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hqprotectionsquad · 4 years

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𝒖𝒏𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔 - 𝒚𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒊 𝒉𝒊𝒕𝒐𝒌𝒂

⤷ 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒇𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔, 𝒚𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒊 𝒊𝒔 𝒈𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒏 𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓'𝒔 𝒅𝒂𝒚. 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒂 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒑𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒄𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒓 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓? ⤷ 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝒎𝒙𝒎𝒕𝒐𝒐𝒏'𝒔 𝒖𝒏𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔 ⤷ 𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒊𝒄 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

word count: 3709

submission for @haikyuuwriters‘s may event - Mothers’ Day — write about Mothers’ Day. Meeting an s/o’s mother for the first time? Visiting a grave and paying respects? Fluffy moments for a couple with kids? Or is your pairing considering kids?

“Can you let me in, Hitoka?” Tsukishima’s voice is muffled through the wood and Yachi rushes to turn the handle and fling the door open. In comes a man who hauls in paper bags in his arms with his glasses on the brink of sliding off of his nose. Before she has a chance to think, Yachi pushes up his glasses and Tsukishima scrunches his nose at her action.

“What did you bring?” Yachi leans on Tsukishima to try to see what is in the brown bags he carries. It’s Thursday evening, which means after Tsukishima’s shift at the museum, he picks up groceries at the market and dinner for the two of them. “How much can I pay you for the dinner?” She asks as he begins filling the refrigerator with vegetables and fruits. Yachi stands on the outside of the fridge, where photos are suspended by magnets. One features the Karasuno boys’ volleyball team at Nationals, another has Yachi’s selfie with Tsukishima. There are also usually lists of items needed, and the papers are replenished every Monday and Thursday, when they take the list with them and buy groceries for the apartment.

“You don’t even know what I’ve bought for dinner.” Tsukishima side-eyes Yachi as he continues, “For all you know, I could’ve brought leftovers from the dumpster and you would still pay me beforehand.”

Yachi’s mouth gapes at his accusation, but she quickly composes herself. “You’re not wrong,” she says with a pout. Yachi fiddles with her phone while Tsukishima finishes unpacking the products from the bag. Now, the fridge looks happy to be full again.

Tsukishima sets the table pressed against the wall with plates and cutlery. It’s a small table, like the rest of their furniture. They both live humble lives, so why not live together? It’s not like they each take up a grand piece of space and the apartment they live in is snug enough to fit their belongings. He’s about to tell her that he bought curry and even splurged on two slices of strawberry shortcake when he passed by a bakery on his way home, but she’s already preoccupied with a call of some sorts.

“Hello?” Yachi speaks into the receiver softer than usual. She doesn’t want to attract attention, so she sinks into the edge of her bed, with her door slightly open, but she’s sure Tsukishima will end up seeing her anyhow.

“Hitoka, hi. It’s your mother. Are you free on Sunday?” Yachi barely mutters a word out before her mom continues with her steamrolling agenda. Yachi is one-hundred percent sure that her mother is calling her between clients, acting as if Yachi should be thankful that her mom reached out to her. “Great, let’s have lunch together. Sounds good?”

“Yes, that’s fine.” As quick as her mother calls her, she is just as quick to leave. Yachi is used to this, or rather she should be used to it by now. She wasn’t the most doted on as a child. Then, Yachi grew older and only saw her mother in the mornings, dashing out the door with a piece of bread in her mouth. Sometimes, Yachi would stay up much past her bedtime, with her sheets balled up in her fists by her eyes, and the light in the kitchen would spread into her bedroom by the crack by the door. Yachi would hear her mother slurping on instant noodles at two in the morning and her mother would be up again four hours later, but all without a single word exchanged between the two. By the time she applied to universities, Yachi only told her mom her final choice instead of the eight schools where she competed for a spot in their marketing department.

Isn’t it sad?

“Is everything alright?” Tsukishima enters her room with barely a warning. His footsteps are soft, but his presence is known when Yachi turns her head to see him.

With a breath in and out, she replies, “Not really, but I wish it was.”

Tsukishima has gotten far since high school. Yachi believes that she might have had something to do with his attitude change, but she knows that college has also brought him out of his shell. When they first moved in together as roommates, Yachi needed to yank his feelings out of him whenever Tsukishima would brood in his room for a weekend-straight. Now, Tsukishima will approach Yachi at times.

“Let’s eat dinner. Maybe you can get your mind off it after eating.” After he crosses the room in two steps to get to Yachi, he nudges her to get out of her room and into the kitchen.

Tsukishima serves her, not asking a single question until she mumbles through her rice, “My mom asked me to come meet her on Sunday. Of all days, Mother’s day.”

“Huh.” He says in reply, not really knowing what else to say.

“She’s barely been a mother to me. I don’t know why she comes now that I’m out of university and have a stable job that she wants to meet me.” Yachi sets down her utensils to thread her fingers through her hair with a roll of her eyes. She’s grown a tougher skin in this city she’s lived in since the start of her adulthood. “I really don’t want to be alone with her.” She pauses for a moment, letting her mind reel. Yachi’s eyes open wide all of a sudden and Tsukishima is afraid that her eyeballs will pop out. “What if you came with me to my mother’s lunch, Kei? Are you doing anything on Sunday?”

“Well, considering my family lives three hours away, not exactly.” Tsukishima shrugs his shoulders. “Yeah, I’ll come with you.” While he has gone out with Yachi multiple times, he’s never been used as a plus-one and in this situation, he has no idea what he’ll be introduced as.

The week progresses much quicker than they both could have imagined.

“Are you sure this is okay, Kei? I don’t want you to come if you’ll be uncomfortable with me and my mom,” Yachi says, looking up at him. She’s wearing a black dress, tight on top but flares out at the knees. If she saw herself on the street, she would think she’s dressed up for a funeral. Tsukishima is indubitably brighter for once, but only in comparison, as he dons a polo shirt that matches the color of the clear sky.

“If it wasn’t okay, then I wouldn’t be standing next to you on the train,” he mutters as he holds her tight against his skin. It’s something he’s used to doing whenever they are on the same train together. He doesn’t remember when it started, but he does remember why. Something to do with creepy men and Tsukishima offhandedly offering he’d hold her, and Yachi praising him for a brilliant idea. Now, they’re like this. He doesn’t mind because he’s a placeholder, an intermittent person to step in before Yachi has a person to do that for her.

Well, at least that’s what he believed when they moved in together their first year of college to save money on rent, but they’ve never moved out to this day.

Their stop arrives and everyone from businessmen to children get off and move onto the just as crowded platform. Somehow, despite the busyness, everyone knows where to go and when to shift in this march of the morning. Each step in this district is made of surreal dreams that formed out of thin air. Maybe in middle school, Yachi would be so excited to see this happen one day, but now that this day has come, her stomach wrings into tight knots.

Tsukishima sees the look on her face, something he’s seen often, caused by miniscule and large things. Without exaggeration, he could say her face is showing off green tones. Suppressing the want to sigh, he scoops her hand into his and leads them towards the station’s exit.

“Have you been to this station before, Tsukishima?” Yachi rattles off as they walk out of the sliding doors and into the next city. She continues to say whatever’s on her mind or maybe these are words to say to distract her mind.

“Hitoka, you never said where you’re meeting your mom.” Tsukishima grits his teeth as he manages to weave between the sidewalk traffic, looking down to spare his eyes from ticked off passersby. They must think they’re foreigners by the looks of their hair. “We kind of need to know so we can get to the right place.” Tsukishima pulls Yachi to the side of a building, taking refuge by this wall. He lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding in after he glances at their still interlaced fingers. She doesn’t even bother to unlatch, that’s how nervous she is, Tsukishima thinks to himself.

“Right! Let me check my phone.” Yachi smiles up at Tsukishima and then her eyes drag down to where her bag bounces against her hip. “Huh?!” Her hand rips out of his loose grasp. Is she that mindless that she hadn’t realized Tsukishima’s hand was touching hers. With a crimson sweep across her face, she scans the short thread of text messages exchanged between her and her mother. “It seems like we should be heading three blocks in that direction,” Yachi says after a pause. She toys with the star charms that hang from her phone with one hand and with the other, she points in the direction of the station and onward.

“So we’ve walked three blocks, just to walk double that,” Tsukishima drawls.

“I’m sorry!” She doesn’t need to look at him to see the word disappointment written all over. “We’ll be alright, my mom’s not expecting us for another half hour,” she mumbles after feeling under the pressure of his gaze.

“Let’s just get going.” Tsukishima motions for them to join the sea of people on their way back to the office after a lunch and tourists exploring the city at this random time of day. “Come on, hold my hand so you don’t get lost.” His intentions are self-indulgent, but he presents as a protective friend, which is all that matters.

Yachi reluctantly allows it and they assimilate with Tsukishima leading. She just sees his back as they move one-by-one in this mass of bodies and she’s never been more thankful for him than in this very moment. Soon enough, they stand in front of the restaurant her mother wanted to meet up at. Unfortunately, Yachi never mentioned that the restaurant they’ll be dining at puts Tsukishima at a risk of being kicked out.

“Is this going to be alright to go inside?” Tsukishima pulls at his short sleeved shirt, but before he can continue, Yachi’s already tugging at the metal beam to open the door. She looks ridiculously small, with her fingers just barely grazing each other around the grip. He reaches over her head and pulls on the handle as well. “Well, ladies first,” he says.

“Thank you!” Her voice switches into a more professional tone as she begins conversing with the hostess of the restaurant. Despite her size and her anxieties, she’s great at stepping up when she needs to.

When she makes it back to Tsukishima, who is nestled in a chair in the corner, she tells him that the hostess will come get them when they have everything ready with the room. “My mom’s already there.” She sits on the armrest of his chair, her body fitting the edge of it precisely. She brushes the fabric of her skirt downward with a careful hand.

“You’ll be okay.” Tsukishima doesn’t know what to do or what to say. He’s never seen her this thrown off. Even during their high school years, seeing her deal with his teammates seems like a cake walk at this point. He’s never felt so weighted with the truth that isn’t even his own.

“I haven’t seen my mom in person in nearly five years. We’ve called on the phone, but it feels so transactional. She only calls when she feels like I could benefit her in some way. I don’t even know how she is on a personal basis. I don't know how she’s doing at work, if she has someone in her life. I don't know how she lives. Shouldn't I know this?” Her shoulders shake ever so slightly, and then all at once, they move up and down, side to side.

“Hitoka, it's okay. You’ll be okay.” Before he knows any better, Tsukishima stands and he just does what his instincts tell him to do.

“What?” Yachi asks as she’s being pulled into his chest, and she doesn't have the heart to ask further questions. Her hair and ear presses against the stable curve of his body. His heart is quickening as his hands land on opposite shoulders.

“Yachi-san, party of two.” The hostess calls into the waiting area, and Tsukishima nearly jumps away, now standing three steps away from her. He is sure someone saw their melodramatic performance and rolled their eyes at it. If he were on the outside, he would too. But on the inside of this bubble, maybe he’s not thinking so much about what other people think.

Yachi pays no mind to it and follows the hostess without sparing a glance to a scrambling Tsukishima, who rubs the lenses of his glasses on the hem of his shirt. First impressions start with being able to see her mother.

When they enter the private room that her mother has arranged for the lunch appointment, the first thing Yachi notices is her mother’s eyes, or rather, the lack of gaze. Her mother’s eyes are on her phone, clicking away on the device. They still contain the same beauty that Yachi admires, laced with lines around them. While her mother doesn't have the same youthfulness as she did when Yachi saw her last, she is the most beautiful.

Yachi doesn’t want to be rude, so she waits until her mother is done with her business and her eyes look to her daughter and this man right next to him. “Hitoka, it’s good to see you.” Her mother rises from her chair to meet her.

Her mother stretches her arms around her daughter and it is a foreign feeling for everyone in the room. Her mother hasn’t felt her baby in her arms in five years, Yachi hasn’t felt the comfort of motherly love, and for Tsukishima, he feels the palpable awkwardness between them. At last, Yachi pats her shoulders, in the best attempt to reciprocate this action.

When her mother releases, she gestures for the two of them to sit across from them.

The first questions that come out of Yachi’s mouth are “Are you on a lunch break? Do we have a set amount of time to be with each other?” and Tsukishima doesn’t know whether to feel appalled for her mother or be proud of Yachi for standing up for herself, in this strange manner. For sure, Tsukishima did not expect anything of the sort to happen if it were based on when they first met at Karasuno. Yachi surely has changed, but so has Tsukishima.

“No, nothing like that.”

“Happy mother’s day, I brought you something,” Yachi says. She reaches into her bag and she relinquishes a leather wallet that must have cost her a fortune, adorned in gold embellishments and pressed all over with a brand.

“Thank you, this means a lot to me, Hitoka.” And she’ll put it into her closet, with the rest of the items she’s purchased or have received as gifts. This is the woman she has grown to know as her mother. “But I didn’t ask you to come here because I expected a present. I came here because I want to see you. It’s mother’s day, but I’m not a mother without you.”

“Of course she would say something like this,” Yachi mutters under her breath as she balls her hands into fists underneath the table, her dress fabric becoming one with her hands.

“This isn’t like you, Hitoka,” Tsukishima whispers into her ear. This isn’t like her. He feels like a wedge between them, a referee of some sorts. “I shouldn’t be here.” His teeth are gritted, finding new things within a half a conversation about this girl he’s known for years.

“You should stay, Tsukki,” Yachi replies, using his old nickname. Turning her head back to her mom, she takes a deep breath and lets everything out all at once. “You shouldn’t have called me, you know. We can live without each other.”

“Is it a crime,” the woman on the other end looks right into Hitoka’s eyes and she squirms under the sudden dissection. “Is it a crime,” she repeats. “to see the woman that made me a mother? I’m sorry I haven’t been there—”

“It can be when my mother doesn’t speak to me for a few years and then she suddenly wants to get in contact with me.” Yachi holds onto Tsukishima’s hand underneath the table, their fingers intertwining, but it is different than when Tsukishima led Yachi through the streets of this city.

“But I want to get to know you now.” And there is an earnest look in her eye that causes Yachi’s insides to rub rotten. “I am telling you the truth, Hitoka. I love you, and you are my only daughter. You can ask me anything and I will not tell you a lie.”

Yachi’s lips press into a thin line and her eyebrows connect at the center of her face. Tears rush from her cheeks up to the bottom of her eyes, but she won’t let her body feel the resolution it seeks. “How can I trust you? How can I trust you, mom?” Yachi’s just letting all the words come out, not knowing whether or not her words hold the tone she’s really feeling. She tries her hardest to hold against the walls she’s built, but she can feel the crumbling from the inside.

“I don’t know what to say, Hitoka.” Madoka slides the hair tie out of the bundle and lets all of her hair fall. The strands curl at the ends without effort and they reach to the bottom of her shoulder blades. It’s as Yachi remembered, but not quite. “If you can’t trust me now, then I suppose that’s okay. But I want you to trust me eventually. I care about you, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not supporting you these last few years, but I want to make up for it.”

It’s hard to pick out what Yachi wants to hear when everything feels fabricated and made up on the spot. The muscles in her chest stretch out from the middle, or maybe it’s her lungs squeezing with too much effort. Either way, she must be on fire and her tears want to extinguish her flames.

Tsukishima feels like Hitoka’s blazes have expanded into the outside world because what he just saw go down between the two women in this room seemed like a fire truck combusting into spontaneous flames. “Hitoka,” he mutters. With his thumb, he wipes away a stray teardrop that hugs against the side of her cheek. “It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry.” Her words aren’t directed at a single person, but she still feels the need to apologize for how she’s feeling. “I’m sorry, mom.”

“I am the one that’s at fault. There’s nothing to be sorry about, Hitoka.” Her mother, the vision of poise, is blubbering her words softly, but it’s clear that she’s trying to keep everything together. She stands and is tentative with her steps. “Would it be okay if I hugged you right now?”

“Please.”

Tsukishima watches the pair make up and eventually, he notices the wistful smile he has on. He wishes he were with the rest of his family, crowded around a table to fight for food, even if it is just the three of them. This is his life now, though. He’s made up his mind on where he is living, but he doesn’t have to be set on how his family relationships lie.

Tsukishima’s hand has been long unoccupied as Hitoka speaks to her mother in hushed tones, Hitoka’s lips moving right by her ear and arms slung around her mother’s neck. He can’t hear them, but by the looks of their faces, it must be reviving conversation.

“Oh, right! Mom, this is Kei.” He can’t deny that there’s something inside that swells deep when Hitoka introduces him as Kei to her mother, but all there is to show on the outside is a polite smile.

Madoka straightens her back to look at him through slotted eyes. “I feel like I’ve seen him before, when you were in high school.”

“Right, he was on the volleyball team. Well, he’s still playing volleyball with the Sendai Frogs. He’s a great player and I try to make their games whenever I can,” Yachi beams with delight.

“Your family must be so proud, Kei.” Madoka takes a pause before continuing. “Are you two dating? Is this why you brought him today, Hitoka?” There is a teasing implication running along her tongue as she speaks.

At the same time, Yachi says “sort of” and Tsukishima says “no.” In an unironic and comical fashion, they both turn their heads at each other and stare.

“Oh,” Yachi’s mother mutters, holding a hand to her mouth. She only planned to be part of one reunion, but seeing another union blossom right before her eyes is priceless.

“I wanted to talk to you about that, Kei,” Yachi’s eyes can’t quite meet his when she says this. “Nobody else knows me like you do.”

“Right.” He glances back and forth between Yachi and her mother. This would be a weird way to confess that he’s been in love with her for the past four years, but he decides that any time would be better than this. “We should talk about this later, but I feel the same way about you.”

“Oh, great! Maybe I’ll have grandchildren one day!”

“Mom!”

tag-list: @clowninfortodoroki

general hq tag list :D - @heccingdead @dorkyama @fireflywritingstories @totallynotcryingmyeyesoutwhat

#haikyuuwritersnet #haikyuuwriters 0520 #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #hq!!#haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu writing #haikyuu writers #haikyuu tsukishima #haikyuu yachi #tsukishima kei #tsukishima #yachi hitoka #yachi #tsukiyachi #tsukishima haikyuu #yachi haikyuu #karasuno

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waywardaardvark79 · 5 years

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Supernatural Rewrite: Season 1, Episode 5: Bloody Mary

Summary: Y/N Singer joins Sam and Dean on the road. A rewrite starring you.

Pairing: eventual Dean x Reader, Sam x Reader (platonic)

Warnings: language, show level violence

Word Count: 8,660

A/N: I’ll try to do at least one episode a week. No set schedule. Tags are open.

It was dark, the little bit of moonlight that was able to penetrate the thick canopy of trees was your only light. The only sounds were the crunching of leaves and the snapping of twigs under your boots. It was eerily quiet, almost as if you were the only living thing there, and you couldn't help the feeling of dread that washed over you.

You picked up your pace, your heart pounding in your chest, branches slicing through your skin as you ran as fast as your legs would carry you.

"Dean!! Sam!!" you cried out, desperate to find them, desperate to find anyone, really.

You finally had to stop running, your lungs on fire, your muscles burning. You doubled over, your hands on your knees as you sucked in large breaths of the crisp night air, jerking up right when you heard a twig snap.

Your hand flew to the back of your jeans, ready to grab your gun, but coming up empty.

"Shit." you said, realizing that you had no weapon.

You scanned the area, feeling eyes on you, but unable to see anyone or anything.

"All right, asshole! Come the fuck out! I know you're there!" you shouted, turning in a slow circle. "Come on! I'm right here! If you want me, come and fuckin' get me because I'm done running!"

You whipped around, the sound of approaching footsteps setting you on high alert. You felt your body tense, your heart hammering in your chest, your palms sweating as you prepared yourself for a fight.

"Dean?" you breathed out as he stepped out of the tree line, never more relieved to see him, "Where the fuck are we? I've been looking everywhere for you and Sam." you said, running towards him.

"Stop." he said, raising his gun and pointing it at you.

You came to an abrupt stop, throwing your hands up, "Hey, it's me, De. It's Y/N." you said, confused as to why he was looking at you with such hatred, the hatred he usually reserved for whatever monster you were hunting.

"I know who you are." he said, his tone cold. "Why? Why'd you do it?" he asked, his gun still trained on you.

"I...I didn't do anything. I don't know what you're talking about." you said.

"Don't bullshit me!" he roared, you shrinking back. "I should've figured it out. I think part of me knew, but I didn't want to believe it. I didn't want to believe that you could ever do something like that." he said.

"Dean, please. I...I didn't do anything. I promise." you said, daring to take a couple steps towards him.

Dean shook his head, "I should've done this a long time ago." he said, the sound of a gunshot echoing through the trees.

"Sam, wake up." Dean said, Sam jerking awake in the passenger seat, confused.

"I take it I was having another nightmare." Sam said, Dean turning around in his seat to wake you up.

"Yeah, another one." Dean said before tapping your leg, "Come on, Y/N, wake your ass up." Dean said, your eyes popping open, your body jerking back, recoiling away from him. "Hey, you okay, Singer?" he asked, looking at you with concern, the complete opposite of how he was looking at you moments ago in your dream.

You let out a slow breath. "Yeah." you said, sitting up. "Just a weird dream." you said, trying to brush it off. "You have another nightmare, Sam?" you asked, wanting to get the focus off of you.

"Hey, at least I got some sleep." Sam said.

"You know, sooner or later we're gonna have to talk about this." Dean said to Sam before focusing back on you. "You sure you're okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine, De. Are we here?" you asked.

"Yep. Welcome to Toledo, Ohio." Dean said as Sam picked up the newspaper with Steven Shoemaker's obituary circled.

"So, what do you think really happened to this guy?" Sam asked.

"That's what we're gonna find out. Let's go." Dean said, the three of you getting out of the car and heading towards the building you were parked in front of.

The three of you walked into room 144, the morgue. There were two desks, the empty one had a nameplate that read Dr. D. Feiklowicz, the other one belonged to the morgue technician.

"Hey." the morgue tech said.

"Hey." Dean returned.

"Can I help you?" the tech asked.

"Yeah, we're the, uh...med students." Dean lied.

"Sorry?" the med tech asked, obviously confused.

"Oh, Doctor." Dean said, pausing a moment as he tried to remember the doctor's name, "Figlavitch, didn't tell you?" he asked, stumbling over the name. "We talked to him on the phone. He, uh, we're from Ohio State. He's supposed to show us the Shoemaker corpse. It's for our paper."

"Well, I'm sorry, he's at lunch." the tech said.

"Oh, well he said, uh...oh, well, you know, it doesn't matter. You don't mind just showing us the body, do you?" Dean asked.

"Sorry, I can't. Doc will be back in an hour. You can wait for him if you want." the tech explained.

"An hour? Ooh, we gotta be heading back to Columbus by then." Dean said, looking over to you and Sam.

"Yeah." Sam said, going along with Dean.

"Uh, look, man, this paper's like half our grade, so if you don't mind helping us out." Dean said.

"Uh, look, man...no." the morgue tech said,

Dean laughed a little before turning around and mumbling to you, "I'm gonna hit him in his face, I swear."

You smacked him on the arm before shrugging off your jacket and handing it to Dean, pulling down the front of your tank top just a little before stepping up the to morgue tech.

"Hi." you sweetly said, giving him a big smile.

"H-hi." he stammered out, his eyes laser focused on your chest.

"I know you're not supposed to let us back there, but we came all this way." you said, leaning down over the desk a little. "I would really, really appreciate it if you let us see the body." you said, brushing your hand over his.

"I...I don't know." he said, Sam reaching for his wallet, prepared to pay him off.

"Oh, come on." you said, smiling sweetly at him as you trailed your fingers up his arm, "I bet you could tell us more than that silly doctor could. I can tell you're a smart guy." you said, leaning down until your face was inches from his, "And I got to tell you...smart men just do something to me." you said, in a sultry whisper, the morgue tech's eyes bugging out.

"S-sure. I...I can show you. Follow me." he said, flustered.

"See." you said, winking at him. "I knew I was right about you." you purred, the morgue tech swallowing loudly before walking away.

"I thought I was gonna have to bribe the guy." Sam said, a smile on his face as he shook his head.

"Not with the money we earned." you said, gesturing between you and Dean.

"You guys won it in a poker game." Sam said.

"Yeah, but I mean, come on, Sam, I had everything under control. You really shouldn't doubt my skills. There's nothing that a little flirting can't fix." you said, taking your jacket from Dean and slipping it on, "Well, that and boobs. Yeah, having boobs is a big help." you said, adjusting your tank top and bra. "Let's go boys. We ain't got all day." you added before walking away.

"Now, the newspaper said his daughter found him. She said his eyes were bleeding." Sam said, as the morgue tech pulled back the sheet over Steven's face.

"More than that. They practically liquefied." the tech said, looking only at you.

"Any sign of a struggle? Maybe somebody did it to him?" Dean asked, uncomfortable with the way the guy was staring at you.

"Nope, besides the daughter, he was all alone." he said, still only looking at you.

"What's the official cause of death?" you asked.

"Ah, Doc's not sure. He's thinking massive stroke, maybe an aneurysm? Something burst up in there, that's for sure." the tech explained.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, the tech ignoring him.

"What do you think it was. I bet you have some interesting theories of your own." you said, the tech smiling at you.

"Intense cerebral bleeding. This guy had more blood in his skull than anyone I've ever seen." the tech said, you nodding your head.

"And, uh, what do you think could cause something like that?" you asked.

"Capillaries can burst, see a lot of bloodshot eyes with stroke victims." the tech said, trying to impress you with his knowledge.

"Yeah? You ever see exploding eyeballs?" Dean asked, annoyed.

"That's a first for me, but hey, I'm not the doctor." he said.

"Hey, think we could take a look at that police report? You know for, uh...our paper." Dean said.

"I'm not really supposed to show you that." the tech said before you stepped towards him.

"Please, it really would be a big help, and you want me to do good on my paper, don't you?" you asked, your finger tapping the middle of his chest.

"O-of course I do, but I could get in a lot of trouble." he said.

"What's life without a few risks? I have a feeling you can be a pretty big risk taker." you said, Dean shaking his head in the background, completely annoyed. "You know, maybe when we get done with this paper...well, if I get all of the information I need to do well on it, then I could take you out for drinks. You know, show you how much your help meant to me." you said, running your tongue along your bottom lip.

"Oh, God." the tech breathed out. "I...uh...I'll be right back with that, that report." he said, bumping into some equipment as he scrambled from the room.

You turned back to Sam and Dean once he left the room, laughing under your breath, "It's like shooting fish in a barrel." you said.

Dean scoffed, "You know, sometimes you just..." he said, not finishing his statement as he stormed off.

"What the fuck's up his ass?" you asked Sam. "He should be happy. I got him what he wanted." you said.

Sam shrugged his shoulders, "He, uh, he just gets moody sometimes. You know that." he said, even though he had a pretty good idea why Dean was so pissed off.

You nodded your head, "Yeah, we better get him something to eat if we want to be anywhere around him for the rest of the day. He's ridiculous when he's hungry." you said before walking out after him.

The three of you were walking down stairs, "Might not be one of ours. Might just be some freak medical thing." Sam said.

"His fuckin' eyeballs exploded, Sam. That is not the typical sign of a stroke." you said.

"How many times in Dad's long and varied career has it actually ever been a freak medical thing and not some sign of an awful supernatural death?" Dean asked, speaking only to Sam.

"Uh, almost never." Sam replied.

"Exactly." Dean said, still refusing to look in your direction.

"All right, let's go talk to the daughter." Sam said.

You grabbed Dean's arm, stopping him, "We'll be right there." you said to Sam, waiting until he left to turn to Dean, "What's your deal?" you asked.

"I don't know what you're talking about." he said.

"Really?" you asked. "Cause I got a feeling that you're pissed at me for some reason." you said.

"Yeah, really, Y/N. Now, can we go? We got more important shit to do than stand here talking about your imaginary feelings." Dean clipped out.

"Fine." you shot back, shrugging your shoulders. "After you."

The three of you walked into the Shoemaker home. There was a large picture of Steven Shoemaker on a desk, men dressed in black suits and women in dresses filling the room.

"Feel like we're underdressed." Dean said, looking at everyone in the room.

"Yeah, you can say that again." you said, the three of you walking through the house towards the back.

A man pointed you in the direction of Donna and Lily Shoemaker, Steven's daughters.

"You must be Donna, right?" Dean asked.

"Yeah." Donna said, looking up at him.

"Hi, uh...we're really sorry." Sam said.

"Thank you." Donna said, confused about who the three of you were.

"I'm Sam, this is Dean. We worked with your dad." Sam said, not introducing you.

Donna looked over at her friend then back to Sam and Dean, "You did?" she asked before focusing on you. "Who's she?" Donna asked, looking at you.

"Hi, I'm Y/N." you said, introducing yourself. "I'm...I'm." you said, pausing as you tried to come up with something.

"My girlfriend." Dean said, his arm wrapping around your waist as he pulled you into his side. "So, this whole thing." he said shaking his head. "I mean, a stroke." he said.

"I don't think she wants to talk about this right now." Donna's friend said.

"It's okay. I'm okay." Donna said, assuring her friend.

"Were there any symptoms?" Dean asked.

"Dizziness? Migraines?" you added.

"No." Donna said, her younger sister Lily turning around.

"That's because it wasn't a stroke." Lily said.

"Lily, don't say that." Donna scolded.

"What?" Sam asked, curious to what the little girl meant.

"I'm sorry, she's just upset." Donna said.

"No, it happened because of me." Lily insisted.

"Sweetie, it didn't." Donna said.

Sam got down on eye level with Lily, "Why would you say something like that?" he asked.

"Right before he died, I said it." Lily replied.

"You said what?" Sam asked.

"Bloody Mary, three times in the bathroom mirror." Lily said, pausing a moment, "She took his eyes...that's what she does."

"That's not why Dad died. This isn't your fault." Donna said.

"I think your sister is right, Lily. This wasn't your fault." you said.

"There's no way it could have been Bloody Mary. Your dad didn't say it, did he?" Dean asked.

"No, I don't think so." Lily said.

The three of you were back inside the Shoemaker home, making your way upstairs to check out the bathroom.

Sam pushed open the door, dried blood still on the floor, "The Bloody Mary legend...Dad ever find any evidence that it was a real thing?" Sam asked.

"Not that I know of." Dean said, walking into the bathroom while Sam crouched to the floor and touched the dried blood.

"I've learned to pretty much assume that everything is a real thing." you said, following after Dean.

"I mean, everywhere else all over the country, kids will play Bloody Mary." Sam said before looking up at you. "We did it ourselves as kids." he said to you.

"Yeah, until Dad came in and told us to stop being idjits." you said, looking around the bathroom.

"Well, as far as we know, nobody dies from it." Sam said.

"Until now." you said.

"Well, maybe everywhere else it's just a story, but here it's actually happening." Dean said.

"The place where the legend began?" Sam asked, Dean shrugging his shoulders as he opened the medicine cabinet.

"I don't see why not." you said, turning back to face Sam. "I mean, all stories have to start somewhere."

"But, according the legend, the person who says B-" Sam stopped himself, closing the medicine cabinet because the mirror was facing him. "The person who says you know what gets it, but here-" Sam said before Dean interrupted.

"Shoemaker gets it instead, yeah." Dean said.

"Right." Sam said.

"Well, something's definitely going on. I mean, you can't still think it's a freak medical thing, even if it doesn't follow the legend to a T." you said, Sam nodding his head.

"I've never heard anything like that before. Still, the guy did die right in front of the mirror, and the daughter's right. The way the legend goes, you know who scratches your eyes out, but maybe Y/N's right. Maybe it's just not following along exactly with the legend." Dean said.

"It's worth checking into." Sam said, you and Dean nodding in agreement.

The three of you were leaving the bathroom, "What are you doing up here?" Donna's friend asked, startling each of you.

"We...we had to go to the bathroom." Dean said.

"Who are you?" she asked, eyeing the three of you suspiciously.

"Like we said downstairs, we worked with Donna's dad, and this is my girlfriend." Dean said.

"He was a day trader or something. He worked by himself." she said.

"No, I know, I meant-" Dean tried before being interrupted.

"And all those weird questions downstairs, what was that? So, you tell me what's going on, or I start screaming." she threatened.

"Oh, Jesus Christ." you mumbled.

"All right. All right. We think something happened to Donna's dad." Sam said.

"Yeah, a stroke." she said.

You scoffed, "It wasn't a stroke that killed him." you said, Dean elbowing you.

"What she means to say is that what happened to him...well, it didn’t have signs of a typical stroke. We think it might be something else." Sam said.

"Like what?" she asked.

"Honestly? We don't know yet, but we don't want it to happen to anyone else. That's the truth." Sam explained.

"So, if you're gonna scream, go right ahead." Dean said.

"Who are you, cops?" she asked.

"Something like that." you said.

"I'll tell you what. Here." Sam said, reaching into his pocket, pulling out a pen and paper, scribbling down his cell number, "If you think of anything, you or your friends notice anything strange, out of the ordinary...just give us a call." he said, handing the paper over to her before the three of you walked away.

"All right, say Bloody Mary really is haunting this town. There's gonna be some sort of proof, like a local woman who died nasty." Dean said as the three of you walked into a library.

"You're right, but it's not gonna be easy. There are so many different versions of who she is." you said.

"Right, one story says she's a witch, another says she's a mutilated bride, and there's a lot more." Sam said.

"My favorite is that it's actually Queen Mary I. She was the daughter of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon. She was plagued with phantom pregnancies, that's why some people say she appears holding a baby, but anyway, she signed an act that resulted in the Marian Persecutions where Protestants were burned at the stake. That's how she earned the name Bloody Mary." you said.

"Whoa, you're nerd is showing." Dean teased. "Why don't you guys just tell me what we are supposed to be looking for." Dean said, you giving him a gentle shove for his comment.

"Every version's got a few things in common." you started, Sam taking over for you.

"It's always a woman named Mary and she always dies in front of a mirror. So, we've gotta search local newspapers, public records as far back as they go. See if we can find a Mary who fits the bill." Sam said.

"Well, that sounds annoying." Dean said.

You chuckled, "Anytime there's reading involved you always say it's annoying." you said, nudging him.

"You always say it's annoying." Dean mocked, nudging you back.

"No, it won't be so bad. As long as we..." Sam trailed off, looking at the computers which all had out of order signs on them.

"Well, shit." you said, Sam chuckling.

"I take it back. This will be very annoying." Sam said.

You were back in the motel room, you and Dean busy researching while Sam slept, the two of you deciding to let him sleep instead of waking him up for help.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I got nothing." you said, closing your laptop before looking over at Dean.

"Yeah, me either." Dean said, a little frustrated as he looked over at Sam, "He's gonna be pissed that we let him sleep."

You glanced over at Sam, "He needs it." you said, the two of you slipping into silence.

"I, uh, I'm sorry." Dean finally said.

"What?" you asked.

"I kinda snapped at you after we left the morgue." he said, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

"Ah, it's no big deal...shit like that just happens. I mean, we never get a break from each other. We're always crammed together, it was bound to happen. Plus, I know I'm not the easiest person to be around." you said.

Dean chuckled, "Yeah, I'm not the easiest either." he said.

"You got that right, Winchester." you teased. "I mean, the things I put up with." you said, trying to lighten the mood.

Dean scoffed, "And what things do you have to put up with?" he asked.

"Oh, all sorts of things." you said, smiling at him.

"You know, I put up with a lot of your shit, too." he said.

"Pfft...sure you do." you said, rolling your eyes as you got up to grab a beer, passing him one before sitting back down and grabbing your bag of M&M's.

"I do things for you all the time." he said before raising his beer to his lips.

"Mmm hmm." you hummed out as you opened the bag of candy.

"I bought those for you." he said, pointing to the bag.

"Yeah, cause you ate the last bag, and you didn't even save me any." you said before popping a few M&M's in your mouth, "Besides, I do shit for you all the time, too." you added.

Dean shrugged his shoulders, "I do more for you." he said, knowing he would rile you up.

"Please." you said.

"What? I do. I always let you take the first shower." he said.

"No, you don't. We have to argue about it for thirty minutes first, then SOMETIMES you just get tired of hearing me talk and give up." you said.

"You're still getting the first shower." he shot back.

"Well, I always give you my extra food because I know you're still probably hungry." you said, holding out the bag of M&M's to him.

"Yeah, cause a couple fries or a half eaten slice of pizza really feels me up. It's so generous of you to give me your scraps." he said.

"Well, see if you get anymore fries from me." you said, narrowing your eyes at him.

"Oh, how will I ever survive without those two extra fries?" Dean sarcastically asked.

"Ah, here's a good one. I'm always your wingman, and I do a good fuckin' job. You know, weedin' out the crazies, or coming in to save your ass if a crazy slips by me." you said.

"Hey, I do the same thing for you." Dean said, pointing his finger at you.

"No, you intimidate everyone at the bar, so no one even talks to me." you said.

"It's not my fault none of them passes the test." Dean shot back.

"The last time we went out and a guy approached me at the bar...you looked straight at him and told him to fuck off." you said.

"Oh, come on, Y/N...the guy was clearly a douchebag." Dean argued. "I was savin' your ass."

"Oh, don't start with the savin' your ass thing, cause I'm constantly savin' yours." you said.

"You're delusional, Sweetheart." Dean said.

"Oh please, look at the last case we worked." you said.

"For Jerry?" Dean asked.

"Uh...duh." you said.

"How in the hell did you save my ass on that one?" Dean asked.

"Really, Dean? Oh, I don't know maybe kissing you to calm your ass down so the fuckin' demon wouldn't wear you like a suit." you said.

"Oh, you did that for me? See, I was thinkin' that was all for your benefit." he said.

"Don't flatter yourself, De." you said.

"You know, if you ever want a repeat of that...all you have to do is ask, Sweetheart." Dean said, a smirk on his face.

"Who's the delusional one now?" you asked.

"Don't you dare sit there and tell me you didn't like it." he said.

"Meh." you simply said, shrugging your shoulders.

"Meh? Meh?!" Dean asked, offended. "Are you serious right now?"

"Did I stutter?" you asked, knowing you were pushing his buttons.

"W-what? No, I...I..." Dean trailed off, shaking his head. “Get over here, Singer.” he said.

"Why?" you asked, one eyebrow raised as you grabbed your beer.

"Because Dean Winchester is not meh." he said, "And I'm gonna prove it."

"De, you just referred to yourself in the third person. That's pretty meh." you teased.

Dean jumped to his feet, quickly closing the gap between the two of you as Sam jerked awake, "Why'd you guys let me fall asleep?" Sam asked, impeccable timing as always.

"Sorry, Sam." you said before turning to face him. "We, uh, just thought you needed it." you added, Dean stepping away from you and taking a seat.

"I was gonna say cause I'm an awesome brother. You know, letting you out of all the boring research, but I guess you like that part. So, what did you dream about?" Dean asked, your own nightmare about Dean flashing through your mind.

"Lollipops and candy canes." Sam said.

"Yeah, sure." Dean replied.

"Must have been some terrifying fuckin' candy canes." you said before draining the rest of your beer.

"Did you guys find anything?" Sam asked, changing the subject.

"Oh, besides a whole new level of frustration?" Dean asked as Sam sat up.

"Yeah." you said, popping a few more M&M's in your mouth before standing up to grab another beer, "Frustrated is an understatement."

"Did you guys really try to find anything or were you just sitting here drinking?" Sam asked.

"Of course we did, Sam. We looked at everything. A few local women, a Laura and a Catherine committed suicide in front of a mirror, and a giant mirror fell on a guy named Dave, fuckin' sucks to be that guy, but no Mary." you said.

Sam fell back on the bed, "Maybe we just haven't found it yet." he said.

"We've also been searching for strange deaths in the area, you know...eyeball bleeding, that sort of thing. There's nothing. Whatever's happening here, maybe it just ain't Mary." Dean said, Sam's cell phone ringing , a look of concern coming over his face as he listened.

"Well, De, maybe it's Mary after all." you said.

Charlie, Donna's friend, was sitting on a park bench crying. Dean was sitting on the back of the bench, his feet wide enough apart for you to sit between, and Sam was standing.

"And, they found her on the bathroom floor, and her...her eyes...they were gone." Charlie sobbed out.

"I'm sorry." Sam said.

"And she said it." Charlie said, you and Dean looking up at Sam. "I heard her say it, but it couldn't be because of that. I'm insane, right?"

"No, you're not insane." Dean said.

"Oh, God, that makes me feel so much worse." she said.

"Charlie, listen, we...we think something is going on here. Something that's gonna sound crazy." you said.

"Something that can't be explained." Sam added.

"And we're gonna stop it, but we could use your help." Dean said.

Charlie was in Jill's room, her friend that died. She locked the door after her, and crossed the room to open the window where you, Sam, and Dean were waiting to enter.

Sam entered first, Dean tossing him a duffel bag before climbing through himself, holding his hand out to you to help you through once he was inside.

Sam was going through the bag on the bed, "What did you tell Jill's mom?" he asked.

"Just that I needed some time alone with Jill's pictures and things." Charlie said, Sam pulling something out of the bag while Dean closed the curtains, "I hate lying to her." she added.

"Trust us, this is for the greater good. Hit the lights." Dean instructed.

Charlie turned off the lights, "What are you guys looking for?" she asked.

"I don't think we really know yet." you said.

"But we'll let you know as soon as we find it." Dean said.

"Hey, night vision." Sam said, holding out a camera to Dean, Dean turning on the night vision for him, "Perfect." Sam said, the camera aimed at Dean.

"Do I look like Paris Hilton?" Dean asked, Sam walking away instead of replying.

You chuckled, "Oh, one night in Dean Winchester." you said, referencing Paris Hilton's sex tape. "That'd be something to see." you added.

"Really?" Dean asked, whipping around to face you, a smirk on his face. "As good as I think you'd look in night vision...I think I'd prefer full color, special lighting...you know, pull out all the stops." he said.

"Oh, and what makes you think I would ever do that?" you asked.

"You were the one who said it would be something to see, Sweetheart." he said.

You nodded your head, "Doesn't mean I want to join in." you said. "Besides, you couldn't handle me, Cowboy." you added, winking at him before joining Sam at the closet.

"You guys done?" Sam asked.

"Sorry." you said.

"So, I don't get it. I mean...the first victim didn't summon Mary, and the second victim did. How's she choosing them?" Sam asked.

"I...I don't know, Sam." you said.

"Beats me." Dean said as Sam closed the closet door, "I want to know why Jill said it in the first place."

"Yeah, I mean...how fuckin' stupid was that?" you asked, cringing a little when Charlie cleared her throat. "Sorry." you said, glancing over at her.

"It's just a joke." Charlie said.

"Does any of this look like a fucking joke to you?" you asked, coming off a little harsh.

"Well, somebody's gonna say it again, it's just a matter of time." Dean said.

Sam was in the bathroom, filming around the mirror, stopping when he noticed trickles of something running out from behind the mirror.

"Hey!" Sam called out, you, Dean, and Charlie turning to look at him, "There's a black light in the trunk, right?" he asked.

Sam carried the mirror out to Jill's bed and laid it down, upside down. Dean tossed him the black light and Sam pulled off the brown paper on the back of the mirror before shining the black light over it, a handprint and the name Gary Bryman glowing back at him.

"Gary Bryman?" Charlie asked.

"You know who that is?" Sam asked.

"No." Charlie replied.

"Are you sure? This is really important. Just think for a minute." you said.

"I told you no. I have no idea who that is." Charlie said.

You, Dean, and Charlie were sitting on a bench, waiting for Sam.

"So, Gary Bryman was an eight year old boy. Two years ago he was killed in a hit and run. The car was described as a black Toyota Camry, but nobody got the plates or saw the driver." Sam said.

"Oh my God!" Charlie exclaimed.

"What?" Sam asked.

"Jill drove that car." she said, you and Dean looking up at Sam.

"We need to get back to your friend Donna's house." Dean said.

The three of you were in the bathroom of Donna's house, hunched over the back of the mirror with a black light, a handprint and the name Linda Shoemaker written across the back.

"Linda Shoemaker." Sam said.

"Maybe it's the mom." you suggested before the three of you went back downstairs to talk to Donna.

"Why are you asking me this?" Donna asked.

"Because it's really important." you said.

"Look, we're sorry, but she's right. It is important." Sam said, much gentler than you.

"Yeah, Linda's my mom, okay? She overdosed on sleeping pills. It was an accident, and that's it. I think you should leave." Donna said.

"Now, Donna, just listen." Dean said, trying to reason with her.

"Get out of my house!!" she yelled before running upstairs.

"Yeah, I don't think it was an accident." you said, after Donna left.

"Oh my God. Do you really think her dad could've killed her mom?" Charlie asked.

"Maybe." Sam replied.

"I think I should stick around." Charlie said, worried about her friend.

"All right. Whatever you do, don't-" Dean tried to say before Charlie cut in.

"Believe me, I won't say it." she said.

Sam was looking at some papers posted to a bulletin board while you and Dean were at the computer.

"Wait, wait, wait...you guys are doing a nationwide search?" Sam asked.

"Yep." you replied.

"The NDIC, the FBI datebase...at this point any Mary who died in front of a mirror is good enough for me." Dean said.

"Yeah, me too." you added.

"But, if she's haunting the town, she should have died in the town." Sam said.

"I'm telling you there's nothing local. We've checked, so unless you got a better idea." Dean said.

"Look, Sam, I've been wracking my fucking brain trying to come up with something, but I'm coming up empty. The only thing I've noticed that might be a thing is the way she chooses her victims." you said, Sam nodding his head.

"Like there's a pattern." Sam said.

"Yeah." you replied.

"I was thinking the same thing." Dean said.

"With Mr. Shoemaker and Jill's hit and run." Sam started.

"Both had secrets where people died." Dean finished.

"Maybe she's punishing them." you suggested.

"Right, I mean, there's a lot of folklore about mirrors, that they reveal all your lies, all your secrets, that they're a true reflection of your soul, which is why it's bad luck to break them." Sam said.

"Right, right. So, maybe if you've got a secret, I mean, like a really nasty one where someone died then Mary sees it, and like Y/N said...punishes you for it." Dean said.

"Whether you're the one that summoned her or not." Sam said.

"Well, I say it's the best theory we've had so far. Now, we just need to track down our Mary." you said.

"Take a look at this." Dean said before printing out another picture, passing it over to you and Sam when it finished printing.

"T-R-E." you said, looking at the letters on the mirror, a woman lying next to a mirror in a puddle of blood.

"Looks like the same handprint." Sam said, looking down at the photo.

"Her name was Mary Worthington, an unsolved murder in Fort Wayne, Indiana." Dean said.

"Well, boys." you said, looking between the two of them. "Looks like we're headed to Indiana."

"I was on the job for thirty five years, detective for most of that. Now, everybody packs it in with a few loose ends, but the Mary Worthington murder, that one still gets me." the Fort Wayne detective explained.

"What exactly happened?" Dean asked.

"You guys said you were reporters?" the detective asked.

"We know Mary was 19, lived by herself. We know she won a few local beauty contests, and dreamt of getting out of Indiana, and being an actress." Sam said before you jumped in.

"And we know the night of March 29th, someone broke into her apartment and murdered her, cut out her eyes with a knife." you added.

"That's right." the detective said.

"See sir, when we asked you what happened, we wanted to know what you think happened." Sam said.

The detective pulled some files from a file cabinet, "Technically, I'm not supposed to have a copy of this." he said, opening the file to reveal the same photo the three of you had seen earlier, "Now, see that there? T-R-E?" he asked.

"Yeah." you and Dean said in unison.

"I think Mary was trying to spell out the name of her killer." he said.

"You know who it was?" Sam asked.

"Not for sure." the detective replied.

"You had to have someone in mind." you said.

"There was a local man, a surgeon, Trevor Sampson." he said, pulling out a picture of the man, "And I think he cut her up good."

"Now, why would he do something like that?" Sam asked.

"Her diary mentioned a man that she was seeing. She called him by his initial T. Well, her last entry, she was gonna tell T's wife about their affair." the detective explained.

"That sounds like motive to me." you said.

"Yeah, but how do you know it was Sampson who killed her?" Dean asked.

"It's hard to say, but the way her eyes were cut out...it was almost professional." he said.

"But you could never prove it?" Dean asked.

"No, no prints, no witnesses. He was meticulous." the detective said.

"Is he still alive?" you asked.

"Nope." the detective said, sitting down and sighing, "If you ask me, Mary spent her last living moments trying to expose this guy's secret, but she never could."

"Where's she buried?" Sam asked.

"She wasn't. She was cremated." he said.

"What about that mirror?" Dean asked, nodding at the on in the picture, "It's not in some evidence lock up somewhere is it?"

"Ah, no. It was returned to Mary's family a long time ago." the detective replied.

"You have the names of her family by any chance?" Sam asked.

The three of you were back in the car, Sam busy talking on the phone.

"Oh, really? Ah, that's too bad, Mr. Worthington. I would have paid a lot of money for that mirror. Okay, well maybe next time. All right, thanks." Sam said before hanging up.

"I'm gonna guess that it wasn't good news." you said, leaning up from the backseat.

"So, that was Mary's brother. The mirror was in the family for years, until he sold it one week ago to a store called Estate Antiques, a store in Toledo." Sam said.

"So, wherever the mirror goes, that's where Mary goes? " Dean asked.

"That's what it sounds like to me." you said.

"Her spirit's definitely tied up with it somehow." Sam said.

"Isn't there an old superstition that says mirrors can capture spirits?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, there is. When someone would die in a house, people would cover up the mirrors so the ghost wouldn't get trapped." you said.

"So, Mary dies in front of a mirror, and it draws in her spirit." Dean said.

"Yeah, but how could she move through like a hundred different mirrors?" Sam asked.

"I don't know, but if the mirror is the source, I say we find it and smash it." Dean said.

"I agree. Hell, I say we just smash all of em'." you said.

Dean chuckled, "You just like breaking shit." he said.

"So do you." you argued, Sam's phone ringing before Dean could reply.

"Hello." he said, a look of concern on his face, "Charlie?" he asked.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. I thought we made it pretty fuckin' clear what would happen." you said under your breath.

The three of you had Charlie in your motel room. She was sitting on bed, her head on her knees while you, Sam, and Dean were throwing sheets over the mirrors, turning some to face the wall or floor.

Sam sat next to Charlie, "Hey, hey, it's ok. Hey, you can open up your eyes, Charlie. It's okay, all right." Sam said and Charlie slowly looked up. "Now, listen...you're gonna stay right here on this bed, and you're not gonna look at glass or anything else that has a reflection, okay? As long as you do that, she cannot get to you." Sam said.

"But I can't keep that up forever. I'm gonna die, aren't I?" she asked.

"No, no, not anytime soon." Sam said.

Dean sat down on the bed, "All right, Charlie. We need to know what happened." he said.

"We were in the bathroom, and Donna said it." Charlie said.

"That's not what we're talking about. Something happened, didn't it? In your life, a secret...where someone got hurt? Can you tell us about it?" Dean asked.

"N-no. I, um...no, nothing happened." she said.

"Charlie, if you want our help we are going to have to know what happened. Trust me...we've all seen and heard worse." you said.

"I had this boyfriend. I loved him, but he kind of scared me too, you know? One night, at his house, we got in this fight, then I broke up with him, and he got upset. He said he needed me and he loved me, and he said Charlie, if you walk out that door right now, I'm gonna kill myself...and you know what I said? I said go ahead, and I left. How could I say that? How could I leave him like that? I just...I didn't believe him, you know? I should have." Charlie said before breaking down into tears again.

The three of you were back in the car, rain beating down against the windshield.

"Kind of seems like Mary is playing a little fast and loose with the rules here. I mean, Charlie doesn't deserve to die." you said.

"Yeah, her boyfriend killing himself, that's not really Charlie's fault." Dean said.

"Both of you know as well as I do that spirits don't exactly see shades of gray. Charlie had a secret, someone died, and that's good enough for Mary." Sam said.

"I guess." Dean said.

"You know, I've been thinking. It might not be enough to just smash that mirror." Sam said.

"Oh, come on, Sam." you said.

"Why? What do you mean?" Dean asked.

"Well, Mary's hard to pin down, right? I mean, she moves around from mirror to mirror so who's to say that she's not just gonna keep hiding in them forever? So, maybe we should try to pin her down, you know, summon her to her mirror and then smash it." Sam said.

"Fuck, I don't know, Sam. I think we should just smash everything." you said.

"How do you know that's going to work?" Dean asked.

"I don't, not for sure." Sam replied.

"Well, who's gonna summon her?" Dean asked.

"I will. She'll come after me." Sam said.

"Sam." you sadly said, "Don't do this to yourself." you pleaded.

"You know what, that's it." Dean said before pulling the car to the side of the road, "This is about Jessica, isn't it? You think that's your dirty little secret...that you killed her somehow? Sam, this has got to stop, man. I mean, the nightmares, and the calling her name out in the middle of the night. It's gonna kill you. Now, listen to me, it wasn't your fault. If you wanna blame something, then blame the thing that killed her, or hell, why don't you take a shot at me? I mean, I'm the one that dragged you away from her in the first place." Dean said.

"I don't blame you." Sam said.

"Well, you shouldn't blame yourself because there's nothing you could've done." Dean said.

"Hey!" you yelled, getting their attention. "It's nobodies fucking fault, not yours, Sam, and not yours, Dean. The only thing to blame is the asshole that did it. Sam, I can't imagine what you're going through. I know it has to be fucking horrible, but you have to stop. You are letting your guilt eat you alive, and you have no reason to feel guilty. I'm just scared that if you keep this up, you're just gonna be a shell of your former self, and I don't want to sit by and watch that happen. You did nothing wrong, Sam. "you said.

"I could've warned her." Sam said.

"About what? You didn't know what was gonna happen! Besides, all of this isn't a secret. I mean, we know all about it. It's not gonna work with Mary anyway." Dean said.

"No, you guys don't." Sam said.

"We don't what? What is that supposed to mean?" you asked.

"You guys don't know all about it. I haven't told you everything." Sam said.

"What are you talking about?" Dean asked.

"Well, it wouldn't really be a secret if I told you, would it?" Sam asked.

"Sam, this is fucking stupid." you said, leaning over the front seat.

"She's right. I don't like it. It's not gonna happen, forget it." Dean said.

"Y/N, Dean, that girl back there is going to die unless we do something about it, and you know what? Who knows how many more people are gonna die after that? Now, we're doing this. You guys have got to let me do this." Sam argued.

The three of you were outside of the antique store where the mirror was supposed to be. Sam was busy picking the lock on the door while you and Dean kept watch.

"Well...that's just great." Dean said as he walked in, the shop full of mirrors, before pulling out the photo of Mary's body to look at the mirror in the photo, "All right, let's start looking."

The three of you split up, searching the store before meeting up again.

"I got nothing." you said.

"Maybe they've already sold it." Dean said.

Sam raised his flashlight, the beam of light stopping on a mirror, "I don't think so." he said.

Dean pulled out the picture to compare the mirrors, "That's it." he sighed, "You sure about this?" he asked Sam.

Sam sighed, "Bloody Mary." he said, looking over at you and Dean, both of you giving him an unsure look. "Bloody Mary." Sam said again, Dean turning to see a light coming in through the store.

"I'll go check that out. You guys stay here, be careful. You watch his back, Singer." Dean said and you readied the crowbar you were holding. "Smash anything that moves." he said before taking off towards the front door.

Sam said the name for the last time, you and him standing in front of the mirror waiting for Mary to appear. The sound of someone breathing caught your attention, and you noticed Mary out of the corner of your eye. You raised the crowbar and smashed the mirror, following her to the next mirror and smashing that one too.

"Come on. Come into this one." Sam said before looking oddly at his reflection.

You noticed that Sam seemed to be having trouble breathing, and noticed a trickle of blood coming out of his eye.

"Sam? Sam!!" you said, dropping the crowbar to grab onto him, everything changing once you touched him.

The first thing you noticed was how dark it was, and you looked around trying to see where you were. You were in a bedroom, but it wasn't one you had ever been in before.

You could make out a figure laying on the end of the bed, and you stepped forward trying to see who it was, "Sam?" you asked, once you realized it was him, but he didn't seem to hear you.

You watched his hand come up and wipe something from his face, his eyes immediately focusing in on the ceiling. You looked up, following his gaze, and there she was, Jess. She was pinned to the ceiling and you watched in shock as she burst into flames, Sam screaming out for her.

Suddenly the scene changed again, and you watched Sam jerk awake like he just had a horrible nightmare. You looked over and noticed that Jess was sleeping peacefully beside him, but before you could say anything you were back in the store.

"You dreamed about it before it happened." you said, looking at Sam.

"You never told her the truth, who you really were." the reflection in the mirror said, Sam now falling towards the ground. "But it's more than that, isn't it? Those nightmares you've been having of Jessica dying, screaming, burning...you had them for days before she died. Didn't you? You were so desperate to ignore them, to believe they were just dreams. How could you ignore them like that? How could you leave her alone to die?!? You dreamt it would happen!!!" Mary yelled, you leaving Sam's side for a moment to pick up the crowbar.

"Shut the fuck up you psychotic bitch." you said before you shattered the mirror.

"Sam, Sammy!!" you heard Dean yell, turning to see him next to Sam on the floor.

"It's Sam." Sam said, before looking over at you, a shocked expression on his face, you subtly shaking your head telling him now wasn't the time.

"God, are you okay?" Dean asked Sam, looking at the blood on his face.

"Uh, yeah. "Sam said, the two of you still focused on each other, Sam looking like he had a million questions for you.

"Come on. Come on." Dean said, pulling Sam up.

"Here, let me help." you said, Dean putting one of Sam's arms around his neck, you doing the same on the other side.

A crunching sound stopped you all in your tracks, the three of you turning around to see Mary crawling over the broken glass.

"Fuck." you said before the three of you fell to the floor, all you of bleeding from your eyes.

Dean was able to reach a mirror, and he held it up so that Mary was forced to see her own reflection.

"You killed them. All those people! You killed them!" Mary's reflection said, Mary choking to death and melting into a puddle of blood moments later.

"Crazy fuckin' bitch." you said as Dean tossed the mirror down, shattering it.

"Hey guys?" Dean asked.

"Yeah?" you and Sam asked in unison.

"This has got to be like...what? Six hundred years of bad luck?" he teasingly asked, Sam chuckling weakly.

"Don't even fuckin' joke about that, De. We are the last three people on Earth that need bad luck." you said.

Dean pulled up in front of Charlie's house, "So this is really over?" she asked.

"Yeah, it's over." Dean said, nodding his head.

"Thank you." Charlie said, shaking his hand.

"You take care of yourself, Charlie." you said before she got out of the car.

"Charlie?" Sam asked, causing her to turn around, "Your boyfriend's death...you really should try to forgive yourself. No matter what you did you probably couldn't have stopped it. Sometimes bad things just happen." Sam said, Charlie giving him a faint smile before turning back around.

Dean playfully hit Sam, "That's good advice." he said before driving off. "Hey, Sam?" Dean asked.

"Yeah." Sam said.

"Now that this is all over, I want you to tell us what that secret is." Dean said.

Sam turned in his seat to look at you, the two of you having a quick silent conversation. He had tried to pull you aside earlier, and ask you how you knew what he was dreaming, but you brushed him off, saying that it was just a lucky guess, Sam knowing instantly just how full of shit you were.

"Look...you're my brother, and Y/N is like a sister to me, and I'd die for you guys, but there are some things I need to keep to myself." Sam said to Dean before looking back at you, "I mean, all of us have secrets, things we don't tell each other, right?" Sam asked, you subtly nodding your head, letting him know that you knew what he meant.

Dean chuckled, looking at you in the rearview mirror, "What are you agreeing with him for , Y/N? I don't think you can keep a secret. Especially not from me...I always get it out of you one way or the other." Dean said.

"Yeah." you said, pausing for a moment as your mind raced with different things to explain what happened to you back at that store. Maybe Dean would know. Maybe he could help you. No, no, you couldn't tell him, not until you knew for sure. "You can read me like a book." you added, turning to look out the window as your guilt over keeping him in the dark started to eat away at you.

Tags: @22sarah08 @miraclesoflove @deans-baby-momma @spnae @hawkeyetrained

#supernatural #series rewrite #dean winchester #dean x reader #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fic #supernatural reader insert #dean x you #reader insert #dean #sam winchester #spn #spn fic

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sophiainspace · 5 years

Note

OMG, Sophia, you know where my heart lies. The first time Sara cried in front of the Legends (all at once or just one or two of them).

Prompt list: Firsts in found family/friendship

The aim of these is to get myself out of a stuck writing headspace, so this isn’t at the standard I like to get fics to… but, hey, I don’t have to put it on AO3!

Sara’s cried at least twice in LoT canon that I can think of - but, to my (possibly-faulty) memory, not since becoming captain. So that’s where I ended up going with this. After a couple of false starts where the characters did not want to play, because the Legends have their own minds about *everything*. “You call this a team?!” (Thanks to @hiverforesteevee for beta reading, and to @zariadriannatomaz for ideas help - sorry I ended up going in a slightly different direction from your idea!)

Bad Day

(gen, 1720 words, Sara Lance & Team Legends, cw for anxiety/stress and bad memories/nightmares - brief)

By the time they get back to the bridge, Sara’s barely keeping it together.

If this total fuck-up of a mission wasn’t enough, she’s been awake since 5 this morning. She hasn’t even had a cup of coffee. Ray and Charlie drained the pot and didn’t bother to refill it, and then they had to move out to deal with the troll rampaging through the Swedish countryside. Sara would be throwing up her hands and going to find caffeine, if she wasn’t currently putting up with the traditional post-mission trash fire they call debriefing. Captain’s fucking privilege.

Every time she thinks things can’t get any more annoying, her dysfunctional crew piles in with new ways to torture her—along with a few of the old standards.

Charlie’s getting right up in Sara’s face. She’s whining about not being invited to the pre-mission team meeting, sneering that she would have been able to give the troll a beat-down if she’d just known what it was.

(She was invited to the meeting. She couldn’t get out of bed in time. She’s making Sara long for the simpler times when she met threats head-on with a kick or a knife, not with the drawn-out torture of diplomacy.)

Leaning against the parlour door frame, John’s interrupting her with occasional smug opinions.

(Zari calls it warlock-splaining. She says the phrase needs work. Seems pretty spot-on to Sara.)

Speaking of Zari, she’s sitting on the step, her head buried in an iPad, only bothering to look up to roll her eyes or say something appropriately sarcastic.

(She yawns, and Sara stomps down on the urge to ask if they’re keeping her up.)

At the console, Ray looks like he wants to head for the hills. He could, too, what with the irritatingly idyllic landscape of the Scandinavian Mountains just outside the window.

(Sara’s got half a mind to hand him a compass and two sticks, remind him he’s an Eagle Scout, and wish him luck.)

In the corner, Mick’s trying to sneak away unseen.

(Clearly it’s been more than half an hour since he’s had a beer, and God forbid he should do any work without his perpetual alcohol IV. Sara doesn’t even bother telling him to stay.)

“Told you it was no use trying to kill it with fire,” John yells after him helpfully. “Shouldn’t even have brought the flamethrower.”

Bracing her hands on the console, Sara restrains herself from spinning on her heel and losing it at him.

Mick steps back into the room. “It’s a fucking heat gun. If you call it a flamethrower one more time—”

“Give it up, mate,” John interrupts, laughing.

“I’m not your mate.”

Finally acknowledging something outside the internet, Zari rolls her eyes at them. “Could you two shut up?”

Charlie gives a dramatic sigh. “Sara, you didn’t even explain why I wasn’t—”

Sara starts counting down from ten in her head.

And, just to tie this shit-show of a meeting up with a little bow, Gideon chooses that moment to manifest her blue head above the console. “I’m afraid, Captain, that Mr Constantine is technically correct. The reliance on fire, while a reasonable backup plan in the case that iron and running water failed—”

“No, you said fire would kill—”

“I said Thor’s lightning could kill it! It’s not the same—”

Ray spins around, his voice resounding above the cacophony like an alarm bell. “John, are you saying this is Sara’s fault?”

Constantine takes a threatening step forward. “Yes, I bloody well am!”

Sara’s countdown reaches one. She slams her hands down on the console. “Everyone out.” She barely raises her voice above a whisper, but the chorus of consternation has fallen silent around her.

“Sara—” Zari starts, iPad forgotten, her gaze intense on Sara.

“Not now, Z,” she says, not meeting her eye. “Just… give me a minute.”

They trundle out, one by one. It’s generally worrying when the Legends go quiet, but Sara doesn’t care who she’s pissed off now.

When the bridge is finally empty, she draws in a deep breath, sits down on the floor, drops her head onto her knees and cries.

***

She’s not sure how much later it is when there’s a firm hand on her shoulder, comforting as the rising smell of coffee that’s arrived with it.

Zari’s pulling herself into a seated position on the floor next to Sara. She’s holding two mugs.

“One of those,” Sara croaks, wiping her eyes with her sleeve, “had better be for me.”

“Yes, you goober. And stop that.” Zari reaches into her pocket and passes Sara a tissue. She holds onto the second cup of coffee till Sara’s finished sorting her face out, then passes it to her.

Sara accepts it gratefully, though she can’t quite make herself smile yet. She wraps her hands tight around the mug, heat seeping into her cold hands through the metal surface.

(How long has she been cold?)

Both of them are quiet for a while, looking out at the scene beyond the bridge window, where the sun is eking out its last minutes of light over the mountains. Sara shields her eyes with a hand.

“I know we were being pretty Legends-y,” Zari says, her tone apologetic, and Sara chokes out a little laugh. “But, uh. Kind of a strong reaction to our usual crap…?”

Sara blows out a long sigh. “Didn’t sleep well.” She focuses on the mug in her hands. Warm and solid.

Zari tilts her head to eyeball her captain. But she doesn’t push, and Sara’s grateful.

She shifts around so she’s facing her friend. “D’you get nightmares, Z?”

There’s an edge of bitterness in the replying laugh. Zari catches her eye. “You too, huh?”

(The crack of breaking bones, the jab of a knife into a man’s side, the bright crimson of blood—)

Sara nods tightly at her mug, swirling the tawny liquid around. “Sometimes I wake up, and it’s so dark that I don’t know if I’m in Lian Yu or on the Am—” She coughs. “Took me a few minutes, this morning.”

(Just a few brutal seconds.)

“And then you know you’re not getting back to sleep,” she finishes, keeping her voice light.

(Breathe in. One, two, three, four. Breathe out.)

Zari’s hand is on her arm, her eyes still fixed on the shadowed mountains, and Sara looks down at shaking hands again. (For fuck’s sake.)

“You know you can talk to us, right?” Zari’s voice is soft, understanding. Not patronising. “Don’t be alone if you’re having a bad day.”

Sara attempts to cover up her laugh.

Zari grins. “Fine, maybe not when we’re being all…”

“Legends-y?” Sara quirks an eyebrow.

(She’s breathing easier already.)

“That.” Zari’s grip on her arm loosens a little. “And if we’re being complete bastards, you can kick our asses.”

Humming in reply, Sara suppresses a grin. “Think if I drop the Waverider over a convenient ocean, I can get Rory and Constantine to walk the plank?”

“Oh, definitely.” Zari winks.

Sara rolls her eyes. “He really can be very… warlock-splainy.”

“Needs work.” Zari’s smiling into her mug.

Nodding seriously, Sara says, “Yeah, you’re right. We should add ‘cis’ and ‘white’ in there somewhere.”

Footsteps behind them, in long strides. Ray.

“So this is where we’re sitting?” He glances at a spot on the floor next to Sara. She gives him a wry grin.

He drops down to sit next to them, all a tangle of legs and a too-cheerful smile that usually comes with a 50-50 chance of either annoying the hell out of Sara, or blanketing her in welcome, familiar warmth. She’s surprised when he offers her his hand, and takes it. He grips hers tight in his bigger one.

(There’s power there, like all the Legends have. Dangerous and comforting in equal measure.)

“You okay, Sara?”

She nods, matching his smile. “I’m good now. Thanks, Ray.”

Charlie’s next to arrive, frowning at the floor before shrugging and bouncing down. She frowns harder at Sara. “You’ve been crying.”

Zari snorts and pats Charlie on the back. “Blunt, aren’t you?”

“Shut her up with cake,” says a gruff voice behind them, and Sara looks up at Mick Rory, struggling to get down to the floor. “Joints ain’t what they were,” he grumbles. He sets down a chocolate cake, already cut into six slices, and a pile of plates. “Made it yesterday. Was gonna bring it out later.” He shrugs.

“Great timing.” Sara grins at him, grabs a slice and shoves it at Charlie. Who does, in fact, shut up to eat it.

“Ooh,” Zari says, snatching up the biggest slice.

“I cut that one bigger for you,” Mick mutters at her, and she awws at him, clearly only half going for sarcasm.

There’s a hesitant cough behind them. “This a private party, or can any thoughtless smug bastard join in?”

John actually sounds a bit embarrassed—Sara raises an eyebrow. “Please. Take a… bit of floor.”

He laughs and does as he’s told. He’s oddly quiet once he’s sat down, but he accepts his offered slice of cake.

Sara looks around at the bridge.

(Where they’ve all been through so much. Where she punched Rip for not telling her about Laurel. Where they mourned Leonard and Martin and, later, Rip himself. Where the Legends scrambled together countless ridiculous plans, some that actually succeeded, surprising her every time. Where she had her earliest encounters with Ava, strained at first, then stumbling into something wonderful. Where she’s found so many friends… family.)

On her right, Ray and Zari are arguing about chores. It sounds mostly good-natured.

On her left, Mick and John are comparing war stories of extra-legal activities, one more battle in their ongoing contest of performative masculinity.

Opposite her, Charlie glances up from her cake to smile at Sara. She smiles back.

(It’s good not to be alone.)

Sara lets her eyes drift up to the bridge window. The horizon is a perfect masterpiece of oranges and reds painted across a stunning mountainscape. Maybe they should stay tonight, see if they can spot the Northern Lights.

She sits there, just smiling out at the mountains, as Ray and Zari’s argument gets significantly less good-natured, John and Mick’s voices rise into what could definitely be described as yelling, and Charlie starts randomly threatening to punch someone.

#bold-sartorial-statement #my fic #sara lance #team legends #legends of tomorrow fanfic #prompt fills #ficlet #CWs:#crying #nightmares #bad memories #helped by some low-key team support #team legends love sara

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ephemeral-writings · 6 years

Text

not a bad thing; sehun ft. baekhyun

17. look

sehun ft. best friend baekhyun x reader

word count: 1.6k fluffiii

masterlist here

“Don’t look behind you right now, but there’s this guy that’s been staring at you for the past ten minutes.”

Baekhyun, also known as the most insufferable boy to have ever exist, is your best friend; somedays it’s a blessing to have Baekhyun around, other days you feel as if it’s a curse. You’re both grabbing lunch on a Saturday, to catch up with your lives and whatnot. Going to different universities has proved it difficult to update each other every single day(though you do text every day), and so every Saturday you make it a point to see your best friend. Your schools aren’t necessarily far from each other, only a half hour drive, but with how busy you can get, it’s not plausible for you to meet up as often as you did back in high school. You take turns traveling to each other’s area, and this week was your turn to drive up to his school.

You roll your eyes as you continue chomping down on your pizza, not at all bothered by Baekhyun’s words. See, you’ve never had a boyfriend before, and that fact alone has spurred Baekhyun to make it his personal mission to set you up with— well almost any guy who seemed decent enough for you.

You, however, never have cared about relationships. For you, all you need is a happy relationship with your parents and one best friend to keep you satisfied. Boyfriends, as far as you knew, comes and goes. Your mindset is that you’re not in a place in life to be thinking about a relationship, so why bother? You made a pact with yourself that the first guy you date would be someone worth your time, because he would also be the guy to spend the rest of your life with you.

“I’m serious, Y/N. I think there’s literally hearts in his eyes,” Baekhyun says, cringing at the last statement as if disgusted that someone would find you that attractive. You knee his shin for that.

“Ow! What the f- wait, wait, I know that guy he’s with. He’s from my one of my music theory class.”

Baekhyun watch as the two boys from a distance talk amongst themselves. The guy that has been staring at you scrunches his face at something the other guy says, visibly sulking in his seat. The boy in Baekhyun’s class suddenly grabs the other one, and in a flash Baekhyun’s sputtering, “Shit, they’re heading this way!”

Just as you’re gracefully choking on a damn pineapple, the shadow of two figures shades over you and your dumb best friend.

“Hey, you’re Baekhyun, right? From Hardball Bok class?” The taller one of the two guys says first.

Baekhyun stutters the slightest while his eyes uneasily sweeps between you and the boy talking to him. “Yeah, I think I recognize you.”

“I’m Chanyeol, and this,” he vaguely jabs his thumb towards the boy next to him, “is my friend, Sehun.”

You stay motionless in your seat, almost as if you’re having a invisible moment in which the three boys suddenly makes acquaintance with each other without your presence perturbing them.

You have yet to meet eyes with the two strangers, that is until you hear your name being called.

“This is Y/N,” Baekhyun says, all while searching your face for any discomfort because although he was annoying to no end, he was your best friend for a reason, and he’s aware of your tendency to be cautious around unfamiliar people. Wordlessly, Baekhyun reassures you that they, Chanyeol and Sehun, were harmless, and so you lift your chin higher, until the two boys finally come into view.

And a pleasant view they were. They’re definitely eye-candies, whether you’d admit that to Baekhyun when he interrogates you later or not is another story. Chanyeol gives off a vibe that doesn’t unsettle you as much as boys who has attempted to approach you at parties. His towering height, however, was quite intimidating, but all unnecessary apprehension fades when he smiles at you, with a set pearly whites, crow’s feet, and dimples too– the whole sha-bang, really.

But it was the other boy, Sehun, who had you floored. His eyes, when they found yours, were dazzling. They were as clear as the sky after rain; gaze was softer than the silk of your pillowcase. They were a stark contrast to his ebony brows which narrowed as if concentrated on something. That something was you.

Chanyeol decides to inquire then, to Baekhyun, “Is she your girl?” To which you and Baekhyun immediately deny.

“I’d rather date a cactus than her.”

“And I’d rather date a rock than him.”

You blush when you notice Sehun grinning, shoulders bouncing as he holds in a laugh. You feel accomplished, for some reason. Though you’ve only known the guy for two seconds, Sehun seemed like the type to be difficult to get a reaction out of, but you had managed to make him laugh.

After Chanyeol finishes his boisterous laughter, he says, “Well, we just wanted to ask if you guys would be down to catch a movie with us. The tickets are half off if you buy it in groups of four.”

“Really?” Baekhyun pretends to be astonished by this information when you knew for a fact that the idiot knew about it. Heck, he’s tried to forcing you to go to the movies with him since he developed a crush on the girl at the concession stand. It’s twenty percent with two tickets, and fifty with four.

“Yeah,” Chanyeol brightens. “You guys down?”

“Yeah,” Baekhyun replies almost instantly. Then three pairs of eyes were on you, waiting for your answer. Your best friend expression egged you on, wiggling his brows suggestively and eyeballs pointedly shift to Sehun.

Sehun, you notice, looks a little hopeful, but not so such because he doesn’t want to guilt you into saying yes.

“Sure, but you,” you glare at Baekhyun who raises his arms up in defense mode. “You’re buying me a box of Raisinets.”

“Fo’ sho, man. Gives me chance to talk to her.” Baekhyun giggles ridiculously, which intrigues Chanyeol to ask about it. Before you knew it, they two of them were starting towards the direction of the cinema while chatting about girls.

“Do you want to finish your pizza first?” Sehun asks, motioning towards your last quarter slice. “The movie doesn’t start for another half hour.”

“No, I think I’m good.” You toss the remaining food away before returning to where Sehun stood, waiting for you.

“Do you go to the same school as us?” Sehun asks. He keeps a modest distance between you, his arms swinging just enough for you to feel the breeze it brings, but not enough to feel the warmth of his being.

“I don’t, actually.” You begin to explain the elaborate schedule you and Baekhyun created in order to stay in touch, but stop abruptly when you remember a conversation you had with your best friend.

“I just don’t understand why he suddenly got all pissy.”

“Sweetheart, you don’t talk about other guys to a guy, even if I am your best friend,” Baekhyun chided.

“Really? Seems like an insecure issue if you ask me.”

Sehun notice you stopping in the middle of your sentence, wondering if you got distracted, and decides to prompt you to continue. “So how long do you usually stay?” He asks.

You contemplate telling him that you actually slept over at Baekhyun’s dorm room . Baekhyun roommate was an exchange student the first semester, and you’d leave the same day you came, but since his old roommate went back to China, the school never bothered to assign him a new one. There were two beds anyways, and Baekhyun was the one who first suggest you just stay the night and you did, sleeping on his bed while he slept on his previous roommate’s.

“Depends. If I have a lot of school work to do, I’ll be in and out, but if not, I’ll stay the night.” You explain, mentally hoping he’ll end the topic there. Thankfully he does, with a thoughtful nod and hum.

You both eventually catch up to the other two boys, arriving at the theaters to see Baekhyun already at the concession stand, harassing the poor girl with his unabating flirting.

The girl, though shy, doesn’t show any sign of abhorrence but instead flush a pretty pink when Baekhyun compliments her pigtail braids.

“Don’t forget my Raisinets,” you speak up from behind him.

He rolls his eyes melodramatically and adds, “Oh yeah, and a box of Raisinets for the ogre behind me.” Baekhyun pays the girl(the little shit “accidentally” touches her hands), and squeezed out a greasy, “See you after the movie, hopefully.”

“When are you gonna let the poor girl live? She’s literally as red as a tomato.” You scold good-naturally. You offer Raisinets to Chanyeol who’s chowing down on nachos like nobody’s business. He declines, but Sehun shares some with you. Baekhyun can eat the empty box later.

“Can’t help it. It’s in my nature to be this charming,” Baekhyun says.

“As is being naturally annoying, I bet.”

“Shut up, cactus.”

“Hey, do you guys hear something because I’m pretty sure a rock can’t speak.”

This time, Sehun’s laughter rings through your ears, loud and clear. It’s unexpectedly soft, yet the heartiness is there, and you feel proud of yourself once more. He looks at you suddenly, all intense and disarming, like you were something special, and your heart stutters.

#exo #sehun #exo scenarios #sehun scenario #oh sehun #baekhyun #baekhyun scenario #kpop scenarios #kpop drabbles #scenarios #30 day challenge #sehun fluff

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rjmorrisonuniverse-blog · 4 years

Text

The Inklings

Everything about him was incidental. His six foot four height that seemed both casual vibe and imposing. (and the way it caused me to look not at his eyes but the top of his head, making him seem even taller) His shockingly dark gaze of a fire roasted chestnut depth that took on the after-dark tonality of ink black. His wild dreadlocked waist length mane that he often pulled together in a hemp-like weave, or net, or full-body seaweed surround, and its soapy but not unpleasant note when the winds blew. The winds were blowing when I met him. Blowing in off the strait with trademark Pacific freshness that cut across summer's heated intent. I was on a gentle grassy knoll in a charming seaside town named Sidney, its harbor and long wooden wharf a slice of heavenly view toward the gulf islands and distant Canadian mainland. There on an otherwise typical gorgeous August afternoon, enjoying my “grande” Pike Place blend with the lid off, a tall shadow stretched its presence into my zone of solar vitamins.

"Sweet guitar", his voice was deep and rich. I looked first not at him, but at the old well-loved and travelled Yamaha beside me on the grass. Then up. Way up from his sandalled toes, past the cargo pants and navy blue t-shirt, to his penetrating but openly friendly eyes. He squinted at my own squint, and dished up an instantly warming grin. "Do you play?" I asked. His answer was a wordless fluid bending of knees to where he sat cross-legged a couple of feet to my right. He nodded slowly and laid a large long-fingered left hand across the sun baking top of my trusty old acoustic guitar. With a long thumb nail he scratched lightly along the bottom E string until softly plucking a delightful harmonic at the fifth fret. It sang out into a precise breeze blended tandem voice as his hand raised and floated over the sound hole. I swear I could hear the harmonic note bending itself into a higher octave before it faded into the inaccessible aural dimensions that surely exist in perpetuity beyond our human capabilities. (imagine an entire universe sounding with the amassed notes of all music ever made)

I do realize that in the telling of this, I perhaps sound like a smitten female or a male of gay preference, but no... this was his outright exuding incidental charisma. He arrived at the end of a long encroaching grass shadow, on a perfect summertime afternoon, with his beautiful aura and instantly alluring presence. Arrived when I most needed it, for I had been considering suicide that very morning. That very morning when the hours from six to nine had brought in overcast conditions and the lingering (festering) wounds wrought by a love torn away.

In the compulsory interest of a quick backstory, suffice to say that a woman whom I had given my whole heart to decided to run off with a handsome architect from the Seattle area, who she had fallen for on Facebook. Such was the cold shock and abruptness of it all, I didn't even bother with the formality of grovelling. Me, mister financial underachiever with his creaking dreams of making it through song writing and landscape painting... yeah, right. (stoked to create, loathe to sell) Even though I totally lost my composure during our last face to face exchange and called her a word that begins with 'w' and rhymes with floor, I admitted deep in my heels that she had chosen well. And speaking of floor, I was.

It is hard to believe now, post love-disembowelling, that I was actually going to cash in my chips over her. "Ayte" was the divine intervention star. He sparkled so brightly and suddenly during daylight's most needed hours, even if it is true that I reclined on Sidney's grassy knoll and sipped from a happy feeling coffee. Contradictory? Sure. I put the dick in that word, some days. What a strange name, I remember thinking as he extended a down-angled right hand to shake mine own up-stretched. Ayte, pronounced like the numeral. "Yeah, I know" he offered laconically - "spelled ay why tee ee." Well in hindsight, of course. "Cool name" I told him. "Mine is just Fred." We then shook hands and I was struck by the coolness of his untanned skin. Despite those reddish brown dreadlocks and what looked to be a very aggressive five o'clock shadow of dense packed black, Ayte had the epidermal wraparound of an albino.

I mentioned down-angle and up-stretched a moment ago, regarding our first handshake of two that would bookend the relationship; it must be confessed that even sitting on the same incline beside each other, the disparity in our sizes was glaring. I am a very small man. The genomic fates had it in for me, or so it felt quite often, in bestowing a mere five feet and four inches of stature. North America seemed a land of giants as I grew up and suffered the ignoble pituitary gland gauntlet of high school... I bore an average face in a nondescript body that decided to stop growing somewhere around solar year sixteen. Bitter? You bet. The pimple-faced teenaged version of Fred carried around just as much carnal lust as the next kid, but his cards were all jokers. It wasn't so much that I was mercilessly teased or rejected in school, but that I shut myself down and stopped even daydreaming about finding a girlfriend. Sex? Losing my virginity occupied a shelf next to finding the ultimate truth about why we exist. I recall far too many barely contained screams at a world of towering classmates and gorgeous west coast women who may as well have occupied a visible but unobtainable dimension...

and I digress.

"How long have you been playing, Fred?" asked the casually striking new acquaintance beside me. I looked at his interesting profile (the nose so wide and flat at the nostrils) as he gazed out at scattered gulf islands in their glittering deep blue waterbed. "I just turned thirty five and have been playing since my fifteenth birthday." Ayte nodded as if he had already guessed the amount of years, and his ropy dreads splayed out behind an elongated rake-thin torso. "Dude..." he spoke the word in a way that had me thinking he had never uttered it before. "Why don't you play me something?"

I can't explain it, but normally I would have been ultra self-conscious and refused the request, especially from a stranger who had just blown me away with a single scraping plucked low-E harmonic. This being an afternoon following a dismal morning where I had seriously considered drowning myself into another cosmic dice roll, what did I have to lose? Face? Surely not. I am an accomplished guitarist, and dare I say a formidable songwriter who lives always a decade ahead of his curve? That zit-faced horny boy in a short man's future; he once upon a time found only one solace. In a Yamaha acoustic guitar with Dean Markley bronze-wound strings. My first and only true love. At Ayte's request, and then peering into his friendly inviting curious eyes, I thus responded with a half-smile half-sigh of "fuck it, why not?"

Of the many sorrowful sounding pieces that I had channelled from gods-know-where, there was this newest composition still brewing. It sat on the universal dial between heart trauma and acceptance; I had begun working on it during the aftermath of her decision to eviscerate me in favor of Seattle guy. (have I mentioned that he stands at a commanding six foot three inches?) This untitled nugget of woe notes found its root within one of my favorite tear-jerker chords, A minor. With a long stare out at the impossible blue of gulf sea, and me, I picked up the Yamaha and began to quietly play this unfinished work. The first two verse passages build from A minor. They are played without a pick and I gradually color the low A root note with tender arpeggios and saddened bends that climb up and around a crying out loud D, also minor. I could absolutely feel Ayte's rapt ear. Peripherally my eyes imparted that he wasn't watching as I played. I could still see him gazing out to the same horizon as mine. In my heart of hearts I knew this to be the finest composition I had ever started. Blood from a life not fulfilling had somehow trickled from my fingertips into the well-worn wood and four month old strings. I played with a fragile blue sensitivity for the tall lanky stranger, and didn't worry one moment about the missing middle eight bridge section that mirrored the man's first name. (astounding, comical universe, I would later muse)

He was silent for a good long moment after I ended the solo performance and sat cradling the guitar, like my baby, my lover, chin down in the graceful bend of its side. I heard him sniff, once and long, and realized with a muted shock that he had been moved to tears. Still not looking directly at him but across the water, I could see his hand come up to swipe at both eyes. "That was beyond beautiful" he started, "and so sad. I just can't believe you people continue to write such wonderful music in such a limited format."

I ignored the closing remark and glowed inwardly at his praise, until the curiosity of what he said got the better of me. "How do you mean, limited format?" I allowed myself a direct look and sure enough, tears still blurred out the deep brown of his eyeballs. Ayte stared first at me, then down into the Yamaha's weathered finish, and I added "and also what do you mean by you people?" He smiled then, a close-lipped one that for a fleeting moment caused him to appear monstrously unsymmetrical. "Do you have a car?" he asked casually. "Can you get to the ferry?"

I answered in the affirmative and Ayte regained his feet in one smooth motion, looking down at me with a sun halo backlight. (this is one freaky star child hippy, I remember thinking) "I don't know if you have plans for the evening, but I'd like to invite you to a sneak preview of my new band's material. I recently rented a place on Salt Spring Island and we rehearse there four nights a week. I could pick you up at the ferry terminal tonight, at seven?"

How was I to refuse? Rewind a few hours and I was on the cusp of pitching myself into the cold indifferent blue of lady Pacific's salt water. "It sounds like a cool idea" I answered, not hesitating even though my belly issued a warning. "I can drive myself to your place. I'll meet you at seven and you lead the way." Ayte smiled anew, nodded, then looked out at the clouds above the island where he lived. "We are deep in the wide open, at the base of a mountain near Vesuvius Bay. You're going to love it." With those words and my returned smile and nod, Ayte turned and then strolled away on his long thin legs. He headed toward the main street of charming Sidney, where blue-haired retirees white knuckle their way through potential fender benders every day of every week. I remember thinking of how abbreviated our first meeting was, yet of how I had thrown my shield away and offered up a raw new song and a willingness to try on something sudden and offered.

"Hey, Ayte!" I shouted to his retreating form. He stopped and did a one eighty, hands in his cargo short pockets. "What's your band's name, man?" The two word answer came across the distance between us in a way that intersected time itself, and I certainly experienced a devastating deja-vu upon hearing it : "The Inklings". I would have further shouted a positive response, had not the hint of I-know-this-already smacked me in the face. Ayte turned back to his exit trajectory. I looked at my watch, then out at the fluffy white cloud bank above Salt Spring Island and gulf environs. A beautiful glowing gossamer, almost sparkly from within, casting down cotton candy reflections in the waters of a paradise for those who truly see. I had five hours to kill, but at least I wasn't killing myself.

It was another half hour before I picked myself up off the grass, in much improved if not almost ecstatic spirits. Strange. I felt turned on in a parallel but different way to the sexually aroused feeling. Ayte was such an odd dude. His soapy hair fragrance and indecipherable Jesus-ian vibe lingered around me for hours, and I kept repeat hearing that incredible incredulous thumb nail harmonic note... he had those Hendrix thumbs that could wrap around a neck to phrase bass passages to underpin rhythm patterns. I recognized my newfound verve as a sheer pulsating excitement over the prospect of hearing the guy play guitar. If he could do what I suspected he could, what would his band sound like?

"Cool name" I proclaimed over the air rushing through my beater of a Toyota as I left Sidney by the sea and made my way to the tiny one bedroom apartment that I loosely called home. I lived on the outskirts of Saanich, not far from Bear Lake and many other paradisiacal locales that had shaped my adult years but not saved me from the cruel talons of heartbreak. "The Inklings" I said aloud, chuckling. Then I dovetailed, or downward spiralled, into a reverie about what Cynthia would have made of mister six foot four Ayte. He was instantly impact-full. He was casually but boomingly charismatic in a way that bisected sexiness and an exotic heady strangeness. Yeah, I thought, punching down harder on the gas pedal, Cynthia would have wanted to fuck him. She was entirely wired for response to those of a highly interesting aura, be that response a keen wish to know more that bypassed womanly feelings, or that which was easiest for me to believe lately; that she wanted to branch out and truly taste-test the waters of depth within potential lovers and great loves. I wasn't the guy. One wild year and one completely offered heart, mine, had not earned her unwavering interest and devotion.

I had suspected early on that Cynthia didn't have a lot of respect for my lack of "drive" to participate in the grand charade of society. I had always drifted from job to job, mostly part time, and my heart had belonged to music making and painting, if not the unsavory chasm that I could not cross : subsisting through the selling of my art. It was a thing that I didn't disapprove of for others, of course, but personally I found it reprehensible and limiting to anything further that might issue forth through my humble channel. Silly? Hell yes. Thirty five years, dwindling funds from my inheritance, and the loss of that one woman who had liked me enough to say she loved me... f-bomb f-bomb ad infinitum. It took ten kilometres and some mental doing, but I eventually shrugged out of the momentary funkification and regained that golden anticipatory shine that Ayte's energy had lit within me.

I looked at my watch before pulling up to park in front of the squat 1940 apartment building that housed me and my trusty Yamaha : I had four hours to kill, but at least I wasn't killing myself.

Hindsight and retrospect being strange twins, it is true that I probably could have done without the fat west coast bud that helped me through my remaining hours in wait. Clearly I was jacked up over hearing Ayte and his bandmates. I sat at home with my ass meat deeply planted into the sagging sofa cushion, breathed back mama nature balm-smoke, and considered whether or not to bring my acoustic guitar along. It was always with me. Had I decided to leave it behind, it would have taken the breaking of my entire pattern because it was always in its gig bag and laying across the back seat of my ride. I'd been a semi-regular on Salt Spring island, anyhow, and it is a zone for the earth children to kick back and shamelessly exult. Wiccans, pagans, outright stoners, a whole lot of artists and "green" this and that types... certainly a holy land of acoustic guitars, folk music, and interaction via jamming. It was a no-brainer to bring my trusty Yamaha with me, and I luxuriated on the sinking sofa with a no-brain sensation, nodding to some vague incoming music signal idea. I still needed to write a bridge for my newest, saddest, most "felt" beautiful piece. Maybe The Inklings would inspire it?

The time arrived leisurely. Those butterfly wing knots went away only to be replaced by that stereotypical post-smoke hunger, and I wolfed my way through the remainder of a large tub of store bought potato salad, with a tall glass of carbonated spring water. During the drive up to the ferry terminal I listened to my most recent recordings, silently pleased and paradoxically pissed at a world that settles for so little when it comes to popular music. The sweet with the bitter, bitches. How to know sweetness without so much suck? It took the usual amount of time, and minor headache, to pay for the ferry and get the Toyota positioned on deck. It was a typical glorious early evening as I crossed the depthless looking blue waters, a touch choppy from rising and cooling winds. Rather than sit in the car I stood on the bow of the ferry, peering out at the approach of Salt Spring, looking for the first visual of mister Ayte. I had no idea what he would be driving, but imagined him as either a panel van or a motorcycle guy.

Neither. It was impossible to miss him at the Vesuvius Bay ferry terminal, leaning against a shiny black Buick LeSabre from the era when cars had leg and headroom, tank-like skeletons and serious gas thirst. Of course a big dude like that is going to have a big dude's ride, right? He spotted me immediately and waved a casual hand as the winds tossed his hair ropes around. I could see a smile, and it warmed away my stomach's returning doubt chills. Into the Toyota, out onto the parking area at the terminal, and we greeted each other with smiles. "Wicked cool that you could make it, Fred" he was extra tall by then, wearing a thick heeled pair of hiking boots and faded knee-torn jeans, and the de rigueur fleece over-shirt required by oceana Pacifica. I felt like a midget next to him, but his manner was warm and off-hand in a way that relaxed me. This was no alpha male playing jerk, and besides, he was just weird enough looking to straddle the ineffable border between sex god and outright geek. I liked that about Ayte, truth be told.

"There is one item of potential weirdness that I must mention right away" he said matter-of-factly, causing the gut knots to tighten a little. "I think it's best if you leave your car here and I drive you to my place, okay?" I started to protest and he continued - "The others weren't too keen on my inviting you over without asking them first, but it's my space and I have final say... it's just that, there's one other thing; when we get out on Upper Ganges road I need to blindfold you - "

"Say, what?"

"Dude" (the word issued forth with more ease than his earlier use) "It's for your own good, man. Let's just say I have a little indoor farming operation going on there, and it doesn't make much sense for us to have you know where the place is or how to get there." I rolled that over for a few moments, feeling stung small and stupid at first but admitting the logic. His eyes seemed genuinely sorry. "I don't drink either, bro" he went on. "You'll get back here no problem for the last ferry, or you can even crash overnight. We have lots of space." Here's the thing; ever since Cynthia fucked me and then fucked me over for mister Seattle, I'd been as tightly wound as it gets. Drinking, smoking way too much herbals, and frittering away inheritance money that was marked by the extra weight of tragedy. My parents had both perished in a float plane accident up-island, only two years prior to my meeting... her. The only sibling, elder sister Patty who disapproved of basically everything Fred, received the house and its five acres in the heart of Sooke. Me, a fifty thousand dollar cushion that would soon resemble one of the ones on my heater-burned sofa. Ayte looked down at me in Fred's little turmoil, and then I mellowed out and accepted his terms. "You rock, bro" he told me in his quick intimacy manner. "When we get a few miles up the road, I'll pull over and have you sit in back, and you can wear this..." he yanked a dark blue bandana from his back pocket, already prepared for my agreeing. It was decorated with dozens of tiny Stropharia Cubensis mushrooms, indigenous to the region and gateways of allure that I had previously attempted and failed at. (stomach ache city, too)

"I meant to mention earlier" Ayte beamed, and I knew what was coming - "did you bring your guitar along?" I told him it was always with me, and he smacked me on the shoulder gleefully. "Grab it and let's go. You are going to have your mind fully blown open, and I already told the bandmates about your beautiful song." I beamed a beam of my own and we were moments later underway. I had forgotten just how roomy the old Buicks could be, and with a comparative giant beside me I felt smaller than ever. We pulled out into the relatively quiet traffic flow and hadn't travelled a hundred yards before Ayte said - "So, she was worth it, no doubt." I didn't understand him at all, and asked what he meant. "Your song. Your beautiful new piece of music that you played. Whoever inspired that in you was definitely worth whatever the cost was... right?"

"How did you know that was a new song, though?" I asked him, replaying our earlier meeting and reasonably sure I hadn't told him. Ayte laughed and squinted at me with an appraising almost annoying glint in his eyes. "Fred... it was filled with that new song vibe... a lot of raw heart, and it still needed a middle section unless you're a verse chorus only kind of writer." I began to formulate an answer that just might make mention of the departed Cynthia and the blast crater where my heart had been, but Ayte continued - "It would be really cool if you wrote in a major chord, positive sounding bridge, as if you were regaining strength and optimism, and then had it drop right back down into that deep sad final third."

My only response arrived in time with a sinking feeling in my chest that was momentary but punishing. "Her name is Cynthia" I admitted, looking out the side window at passing countryside and a rising slope jammed with Spruce trees. "I guess you could say she was my first and only love, but she dumped me for someone else not long ago." Ayte nodded gently, then chewed his bottom lip and stared through the windshield tint at a mostly empty two-lane road. "Her name was Cynthia" he said firmly. "Now she's just another sad song." I remember being both grateful for his sudden arrival in that day, and a fleeting need to punch him in the face as hard as I could. Not that he was being flippant, mind you, but because I had instantly opened my chest cavity to a virtual stranger. The deep wounds that won't heal, but rather form lesson scars and chords for weeping guitars.

"I shouldn't talk, though" Ayte continued (and I wasn't sure if he was being sincere or throwing me a pacifier) "because I have never been in love." It surprised me. Made me stare at his profile for a moment, and perhaps the reader has guessed at what the narrative threads have been knitting, but I stared and calmed down. Even one crack at that holy grail of the heart space, big Love, was not guaranteed for each of us born from that reservoir and expressly designed to seek its maddening elusive answers. "Tantalizing" I spoke out loud, not intending to have the thought escape as such. Ayte let it slide. We rode in silence for five minutes, both watching the beautiful blues and greens of the island, and then he slowed to pull over. It was blindfold and back seat time.

I surprised myself by going for such a ludicrous ride. For accepting the odd terms and for talking the whole time about how Cynthia and I had met (me playing a sad mellow piece outdoors near Thetis lake that drew her over for a listen) ... Ayte responded through my sentences with scattered "uh huh", "mmhmm" sounds. I spoke openly and realized how much I had needed to purge to a new person, a new set of ears not tired of the repeating theme of Cynthia leaves Fred. During this blindfolded backseat "oratorio", I also attempted to focus on distance and sounds beneath the roomy LeSabre, since I knew the island fairly well and was very curious about where we were heading.

What I was able to glean, as my bitter sounding tale concluded, revolved around a left hand turn and the sound and feel of gravel under tires. "We're there?" I asked, and Ayte replied with a terse "almost." It took at least another minute, at slower speed and over steady small dips and bounces, to come to a stop. My new musician acquaintance turned to speak at the back seat, because I could smell his very odd breath which was almost medicinal. A funky blend of rich dense hashish and Scope, maybe. "Alright, buddy. I know this is fucked up and all, but I'm going to lead you into the place before that blindfold comes off. Yeah?" What else was there to do but to nod and go along with the "house rules"? Frankly, at that point I didn't want to see a grow-op or a specific location.

Ayte opened the passenger door on the driver's side and I heard him grab my guitar gig bag, with "I'll carry this in for you". Then, the door closing, his footfalls around the back of the Buick, and another door opening. Cool fingers on my right wrist, a light grip and then release so that I could step free into cooling air. It was strangely quiet out there for a moment, and I suppose I expected to hear the sounds of his band tuning or, warming up. He let me rise tall to my full towering standing height of minus-midget (compared to he) and then those long cool fingers closed around my right wrist again and he said "over this way, Fred" with a gentle pull. I walked and wondered what the hell I had gotten into, but not enough to call it off. I must admit it was the first spark of real life I had felt inside me since the love evisceration crisis. I was silently anticipating an experience with possibly the coolest, deadliest unknown band in the country; little old me privy to a kick ass sneak preview of something that would break and break large. Yes, Ayte's thumbnail scrape and harmonic pluck had impressed me that much.

He opened what seemed like two locks. The door was soundless on its hinges. "Two steps up, bro" he said with another gentle wrist tug, and up I went into a space that felt a few degrees warmer than the rapidly cooling evening. My feet sounded on creaky floorboards and we walked maybe twenty feet straight ahead, then stopped, and I heard another doorknob being turned. There, immediately after a few halting steps into what felt to be a much larger space, the pungent whack of west coast smoke. Right upside the nostrils. Heady and dense. I heard an amplifier buzzing and could make out the sounds of distant male voices from what was surely another room behind yet another closed door.

"A beer for you?" Ayte asked as his hand removed itself from my wrist. I heard the ruffle of my guitar bag as he removed the shoulder strap and set it down somewhere near us. "Can I take this off now?", my hands pointed index fingers toward the bandana. "Yeah, and... a beer for you?" I tugged the knot behind my head up and away whilst answering "I'd love a beer", and my vision found a large crazy wall across the room as Ayte pivoted on his boot heels to leave for the doorway that contained those other voices. "Be right back, dude" he spoke over a shoulder. "Make yourself at home. Read the lyric wall."

And.

Holy.

Shit.

The lyric wall. The crazy wall. It ran for thirty feet, from floor to eight foot ceiling, and the old recreation room wood panel had been primed and painted an off-white. Every square inch of its surface was emblazoned in felt marker language and bizarre drawings. My eyes adjusted and didn't know where to lock focus, but immediately I was thrown off balance by confusion. I didn't recognize the words, letters, even the meaning of most of the visuals. It was a hybrid of bizarre Egyptian hieroglyph and Chinese-like script with a flourish of widely scattered comic book style drawings; all of this was small and packed densely across the wall. I exhaled a tremulous "wow". Beneath my feet a stupendously ornate and intricately woven oriental carpet had me instantly in mind of Clive Barker's "Weaveworld" as well as a great Henry Rollins concert I had once upon a time drunkenly attended. (he and the band were set up on a beautiful rug, Henry full of angsty testosterone menace, ink, bare feet, perspiration) The carpet was just as strange as the wall. It looked barely recognizable as something my brain could latch onto safely. As I stared down into its subtle tea-stained twenty by twelve area, it seemed that my feet sank just slightly into its very low pile.

My wide open eyes took in the two side walls which were left in their ugly wood panel original state, and then I managed a one eighty pivot to become even more freaked out. Have you ever been visually overwhelmed all at once? Not known where to focus and react due to the ultimate combination of mind-blow components? I scanned across three distinct "stations" where the band's "instruments" were set up; my stare dialled back to the "drum kit"... this was a hybridized amassment of traditional Paiste cymbals, hi-hats, with partial sections of the usual drum kit hardware, but

but

the hardware was inserted deep into a thick twisting bleached length of what looked to be ancient driftwood. Along its bottom curve near the floor, smaller sections of metal tubing had been inserted and bolted into place, from which four different colored Converse All-Star shoes connected as de facto stabilizers. I wanted to burst into laughter but it was instantly confusing and frightening. Where there would normally be "rack toms", three sea turtle shells of varying sizes were positioned at identical striking angles. Held in place by more strange dull metallic tubing that protruded up from the driftwood trunk. There were washers, nuts and bolts. Each shell had a skin drawn across the open bowl side, fastened all around with small tribal looking bones that were somewhat flattened on top. No floor tom. I was too stunned in the first shock moments to check for a kick drum or pedal, but instantly knew that the wide chunk of gnarly driftwood served in that capacity. I was thinking you talk about your hippies...

and it dawned on me that the other room's voices had entirely muted, as though they wanted me to be utterly alone in the freaked out processing of what I was looking at. There were two "amplifiers" that flanked the bizarre organic-slash-traditional drum set. Of identical dimensions, they were square and a flat black with no visible buttons or input jacks. The material in front resembled that which can be found on Marshall cabinets; a thick cross-hatched cloth that was seamlessly flush with the rest of the container. I stepped toward the nearest waist-high "amp" and saw no power source but could hear its steady buzzing from within. With a trembling hand I dared to touch its upper surface. Cold, dull, but resembling or seeming to be made from a form of obsidian material. I had a terror twitch thought that I was looking at something ancient. A sound emitting fossil device. With no visible power source or controls, I guessed that it must be some manner of... what, really? A mentally controlled amplification system? Across from the hybrid driftwood percussion kit, ludicrous with its array of handcrafted Paiste products, the other humming black box stood in waiting. I felt frozen in place but moved my attention back to the tangled madness of the lyric wall. An anxious anticipation bubbled in my lower stomach and before I could focus anew on the strange hieroglyphic jumble, that other room's door opened quickly on a squeaky hinge.

Ayte was first through the doorway, then two equally tall and thinly built males who were wearing fucking goalie masks. I'd seen bands wear masks on stage before, but this was a rehearsal. Ayte was bare faced and unbelievably at first I didn't look directly at what he was carrying because I was drawn to the others. You may recall my description of the dark blue blindfold bandana with its tiny magic mushroom motif? Ditto the ludicrous masks. Dark blue verging on black, with brilliant amber 'shrooms equally and densely arranged. A part of my mind said okay, they're rehearsing a debut show for me. There followed a split second of relaxing into the possibility, but then I looked at the two instruments being carried and quickly at one of the humming featureless amplifier boxes.

Two identical jet black ultra glossy tubes of approximately traditional electric guitar length. A circumference of perhaps a large man's forearm at its widest. Ayte's instrument was completely encircled on its shining surface by at least twenty "strings" of various diameter that went from thick piano density to nearly invisible, but the thing of it was

oh, the memory of it hitting me fresh

These "lines" ran the length of the tube from where they vanished into holes in a flat base (envision an unopened soup can lid), up to an impossible braid that formed a cone on the upper end. The tuning end, I supposed. These fucking "strings" were actually beams of indescribably gorgeous laser-like light. They were solid beams in an array of in-between tones that I had never before seen. Like a mushroom version of advanced-cosmos color wheel photon strands. A furtive stunned glance at the other tube-carrying mask-wearing musician revealed that he had less of these beams on his instrument, and they were generally thicker but no less vivid. I thought through a melting mind - guitar and bass?

"This is Fred" announced Ayte as he walked across the ornate rug with an outstretched free hand that held a beer bottle. I was oddly relieved to see a local brand that I recognized, and accepted the ice cold offering with a failing voice but a no-doubt electrocuted expression. The two goalie masks nodded silently as Ayte's equally tall brothers-in-sound took their positions. I neglected to mention a normal everyday drum stool because in my shock at trying to identify the driftwood creation's makeup, I hadn't noticed it. Drummer took his seat and I saw two of the usual sticks in his hands. Pale skin, long thin fingers. He was dressed head to toe in a dark blue robe that had me in mind of Kubrick's "Eyes Wide Shut" orgy scene. Equally silent but for the mask nodding, the "bassist" took position in front his sound box device and cradled the light beam tube in his arms like a baby. His robe was a Buckingham green.

"Wow. I don't even have the beginning of a clue what I'm looking at" - my voice had returned in a cracked timbre. Ayte moved in front of me with a short staccato chuckle, and said "excuse me bro" as I stepped back and away so he could stand in front of his sound box. He too, hoisted the bizarre laser beam tube instrument up into a cradled position with his right hand supporting its bottom. I pressed on with a voice almost resembling mine - "What are those things?" The goalie masked "bassist" shot a coldly appraising dark pupil duo at me through his eye holes. "Do you think he is prepared?" the guy asked with a head swivel toward Ayte. His voice was deep, too, with precisely enunciated vowels and a crisp 's'. Ayte nodded at his bandmate and said "Hey bro Fred, why don't you make yourself comfortable somewhere, but stand back a few feet." I looked to see no places to sit other than floor, but nodded silently and carried my beer over to the lyric wall. My eyes searched its craziness for something I could make sense of as I paced across carpet and then floorboards. Questions by the flood were coming to me. I was tripping, for sure. "What language is this?" I couldn't help but to ask, and turned to look at the strange trio as I slid down to squat with my back against the cartoon and hieroglyph mash-up.

The lanky drummer took his throne and spoke in an almost identical baritone to match his bass player's : "There is no equivalent here for that which you name as language", and as my blowing mind began to mull his crux, he took sticks to hi-hats and shut me up forever in a time bottle. Immediately reminiscent of the sizzling groove of the hats in Steve Miller's "Swingtown", but a few beats per minute slower, and with a skanky jazzified slink. I was fucking mesmerized to the Nth, then and there. Space and the lack of reality in that room conspired with his stick work as those hi-hats were impacted and accented by open/close deftness. He had a loose and very relaxed posture. I was astounded when he injected a skipping funky kick pattern through that driftwood relic. (I hadn't noticed the kick pedal at all) A warm resounding richness in the thumping tree trunk filled the room's every cubic inch, and he worked an impossible skipping thudding nuanced wood-rich bottom motif into those weaving sizzling hats. I was more fucked than Cynthia had ever fucked me.

Ayte and the nameless other stood in mannequin repose, both sets of eyes on me as I squatted against the mystery wall. I began to wonder if the blindfold had been treated with some exotic unknown form of hallucinogen. This was way out there. Beyond beyond's beyond out there. I fell into that strutting kick and hi-hat pattern and waited for what I knew was coming. There was no traditional snare drum on that "kit", but I felt the placement of what was about to be added to this spinal manifesto. Call it the born musician and quick ear in me. Just at the very moment where I would have added it, the "snare" crack of beautiful resonating driftwood fell right into the sweet pocket. Smack dab organic perfection. How was he able to execute such a steady tone from hitting ages old dead wood? How the hell was he doing that incredible stutter accent on every fourth stroke? His hands were fluid ghost note appendages. Ayte, who I had to steal a glance at, was smiling from ear to ear at me. I didn't realize it then, but I had performed a stunned open-mouthed slow slide down the wall and was then sitting with my ass on the floor, legs splayed straight out. The beer was white-knuckled between both hands.

I was going to say the common "oh my god" just when the other goalie-masked mushroom person hoisted his tube and intersected two beautiful orange light beams with the first two fingers of his left hand. My stillborn utterance died happily beneath a v-shaped fingering that suddenly filled the drum groove with a subsonic note unlike any I had ever experienced. It shook my entrails but wasn't necessarily loud. He moved the v of his fingers deeper into the laser beam strings, toward the bottom of that tubular miracle. I heard within the felt bass tones a pulsing melodic layer of almost orchestral ancient-feeling sounds. It was the molten rock of Sooke river banks tumbling and instantly cooling. It was the entire unabridged encyclopedia of Orca whale pod knowledge. I managed to lift the beer to my lips for a desperate swig, being forcefully penetrated by this grooving ineffable rhythm section magic trick. Another type of virginity was removed by a spinning planet and the tick tock of how we identify its spin. I mean, deflowered deluxe. Event horizon met.

Ayte's turn was coming. I realized it and all of my attention went to his zone of being. The carpet beneath The Inklings was also a carpet of unfolding skronk and marrow melt, all set up sweetly for Ayte's chops, about to chop me into Fred minced. Do you think that my newfound oddball friend cut loose with a mother-of-all-humbling cascade of impossible lead lines? Do you think he put Einstein and Hendrix in a galactic blender? Ayte bent his face over the myriad new-colors of his instrument's photon strings, still grinning at my reaction, and fluidly unleashed a barrage of in-pocket rhythm playing that was more UN than OF. I mean, not the sound of guitar strings at all. Not the inflection of floating keyboard quavers. Not nearly but yes nearly a reed instrument. It was a fucking flavor. He played it with one hand tapping across the various string beams, moving along the tube's length, in a way that was Chapman Stick-like. I thought of King Crimson being produced by Satan in a studio once financed by God.The tapping tempo funky clean impossible to identify notes were perfectly placed within the magie sonique. Something at once cello and sexy overdriven Stratocaster happened from beneath and within his hands. I next attempted to regain my feet and couldn't. The beer bottle slipped from its clenched holding place to spill across my thigh. I made no move to stop its flow. Wet. Dream.

Ayte began to gyrate a little. His crazy dreads fell into and around the glowing music tube as he brought forth the end of my previous reality. He gave the tube a little rotation and restarted by sliding an entire palm across and down into the beam-strings. All of the myriad colors intensified and I watched him gather up a half dozen of the strands for a fist clenching sound meld. No apt words to describe the symphonic emotional impact of that technique. It was a flavor, a memory, and a teaching. The drumming-math and bass-paint shaping followed suit. Everything in that strange room, besides me, coalesced into a unity that shattered each baby step of my own traditional music learning curve. That drummist began to attack the turtle shell toms with cocky blurring slurring accent fills that I couldn't figure out at all, yet they worked beyond the scope of compositional integrity. He kept an open hi-hat pattern alive and jumping, yet skipped and stammered the funk out of those bizarre rack-toms, all of that sounding ancient and faerie woodsian. I swear I could then smell Pacific rainforest. Drummer and bassist and Ayte; they became lost to the glory of their cosmic channel noise, more physically animated. I wanted to pee my pants and weep. Privy to more than I could have dreamt, stoned or sober.

Finally I regained a modicum of motor function. My knees obeyed a distant brain instruction and I awkwardly gathered myself up and pushed clumsily along the lyric wall until stumble standing. Roomshake wood note star powder was alive all around me. I looked at the music makers in their triplet identity jamming and suddenly felt a new heightened buzzing inside me. Ayte seemed to perceive it telepathically and his eyes found mine. His stare was of joyous hedonistic abandon, with his dreads on the soar, and he exhorted me with that gaze. A look passed between The Inklings that I caught just barely before time and place disintegrated into my nearly out-of-self trance shuffle. I moved to my guitar case, one thigh beer soaked, on the verge of tears and rebirth. What I remember next is that I had the trusty Yamaha and its frayed strap hanging from me. Ayte began to play a quieter steady note that resembled the minor A of my newest song, then nodded toward the magic carpet beneath his big boots. I obeyed and don't recall walking to where he was playing, but yet I have a crystalline memory of how the sound in the room seemed so perfectly uniform and balanced. The volume blend didn't at all diminish or increase according to the conventional rules of physics. Proximity to the driftwood drum kit or the laser light music tubes meant nothing to the room-filling volumes. I stood in front of Ayte. He eye-locked me and mouthed the count : "one-two-three" that segued as though practiced into all four of us playing and interpreting my newest piece.

I didn't think. I knew. So did they. It touched upon my fondest moments of being on stage with a team. A unit of sound delivery and same page intent. That is the magical shit when it happens right. What took place for four high-heavenly minutes with The Inklings reached for new earthly descriptives. To pluck, strum, and emote my way unconsciously through that piece of music, and to hear for the very first time (ever, anywhere) such an accompaniment... wood-rich notes and humanistic Paiste cymbals played along with me. The bass melody was something I could never have written; a serpentine sensual lovemaking yearning underpin. Ayte? He stepped back and did exactly what he had done earlier to my Yamaha. He plucked a brilliant yellow beam of light and let it sing like a quasar choir, sing somehow in a delectable A minor.

When it finished, and it finished with a unison ringing chord that could only have been telepathic and worm-holed, I was a crying shaking mess. I shook my head and let the Yamaha hang slack at my stomach, only then wondering at what technological marvel had the guitar been amplified into their mix... and the drummer said very gently to me : "welcome home, brother."

He said it, and it coincided with two things. I remembered him the way we might sometimes remember a kid from grade school, like an old friend taken away by Life and folded into the mental pastiche of all of those names and faces on the cusp of memory loss. Was there some fear when he spoke that to me, then Ayte and the other guy nodded enthusiastically? Yes, only natural, yes? The second thing was a sudden intense itching burn deep inside the meat of my strumming hand's palm. I looked down in confusion and they all laughed softly. Gentle buzzing could be heard from the idling sound boxes. The room was liberally fragranced at that point with earthy tree trunk bouquet. I looked down at the star-shaped puncture scar in my palm from when I had apparently fallen from my bicycle at a young age beyond this memory's visuals. It was red and inflamed. Just then at the point of awareness in a blossom, Ayte placed his sound tube carefully on the floor and approached me with both hands extended.

He took my shoulders, very gently and with softening eyes, to spin me around so that I was facing the lyric wall. Then he pushed just as gently but with a no-give firmness, and we walked to the wall slowly. I saw it there in a stylized comic bookish black marker square border, but its details rendered in muted colors that looked quite old. It was positioned right where my back had been only five minutes before; how had I missed it? Perhaps, in the hindsight-retrospect twinning, the artwork had birthed itself during the playing of my still incomplete new song. Ayte and I stopped before the drawing, a few feet from its mind-frying meaning. "Are you ready to write the bridge now, my brother?"

(I took it as right the bridge, and then write)

Choreographed in absurdist but appropriate fashion, the other two voices repeated with "Are you ready to write the bridge now, our brother?" My eyes went deep into the drawing of four of us, where I had obtained their height and the other two were unmasked. We were together on a circular stage within the open edged lip of a classic flying saucer, giving a performance to an unseen audience; perhaps the artist. When upon turning I saw the other two had removed their masks and bore striking facial resemblances to Ayte, I was not as shocked as you might expect. They were bald, pale, with nearly identical features. When the mad throb and itch in my palm drew my attention and I saw something tiny and with pulsation just beneath the skin, I wasn't as shocked as you might expect. An implant. A memory. A timing. I stared at it and Fred began to become Fred no more. That strange moving and sinking sensation earlier, within the ornate oriental rug, began to shimmer shiver into my legs, and when I turned to stare at Ayte and met him there eye-level, I wasn't as shocked as you might expect.

The new I. The new I looked once more at my hand and watched the self-propelled implant with its tiny convex seed shape as it pushed its way out of epidermis. This is what proper music can channel, came the thought. (along with the first of countless notions to break into raucous dancing and singing abandon) I looked back into my brother's eyes and we shared our second handshake. A firm pressing of palms and a transition and return of the tiny alien sliver that had been with me for thirty earth years. With me, one of the chosen few. The selected infiltrator vessels. Sent by authorities I would soon know of and also strangely remember in a way that vacuumed time and history, clean.

You want epiphany? How about Aha - these are the true composers and it is from their channel that the humans dip and borrow, not knowing, calling what results as their own.

"I am ready to write the bridge" I told Ayte, (in my head I spelled it "right") and that is the story of how Fred passed his ultimate audition. Stay tuned for our debut performance, coming soon to a night sky near you.

#fiction surrealism

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