Fifth Third

Joe burrow x wnba player!r

an : we're gonna pretend Cincinnati has a wnba team, Cleveland had one called the rockers a while ago so im just gonna use that

warnings : nothing just a nosy reporter and allusions to sex

To say everything hurt was an understatement, you had zoned out a while ago, losing track of what your coach was droning on about. Rockers has gotten their first play off win in franchise history but not without you being fouled and shoved over and over again. Being snapped out of your trance when some reporter asked about the bengals jersey you had worn to this game and how it felt to be back in Cincinnati. Fumbling over your own words spitting out an answer of "yeah it feels amazing to be back home and bring this team their first playoff win, I spent 3 of my college years here at this arena so it feels like I never left. And on the jersey, I gotta rep the city's greatest." You say with a dry laugh. "Please let this be over soon." You silently beg what ever god might be listening.

"Private but not a secret" was the best way to describe your relationship with Joe, meeting at Paris fashion week and the rest has been history. When the wnba announced the Cincinnati expansion team you knew that you should go back home, more importantly back to Joe.

After what felt like forever you were finally freed from the press, gathering all your bags and sending a "be home in 20 :)" text to Joe, even though he's 100% asleep on the couch. After a mind numbing drive home you finally reach the road you and Joe live on. Almost feeling the rain shower that was installed last winter for moments like this.

"Joe I'm back." You yell in the entry way flinging all your bags down, that's a later you issue. Suddenly you hear the sound of pans hitting the tile of your kitchen. "It's fineee don't worry." Joe yells back, mentally cursing himself out for ruining his suprise of making a a sheet of your favorite cookies to celebrate the win.

Turning a corner you see every pan you own on the floor and Joe looking like a kicked puppy. "What the hell happened here baby." You pry, "uhhh I was trying you make you those cookies your grandmother always made you post win but the fucking drawer we keep the pans in broke." He mumbled out. He was very confused once you bust out laughing, between heaves he works out "you're so cute" and "this is so sweet but you need supervision in the kitchen"

Pulling him in to a hug and kissing his bright red cheek, "you are the best ever, thank you so much baby." You say grabbing a cookie, Joe let out a breath he didn't know he was holding when you tell him "these are so fucking good."

You really needed to shower, the bright orange rocker shirt was stuck to you at this point, spinning around to go to the shower, "aren't you gonna join me? If you wanna congratulate me on this win I have an idea." Teasing Joe always worked in your favor

Please reblog to support writers and I'd love to know your thoughts!!!

#nfl #cincinnati bengals #joe burrow #cincinnati football #joe burrow x oc #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow x y/n #joe burrow x you #nfl fan fic #nfl fic

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newyorkthegoldenage · 1 year ago

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Willie Mays 1931-2024

Above: Willie Mays in 1956. Photo: UPI/ABC News

Willie Mays, one of the greatest ballplayers in history, died today at the age of 93. He was one of the dominant figures in the golden age of New York baseball, when the Giants, the Dodgers, and the Yankees battled for supremacy. From 1947 to the Giants' and Dodgers' final season in New York in 1957, at least one of those three teams played in 10 of 11 World Series, and won 9 of them.

His stats are astonishing. Over his 22 years in the majors, he had a .301 batting average. He had 3,293 hits, including 660 home runs. His 7,112 putouts as an outfielder rank No. 1 in major league history, and he had 657 more playing first base. He stole 338 bases at a time when base stealing was not as common as it is now. He batted in 1,909 runs. Beginning in 1957, the year the title was created, he won 12 Gold Gloves.

But more than his statistics was his infectious joy in playing. He greeted everyone with "Say hey" and became known as the Say Hey Kid.

“Willie could do everything from the day he joined the Giants,” said Leo Durocher, his manager during most of his years at the Polo Grounds. “He never had to be taught a thing. The only other player who could do it all was Joe DiMaggio.” And DiMaggio said of him, "Willie Mays is the closest to being perfect I’ve ever seen."

Above: Willie Mays slides safely into the plate in the sixth inning of a game against the Phillies at the Polo Grounds, ca. early 1950s. Photo: Bettmann Archive/Getty Images/NBC News

youtube

Above: Willie's famous catch in the 1954 World Series at the Polo Grounds on September 29, 1954. His over-the-shoulder catch made while running is considered to be one of the greatest plays in baseball history. The score was tied at 2-2, and not only did he prevent a home run, he threw the ball in to the infield, preventing runners on base from scoring. The Giants went on to sweep the Cleveland Indians in four games.

Above: Mays plays stickball with local kids in Harlem in 1954. He lived on 155th Street while playing with the Giants. In 2017, the corner of 155th Street and Harlem River Drive was renamed Willie Mays Drive. Photo: Bettmann Archive/ABC News

Mays at home in Harlem with his landlady, Ann Goosby, in 1954. A profile of Mays published that year in LIFE pointed out that Mrs. Goosby “cooks his meals, keeps his clothes clean and generally takes care of” the young star. Photo: Alfred Eisenstaedt via Life magazine

Above: Willie Mays at the Polo Grounds in 1954. Photo: Patrick A. Burns for the NY Times via Instagram

#Willie Mays #vintage baseball #NY Giants baseball #NY baseball Giants #Youtube

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hometoursandotherstuff · 5 months ago

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This 1978 home in Olmstead Twp, OH has been removed from the market b/c it hasn't sold. 4bds, 5ba, 5,564 sq ft, $475k. An article in clevescene.com magazine calls it one of the nicest homes in Olmstead Twp. At that time, it was listed for $1m. It was since reduced to $720,200 and still didn't sell. Take a look at this one.

Isn't that unusual? It looks like there's a store window on the left, like you're in an old European market.

The sunken living room is separated from a small bar by a raised floor and arches.

The bar with a booth.

One of several stone fireplaces.

The current owner bought it when it was a foreclosure sale and they "improved" upon the decor.

It has gothic elements and a heavy stone fireplace in the family room.

Door to a terrace. Note the fancy tile floor.

There's a casual dining room.

Check out the Beauty and the Beast formal dining room.

This is what it looked like when they bought it in foreclosure. You can see that they added the Beauty and the Beast windows.

The large kitchen has a stone wall with a fireplace.

Powder room needs a mirror over the sink.

I don't know what this room is, but it has a built-in cabinet.

I don't know what this is, either, but it looks like a bath and only appears in the foreclosure photos. I guess this is a banquette for seating, but what is that little platform in the corner?

I think that this is a bedroom.

The baths in this home are large and elaborate.

Looks like the primary bedroom. Interesting floor.

This is some huge ensuite.

The home office has a separate outdoor entrance.

Down in the rec room there's a larger bar and a booth.

Some statuary and a gazebo in the backyard. (If you look at the foreclosure photos, there was a fenced-in pool and patio.)

Here's an enclosed porch.

Very large 2.50 acre lot

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/24544-Nobottom-Rd-Olmsted-Falls-OH-44138/2074320283_zpid/

Foreclosure listing:

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/24544-Nobottom-Rd-Olmsted-Township-OH-44138/33475179_zpid/

Clevescene article:

https://www.clevescene.com/cleveland/a-million-dollars-will-get-you-one-of-the-nicest-home-in-olmsted-falls/Slideshow/38342693/38262434

#foreclosure listings #unique homes #off the market homes #unsellable homes #houses #house tours #home tour #other stuff

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jstor · 1 year ago

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Happy World Art Day! 🌍 🎨 At JSTOR, we're celebrating the vibrant tapestry of creativity that colors our world. From the studios of renowned masters to the cozy corners where emerging talents find their voice, let's honor the spaces that ignite imagination and the artists who bring them to life. Join us in celebrating the power of art to inspire, provoke, and unite us all. Images:

Mihály Munkácsy. The Music Room. 1878. The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Edgar Degas. Dancers in the Rehearsal Room with a Double Bass. ca. 1882-85. The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Léon Cogniet. The Artist in His Room at the Villa Medici, Rome. 1817. Cleveland Museum of Art.

Jean-Alphonse Duplessy. Cobbler’s Quarters. 1860s. The Cleveland Museum of Art.

#jstor #world art day #artists #art #fine art #mihaly munkacsy #adolph menzel #edgar degas #leon cogniet #edited to correct a citation

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austinkleon · 9 months ago

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In the shack with Robert Caro

He bought the prefab shack, he says, from a place in Riverhead for $2,300, after a contractor quoted him a comically overstuffed Hamptons price to build one. “Thirty years, and it’s never leaked,” he says. This particular shed was a floor sample, bought because he wanted it delivered right away. The business’s owner demurred. “So I said the following thing, which is always the magic words with people who work: ‘I can’t lose the days.’ She gets up, sort of pads back around the corner, and I hear her calling someone … and she comes back and she says, ‘You can have it tomorrow.’”

Caro first composes in longhand, then types up everything triple-spaced, with a carbon copy, in the old newspaper manner. He insists on cotton rather than synthetic typewriter ribbons, because the letters come out inkier and darker, but they’re no longer in regular production. “Ina found somebody out in either Pittsburgh or Cleveland who said that he’d make the cotton ribbons for me if I ordered, I think, a dozen gross, which — I have enough typewriter ribbons to support the entire …” He laughs, breaking off the thought.

That Caro’s work is still done on paper, with no digital backup to speak of, marks him as one of the last of his kind. (He had never seen a Google doc until I offered to show him one. He was mildly startled to discover that, in a shared document, the person on the other end can be seen typing in real time: “That’s amazing. What’s it called? A doc?”)

In Working, Caro writes:

I can’t start writing a book until I’ve thought it through and can see it whole in my mind. So before I start writing, I boil the book down to three paragraphs, or two, or one—that’s when it comes into view. That process might take weeks. And then I turn those paragraphs into an outline of the whole book. That’s what you see up here on my wall now—twenty-seven typewritten pages. That’s the fifth volume. Then, with the whole book in mind, I go chapter by chapter. I sit down at the typewriter and type an outline of that chapter, let’s say if it’s a long chapter, seven pages—it’s really the chapter in brief, without any of the supporting evidence. Then, each chapter gets a notebook, which I fill with all the materials I want to use—quotations and facts pulled from all of the research I’ve done.

See also: Robert Caro's corkboard

#Robert caro #writing #corkboards #typewriters #logbooks

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yourmomxx · 2 years ago

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Father of Mine

father of mine masterlist

summary: All Dean Winchester ever wanted was to protect the people he loved. Sometimes, in order to do that, he had to make hard decisions, Lisa and Ben were the prime example. Years after making another one of those hard decisions, he has to come back to the place where he had left a piece of his heart - only to be constantly reminded of what he had to sacrifice in order to keep his family safe.

warnings: canon violence, child abandonment, swear words, angst, daddy issues, character death, throwing up, this is written like an episode of Supernatural

word count: 8,2k

a/n: I’ve been writing this story for … a year now? I think? And I’ve gotta admit, I am so happy that it is finally out. Everything that I write means incredibly much to me, but this story just holds such a special place in my heart and I am very happy to share it now with you guys. I do hope you like it, and, as always, reblogs are very much appreciated because that way the story gets spread to more people! Now, enjoy!

flashbacks are written in italics

pt1 pt2 pt3

Cleveland, Ohio 2002

The bar was crowded with people.

Gruffed men wearing leather jackets and intoxicated women in crop-tops were all sprawled out around an alcohol booth in the middle.

In another corner, currently bathed in purple and orange spotlight, a guy with an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and a bucket-hat was giving a lousy cover of ‘God save the Queen’ by Sex Pistols.

♫ ♪ “Don't be told what you want. Don't be told what you need. There's no future, no future, no future for you!” ♫ ♪

On one of the way too small bar chairs, sipping a burning mix of whiskey and ginger ale, was sitting Dean Winchester, and he was pissed.

Pissed at his stupid father, who was acting like Dean was a 15-year-old with no common sense whatsoever, pissed at the goddamn ghost that had found an incredible pleasure in almost ripping his fingers off his hands, and pissed at stupid Sam for just getting up one day and leaving him - didn’t matter if that had been months ago.

And with every drink that Dean downed, he started feeling more like “Dad can kiss my ass” instead of “Dad has been doing this much longer than you and just knows better”. Meaning, he should probably slow down.

But whatever.

His Dad could kiss his ass.

♫ ♪ “Oh when there's no future, how can there be sin? We're the flowers in the dustbin!” ♫ ♪

“Why, hello,” he suddenly heard a sweet voice next to him say.

Dean turned his head and was met face to face with friendly, glimmering eyes.

Those, just as the voice that had spoken to him, belonged to a young woman who seemed to have just appeared next to him.

He moved his gaze up and down her body.

Apart from her eyes, she had smooth skin, that was covered with glowing sweatpearls, most likely because of the stuffy air around them.

Or maybe, just like Dean, she had had a couple drinks too many.

A few, fine strands of her shoulder-length hair were tousled, likely from combing her hands through it.

He licked his lips. “Well, hello you. With whom do I have the pleasure?”

He was laying on thick and he knew that, but it’s not like he could care about it.

“Gloria. Richards.” She was speaking in a soft, honey voice, and Dean urged himself to focus on her face, and not the way her neck and chest were lightly gleaming from the thin layer of sweat covering them.

“What’s yours?”

Dean Winchester.

But no, that wasn’t his name. Not today at least. If he could just remember what was. And the drinks didn’t exactly make thinking easier.

“Dean Hansley.”

Gloria smiled again.

What a nice smile she had.

"Dean Hansley." She tasted the words, let them burn on her tongue. "That's a nice name."

And then she sat down at the stool next to him, without waiting for him to invite her, and she started talking.

And he talked back with her.

And time went by, and she kept finishing and ordering drinks, that Dean all offered to pay, and she never refused.

By now, the guy in the Hawaiian shirt had been thrown off the karaoke stage, after heavily throwing up into one of the other guest's handbags, halfway through a tedious ballad about life, and love, and its misery.

The only source of music was coming from the colorful jukebox next to the pool board.

A couple drunk-off-their-asses idiots, trying to play billiards, were loudly roaring along to AC/DC’s ‘You shook me all night long’.

♫ ♪ “She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean, she was the best damn woman that I ever seen!” ♫ ♪

Gloria was still sitting next to him, although a bit closer, and she was sipping at her third drink he had bought her tonight.

And damn, that girl had high tolerance.

Dean thought she was amazing.

“That thing with your family sucks, really.” She scrunched up her nose in slight discomfort.

Dean let out a humorless laugh and took a sip of the whiskey he was still stuck with. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

Yes, he had told her about his - family issues. But so what?

It felt nice having someone listening to him for a change. Someone who wasn’t his family, didn’t even know them, and wouldn’t try to disregard his frustration by telling him to ‘put himself in his father’s shoes for once’.

Gloria finished her drink and used the palm of her hand to wipe the sweat off her forehead.

Dean tried his best to not think too much about her knee touching his, her being so close him.

“The air in here is terrible,” she said, heavily emphasizing the last word.

Dean’s attention was turned to her again. He knew she had said something before that, but he hadn’t been able to catch it, too lost in his own mind.

He kind of felt bad for not listening to her.

Dean threw a look around.

“Yeah, it’s getting pretty hot in here,” he agreed, feeling pearls of sweat rolling off the little hairs on his neck.

Gloria looked directly into his eyes, then up his body, down his body, before settling on his eyes again.

She bit the inside of her cheek. Then her lip.

“I mean,” she slowly spoke, “we could continue this conversation somewhere else if you want. Where there’s not so many people and the air doesn’t taste like salt.”

♫ ♪ “You really took me and you shook me all night long! Ooh, you shook me all night long!” ♫ ♪

Hell yeah.

A boyish grin started forming on his face.

“An offer like that - how could I say no?”

༺ ｡ ° ୨❀୧ ° ｡ ༻

Now

“Read it again for me.”

Dean was staring straight ahead onto the road, his gaze hard and jaw clenched.

Sam sighed and opened the newspaper again, for what had to be the seventh time now since they had first found it.

They were both sitting in the Impala, Castiel in the backseat. The angel could have just flipped his wings and flown to the destination they were headed, but he had insisted to take the drive with them, claiming he had “nothing better to do anyway”.

“St. George, Louisiana,” Sam started to read.

“In the night of Wednesday to Thursday, a young man was found dead in his room in Saint George’s Children’s Home. The 17-year-old Roy Kendall hadn’t come out of his room the first half of the day, and when a woman of the working personnel - whose name has been withheld - came to check on him, she discovered his mutilated body draped out on the bed. According to the police, the young man’s rib cage had been compressed with such force that his ribs were broken and had managed to pierce through the young man’s internal organs, which resulted in him slowly bleeding out internally. Authorities are still in the dark about the exact details of the tragedy and the questions of “Why” and, particularly, “How” something like this could even be possible. The head of the Children’s Care Institution …, blah blah blah.”

Sam purposefully drifted off and ended his reading session therefore. He folded the newspaper back together and stuffed it into the Impala’s globe compartment.

“And that’s it, I am not reading this again. Next thing you know, I’m going to dream about squished organs and ribcages.”

He shuddered.

“I just don’t get it, man,” Dean said, ignoring his brother’s complaints, but he didn’t seem to address anyone in particular.

“I mean, I checked everything, Sammy. No demonic omens, no strategic killings, no recent disappearances. That place was all white picket fences and summer barbecues when we- ”

He was quick to cut himself off.

Sam threw his brother a side glance, but decided to not address his slip-up.

“Well, Dean, sometimes monsters just … turn up, you know.” This time Sam turned his head to get a proper look at his older brother.

“Maybe it’s just passing through, or simply moved there from somewhere else. They aren’t exactly tied to a specific place.”

Dean ran his hand over his face and through his hair in distress. “Out of all places, why there?” He muttered in a low tone.

And again, he was more talking to himself than anyone else.

“I don’t understand.” Cas was suddenly talking from the back seat. “What is in this Children’s Home that is of so much importance to you both?”

Dean was quick to answer a “Nothing,” but Castiel didn’t quite believe him.

Sam turned in his seat to face the angel.

“We were working a case near there a while back,” he simply explained.

Cas frowned, still not quite convinced, but he decided to let the topic rest. For now, at least.

“I understand,” he said. “Then it would probably be of benefit for you to stick with your past aliases. Just in case anyone there should recognize you.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” Dean vaguely answered, but he seemed trapped deep in his own thoughts.

༺ ｡ ° ୨❀୧ ° ｡ ༻

Black Hawk, Colorado 2002

“To listen to this voicemail, call-”

A dial tone sounded. The message was a few months old.

“Hey, Dean, it’s uh … it’s Gloria. You know, Gloria Richards, from a few nights ago?” A humorless chuckle was heard on the other end of the line.

“Though, guys like you don’t usually remember their casual one-night hookups. So I’ll cut straight to the chase.” One heavy inhale.

“I’m pregnant. And I know the chances of you wanting anything to do with me are zero to negative six, but I just wanted to-”

“To delete this voicemail, press 2.”

A tone.

“Voicemail deleted.”

“To listen to this voicema-”

The woman on the other end sounded more outraged this time, even though occasional cracks or hiccups in her voice gave away that she had been heavily crying moments before. Maybe still was.

“Hello Dean, it’s me again. You know, I didn’t expect you to jump up high at the news, but ignoring me?” She scoffed. “That’s a different type of low.”

She sniffled. “I’m just calling to tell you I’ve decided to keep the baby. So you can still change your mind, if you-”

“To delete this voicemail, press-” “Voicemail deleted.”

“To listen to th-”

“Hello, Dean. It’s Gloria. Again.”

This time, she seemed calmer, which could be reasoned with the tiredness her voice was radiating.

“I suppose I’m still kind of hoping that you will call me back. Or even pick up.” She sighed.

“I wanted to tell you that she’s perfectly healthy and growing. That’s right. She. Our baby is going to be a-”

“To delete this-” ”Voicemail deleted.”

John Winchester stared at the small phone in his hand and pressed a button.

“You have no more voicemails.”

That moment, Dean came bursting into the motel room, looking around the empty shelves and patting up and down his jacket- and jeans-pockets.

“Hey Dad, do you know where my phone is? I heard it ringing,” Dean asked.

“Yes, just some spam-callers,” John neatly lied. “I took care of it, but I’m gonna put it out of service, just in case.”

Dean looked at him and for a moment, John thought his son would grow suspicious, but he just nodded. “Alright. Thanks, Dad.”

John nodded and Dean left the room with his bag in hand. When he was certain Dean wouldn’t come back, John took the phone apart and crashed the SIM Card on the nightstand with the lamp.

Then he put the pieces in the bin, took his duffel bag and followed his son to the car.

༺ ｡ ° ୨❀୧ ° ｡ ༻

Now

The St. George’s Children’s Home was somewhat of a small castle, kept in a renaissance style.

Around a large courtyard, archways connected four round-towers, which were slightly higher than the rest of the castle. The walls were painted a pale yellow.

Trees grew in the gardens around the castle, flowers in planted beds, and as far as Dean could remember, there was a hedge maze behind the walls, not visible from the gateway.

They had parked the Impala in one of the parking spaces next to the tall, elegant terrain fence.

Sam and Dean were wearing black suits and their fake badges, Castiel - as always - stuck with the trench coat.

Dean was eyeing the building suspiciously.

In fact, he had been doing so for the last three minutes, in which they had all sat in the Impala in complete silence.

Sam threw a quick, concerned glance at his brother before clearing his throat.

“You really wanna do this?”, he asked quietly.

“No,” Dean answered and opened the car door, “But it’s not like we have a choice, right?”

Sam sighed and did the same, not before exchanging a quick, apprehensive look with Castiel, who still didn’t quite know what was going on.

The castle’s inside was considerably more modern than its outside.

With brightly-colored walls and furniture, and minimalistic decorations all over.

It seemed cozy.

They were headed for the office of the youth center’s director, Maria Whitlock. Dean remembered exactly where that was. Down the hall, left. Past a few closed bedroom doors. Last door at the end of the corridor.

Dean cleared his throat and knocked on the door, Sam right behind him. Castiel had left before they had entered the castle, claiming to look for a suitable Motel nearby, and telling them to contact him if they needed his help.

There was a beat of silence before they heard a woman’s voice reply “Yes?” and entered the office.

Maria Whitlock was an elderly woman, with dark red hair that she kept in a low bun. She was around a head smaller than Dean, and wearing a grey blouse combined with a wine red jacket and a black pencil skirt.

When she heard them enter the room, she looked up from a few papers she was filing, and her face immediately fell.

“Hello, Maria.” Sam greeted her.

“Dean and Sam Winchester,” she breathed out, startled.

“I never thought I would see you two again.”

Dean felt a sting in his chest.

“Yeah, well,” Sam said and tried a clumsy smile. A heavy silence followed, and Dean shifted uncomfortably.

Maria frowned. “Not to seem impolite, but what are the two of you doing here?” She asked.

Sam cleared his throat awkwardly.

“We, uhm, we heard about Roy and we thought that, maybe, we should just check if everything was alright and, of course, speak our condolences. You know, for old time’s sake.”

She nodded and closed the pen. “Yes, right. Roy. I completely forgot that they put that in the paper.”

A look of dark grief fell over her face and her gaze drifted into nothingness. She suddenly looked much older than she was.

Dean cleared his throat. “I gave you my number, Maria,” he spoke. “If you would’ve called, we could’ve been here sooner.”

She blinked rapidly, pulling herself out of her thoughts and looked at him for a second before she replied.

“I know, I know, but to be honest - it slipped my mind, in between all of this … chaos and tragedy.”

While she was talking, she got up from her chair and walked around the table, getting a clearer view at Sam and Dean.

“Of course,” Sam hastily said. “No worries. We are very sorry for your loss.”

She gave him a sad smile. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

Dean was glad that it had been Sam who had spoken up. He wasn’t very good at that sort of things. Nor did he aspire to be.

“You said you were here because of Roy’s …. passing,” Maria continued, and the brothers nodded.

“But that would mean that this was some sort of - unnatural incident.”

Sam swallowed hard.

“Well,” he started, trying to find the right words that would not trigger a breakdown for the woman, “we saw the article in the newspaper and thought that we would just have a look at it. The circumstances of Roy’s passing aren’t exactly common for a person his age, after all.”

Or for any person, really.

She nodded lazily. “Yes. I suppose you are right.”

Dean could swear that another minute of awkward silence between them would probably kill him, so he took it upon himself to prevent it before it started.

“I get that this is hard, Maria,” he said, “But if we could maybe ask you some questions? Maybe speak to the person that found him?”

She sniffled.

Oh dear God.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Her voice was a bit higher than before, and her hands grabbed for a handkerchief lying on the table.

“Uhm, the woman who found him was one of my responsible supervisors, Betty Langston. She should be present in the building today, but the last time I spoke to her, she was still pretty shaken up. I mean, who can blame her? I can’t even imagine what it must have been like, seeing that poor boy lying on his bed, just- ”

She broke off and a sob escaped her lips, before she buried her face in the kerchief.

“I’m sorry,” she cried, “I’m sorry, it’s just - he was such a kind boy. He had his whole life ahead of him. And the way that he had to go…”

She raised her head and shook it, eyes reddened and filled with tears.

“I wouldn’t wish that upon anyone.”

“We understand, Maria,” Sam spoke in a comforting, low voice.

And Dean added, “And I promise we will find whatever did this and make sure this happens to no one ever again.”

She forced herself to a smile.

“Thank you, boys. May the angels be with you.”

Dean forbid himself a snort.

“Thank you for your time, Maria. We will let you know when we know more,” Sam said and left the office.

He wouldn’t risk making her cry again by bothering her with questions about her dead fosterling.

Dean smiled at Maria and turned to follow his brother, but she stopped him.

“Dean.”

He turned to face her.

“You do know that it won’t be possible for you to investigate here, without … encountering a certain someone.”

Dean straightened his shoulders.

“Yes, I know.”

“Have you thought about it? What you will say to her?”

“Gotta admit, I haven’t.”

She hummed and nodded. Dean noticed that she had resumed her usual upright position, and if he hadn’t just witnessed it, he probably would not know that she had been crying.

“I should warn you,” she said gently, “It probably won’t be easy.”

“I honestly didn’t expect it to be.”

She smiled a gentle smile at him and he returned it, before finally leaving the room and joining his brother in the hallway.

༺ ｡ ° ୨❀୧ ° ｡ ༻

Lewiston, Michigan 2004

The first time he had read it, John Winchester had been drunk. He had spared a quick glance at it after coming home from a bar, before throwing himself onto the motel bed and passing out.

The second time he had read it, he had been sober, but suffering from a skull-splitting headache.

The third time he read it, it was simply to make sure his hungover mind wasn’t making any of this up. But no, the words on the newspaper stayed the same, grinning up at him with a sickening smirk that made his stomach turn.

In the small corner of the left page, where the lesser important news were usually placed, throned the bold-printed, black words:

24-year-old woman dies in tragic car accident, leaves 1-year-old daughter behind

No. God, no.

He read it again. Read the headline, read the article, the name that had been shortened but to him unmistakable: Gloria R.

R. Just like Richards. Gloria Richards.

There was a picture placed right next to the text, held in color, of a young woman that was clearly putting on a smile for the camera.

John slammed the newspaper on the round table.

“Damn it!” He yelled.

And in that moment, John was grateful that Dean had offered to go on a coffee run.

—

He was ‘going on a quick hunt’. That’s what he told Dean.

He was ‘going on a quick hunt and if anyone needed anything, they should contact Dean’. That’s what he told Bobby. And everyone that reached his voicemail.

Cleveland, Ohio. That’s where he was going. He had some business to attend to.

—

Central Nebraska

To say that Ellen Harvelle wasn’t delighted about John Winchester showing up inside the Roadhouse would be quite an understatement.

She was furious.

John paid attention to enter the wooden cabin carefully. He didn’t expect Ellen to be pleased by his sudden presence, especially considering their last encounter with each other.

It was a random Wednesday afternoon, and there wasn’t anyone seated in the Roadhouse, except for Ellen herself, who was busy cleaning the bar with a half-wet kitchen towel.

The brunette woman looked up for a quick second, as a form of formality, before she dedicated her attention back onto the dirty surface.

“I’ll be with you in a secon-” Then she realized. Stopped. Did a double take.

“Winchester.” The word was dripping from her lips with loathing.

“Hello, Ellen,” he started, but she cut him off.

“What do you want?” Her question was blunt and her tone cold and unwelcoming.

John cleared his throat and stepped from one foot to the other. He had to sell his story good, if Ellen wouldn’t get on board with his proposition, he had nobody else to go to.

“Look, Ellen. I get that you’re mad- ”

“Mad?” She let out a short, sour laugh.

“Mad doesn’t even begin to describe what I am feeling towards you, Winchester. Try hatred. Pure disgust.” She scoffed again.

“You must have a death wish, because I couldn’t think of any other possible reason why you would drag your dumbass out here again. ”

John swallowed hard. She was right. Who was he to just show up here again? After what happened?

But there was no turning back now, he had to go through with this.

“You’re right.” He spoke in a low tone to try and seem less intimidating and also attempt to soothe her temper towards him.

“I am sorry about what happened, Ellen. If I could go back and do it any different, then I would.”

A lie. She knew that. He knew that she knew that. Still - she didn’t interrupt, just kept glaring at him, so he decided to continue.

“But unfortunately, I can’t. And I know you have every right and reason to hate me now.”

Agreeing and empathizing with her.

“But there is something extremely important that I need to ask of you.”

Again, he didn’t have much time to talk, before Ellen raised her voice.

“You damned son of a bitch!”, she yelled, tossing the kitchen towel onto the counter with such force, the leftover water splashed around.

“You ain’t got no right walking in here, after what you pulled, and ask a goddamned favor of me!”

Her voice was loud in the silence of the Roadhouse and John lifted his hands up in defense.

“Ellen, please! Listen to me!”, he pleaded. Ellen wasn’t yelling at him anymore, but her jaw was still clenched and her entire body tense.

“I wouldn’t be here if I had any other options. Like you said, I must have a Deathwish to show up here. And I understand that. But you are the only person that I can trust with this. You can toss me out all you want after. You can yell, and scream, and punch me, and shoot at me. Just please, hear me out first. ”

There was silence, where John just stood there, his hands still raised in the air in front of him, and Ellen grinding her teeth as she thought about what to do now.

Because by God, did she hate him. And a part of her wanted to take a rifle and first shoot a bullet into his feet and then his di-

But on the other hand, she could not recall a time that John Winchester had ever gotten himself into a position to beg.

No, he was too proud for that. So whatever he wanted must be goddamn important for him, really.

“Tell me what you need, Winchester,” Ellen said eventually, “And let me decide afterwards.”

Her body language didn’t show one sign of hospitality still, but John interpreted her words as somewhat of a good sign.

Hopefully.

༺ ｡ ° ୨❀୧ ° ｡ ༻

Now

After their talk with Maria, Sam and Dean settled on questioning Betty Langston.

In the middle of the wall in the entrance hall, a big frame with the pictures, names and duties of the working staff was hung up.

Above the name ‘Betty Langston’ was a picture of a friendly looking woman in her mid-twenties, with a pointed nose and blonde strands of hair framing her face.

Underneath, the duties “Social Worker” and “Deputy Manager” were listed.

When they knocked on the door which was labeled “staff”, a young man opened and told them that Betty Langston was currently positioned on the second floor.

Dean wanted to take the elevator, but Sam dragged him up the stairs.

“It will be faster,” he guaranteed, and Dean just rolled his eyes with a groan.

The hallways on the second floor were surprisingly wide, with doors placed across each other in a zig zag pattern.

Here and there were a few paintings on the walls, old and new, and green neon signs pointing toward the emergency exit.

They met Betty after they turned around the first corner. She stood in front of a pinboard and was currently hanging up new posters.

Her hair was different from the picture, slightly longer now ending halfway down her back, and copper colored with only a few blonde highlights.

The brothers made their way over to her and flashed their fake FBI-badges when she let off her work and shifted her attention to them.

“Hello, my name is David Shields, my partner’s name is Jarvis Stark,” introduced Dean. “Are you Betty Langston?”

The young woman gaped at them, slightly caught off guard. “Uhm yes, that’s me,” she eventually got out and lowered her arms. “What can I do for you?”

Dean caught a glimpse of the writing on the poster. It was a few phone numbers, and in dark blue, a text above read: ‘DON’T HESITATE TO ASK FOR HELP!’

“We’re here to ask you about Roy Kendall,” Sam carefully approached, “We understand that you are the one who found him.”

Dean couldn’t help but notice how Betty Langston’s eyes shifted to the floor and she nervously trailed her fingers up and down the paper in her hand.

“Um yes, I … I found him.” Her voice got small and she swallowed hard.

“But what does the FBI want with that? I thought it was a wild animal.”

“Given the unusual occurrence of Roy’s death, we thought it necessary to at least have a look at this case and find out what we can,” Sam said.

“That doesn’t have to mean anything, though,” Dean quickly tried to soothe her when he noticed the tears springing in the woman’s eyes. “Exactly,” Sam hastily agreed. “Only a few questions, just in case.”

Betty nodded and blinked away her tears. “Okay,” she quietly said. Sam reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out his notebook and a pen.

“Did Roy mention something … I don’t know, unusual before he died?” Sam asked, clicking the pen and bringing his notepad in position. The young woman hesitated.

“Well, not that I know of,” she eventually said, “But, you see, kids at that age … they don’t talk to us adults much anymore. If you want to know something about Roy, you better ask his friends.”

Dean furrowed his eyebrows. “His friends?” He repeated. She nodded. “Mhm.”

“And, uh - who are his friends, if I may ask?” Sam tuned in again. Betty thought for a second and then clicked her tongue. “Well, there’s Cassandra, Cassandra Claire,” she said and started counting the listed names on her fingers. “And, uhm, Finnegan Beckett.” Sam repeated the children’s names under his breath as he quickly wrote them down.

“And Y/N Winchester,” Betty finished.

Sam abruptly stopped writing at the ‘n’ and looked up. He felt Dean visibly tense and shift next to him.

The younger brother just put on a smile and folded the small notepad back into the inner pocket of his jacket. But not before completely writing out the last name on the list.

“Thank you so much, Miss Langston, you helped us a lot. We will let you know if there are any more questions. And, our condolences,” he added.

She shyly smiled back at him and slowly continued gathering thumbtacks to hang up her posters, and the brothers left.

Sam waited until they were out of hearing range, then turned to Dean. “So…that was something,” he carefully started.

“What do you mean?”

Sam threw him a look. “You know what I mean. The witness list. Roy’s friends. That last name…”

Dean sighed heavily. Sam waited for him to say something. And when he didn’t, Sam just shook his head but decided to not stress it any further.

“So, where to now?” He asked instead.

Dean took a look at his watch. “The morgue, I’d say. As far as I know they’re closing soon, and a dead body is not exactly the first thing I need to see in the morning, so-”

Sam nodded in agreement. “Yeah, alright. Sounds good.”

They made their way out of the castle.

“You want to take Castiel?” Sam questioned when he rounded the car.

“No,” Dean decided firmly and opened the driver’s door. “Remember what happened last time? Exactly. I don’t need Cas smelling some dead guy again.”

Sam grinned at the memory. With a creak, the Impala gave in to their weight as they sat down, and the gravel gnashed under her tires when they drove off.

༺ ｡ ° ୨❀୧ ° ｡ ༻

Central Nebraska 2006

Roughly, the dark minivan tuckered over the bumpy earth of the pathetic excuse of a road, and Dean’s insides flinched with every squeak the old car made.

When they finally came to a stop, he tossed the keys somewhere and maybe slammed the door with a bit more force than necessary. A lot more.

“This is humiliating,” he grumbled, as he took in the atrocious excuse of a vehicle they just stepped out of. He missed his Baby.

Sam ignored him, and stepped forward, towards the old wooden – house? Shack? – the mysterious phone number on their dad’s cell had led them to.

The huge letters ROADHOUSE flaunted above them, and Dean thought that these were probably made to light up when the sun disappeared.

The rest of the house looked abandoned, frankly, from the outside, and that, in combination with the four-month-old voicemail, made Dean not like his odds very much. The chances that this Ellen chick was still alive, knowing what his father had needed her for, were slim in his mind.

Or hell, maybe she just called from here, got the phone from some rando, and got on her merry way when she realized John wasn’t calling back. It’s probably what he would’ve done.

Safe to say, Dean didn’t like their odds. Even less so when they entered the eerie quiet of the bar, and spotted a man lying unconscious, probably dead, on the pool table.

Dean felt his shoulders stiffen. He didn’t like this one bit, and every second he spent here made the alarm in his head shrill even louder than before.

Dean only just turned to take a closer look at one of the shelves, when he felt something hard dig into his lower back, and heard an all too familiar clicking sound.

Dean closed his eyes. “Please tell me that is a gun.”

“No, I’m just very happy to see you,” came the fast answer from a very snarking - and female? - voice.

In one swift motion, Dean whirled around, grabbed the barrel, ripped it out of his attacker’s hand, and uncocked it. The bullet fell to the ground with an echoing clatter.

Dean almost smirked triumphantly at the blonde girl in front of him, when he felt a sudden, blinding pain in his face.

And if Dean had thought pulling up in a 30-year-old, barely functional van, of all things was humiliating, he didn’t calculate how it would feel to be absolutely sucker punched by a girl, not even as old as him.

Aside from the obvious nosebleed, his ego took a severe bruise.

“Sam! Little help here!” He called, hand still holding his hurting face.

The door swung open, and Sam walked out, hands raised to his head, a sheepish look on his face. “Sorry Dean,” he said, “I’m a little tied up right now.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline, as he watched another woman with dark brown hair follow his brother close behind, a revolver held to his head in fair warning.

He would be impressed, if his vision wasn’t swimming right now.

The older woman behind Sam furrowed her brows. “Wait, Sam? Dean?” She asked, exchanging looks with kick-ass Blondie in front of him. “Winchester?”

There was a beat, before the brothers pressed out a unison “Yeah?”

“Son of a bitch.”

“Mom, you know these guys?” Dean’s head hurt with how much he was swinging it around to keep up.

“Yeah, I think these are John Winchester’s boys.” And that made Dean perk up.

The woman let out a laugh as she lowered her weapon.

—

A few minutes later, Dean was served with an iced cloth for his nose, and he and Sam seated themselves on a few of the bystanding bar chairs.

The brunette woman, who had threatened Sam, turned out to be the mysterious Ellen, whose voicemail on their dad’s phone they followed here. Jo, her daughter, and also the kick-ass blonde that had held the rifle to Dean’s back, looked about as unknowing about the whole situation as the brothers did.

Turns out Ellen had contacted John about the demon he was hunting. Said she could help him with it. Why John had never mentioned her, or her daughter, she didn’t say. Told them to ask him themselves. Dean didn’t say anything to that.

“So why exactly do we need your help?”, Dean asked, repositioning the cloth on his face.

Ellen scoffed. “Hey, don’t do me any favors. If you don’t want my help, fine.” There was a snarking edge to her voice, and Dean started to realize why his father would associate with her.

“Don’t let the door smack your ass on the way out,” she continued. “But John wouldn’t have sent you, if–“

There it was.

Ellen stood straighter. A haunted look crossed her eyes. “He didn’t send you.” It wasn’t a question.

Dean looked away.

“He’s alright, isn’t he?” Dean hadn’t known Ellen Harvelle for very long, but even he could sense the way her voice wavered. And know that she was a smart enough woman to not truly believe what she was asking.

“No.” Sam cleared his throat, and the simple word echoed through the deafening silence. “No, he’s not. We think the demon did it. Got to him before he got to it.” The thankful feeling of not being the one to have to tell her what happened felt like a sin in Dean’s gut. Then again, what’s one more on his plate.

“I’m sorry,” Ellen said. It’s what everyone said.

“It’s alright. We’re good.”

Ellen didn’t believe him, he saw it in her eyes. But she didn’t bother him more about it, either.

“So, look, if you can help us,” Sam said, and Dean threw him a look that showed just how much he wanted to smack his little brother across the face, “we’d be real happy about all the help we can get.”

Ellen’s lips twisted. “We can’t help you.”

Is this lady for real-

“But he can.”

And then the dead man stood up from the pool table.

—

Ash was a tech freak, with a haircut like Billy Ray Cyrus and the mouth of a southern cowboy. Jo called him a genius. Dean didn’t know what to think of that.

Still, he had passed him their dad’s journal, told him to go nuts, and Ash had drooled over John Winchester’s handiwork like a child over a lollipop.

Ash had left with the journal and the promise of new information in the time of fifty-one hours.

Dean thought that was long enough time to take a drink.

Jo Harvelle was a pretty woman. When she wasn’t threatening him with a rifle or punching him in the face, that was. Her soft, blonde curls fell long over her shoulders, and those jeans did wonders to her curves.

Dean started conversing with her. While he had moved to one of the tables, Sam had stayed with Ellen at the bar. He found out that her father died, a long time ago. In the back of his mind, a mean voice cackled at the irony. He paid his sympathies.

Then, suddenly, one of the doors to the backrooms flew open, and a small whirlwind of colorful fabric and y/h/c hair came dashing into the room.

“Aunty Ellen, Aunty Ellen! Look what I made!”

Dean’s head whipped around at the sound of the high-pitched voice and he spotted a small girl, not older than five years probably, squeezing herself behind the bar table. When he noticed Ellen bowing her head, he figured that the little girl had probably reached her destined spot next to her.

Dean, though he would never admit it, was an easily curious person, so he followed Jo on her way to the bar and leaned slightly over the tablewood to catch a glimpse at the small intruder.

Little Lady was tugging at Ellen’s pantleg, and expectantly holding up a colored paper for her to look at.

“Look at what I drew, Auntie Ellen!” she repeated, in that same excited tone as before, when she had stormed into the room.

Dean watched as Ellen abandoned her washcloth somewhere behind her and crouched down to meet with the little girl eye-to-eye, as she inspected her drawing.

“That’s so amazing, baby, is that us?” The girl nodded, her pigtails wiggling up and down as she bopped her head enthusiastically.

“Yes, that is you, and that is Jo, and that is me. And look, I made my own fingerprint!” She dashed her finger into a spot on the paper, and then proudly held up the red-colored tip to shove it in Ellen’s face.

The woman had a wide, genuine smile on her face. “I can see that, baby, well done, it looks so nice!” She praised. “How about we hang it up there next to the menu?”

The girl nodded her head again, and let Ellen scoop her up gently. Only then, when Little Lady was at height with them, she seemed to notice the strangers standing in the room.

In the matter of a second, Dean saw her whole demeanor shift from bubbly and open, to a more closed off version, sinking further into Ellen’s embrace and clutching the fabrics of her shirt. Something about it made Dean’s heart sting.

“Auntie Ellen?” The girl tried to whisper, but Dean had learned soon that children were terrible whisperers, “Who is that?”

Ellen looked first to Sam, then Dean, and back at the little girl in her arms. “Those are friends of Jo and me, sweetheart. Their names are Sam-“ Dean’s little brother gave a wave and a smile when Ellen introduced him. “-and Dean.”

Dean grinned and carefully stretched his hand out. “Very nice to meet you, Little Lady. Who am I speaking to, may I ask?” He laid a formal accent on his voice, one that he knew had always made Sam laugh when he was a child. It was an olive branch, but something in him hoped she would grab it.

The small giggle that Little Lady let out made Dean’s heart bloom with a warmth he didn’t know he was able to feel.

“My name’s Y/N,” she said. With a pointed look at Dean’s still outstretched hand, Ellen murmured in her ear, “And what do we do when someone gives us their hand to shake?”

Y/N nuzzled her face into the crook of Ellen’s neck, and Dean almost drew his hand back again, when a small warmth settled into his palm and closed around it.

He smiled at the girl and shook her hand. As they both pulled back, Dean twisted his hand around and huffed. “Ouff, someone has got a firm grip! Your Auntie Ellen teach you that?” Y/N grinned proudly at him and nodded her head. Then she held up her hand and showed him four fingers. “I’m already this old!”

Dean gasped. “Really? Well, that is a great age, no wonder you are so strong!”

Y/N was beaming now.

She didn’t hide in Ellen’s neck again.

“So, what about that picture now?” Ellen bounced the girl on her hip once, and it seemed like she was snapped out of a trance. Determinedly, she pointed at a space next to a hung-up blackboard. Dean figured Ellen usually wrote her daily specials on that.

The woman made a few steps over where Y/N had led her and gestured toward an already hung drawing of blue water and grey – fish? – above it, that was already taped to the wall.

“But we already put a picture there. We would have to remove that one if you want your new drawing to hang here.” The girl shrugged, and already reached for a roll of clean tape on the shelf.

“That’s okay, I don’t like dolphins all that much anymore anyway,” she explained nonchalantly. “I will just put it in my drawing box.”

Dean watched as Ellen carefully picked the old drawing from the wall to make space for the new one. He was so caught up in the scenery, he almost didn’t notice how Sam was scooting closer to him.

“You know who she is?” Sam asked. Dean turned his attention to his brother.

“Well, her name’s Y/N,” Dean answered simply. Sam didn’t roll his eyes at him, but it was a close call.

Dean just shrugged. “Guess she isn’t Ellen’s. Otherwise, she wouldn’t call her Auntie.” He pitched the last word high, to mimic the child’s voice.

Sam furrowed his brows as they watched Ellen and the small girl.

“Makes you wonder,” he said, “What she’s doing here.”

Dean just hummed. He made brief eye contact with Y/N, as she stole a look in his direction, but she averted her eyes quickly, as if she had been caught.

Dean found himself slightly smiling.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Sam looking at him. His brother was grinning.

“You love that kid.” It was a statement.

Dean scoffed. “Oh, shut up, I don’t even know her. Also, I love kids, plural.” He added.

Sam nodded, that smile still on his lips. Dean ignored him.

“Come on, ask him. Don’t be shy.” Ellen and Y/N had finished putting up her drawing and were now standing closer to them again. Ellen was still carrying the girl on her hip and had bent down to whisper to her.

Y/N had buried her face in Ellen’s shirt again, clearly shy to say something.

“He ain’t gonna bite you,” Ellen said, nudging her. “Go on.”

Y/N lifted her head, and shyly looked at Dean. Her eyes were flickering all over him, but never exactly to his face.

“Doyouwantodrawwithme?” She spluttered. Dean’s eyebrows shot up.

“Don’t think he understood that. Try a bit slower. You can do this, come on,” Ellen encouraged her.

Y/N clutched her shirt.

“Do you want to draw with me?” She asked, head lowered and looking at her fingers. Her voice was quiet, but to Dean it felt as if she had shouted that sentence.

He felt warm inside. “Of course I want to.”

Y/N’s head shot up, and Dean Winchester had seen many beautiful things in his lifetime, but the gleaming eyes of that small child before him had to be at the top of the list. He never wanted to look at anything else.

Ellen set her down and pointed at a table in the corner of the room.

“Her colors and paper are already set up. Every day, before we officially open,” she explained with a look at Dean, and he nodded. While Sam got comfortable on one of the bar chairs, he made his way over to where Y/N had already set up her coloring tools and begun drawing on a piece of yellow paper.

Her tongue was sticking out of the corner of her mouth in concentration. Dean pulled out a chair and sat down next to her.

“What are you drawing?” He asked, stretching his neck to take a closer look. Y/N leaned back and showed him her creation. Lines of red and yellow. Maybe a tomato? An apple? He turned his head. From that perspective maybe?

“It’s Lighting McQueen!” Y/N told him triumphantly. “I saw cars with Jo.”

Dean nodded. So no apple. He also wasn’t going to point out the girl’s grammar. She was only four after all. And who was he to talk.

“How did you get that?” Y/N suddenly asked, and pointed her small finger at Dean’s forehead, right where a big scar stretched over his skin, consequences of the fatal car accident.

Dean tried his best not to wince. He didn’t need to expose his lingering trauma to this pure soul.

“I was … in an accident,” he said instead. “But I’m okay and it’s almost healed now.”

The girl nodded. Dean was almost astounded at how easy it was with her.

“Whenever I hurt myself, my Auntie Ellen takes me to the Doctor. Or Jo. Or Ash.” Her face scrunches up as she thinks hard. Dean thinks it’s adorable. He finds himself smiling again.

“They always give me colorful plasters! I always get the dinos.” She leans in closer to him when she says the last bit, almost like it’s a secret she only wants him to hear. Dean’s heart warms at the thought, and he doesn’t even know why.

“Really? I’m jealous. I think dinosaurs are amazing.” He used the same hushed tone she had before. Y/N’s eyes widened. “You don’t get dino plasters?” She asked. If Dean hadn’t known better, he would’ve said she was outraged at his confession.

He shook his head. “Nope,” he said, “only boring beige ones.”

Y/N’s eyes widened even more, and her mouth fell open. Then, her lips curved into a beaming smile. “I can give you some of mine! Jo bought me so many the last time she went shopping!”

Before he could even give it a thought, Dean felt her small hand take his, and he was yanked from his seat. Geez, how did a four-year-old kid have so much strength?

His enthusiasm was short-lived, as Sam shouted from the other side of the room.

“Dean, Ellen got us a case!” His little brother was waving around a beige folder, a few newspaper pages hanging out at the sides.

He looked at his brother, then at the girl still clinging her small hand around his fingers.

“Does that mean you have to leave?” Dean’s heart clenched at the quiet, disappointed voice. He crouched down and looked Y/N in the eye.

“Yes,” he said, honestly. “ I have to go to work.”

She tilted her head. “To save people?” She asked. Dean nodded. He didn’t know how she knew, but maybe Ellen told her.

“Yes, exactly. But I will be back soon, and then you can show me your plasters, alright?”

Y/N seemed to think about it, and then nodded her head. Her pigtails were still wiggling up and down. “You promise?” She asked.

Dean nodded. “In fact,” he said, shifted his weight, and held out his pinky finger in front of her. “I pinky promise.”

Y/N grinned up at him. Dean grinned back. She linked her small finger with his.

“Can’t break a pinky promise,” Dean said as he stood up.

She shook her head violently. “Never!”

Dean laughed and waved her Goodbye.

“Let’s go,” he said to Sam as he passed him, and grabbed his jacket.

“Bye, Ellen, Jo.” Sam lowered his voice seriously. “Y/N.”

“Bye, Sam! Bye, Dean!” Y/N waved her hand after them.

“Good luck,” Ellen said. Then they closed the door behind them. The light of the sun was a heavy contrast to the dusky air inside the Roadhouse, and Dean’s eyes needed a while to adjust to the change.

He made his way over to the abomination car, Sam close next to him. His brother bumped his shoulder.

“Plural, huh?” Sam asked, smirking.

And if Dean sped the van up a bit faster, just to give his little brother a good scare now and then, well, that was between him and the Lord above.

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