#I take the same approach to 'a stitch in time' that I do to deacon's final story in fallout 4 -- I'm agnostic on if ALL details are true

[vaguely-concerned]

can't believe garak went from 'hope you have fun following my little breadcrumb trail of maybe-truths doctor it builds character ;)' at the beginning of the show to '*sigh* fuck it here's the whole loaf. the entire fucked up bakery of my soul. if you somehow still wanna have sex with me after this you know where I am, yours in infinite longing etc.' in a stitch in time. has anyone ever been so pathetically horrifically enduringly down bad as garak is for julian (laudatory)

[returnn-of-the-mac]

Thank you so much for the CFS reaction! I got one last ask before I quit bugging you (I'm greedy, I know). How bout companions in an Art vs Art situation, but it's synth, and human Sol? How would they identify the real Sole, and what do thet do with the synth? Thanks for all this, it means a lot to me! xx

You’re not bugging me in the slightest; I love writing reactions! I always get excited when i get a new request—the more, the merrier! Please enjoy!😊

oh yeah side note: i usually like to make “silent soles” so you can lut yourself in their shoes, but i kinda had to give Sole dialogue in this one.

FO4 Companions React: Real Sole vs Synth Sole

Sole and their companion were leaving Walden Pond when they noticed a person nearby. A person who looked identical to Sole. The pair approached the individual, and the two Soles began bickering about who the “real [name]” was:

Hancock

“I’m too sober to deal with this right now,” Hancock stated, “I’m just gonna hit some Daddy-O real quick

“Take your time,” Sole 1 stated.

“Don’t you dare, Hancock,” Sole 2 warned, “You know how you get with that Daddy-O shit.”

Hancock immediately took out his knife and stabbed Sole 1. He approached Sole 2, the real Sole.

“Can’t have two of you running around. I can barely manage one,” Hancock teased. “Imagine all the trouble two of you would cause…I’m glad you don’t have a twin!”

Piper:

“Oh jeez. Why do these kinda things always have to happen to us?” Piper complained. She thought for a moment and then had an idea. “Hey! The real [name] would know the special nickname I gave them. What is it?”

Sole 1 blinked. “Uh…buddy?”

Sole 2 smirked, “Blue. Because I lived in Vault 111.”

Piper beamed. “Ding ding! We have winner,” she exclaimed. She looked at synth Sole.

“So you’re the synth, huh? You got nowhere to go?” Piper thought for a moment. “I would let you crash at my place in Diamond City, but if word gets out that you’re a synth…I don’t even want to think about it.”

Sole 1 frowned.

“How about you come with us for now, okay? We’ll get you situated.” Piper promised.

Gage:

“Oh damn. Oh shit. I‘m no good at these find the difference games,” Gage panicked. He then had an idea. He quickly adjusted his fingers and threw his hands in the air.

“What’s going on?” Sole 1 asked.

Sole 2 did another hand motion and Gage smiled. He looked at the fake Sole.

“Gang signs, ya poser.” Gage explained just before gunning down Sole 1.

Gage then shifted his attention to Sole 2, “And ya said these signs were stupid. I sure showed ya, didn’t I?

Danse:

Danse looked back and forth between the two Soles. “I’ll return momentarily,” the Paladin began, “I’m going to find Cutler

and get his opinion. He has a good eye for these kinds of situations.”

“Should I wait here, or do you want me to come with you?” Sole 1 inquired.

“Isn’t Cutler…” Sole 2 hesitated, mindful of their companion’s PTSD, “…not…not alive right now?”

Danse whipped out his laser rifle and vaporized Sole 1. The real Sole smiled and approached the Paladin.

“I knew you would catch on, soldier.” Danse commented, “You’re much sharper than that synthetic vermin.”

Preston:

“This is tough…you both look the same,” Preston hesitated, “But I need to pick the right one. Marshal, can you help me out?”

“No problem Preston,” Sole 1 began, “I have been there for you and the Minutemen through thick and thin. Always fighting for the people. It would be a shame if you lost all of that by shooting me instead of that imposter over there.”

“Marshal?” Sole 2 asked, “Did I get a promotion?”

Preston immediately stared at Sole 1. “You’re the imposter,” Preston said, “Now what?”

He thought for a moment and then nodded. “Would you like to join the Minutemen?” He asked the synth. Sole 1 nodded. “Excellent. You can follow us back to Sanctuary Hills and we’ll get you acquainted with everyone over there.”

Nick:

“Alright, synth. Let’s see how sly you really are,” Nick challenged, “Give this old detective a run for his money.”

Nick approached the two Soles and scanned them. After about two minutes of careful examination, the detective walked up to the synth Sole.

“You’re the synth,” He stated plainly, “You have one of two options: live an honest life and don’t cause trouble for the sake of my friend here, or die right here, right now.”

Sole 1 shuttered, “The first option. I won’t cause any problems—I promise!”

Nick solemnly nodded, “Then you’re free to go.”

The panicked synth swiftly ran off into the distance.

Sole stared at Nick in disbelief and the detective chuckled.

“The Institute sure is good at making carbon copies of people‘s physical appearance. Fortunately, they haven’t quite nailed replicating idiosyncrasies yet,” Nick smirked, “I know you never take that wedding ring off. Your clone over there didn’t get the memo, apparently.”

Cait:

“God dammit, these synths are sneaky little rats, aren’t they?” Cait studied the two Soles and scratched her head, “I can’t deal with this shite right now. I’m goin to take a hit of psycho.”

“Wait, Cait! Hold on,” Sole 1 pleaded. “This doesn’t have to be hard. I swear, I’m the real [name]!”

“Why?” Sole cried in frustration, “We just busted our asses getting you cleaned up in Vault 95 and you’re just going to throw it all away?”

Cait took put her shot gun and shot Sole 2. She approached the real Sole, who now looked distraught. She looked at them sympathetically.

“I would never, darlin. It was just a test. And you passed,” she reassured, “I’m sorry for hurtin ye like that.”

MacCready

“Two [names], huh? This is gonna be fun,” MacCready smirked and held out his hand, “My most prized possession. Give it to me.”

Sole 1 scratched their head as Sole 2 promptly placed a toy soldier in MacCready’s hand.

“Thank you, friend,” MacCready beamed, looking at Sole 2. He then whipped out his gun, “And goodnight imposter,” he stated, sniping Sole 1 in the forehead.

He walked over to the real Sole and smiled, “I hope you didn’t think I wouldn’t be able to tell the two of you apart. I could’ve figured it out even without the soldier.”

X6-88:

X6 looked at Sole 1, then at Sole 2.

“Alpha-9-3-Beta.”

Sole 1 immediately collapsed, and Sole whipped their head to look at their companion.

X6 approached them. “I’m a professional Courser, [sir/ma’am]. You don’t have to worry about rouge synths fooling me.”

Deacon:

“Two’s a crowd!” Deacon exclaimed, “Guess it’s time for comedy hour!” He dramatically cleared his throat: “Two Brotherhood of Steel soldiers are sitting in a tank,” he began.

Sole 1 looked interested in the joke, while Sole 2 rolled their eyes.

“One soldier tells the other: BLUB BLUB GLUB BLUB GLUB. The other soldier drowns.”

Sole 1 immediately started laughing while Sole 2 shots daggers at Deacon.

Deacon knew instantly who was whom. He pulled out his gun and aimed at Sole 1, “Sayonara!” He shouted.

Sole 1 braced for impact, but nothing happened. They looked at Deacon.

“I’m just messin with ya,” he began, “As long as you promise not to go screwing up my pal’s reputation, I don’t have any reason to kill you. In fact, you could probably be a valuable member of the Railroad if you wanted to join our cause.”

Sole 1 nodded and Deacon grinned.

“Great! Why don’t you start heading down to the Old North Church then. There should be a secret door and the password is Railroad. Let them know Deacon sent ya.”

As soon as Sole 1 left, Deacon looked at the real Sole with a goofy smiled plastered across his face. “Now back to what we were talkin about before…I know you’re a huge fan of my jokes. Wanna hear another one?”

Strong:

“Why two human?” Strong asked, scratching his head. “Was only one this morning.”

“That’s because they're a faker.” Sole 1 said, pointing an accusing finger at Sole 2.

“Shut up. No you’re not. I am!” Sole 1 retorted.

“Human fight with clone. Yes. Interesting.” Strong commented, “But Strong want to smash clone.”

The Sole’s were silent for a moment before Strong spoke again.

“Human know this. Who Strong’s favorite au-thor?”

“You don’t read…do you?” Sole 1 asked.

“William Shakespeare.” Sole 2 answered confidently.

“That real human,” Strong said, pointing at Sole 2. “Goodnight, clone,” Strong stated as he bashed the synth with his super sledge.

Curie:

“Oh my…” Curie mused, looking back and forth between the two Soles, “I…I don’t know who’s who!”

“I’m the real [name]!” Sole 1 pressed, “How can you not tell the two of us apart? We’re best friends”

“[He/She]’s lying!” Sole 2 swore, “I’m the real one!”

Curie frantically looked back and forth between the two Soles when she suddenly had an idea.

“Both of you turn around and lift up your shirt.”

The two Sole’s obeyed and Curie examined their backs. Sole 1’s back was smooth, but covered with a few cuts and bruises. Sole 2’s back was also slightly bruised and cut, but unlike Sole 1, they had a large, stitched up laceration that ran from one rib to the other. It was an injury they had received upon fighting a Mirelurk King with Curie.

She approached Sole 2. “You, you’re the real [name]! I’m so glad I was able to tell.” She then looked at Sole 1. “It must be fun looking like one of the most fascinating people in the Commonwealth.” Curie remarked. “But we can’t have you running around and pretending to be [name]. I’m so sorry…”

“Wait,” Sole 1 pled, “I won’t cause any problems. You have my word.”

Curie smiled. “Well, I’m glad! If you promise you won’t do evil, you are free to go!”

Sole 1 thanked Curie and Sole for sparing them as they rushed away.

Longfellow:

“I am one confused sea cucumber right now,” Longfellow stated, scratching his head, “I’m too old for this shit. Dammit, [name], why would you do this to a senile old man?”

The two Sole’s stared at Longfellow.

“Only one way to find out who the real deal is,” Longfellow pulled a fiddle out from seemingly nowhere and began to sing:

“Oooooh-! What you’re gonna do with a drunken sailor?

What you’re gonna do with a drunken sailor?

What you’re gonna do with a drunken sailor…?”

Sole one raised an eyebrow while Sole 2 beamed.

“Early in the morning!” The latter finished.

Longfellow smiled and shot the synth Sole to the ground. He then approached his real companion.

“I know that’s your favorite sea shanty, [lad/lassy]!” He exclaimed, “My pleasure to have rid the world of your evil clone.”

Ada:

“The two of you look identical. It’s going to be hard to tell who the imposter is, but I have an idea.” Ada declared. She suddenly lit up and projected an image onto the ground. It appeared to be an empty checkbox with the words I am not a robot written next to it.

“This high-tech projection is touch-sensitive,” Ada explained, “So who is going to try to check the box first?”

Sole 1 stepped forward. They tapped the box with their foot and nothing happened. They then tried again with their hand. They then stomped on it, and jumped on it. The box would not check.

“This stupid thing isn’t a touch screen!” Sole 1 complained, “Don’t lie!”

Just then Sole 2 stepped up. They lightly tapped the box and a check appeared.

“That answers our question, then.” Ada declared. “It looks like she is the real human being. I am sorry.”

Sole 1 slumped a bit, “Now what?”

Ada thought for a moment. “Well, I think I know someone who could use some company. Her name is Isabel Cruz. She should be located at the Robotics Technology Facility in East Boston.”

“Thank you,” Sole 1 stated, as they turned and ran away.

Codsworth

“Oh bother…” Codsworth mumbled, looking back and forth between the two Soles, “you both look completely identical.”

“It’s me, I’m the real [name]!” Sole 1 shouted.

“No, I am!” Sole 2 hollered back.

The two continued to bicker until Codsworth spoke again, “Only the real [name] would know the answer to this question!”

The two Soles perked up.

“What name did the [hubby/wife] insist on giving me before you settled on Codsworth?”

Sole 2 immediately answered, rolling her eyes at the memory “Mr. BB-8 But Floating and British.”

“Correct!” Codsworth cheered. He then turned to Sole 1. “I’m not going to harm you, [sir/ma’am] so long as you do not cause any trouble in [name]’s body.

The synth hastily nodded and ran away.

Codsworth then floated over to the real Sole. “You know, I never really did have the chance to properly thank you for changing my…unique name,” he stayed, shuttering, “So thank you. I am very grateful.”

[coffee-obsessed-writer]

The Devil in Disguise

Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Dean’s on the run from escaping a prison where a job went south. Sam is in the wind. With nowhere to go and an injured leg, Dean takes refuge in the only place he could find—an old remote cabin. Normally empty for long stretches, Dean happens to stumble in the same day that the cabin’s owner returns. After a rocky first encounter, Dean comes to believe that a distant connection they share could be the thing that saves his life and gets him back to Sam. But will it happen before Y/N’s finance, a prison guard at Green River, finds the secret she’s hiding in the woods?

A/N: The fic was inspired by the song “The Devil’s Backbone” by The Civil Wars. This is part 1 of ?? written for multiple bingo cards that go for both chapters. Set around S2 (Folson Prison Blues). New tag lists are at the end of the fic. I have tag spots open, let me know if you want to jump on or off for SPN (Dean and/or Sam, or RPF for Jensen)

@spngenrebingo Square filled: Wrong Place Wrong Time

@spndeanbingo Square filled: Cabin in the Woods

Warnings: (Part One): Language, Mild angst, Gunshot wound  

WC: 3.1K

*Banner created by me. I do not own any of these pictures.

Dean bypassed the barbed wire wall without the guards seeing him, but he didn’t have the luxury of the night to hide him forever. Sam had already gotten free, he wasn’t sure how, but he did. Maybe their old friend Deacon had been able to get him through the gates somehow, but at least his little brother was safe. He, on the other hand, still had some running to do and it would be daybreak soon.

The sirens started blaring, a long, whiny cry to alert the rest of the prison and community that they had lost a felon or two. Dean’s heart began racing as he surveyed his very limited options. He had no way to disappear fast enough; no car, no weapon, nothing but his GED and give’em hell attitude. Somehow he had to make those work for him. 

With his back pushed up against the stone wall, he crept along as far as he could. In the distance he could hear the dogs, snarling and foaming at his scent. Despite his labored, nervous breathes mingling with the cold air, he felt himself sweating with anxiety and exhilaration. The rush of adrenaline had set his impulses on fire and made him ready to do whatever he had to do.

“Son of a bitch,” he growled, realizing that his only real option was to take a chance and make a break for the treeline. It was a good fifty-yard dash, and regardless of pre-prison his diet of bacon cheeseburgers and six-packs, he was confident that he could make it. The forest was dense enough for him to get lost in, and in that kind of wilderness, he was sure he would shake them.

Dean waited for the spotlight to come back around one last time, and once it passed, he ran like a bat out of hell. He felt the bullet whizz past his head before he heard the echo of the shot. He didn’t hesitate though. Dean ran faster, nearly gone in the tree line before he felt the white-hot heat of the round pierce the calf of his left leg. He immediately stumbled and fell, then cursed at the pain that rippled through his leg as he got back up. The bullet slowed him down, but it didn’t stop him; Dean kept running and didn’t look back.

Time passed, he didn’t know how much exactly, but enough for the sky to become light and the sound of the dog’s barking to fade away completely. He had been running for what felt like miles and stopped for a moment to catch his breath. Dean leaned back against an old maple tree and finally examined his wound where the orange jumpsuit was now soaked with blood. He sighed in relief when he saw two holes in the fabric of the pants, now that he knew the bullet must have gone clean through. Stitches he could handle on his own, fishing out a bullet would be a different story. Still, he had to find a place to hold up, get supplies, food, water… a way to contact Sam. He took another moment to try and calm his breathing, then pushed off the tree and turned west, hoping that would bring him somewhere safe. 

Through a thicket of trees, he spotted a roof peak breaking through the mess red and gold leaves. Dean made his way there, first surveying the outside to see if it was empty or not. When he was sure that there was no one there, he approached cautiously, peeking in windows and looking for a way in that didn’t require breaking any glass. The back door of the cabin opened easily, and he ducked inside. 

The interior of the old place was well kept, and while it was currently empty, it hadn’t been for long. There was no dust or debris, the kitchen was clean and the one-bedroom had a nicely made bed and a bathroom with fresh towels. 

“Shit,” he mumbled and realized he wouldn’t be able to stay for any real length of time. Not that he should, anyway. Dean had been on the run enough times in his life to know you needed to keep moving.  

Making the most of what he had, Dean went through the cabinets and refrigerator looking for supplies. He found a few bottles of cold water and some cans of vegetables in the cabinet. Hunger wasn’t a priority, but he gulped down the water before limping into the bedroom and searching for clothes. Rifling through the drawers, he lucked into a clean pair of dark blue sweatpants and an old gray T-shirt. In the last drawer he opened, he saw the small, gray weapon lockbox and for the first time in a week, felt a genuine smile touch the corner of his mouth. 

Once Dean broke it open, he made sure the wood-handled Ruger inside was loaded and left it on the bed as he tossed his prison orange aside and got changed. Exhaustion was setting in, and the pain from his leg was starting to drain whatever energy he had left. He pulled the shirt over his head and tried to lift his left leg up enough to pull the sweatpants on, but it was enough of a movement to make his ears go fuzzy and black spots to appear before his eyes. Dean knew he was going under, but not even his give’em hell attitude could combat the amount of pain and fatigue that overcame him.

Dean woke sometime later to a distant sound. His long lashes fluttered involuntarily and as his lids slowly opened, his mind tried to discern where he was. He HAD been in prison, but now… flashes of barking dogs, branches slicing at his arms, a bullet piercing his leg. Pain flared loudly at the memory and Dean repressed a guttural groan as he did his best to sit up on the bed, using his right arm to help prop him up and the left hand to grab the gun. 

Another noise; closer now. A door to the cabin slamming shut. Dean was up and off the bed, Ruger in hand, pushing away the pain in his leg and the low rumble of his stomach. His heart was working overtime to pump blood through his body, only adding fuel to the overwhelming rush of adrenaline surging along with it. He went cold, completely willing to do whatever he needed to survive. Civilian or not, if the person standing between him and getting back to his little brother was his only obstacle, if pushed, he would make the hard choice.

Someone was in the kitchen, muttering and moving about. Dean inched closer to the door, tip-toeing in bare feet with the hopes that he wouldn’t creek one of the old floorboards. At the edge of the door frame, he pushed his back against the wall and readied the Ruger, before discreetly peering around the corner of the doorway into the kitchen. 

Dean saw her just as she turned and saw him. He had the gun up, eyes cold and steely against the trembling woman who stared in shock with wide, scared eyes. 

“Shhhh,” Dean warned. “I don’t want to hurt you…”

The long stretch of road was laid out before her, lined with the brightly colored autumn trees. On the radio of her old Jeep, Patsy Cline was crooning about being crazy, and the bite to the air coming in from the driver’s side window made her smile. It had been a month at least since she had driven out to the cabin, and right now, spending a few days out there was just what she needed. Derek had been a bear since he had been put on overtime at work. The night shifts left him even more on edge, and the last fight she had with him was enough to make her want space for a few days. Using her current work in progress, she could at least use the excuse of needing quiet to write. Not that he minded when she said she was leaving. He claimed the overtime was necessary in order to pay for the wedding and it was just easier to do without her home waiting for him. Though, [Y/N] wasn’t dumb. She knew there was more to it, but shoved it aside for the time being. As the twisting roads wound her closer to her forest retreat, she thought it was more probable that the new intake officer, Rita Martin, was the real reason he didn’t fight the extra shifts. 

Arriving at the cabin, she turned the ignition off, pocketed the keys and grabbed her duffle bag along with the box of supplies from the back seat. Kicking the Jeep door shut with her foot, she walked up to the few steps to the porch and across the long stretch of old pine towards the front door. [Y/N] placed the box to the ground and cursed under her breath as the duffle on her shoulder fell quickly forward and knocked a few items out of the box before falling to the porch with a thud. 

She put them back in the box quickly and then lifted up the doormat to grab the spare key that unlocked the front door. It was not a great place to leave it, but she had a terrible habit of forgetting the key to the old place sometimes and didn’t want to get stuck that far out in the woods without being able to get in. She let the door open and then retrieved the box from the ground before entering. 

Standing in the middle of the place, she sighed with relief and the feeling of being there again. It wasn’t the best time in the world to head out that far, but the need to be alone with her thoughts outweighed the need to not get snowed in. 

The small living room was just as she left it, and she was relieved to see that she remembered to leave a good amount of firewood inside already. [Y/N] moved into the kitchen and placed the box of supplies on the round table towards the corner of the room. She turned to the fridge and was talking under her breath, questioning to herself if she had brought enough food. Unsure of how long she was going to stay, [Y/N] brought enough for a long weekend, but knew it could certainly run longer; especially if Derek was going to continue acting like an ogre. 

[Y/N] shrugged off her puffer vest, and turned to hang it on the back of the chair. That’s when she saw the man standing in the doorway of the bedroom off the kitchen. He was wearing Derek’s clothes and had her own Ruger up and targeted right on her chest. The man’s face was dirty, his arms scratched to hell and blotches of blood running through the fabric of the sweatpants on his left leg.  She wanted to scream—her panic begged her to call for help—but her mind knew better. There was no one for miles and doing so may only prompt the strange man to shoot. 

“Shhhh,” he warned.. “I don’t want to hurt you…” 

The man’s face drained to pale, and he swiftly became uneasy on his feet. [Y/N] had a moment where she didn’t know whether to make a run for it or go help the man who was clearly injured and frightened. Yes, he was pointing her own gun at her, but people do crazy things when they feel scared and trapped. 

He looked as if he would topple over from a stiff breeze, and a moment later, nearly did. [Y/N] lunged forward, catching the man’s shoulder and helping to prop him up before he went to the floor. He hadn’t passed out completely, but it was no secret that he was overly exhausted.

[Y/N] moved him towards the bed, as the Ruger slipped from his hand and fell to the floor. Paying it no attention, she was more concerned about the heat that was radiating off his skin. Despite the pallid complexion he currently displayed, the man was burning up. 

Once she got him to the bed, she drew in a deep breath and tried to wrap her head around what was happening. As she turned to go back and pick the gun up off the floor, she noticed the orange jumpsuit off in the corner. Her head snapped around to the man on the bed, who was slowly starting to come around again. Her attention went back to the jumpsuit. She knew what it was; where it was from. [Y/N] had seen enough of them in her day thanks to Derek. 

Bending slowly, [Y/N] picked up the Ruger, and just as she trained it on the man in her bed, he sat up completely, placing a hand to the side of his head and wincing in pain. 

“I’m--I’m sorry,” he grumbled, his throat raspy and cracked. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought the place was empty. Bad timing on my part.”

“Why are you here? Who are you?” she snapped despite the worry she felt for his physical condition. The longer he hesitated, the tighter she gripped the handle of the gun. It took her taking a few steps closer and relocating her aim from his arm, to his head. 

The man put his hands up in defense and tried to stand. “Alright! Alright!” he shouted. “I’m Dean Winchester, okay? I got shot and needed a place to hold up. That’s all. I thought the place was empty!”

He managed to keep his balance for a moment, but his calf betrayed him and buckled his knees, bringing back down to the bed. 

“Shot. How? By who?” she asked, her (y/c) eyes narrowing on him suspiciously. “Don’t give me that bullshit hunting accident story either, I see the orange jumper. I know where you’re from.”

As if on queue, a burst of static came from a distant place out from somewhere else in the cabin. It was quickly followed by a jumbled voice, but it was too far away to make any kind of sense. 

“What the hell is that?” he asked, the fever becoming more present on his face as he tried to comprehend what he was hearing. 

“My CB. No cell service out here. It’s the only way to reach the cabin. I haven’t seen the wound there yet,” she nodded towards his leg, but kept her eyes trained on his, “but I can tell you it's getting infected. Now, I have supplies that will help, but first, you tell me what happened.”

His face drew into a frustrated scowl, one that told her he realized how cornered he was and that truth was his only way out. Dean sighed in resignation as his shoulders slumped. “I was in prison. Found a way out. Got shot running away.”

“What were you in for?” she asked, but with much less bite than before. 

“B ‘n E… maybe a few other things,” he muttered. “But, I got myself locked up on purpose. I wasn’t supposed to actually be there.” He snorted a laugh and shook his head; even he seemed surprised by what he was admitting.

[Y/N] lowered the gun from him momentarily to try and process what he had just said. She couldn’t put the pieces together in her head and raised the Ruger again. “You need to explain better than that, Dean Winchester. I’m not someone you can lie to easily. I grew up a Preacher’s daughter, so I can smell bullshit from a hundred miles.”

Dean raised his eyebrows considering her reply and nodded. “Yeah, well. I’m not lying. What I do… my brother and I--”

“Your brother? Is he here too?” she asked, an edge of nerves lacing her question.

“No, he got out the right way. He should be safe.”

“The right way? What the Hell does that mean?”

“We had a plan, okay? Once the job was done inside, Deacon was helping us to get out.”

“Deacon? You mean, Deacon Kaylor?”

Dean’s face lit up. “Yeah, you know him?” 

“Yeah,” she replied hesitantly and once again, lowered the Ruger. 

“If I were to radio Deacon, and pass your name along to him… what would he say, exactly? What kind of job were you doing that required you to break into prison only to have to break out again?”

“He’d say just what I told you, that I didn’t belong there and vouch that he was trying to help us get out. As for the job, well, that’s a whole other story.”

“Good thing I’ve got time.” She was curious, but also leary of the green-eyed stranger currently bleeding on her grandmother’s favorite quilt. 

“Yeah, well, I don’t, sweetheart. You weren’t kidding about my leg, it hurts like hell and I can’t imagine it looks real pretty. I’ve answered your questions. Maybe you could come through on those supplies now? If not, I’m not gonna be conscious enough to answer anything.”

[Y/N] considered his point and nodded reluctantly, then tucked the gun in the back of her jeans, and covered it with her shirt. 

“Alright. Sit tight, they’re out in the other room. But… try one thing… make one move where I feel threatened, and I promise you, that leg will be the least of your worries.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dean held up his hands in relent as she walked past where he sat on the bed and back out into the kitchen. 

[Y/N]’s mind was racing, trying to know what the right thing to do was. Should she call Deacon? Check up on this man who claimed to be innocent of whatever crimes had gotten him locked up? What could this job possibly be that he mentioned? Something was strange here, she could feel that in her gut, but she could also feel that he wasn’t lying. That line about spotting a liar a mile away wasn’t wrong. Growing up with Preacher Steve as a father had forced her to become quite attuned to bald-face lies, subtle ones, too. For Preacher Steve was as big of a liar as they came. Yet every Sunday, he stood on that pulpit and scared the people of Green River County into believing each and every one of his lies.

She was rummaging through the box just as the CB came to life again from the base it sat on in the living room. As [Y/N] walked slowly towards it, through the cracks of static and interference, she could hear the call being intercepted from the radio at the prison: ‘BOL: manhunt continues for the missing Green River, prisoner DEAN WINCHESTER...’

SPN Tags: @kazosa // @wings-of-a-raven // @closetspngirl // @idreamofplaid// @screechingartisancashbailiff // @linki-locks11 // @winchesterxfamilybusiness// @spnhollis // @sandlee44 // @stoneyggirl // @clarinette07 // @negans-wife // @deans-baby-momma // @hobby27 // @breereadsthings // @katehuntington // @81mysteriouslyme // @mrswhozeewhatsis // @deathofmissjackson // @lauravic // @aomi-nabi // @akshi8278 // @whereismyangel-damnitdeanshare// @coffeebooksandfandom // @rebelminxy // @22sarah08 // @his-paradox // @adoptdontshoppets // @blackcherrywhiskey // @babypieandwhiskey // @lefthologramdeer // @maddiepants

[skyphile]

Slumber melts away from behind your eyes, and dreams of vile whispers and burning mist are replaced by the rumbling cadence of his comforting stomach, the scent of peaches wafting from his skin, overpowering warmth and pressure in his weight on you, squeezing the remnants of stillness from you.

Even as your fingers trace the taut lines of his skin, like trained clockwork, arms winding around his middle, keeping him so close not even a breath could pass between you, last night floods into your thoughts again, and the dried salt tracks under your eyes sting as if they were touching a raw wound.

His words, touches, rough marks of love scattered across your tender skin, have always had an easy way of putting you back together, not unlike yours on him. But today you still can’t quite trust it, the stitches he’s expertly woven over the deep cut he himself has inflicted too.

His love for you is obvious, but yours might not be. As your self esteem falters, so does your behavior, so do the actions of your commitment - and that must be what he’s missing, that must be what has caused him to lash out so openly: further fruits of your insecurity. You cling to this moment, thinking it ephemeral, entirely expecting to do something else soon, that’ll only make his next reaction more violent, and you can’t help but think you’ll deserve it.

He still loves you, but that can’t fix the broken bits of you, all the patches that’ll never be good enough. You’ll only keep disappointing him, and sooner or later maybe even his love will fade. And then what will happen to you? What will ever happen to him? How dare you even get this far?

He stirs awake the second before your first tears start flowing again, and he is quick as always to sniff them out, lick them up, kiss you so deep down you forget every pain but the sweetness of claws digging into your sides, your lungs filling up with the breath of him, your heart bruising up as it crashes against your own ribcage.

He says you’ll feel better after you eat and you agree. You even smile a little as he licks the sugar off your fingers, the bits of flesh clinging to your bloodied kitchen knife, happy as the Cheshire cat.

Through the entire time there is no remorse in his eyes, no trace of evidence to say everything isn’t as it should be, and that somehow only makes your chest feel heavier. You can’t trust this to last, not unless you do better.

Or break this for good.

It’s only way later, after a blur of hours spent further in his arms, that you dare return home, and even then you drag yourself straight to your room, the house empty in your path, allowing the tears to flow freely again as you sink into the mattress.

You don’t know either how long you’ve spent like this, time measured not in minutes and hours, but instead in bouts of tears and each consequent apathy. You try to keep busy, work on your next table, blog for a while, but your attention unavoidably draws back to his criticism, and your pathetic inability to deal with it.

A few eras pass, floods succeeding droughts, and he comes gently as the new rains die, the sun rising through the bedroom door. You don’t quite recall if you greet him or not, but he approaches just the same, and you’re certain he knows why you’re like this. “Rough Moonday?” the proof comes.

Rough Moonday.

He settles next to you, and the moment his palms cup your face, your skin flares to how much you’ve missed him. Tears stream through the sunlight, and he kisses them up, tracing rainbows along your lips, forehead, cheeks. Your fingers cling to fabric, to starry skin, to warmth and golden hope.

He murmurs, soft yet coarse, close to tears himself, and you hate the pain that irradiates off you, affects him so. He tells you about how he’s seen your table for him, and he spills the most gorgeous tapestry, in vivid color and raw emotion, a thank you and a return of feelings, a sanctuary for you both, the relief in your heart, knowing that at least for you and him, things can keep growing, you can do better, love more.

Eventually he smiles wider, pokes loving fun at the sap to your words, draws laughter out of you, and your arms reel him ever closer, you become a mattress to the firebird in all his fiery glory. Between sniffly kisses, soothing moments of solace, he talks about his day, about the little moments you’ve missed since you were gone, relays the loving messages from your family you hadn’t caught, of encouragement and worry, slight impatience, but ultimately, understanding.

You thank him for being ever so wonderful and supportive himself. You tell him you can’t wait to make it all up for him. You always do.

It’s only when he gets up to start making the evening’s meals, dropping one more kiss on your forehead, that he lingers on the doorway, hesitant. “Whatever it is he’s said to you… I know you won’t believe me now, but he’s- ...You know... and you’ll figure it out soon, I just know it, and you’ll find a way to make it good - no one can do that with him like you do. But trust me when I say: he's good at making you believe what he wants you too. And you'll... always be clearer than that.“

He’s right: you can’t believe that Deacon’s criticism is anything less than fully genuine right now, and the pain still weighs you down. But then you see it in Daven's face, the way the subject doesn't let him speak openly, with the same warmth to his voice. You know he knows well what he's talking about, he takes so much of it. Maybe you can still make it better for him, and for Dea. You can still make it better for yourself. He leaves to go nourish your home, and you heave a deep sigh.

You can’t help Dea, yet, but right now you can try to do right by your home too, this core. You open your laptop up again, copy&paste the skeleton of a new table, and start typing.