#and a multitude of variations

[thesingingrevolution]

spamming the comments when a brand posts an idol i like is not easy but someone has to do it.

[hahniana]

Remembering I'm a little obsessed with the premise of characters having to learn to be "normal" or otherwise decently adjusted members of society and that might be something I play a lot with in talons and teeth. Idkkkk

[microwaving-tesilid-argente]

(Major S-Class Heroine spoilers)

ok idk if im mischaracterising tesilid but like. tesilid in my head is such a funny guy because he went fuck this shit im tired of living and the world wont let me die in peace so ill destroy it so NEITHER of us can exist and he becomes a mass murderer and puts his entire heart into it. and he's like teehee since this will be the last round i'll just have fun committing some (many) atrocities, but then when it doesn't work out he goes uhh hey god if you're actually out there. that wasn't very nice of me, sorry. i'll be good this time. and he genuinely means it 😭 both times. when he destroyed the world and when he said whoops that was a shit idea nevermind wont try that again. like he's beating himself up for it and when things go wrong he blames it on his sins, like does that sound like a thoroughly evil person to you. it's like he was just being a little silly and committed a whoopsie when he was off destroying the world yaknow like that wasn't really him that was just a slip of judgement when the chaos and evil got him at his very fucking worst and had zero support. it just so happened that this "slip of judgement" occured over an extended period of time and he did actively pursue it for a while but like

[nerdierholler]

New Ethan song dropped (from 1984, it’s fine)

The Cars - Drive

Who's gonna hold you down When you shake? Who's gonna come around When you break?

You can't go on thinking Nothing's wrong, oh oh Who's gonna drive you home Tonight?

I can just see it. Upset about something, Ethan went for a run "to clear his head" and still isn't back. UB are worried but Adam has an idea of where he might be. He drives out to the cliff overlooking the lake, and there's Ethan, just sitting staring off. He has to know Adam's there. He had to see the headlights, hear the engine, yet he just sits, silent, looking at the dark water.

And because I have WAY TOO MANY VERSION OF THIS PARTICULAR FEELING ROLLING AROUND IN MY HEAD. Adam sits next to him, quiet. No questions, no accusations, just a presence. Eventually he asks Ethan if he's ready to go home. Adam offers a hand to help him up and they drive back to the warehouse, top down, the night sounds and rushing wind surrounding them.

[plenilune]

oh my god during one of its Danger Mode outbursts my phone followed a random fucking Taylor Swift tumblr????? help

[thethirdtriplet]

Headcanon for the Bats:

The Bats are absolute menaces to society, in their own weird and unique ways.

—————

Dick refuses to be referred to as anything but “Dick” when in public with his family or even his friends, so no, he will not be referred to by his legal name or any of his common nicknames, but any and all variations or nicknames for “Dick” (Dickie, Dikehead, ect…) are acceptable:

It almost makes Dick a little too happy when any of his siblings yells “Dick” in a crowded room or public place.

One woman actually yelled at Dick and his siblings for their language, that is, until he informed her that Dick is his name. She was so embarrassed she turned a deep shade of red and she apologised.

Dick tried to hide his smirk because he's an absolutely horrible person. His siblings are not impressed, and refuse to admit that it’s kinda funny.

—————

On Father’s Day, Bruce receives a multitude of gifts from his children (whether legal, emotional or biological), as a joke he has to receive at least one gift that has “worst parent ever” on it, from one of them. And while he loves all of the gifts (gag gifts or sentimental) equally, he still has his favourites:

Bruce might enjoy the utter horror and unease a little more than necessary as he uses the thermos Jason bought him for Father’s Day with the words “worst dad ever”, printed on the front, in bright red for all to see.

He is currently forced to endure attending yet another board meeting when one -brave but stupid- new board member made a rather rude comment about how Bruce’s kids shouldn’t disrespect him with such gifts. Which prompts Bruce to go on a tirade about how he should mind his own business, and never speak about any of his kids like that. It got so bad, and he was so furious, that none of the other board members mentioned that the meeting would be ending soon. By the end of Bruce’s speech, their time was up and the meeting had to end.

Not that Bruce was finished. The next day, to work, bruce wore the bright blue tie Dick had gotten him, holding the mug Tim got him that had “Not the best parent, but I am trying my best.” printed on it. And he has continued to wear the things his kids buy him to work, without fail.

No one mentions anything about his clothing choices or the mugs (yes, mugs because there’re multiple mugs with equally concerning words printed on all of them), because if they do, he will go on a tirade about his kids and how much he loves them, and no work will get done.

[lucydixon]

Neighbours

Summary: You and Euronymous had been butting heads ever since he’d started renting the shop below your apartment. The two of you get into a pissing contest that ends in some very rough hate sex.

Warning: NSFW Unprotected P in V, Rough fucking, Hate Fucking, Orgasm denial, Degradation, Facefucking.

*This one is a little long. I got lost in the sauce and I'm not sorry*

You’d been living in your little apartment since you’d left home at eighteen and considered the space sacred. It was your happy place, and you cherished it deeply. 

The storefront below you had been an apothecary when you’d moved in five years ago. It had been part of the appeal of living on that particular street corner in Oslo. The smell of the herbs and tinctures had brought you comfort in a time when you needed it. 

It hadn’t lasted very long. A couple of years at the most before the little old man who owned it packed everything up and moved the store to the other side of town, where he’d get more foot traffic. You’d liked the shop owner. He used to sit out on the curb with you in the mornings while you smoked your first cigarette of the day. It was usually right before he opened, so he’d light his own and tell you stories about his youth while the two of you smoked in the cool morning breeze. 

After he’d moved out, there was a two-year period where a multitude of clothing stores came and went, all run by bigger companies whose employees weren’t nearly as friendly as the little old man had been. They had been good neighbours, at the very least. 

Then, the store had sat empty for nearly a year before a raven-haired metalhead, who went by the name “Euronymous”, turned it into a record shop. 

You’d gone in and introduced yourself, just as you had with every other tenant who had rented the space, but hadn’t expected the immediate narrow-eyed look of suspicion and judgment on his face. The first thing that came out of his mouth was some variation of ‘this doesn’t look like your scene, why are you in here?’ in a snarky, unwelcoming tone. 

The younger-looking brown-haired boy behind the counter had snickered, shaking his head in amusement as he disappeared from view behind the counter. 

“I live upstairs.” You’d frowned, crossing your arms over your chest defensively. “Just wanted to say hi, but if that’s how you talk to everyone who walks in here, you’re gonna be out of business in the next few months, so I no longer see the point.”

You turned on your heel and walked out the door before he could open his mouth with a retort, stomping up the stairs on the side of the building. 

The second you sat down on your couch with a huff, music started blaring from below. 

It was so loud that it must’ve been deafening in the store. 

He’d done it on purpose, just to irritate you. You were sure of it.

You held a pillow over your face and screamed into it out of frustration.  

The following morning, you sat on the curb, same as you always did, and jumped out of your skin when Euronymous stepped out of the shop in nothing but a pair of briefs. You were pretty sure he hadn’t seen you considering he immediately pissed on the sidewalk, luckily a good ten feet away from your spot and facing the opposite direction, while you stared in shock. 

“What the fuck?” You muttered loud enough for him to hear. 

He whipped around and looked down at you, looking equally shocked. 

You couldn’t help but let your eyes trail down his toned chest and stomach before darting back up to his eyes. 

“Did you just watch me piss?” He had this little smirk on his face that annoyed the shit out of you immediately. “See anything you like, sweetheart?” 

“Are you living in the fucking store?” You asked, pulling yourself to your feet. 

“Maybe.” He shrugged nonchalantly, still smirking. “You got a problem with that?” 

“It’s really none of my business what you do with your store.” You crossed your arms over your chest, taking a drag from your dwindling smoke “It’d be nice if you didn’t piss on the sidewalk though, I sit out here sometimes.” 

“Maybe you just shouldn’t sit out here, then,” Euronymous told you, squinting. “It’s in front of my store. You start sitting out here, people are gonna think I’ve got posers hanging around. It's bad for business.” 

“I’ve sat out here every day for five years.” You argued, frowning, “I live here.” 

“Well, so do I.” He retorted. “Maybe I wanna piss on the whole sidewalk.” 

You felt anger flare deep in your belly and had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from cussing him out and making things even more tense. 

You nodded tightly and brushed past him on your way back to the stairs, careful to avoid the puddle of fresh piss he’d left. 

Initially, the music only blared during the store hours. That you could live with. 

You were at work for most of the day anyway, and once you’d gotten used to it, you could drown it out for the most part. 

But then, it started stretching into the night. 

You’d given up your spot on the sidewalk that same day you and Euronymous had exchanged words, in favor of the windowsill just above the shop door. You’d done it to avoid conflict, and here he went blasting music until eleven o’clock?

The next time you saw him outside, you called down to him from the window. 

“Hey, fuckhead!” You probably shouldn’t have started the interaction like that, but you were so beyond annoyed. 

He looked up at you with a furrowed brow that relaxed into a scowl once he saw who was yelling at him. 

“Can you chill with the fucking music at night?” you asked, looking irate “It’s driving me fucking crazy.” 

“Then move.” He shrugged, shooting you that infuriating little smirk before ducking back inside. 

That night, he left the music on for an extra hour. 

Then two the following night. 

After a week, it was stretching into the early hours of the morning, and you were nearing your boiling point. 

You poured yourself a cup of coffee and brought it out to the window with you, sipping at the quickly cooling liquid in the frigid morning air. 

You heard the bell downstairs chime and watched Euronymous step out onto the sidewalk. 

As if your brain was moving on autopilot, you dipped your finger into the cup, made sure that it wasn’t too hot, and poured your entire cup of coffee out the window and directly over his head. 

“What the fuck!” He shouted, immediately jumping into the street, wiping the lukewarm coffee from his eyes so he could look up at you. 

“Did you just pour coffee on me?” He jabbed a finger in your direction angrily. “You fucking bitch!” 

You could see his nostrils flaring even from all the way upstairs. 

“Oops.” You shrugged, maintaining his stare with a straight face. “Must be the lack of sleep getting to me.” 

“You’re about to get a whole lot less of it,” He yelled, rushing back into the store. 

This time, the music didn’t stop. 

Twenty-four hours a day, Euronymous blasted music without turning it down a single notch. 

The only good thing that came out of it was knowing that he couldn’t possibly be sleeping either and he’d stopped pissing outside since the coffee shower you’d given him. 

You made it four days before the exhaustion turned into rage that burned so hot that it sent you flying down the stairs and into the shop at three in the morning. 

You were too angry to question the door being unlocked when you slammed it open. He was standing behind the counter, looking as tired as you felt, blinking at you while you seethed just inside the shop. 

Your eyes landed on the record player across the room, and you beelined for it, yanking the cord from the wall socket as soon as you spotted it, halting the music abruptly. You sighed in relief.

Before you could even turn around or enjoy the quiet for a minute, you felt strong hands wrap around your wrists and slam them against the wall above your head, pinning you in place, inches away from Euronymous’ face, red with anger. 

“Do you know how expensive that fucking sound system is?” He growled, eyes boring down into yours, full of hatred “I swear to fuck if you damaged it. I’m gonna kill you.” 

“At this point,” You scoffed, squirming in his grip “I’d fucking let you, I’m so fucking tired that I don’t even care!” 

His hands tightened around your wrists. 

“You are the most insufferable, unreasonable, irritating fucking asshole I’ve ever met in my life!” You ranted angrily “I can’t fucking stand you!” 

“You think you’re so easy to be around?” He snarled, so close to you that you could feel his warm breath fanning over your face. “Pouring coffee on me and yammering about your poor sidewalk?” 

“Those were both isolated incidents caused by you a dick.” You pointed out, unable to deny that in your sleep-deprived state, you were finding this increasingly hot. 

“Maybe because my bitch neighbour is always up my ass about everything,” Euronymous muttered, a lot softer, but just as annoyed. His eyes darted down to your lips before licking his own. 

You really weren't sure who moved first, but your lips collided brutally in a hungry, desperate kiss. It was all tongue and teeth in between heavy breathing, seemingly deafening as the music had been in the quiet, empty store. 

He let go of your hands and started clawing at your clothes while you did the same, allowing him to shove the straps of your tank top down your arms roughly, freeing your tits from the confines of the soft fabric while you worked his belt. Before you could get it all the way undone, he manhandled your breasts so roughly that it hurt, and you yelped, letting go of the studded black leather. 

“Ow, fuck you!” You muttered into his mouth, still kissing him. 

“Shut up.” He growled, shoving his hand down the front of your pyjama shorts while your tanktop remained bunched up just under your tits. 

With no warning, he shoved a finger deep inside of you, chuckling darkly to himself. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?” Euronymous grabbed a hold of your hair wth his free hand “You’re dripping wet, you little slut.” 

You winced, knowing damn well that he was right. There was no hiding it. 

The wince turned into a gasp when he roughly added another finger. 

He couldn’t help the groan that fell from his hips when he felt you stretch to accommodate the extra girth. The thought of feeling that warm, tight wetness around his cock was overwhelming. 

“Sounds like I’m not the only one,” you smirked, reaching out to palm him through his jeans. “We are not making this a thing.” 

His fingers withdrew halfway before slamming into you roughly, drawing a low whine.  

“Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart.” He muttered into your each just before slipping his fingers out of you suddenly and shoving them into your mouth. “You’re hot, but you’re not that hot. I still can’t stand you.” 

You’re cunt clenched around nothing and you whimpered around his fingers, tasting yourself while he undid his pants the rest of the way hastily. 

Euronymous picked you up by the waist without warning, and all but threw you onto the counter, dropping his pants around his ankles as he pulled you flush against him abruptly. 

The counter was the perfect height for him to line himself up with your entrance once he’d pulled our shorts to the side.

Despite having tossed you around up until this point, he paused before pressing forward, almost as if he was asking for permission through his annoyance. 

Instead of nodding, you grabbed hold of his hair and slammed your lips into his. 

The abrupt slam into you knocked the breath out of you. He had a tight grip on your hips and was using it as leverage to make sure that he could get as deep as possible. Without allowing you a minute to adjust, he withdrew fully and sank back in to the hilt, just as quickly.

You hissed, yanking on his hair as you dug your teeth into his shoulder. 

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He taunted between thrusts, “Does that hurt?” 

You nodded, but matched each slam into you with the roll of your hips, whimpering and whining the whole time shamelessly. You could hate his guts and admit to yourself that he was fucking you senseless at the same time. 

Just as he could feel you starting to relax, Euronymous pulled you off the counter and pulled you down hard, burying himself as far into you as he could possibly get. 

You whined when he flipped you over and bent you over the counter, sinking into you from behind. 

You felt the harsh sting of his hand on your ass and hissed, trying to turn your head over your shoulder to glare at him, but he grabbed a fistful of your hair and pulled hard, forcing your back to arch so he could sink in deeper. 

“Not so tough now, are you?” He panted, spanking you again, hard. “Look at you, you’re just a whimpering, desperate mess, aren’t you? Huh? You little slut?” 

“Fuck you.” you managed to choke out, but it came breathy and needy. 

“No,” He chuckled, pulling you back so far that your back was flush with his chest. “Fuck you.” 

His hand wrapped around your throat, not hard enough to cut off the airflow, but enough that it made your heart rate pick up. 

You could feel yourself starting to teeter on the edge of release, and you tried to grind yourself against him even further. 

“I bet you wanna cum, don’t you?” Euronymous muttered into the side of your neck, sinking his teeth into the soft flesh just above his hand. “I think you’re close, too. I can feel it. Your tight little pussy fluttering around my cock.” 

You tried to nod, but found that you couldn’t. 

The hand around your throat loosened, then disappeared completely, followed by another harsh slap on the ass. 

You were seconds away now, desperate for it. 

But then he pulled out of you all at once and flipped you over, yanking your legs open while you cried out in frustration. 

“Oh, you fucking asshole!” You screamed, trying to clamp your legs together. 

You felt the burn of his fingers making contact with your bare, sensitive, desperate cunt and a wet slapping noise filled the air along with your cries as he slapped you. 

He pulled you down from the counter, onto your knees, and rammed himself into your throat, groaning loudly when he felt your throat spasming around him. He grabbed fistfulls of your hair and fucked your face roughly while you let yourself get used to get him off in hopes that he’d offer you some kind of relief at the end of it. 

“This is what you get for pouring coffee on me you fucking bitch.” He panted in between thrusts, looking down at your watery eyes and the mascara trails that your tears left on your cheeks. 

He was slamming into the back of your throat, hard enough to leave a bruise, while you choked and gagged around his glistening cock. His pace quickened once he felt his balls tightening. 

“That’s it,” He lodged himself far enough in your throat that he’d completely blocked off your air supply as he spilled ropes of hot cum down your throat, groaning “Take my load you fucking whore.” 

When he was done, he pulled himself out of your throat and leaned back against the counter, spent, while you coughed and sputtered on the floor, trying to catch your breath. 

Euronymous looked down at your tear-streaked cheeks and the desperate, needy look in those big doe eyes of yours, almost pleading with him to get you off now that he’d finished, and smirked.

“Get the fuck out of my store.” He told you after pulling his pants up and tucking his softening cock back into them. 

Your eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. 

You weren’t going to beg him. 

You pulled your top back on, threading your arms through the straps before standing on shaky legs and smoothing out your shorts. 

“I hope you get hit by a bus.” You muttered on your way towards the door. 

You meant it. 

You hated him. 

And he hated you. 

Part 2

Dividers made by @saradika-graphics

[enviedear]

thoughts on anakin taking care of a very sick princess!reader? my minds going crazy with these thoughts

oh but ofc, i can always provide for anakin and princess!reader (see 🤍 and 🩷) they’re my favorites of all time!! fair warning i wrote this in increments during a work rush so it may be a bit everywhere lol.

for as decorated as he is on the battlefield, anakin skywalker is completely out of his element trying to care for you. but how he tries—he refuses to be unhelpful. he knows you have attendants and maidens to get you anything you may need or want, but they’re not him. they won’t do it as if it’s for themselves, won’t find solace in it, won’t yearn for your betterment in the way he does.

the jedi may have been able to teach him combat and rigid disciple, but his bedside manner could use some work. for one—he hovers. as constant a presence as the sheen sweat on your feverish skin. it doesn’t matter if you inform him, time and time again, that he’ll only end up as you are—he doesn’t care. he has to be around you. every sniffle, every whimper, every cough, and anakin’s there. his words always some variation of, “are you alright?” it’s supposed to be comforting, and it is, but it’s also persistent. unyielding.

maker help you if he feels you aren’t getting better fast enough. no palace medical team will ease his mind, not like his own droids. he’ll task r2 with keeping you company if he can’t, and he’d even assemble his own med droid in case of emergency. he’s nothing if not practiced in his overbearingness. and truly, you don’t have the energy to remind him that you’re a princess, raised to handle far worse than this. the thought of him being so concerned over something as mundane as a fever feels almost laughable—almost—he’s too doting for it to be anything but loving.

there’s something earnest in the way he moves about your chambers, almost tender, even if he’s clumsy about it. he tucks the copious blankets around you too tightly, grumbles about how the palace staff “should have noticed you were sick sooner!” and insists on making you eat even when the sight of any and all food makes your stomach churn—his idea of a ‘light broth’ is questionable, but you don’t have the heart to tell him.

“you’re not dying on my watch.” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than to you. there’s a dark cloud in his eyes—a mix of multitudes. anger at himself for not noticing you were unwell sooner, frustration that he can’t just fix this like he does everything else. you can see it in the way his jaw clenches, in the way he almost snaps at anyone who enters the room, as though guarding you from the very idea of illness itself.

but when the fever breaks and you’re finally lucid enough to really look at him, you notice the dark circles under his eyes, the way his shoulders sag as he sinks into the chair beside you, “don’t scare me like that again.” he murmurs, voice soft and scattered, calloused hands gently brushing against yours.

and maybe it’s the remnants of your fever, but there’s something achingly sweet in the way he watches over you—like you’re the center of his universe, all fragile and precious. he’ll do anything to make sure you stay in such a state.

[sorry-not-feeling-it-right-now]

Shifty is such an interesting character to me.

Cause like. When you first officially meet her in her full form she is acting like. Well. A god. She has this certain divine arrogance to her. She had watched everything that had happened within the construct through the eyes of the vessels you had collected for her. The things that had happened to the vessels had technically happened to her as well, although for Shifty she is lacking that emotional attachment that her vessels have due to her having infinite perspectives. To me it feels like she is denying her own humanity in order to help herself cope with whatever had happened with the two of them. She is burying her own pain by using her Godhood as a coping mechanism.

Her mindset is also very interesting to me. Cause like. Her mindset is basically “since I have infinite perspectives in my many many multitudes, surely I must be objectively correct in my own views because I had already seen everything”, which leads to this superiority complex that she is always correct. Another Narry parallel. Except that while Narry has a narrow perspective(dead men can’t change), Shifty has infinite perspectives. But ultimately that had led to the both of them becoming narrow-minded. Quiet, on the other hand, has only five. Aka the ones we had been through with him together. That is the perfect amount of perspectives that neither Narry nor Shifty had.

Much like Quiet, Shifty has humanity in her. She really isn’t as perfect as she thought she is. Tower/Apotheosis parallel.

Also. When people talk about how Shifty is the embody of change, they need to remember that there is a piece of her in Quiet. So technically speaking, she doesn’t have every single piece of change within her. It’s like what Narry had said, that he had ripped a part of what was supposed to be her and placed it into Quiet, and vice versa. I am still wondering what those pieces of change Narry had placed within him……. I suppose the best point of reference would be in the New and Unending Dawn ending. From what I had gathered, Narry seemed to have kept the pieces of change that he deems as positive in Quiet. So healing from heartbreak, no more starvation and fear with Quiet’s stagnation, etc etc. They’re actually Ying and Yang.

(Now I wonder if the piece of stagnation Narry had placed within Shifty is the stagnation of pain and grief….. well, considering Nightmare as a whole. Considering Narry’s fear of death and grief, I think it would be in character for him to want to rip that part of Quiet and place it into the one Quiet was made to kill)

Where was I. Oh yes. Shifty and her buried humanity.

Which is why I consider Quiet being given the opportunity to talk to the heart to be him attempting to reach out towards Shifty’s humanity. A heart to heart. The story started with a Hero and a Princess, and it will end with them simply leaving together simply as a Hero and a Princess. Shifty’s Heart is like, also a very interesting character, cause she is a clear parallel to Hero, who was implied to be Quiet’s own heart. The core of their beings. While Hero continues to be Quiet’s heart no matter what happens, Shifty has three of them, and each of them give very different perspectives on their situation. Soft shows sympathy towards Shifty, noting how lonely it must be to feel like you’re the only one that matters. Sharp bluntly tells you that you simply cannot out-argue her. Stranger is unsure, but earnestly tells you that they love your courage to choose a different path that was given to you. Soft and Sharp wants to be their own person separate from Shifty, while Stranger wants to simply embrace what they are. Humanity vs Godhood. Even her heart variations are in conflict with each other, and yet they all describe the same person.

(Messages from Discord vvvvvvvv)

[mechatyto]

gamzee: fancy church edition

[kofi]//[inprnt]

⬇️ close ups & talking under cut ⬇️

these gams exist in the set of my au's where he joins the church fleet and finds basically everything he hoped for (and whatever would make him choose to leave is going to be a world-shattering event)

working in and refining some of my clurch aesthetic staples: purples and orangey golds, the red-green pair, the primaries trio; rainbow beads, rainbow gradient fabric; some harlequin diamond variations, that multi size spot cluster pattern i made that i really like; some bone and horn in the jewelry; snakes, and ribcages

i do have headcanon thoughts i keep meaning to write out about how different trolls choose to wear and style their sign, and what that says about them - highbloods put more emphasis on line signs and ancestors, i’m sure some seadwellers just get atrociously gaudy with it; within the church, the capricorn sign could have some extra weight given who the grand highblood is

this version of gamzee only seems to show his sign on clothes that he’s wearing in some official capacity (vestments, uniforms) but still dresses to clearly show off his blood and religious affiliation, and i’m sure that makes a multitude of statements depending on who you ask

anyway i like these outfits and i Will be using them again probably

[drakomachina]

brief ssatw loreposting : episode 1, wyverian biology

wyverians have a digitigrade stance, meaning they walk on their toes with their soles + heel lifted off the ground. their gait differs drastically to this - they take longer strides and have exceptionally confident footwork. this stance is an evolutionary holdover from ancient times, wherein wyverians lived almost exclusively in high altitudes. that stance made traversal of rough terrain easier. they lean forwards notably, and use their long, stiff tail as a counterbalance to further aid in mobility. while a wyverian's tail is vital to their locomotion, it also serves as a fat repository during seasons of famine. a wyverian's tail is an excellent indicator of their general health - the thicker and more "shiny" it is, the more healthy an individual. wyverians are adorned with a thick covering of scales! mostly, a wyverian's scales fall along their spine, across the shoulders, and on their legs. their legs and tails are the only limbs that have full integument, the rest of their bodies see a partial scale cover. a wyverian's scales are very important for a multitude of reasons! mostly protection, but they also help regulate heat. wyverian's scales aren't just surface level, they have an underlying osteoderm beneath the epidermal scale spot. this means that a wyverian can't really "lose" a scale without damaging the underlying tissue, like some other reptiles can. they still shed though, but they simply shed the outer keratin payer of the epidermal scale. this tends not to come off in a single "shed" like snakes, it rather comes off in flaky "patches". a wyverian's scales are also an indicator of their general health - the smoother and shinier their scales are, the better their health. prolonged stress may cause a wyverian's outer scale layer to become more matte and prone to breakage. most wyverians have the thickest scales around the pelvis region and along the topside of the tail. the scales along the dorsal region of the tail are notable for having limited mobility, the muscles on the tail can contract and "raise" those specific scales slightly. most of the time, this is an involuntary action, caused by extreme stress or surprise. a wyverian's scale color is normally determined by their environment and parentage. typically they take on darker, more earthy tones, but as of late lots of variation has been seen, as well as some emerging patterns! wyverians also tend to have keratin based horns!! these are a bit more uncommon in younger wyverians, who tend to only have little "nubs", but older wyverians might have longer sets of horns.

similar to some types of reptiles, wyverians never really stop growing. they age incredibly slowly, but this is a persistent and constant process that occurs throughout a wyverian's hundreds of years of life. this is the main reason why wyverians have such diversity in how they appear. generally, the first sign of a wyverian aging is an increase in height, followed by a very sudden decrease in height once they reach elder age. generally, the shorter and more "stout" a wyverian is, the older they are. this is easily seen with maolo and zellard in MHS2 - zellard is in his 500s, while maolo is reaching into his 800s-early 900s. zellard is pretty much the equivalent of a human being around 50-60, maolo is equivalent to his 80s. wyverian age is a REALLY fickle thing and is just, not easily equatable to human ages, because the way they age and how it affects them is so inherently different. wyverians are hard to find an average lifespan for because. theocratically, they could go on forever. their bodies tend to give out on them before they could reach that 1000 year mark.

[maybe-boys-do-love]

Spare Me Your Mercy from the outset has tied the acceptance of death with the acceptance of queerness. Many of the critiques of the show have missed this connection or its significance, which goes a long way to explain their complaints about the series. Dr. Kan, the character most accepting of death is also the most overtly gay and unashamed to act on it. The director prioritized life even if the patient was suffering, and in line with that, he, himself in the closet, experiences life as constant suffering.

The rural setting heightens these stakes and commentary. We can see it most in Detective Thiu, who returns to his small hometown with trepidation after escaping to the city. He followed the typical gay narrative from the supposedly backwards country to the ‘enlightened’ city, what Jack Halberstam coined as "metronormativity," where he could realize the true expression of himself. Now, forced to return to the rural space, we see Thiu in all his interactions internally contending with the true extent of his city-born self-acceptance. Some reviewers on here fail to appreciate the weight of his struggle. One reviewer in particular, whose work in the fandom I greatly appreciate, nevertheless has a history of reviewing actors' performances and "chemistry" poorly when the characters are wrestling against their internalized homophobia. I, however, find Thiu's immensely compelling and relatable as a queer person with strong rural ties.

With Thiu, SMYM seems to lead us toward a similiar perspective to Halberstam and others (Imma provide a reading list below), who criticize the dangerous individualism of the metronormative narrative. In the third episode, the show depicts an indigenous perspective toward death, practices with roots preceding commercially-bred urbanization. These roots, more so in Thailand than perhaps any other nation in the world but also in a multitude of indigenous cultures across the globe, draw forth indigenous traditions of queerness and gender variation.

An exchange evoking the parallels of accepting death and queerness occurs between Kan and Thiu in response to the rituals. "Their belief up here is that death is like moving from an old home to a new home." The detective replies, "That's a nice way to think about it. When you die, you don't have to end up in hell like the rest of us." This line, whether in the context of a Thai Buddhist hell or the Christian one (inviting any Thai language folks or people more familiar with the culture to add their expertise here!), reveals Thiu's pervasive sense of shame, inflecting his view of himself and distrust of others, contrasting with Kan and the beliefs indigenous to the place where he grew up.

While the indigenous rituals suggest how Thiu might have avoided shame if he had remained more connected to his rural upbringing, SMYM depicts myriad reasons the town's culture, specifically the practices of those men in authority positions, condemned that possibility. The director of the hospital and the police enforce de jure expectations for heterosexuality alongside their de facto enforcement of regulations against euthanasia. As this post about the show's theme from @respectthepetty points out, "life should not be a punishment for the living," but life as a punishment was the set condition Thiu must've been raised within.

While the plot might be asking about who's the murderer and how will they be caught and punished, for me, the question beating under it all like a heart that can't let go is where Thiu's mother sat on this scale regarding acceptance. She's the key that could open the door for Thiu to find queer peace in his hometown. His ability to process how she felt about him and how he felt about her will determine his ability to be himself in relation to where he came from rather than as a rejection of it.

For me, this show's music, cinematography, editing tempo, plotting, and performances all lend it a familiarity with the western crime-thriller genre that make it a great recommendation for BL first-timers in the Anglo sphere . It's easily comparable to Mare of Easttown, Broadchurch, True Detective, or Silence of the Lambs, (Asian thrillers, too, I assume, but others could write better about that than I) while delivering queer love and acceptance in rural spaces at the forefront of its story and philosophical musings. I personally recommend ignoring the misrepresentative criticism. SMYM constantly reiterates the ways relenting to someone else's authority might keep one from the types of agency and connection that make the experiences of life and death, no matter where you are, gay and fulfilling.

Queer Rural Reading List for those interested

Short Digital Reads:

Metronormativity by Maxwell Cloe

Metronormativity Is Dangerous for LGBTQIA+ People's Health and Well-Being by Alexander Martin

Rural Queer History: Hidden in Plain Sight by Anya Petrone Slepyan for The Daily Yonder (a great resource for progressive rural news in the US)

LGBTI Families in Rural Thailand by Bruce Bonta

Thailand LGBT Outside of Bangkok reddit thread (grain of salt and all, but still interesting)

Books:

In a Queer Time and Place: Transgender Bodies, Subcultural Lives by Jack Halberstam

Reclaiming Two-Spirits: Sexuality, Spiritual Renewal & Sovereignty in Native America by Gregory D. Smithers

Visibility Interrupted: Rural Queer Life and the Politics of Unbecoming by Carly Thompsen

Another Country: Queer Anti-Urbanism by Scott Herring

Farm Boys: Lives of Gay Men from the Rural Midwest by Will Fellows

Men Like That: A Southern Queer History by John Howard

Lonely Hunters: An Oral History of Lesbian and Gay Southern Life, 1948-1968 by Jamie T. Sears

Queering the Countryside: New Frontiers in Rural Queer Studies, ed. Gray, Johnson, Gilley

Out in the Countryside: Youth, Media, and Queer Visibility in Rural America by Mary L. Gray

Real Queer America: LGBT Stories from Red States by Samantha Allen

Gay Faulkner: Uncovering a Homosexual Presence in Yoknapatawpha and Beyond by Phillip Gordon

[dandelion-system]

Okay but hear me out- slay the princess is a really great way to represent DID.

Other than there not being switching, the voices are a great representation. And to an outside perspective who isn’t living with switches, seeing the voices alone is probably explanatory enough.

Every time you get a new voice, it’s a direct reaction to how the last chapter ended. In my mind, this can be equated to ‘trauma causing a split’

Each voice is unique and distinct, and at first sounds different. I don’t know about other systems, but when you dig deeper, you realise that the sounding different is actually all a variation of one voice, at least in headspace. Tone, pitch, intonation and such- all variants of one voice. The same, and yet different. One, but many.

And don’t even get me STARTED on the princess.

She contains multitudes? She is not completely herself until she is multiple of herself? She is one whole when she is many?

Anyway thank you @blacktabbygames for this accidental but amazing way to share my experience with people

[soeurdelune]

Tutoriel : comment savoir si on a affaire à une image générée par IA...

... en utilisant principalement vos yeux et une connexion internet pour aider si besoin.

J'imagine que si vous lisez ce tutoriel, vous ne souhaitez pas soutenir tout ce qui est travail d'IA. Sans plus attendre, voici donc quelques astuces et méthodes (rangées par ordre de simplicité d'exécution) pour vous aider à reconnaître les images générées par ces merdes de robots intelligences artificielles.

J'ai également accompagné certaines des sections ci-dessous de petits tests/jeux à faire pour que vous puissiez vous évaluer, et voir si vous arrivez à déterminer quelle image est générée par IA et quelle image est réelle.

1. Reverse image search

Il existe des extensions internet à ajouter à votre navigateur pour rechercher la source ou l'origine d'une image. La source de l'image suffit souvent à renseigner s'il s'agit d'une image générée par IA ou non (en particulier si celle-ci est accompagnée d'un descriptif).

Ensuite, dites-vous que l'IA n'invente jamais, elle se contente de copier ou d'imiter. Même sans trouver la source, vous pouvez donc regarder les images suggérées/similaires proposées. Si vous voyez de nombreuses déclinaisons à peine différentes de votre image "originelle", vous pouvez être certain qu'elle provient d'une IA :

Si vous êtes sur Chrome ou Firefox comme moi, je recommande l'extension Search By Image (firefox, chrome).

2. Textures trop lisses ou manque de détails

Les textures des images générées par IA (qu'il s'agisse de paysages, de matériaux comme le bois ou la pierre, ou le grain de peau des personnages) présentent fréquemment un aspect lisse, sans grandes imperfections ou variations importantes dans le motif représenté.

L'IA est également paresseuse. Ses productions manquent donc de détails et de nuances, surtout pour les objets plus petits ou qui semblent passer inaperçus dans l'ensemble de l'image : on pense notamment aux feuilles d'arbre dans un paysage, aux formes de fleurs, ou encore les variétés de motifs sur un plumage ou des poils d'animaux (pensez au pelage moucheté des léopards, dans la nature, leurs taches ne sont jamais identiques ou bien organisées).

Si toute l'image présente une texture exagérément lisse, doublée d'un manque de détails alors que les matériaux et surfaces dépeintes sont variés, il y a alors de fortes chances qu'il s'agisse d'une image générée par IA.

Quelques exemples de ce côté lisse et du manque de détails : quelle image est réelle et laquelle est générée par une IA ?

Celle de gauche est générée par IA. Celle de droite est réelle (source). Regardez la différence de traitement des montagnes. À droite, on a une forte variété des plis dans la roche, des traînées de neige qui ne suivent aucun ordre ou rythme spécifique, une multitude d'ombres, crevasses et sillons dans le paysage. Il en est de même avec les lumières, celles de gauche étant considérablement plus grossières, comme des traînées de peintures mal estompées.

Un autre exemple pour vous tester !

Celle de gauche est réelle (source). Celle de droite est générée par IA. Les lignes et drapés du vêtement de gauche, sur l'image réelle, sont plus fluides, moins réguliers et raides que sur l'image de droite. Comparez surtout le buste sur les deux images : voyez-vous la manière dont les lignes de couture sont représentées ? Elles sont quasiment rectilignes à droite, et plus "tordues" sur la gauche (comme pour tout vêtement lorsque le corps est en mouvement...). Certains détails de drapé sont également incohérents sur l'image de droite, notamment les plis des manches au niveau des avant-bras, ou encore la manière dont le tissu tombe sur le jupon bleu clair.

Le dernier pour finir ! Facile en plus, celui-là :

Celle de gauche est générée par IA. Celle de droite est réelle (source). La différence de détail des feuilles est flagrante sur les deux images. De plus, l'architecture est cohérente sur celle de droite, beaucoup moins sur l'image de gauche (non mais vraiment, c'est quoi cette boîte aux lettres qui déborde presque de moitié sur la porte, dans le coin à gauche ?).

3. Anatomie éclatée au sol

Allez savoir pourquoi, l'IA a du mal avec l'anatomie humaine. En dehors d'erreurs de proportions aisément décelables (bouches ou yeux immenses, cou trop fin sous une tête énorme, etc.), c'est vrai que les mains, c'est super dur à dessiner, et surprise surprise, l'IA n'y arrive pas toujours non plus. Si vous avez un doute : comptez les doigts.

C'est important d'adopter le réflexe de regarder les mains, la manière dont elles s'articulent (en tant qu'être humain, votre œil ne vous décevra pas, vous savez instinctivement à quoi ressemble une main humaine, même si vous ne savez pas forcément en dessiner !). Si vous soupçonnez une image d'être générée par IA et que les mains ne sont pas visibles, ce n'est probablement pas un hasard...

On va jouer à un petit jeu, voici quelques images, certaines sont générées par IA, d'autres non, saurez-vous déterminer lesquelles sont réelles et lesquelles sont fausses en vous appuyant sur ce que je viens de dire, y compris dans la partie 2 ? (N'hésitez pas à cliquer sur chaque pour zoomer).

1 – générée par IA : Le mannequin possède six doigts à la main gauche, ce qui n'est pas impossible anatomiquement, mais ajoutez-y le grain de peau beaucoup trop lisse (on dirait un personnage de jeu vidéo) et l'armure complètement irrégulière dans ses détails, son relief et les jeux de lumière.

2 – générée par IA : Le pouce droit du mannequin semble pointer depuis l'intérieur de sa robe, ce qui n'est pas logique quand on compare avec le bras gauche. De surcroît, vous avez déjà vu des topiaires comme ça ? Même sur les topiaires les plus “propres”, on constate une variation de texture et de détail des feuilles plus importante. Ne parlons même pas des deux petites boules de topiaire en lévitation derrière la tête du modèle...

3 – image réelle (source) : Même sur une photo toute simple d'un jeune homme en jean probablement un peu retouchée, on constate une grande variété de détails, notamment pour le grain de peau, les grains de beauté, les cheveux et le jean. L'anatomie est cohérente, la main droite a ses cinq doigts, articulés comme il faut.

4 – générée par IA : Un zoom sur les mains suffit à vous renseigner.

5 – générée par IA : Encore un vêtement qui tombe bizarrement, l'impression que sa hanche gauche est complètement décalée par rapport à la droite, le bras est un peu tordu, la peau est étrange car l'IA semble avoir essayé d'ajouter du grain, mais s'y est pris à une échelle trop grande qui ne suffit pas à estomper l'impression que la peau du modèle est très lisse.

6 – image réelle (source) : Même s'il n'est pas impossible qu'il soit un peu retouché, ce portrait présente de nombreux petits détails que l'IA ne parviendrait pas forcément à répliquer : la variété de motif des taches de rousseur, le fin duvet du visage, les détails dans les cheveux et les sourcils, la texture des lèvres, les fils répartis de façon cohérente, les iris bleus qui ne sont pas identiques et eux-mêmes très détaillés.

4. Incohérences de traitement de la lumière ou des ombres

Si les figures humaines ne vous guident pas, faites attention au décor. L'IA fait ÉNORMÉMENT d'erreurs de continuité, c'est généralement flagrant dans la manière dont elle représente la lumière ou les ombres.

Voici un exemple généré par IA :

Déjà, même sans réussir à détecter les incohérences de lumière, cette image-ci donne une multitude de copycats quand on fait un reverse search. Sinon, regardez attentivement la forme de l'ombre de l'arbre sur le carrelage et les petites percées de lumière. Le problème, c'est que l'arbre qui est susceptible de projeter une telle ombre est beaucoup trop éloigné et orienté sur la droite dans le paysage pour qu'une telle forme fasse sens.

Autre exemple :

La projection de lumière sur le parquet dans le coin en bas à droite ne reflète absolument pas sa source : autrement dit la forme de la fenêtre. Encore une incohérence de l'IA.

Conclusion

Les conseils dispensés ici fonctionnent aussi avec les illustrations générées par IA. Même si certains styles divergent de la réalité et ont une approche plus abstraite ou surréaliste, vous pouvez quand même rester à l'affût des incohérences comme les jeux d'ombres et de lumière illogiques, les textures trop lisses, le manque de détail, et utiliser le reverse image search pour voir s'il existe d'autres illustrations trop similaires pour être une simple coïncidence.

J'espère que ce tutoriel vous servira ! Force, soutenez vos artistes locaux quand vous le pouvez, et continuez de combattre les robots ! 💪✨

[hdslibrary]

Off with his Head

We recently hosted a class session where students explored English bibles and their illustrations. One image in particular was reproduced in a multitude of variations: the heroine Judith slaying enemy general, Holofernes. Depictions of this scene from the book of Judith have been popular for many centuries, with varying levels of gruesomeness.

This image, from an 18th century narrative version of the bible features a calm and smiling Judith handing the head to her equally unbothered maid, while the neck of Holofernes gushes gore.

Clarke, Laurence. A Compleat history of the holy Bible, contained in the Old and New Testament : in which are inserted the occurrences that happened during the space of four hundred years, from the days of the prophet Malachi to the birth of our blessed Saviour ... London : Printed for the author ... , 1739-1740.

[yourmomxx]

Family Line

father of mine masterlist

summary: the hunt for the monster starts. We find out what happened all those years ago between Dean and his daughter.

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

word count: 8,5k

a/n: we did it, guys! this is the last part of the father-of-mine series. I’m really sorry about the late upload, but I do hope it was worth the wait! This might be the ending of this series, but not quite the ending of the story … thank you all so much for sticking around and supporting this story, sequels and prequels about dean and his daughter will definitely come!

pt1 pt2 pt3

Sioux Falls 2007

It was late at night, and in Bobby Singer’s Junkyard, the lights were still on. Accompanying the chirping tunes of the cicadas, a fading pop song from somewhere in the ‘70s was trailing out the windows.

On the small wooden table in the kitchen, Dean and Sam Winchester had spread out a multitude of lore books found in Bobby’s bookshelf, some worn out, some torn, and Sam was currently leaned over a particularly ugly-written paragraph dedicated to the magical use of a pan’s flute.

“Dean, I can hear you being silent.” Sam raised his head to look his older brother in the eye. “What is it?”

Dean shrugged, threw a look at the numerous variations of old books about supernatural creatures laid out in front of them, then at his little brother.

“You’re overworking yourself, Sammy,” Dean pointed out. The keyboard clicked as he typed something on the laptop.

“Dean, we’ve been over this,” Sam said. “I’m just trying to find a way for you to not die. You can’t exactly blame me for that.”

“Yes, exactly, we’ve been over it,” Dean countered. “And I told you there’s no way around it. I made a deal, that’s it. Period, no refunds.”

Sam clenched his jaw. “Well, I don’t want that to be it.” He muttered under his breath.

Dean opened his mouth to say something, but stopped himself when they heard the sound of tiny footsteps over the floor.

Dean perked up and turned his head.

“Hey, my little love.”

A while ago, the soft tone in his brother’s words would have caught Sam completely off guard. By now, he was already getting used to the way Dean’s eyes had a different look in them – one of pure love – and he spoke with a softness as if his words alone should wrap their recipient up in satin cloth.

Sam turned around to look at who Dean was talking to, and was not surprised to see a small girl trutting towards them, little legs still uncoordinated after only just waking up. Her small fists were rubbing her squinted eyes, the light in the living room must be blinding her.

Y/N made her way over to Dean and made grabby hands up at him.

Dean chuckled and picked his daughter up under her arms, placing her carefully on his thigh as she nuzzled into his dark flannel shirt.

Sam smiled at the contrast of Dean’s shirt, and her bright yellow children’s nightgown with the washed out Led Zeppelin-logo printed on.

Dean’s big hand was rubbing circles on her back, as he craned his neck to bow it down to her.

“What are you doing awake so late, sweetheart?” He hushed.

Y/N nuzzled her nose into his neck. “’d a bad dream,” she mumbled.

Sam could see the emotion cross over his brother’s face for a brief second as he made eye contact with him.

They both knew that this could – would – happen. That little girl had been through so much already, at her young age, had seen and lost things no child should ever see or lose.

They both had known that nightmares would probably eventually start haunting her, but yet, they had still not been prepared for when it was the time.

Dean didn’t know what he should be feeling, his daughter had had a nightmare, and all he wanted was to wrap his arms around her, keep her there, and kill everything in her way to becoming happy.

But he knew he couldn’t do that. And that’s why he wanted to, so much more.

“Really?” He asked instead, hand not leaving her back. “Do you want to tell me what it was about?”

“Everybody was leaving me,” Y/N sniffled, small fist rubbing her nose. “You, Auntie Ellen, Jo, Uncle Sam, Grandpa Bobby.” Another sniffle.

“I was all alone.”

Dean felt like sobbing. A heavy weight had latched itself on his heart. Oh, his little girl. How much he loved her.

“Sweetheart, it was just a bad dream,” he promised to her. “We are not going to leave you alone, I swear.”

Y/N pulled her face from the crook of his neck and looked up at him with red rimmed eyes.

“Pinky promise?” She asked.

Dean lifted his free hand and linked his pinky finger with hers. “Pinky promise,” he said.

Something told him he had made a mistake. But he couldn’t care right now.

Still, he felt like a liar.

“Now,” he said, a conspiratorial tone in his words, “What do you say we get you back to bed and I stay until you fall asleep, hm? How does that sound?”

Y/N didn’t fuss long about it, she just nodded her head and nuzzled closer to him.

Dean understood the silent command, and lifted her into his arms as he stood up. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Sam looked after them as they disappeared up the stairs. Now alone, he turned his attention back to his research. Why he was reading everything about the dog Cerberus right now, he couldn’t quite decipher, but he was grasping onto every straw.

A few minutes passed by, and Dean was still not back. Another few, another few.

Sam frowned as he looked at the clock on the wall. 5.13 in the evening. Sam realized now that the clock was broken.

Curtly, he stood up from the table and climbed the stairs to the bedrooms.

The door to Y/N’s room was open, hiding the colored sign she had written her name on (with Dean’s help) to inform everyone of her territory.

Careful to be quiet, Sam stepped closer to the threshold, peeking into the dark room. A dim night light in the form of a crescent moon was burning on the nightstand. In the bed laid a small bundle of blankets and stuffed animals, which Sam could only guess was Y/N.

Next to her, holding the girl in his arms, Sam spotted Dean, probably holding on for dear life on the edge of the narrow bed.

Sam smiled at them.

Through the silence, a soft, hummed melody reached Sam’s ears, and he perked up.

He knew that song from somewhere, he just couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Na-na na na. Nana na-a.

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Dude, are you singing her Smells like Teen Spirit?”

Dean looked at him, grinning. “Yeah. It’s a classic.” As if it was the most obvious thing in the world and Sam was the stupid one.

“I mean, look at her,” he said, his gaze shifting to his daughter again. “She’s gonna be a badass one day. Right? One day, you’re gonna be as badass and cool as your daddy.”

Oh yeah, that girl was out like a light.

Sam just shook his head chuckling. “All right, I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

Dean didn’t answer him, but he knew he heard him.

A few minutes after Sam had left, currently sitting at the kitchen table again, starting a new chapter of the same book, Dean came downstairs.

Wordlessly, he took his seat across from Sam, and pulled one of the lore books closer to him.

And though he had an idea where his brother’s new sense of determination came from, Sam didn’t say a word when Dean started reading.

༺｡° ୨❀୧ °｡༻

Now

When you called, for a brief second Sam was worried that Dean was gonna crash the car. The way his face morphed into shock, concern and then anger, while he was talking to you on the phone had his little brother worried.

After you hung up, Sam pretended not to notice the way Dean pushed further into the gas pedal.

The first rays of the morning sunlight made their way over the hills, when Sam and Dean arrived at the Group Home. Dean didn’t bother with a neat parking maneuver, and just turned the motor off, then made his way with fast steps over to the castle.

Sam trailed behind.

They had no problem entering the building, Maria had given them an official key card for their investigations. Dean stormed down the hallways with a fast step, as if he had memorized the entire way by heart.

Sam wouldn’t blame him.

You were sitting on your bed when they came in. Or more, cowering there.

Sam was all too familiar with the look of disturbed terror in your eyes, even when you firmly avoided looking at either of them.

“Y/N?” Dean moved a step forward, stretching his hand out towards you as if to soothingly touch your shoulder, but hesitated in his movement and pulled away.

Sam threw him a worried look that Dean didn’t seem to catch.

“What happened?”

Your fingers were continuously drumming against your knee pulled close to your chest.

“’d a bad dream,” you mumbled. Sam could hear the fear in your voice. Dean sat down in your chair opposite the bed.

“When I woke up, there was …” You swallowed and hardly squinted your eyes. “I don’t know what it was. Looked like two yellow … eyes.”

Sam couldn’t help the disgusted twist his face made at the word. He couldn’t imagine waking up to something like this.

Dean exchanged a look with him. Your story confirmed their theory even more.

On the bed, you had gone quiet again. Your fingers were still drumming an uneven pattern on your skin.

This didn’t make sense. This didn’t make sense. She was dead, Cass was dead. Roy was dead. Dean Winchester was here. He left you, and now he was here, but not for you, no, but for Roy. They were all dead.

And you were next.

“Have you ever heard of an alp?” Your head snapped up as Dean’s question pulled you out of your spiraling thoughts.

“An Alp?” Your eyebrows furrowed. “I mean - yes, I came across that lore when I was still taking German literature.”

“You took German Literature?” Dean regretted his question as soon as he asked it.

“Yes,” you answered, but something had shifted in your tone. It was low and pressed. Shit. He knew he should’ve just kept his mouth shut. Sam felt like smacking his brother across the head.

“So you know what they are?” He asked instead, and you shrugged, looking at your feet again.

“Yes, well, I know that the Germans believed that an Alp would sit on their chests while they slept, and it would feed on their good dreams - plaguing the sleeping person with terrible nightmares. That’s why they used to have shortened beds, because if they weren’t lying down, the alp couldn’t sit on their chest.”

While you talked, realization hit you like a brick. Or more like a huge wave, rather, if the feeling of being violently ripped of all air was anything to go by.

“Oh my God,” You breathed out. “Cass and Roy both had nightmares before they died.” You looked between Dean and Sam with shock-widened eyes. “This Alp thing was the reason for all of this, right? I’m gonna die, aren’t I?”

“Not if we have a say in it.” Dean’s jaw remained stoically clenched as he spoke his promise.

“What did you dream about?” Sam asked.

You ducked your head even further into yourself and picked at the skin next to your nails. “’s it important?”

“It could be.”

You took a deep breath and bit the inside of your cheek. “Same as Roy,” you simply said. “Worst day of my life.”

And, okay. Sam didn’t get into college for being slow, he knew exactly what day that was. And judging by the brief flicker of emotion crossing over Dean’s face, he knew, too.

But he didn’t address it and only cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “Look, if it really is an Alp – which it probably is – then we already know how to get rid of it.”

“We would lure it into a trap. You know, get us some … bait and then just –“ Dean symbolically dragged a finger across his throat.

You raised your eyebrows in concern. “And how do you think that’s gonna work?”

Admittedly, this hadn’t been your smartest moment, but given the circumstances you were in, you figured you could be forgiven.

Sam dipped his head. “That’s where you come in.”

“You can always say no,” Dean carefully offered. “If you don’t want to do it.”

You lifted your chin in the air. “This thing is the reason two of my best friends are dead,” you said. “I want to pay back the favor.”

Sam nodded. “Alright then.”

“So you guys got a plan?” You asked.

Sam and Dean exchanged a look and Dean sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, we do.”

—

It was loud in the cafeteria. It always was. Today, though, you were especially aware of it, because most of the noise was heavily directed towards you.

Or rather, about you, which had just the same effect in your opinion.

You had barely entered the big room and had already felt a few dozen eyes fixated on you. The whispering had started when you got closer to the buffet, and the occasional double-take and looking-fast-away-when-she-is-looking had continued when you had sat down.

Of course, how else should it be, you had been given the rehearsed “My condolences” or “I’m so sorry for your loss”.

Long story short, to you it felt like the day of Roy’s death all over again.

Except this time, they were serving pasta, and not chicken with rice.

It was days like these (which, in your opinion, had been happening far too often over the past few weeks), that made you hate this place even more. It’s not like you had had a reason for that before, the supervisors were nice, so were the helping staff and, of course, Maria.

Maria, who had taken you under her wing from the first day you arrived here. She had acted like a mother towards you, the one you had never had, no matter how hostile you had acted towards her.

Still, as you grew older, the whole thing felt simply more washed out and sickening.

Maybe this really was just a side effect of puberty, as your gynecologist had said.

As you let your gaze travel over the many familiar faces, you couldn’t help but notice that Finn wasn’t under any of them.

Finn, your beloved Finn. You then suddenly remembered the text conversation the two of you had had the other night. Before, well – everything. You still needed to stay true to that.

Silently, you made a note to yourself in your head, to drop by his room straight after lu-

A broad silhouette squeezing into the seat opposite you blocked your view over the hall, and your eyebrows shot up as you realized who it was.

“Uhm, hello?” You asked as Dean folded his hands on the table.

“You told everyone I was dead?” He asked, purposely skimming over your question.

You frowned and opened the small package of parmesan. “Well, aren’t you? About six times?”

Dean frowned and you caught him counting something under his breath with his fingers.

You shook your head, making a point of ignoring him and poured sauce over the dry spaghetti.

“That’s not even my point.”

“What, you’re saying you didn’t barge into the middle of my lunch – after the night I had – to scold me over the inaccuracy of your death rate?” You clicked your tongue. “Surprise.”

Dean apparently didn’t deem it necessary to address your sarcastic tone. That, or he knew just how much he deserved it, which you were fine with, either way.

“Look,” he started, and Jesus, this was going to be serious. “I wanted to talk to you about what happened last night.”

Confused, you tilted your head.

“I mean about the dream,” Dean quickly added. “I mean, we both know what it was about, and I just …” He cut himself off, cleared his throat, and let out a short breath that was probably supposed to be failed attempt at a laugh.

“I’m not a big … talking guy, you know? But I just … I always told myself, if I ever had kids, that I would be different then. That …” He stopped again.

“I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry.”

You scoffed. “You’re a bit late for that,” you spat. “I mean, it’s been what, almost a decade? ‘Sorry’ travels far, but not that many years.”

“I know that,” Dean said, “But I want you to know, that-“

“Well, I don’t want to know!” You interrupted him. Maybe too loud, if the simultaneous turn of heads was anything to go by. “I don’t want you to tell me anything. No excuses, no explanations, I want, and I need absolutely nothing from you, you understand?”

Dean bit the inside of his cheek.

“Believe me, I do.” He said. “But still-“

“No!” The dishes clattered as you slammed your hand on the table. “Dean, you don’t understand! You just left me here, at this orphanage –“

“It’s a group home.”

“Same thing, Dean!” You snapped. “Just a fancier word.”

Dean carefully pulled his hand away from the table, folding it with his other in his lap. You could feel him watching you, but you consequently avoided his gaze.

“Look, I’m not gonna have this conversation right now,” You decided. “I am going to go talk to my best friend, and when I go to sleep, I’ll try not to get killed! So goodbye.”

And with that, you picked up your still full lunch-tray, dumped it on one of the cleaning wagons, and made your way out of the cafeteria.

You never turned around to see Dean looking after you.

༺｡° ୨❀୧ °｡༻

St. George, Louisiana 2012

Dean Winchester was standing by a window. Through the clean glass he had a clear view of green gardens, well-kept flowers and trees leaning in the soft breeze of the wind.

Further away, he spotted the tall hedge walls of something that had to be a garden maze.

“I hope you know just how grateful I am for what you and your brother did for me.”

The voice of Maria Whitlock lifted Dean out of his thoughts, and he turned around to face the older woman.

She spoke in a soothing tone, one that reminded him of a mother he never had, but learned to long for.

Dean nodded. “That’s our job.”

Maria gave him a look and tilted her head. He was standing in her office, a neatly tidied room with a shelf for books and files, and a rather expensive looking desk. Very clean as well.

“What you decided to do was probably very hard,” she continued. “But I can assure you, in most cases, it turns out to be the better option for both parties.”

He didn’t like the way she talked about his plan like it was a good thing, when it wasn’t. It didn’t make him a good person for doing it.

“I’m sure, Dean, that there will be a lovely family out there who will take care of her –“

“No, no, no, that’s not what I meant.” He quickly interrupted her. It was the first time in here he had spoken more than for words. “I don’t … I don’t want someone else to take her in.”

Maria raised her skeptical eyebrows at him. “Do I understand correctly, Dean?” She asked. “You want her to just - stay here?” And her tone was implying exactly what she held of that idea.

“Look, I know how that sounds.”

“I really hope you do.”

“But my job doesn’t allow me to properly take care of her. When Bobby was still - well, she stayed with him, and we visited her from time to time.”

Maria nodded. “I understand. But what you have to understand, is, that this will surely not be easy for her. Whereas many of the elder children indeed do live here, the younger ones are usually adopted by a foster family who can take care of them. Who can love them,” she added.

Dean looked out the window again.

“I understand that,” He said. “But this is how I want it.”

He couldn’t see Maria behind him, as he was turned away from her, but he could well sense the way her observing, maybe judging gaze was burning between his shoulder blades.

“Well, then.” She sighed.

And as Dean watched the flowers dance in the wind, listening to Maria shuffling through her papers, he couldn’t help but think that this might be one of the most selfish decisions he has ever made.

—

Soft wind was tugging at Dean’s hair. Somewhere in the distance he was aware of the rippling water of a small fountain.

Dean tried to not actively think of what he was doing here. Of the consequences his actions would inevitably cause. He knew he wouldn’t be able to bear it.

Y/N’s hand was holding his in a strong grip, as they walked up to Maria and he greeted her.

Maria leaned down to be on eye level with his daughter and smiled at her.

“Hello Y/N, it’s very nice to meet you. Your Dad has told me so much about you! I’m sure you’ll settle in here just nicely.”

Dean crouched down and placed both his arms on Y/N’s for her to look at him. She had been eyeing Maria and the castle suspiciously.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he started. “Maria is really, really nice. And because Uncle Sam and I have to work so much, she is going to take very good care of you.”

Y/N averted his eyes and stared at her shoes. Then, sh burst forward, slung her small arms around Dean’s neck and buried her face in his chest.

“I wanna go with you,” she mumbled into his jacket. Dean sighed. With a heavy heart, be broke out of the embrace. “I promise I’m old enough, I want to go with you!” She pleaded again. With every word, Dean’s heart shattered just a bit more.

“Look, you remember when you stayed with Grandpa Bobby for a while when me and Uncle Sammy had to work?” She nodded, sniffling.

“This is gonna be just like that. I promise.”

Y/N sniffled again. Then she held out her hand to him. “Pinky promise?”

I promise that we’ll be fine.

I promise that we’d never just leave you alone.

I promise that Grandpa Bobby will be alright.

Dean pulled Y/N into his chest again. He breathed in deep, as if that would somehow help him savor this moment, savor her to be engraved in his brain to never forget. His little girl, the only thing good and pure in his life.

“Have fun, sweetheart,” he said when they broke apart again.

He stood up, and even though he wasn’t that old, everything in his body hurt at the movement.

“But I don’t know anyone here!” Y/N said again. It has been her go-to argument the entire car ride to the castle.

“I want to go with you and Uncle Sam!”

“Y/N!” The sharpness in Dean’s tone felt like it was cutting him. “I said you can’t.”

Her bottom lip started to tremble, before a big tear rolled down her cheek. Then another one, and another one, until she was full-on sobbing.

“Please, Dad!” She cried, and Dean’s heart shattered.

Behind her, Maria put a caring hand on her shoulder.

“Come on, sweetie, say goodbye to your dad.”

Y/N violently shook her hand off her body. “No! No, I don’t want to go with you! I want to stay with my dad!”

Maria and Dean exchanged a look. In her eyes, he recognized something that told him to change his mind.

It took everything in Dean to turn around and walk away.

He fixated his eyes on his car a few feet away from him. He wasn’t walking very fast, but with the weight that felt tied to his feet, it was the best he could do.

Behind him, Y/N kept crying. And as she was pleading and pleading, for him to come back, for him to stay, the feeling of realization started heavily sinking in, that he was really waking away.

Not only from this situation, from his daughters cries, but from her. From his child.

His feet felt even heavier.

When he reached the car door and opened it, he didn’t feel anything. Everything happened in a haze. He vaguely registered starting the car and pressing his foot on the gas pedal.

His daughter’s sobs were still replaying over and over in his mind like the sounds of a broken vinyl, as the naked road flew by the dirty windows.

Sam didn’t address the single tear that rolled down his brother’s cheek. And Dean just kept driving.

༺｡° ୨❀୧ °｡༻

Now

Since forever on, you had never been quite good with your emotions. Portraying them, talking about them, feeling them.

It was an obstacle.

Looking back at it, you figured it was probably somehow running in your family, the whole being emotionally unavailable thing.

Could that be inherited? According to your biology teacher, yes, but you didn’t know how well you believed that.

Nevertheless, as you knocked on the cold door that was the entrance to your - only left – best friend’s room, emotions welled up in your throat as choking as a tidal wave clashing its weight over your head.

It was dark in there. The curtains had been pulled closed and the thick material wouldn’t let a flicker of daylight in the room.

A smell hung over the entire place, of stale air and leftover food, and the sensation of hopelessness. Finn was sitting on the edge of his bed, a dark silhouette staring crooked at his hands in his lap, only illuminated by the weak light of the bedside lamp.

Without properly acknowledging him, you took quick strides to the other side of the room, and without further ado, ripped his curtains open.

The sun was already lowering down the horizon again, but the leftover light was still enough to turn the dark silhouettes in the bedroom into concrete shapes, of dirty plates, glasses, and clothes scattered all over the floor.

From his place on the bed, Finn groaned lowly, like a small bear being awaken from hibernation.

He rubbed a hand over his eyes as you sat down next to him. The bed dipped under your weight and you moved over a few study sheets that laid on his duvet.

“Hey,” you said.

Finn dropped his hands into his lap again and turned his tired gaze on you.

“Hey,” he said back.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Finn’s eyes tiredly scanned the room around him, the mess it was in, and then shook his head.

“Nah.”

“Alright.” You weren’t, really, but that conversation could wait until another time.

“How you holdin’ up?”

Finn tilted his head to you in a way that said ‘Ain’t it obvious?’ and you shrugged in response. “Stupid question, got it.”

Finn sighed.

There was a silence building between the two of you that you didn’t like. You kept yourself from fidgeting impatiently on the sheets.

“I just-“ Finn cut himself off and ruffled his hand through his hair. “Ever since – well, yesterday – I’ve been thinking about …”

He broke off again, blinking with his face towards the ceiling to avoid the falling of tears.

“Y/N, the last thing I said to her, was – we fought.” Finn’s confession was almost a whimper as he looked at you, awaiting your reaction.

Your heart broke at the look in his eyes, so clouded full with guilt and self-loathing, you almost didn’t recognize him.

“Oh, Finn, she loved you.” You sighed, and placed a gentle yet firm hand on his arm. “She knew what you were going through, what we were all going through. And trust me, she never, not for a second, held it against you. That was one moment out of almost ten years we all spent together. It didn’t mean anything, not in the long run.”

Finn sniffed and rubbed his nose, diverting his gaze to his hands again.

“Finn, she didn’t die hating you.” You put emphasis on every word as much as you could, because you wanted him to hear you, to understand, to believe. You didn’t want to let him wallow in his own self-destructing thoughts about something that wasn’t even true, not in the slightest bit.

Finn just hummed, but didn’t meet your eyes, just kept them trained on his lap. You sighed and let your hand slowly slide from his arm.

For a while, it was quiet again.

“My father is here,” you then blurted out.

Finn’s eyebrows shot up. “The one that died?”

“Yeah.” You weighed your head. “In my defense, I thought he died too, until he showed up in a fancy suit, investigating my best friend’s murder.”

The typical phrase of ‘seeing gears turning in someone’s head’ was the only way you would describe what you were seeing displayed on Finn’s face right now, just before the realization hit him.

“Wait, your father’s one of the hot FBI agents?”

You pursed your lips and nodded.

Finn blinked in disbelief.

“Wow,” He breathed out.

“Yup.” You said, popping the ‘p’. “Just got a lot less hot, huh?”

Finn raised his hands in surrender and shook his head. “For my own safety, I’m really not gonna answer that.”

You let out a laugh and playfully shoved him with your shoulder.

“Idiot.”

Finn grinned. “You love me.”

You hummed. “You’re right, I really do.”

A long while later, the door closed behind you again with a click.

Finn had to promise you to get in touch with you if he felt the need to, and to at least try and keep his room in order. After a brief conversation of how his view of himself and his ‘need to call you’ was very different from yours, you had hugged him and decided to leave.

Before you had walked out, your hand had rested on the handle, and you had turned around to Finn, not quite looking him in the eye.

“You know I love you too, right?” You had said. “No matter what happens.”

Finn frowned, but if he got suspicious, he didn’t mention it. “I know. Same here.”

You swallowed and nodded.

Then you left the room.

Now you were standing outside of his door, gaze drifting into the distance, and the same weight that had been lifted off your shoulders replaced by another one, just as heavy.

Funny, how, even if indirectly, saying your Goodbyes, made the lingering presence of death looming over you like a dark shadow much more real. If only one thing went wrong tonight, then-

You shook your head at the thought. No, Sam and Dean were going to take care of it, they promised. You had to put their trust into them with this.

But if tonight really was it, then you were content with the feeling that the last conversation you had, had been with Finnegan Beckett.

The walk back to your room stretched longer than usual.

--

Sooner than you would like it to, the sun disappeared behind the hills and night reigned over the land.

Sam and Dean were standing in your room, rehearsing their – honestly, pretty vague – plan with you, making sure you knew exactly how everything would go down. To be fair, you didn’t really play a big part in the whole thing, but it was nice having some sort of reassurance.

“Alright, so you know what to do?” Sam questioned once again.

Slowly, you nodded your head. “Lay still and look pretty,” you joked. “And try not to get killed.”

“Leave that last part to us,” said Dean. “You don’t have to worry about anything. By the time you wake up, everything will be over.”

You nodded.

You had seen it in Dean’s eyes, that he wasn’t all in with the idea of using you as bait, but you had done it nevertheless.

You weren’t a little child anymore, especially not his, he wasn’t going to decide what you wanted or not wanted to risk.

You took a deep breath that lifted your shoulders and huffed it back out. You were going to do this. It was easy.

—

Like hell it was.

Whoever told you you had the easiest part of the plan had been fucking lying to you. Turns out, sleeping is way harder with the knowledge of probable death hanging over your head like a dark cloud.

Every time your eyes slipped closed, a glimpse of doubt squeezed its way into your mind. What if Sam and Dean didn’t make it? What if everything went wrong? What if, in the end, you did die?

The sheets were already pooling crumbled by your feet when you slipped out of consciousness.

--

The mass of hot bodies pressing together and towering over you was clamming. A figure was running away from you, you were chasing after it. You smelt old leather and gunpowder. It made you feel comforted. You wanted more of it.

Gravel clattered underneath your boots as you got out of the car on your own, like all the big girls would.

“Look, Daddy!” But Daddy wasn’t there.

“Come on, I’ll help you.” There she was again, the nice girl with the black hair. She held out her hand and you went to grab it, her warm presence looming you in, and then the floor opened up under your feet and you were falling into nothingness.

--

Your heart pounded rapidly in your chest, as you startled awake in your bed, feeling your lungs tighten up and making it hard to breathe.

Your panicked gaze flew to the door of your room – wide open, the light of the hall casting a dim shadow into the room.

“Wha- Sam! Dean!” Hastily, you pulled the covers off your body and hurried out the door. Something must have gone wrong, terribly, terribly wrong.

You followed the sound of footsteps and scuffle down the hallway, turned the lights on where it had gone off at a few junctions.

Your breathing was still shallow, but you pushed through that and your still dazing mind, adrenaline pumping through your veins with every step you took.

Rapidly turning around another corner, you almost stumbled over the long legs of Sam’s body on the floor. You came to an abrupt halt and kneeled worried next to him.

“Sam? Oh my God, are you-“

Sam groaned and moved his head, eyes still pressed shut. “’s strong,” he babbled, and you tried your hardest to understand what he was saying.

By the way he was slurring his words, you had well reason to think he had suffered a concussion.

“It’s alright, stay here,” you ordered him, as he tried to sit up.

Only then, you first noticed the struggling noises a few feet away from you, and lifted your eyes away from Sam to check where they were coming from.

What you saw almost made your heart drop into your stomach.

Not that far away from you, maybe a few armlengths, was Dean, laying on the floor on his back just like his brother. But he was wrestling with something sitting on his chest, something small and hairy, hunchbacked like an old witch but only with the size of a cat.

The thing, which had to be the Alp, had long, bony limbs, and was fighting tooth and nail, hissing, biting and scratching, against Dean.

It reminded you of a gremlin, of sorts.

In your head, you heard Roy’s voice scold you, “There’s a distinct difference between all supernatural creatures. Elves don’t equal fairies, and gremlins don’t equal goblins, because while gremlins are fuzzy and cute in the beginning and only bad later when they turn, goblins have always been known for harassing humans.”

Alright, so no gremlin then.

Near you, Dean was still rolling around on the floor, fighting for the upper hand with the Alp.

Your heart sped up as you realized that something had to be wrong. Because why wasn’t he just killing it?

--

“So how do you kill it?”

Sam pulled something out of his duffel bag and turned it in his hands, the dim light of your lamp reflecting on the material. “Silver dagger dipped in vampire blood.” He spoke.

“Wait – vampires bleed?”

Dean scoffed. “This isn’t Twilight, kiddo. Yes, vampires bleed.”

You shrugged and inspected the phial he had laid into your hand. “I was thinking more of Fear Street, but alright.”

Dean ignored that he didn’t know what that was, but made a mental note to look it up later.

Sam stuffed the dagger back into his arsenal.

“You don’t have to worry about that part, though,” He assured you. “That’s what we’re here for.”

Dean nodded. “He’s right. You just dream sweet, and we’ll handle the rest. Fool-proof.”

You nodded, passing Dean the blood back. You could only hope they were right.

--

The shining silver of the dagger caught your eye. It had most likely been scattered away from Dean and landed near a wall, far out of his reach.

You took quick steps over to pick it up, Dean’s struggling grunts making you alert, and probably the reason why you didn’t think about what you did next, you just did it.

The silver dagger felt light in your hands, coated in the dark fluid of what had to be vampire blood. The blade reflected the clinical white light from the hallway as you lifted it up over your head, and, using the strength of both your hands, pushed it with force into the monster’s upper torso.

The squelching sound it made, as it penetrated bristly fur, skin, and organs, would later make you feel repulsed and gagging, sort of like nails scratching on a blackboard, but in this moment, you just clenched the dagger tighter and pushed it further into the monster’s chest.

The screech it let out could not be compared to any animalistic sounds you had ever heard before. In a swift move, you pulled the weapon out of the Alp’s body, and the small creature slumped to the floor right next to Dean.

You waited for a second. Two, three panting breaths. Dean was the first to move. He put a hand somewhere where the thing’s neck should be.

Then, swallowing in-between his hard breaths, he nodded. “Done,” was all he said. But it was enough for a sigh of relief to leave your tired lungs, and you sunk to the ground right next to him.

Looking closer at its lifeless body, the Alp had more similarity with one of those dead, stuffed animals that hunters hung in their houses as trophies. But maybe that was just rigor mortis.

Through your haze, you barely registered Dean clapping a firm hand on your shoulder. You turned your head to look at him, eyes suddenly feeling heavy as the adrenaline was wearing off. Like sucking air out of a balloon.

“You did good today, kid.” He said, and though you were tired, in his eyes you could see that he meant it. It filled your chest with a warmth that hadn’t been at home in there since … God knows when, and it made you smile.

Near you, Sam staggered closer, still holding his hurting ribs, and tilted his head as he squinted his eyes at the lifeless Alp before you.

“Is it just me or does it … look like a cat?”

You and Dean both looked over at him, and then at the dead monster on the floor.

“Looks more like a gremlin-goblin hybrid,” You panted. “A gromblin.”

Sam threw you a look of pure confusion, while Dean was grinning proudly. You smiled back. It felt honest.

And very likely, it was.

-- It was quiet again.

From the fight and struggles a few days ago was no trace left, as you stood by your desk and sorted through some old photographs you had replaced on your wall.

The pictures you were sorting through mostly showed you, Finn, Roy and Cass together.

At school, at the movies, going out to eat.

You sighed and plucked some tape from the back of another one.

Right at that moment, a knock sounded from your door. Without even looking up from Cass and Roy smiling at you, holding a stray cat, you let out a “Come in,” at the person on the other side of the door.

The familiar sound of the hinges creaking signified the opening and closing of the door. And then, Dean Winchester was standing in your room.

“Uhm …” He was rubbing his neck awkwardly, as you looked at him expectantly.

“Hey. What’s up?” You asked, and put the photographs in a drawer.

Dean took a deep breath and looked at you. He wasn’t wearing the same casual clothes as he had been that terrible night, but had settled on his FBI suit again. Maybe for effect.

“Look, I was just-“ Dean fumbled for a second and then took a seat on the small chair that was standing around. “We should talk. This time for real.”

You tilted your head, and avoided looking at him.

Dean didn’t wait for any response, he simply kept talking. Maye rambling.

“I know I already tried, but it wasn’t my best, so I …” He sighed.

“I never explained anything to you. why things went down how they did. Y/N, please look at me.”

You had sat down in your deskchair, pulling your legs to your chest and now did your best to fix your eyes on Dean.

“What we do, the hunting … it’s no way to grow up for a child. I know how that is. And I never, ever, wanted that for you. I already had plans to end things sooner than they did, but then ..” He shook his head. “Didn’t work out. So, when Bobby died, I saw no other chance than to get you somewhere else. And I took that chance to just … remove you from my life, as hard as it was.”

“But I promise you, Y/N, it was all just to keep you safe. I never would’ve done it if there had been another way. And I wanted you to know that.”

Dean stood on his feet again and placed the chair back on its original spot. You looked away as he reached for the door handle, to get out of your life, again.

“So you’re just gonna leave? Again?” Your words were accusing and they were meant to be that way, but still you almost felt bad, as Dean dropped his hand by his side and let out a sigh.

“Like I said, it was for the best. Still is, in my opinion.”

“What, to remove me from your life again?” You jumped out of your chair, fury burning in your eyes and voice growing louder with every word you spoke.

“Y/N, you don’t get it-“

“No, you don’t get it!” You jelled at him. What was burning in your eyes were now more tears than anger, but it didn’t matter.

“For years, I’ve been trying to … to figure out what I did wrong. For years, I’ve been trying to do better, every day, I wanted to be better, because I thought —. I thought that if I had good grades, and if I started working out, and if I was always on my best behavior … I thought that you would come and get me. But somehow you never did. And I just … I don’t understand, I want you to tell me, what did I do wrong, what made you leave, because I swear, I’ll change. I’ll change, and I’ll work on it, just please…” A begging undertone accompanied your tear-choked words. “Don’t leave me here again.”

Wordlessly, Dean quickly crossed the room and put his arms around you. it took you a second to realize what was even happening, before you clung to his suit jacket, digging all your strength into it, as if the fabric was the only think that kept you from drowning in black water.

You felt the shadow of warmth, as Dean turned his head to press a featherlight kiss into your hair.

“I regret having to leave you.” He murmured next to your ear. “But what I do not regret is keeping you safe. Even if that meant leaving you.”

You sniffled, and pulled away from him. Dean’s own face wasn’t full of fresh tear stains, but still you could see the sincerity and something like sadness on his features.

You wiped your cheeks to clean them off the drying liquids.

“I’m older now,” You said, and Dean scoffed, already knowing where this was headed. “No, please, listen to me! I’m older, I can make my own choices, take my own risks. You saw how great I was a few days ago!”

“Yes, but that was one monster!” Dean countered. “Out there, there are hundreds of those things. We don’t get enough sleep, no nice food, not even nice beds! Trust me, Y/N, compared to this-“ he gestured around your room, “what we do has nothing on it.”

You shook your head. “But you’re together when you do it. You and Sam. And I just want that, I want to be with you.”

Dean sighed and took a step back.

“Please, Dean, I’m begging you!” You urged. “You said you never wanted to come back here, but now you had to, I mean – don’t you think that’s some sort of … sign or something?”

“I don’t believe in signs.”

“Well, screw signs, I’m here!” You pointed to yourself. Your voice was desperate, but so were you.

“I am here, and I want you to take me with you.” And in a whisper, you repeated, “Please, Dean, this time – let me come with you.”

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, Dean heavily sighed and pulled the chair closer to him to sit down.

--

The church bells were tolling a loud, fast tune. It was ironic, you thought, and you didn’t know if you should cry or laugh about it.

You watched as two dark caskets were lowered down into the earth, into two separate 6-feet deep holes right next to each other.

The gravestones had not yet been prepared, but you didn’t exactly need those anyway. If the huge pictures were any indicator on who was getting buried here.

This was your last time saying Goodbye. To Cass and to Roy, and, unfortunately, to the last one remaining.

Funerals weren’t for the dead, you had once read somewhere, they were for the living, for those seeking closure in their desperate times of grief.

You had thought it to be bullshit, what difference would a burial make in a journey of overcoming the loss of someone so important?

But, as you threw a full hand of dark earth onto each of the dark caskets, you somehow understood. It was one weight less.

They were still here, some part of them. Something you could always come back to, they hadn’t just vanished off the back off the earth. That thought was, indeed, comforting.

Damn life lessons that are right.

“Hey,” you suddenly heard a voice next to you, and were a bit surprised to see Finn standing there.

You had been too lost in your own thoughts to even notice him approaching. The lack of sleep probably didn’t help your attention skills much, either.

“Hey,” you answered.

“Look, I need to tell you something,” you started, just at the same time as Finn said, “I know what you wanna say.”

Both of you let out quiet laughs.

“You first,” He said.

You took a deep breath and avoided looking at him, scanning the gravestones before you as if you had known everyone buried under them personally.

“Sam and Dean,” you started, “I mean, they’ve been here for a while and honestly, I never even thought I’d see them again. So I never really thought about what would happen if they would just – show up, you know?”

Interesting, Peter Gravill only lived to be 57 years old.

“But now they’re here, and I just-“

“I get it.” Finn suddenly interrupted you. Your head whirled around so fast you were afraid you were gonna get whiplash.

At your confused look, he added, “I mean, if my parents suddenly showed up on my doorstep and gave me the option of going with them –“ he shrugged his shoulders. “-I would most definitely take it.”

Before you could even think about it, you already lunged forwards and wrapped your arms around his body, burying your face in his neck and holding him tightly.

The hot feeling of tears burned behind your eyes, but you managed to put them away. You pulled Finn even closer.

“Everything’s gonna be alright, kid.”

“You’re still younger than me.”

“I don’t care. I love you.”

“I love you too, Y/N.”

The hug lasted endless, but endless went by way too quickly. You fixed Finn’s suit jacket, apologized for the tear- and make-up stains you had gotten on the expensive material, and waved him a last Goodbye.

Down by the parking lot, a black car was already waiting for you, two adult men leaning against it. They had been watching the entire thing go down from a safe distance, not wanting to interfere in either the funeral, or the emotional Goodbyes.

Sam tried not to think about what laid ahead of them, or behind them, as his niece walked towards them, away from the graves of her best friends, and leaving the only one that was still alive, behind.

His niece. How long hadn’t he said that title, let alone thought it.

He liked the familiarity of it. The rightness.

Dean opened a creaking car door for you, as you reached them.

“You ready?” He asked.

Sam could see your shoulders tighten, as you lifted your chin, and looked his brother straight in the eye.

“Yeah.”

Dean nodded, and you got in the backseat. He slammed the car door closed behind you. With one last look at his younger brother, Dean rounded Baby and took his place as the driver, Sam claiming shotgun.

Behind them, you leaned your head against the window as the engine roared and you drove off.

The car smelt like leather and gunpowder. It made you feel comforted.

And in the backseat of an old 1967 Chevy Impala, listening to the music that was a mix of Metallica, Kansas and Billy Joel, you slept the best night’s sleep you had had in weeks.

taglist:

@psycho-magnotheric-slime , @openmindedperson2200 , @emily-roberts