#and also ??? you Have to stop reading dean on the surface level the way you read sam | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mittensmorgul · 4 years

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it’s a bummer to see you can’t enjoy the ending. I hope someday you can come around it it. It wasn’t perfect but it didn’t nuke its integrity. i think the heart of the show really shines through and it’s a shame that it’s not being appreciated bc there’s so much shipping drama 😣

Hi there!

I... first of, I really need people to understand this... the travesty of the finale for me has almost nothing to do with “shipping drama.”

Yes, I see the wild conspiracy theories flying around, and I’m honestly concerned for some of those folks and hope they can find a way to make peace with this in whatever way they can, because we aren’t likely to ever get a better answer than that this is legitimately the ending that Dabb thought was best, despite years of us seeing the best of his writing choices and guiding Sam, Dean, and Cas to grow past the roles that Chuck would’ve forced them to fulfill, and that at the end it fell flat because he couldn’t actually come up with a better ending than “this was always their destiny, free will is a lie, and these characters had nothing outside of the revenge quest they’d been raised for since birth and manipulated into over and over for the entertainment of a vengeful god.”

I can see how “surface level” viewers would feel that this one basic narrative point was satisfying, that Sam and Dean had grown beyond their own hopeless cycle of self-sacrifice that had driven the narrative for so many years. The fact that they both acknowledged that they should allow their stories to end in that way was satisfying... but only in the shallowest and most detached read of the narrative. Like, is this really the ONLY thing these two characters learned in the last 15 years? If so, that is BEYOND depressing af.

And even THAT message lost all narrative weight when the two of them were once again reunited in death, as if nothing else had ever mattered in their lives. As if neither of them had ever outgrown the codependency that had driven so many of those previous self-sacrifices and refusals to let go of each other even in death.

So yeah, in the absolute most basic sense, I suppose I can see how casual viewers or people who aren’t actually invested in these characters could find that at least narratively coming back to a starting point.

But narratives don’t actually work that way, and that’s not the point of watching fifteen years of story develop in between.

This story wasn’t JUST about Sam and Dean needing to accept that death might be okay actually.

This story was also about free will, fighting for humanity as a whole but also their OWN humanity and self-identities. In Dean’s case, the absolutely transformative growth from feeling like nothing but a hammer, a killer, a tool to be used. And then less than an episode and a half later, after finally accepting that truth into his heart and using it to defeat the original creator and reclaim the story of his own life for himself... he gets pied in the face after flippantly talking about his destiny and having no choice, and then three scenes later he literally dies impaled on a great big nail... like a hammer...

So I would kindly ask folks who feel satisfied by that shallowest possible takeaway of this episode, and maybe invite folks to look just under that surface. Try to understand why loads of us will NEVER feel satisfied with this ending, and why it truly does feel like the most hopeless version of the story. Like even in defeating Chuck, they could never be allowed to own their own stories and what happened to them after that point was just a twisted version of the “destiny” that drove Chuck’s entire plotline for them anyway.

Please understand where we’re seeing this as horrifically painful irony rather than some beautiful circular narrative about letting go.

For a lot of us, the shipping stuff would’ve been the cherry on top of the sundae. We would’ve been happy with a scoop of plain vanilla, though. We would’ve been happy for anything that honored the journey to freedom, and the choice at any sort of a different life of their own making than literally falling back on a nail fighting off one of John’s unresolved hunts and a vampire who had literally never been named in canon before, yet who Dean instantly recognized somehow...

but sure, for those of us who felt that “the heart of the show” was all the stuff that the finale actually erased-- that “family don’t end in blood,” and that this was actually not a show about just two brothers but the love of their found family and coming to terms with the choices they actually HAD made for themselves versus the narrative that Chuck kept centering them in DESPITE what they would choose for themselves, the finale basically told us no, everything you ever found of value in this story actually meant nothing. It told us that Chuck’s story for them was their only truth in the end, and their only freedom was to be found in death.

Please, I am begging people, stop trying to gaslight us that this was some beautiful ending. Maybe think for a second that “your read” of the narrative that allows you to find peace with the ending is not what we saw and loved about this story for the 326 episodes leading up to this finale.

And please try to understand that we were not wrong to see the entire narrative through this lens. Because we were literally validated IN CANON, and told that we understood the depth of the story and the characters just fine, actually. There’s literally ONE episode of the entire series that burns it all down in a bewildering pile of wtf. And that’s #327. That throws that entire read out the window to well actually us all back into Chuck’s literal ending... This was literally the ending Chuck wanted to force them to enact for him, and it’s what ended up happening even after they defeated him-- the ultimate Big Bad of the entire series should’ve been defeated, but instead he pulled off one final victory over the entire story.

Becky: No. You can't-- Chuck: I did. Becky: Y- This is just an ending. Chuck: Yeah. I don't know how I'm gonna get there, but I know where I'm goin'. Becky: B-But it's so... dark. Chuck: But great, right? I can see it now -- "Supernatural: The End". And the cover is just a gravestone that says "Winchester". The fans are gonna love it. Well? Becky: It's awful! Horrible. It's hopeless. You can't do this to the fans. What you did to Dean? What you did to Sam? Chuck: There, see? It's making you feel something. That's good, right?

and

Dean: Well, what now? You're not gonna dust us. Chuck: Oh, yeah? Why not? Dean: Because you're holding out. For your big finish. Yeah, we know about your galaxy-brained idea, how you think this story is gonna go. Sam got a little look into your draft folder. Chuck: Sam's visions -- they weren't drafts. They were memories. My memories. Other Sams and other Deans in other worlds. But guess what. Just like you, they didn't think they'd do it, either. But they did. And you will, too. Dean: No. Not this Sam. And not this Dean. So you go back to Earth 2 and play with your other toys. Because we will never give you the ending that you want. Chuck: We'll see.

And even in DEFEAT Chuck thought he understood these characters, thought that having rendered him powerless they would finally take their revenge and kill him, but they didn’t, because he never actually understood these characters at all. And the story he tried to force them into from day one was never about THEM, it was about HIM.

And then Dean gets like two whole days of freedom and choice and is apparently incapable of making any of the choices that don’t throw him immediately back into Chuck’s favorite story. Like none of that resolution in the previous episode meant anything at all. He even SAYS it in the finale:

Dean: Yeah, no. I think about 'em, too. You know what? That pain's not gonna go away. Right? But if we don't keep living, then all that sacrifice is gonna be for nothing.

And then two scenes later the show gives us the Nelson Muntz HA HA and Dean is no longer living, and Sam is left to carry on as a shell of himself and wander off into Blurry Wife Land to devote any even remotely content moment of the rest of his years to raising a Replacement Dean to fill the void, and is never able to pick up the pen to write anything better of his own life than Chuck would’ve dealt him in the first place.

So I’m glad that top-layer takeaway is sustaining and enough for you. It wasn’t, and will never be enough for the rest of us.

What was actually real in all of this? We were.

Until we weren’t.

And that’s honestly a shit message to be pushing on people in the wake of it all. So please stop.

I should actually thank you for the kind intent with which your message is phrased, but that doesn’t make it feel less hilariously awful. Though I chose this one to reply to as the least insulting of all the messages currently in my inbox on this subject. So thanks for that, at least.

#spn 15.20 #aka that one episode of supernatural that doesn't really exist #because you either get to have the first 326 or the finale #they're literally narratively incompatible in all but the shallowest possible takeaway here #i chose the other 326 because those are where the actual heart of the show lies #it was set on fire and buried in 327 #Anonymous

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simpingfortheages · 3 years

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//OH BABY BUT I DO//

Billie Dean Howard x Fem Reader

( SMUT, BEGGING,ANGST story with a twist just read it )

Love is everylasting. It's fun, because that's what they tell us in story books.

Billie stumbled through the doorway of our house. She held her pair of black heels loosely on her index acryliced finger. " Hey baby" she shouted into the empty room," in the kitchen " I replied. I heard her bare feet running along the board floor to find me,not before she threw her heels into the corner. I was currently popping open a bottle of champagne and pouring it into 2 wine glasses. Billie came struting into the kitchen with a big smile plastered on her beautiful face. As she made her way towards me I held one of the glasses out to her." Here Billie babe to new beginnings" I cheered. With no hestiation Billie took the glass and clicked it with mine. We simultaneously downed the glasses within seconds, " so how was your day?"I asked. "It was good,we got a lot done and we also finished two and a half episodes" she said with delight. "That's so good Bil" I commented. We sat in silence,except for the fact that Billie was tapping her newly yellow acryliced nails on the surface of the counter. She was impatient but i wasn't going to make the first move. With a loud exasperated huff,Billie practically launged herself towards me,capturing her lips on mine. The kiss becamed heated very quickly, her hands became entangled in my hair while mine gripped her waist,pulling her closer.

Billie pulled her tan skirt over her thighs and did a little jump to wrap her long toned legs round my waist. I held her up by her thighs, I could have felt how needy she was because her core was now pressed against the thin material of my shirt. I smirked into the kiss. I made my way up carefully up the stairs, as i did so, I broke the kiss to see where I was going. A needy whined left Billie's plump lips, while I ascended the stairs, Billie left love bites on my neck. It didn't take me long to reach our bedroom. I roughly threw her on her bed. I stopped to take in the sight of her. Her chest rising and falling, her hair was a mess but a mess in a sexy manner. She was currently trying to unbutton her shirt and kick off her stockings along with her skirt. I chuckle left my lips at her struggle. I crawled up the bed and helped her undress. Billie now left in only her matching black underwear and bra,she pulled me down onto her form. My blood boiled at the fact that she still wanted me, the audacity the medium had. I forcefully swallowed my emotions and proceeded to removed her remaining articles of clothing. I slowly kissed her neck leaving marks on hers to match mine, she was so caught up in the moment she didn't seem to mind. Although i know after it all she will be frantic to cover the marks for tomorrow's episode . Billie never did like to show off the marks I left on her, she always complained about it being "unprofessional". I respected her choice up until tonight that is. I was determined to mark every part of her skin, to remind her of me. Billie Dean was never one to be but she was Oh so desperate and needy tonight. I couldn't deny her of what she really wanted. I made quick work of adorning her neck and chest area. I latched my soft lips on to her nipples and bite down, which caused a whimper and moan to rip through Billie's throath. I knew she liked it rough.

I kissed lower and lower along her bikini line until I reached her core. I pried open her legs to admire the mess I made. It really was a shame. I delicately traced my fingers over the constellation freckles that decorated her flawless skin. Billie really was a piece artwork, one that never ceases to draw everyone's attention. She was impatient. Very impatient, but I liked it that way. It seemed like she wanted me, needed me . "Y/N please touch me" Billie begged,she stared up at me with eyes filled with hope,longing and lust. I took my finger and ran it along her slit,collecting her slick. Billie's back arched off the bed into a pretty bow. The heels of her feet were digging into the mattress,as she pushed her hips up against my fingers that teased her entrance. I dipped the tips of my fingers into her dripping core,but not all the way in like she wanted, "beg me Billie" I demanded. Her head twisting against the pillow while her hands held a vice grip onto the covers. She managed to open her mouth," please fuck me y/n don't tease me any longer please" she said desperately. I plunged my fingers deep into her warm core, pulling in and pushing out of her slowly. The feeling of her velvet walls hugging my fingers were euphoric. It was a perfect fit, " You want more don't you Billie?" I teased. Billie couldn't find her voice, instead she nodded her head vigrously. Her once perfectly curls were now unrecognizable as the back of her head rubbed on the pillow. "Use your words Bil, I'm not a spirit who can read your mind" I teased further more, coaxing her to speak. "More y/N plea-please more" she spoke as her small voice cracked. I added a third finger into her tight cunt. Billie threw her head back onto the pillow and immediately grabbed my wrists. Mewls and moans filled the already thick atmosphere. I never stopped moving my hands. My movements only got faster and faster as her nails dug into my wrist, she tried so very hard to keep herself grounded but failed in doing do. I curled my fingers to reach her sweet spot,as I did so I pressed my thumb against her neglected clit. The combination of Billie being stretched by my fingers and the attention on her clit was too much for her to handle. " Y/N I'm- I'm gonna-" her words were cut off as waves of pleasure washed over her. The medium's eyes rolled back to the back of her head as her mouth was left open ,as her high ended a loud moan filled the room. I slowed pulled my fingers out but i didn't stop rubbing her until she calmed down.

After a few seconds when Billie calmed down. I flopped on the side on her on the bed causing her naked body to jiggle with my movements. I leaned over the bed and grabbed a couple of tissues to wipe my hands clean of Billie. This didn't go unnoticed by the medium as a look for perplexion made its was onto her face. How cute she looked. Usually I would tell her how good she tasted or I would let her taste herself. However she didn't question the act. She propped herself on her side and began running her fingers through my hair. All the while, raking her nails along my scalp. That was the best feeling. It wasn't long until her hand started to drift towards my waist band,most likely to return the favour.

Out of reflex I grabbed her wrist at a halt. " Bil i know" was all I said, Billie sat upon the bed, now alert of my words. " Y/N what's are you talking about?" She questioned with her eyebrows furrowed. " I know about you and" I swallowed thickly. I wanted to yell at her but i didn't " about you and your new assistant" I spat out the last line. Billie's eyes were wide as ever. The look of horror dawned upon her face. That expression on her face was the frosting on the cake. Her complexion was purely white. The red blush that crept upon her face from our love making was now gone. "Why Billie?" I asked with emotion heavy in my voice. "Baby i- I didn't mean too"she stuttered. "Didn't mean too?? Billie you slept with her on our bed. I fucking know because if you tried to listen to me last week. I told you I recently installed cameras. You know since you are a well known celeb now" my voice raised in its level causing her to jump. "How could you Bil? I thought you loved me" I choked out. "Baby but i do" she tried to comfort me but i knew the truth. "It was a dumb mistaken, I wasn't thinking straight Y/N please" she begged as she grabbed onto the front of my shirt to not make me move away. The vice grip she had on me made nail indents into my chest. I didn't care about it, the pain of my breaking heart had hurt more. "No Billie, a mistake is bumping into someone, what you did was for spite. You were thinking straight. And I am 100% sure you would have continued if I never found out. " the dam of tears didn't break. I felt numb.Billie Dean Howard broke me. " Y/N No that's not true. I don't love anyone else but You. I love you alone." She sobbed. Tears cascaded down her cheekbones. In another time I would be the one to wipe those tears away and place kisses upon her wet skin, but that was another time. " fuck off Bilie, don't sell me bullshit. You think i am dumb? I know you have slept with her more. Not only at home. IN OUR HOME! But I am sure you have at work. Don't you think i notice the different perfumes ?? Or the fact that your makeup is well applied,almost too applied when you come home." I raged.

My heart hurt, the veins in my head were throbbing at this point. "Y/N listen to me, I wasn't thinking, it was only twice I swear and I promise you I will never ever do anything like that to hurt you." At this point I was getting off the bed, trying to get the hell away from her as possible. Billie followed me off the bed trying to grab onto me again. I shrugged her off and threw some pajamas towards her body to get dressed. " you're barely home anymore Billie,you didn't even see that all my clothes are gone. You don't have time for me. It's not like I am asking you to choose between work or me. I am just saying make time for me" I continued to rant as I paced up and down the carpet." I will baby I promise. I will fire her and get someone else" she tried to resonant with me as she sloppily tried to dress herself. "Billie. I don't care what you do anymore...." I whispered. The dam cracked,tears slowly started to trickle down my face. Billie ran up to me and wrapped her arms around me, plastering kisses all over my face, mumbling, apologies. I gently took her arms and unwrapped them from me. She cried out my name as I did so. " And to think I was going to propose and wanted to start a family with you" Billie stayed silent. Her eyes were waterfalls at this point. Her bottom lip never stopped wobbling. " please Y/N I know I fucked up but I promise you I will never do that again." She recited over and over. " like how you promised to love me?"I snapped. " BUT I DO LOVE YOU" the medium screamed "I am sorry Billie but I cannot do this anymore" I whimpered. " No no y/n you are not going to leave me!!" Billie demanded and she stomped her foot on the floor like a toddler. I ran a hand through my hair to try and neaten my appearance as i fixed my clothes infront the mirror. " And to think Billie that you of all people couldn't recognise the demon living inside you all along...". A gasp escaped her throath and added to the tension in the room. " you- you don't mean that" she cried silently. I slowly walked up to her and gently tucked a curl behind her ears, " oh but baby I do". Billie locked her eyes on me as tears fell from her face. "I'll get you back one day Y/N just you see, I love you and I mean it." She hiccupped. "Maybe...maybe not,but right now Billie I cannot be with you." I cried out. She slowly nodded her head and wiped her face with the back of her hands. "One day we will be a family y/n I swear on it and we Will be together again as we should" Billie promised. Unfortunately I believed her words, I left Billie standing in a room that was once ours. I fought the urge to run back and comfort her, but she broke my heart. I deserved better, yet part of me couldn't help but want her to be true to her words. I still love Billie deep down and always will ..after all she is Billie Dean Howard, medium to the stars... she's my star.

#billie dean howard #billie dean x reader #sarah paulson x reader #sarah paulson characters #angst fic #smut #sarah paulson fanfic #Sarah Paulson x reader

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castielcommunism · 3 years

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penny and pound is taking me for a ride, I have to physically pause and stop reading sometimes because Dean's behaviour is giving me war flashbacks to when I was just sneaking out of the closet but was still kinda !!! about stuff and I started dating my partner and was just acting so weird and trying so hard and I kinda cringe thinking about it, but at the same time I feel like I'm forgiving myself in a weird way because I can see that it's just difficult and unintentional and arriving to yourself and where you want to be with the people you love is such a journey and it's so frustrating but there's so much light in there too. idek what I'm saying with this, just know your fic is doing something that therapy barely managed to scratch the surface of for me

omg thank you so much this is so lovely 😭💗 honestly it’s kinda therapy for me too, I’ve had exclusively pretty shitty and somewhat traumatic experiences with dating and I wanted to balance out like, the thrill of wanting a relationship to work out so badly versus not wanting to be vulnerable or reveal too much about yourself because you don’t think it’s possible to be happy. I also didn’t want to make it too dark or angsty so I’m glad the cheese levels are maxed out. anyway tysm 🥺🥺🥺

#fic.txt #asks #penny & pound #currently writing as we speak (instead of doing marking)#I’m hoping the next chapter won’t be too much longer thank u everyone for being patient mwah 💗

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jawritter · 4 years

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Born Under The Wrong Sign

Part 1

Summary: Dean Winchester, hunter, killer of Gods, demons, and monster, was born as an Omega. It never felt right, and he wants a change of biology. After all, just cause it's what we're assigned, it shouldn't identify who we are...

Pairing: Omega!Dean Winchester x Alpha!Reader

Written For: @spnkinkbingo

Square field: Omegaverse

Word Count: 1833

Beta’d By: @miss-nerd95! Thanks again hun!

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics

Rating: Explicit

Warning: Identity Crisis? ABO Dynamics, smut, unprotected smut, mention of past abusive parents. John’s A+ parenting, knotting, dirty talk, language, talk of sex change and presentation changes. Some self hate. I think that’s about it.

A/N: This is the first fic I’ve ever written like this one, even for ABO, and even though I’m sure they’re out there I’ve never read one quite like it. So, that being said, I’m pretty nervous about throwing this one out there for you guys! So I really do hope you enjoy it! Feedback is golden! Please do not copy my work! This is part 1, part 2 will drop later this week!!

My Masterlist My Patreon

Being a hunter was hard, regardless of anyone's presentation.

Dean had it a bit harder than most. It was bad enough when your father was John fucking Winchester, but if you were also born with the rare presentation of Omega, and you were a male on top of that, well, life was definitely not going to be in your favour.

Dean had been able to hide his presentation from his father for the most part. He had presented late. He was already 19, and only just an year ago had endured his first heat, which nearly scared him to death because he had thought he was a Beta up until that point.

Suppressants thankfully helped in keeping his scent from his Alpha father and Sammy was usually at Bobby’s most of the time. It was a lot harder to hide things from his little brother because he was with him 90 percent of the time, and had a knack to call him out when Dean was hiding something.

Why couldn’t he just be born a Beta? Hell, nothing was better than this, was it.

Male Omegas were rare, very rare, and usually went unwanted and almost never found a mate. It was almost impossible to find an Alpha female, because they were almost as rare as an Omega male and Dean had never been with a man before. It scared the fuck out of him that one day he might have to do just that in order to survive a heat. Then throwing pups into the equation with the life he lived and a not so supportive father? Fuck… This was bad, and he had to hide it and fight his biology as long as possible.

The night John found him in heat in a Denver motel room when he was only 22 years old was a night he tried to respress. John had been so...angry. Dean thought he was going to beat him to death; he was so angry. How could the son of John Winchester be a Beta after all? That was unacceptable.

It took almost a year for his father to look him in the eye again, and he had to work extra hard to prove that he could still follow orders, and could still hunt. It took him even longer to prove that his Omega presentation didn’t make him weaker than the Alphas they hunted with as well, and that he could hold his own.

Dean was larger than any male Omega they had ever seen, and that was a good thing. It meant John could hide the fact that his son was an Omega from other hunters. He was also just as strong as any Alpha male, and could carry himself with the same dominating demeanor when he needed too. It was a prodigy of being a child of war really. Cause that’s what this was, wasn’t it? War?

Years after John’s death, when Dean was around 35, he met you.

At first, he thought you were another Omega because you were too small and petite for an Alpha. That was until he caught your scent anyway. It threw him into an immediate heat, and he knew you were his. You took a little convincing, but after a while you came around to claiming your Omega. It was the first real knot Dean had ever taken, you made sure to keep his claiming mark low, because an Omega male hunter around other hunters was probably the equivalent of a black spot on a pirate. They would surely stop respecting him, if not kill him.

For years now, whenever Dean’s heat would come close, the two of you would go and hide away in one of Bobby’s old cabins so that you could take care of your Omega, and he’d be safe during his heat.

Pups were not an option for a hunter, regardless of whether the Omega was male or female. It just wasn’t wise. Dean was absolutely not for having pups, being knotted was nothing more than a means to an end for him, and he worked extra hard to keep up with all birth control. You even made sure to take it yourself, because being a female Alpha, you still oddly ran the risk of pregnancy, even if it were rare and a lot harder than it was for Dean to get pregnant, with him wanting no slips whatsoever. It was just too dangerous.

Normally you got through Dean’s heat without much trouble, in fact you enjoyed your time during them with him. It was the only time Dean would ever let his guard down and let you take care of him the way an Alpha should of their Omega.

This time though, it was different. The fever was a lot higher than usual. Dean was a lot more needy, and this heat was long, longer than his average anyway, and even Dean was getting frustrated.

As you lay on the bed next to him now, your knot still holding his body in place to your own, and your fingers brushing through his sweat dampened hair, you couldn’t help but notice how sad he looked. Honestly, it killed you. You wanted to make it better for him.

You’d reverse the roles if you could. You really would. You wouldn’t mind being an Omega, because in truth you hated being a female Alpha. There was no respect there as an Alpha, and it was tiring.

“You know, people are born the wrong genders. Males can sometimes identify as females and vice versa all the time. Do you think it’s possible to be born with the wrong presentation?” Dean asked, his voice low, as if he was ashamed of even thinking of the question.

You knew how Dean felt about his presentation, but you never would have guessed he would ask you that question, and for a moment it stumped you. Slowly, as to not hurt him, you withdrew his length from your body as your knot subsided, not bothering to get dressed because you knew he was going to need you again in less than an hour.

“Dean, I don’t know,” you told him honestly. “I mean, there’s a lot more than hormones and physical attributes that make up your presentation. It’s not as simple as a few operations and some hormone replacement therapy to change your biology. It’s something that’s part of you on a molecular level. I mean, what people who go through those types of changes is anything but easy, and they are damn brave for doing them, but as far as a presentation? I don’t know babe. That seems almost impossible.”

A high pitched whine escaped from his lips before he nuzzled deeper into your hair, and you couldn’t tell if it was his heat making him uncomfortable again, or if he was just that disappointed.

“If I ever found a way, would you still love me?” he asked, and you felt as if you had been kicked in the face. How could you not love him? He was a part of you. He was your everything, and if he found a way to change his presentation you wouldn’t love him any less if it made him happier. Hell, you’d love to change yours too! So how could he even ask you that question? What had you done wrong for him to think that?

“Dean,” you coo, coaxing him out of your neck where he was scenting you and forcing him to look at you.

You could see the Omega beneath was already crawling it’s way back towards the surface, and his cock was already twitching against your thigh, so you rolled him over on his back and start licking and kissing your way down his body until you reach his throbbing length, taking him in your hands and pumping him slowly before giving the tip a few kitten licks; reveling in the groan that fell from his lips.

“I’d love you no matter what presentation you would be. You know damn well I’d love to change mine if I could. How could I hate you. You’re mine. You were literally created for me, and whether I’m calling you Alpha, Omega or Beta makes no difference to me,” you tell him earnestly before taking his length as deep into your mouth as you could, sucking until he was clawing at the sheets beneigh thim.

“Fuck Alpha! Please! I need your knot,” Dean whimpered as he keened and arched into your touch as you licked your way up his torso to his lips, giving him a taste of himself as you captured his lips in yours before you sunk down on his ready length; swallowing up his little moans as you did .

“Gonna take good care of you Omega, and after this heat is over, we will see what we can do about that presentation problem. I promise.”

Dean's groans and grunts turned into a deep moan as you started to ride him earnestly, rising and falling on his cock at a faster pace with each passing minute. You ran your fingers over the pebbled skin of his chest as goose bumps arose with every wave of pleasure that racked through his body. God he was so beautiful, it was almost painful.

“You like that, baby,” you purred, leaning down long enough to run your tongue over his claiming mark, making him keen and grip your lips bruisingly. “Like the thought of me spread out real pretty for you, begging for your knot.”

“Fuck Alpha,” Dean cried, shuddering underneath you as you slowled your hips to an agonlizingly slowly roll over his, teasing him, and dragging out his release before your knot could lock you together again.

“Bet you do like that don’t you? Bet you would love to have fucking spread open on your knot, milking you and letting you fill me with your pups; calling me a good little Omega.”

Dean’s orgasm raced through his body as he cried out, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as your knot locked the two of you in place, and your own release made you breathless.

You helped Dean ride out his high, and when he fully came down, he slid the two of you on your sides so that you could lay there comfortably until you were able to release him.

“I love you Dean, I always will,” you promised him. “When this is over, I'll do everything in my power to fulfill my promise.”

Dean nuzzled into your hold, and you could feel his body instantly start to cool as his heat finally waned, allowing him to fall into an almost immediate sleep.

People should be identified by their genders, they should have the right to say when something feels off or different. Why should Dean and yourself be subjected to a biology that you don’t belong to.

There had to be a way, and you wouldn’t stop until you found it.

Forever Tags:

@deandreamernp

@forgetthisbull

@miraclesoflove

@deanwanddamons

@rvgrsbrns

@chevyharvelle

@onethirstyunicorn

@i-love-superhero

@lyss-dw79

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norahastuff · 4 years

Text

Damn that was a good episode. To me it’s felt like there’s been this great sense of dread hanging over this last stretch of episodes, and in an odd way it’s almost a relief to have it brought to the forefront like this.

I think many of us knew that following Billie’s plan was not going to work out. She’s just another cosmic being, a greater power and thus her priorities were always going to lie elsewhere. Chuck’s motivated by the desire for power and by his ego and narcissism. For Billie it’s about rules and order. They see humanity as inconsequential or perhaps in Billie’s case, an afterthought. Hence why following her plan was never going to work. The importance of humanity - the idea that each human matters and is worth something - as well as free will are the two main themes this show is built on. It will take someone who loves humanity and values free will to be able to fix this.

We’ve known that Chuck’s been orchestrating things, but I found it interesting to see how exactly he’d been doing that. This season has put a lot of focus on Dean’s anger. Dean had it drilled into him since he was a child that he was not allowed to be weak, that he had to be the strong one. This resulted in him gravitating towards other unhealthy coping mechanisms in order to survive, and when whiskey and denial weren’t enough, he used anger. He cloaked his fear, sadness and confusion under layers of rage because he didn’t know how else to confront these feelings.

Chuck knows this about Dean, but he also has a very surface level read on Dean and who he really is. Sure he can use Dean’s anger to manipulate him, but that’s not all Dean is. We’ve seen from his tearful prayer to Cas earlier this season:

“I don't know why I get so angry. I just know…I know that it’s- it's just always been there. And when things go bad, it just…it comes out. And I can't -I can't stop it. No matter how - how bad I want to, I just can't stop it.”

Underneath the anger, there’s pain and vulnerability, and when Dean allows himself to feel those things and be honest with himself that’s something Chuck doesn’t really understand, and that’s when Dean becomes unpredictable. Chuck’s relying on the versions of his characters that he created, not really getting that they go deeper than that now.

The ultimate example of this is Cas. Cas seemed to exist around the periphery this week, but honestly that’s exactly what I would have expected in an episode that was about the main characters in Chuck’s book. Cas wasn’t supposed to play a major role in any of this. Sam and Dean were. Amara was. Jack had the biggest role of all, but Cas wasn’t supposed to be in this story, and Chuck once again confirms he was never supposed to be in any of the stories.

Cas defecting was the one wild card that led to all the dominoes falling back in season 4 (ok yes I’m mixing metaphors but you get my point.) That made him an interesting toy for a while. Wind him up and watch him go. I found Chuck repeating Cas’ greatest one liner hilarious. He had such contempt in his voice and I think he was partly annoyed he could never write a line as epic as the one Cas effortlessly came up with. Actually Michael mocked that line last season too, both him and Chuck doing their best impressions of Cat’ gravelly delivery of “I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.”

I have no evidence to support this other than how irritated Chuck seemed by that line and also his famously bad writing skills. I also maintain that Chuck had no part whatsoever in crafting the magnificent “Hey assbutt!”

Cas was definitely not supposed to be in that part of the story.

But Cas no longer interests Chuck. He doesn’t fit into the story he wants to tell and so Chuck believes he has no place in it. And you know what? He’s right. Cas doesn’t fit into this story because he exists outside of it. His choices were his own. That gave him a power that no one else really had, and I think Cas has felt the weight of this for a long time. He knows what it’s like to have no free will, he lived that way for eons, and he also knows what breaking out of that feels like. His unfamiliarity with free will and how to navigate such a complicated concept led to him making choices he’s never been able to forgive himself for. It’s made him feel profound pain, guilt and confusion about his place in the world, if he even has one.

And yet as he’s told us over and over again, he wouldn’t take that back for anything.

“What would you rather have? Peace or freedom?”

We know what Cas would choose. What he continues to choose. He told Dean at the beginning of the season that he knew what was real “we are.” I don’t know if it was wise for Chuck to confirm just how right Cas actually was about that. Cas has spent this whole season thinking he had no role, no importance in the grand plan, but as he now learns, he’s had no place in any of the fights…and yet he’s never let that stop him before.

As a sidenote, I’m not saying much about this because I’m curious about whether the show will address this properly next week but I wonder how this affects Dean’s view of Cas. I don’t think Dean fully believed him earlier this season when Cas reassured him that they were real. As much as he loves and cares for Cas, Dean has always felt insecure about his place in Cas’ life and what he means to him.

So when Dean discovered that he had in fact just been a hamster in wheel being controlled by Chuck, it’s not too much of a surprise that he would start to question his relationship with the angel who literally fell from heaven and into his life. Although I know after their purgatory getaway, they were in a much better place, I think there was still a part of Dean that didn’t fully trust that the feelings were real. There has been so much mess and pain in the past with Cas, how is he to know how much of that was Chuck trying to create drama and how much of it was Cas’ own choices? Well now he knows. It all was. Every time Cas chose him over anything (or anyone) else, it was real.

This episode raised a lot of questions about Cas. Now I just have to try sit patiently and hope next week will answer some of them.

#spn meta #15x17 #castiel #dean winchester #destiel #actually not really but whatever #just in case #my spn thoughts #god has a beard #free will's an illusion #spn s15 spoilers

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pumpkinpiejack · 4 years

Text

A couple days ago I sent this ask to @lobotomycastiel and actually ended up writing it. It’s mainly about Dean, Claire, and baby Jack dealing with some of the pain of losing Cas.

You can also read it on AO3.

Three days.

Three days, Dean had been in charge of Jack. Three days since they found him smoldering the blankets on Kelly’s bed, sheets stained with blood. Three days since Dean had picked him up and refused to put him down.

Three days since Dean put Cas’s body on that pyre and watched it burn to nothing but ash and dust.

It stains everything he touches, streaks against Jack's baby pale skin, fingerprints on Sam’s clothes. The taste coating the back of his tongue. He can't escape it, can't drive fast enough to get rid of it. It lingers in the air around him and mocks him for his loss, but he still can’t seem to bring himself to wash it off.

Jack hasn't stopped crying since they lit the pyre. Dean prepared the body himself. He owed this to Cas after everything, to prepare his body right, to make sure his hands were gentle. He carried him out to the pyre too, a baby strapped to his chest, unnaturally quiet in the fading light of the sun.

Dean hadn't been able to finish it. His entire body stood curled around Jack, his face buried in the baby's soft hair as his hands shook so hard he couldn't light the match. He couldn't pour the salt, he couldn't hold the gas can.

His skin felt too tight for his body, like something was trying to escape, an animal in his chest scratching and clawing at the inside of his ribs and everything hurt.

Jack cries and he cries and he cries and Dean is thrown back into every shitty night on the road with Sam as a baby and he can't breathe. He remembers waking up at night to the same sound and curling up in a playpen that was far too small for both him and Sam. He wanted to make it better. He wanted to be able to help and make the crying stop.

But, the only time Jack stops is when Dean holds him and only when it's in a specific way. His tiny cheek needs to be pressed into Dean’s shoulder, just over Cas’s handprint and doesn't that just fucking hurt.

It aches in a whole new way, like he somehow senses Cas there.

The handprint itself has faded over the years. All the times he’s been healed and rebuilt from the inside out, and it is the only thing that remains. A discolored and slightly raised patch of skin that means more to him than any physical object on earth (besides his baby of course).

Three days. Two days to drive home and one day to prepare himself.

Sam made the call. Dean couldn't get Jack to stop crying long enough to do it himself, not without risking waking him up. Even with a day to prepare himself, it still wasn't nearly enough.

When Claire walks in it's like the floor falls out from underneath Dean’s feet. She’s a mess. Her eyes rimmed red, mascara and eyeliner streaking down her face and she looks like she drove straight through the night. Her hands shake, just like his as he hands Jack to Sam.

He holds him awkwardly, his hands too big, too unaccustomed to holding something so fragile. Dean could count the number of times Sam had held Jack on one hand. He couldn't be away from Dean for long or he would start crying, shrill shrieks that shake the very ground they stood on. Cries that cause the glass to rattle in its pane and nearly makes Dean’s ears bleed on more than one occasion.

“You look like a mess.”

“Says you.”

Touché. Dean hasn't slept either, hasn't showered, hasn't eaten. He drove 1,700 miles in two days, a crying baby strapped into his backseat the entire way. He knows he looks like shit. He still has ash smeared across his face, he can't seem to bring himself to wipe it away.

He can't bring himself to be far from Jack, can't stand him crying. He can't look at Jack, his eyes repeatedly drawn to the blue that is so familiar and so foreign all at once. He can't light a match. He can't think about his mom. He can't admit Cas is….

There's a lot he can't do right now.

Claire’s voice is quiet. It’s calm in all the ways that Dean knows that she isn't. He can see the rage boiling under the surface. The sadness, the grief all tangled into a little ball, locked away so deep inside of her that the only place it was visible was her eyes.

She tries to stay strong, but she still looks around as if she’s missing something, because the truth is, she is. She looks around the room searching for the same figure that he does every time he enters a room and they’ll never find it. Not now and never again.

He turns to tell Cas a joke, and he’s not there. He’ll see a blurry image of tan and black out of the corner of his eye and reach out with Jack, a mumbled thank god under his breath, but there’s never anyone there.

He’s just alone as she is, even with three other people in the room.

And then the dam breaks.

“How could you?” Dean keeps looking at her. He owes her that. He looks her in the eye and listens, because he owes her that. He watches as they fill with tears and, god, hers are the same as Jack’s. So similar but not quite right. Almost everything he could ever want and his chest burns.

Cas never cried, even when he was dying on the floor of that barn, black ooze streaming out of his mouth, skin rotting and flaking up the side of his neck, he didn't cry. He just looked at Dean with those blue eyes and told him he loved him, that he loved all of them.

They never got to talk about it.

“You were supposed to keep him safe!” Her voice breaks as she launches herself at him, her fists smacking against his chest, but he can't really feel it. Over and over and over she drives the side of her fist into his chest. Like a little kid throwing a tantrum. He makes no move to stop her, to grab her hands and still them. He just lets her. I owe her this, I deserve this. “You promised me you would keep him safe,” and all at once her anger is gone, washed away with her tears as she leans her head against his chest and she sobs. “How could you?”

Finally, Dean moves. He places a hand on the back of her head, careful of any indication that she didn't want to be touched, but she just leans in farther, collapses into his chest and sobs harder.

She’s so small, so young despite her fiery disposition, he could tuck her perfectly under his chin. Dean remembers feeling on top of the world at her age. Twenty years old and suddenly he could rule the world, tear it all down from the ground up and rebuild it in his own image if he wanted. But here she is, a perfect mirror of him and all he sees is a scared little kid.

He can hear Jack crying in the background, having reached his limit of being away from Dean.

Eventually, she pulls away, shoving him and turning to where Sam is holding Jack uncomfortably. Claire smears her makeup farther down her face. There is still anger in her eyes and part of it scares him. It was the same anger he had held the first time he laid eyes on Jack.

Part of him wanted to leave him there. Part of him wanted to do what he originally planned when he walked into that house gun in hand, but he knows he never would. Jack wasn't a monster. He wasn't anything more than a baby. He cried and screamed and had the tiniest hands and the bluest eyes and even just looking at him made Dean’s heart soften.

Something like that couldn't be a monster anymore than Sam could, or little Bobby John.

So, instead, he scooped Jack up, the baby's skin burning his own, a tiny handprint searing itself onto the skin of his left forearm.

“He looks like Cas.” Claire laughs, but it sounds more like a sob than anything. Jack seems to quiet as she draws closer, his blue eyes widening as he takes her in. He’s so small in Sam's arms, blinking and whimpering as his crying petered down to nothing.

“Yeah he does.” Dean’s voice is rough as he reaches out to take Jack from Sam’s arms.

Sam is looking at the two of them, his eyes flickering between them as if it was a tennis match, a furrow between his brows. He is probably just as confused as Dean is.

Jack doesn't just stop crying. He either cries so much that he passes out or Dean spends hours with him pressed against the last fading remnants of the handprint, humming and rocking him. To see him just fade off while still awake was damn near a miracle.

Claire collapses in one of the chairs around the radar and holds out her arms expectantly.

“Come on, then.” Dean lets out a huff of laughter, or something as close to it as he's gotten since everything. He moves closer with Jack in his arms and slides him into Claire’s. Jack coos and waves his hands around. It's the uncontrolled movements of a newborn, more of a muscle spasm than anything, and Claire snorts out another little laugh as he accidentally smacks her collarbone.

“He’s so calm.” Sam's voice is awed.

Dean is right there with him, Jack isn't crying, he isn't uncomfortable. For the first time, he seems almost happy. He curls closer to her and lets out the tiniest yawn, his eyes crunching closed. Claire looks mesmerized. She gives Jack her fingers and he wraps his whole hand around them.

“I'm staying.” Claire says suddenly, eyes still locked with Jack’s. She can't seem to look away and neither can he.

“Okay.” And it’s as simple as that.

Three days. 84 hours, with no more sleep than a cat nap here and there and yet he still couldn’t seem to fall asleep. Every time he tries, he manages to get five steps away from Jack’s bassinet before he starts to scream and he couldn't exactly sleep with the baby on him, not when he could wake up from a nightmare fighting.

So he wanders the bunker. Up and down through the levels, crisscrossing through the hallways. Jack is tucked up against his shoulder like always. The thumb of the handprint brushes against his cheek in the mockery of a caress. He’s whimpering slightly, but at the very least he hasn’t completely started crying yet.

Dean reaches the kitchen only to find it already occupied. Claire is perched on the counter, a beer in one hand and the other wiping away another round of tears. Dean debates leaving her there, but finds that he can’t.

He’s been there more than a handful of times and during each one he was constantly torn between wanting to be left the fuck alone and wanting someone to notice. He wanted someone to realize that he wasn’t doing okay, to sit there with him as he broke apart. He never wanted to talk, didn’t want to cry in front of them, but realizing that someone cared enough to notice his downward spiral always seemed to help in its own fucked up way.

So, Dean pulls the bottle from her loose fingertips and puts on a pot of coffee. Claire makes grabby-hands at him until he relents, handing over Jack who just coos and twines his hands into her leather jacket. Well, Dean’s leather jacket. The same one she had snagged from his closet not too long ago, as if he wouldn’t notice. Jack immediately falls more silent than he’s been all day, his eyes sliding shut with another yawn that is far too big for his tiny body.

She’s so good with him already, her hands gentle as they shush him.

Claire thinks her hands are made for violence, for torture, for killing, for hunting. She thinks that’s all they’ll ever really be good for. She’s a predator, a soldier, made for a war that she didn’t know existed until it ruined her life. But those hands are also for protecting, for comforting, for saving.

She is good, at her core. Gentle and loving and all of Dean and Cas and Sam and Jody and Donna’s good traits all mixed into one girl who stands before him. A better person than he’ll ever be.

She’s stolen his bad traits too, the same way she stole that jacket. Put it on as a layer of protection against the world. It’s too big for her, doesn’t fit quite right, because it’s not hers and it’s not Dean’s either. It was too big for Dean too when he first put it on 20 years ago and he doesn’t know if he ever actually grew into it, or just thinks he did.

Together, they sit, shoulder to shoulder and don't say anything and that’s enough for the both of them. They drink their coffee until they can blame their shaking hands on that and listen to Jack’s even breathing.

Dean doesn’t move, even as Claire rests her head against his shoulder, the same shoulder Jack does, and he feels the tears soak in.

Four days. 96 hours and Jack finally manages to fall asleep without crying.

Nine days.

Nine days and he’s barely surviving. He can’t move, he can’t breathe, he can’t exist without something tearing at him from the inside out. But, he continues on anyway.

So many things he can’t do. So many contradictions that have slowly become his life.

Claire and him have a system. They work like a machine, two parts of the same person. They don’t look at each other, they can’t. Dean sees all the ways she looks like Cas, all the ways she looks like him, and she sees all the ways he’s failed her.

But they work together, anyway, for Jack.

And that scares him too.

It’s hard to see her with him and not see himself reflected back. He was a lot younger when he first had to learn how to change a diaper or make a bottle but she’s still too young to have that responsibility thrown onto her.

Claire takes to it like she takes to everything else: a fake grin that he can spot from a mile away and a sly joke.

She pours formula into the bottle and he gets his bath ready and at night they sit together on the counter and they watch over Jack. On the nights they manage to sleep he can hear her sneak into his room and pass out in the chair closest to Jack’s bassinet. Four hours later, he guides her into the bed and takes up her spot.

It never fails to make him feel like shit when she steals Jack’s from his hands. Makes him feel like John.

Dean doesn’t tell Sam this, but he somehow knows, the same way he always does.

Sam looks at him as he looks at Claire and marches up to him with a furrow in his brow and Dean knows that he’s not going to like whatever comes out of Sam’s mouth next.

“Can we talk?”

“No.” Sam gives him a harsh look and grabs his arm, dragging him out of the room anyway, down the hall and around the corner so their voices won’t travel.

“Sam, I said no.” Dean doesn’t even have the strength to pull his arm out of Sam’s grip, he’s just so tired.

“Yeah, well, I don’t care.” Sam leans against the wall across from him, his hands open by his side, his shoulders slouched. “Look at me, Dean, you need to let Claire help you.”

“I have.”

“No you haven’t.” Sam sighs and runs a hand through his hair. Dean really wants to take a pair of clippers to it. “She helps you, but you don’t let her.”

“Well, maybe it’s because it’s not her responsibility.” Dean crosses his arms, feet squared, even as he sways slightly.

“And it’s somehow yours? Dean, we were all friends with Cas.”

Were, were, were. Past tense, always past tense because Cas is gone. He’s not coming back, he’s ash and bone on a beach 20 hours away, and Dean took a shower but he can still somehow taste it on the back of his throat. His burns sting when he moves his hands. The handprint of his forearm reminds him of the one on his shoulder and he can’t breathe.

“Yes.” Dean chokes out. “Yes. He’s my responsibility and I’m not going to push that onto someone else just because I want to drink or sleep or go on a hunt.”

Dean watches as Sam’s entire face goes blank. He shuts down for a moment before coming back to life all at once, like a computer rebooting itself after it’s been overloaded.

“Dean.” It’s Sam’s turn to choke out the word. “Dean you're not dad.” Dean bolts upright and suddenly wants to punch something. He wants to scream and yell and feel the crunch of wood and bone under his feet.

He doesn’t even have the excuse of the Mark of Cain this time. Just his own shitty emotions getting the better of him.

“I’m not talking about this.”

“Yes we are.” Sam catches Dean's sleeve and Dean nearly socks him on principle. “Dean letting people help you isn't bad, that’s what new parents do. Claire isn’t four, she can choose whether she wants to help or not and right now she wants to help. So let her.”

Dean knows. He knows for as much as Claire acts like him, she isn’t him, but it’s hard to divorce the two ideas when he looks at her everyday and sees a mirror.

She’s been getting more frustrated over the week because Dean won’t let her help. She has to push her way through him in order to do anything useful. Dean can’t stop her from staying awake but he can make sure that he gets everything done before she does so she doesn’t have to.

Dean doesn’t want Claire to feel like she needs to help just because she can calm Jack down. She deserves to have her own life. To go out and hunt and have fun if she wants to and not have to take care of a newborn that is needier than most. But no matter what he does, she’s still right there next to him, trying to help in any way she can.

Dean rips his arm out of Sam’s grip and marches back to where Claire is holding a whimpering Jack. His eyes glow gold ever so often, but she just shushes him with a kiss on the forehead.

Claire already loves that kid. Loves him enough that she would put his life before hers. And you know what? Dean can’t even bring himself to blame her when he made the same choice at four.

Dean collapses into the chair next to her and reaches out to grab him.

“Do you want to go get his bottle ready while I try to keep him settled?” The smile she sends his way is worth more than anything.

“So I’ve been trying to find out why you two, in particular, calm Jack down so much.” Sam’s voice echoed through the bunker, breaking the suffocating silence they’ve been in for so long. He stares at the two perched in their usual spot on the counter, a single mug of coffee teetering between them, lipstick smears on one side.

They look like shit.

In sync they give him a raised eyebrow. Claire passes Jack over to Dean, the baby snuffling in his sleep, and snatches the coffee cup from his hand. She makes sure to twist it before taking a drink, lining up with the lipstick mark already there.

“Well back when that whole thing happened like four years back, we found out that angels leave a bit of grace behind.”

No.

“And that handprint was a direct tie from soul to grace.”

No.

“I think he’s reacting to Cas’s grace that remains inside of you. He obviously bonded with Cas before he was even born you remember the park as well as I do. It must calm him down, since Cas isn’t-”

Claire bolts up and Dean sees the coffee cup tip in slow motion, spilling down to the floor with a crash. She’s angry.

She’s so fucking angry it’s like looking in a mirror.

Dean can’t even blame her when she leaves. Walks right out of the kitchen and he can hear the front door slam echoing throughout the entire bunker. He’s just as mad. He wants to rage, he wants to throw the mug against the wall, he wants to scream because Cas left.

He left them with a kid and a piece of himself embedded underneath Dean’s skin that he can never get out. And he left.

He’s gone, turned to ash and dust on the wind and never coming back. No begging and pleading and praying will help them this time. It won’t get him back, it won’t get this piece of Cas under his skin out.

All he gets is the shitty consolation prize of a piece of his best friend's soul under his skin and the grief that keeps him on the teetering edge of insanity. All he gets is his family more broken than before and apparently a connection to a twenty year old who would sooner wish him dead than help her.

All he gets is flashes of something familiar out of the corner of his eye that disappears as soon as he turns and a lingering figure standing behind him in the mirror. Dean has stopped reacting to it. He’s stopped spinning wildly at the sight only to find no one there, he finds he can’t take the disappointment, the heartbreak.

But instead, he chases Claire out the front door, because honestly he can’t take another loss. Not right now.

Jack is still in his arms, working himself up into crying as Claire gets further away.

They catch up to her halfway down the road, her shoulders shaking with the force of holding back her sobs.

“Claire, stop.” Dean calls out and she stops walking but doesn’t turn. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” She nearly shouts it, somehow curling in on herself farther. “It’s not okay. It’s always something new and I can’t.”

“Claire-”

“Don’t look at me.” Claire begs and Dean gets it. He does want anyone to see him cry either so he turns around and presses his lips into Jack’s hair.

“I just-” Claire starts and stops like a car sputtering to life and he can hear her growing more frustrated with every breath. “I keep-” Finally she breaks and lunges forward. Dean thinks she’s going to start hitting him again, like the first day she showed up, but she just rests her forehead between his shoulder blades.

“I keep losing everything.” Claire starts. “I lost my dad for a year and then he comes back and I lose him again and this time it’s my fault.” Dean doesn’t interrupt but he wants to tell her it’s okay. That none of this is her fault. That it was his, and Sam’s, and Cas’s but not hers. Never hers. “My dad wanted to protect me so he let Cas in again and now he’s dead and my mom couldn’t even look at me. She blamed me, I could tell. If I had just said no- but, she left too and now she’s dead. And Randy is dead and now Cas is dead too and I keep losing.” She’s sobbing now, her arms tucked up between her chest and Dean’s back. He’s tempted to turn around, but she doesn’t seem to be done.

“Every time I have Jack it’s like suddenly I’m okay, like I’m whole again. I feel like he’s not actually gone, like I’ll turn around and he’ll be there, the stupid look on his face.” She presses closer, and gently knocks her head into his back over and over again. “And now I know it’s not even because of me, I’m not getting better. It’s just this piece of grace still in me that’s making me think that way and I can’t. I just ca-”

“I know.” Dean finally spins and tucks her under his chin. Jack is squished between them, his eyes glowing gold in the fading light of the sun. They’d have to get back inside soon or he’d get cold. But for now, he just holds the two of them close. She tucks herself impossibly closer, her hands gripping the back of his shirt like a lifeline. “Trust me I know. My dad made a deal to protect me and I still haven’t forgiven him to this day, even though I’ve done the same for Sammy more times than I’d like to admit.”

“That guilt never goes away.” He admits, and presses a kiss to the crown of her head. He wishes Charlie where here. She always seemed to know what to do. “You’ll never forget the people who have sacrificed themselves for you. You’ll love them and hate them and want them back and never want to see them again and it’ll always be confusing.”

“Are you trying to make me feel better.” She laughs and it’s one of the best sounds in the world. It makes the knot in Dean’s chest unclench just a fraction so he can laugh back.

“Yeah I am, because we’ll figure it out together. You have us now and if anyone knows about survivors guilt it me and Sam.” Claire let’s out another laugh and Dean presses another kiss to her head before pulling away. “Come on we have to get back inside before it gets too cold for him.” Claire nods and wipes away the majority of her tear tracks before making the same grabby hands she always does.

Dean slides Jack into her arms and pulls her in for another hug.

“Together?” He makes a sweeping gesture back to the bunker and she snorts.

“Together.”

#baby jack truthing #my writing #Dean Winchester #claire novak #sam winchester #widower arc #I had a lot of fun writing this #helped me avoid my micro bio hw lmao #I’ve been thinking of writing the scene where they pick Cas up in this au too but also who knows #I need to write something besides baby jack #I have a problem #my post #ALSO!!!#HAPPY BIRTHDAY JESS!!!#I wish I would have known I could have written or drawn you something special :(

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estrel · 4 years

Text

The Christmas Compromise

merry christmas, @lilliankayl !! ‘tis i, your secret santa! this ended up getting a little long, so there will be multiple parts up...soon. here’s the first one, which you will also eventually be able read on ao3 when it’s complete. hope you enjoy!!

Part One.

Dean feels his mouth start to form a lazy smile.

Through the winter chill and the foggy annoyance that his blankets are skewed around him to provide the least amount of heat and warmth, there is a distant recognition that the smell of coffee in the air isn’t just any brew.

Despite the effort to untangle the sheets from his legs and feet, Dean manages to bare his skin to the winter cold of his room, provided the damage to his heater. He makes a mental note to fix that later, after they come back. Dean can last a few days until then.

He can practically see his breath hanging in the air when he yawns, pulling on warmer clothes as quickly as his stiff muscles and numb fingertips will allow him. Sweats, then t-shirt, then hoodie, because he isn’t expected to be anywhere until later and he can always change before that if he needs to.

Better to die comfy than in plaid.

It’s early morning, judging by the darkness outside and Dean’s alarm clock that blinks 5:30 AM at him in white block numbers, but he can’t find it in himself to care that he’s awake to see hell freeze over. Lucky for him, there’s a quick fix to his sleepiness less than twenty feet away.

The socks take entirely too long to fit onto his feet. When they finally do, Dean yanks his door open and pads down the hall, stopping at the entrance to his kitchen.

It’s a modest kitchen—a modest home, really, but it does it’s job—and it’s empty save for an occupied chair at the kitchen table.

Dean stares for a second.

He’s allowed to notice clothes and posture before that second is disrupted by Miracle making a racket coming into the kitchen, and Cas turns to face them.

“Morning,” Dean greets him. The smell of coffee is much stronger here, and Dean can feel his mouth beginning to water.

Cas pushes a full mug towards Dean’s seat.

“Good morning, Dean. I made you—”

“My favorite brew,” Dean finishes for him. He sits, letting his fingers thaw under the ceramic of the mug and breathing in the heavy scent of Cas’ coffee.

“It’s everyone’s favorite brew,” Cas says, taking a sip from his own cup. “That’s why it’s the priciest.”

Dean levels a look at him.

“I have to make money somehow,” Cas defends.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean waves him off, bringing the drink to his lips. The first taste is hot—too hot—and it burns his throat on the way down.

“You never learn,” Cas says. Dean doesn’t need to meet his eyes to know that they’re squinting at him. “You’ve been burning your tongue on my coffee for years, you’d think it’d make an impact by now.”

Dean only frowns and mumbles into his coffee something about “not every time,” to which Cas rolls his eyes.

They can only pretend to be angry with each other for a few more minutes before it subsides into companionable silence. Dean lightly kicks Cas’ foot under the table to get his attention.

“You gonna need a ride to work?”

Cas sets his mug down and shrugs. He’s still in his night clothes: a white t-shirt—Dean has never understood how Cas can stand the cold—and borrowed sweats, but he’ll probably burrow through more of Dean’s wardrobe to get his outfit for today. The guy might as well live here with the amount of time he spends at Dean’s place and the fact that Dean’s closet is practically Cas’, too, now.

I could always just ask him…

Dean swallows the last of his drink and stands before he can contemplate the question again. He busies himself at the sink, and then ducks under the counter to get Miracle’s food from the cabinet.

“Yes,” Cas says eventually, evidently having gone through every other option before arriving at that one. “Is it a bother?”

Dean pokes his head over the counter to look at him.

“No, man, you know I like driving Baby around. Besides, I’ve got some shopping to do, and, y’know…”

“Free breakfast,” Cas adds for him, a teasing note in his voice. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the muffins that go missing every time you drop by.”

Dean sets down Miracle’s food and whistles softly, standing straight once Miracle trots into the room and to his bowl to eat.

“Hey,” he points a finger at Cas, “Consider it a compromise since you never pay for gas.”

“It’s not like I haven’t offered,” Cas meets Dean by the sink to wash his cup out. “Do you want me to pay for gas, Dean?”

He’s standing close in that way that Cas always stands close—in the way that Dean has stopped correcting for years now. That’s just how he is, he reminds himself, and puts visible effort into keeping his eyes trained on Cas’ blue ones.

“No,” he says, “You don’t need to pay for gas. All I’m asking is that you look the other way when I happen to find a cookie just laying there for the taking. Do that, and it’s free rides for life.”

“When you say ‘laying there,’ I assume you mean in the casing, behind the counter, where only employees are allowed,” Cas sasses back, face stripped of emotion except for the slight furrow to his brow. Imperceptible, if it wasn’t Dean that was staring.

“So now I’m an employee?” Dean asks, finally pulling away from their bubble to pretend to clean the counter. “Jee, Cas, you shoulda told me. I would have put my apron on.”

Cas punches him lightly on the shoulder, done with washing his cup but fingers still wet from doing so. It leaves an imprint on Dean’s hoodie, which Dean acts like he hates, but it gives him a motive to attack Cas back.

They scuffle, elbowing each other and pushing each other around the kitchen—Dean even manages to try for a few tickles to Cas’ armpits and stomach, but still to no avail—until Miracle joins in and they stop so as to not accidentally step on a paw.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Cas says, once they’re done with the rough housing. Patting Dean’s back once, he leaves the kitchen and enters Dean’s room down the hall.

Warmer, now, with the extra movement in him, Dean leans against the counter to catch his breath. At least that’s what he tells himself, watching Cas mill around from door to door until he hears the bathroom shut and the shower start.

When Dean is sure that Cas is out of hearing range, he pulls out his phone.

“Bitch,” Dean starts, pressing the cold surface to his ear and cheek.

“Jerk.”

He smiles. “How’s it goin’?”

“Same old, same old. Got a case about to close up here real soon, so. Expect to see me at the Bunker in a few days.”

“You’ll be there,” Dean confirms. “Glad to hear it.”

“And you? Everything good?”

Dean shifts at the accusatory tone in Sam’s voice.

“Yeah, man. All good. Shop’s runnin’ just fine. Bobby says hi.”

A huff of laughter. “He still kickin’ your ass?”

Dean nods, even though Sam can’t see him. “Bobby’s Bobby. You know how he is, never a moment’s rest. Come to think of it, I actually had to remind him that it’s Christmas this week. The guy was asking if I’d be in on Friday. Had to tell him he wouldn’t be in on Friday, crazy bastard.” He hears Sam chuckle. “Oh hey, by the way, I think Rufus is coming with this year.”

“Really? Haven’t seen him since—”

“Yeah, I know. Well, he’ll be there—you can recount the tall tales of Rufus and Sammy to everyone as a Christmas present.”

There’s a pause, and Dean checks to see if the call had cut off before returning his phone to his ear.

“—coming?”

“Sorry, what?”

“Is Cas coming?”

Dean hears the shower shut off. The guy makes quick work.

“I was assuming,” he says.

“Well, you should ask.”

“Why?” Dean scoffs, “It’s pretty much a given, dude, he always comes.”

He can practically feel Sam’s eye roll over the phone.

“What?”

“I dunno, Dean, c’mon. You can’t just expect him to come whenever you call. He’s got his own family, you know, and—”

Dean grimaces, folding an arm over his chest. “No, he doesn’t. We’re his family. Those dickheads are—” He sighs, tries to contain the outburst before it can be unleashed. In…out.

“Trust me, Sam, he doesn’t want to see them. He’ll be at ours on Friday.”

“Dean—”

“Nice talkin’ to you, Sammy. I’ve gotta go, taking Cas to work.”

“Wait, he’s there?! Hang on a second—”

“Bye!”

He cuts the call before he can hear another word out of Sam, and just in time to see Cas in the bathroom doorway. He’s looking at Dean with his head tilted curiously, and Dean’s breath immediately catches in his chest.

“Was that Sam?” he asks. As if his hair isn’t all wet and towel-rustled, as if he isn’t dressed in Dean’s clothes.

“Yeah,” Dean croaks. He clears his throat. “Yeah, yes. He says hi.”

“I’m sorry I missed him,” Cas frowns, making his way over to Dean. Dean stills.

“It’s six,” Cas continues, “I should be at work by seven, if you can manage it.”

When Dean just stares back, Cas adds, “You should get dressed.”

“What’s wrong with this?”

“You’ve been wearing that hoodie for three days straight and you’re beginning to smell like Miracle,” he deadpans. “Go shower, I can wait.”

Dean pushes himself off the counter and brushes past him. “Thanks, Cas. How considerate.”

When Dean parks Baby in front of Heaven and Hell Cafe, he does so in his grey henley and several layers of long-sleeves, with jeans that do nothing to combat the cold.

Shivering, he follows Cas inside, and warmth envelops them upon entry, along with the jingle of the door bell.

“Cas!” comes a familiar voice. Dean hears more than sees a set of doors opening, and Jack is suddenly in front of them wearing a huge smile.

“Oh, Dean! Good to see you,” Jack lifts a hand in greeting, but it looks more like he wants a hug. Dean smiles back at him and waves.

“Hey, kiddo. Everything alright?”

Jack nods. “Yes. Although, I…I do need to see Cas for a second.”

“Oh, um. Of course.” Cas glances at Dean with a look that says ‘I’ll be right back,’ and follows Jack through the double doors that lead to the kitchen.

Dean trails after them half-way, stopping behind the counter to sleuth after some morning treats. He decides on what he thinks is a cinnamon roll, pulling it out of the casing and shutting the door as quickly as he’d opened it.

He stuffs the pastry in his hoodie’s pocket for later, and thanks the universe that it’s wrapped and won’t get covered in fuzz this time (he’d learned the hard way).

“—makes sense. Just let me know if anything changes.”

Cas appears through the doors looking slightly stressed. Dean fights to urge to get up and soothe, to run his hands across Cas’ shoulders and ease the tension there.

“You good?” Dean checks instead. Cas nods.

“Fine. Just…It’s fine. Didn’t you say you had shopping to do?”

“Are you kickin’ me out?” he jokes.

“No, but the shop opens in thirty minutes. Feel free to stick around if you’d like.” Cas’ eyes drop to Dean’s crotch area, and he quickly looks down to see what Cas is looking at.

“You can eat that here. No point in hiding it since the gig is up.” Dean lets out a breath. Cas had been staring at the lump in Dean’s hoodie pocket, where Dean was keeping his breakfast. What happened to ‘looking the other way?’

“Thanks, but you’re right, I should probably get going. I’ve gotta do errands and be at the shop later to work for a few hours. You coming over tonight?”

Cas pauses in the middle of putting his apron on, contemplating the question.

“No,” he says slowly. “Not tonight.”

Dean tries not to frown. Suddenly the weight of his phone in his pocket is ten times heavier than it was a few seconds ago. ‘Well, you should ask,’ the little voice inside his head that sounds like Sam, says. He sighs softly.

“How about, um. You’re—you’ll be there on Friday, right? Do you need a ride? I was planning on leaving on Thursday, if you wanted to come with. I know Claire’s heading out earlier. Jody, and all them, too…so.” Dean forces himself to meet Cas’ eyes. Something in his chest feels tight when he notices Cas’ expression has only gotten worse.

“I,” Cas starts, gaze falling to his shoes. “I don’t know, Dean.”

That thing in Dean’s chest solidifies and sinks to his stomach, settling there uncomfortably.

“Don’t know what?”

Cas starts rummaging through the bakery cases, adjusting things that don’t need to be adjusted, meticulously cleaning crumbs from platters and making sure the little banners with the pastry names on them are all straight and perfect.

“If I’ll be able to go,” he says finally, not looking up. “It’s the holidays and I’m busy here this season, people have been ordering pastries for Christmas, and I don’t know if I plan to close on Christmas day, because my regulars might want to come in still, and—“

“Cas,” Dean stops him, leaning over the counter. Cas notices and lightly tries to push him off so he can start on the counters, but Dean grabs his wrist to get his attention.

“You’re going to work yourself to death, man. It’s the holidays. Your regulars will understand if you don’t show up on Christmas, okay? And you’ve never had this issue any other year, so...” Dean makes Cas look at him. “What’s really bothering you?”

to be continued...

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#okay quick note:#i hate this sdfnjhsdf #i think its Not My Best and for that you have my apologies #i blame it on not having written fiction for like two weeks and instead writing like.#18 pages worth of essays #so. ANYHOW #i will probably come back to this and fix some things idk but i hope it suffices for now!#rambleoncas writing #destiel #spnfamsecretsanta

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heyyy-hey-babyyy · 4 years

Text

When We Were Young (Part II)

Dean x Fem!Reader; Sam x Fem!Reader (platonic)

Read part I here

Warnings: Angst, Mentions of trauma/abuse, brief moments of self-harm, mentions of anxiety attack

Summary: Dean, Sam, and Y/N grew up together, but when she’s taken away for over 10 years, the boys have no idea what she’s been through. Will asking her to move into the bunker with them reveal more than she’s ready for?

You slammed the door behind you, slipping down it’s smooth surface allowing the tears to fall. What is wrong with me? Not only had you completely embarrassed yourself in front of Dean, but you yelled in his face. He had to be furious with you. You’d be lucky if he spoke to you again.

Minutes passed with you continuing to spiral, your head banging softly against the wooden door of it’s own accord. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. The rhythm was soothing, and you felt your eyelids start to droop when you heard and felt a different type of knocking, more anxious. More aggressive. You tensed thinking it was Dean. You couldn’t face him yet.

“Y/N?” You heard softly through the door. Sam. Of course. You didn’t answer, but you stopped the rhythmic slamming of your own head against the door.

You heard a soft sign and a thud as Sam must have placed his forehead against the door.

“Y/N, please. Dean said you hurt your hand... let me help.” You paused, your hands pressed flat on the cold tile floor. Hurt your hand?

Looking down you gasped seeing the angry red blisters forming on your right hand, and suddenly, as if a switch were flipped, you felt the pain of the grease burning your hand and you cried out sharply, grasping the injured hand to your chest. You felt the tears streaming down your face again, as you sobbed loudly, your hand throbbing with pain.

“Y/N!” Sam was shouting now, hearing you cry on the other side of the door. You couldn’t move afraid of the sharp pain you felt moments ago, but you were also afraid of Sam breaking down the door with you leaning against it, his pounding fists growing louder. You scooted slowly away from the door on your butt until you felt the soft side of your mattress. Leaning against it you let out another cry more out of frustration for the situation you put yourself in then the pain of your hand. In that moment you needed someone there with you, but couldn’t ask for it as you continued to spiral into your own mind. You clenched your injured fist tightly letting out another cry of pain.

Luckily, it was Sam at your door and not Dean, so he simply picked the lock and entered moments after your mind shut itself down and you lay limp on the cool tile. You heard the door open with a creak, and felt the draft as Sam rushed in, kneeling down next to you and wasting no time, grabbing your injured hand in his. You looked up at him with blank eyes, barely seeing him.

“It’s okay, Y/N,” Sam muttered, as he unballed your injured fist slowly and began applying a cool cream to the raised blisters that instantly soothed your hand. You were beginning to recognize where you were again, and let out a quiet sob, gaining Sam’s attention. He was carefully checking over your hand moving it this way and that in the light to make sure he covered all of the blisters with the burn cream. But his eyes didn’t stay on your hand the entire time. From his position, you could see he was glancing back toward the door. Glancing back at someone. It dawned on you all at once.

“Don’t let Dean see me!” You called out, not able to control the volume of your voice. You hadn’t meant for it to come out quite as offensive as it did, but clearly Dean heard you loud and clear, slamming your door behind him. Sam looked at you, grimacing when the door slammed loudly.

“I hadn’t meant it like that.” You whispered aloud continuing to beat yourself up over the entire situation.

“I know,” Sam breathed out. “Let’s get you up in bed and I’ll wrap your hand.”

You nodded, and felt Sam’s arm snake around your shoulders and help you to a sitting position, then up to your feet. You were shaky, but held yourself up while Sam pulled back your sheet and comforter. You slipped under them, and Sam sat on the edge of your bed wrapping your hand with soft gauze. When he was finished, you thanked Sam quietly, and he ran a hand gently through your hair, tucking it behind your ear, before leaving your room and closing the door softly behind him. You didn’t sleep that night.

—————————————————-

Since that morning, Dean hadn’t met your eye level and never tried to touch you again. You didn’t blame him, but you missed just friendly hugs or the way he would softly ruffle your hair as he passed on his way to the garage or something. And you missed looking into his bright green eyes each morning and being awarded with a Dean Winchester smile. You didn’t know what to say to him, or how to tell him you were sorry, without it developing into a conversation you didn’t want to have. So you kept quiet, and went about your life. The bunker was quiet as the boys did the same and when they went on a hunt, leaving you behind at your request, the bunker was deafening, with only your demons in the closet to keep you company.

As the weeks went by, you began to spiral even more. Every sound the bunker made, which you thought you had gotten used to months ago, had you cowering or hiding in your room. You hadn’t ever dealt with your past, and living alone for all those years was what you were used to. The nightmares only got worse. In every one you were trapped in the same room, in the same dark closet, with the same people over and over again. And it never ended. Every time you closed your eyes, it was like watching an old VHS. It would start from where you jolted awake the night before.

Which was exactly what just happened. You shot upright in bed with a short scream that you cut off quickly, straining your ears to make sure you hadn’t woken the boys. Glancing at the clock on your bedside table you saw it was barely 1:30am, but you knew you wouldn’t allow yourself to go back to sleep. Not when the same situation was waiting for you behind closed eyes. With a heavy sigh you lifted yourself off of the bed, resigning to a night of research. Sam needed some help with some of the symbols they had found deep in the bunker last week anyway.

You creaked open your door as soundlessly as you could, and stepped out into the cold hallway. The air let out a soft groan and you squeaked, mentally kicking yourself to shut up, as you were right outside of Dean’s room and the door was cracked. You slapped a hand quickly over your mouth hoping he didn’t hear you when you heard the springs in his bed creak and you sighed, hearing his footsteps coming toward you.

“Y/N?” He asked, peeking his head out of the door his hair looking adorably sleep mussed. You smiled to yourself, and Dean smiled back for the first time in weeks. Your knees went a little weak, and you realized he was asking you a question.

“Uh, hey,” you awkwardly replied, shuffling your feet a little, unsure where this conversation was heading, but figured you’d be honest for once. “I couldn’t sleep, so I was going to go see if I could get anywhere with those ancient symbols for Sam.” Dean let out an “ah” sound in reply, and you shrugged your shoulders, beginning to walk away, when you saw Dean reach for you out of the corner of your eye, but he held back. Feeling guilty, you stopped and turned toward him.

“Uh, listen. Can we talk for a sec?” He looked nervous as he asked, but once the words were out he looked you in the eye, both resolute and unwavering, telling you there wasn’t much choice. You nodded and he gestured to let you into his room.

Dean’s room was warmer than yours, more homey, and you inhaled leather and whiskey right off. You missed being in his room. After your moment, you hadn’t been invited for movie night with him anymore. You understood, but being in here made you think of his booming laughter echoing off the walls and the sound of candy being shaken into eager hands. It reminded you of childhood with your best friend. The thought made you tear up, but Dean cleared his throat and you choked back the tears turning back toward him.

“Y/N, what’s going on with you?” He looked uncomfortable again and you shrugged your shoulders in response, feigning ignorance to what he was talking about. Dean sighed in his typical ‘no nonsense’ way, and scrubbed a hand down his face.

“Don’t do that.” He sounded exhausted and you felt a bit guilty in that moment thinking you had also kept Dean up just as much as you kept yourself up. “I know you better than anyone, baby. I always have. Just tell me what’s going on.” You had been looking down at the floor, but looked into his eyes when he used his nickname for you. You don’t know me as well as you think you do, Dean.

You took a deep breath, ready to sweep this whole situation under the rug and get back to normal life, normal Dean, normal Sam. Normal Y/N.

“Honestly, Dean,” you had a smile lightly plastered to your face and hoped it was convincing, at least in the dim lighting. “Nothings going on. I think all of the hunting has just been getting to me, and I started having some nightmares. The morning a couple weeks ago was nothing, you just caught me off guard. It’s not a big deal.” You decided to tell him like an eighth of the truth, and hope it worked, but you could tell by the way he flared his nostrils that he knew you were lying.

“You think I don’t notice, Y/N, but I do. I see the way you flinch at small sounds, or when Sam brushes against you without you knowing it. It’s like you’re afraid of your own shadow lately. And you think no one hears you at night, but we hear when you have nightmares and the things you scream...” He trailed off looking uncomfortable for the millionth time tonight and you were starting to lose patience that he wouldn’t just drop the situation. But what he had said was beginning to stick in your mind.

“What I scream? What are you talking about?” You had been certain that every time you woke up from a nightmare you cut the scream off instantly. Certain that you weren’t waking the boys. Had you been wrong?

Dean looked like he regretted saying anything, but he looked deep in your eyes, letting you know he was telling the truth. “You scream out for someone to stop... begging ‘no’ and ‘not again.’ Y/N... It sounds like someone is or has been abusing you. Over and over...” He finished and looked straight into your eyes, like Sam did when he was younger, trying to read you. But you were determined for him not to see how much truth there was to his words.

“Uh, look, I’m feeling really tired. I think I’ll try to sleep again,” you were slowly backing up toward the door, attempting to remove yourself from this conversation. But as you turned to leave, Dean grabbed your arm, and you ripped it back fear coursing through you.

“Stop!” You screamed. Even though you knew you weren’t in danger with Dean, something about being touched when you’re unprepared sends you into fight or flight. “Don’t touch me!”

“Y/N!” Dean yelled back, making you shrink away. “This is exactly what I’m talking about!” His voice was raising as he was coming toward you and you ripped open his door scurrying into the hall and crashing into what felt like a brick wall. You realized it was Sam and backed further away, feeling trapped in a situation you wanted nothing to do with. Dean had followed you into the hallway and with both Winchesters blocking the exits, you had nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. Trapped.

Read part III here!

#SUPERNATURAL SPOILERS #Supernatural fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #SUPERNATURAL GIFS #supernatural #spn fanfiction #SPN gif #SPN #spn famdom #SPN Family #fanfiction #fanfic #dean x y/n #dean x you #dean x reader #Sam Winchester #dean winchester

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katehuntington · 4 years

Text

Title: Ride With Me (part twenty one) Fandom: Supernatural Timeline: 2008 Pairing: Dean x Reader Word count: ±5850 words Summary series: Y/N is a talented horse rider who is on her way to become a professional. In order to convince her father that she deserves the loan needed to start her own farm, she goes to Arizona for six months, to intern at a ranch owned by Bobby and Ellen Singer. Her future is set out, but then she meets a handsome horseman, who goes by the name of Dean Winchester. A heartwarming series about a cowboy who falls for the girl, letting go of the past and the importance of family. Summary part twenty one: It’s Dean’s turn to make an entrance in the main arena. The rides lead to an interesting business proposal by a new client, but brings a lot of doubt too. Warnings series: NSFW, 18+ only! Fluff, angst, eventually smut. Swearing, smoking, alcohol intoxication, alcohol abuse. Mutual pining, heartbreak. Crying, nightmares, childhood trauma. Description of animal abuse, domestic violence, mentions of addiction. Financial problems, stress, mental breakdown. Description of blood and injury, hospital scenes, character death, grief. Music: Watching From A Distance - David Ramirez (opening scene) Follow ‘Kate Huntington’s Ride With Me playlist’ on Spotify! Author’s note: Prepare for cuteness and a bit of angst! Thank you @atc74, @manawhaat and @winchest09 for helping me. Also a special thanks to @jules-1999, who has offered me her knowledge about rodeo events like these, and @squirrelnotsam, who knows Arizona like the back of her hand.

Ride With Me Masterlist

Saturday morning has started early for the crew of the Gold Canyon Ranch. Before the crack of dawn Benny has mucked out the stables and fed the horses, making sure they had time to digest their pellets before the show starts. Together with Jo, Y/N has hand-walked the animals who are competing today, letting them stretch their legs and graze a bit. She took extra time for Meadow, who always seems to need a moment to adjust to new surroundings. The mare was fresh today, the brisk air only fueling her feisty temper. Her owner couldn’t help but snigger when she lifted her tail and started jogging next to her instead of just strolling along, showing off to anyone who would look at her.

It’s 8 AM when Dean puts his foot in the stirrup of the saddle, swinging his right leg over the back of the Bon Jovi, the light catching the fringe of his chaps. He pulls his hat a little tighter on his head once he’s seated, while the well-behaved stallion waits patiently for his rider to give him an aid, which he does, after adjusting the length of his reins.

With the sun only just peeking from behind the horizon, rays break through the leaves of the trees next to the warmup area, adding to the still peaceful surroundings. The commentator isn’t blaring through the speakers yet, the ring isn’t full of other riders trying to find a spot to train without running into each other. It’s the calm before the storm, a bit of peace and quiet both horse and human appreciate. No distractions, no sensory overload for the inexperienced stallion. It’s the perfect way to introduce him to the element of competition.

Y/N has just finished filling up the water buckets in the stables and rests her arms on the fence of the small arena. She watches Dean slowly start up the beautiful palomino, its coat seemingly made from gold in the morning light. Her boyfriend is wearing clean dark jeans and a navy button up, a black Stetson to match his show outfit. Never will she get tired of watching that man ride, but dressed like he is now, she can’t take her eyes off him. Y/N sighs deeply, swooning at the sight. She really did land the most handsome cowboy in Arizona, didn’t she?

The head wrangler seems composed as ever, not breaking a sweat over having to ride into the ring in thirty minutes, something that she admires and envies all at the same time. She wishes she could feel relaxed right before a test, instead of being the nervous wreck that she usually is. Meadow will not make her entry until later this evening and already Y/N dodged breakfast, well aware that she won’t be able to swallow a bite, stage fright blocking her throat. Just thinking about the premiere of her freestyle makes it slightly harder to breathe, but Dean takes that away when he rides past, breaking his concentration for a second and shooting her a wink and a soft smile. She chuckles as they keep a hold of each other’s gaze for a few seconds as his horse walks by. God, she wishes she has his confidence.

Other competitors join Dean and Bon Jovi in the warm up area, but the stallion only murmurs at a mare once, its rider gently yet strictly reminding him to keep his head in the game. Before they know it, the same voice that did the commentary on last night’s barrel race competition sounds from the amplifiers.

“Good mornin’, folks! It’s another beautiful day here at the Flagstaff Horsefair. We’re getting ready for the first class of the day, the Standlee Forage Reining Competition for four year olds. Highest overall score wins five bags of high quality horse food.”

The commentator continues to promote the sponsors of the event, Dean giving his horse a little scratch on the shoulder when he tenses slightly as the loud voice sounds from the speakers. Aware that it will soon be their turn, the rider allows himself to enjoy the atmosphere as he casts his gaze over the other competitors. He isn’t too worried about the fixture, confident in his own skills and those of his horse.

“Dean Winchester, two minutes!” A steward announces, looking down at his clipboard to double check the line up. The cowboy nods in acknowledgement, directing his gaze to Y/N as he waits for her to catch up. He watches as she puts down the grooming bag next to her on the sandy arena footing, attending to the bell boots that Bon Jovi is still wearing. She unbuckles the leather clasps, putting the leg protection away. “Would you like some water?” she offers. He shakes his head, casually, taking in the arena. “Nah, I’m good.”

Y/N looks up at him, trying to read what he is feeling. To her, it is strange how he doesn’t seem nervous. He’s relaxed, collected; reminding her of the still waters at Canyon Lake, where they swam together for the first time on the trail that changed everything. It is as if he can’t register the pressure that should be resting on his shoulders. Maybe he truly believed he is that good. “Break a leg,” she speaks, fondly. “Don’t wish that upon me, Yankee,” Dean chuckles. “Kinda need them to do my job.” She laughs and pats him lovingly on his denim clad thigh. “I don’t know how you can be so calm.” “Well, I have my good luck charm with me.” He lays his hand over hers, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “C’mere.” She steps closer to Bon Jovi, tiptoeing to reach up while Dean leans over to level with her. His lips brush over hers softly, his nose nuzzling hers in a sweet gesture. She smiles into the gentle kiss. “Go get’em, cowboy.”

The wrangler straightens himself in the saddle, while his girlfriend picks up the groom bag and steps back. He guides his horse into the tunnel under the bleachers towards the arena, concentrating on the gates in front of him, waiting for them to open. The reigns feel smooth between his fingers as he drowns out the noise around him. With his free hand, he encouragingly strokes the side of Bon Jovi’s neck, his pearly white manes contrasting beautifully against his flaxen coat. He has grown accustomed to these kinds of events, his nerves not bothering him anymore. He finds solace in his work, seeing it more as fun than as a chore. He enjoys the challenge the youngsters bring him, from the initial moment of putting on a halter, to getting in a saddle, to showing them all for the very first time. In less than a year, the horses go through such growth, and it’s always a pleasure to be a part of their journey.

“First competitor of the day is Dean Winchester, riding Bon Jovi, a stallion by Renegade. This horse is bred by Victor Hendriksen and owned by the Gold Canyon Ranch in Phoenix, Arizona.”

Y/N watches as the palomino calmly comes through the gate, not batting an eye at his new and impressive surroundings. Submissive and willing, the stallion responds to his rider’s aids when he’s asked to halt. To witness how trustful each and every horse is with the trainer, surfaces some kind of gratification inside of her. The way Dean schools the animals isn’t based on authority or rank, but much more about collaboration and respect. It’s something she admires about him from the get go.

Dean leads Bon Jovi through a precise pattern of figures, spins and stops. Reining is all about the athletic abilities of the horse, and the rider controlling every movement. The horse demonstrates attitude and willingness, while the signals given by the rider are nearly imperceptible. The run is evaluated by a panel of three judges, who mark each pattern individually. In this youngster class, speed isn’t key yet, but correctness is. Every stride must look effortless and relaxed, as if the animal and rider have become one. That’s exactly what is on display in the arena right now.

With a smile of adoration across her face, Y/N leans her forearms on the steel fence, watching the head wrangler. A small crowd that got up at the crack of dawn have occupied the first rows on the bleachers and by the fence, encouraging shouts and whistles rallying the first competitor on. The young horse is so fixed on his rider, that he doesn’t even pick up on the sounds. Bon Jovi isn’t fast in the spins yet, but that’s okay, because his footwork is close to perfect. After three well executed sliding stops, Dean gives the palomino the signal to back up, his spur not even touching the horse’s flank. Submissively, he reverses until his rider drops the reins and rewards the stallion, who blows out a purr through his nose, looking up at the stands curiously when they applaud the performance, much like the commentator.

“Well, if that ain’t setting the bar, I don’t know what is. What a solid ride from Dean Winchester and Bon Jovi!”

While Dean exits the arena, he searches the people along the fence and on the bleachers. He’s looking for Bobby, who he finds on the sidelines. His uncle holds his gaze and gives the head wrangler a nod, telling him so much without using actual words. They haven’t spoken about the elephant in the room yet, today’s pace being far too high to squeeze in the awkward conversation, and so both men have decided for themselves to let it rest. Besides, they might have sold a number of horses yesterday, that doesn’t mean they can lean back now.

The cowboy leads his horse back to the warm up ring, meeting his girlfriend half way. “Good run!” she compliments, taking Bon Jovi’s reins after Dean swings his right leg over the saddle and dismounts. She shoves the water bottle in his hand this time, knowing if she had asked, he would have declined anyway. “I had a little wobble in the second roll back, but yeah, the rest was good.” He twists off the cap and takes a swig, thirstier than he likes to admit.

Since Dean is competing two separate horses in the same class, he’s both first and last to enter the main arena. It’s going to be a race against the clock, and he looks around the warm-up area in search for his next four-legged dance partner. “Where’s Jo? Ringo is up in thirty minutes.” “Better get off your high horse, Mister, otherwise this is the last time I’ll tack up for you,” his cousin replies snappily, appearing from behind with a bay gelding named Ringo Starr in tow. Dean is about to counter her, but he bites his tongue, knowing she’s not kidding and will never do him a favor again if he gives her attitude. And so he mutters a ‘thanks’ under his breath when he takes the Quarterhorse from her.

As swiftly as he got down from Bon Jovi, he now mounts Ringo, the next four year old for him to compete. As he does so, his score is announced over the speakers, but he can’t quite make out the numbers. When he glances at the scoreboard, he’s pleasantly surprised. “218.5 points!” Y/N cries out, delighted. “That’s fantastic!” With a content smirk adorning his features, Dean nods satisfied; that is indeed a good score. Good enough to put Bon Jovi on the podium. Good enough to ask a high price when the buyers come calling. He doesn’t have time to settle on a high cloud, though; he needs to ready Ringo for his run.

Y/N hoists the groombag on her shoulder and takes the kind palomino stallion to exit the warm-up arena. This is her job after all, she might be dating her supervisor, she’s still the intern. They made a deal when she arrived at the ranch that Dean would not treat her differently, so she intends to do the work she’s come here to do. Jo, however, seems to have a different idea, and nudges her. “I’ll take Jovi. You go cheer on your John Wayne.” The blonde cowgirl winks at her friend, taking over the load.

She chuckles, handing the petite blonde the horse. Grateful to be able to see more of Dean’s horsemanship in action, she finds a spot by the fence. The sun steadily rises, casting out what was left of the night’s coolness, the light radiating down on her much warmer and brighter. Wishing she had brought a hat, the cowgirl takes off her jacket and puts it away in the groombag. She watches her boyfriend warm up Ringo, who seems a little bit more nervous, now that the ring is more crowded. His rider does a good job reassuring the young animal, though, giving the bay gelding some light exercises to keep his mind of the commotion around him, rewarding the Quarter every time he shows a sign of relaxation.

“Beautiful day to be buying horses, isn’t it, darling?” Y/N startles at the sudden gruff voice, snapping her head to where the sound came from. The supposedly kind words to start conversation are pronounced with a English accent, by a stranger dressed in black. The rather short man who she guesses would be somewhere in his fifties leans on the steel rail, his fingers laced together while he watches riders in the arena.

“Y - yeah, I suppose so,” Y/N stammers, unsure how to respond. “My apologies, where are my manners.” The man turns to her and offers his hand. “The name is Fergus. Fergus MacLeod.” The cowgirl frowns at his introduction. She has heard of him, but has never met the owner of the MacLeod Studfarms in person. “Y/N Y/L/N,” she returns, slightly hesitant. “Oh, I know who you are. I’m an admirer of your work. You’re quite the talent,” the Englishman admits. “That run at the State Championships was spectacular.”

Slightly creeped out, but not trusting her instincts entirely, she stays quiet for a moment. This is a man of great influence in the business, so she does want to hear what he has to say. “You saw me ride?” she replies. He nods, an amused smirk resting on his thin lips. “I did indeed, love. Talking about talent, that horse is something else as well. Meadowsweet, is her name, isn’t it?” “Yeah...” Y/N returns, somewhat suspicious. “Tell me; are you the owner of that lovely mare? Or are there parents and sponsors involved?”

Her stance becomes a bit more defensive, not just because of the rapid questions that are fired at her, no matter how charming this gentleman is trying to be. No, it’s his assumption that she’s too young to own such a horse that gets to her. “I am the owner, as a matter of fact,” she states, a new found strength in her voice. “Good to know I am talking to the proper person then.” Her company chuckles, apparently pleased by her feisty counter. “Because I have a proposition for you.” Before he can make her an offer, Y/N intervenes. “Meadow isn’t changing owners, if that’s where you’re headed, Mr. MacLeod.” Fergus takes her in, narrowing his eyes slightly, but the pleased little smile remains. “I can make it worth your while.” “I believe you can, but no matter your offer; she’s not for sale,” the cowgirl makes herself clear, a sternness in her voice that should tone the horse trader down. ��It doesn’t. Instead he chuckles dryly and takes a little booklet out of the inner pocket of his black coat; it’s a cheque book. Not taking no for an answer, he pulls out a pen and writes down his signature. “Everything is for sale, love. All one has to do is pay the right price,” he says, wisely.

Fergus MacLeod rips off the sheet of paper, handing her the cheque. Not wanting to be downright rude, she takes it, staring at the empty line; it’s blank. “You may write down whatever number you seem fit. It’s up to you,” the Brit elaborates. “Now that I’ve got your attention, would you happen to know where I can find Bobby Singer? I would like to have a little chat with my old friend.” “He’s by the main arena.” She points in the direction of the entrance. “Wonderful,” he quips. “It was a pleasure meeting you, darling.”

A shiver runs down her spine as MacLeod walks away to find her boss. She’s highly aware that he is a very influential and important person in the industry, but he has got some nerve. Y/N might look like an innocent and timid girl, but there is no way in hell that she would ever give up Meadow, no matter how large the figure.

She stares at the cheque, crumbling it in her hand before she stuffs it in her pocket, angrily. She has never met someone as brazen as Fergus Macleod at a show before, and she has been to enough to know. But she doesn’t want to waste time and think about the confrontation now. The cowgirl would much rather focus on her wrangler boyfriend who is wowing the judges.

Dean’s run with Ringo Starr is another great one, and with him being the last contestant of the class, the rankings are decided the moment the score comes in. With 215.5 points, he secures the third place, behind another rider and Bon Jovi, who has held on to the lead. An impressive result, one that he knows his uncle is going to be very pleased with.

When the Dean exits the arena, he is met by his girlfriend, who is smiling widely. “You nailed it!” she chirps with enthusiasm. “They did good,” Dean says, rustling Ringo’s black mane, more than satisfied with the performance of both young horses, but not taking the compliment upon himself.

The cowboy gets down from the saddle, noticing that the gelding is tired from all the first impressions and new sensories that come with the first show. Ringo’s coat is damp, a shade darker because of the perspiration; he gave it his all. Intending to hand-walk the horse back to the stables to shower the animal and give him his hay, he strolls to exit the warm-up area, but Bobby stops him. “Dean?” his uncle calls out, beckoning him to come over. Y/N glances up, following Mr. Singer’s voice. Noticing that Fergus MacLeod has found who he claims to be his ‘old friend’, her face falls slightly. She wonders what the Englishman would want, and why Dean has been invited into the conversation. Questionly, she looks back at her boyfriend and takes over Ringo from him, reckoning she should leave since it’s none of her business what will be discussed, but the man in black has different ideas. “Y/N, do join us, and bring the horse as well, love.” The hair on the back of Dean’s neck rises; what did he just call her? Unable to prevent his jaw from clenching, he steps towards the two ranch owners, trying to keep his cool. Who the hell is this dickhead? “That’s Fergus MacLeod,” Y/N whispers, as if she just read his mind. “He’s the founder of some of the largest stud farms in the country and even has stables in Europe. Owns at least two dozen licenced stallions.” The wrangler nods in acknowledgement. Great, some snobby bigshot. Very much aware that this new face might have something to offer Bobby, he keeps his mouth shut.

“Ah, the one and only Dean Winchester,” Fergus’ grins mischievously. “Nice work there in the ring. Your uncle here told me it’s the first time those two horses are competing.” “That’s right,” the cowboy confirms. “Macleod is the name. Pleasure to meet ya.” The Brit extends his hand, which Dean shakes a little firmer than normal. He’s not even sure what he’s trying to accomplish with the display of his own physical strength.

“Fergus here is interested in buying the four year olds,” Bobby explains, apparently noticing his head wrangler’s suppressed hostility, shooting it down with a piercing stare, warningly. Dean’s demeanor changes instantly as he raises his eyebrows. If this horse trader is going to bring the big bucks, he knows he needs to keep himself in check for the sake of the ranch. “Mind if I have a peek?” Macleod asks, gesturing at the horse. “Go ahead.” Dean steps back, making room for him to inspect the horse.

Fergus circles the horse, taking the bay gelding in from several angles. He feels the hindlegs for any swelling or abnormalities and does the same with the front legs, after Y/N has removed the bandages Ringo wore in the ring to prevent any injuries. The horse trader then proceeds to look Ringo in the face and check his teeth. After a satisfied nod the man turns around, straightens his impeccable suit. He then takes a tissue from his breast pocket and wipes his hands. “It’s a fine looking animal you’ve got here, Singer,” he compliments. “You may take the horse away, my dear.” Even though she isn’t fond of the degrading way he is talking to her, Y/N obliges. Taking care of the horses when she’s not riding herself is her job after all. “Oh, and Miss Y/L/N…” She halts the horse next to her and turns around. The Englishman has his hands in his pocket now, twinkling hazel-colored eyes looking her up and down. “Bobby here tells me that you’re a well-educated woman. A master degree in Business & Economics? Impressive. Someone as smart as yourself has to acknowledge that it’s a good deal. I assume you will consider my offer on your horse,” he pauses, more intrigued with every detail he learns about the woman before him. “I would like to point out there’s room for six figures on that cheque. What numbers to fill in, is your choice.”

Dean wants to snap his head at his girlfriend, but keeps his posture. Did this man just offer her several hundred thousand dollars for Meadow? Eyes wide in astonishment, he exchanges a look with his uncle, both trying to keep a straight face. “She’s not for sale,” Y/N makes clear one more time, pronouncing the words slow to prove a point. Amused with her stubbornness, the corner of MacLeod’s mouth twitches upward. Cocky, he holds her gaze, but eventually yields. “Very well, then. Let me know if you change your mind. The offer stands.”

Without responding to Fergus’ tenacious reply, she turns away, nudging Ringo to follow her. The three men watch her leave, Dean knows her well enough to be able to tell that MacLeod has her blood boiling. He’s not surprised Y/N didn’t think twice about shooting the bid down. Meadow means the world to her, more than any amount of money could ever buy. But holy shit. Six figures! Realisation hits him; it would be enough money to save the Ranch.

The Brit who made the generous offer pulls him from his thoughts. “Alright, lads. Let’s talk business, shall we?” The three walk away from the few people that are lining around the warm-up area. A little further down, on a crossing of two paths, they stop. The little square is still quiet at this hour. Safe from lurking eyes and eavesdropping ears, they gather around one high table near a drink stand. Even though it’s a non-serve area, the influential man calls the bartender to take their order. The young guy comes back with a coke for the rider - who still has a run later this afternoon - and two bourbons. Dean didn’t even know they served whiskey at this event, let alone this early.

MacLeod cuts right to the chase. “I will offer you thirty grand for the four year old Quarters, and I will take them off your hands right away.” Dean doesn’t flinch, being in these kinds of conversations before. He can maintain his poker face, no matter how amble the offer. It is a negotiation after all. The owner of the two horses thinks about it for a second, but then comes with a counter. “Forty.” “C’mon, Bobby. Is that how you treat an old friend?” Fergus clicks his tongue, shaking his head slightly after which he takes a sip from his drink. “Now, I know times are tough and that you’re experiencing difficulty staying afloat, but do realize I am already doing you a favor here. Thirty thousand dollars is more than fair.”

The head wrangler is taken aback by the Englishman’s comment. How would he know the ranch is struggling? Did people in their close circle spill the beans? Apparently MacLeod spots the unpleasant surprise on the faces of the men opposite of him, because he comments on it without missing a beat. “It’s a small world, lads. People talk. You should know that by now, Singer.” Bobby moves past the comment rather quickly and ponders about the sum. Fergus isn’t wrong; it’s not just a decent offer. It’s a generous one, one he isn’t going to decline. The Englishman across the table knows it too; the owner of the Gold Canyon Ranch is desperate for money. “Cash,” he demands, accepting the original offer. The dark haired man strokes his neatly trimmed beard. “I can arrange that.”

The head wrangler might not like the horse trader, but he did just make this weekend ten times better. He gulps down the last of his coke, crumpling the can before he dunks it in the trash on the side of the crossroads. The cowboy figures the deal will be sealed with a handshake before they go separate ways, but MacLeod has a second matter to settle. “I have another proposition for you.” Having their attention, the middle aged Brit observes their reaction, his eyes full of mischief. The two members of the ranch near Phoenix share a look. “We’re listening.” Bobby says.

Fergus swirls his whiskey, studying the amber liquid in his glass. “I own a stallion,” he starts off, putting the drink to his mouth in the short pause. “I bought him at the Derby Quarterhorse Auction for over a million dollars. He’s licensed, one of the best pedigrees I’ve ever seen, not to mention his conformation and movements. He already covered four hundred mares this year. I expect great things from this horse, he is supposed to bring in the money. There is one slight issue, however.” Dean listens, intently, wondering where he is going with this. “And what would that be?”

“The horse has some… behavioral issues,” the stud farm owner claims, careful in his choice of words. “It has quite the temperament, one his former trainers haven’t been able to use in their advantage, my advantage.” Slowly the head wrangler begins to realize why the price MacLeod is willing to pay for the two Quarters is so steep; he is playing a game of give and take. The way the owner of this stallion is talking about money and business, calling the animal ‘it’, doesn’t sit well with him either. Where is the horse’s well-being in all of this?

“What’s his name?” Dean likes to know. Fergus frowns at that, clearly not understanding why it would matter, but he answers anyway. “You might have heard of this horse; his name is Cain.” Dean has heard of the horse. The whopping 1.2 million that was paid for the talented Quarter made headlines in the industry.

“What are these behavioral issues?” he needs to know, not taking the bait just yet. “Typical stallion behavior; dominance is the main problem. The horse has character, what can I say?” MacLeod laughs it off. “Anyway, I am looking for a capable horseman. Someone who can actually break him in.” The owner of the horse in question shifts his penetrating gaze from Bobby to Dean. The cowboy realizes they are at a verge of a possibly very important business deal, but he cannot stop himself from commenting on the peculiar choice of words. “I don’t ‘break in’ horses. I teach them to trust and to cooperate,” he states firmly. “Potato, potahto,” Fergus dismisses. “Are you up for the job, or not?”

Dean exchanges a glance with his uncle, a silent conversation happening between them, only possible by years and years of working together. When Bobby rights himself, he has a crucial question. “What’s in it for us?” Again that small smile on the Englishman’s face; he knows he’s close to persuading them.

“A thousand dollars each month, paid in advance, and a fifty grand bonus when Cain successfully completes the stallion performance tests in April. Plus, five percent of his earnings in coverage for the coming year. After he passes the exams, we can set up a contract in order for you to remain his permanent rider,” MacLeod sums up.

Bobby analyzes the offer. It’s tempting in many aspects. Fergus just mentioned that the stallion already covered four hundred mares this year. With his stud-fee being at least a thousand dollars, they are looking at twenty grand cut already. Then there’s the regular income, not to mention the bonus. This deal might be the lifeline his family business was frantically fishing for. It’s up to Dean, though. He is the one who is going to work with this horse, and the only one who can make an educated guess if it’s achievable in five months' time.

“We would like to see Cain first,” Bobby decides, wanting to offer his head wrangler a moment to evaluate the animal. “I’m afraid that will not be possible at this time, but I tell you what.” The Brit finishes his bourbon, setting the glass down on the high table. “The horse will be delivered to your property and you will have a week to decide if you want to take on this job. If not, no hard feelings.”

Dean glances aside, spotting the slight nod of his uncle. Seems like they can’t go wrong here; if Cain turns out to be more difficult than Fergus leads on, they can always send him back. “You got yourself a deal,” Bobby concludes, extending his hand to the man in black. “Splendid.” The horse trader smirks, delighted with the arrangement they agreed on, shaking their hands. When he grips Dean’s hand tight, he looks him deep in the eye, as if he recognizes something in the handsome cowboy.

“You’re John’s boy, aren’t ya?” he realizes. “I bought a couple of horses from that Winchester back in the day. How is he?” Tension grips Dean’s body, the sound of his father’s name on Macleod’s tongue sending a shiver down his limbs. He tries to breathe in without it being too obvious, finding it difficult to keep his mask on. “I wouldn’t know,” he answers curtly.

Fergus furrows his brow at that, clearly curious as of why the two aren’t in touch anymore. He allows a silence to linger between them, their handshake holding on to the apprehensiveness. “Hmm,” he responds at the peculiar answer. “Well, you are just like your father. I could’ve sworn it was him when I saw you in the arena earlier; spitting image. You have his ways.”

It’s like MacLeod is deliberately trying to get under his skin, and no matter how hard the young cowboy fights it, the man he’s making a deal with is succeeding. The words spoken with that distinct English accent ring in his head, much louder than they were pronounced, cracking like a whip on his back. You are just like your father. You have his ways.

Dean releases the stallion owner’s hand, quickly slipping his into the back pockets of his jeans, drying his clammy palms on the denim. He hopes neither of the men in his company notice him shaking. He inhales through his nose, squares his shoulders and stands tall, pushing down the anxiousness that is stirring in his stomach. Disappointed in himself, he chews on the inside of his cheek in search for distraction. He can’t let a simple comment get to him like this.

Now that he has shut down the attitude the ranch hand was giving him, the Englishman looks down on Dean with a sinister smile on his lips. He keeps a hold of the Winchester’s gaze, until he averts his green eyes. Only then MacLeod steps away. “We’ll stay in touch. I’ll have my men pick up the two Quarters this afternoon,” Fergus announces, his long, dark overcoat swaying slightly as he turns around once more. “A pleasure doing business with ya.”

With those words, MacLeod walks away and leaves the two men in the middle of the square. The sun is suddenly uncomfortably warm to Dean. He sniffs and takes a few steps from his uncle, as if the two or three strides would actually be enough to walk it off. He places his hands in his side and dips his hat forward when he faces Bobby again, making sure the older man can’t sense how unsettled he is. But Bobby is no fool. He knows his nephew better than the boy’s own father did, and that’s exactly what’s bothering Dean.

“You alright?” he checks. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” Dean returns just a little too rapidly, shrugging it off. “Just…” His uncle is careful not to address the subject directly, yet at the same time he needs to offer the opportunity for the wrangler to vent. “With what he said about John--” “Don’t.”

The simple word comes out harsher than he meant it to leave his lips, the darkness in his eyes when he shoots his father-figure a glare soon replaced by regret. Dean knows Bobby is trying, like he and Ellen have for the past fifteen years. But no matter how much time passes, he can’t bring himself to talk about what happened in the past.

His uncle isn’t mad, nor is he disappointed in his surrogate son. He just nods slowly at the dismissal, before he begins to make his way to the stables. Dean remains in the middle of the crossing, his hands still firm on his hips, closing his eyes for a moment as he breathes out. The deal they just made should bring much needed relief, but the meeting leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

He gathers himself and follows after his Bobby. They have more showings to prepare for, but nothing can cast out the words spoken by Fergus MacLeod. Not the rhythmic thumping of hooves in the dirt, not the chatter and laughs produced by the growing crowd, nor the music that comes from the main arena. All he can register is the painful message, which reopens the deep scars on his heart every time they bounce off the walls inside his head.

I am just like my father.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page).

Read part twenty two here

#Ride With Me #Cowboy!Dean x Reader #Cowboy!Dean series #Dean Winchester fanfiction #Dean Winchester AU #Supernatural AU #Dean fanfiction #Supernatural fanfiction #SPN fanfiction #Dean angst #Dean fluff #Dean x reader #Dean Winchester x reader #Dean Winchester #Jo Harvelle #Bobby Singer #Ellen Harvelle #Benny Lafitte #Kate Huntington

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mittensmorgul · 4 years

Text

it has been bothering me all morning but like

we saw bobby in heaven, and he looked like bobby always has, yet when sam got to heaven he was reset to what he looked like before dean died

REALLY UNCOMFORTABLE IMPLICATIONS AHEAD:

to be clear, I have no opposition to the concept of Heaven, and to the soul earning some sort of peaceful and comforting rest in an afterlife, but I’m really gonna have to politely ask people to stop coming directly to my inbox attempting to convince me that this was a “happy ending” for Dean. He deserved to LIVE, because no matter how perfect heaven was tailored to him personally, to feel satisfying and fulfilling to him, that... almost makes it even worse to me.

I’m not expecting people who are happy with it, or who did manage to find something good in it to actually read this, or to really consider the way I (and from what I’ve seen, most everyone I know) see this. But attempting to convince people who are horrified by it all, or arguing with people who are attempting to reconcile what we see as utterly baffling or entirely unsatisfying about this ending (or worse, actually traumatizing) is unnecessary and unwanted. Please stop trying to make people who are processing the end of a show we’d hoped would have the guts to finally free the characters through something other than death, and trying to reconcile the fact that the story of hope, of found family, of free will over destiny they’d fought the entire series for was not a lie, as the finale made it feel to us.

If people are finding inconsistencies in the story (because hooBOY was it inconsistent), if they’re arguing against details in the story, it’s not because they want folks who are happy with the story to come around to being unhappy with it. It’s because THIS IS HOW WE PROCESS TRAUMA. We explain, we justify to ourselves, so that we can actually continue feeling good about this story in our own lives. For some of us, this means actually coming to a point where we can feel the story had no power to continue to actively harm us. If you don’t feel bad about this finale, then consider yourself lucky, and maybe sit down rather than continually attempting to invalidate why we feel traumatized in the first place.

Okay, that’s out of the way, on to the ridiculousness of my brain:

1. if the idea that everyone in heaven gets reset to a more youthful state, then why not bobby? so that’s out as a theory. I mean, it’s kind of a surface-level nice theory that you wouldn’t have to spend heaven eternity bedridden and sick and dying, but as a basepoint for Heaven this is... it’s got a lot of ableist undercurrents to it and I don’t think there was actually a satisfying way to handle/depict this on screen to start with... the whole “all your problems will be fixed in heaven” is right below the surface here, and I’m not even gonna start explaining how disgusting that is as a message to be sending...

(that said... was sam’s blurry wife un-blurred in heaven? or was she even ever real at all and would Sam even look for her in Heaven now? asking the real questions here... >.>)

2. is this actually a heaven where people take on the appearances that dean specifically recalls them with? or does this effect possibly work for everyone that way, and what we see is only Dean’s pov? Like... would Dean himself possibly see something different than say, John would if he looked at Sam? Would John see the last version of Sam he remembered from s1, and Sam see himself completely different in a mirror or something? This falls into my previous understanding of Heaven-- the memorex version-- where everyone sees what they want to in a dimension that really doesn’t translate to a human’s perception of space-time. And I mean, if that’s actually the case, then I need people to recognize that this isn’t really any different than Old Heaven, except for the cubicle farm aspect and being able to make new memories with people. But that it’s still effectively an isolating experience if each soul’s reality is just... slightly off, even in these seemingly minor ways. It’s dimensionally enforced peace through manipulation of perception. And thanks, I hate it. It’s not true free will, but the pacifying enforcement of a perception of it as being free will.

3. Was this actually just a production choice so they wouldn’t have to drag the party city wig out to the woods for the final day of filming? Which, lol that has some potential for hilarity as a crack post, but also... as a production choice just has the greater effect of breaking the fourth wall (which that final drone shot effectively did anyway), which in turn renders the entire episode one long series of production choices rather than narrative consistency choices, and is all the more reason we have to just... not care about any of it if we’re actively choosing to do that.

All of these sorts of inconvenient facts and readings are there, in canon, for us to consider. The most unfortunate implication of all for me is that the episode as a whole then becomes suspect as “reality” for the characters, and therein lies my actual problem with the finale. The details are rendered irrelevant, the characters themselves are rendered irrelevant, and the story ultimately had no meaning whatsoever. And for those of us who cannot reconcile these things, we’d rather just be able to toss the finale out and keep the 326 episodes that did actually have meaning for us.

#spn 15.20 #i have just seen some wild contortions attempting to convince folks this was A Good Ending #and it's like attempting to argue science with a creationist... there's just very little point in even engaging in that conversation #neither side is gonna convince the other... if you're happy then great!#if you hate it then great! we both have the choose your own adventure option here #because ultimately justifying to ourselves that the interpretation we held was valid is the ONLY important thing here #however we process it and get to that point...

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incarnateirony · 4 years

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So here we are, The Great Supernatural Rewatch, 01.01 Pilot. If unfamiliar with this rewatch, please check my Objectives and Bracketing post [x], and then my Methodology Notes [x]; Also, reminder that I’m not the only person doing this, though each in their own ways. My Objectives and Methodology are my own.

I’m trying to get a little ahead of the official Jan 3 start date, since I know I will... inevitably fall behind, and this episode was ripe for the initial pick-through for the inevitability of a thousand call backs.

That said, with level 1. SYNCHRONIC: As it reads, unto itself, as best divorced from future knowledge of the story, it’s difficult to do much actual “meta” as much as review and commentary since literally it’s all character and story introductions. There’s some to be had, but beyond things like lighting, the Level 1 viewing tier is not going to lend towards much beyond basic archetypes, and a lot of mythology breakdown. This post will be heaving Level 2 weighted as a result. Most tier-1 posting is going to be an early build of key words, phrases and signs to assemble throughout the season watching (and tap back on later for tier 2 by tagging.)

Also a few unannounced side projects; I’m about to start a “Combat Counter” and “Marksmanship Counter”, to see how Sam and Dean handle both in physical battles/scraps over time compared to each other, and who has the better overall aim in the long term.

Some things saved in this post will seem random and arbitrary, but are potential flags I intend to keep, mostly for later level 2, DIACHRONIC study.

Now to get to the meat:

STUDY: REWATCH/REVIEW STAGE

Allow me to lead with: this episode even unto itself is a fine spectacle of just how much the genre shifted over time. I am a huge fan of David Nutter’s directing; many would know him from, say, Game of Thrones. He didn’t stay long--just Pilot and Wendigo--before moving on. But some of his touches stayed with the show for a few years. The entire ambiance is a giant testiment to survival-horror, a grimness to it, even if the CW itself could never truly capitalize on it. The mood and ambiance was successfully played on. The entire episode is rife with cloudy lighting beaming between bars and through windows, bold silhouette shots, and more that gives an air of mystery even after some characters are established. Dynamic shots are plenty.

Your early reading here isn’t going to tell you much you don’t already know, but is for filing, review, and even reminder/refresher purposes. As the season unfolds, there’s going to be more to interconnect, obviously. If you would like to read more observations on actual parallels, scroll to the DIACHRONIC STUDY header. If I’ve taken a screenshot, even in Synchronic, it’s because it’s a flag I do expect to come back up in diachronic study later and need to catalogue for future parallels and address.

So, imagining it’s 2005, we’re watching Supernatural for the first time. We’re in a very different world, Both in the show, and in the real world. A standard, haunting discord rattles the minds of the audience as a tree moves like a hand towards the window of a suburban home.

We see a classic, nuclear family in this standard home, saying their charming goodnights to an infant. But within moments, we’re told in every classic way that everything is wrong. The infant’s mobile turns on its own accord; the clock stops.

It’s 8:12pm when the world goes haywire. The decorative moon in the room flickers, growing dim. The mother wakes to the sound of a distressed infant on the baby monitor. She rises from bed in her gown.

This is a point I’m left to negotiate cursed knowledge: to all visual cues, the mother’s attire appears to be white. The audience perceived it as white. But we know it, and Jess’ gown later, was actually pink; the film stock failed to capture it. Both short term and much louder in the long term, these two colors can deliver two very different meanings. But for us, a viewer consuming a digital medium with no knowledge beyond what they published, I’m left to decide that the text seems to determine her in a white gown.

The wife sees a stark silhouette, asking if the child was hungry, assuming it was her husband that quieted her. She turns away, tapping on a flickering light over an old marriage portrait that one can only assume was a previous family generation. She descends the stairs.

Here she finds her husband is sleeping. Panic takes her, bringing her to the room. Quickly, chaos erupts. As does she, once seen bleeding down onto the hand of the father from above the crib. We see her, sunken eyes, already dying, screaming without a sound. Silent. Unable to make a noise.

The camera details the desperation of the father rushing his infant to his older child. “Take your brother outside as fast as you can, don’t look back. Now Dean, GO.”

I’m unclear what John thinks he’s going to achieve running back in for Mary as fire takes the home. But soon, he finds young Dean, 4, outside, holding an infant, “I've got you Sammy.” John erupts out of the house as the windows begin to blow, sweeping in to carry Dean, who carries Sam.

As the fire department arrives, the first cords of a song we would later come to recognize as Americana haunt through otherwise chilling music that climbs actively to punch out through our first cold open.

The Winchesters are our first cold open.

We find ourselves in modern day with the rick of a rock cord, and a young woman in a white nurse outfit adjusting her earings while framed by an image of John and Mary--the mother and father--in a picture frame. Though she calls for Sam, we see nothing of Dean--not even a picture. The image on the counter tells of a life Sam(my) was too young to even know, but perhaps is in his blonde-haired woman who teases him about halloween while standing in front of a mirror.

Sam is clearly in his young prime, celebrating his LSAT with a 174 score much to his chagrin with friends dressed up in all styles of wardrobe. Behind Sam a neon black cat sign may just jinx his future in warm but dull lighting; ghostly drapes hide behind Jess in a blue, sharper light.

Sam’s friends perceive he must be the Golden Boy of the family. Jess is proud of him. “What would I do without you?” “Crash and burn.”

Night onsets. Dim lighting feels dusty despite the otherwise hopeful environment. Heavy creaking, groaning, footsteps; Sam rises on instinct, spying an open door and catching haunting noises--sounds. An intruder. And one fateful fight. The choreography spares little.

In actual combat, the intruder--quickly identified as Dean--comes out on top. (Combat ticker: Sam vs Dean: Dean 1) Easy there, tiger. As Dean haunts, revealing his roguish personality quickly, he’s then gotten the better of (this is not going to be considered a combat ticker, it’s not actual combat, but aftermath).

Sam challenges why Dean broke in, but Dean knew Sam would have never picked up without him. They’re interrupted from their silhouetting by the light flicking on, and Dean further displays his roguish charm, enjoying her smurfs, not dreaming of her getting dressed; but soon, it’s down to business--Dean says it’s private family matters. Sam, a unit in the doorframe with Jess, says it can be said in front of her. Until the fateful line: “Dad’s on a hunting trip, and he hasn’t been home in a few days.” The camera zooms on Sam’s set jaw to tell the audience how much weight is in that line as the audio itself drags a raw cord of suspense.

The dizzying stairs are a descent into a world Sam seems to have left behind, with the audience viewing from below. Quickly, we’re introduced to ideas: the Poltergeist in Amherst, the Devil’s Gate in Clifton, “always missing and always fine.” Sam’s bitterness is thick: rather than telling him not to be afraid of the dark, “dad gave me a .45″, though Dean challenges what he should have done. They soon stand in a cage of sharply lit bars, arguing if this was what their mother would have wanted--to be raised like warriors.

Dean challenges if Sam would want a normal apple pie life; Sam slaps back: not normal, safe. “And that’s why you ran away.”--But John told him to stay gone. Regardless, Dean doesn’t want to do it alone. Sam asks what he was hunting, and why Dean wasn’t there; Dean was working a voodoo thing in New Orleans.

Dean reveals Jericho, California--10 men over to years on the same 5 mile stretch of road.

The “Ran it through A Goldwave” is a funny side comment but I’m not gonna get into why beyond LOL “through a goldwave”, that’s-- whatever. But we hear, in EVP, “I can never go home.”

The average viewer, at this point, isn’t going to be deeply instructing the story parallels--and in the scheme of it, Sam’s fear of going home barely scratches the meta surface. We do know John has been missing for three weeks. And find out Sam has a Monday deadline for his entry to lawschool, “whole future on a plate.” Jess worries over disappearing with his family, reminding of the deadline, but he promises to be back in time.

A sharp cut to JERICHO, CALIFORNIA. The driver shares similar concerns to Sam, “if I miss it, dad’s gonna have my ass,” he tells his girlfriend on the phone. A woman in white appears down the road as the car clock fries at 10:17, asking to be taken home. “Take me home?” “She lives at the end of breckenridge road.” “A girl like you shouldn’t really be alone out here.” She hikes her skirt. “I’m with you. Do you think I’m pretty? Will you come home with me?” hell yeah.

They arrive at a dillapidated home. “I can never go home.” No one even lives here. He steps out, turns around, and she’s gone. An eerie handprint appears on the window.

He decides to leave, clearly feeling the offsettling vibes, but isn’t alone. She steams with animosity in the backseat.

He looks into his mirror.

And wipes out.

After a violent death, we cut back to our boys and another exposition: credit card scams (jesus, could sam have yelled it any louder?), breakfast in a gas station bag, you gotta update your casette tape collection--why? because for one, they’re casette tapes. Black Sabbath, Motorhead, Metallica--it’s the greatest hits of mullet rock. “House rules Sammy, Driver picks the music, rider shuts his cakehole.” “Sammy is a chubby 12 year old.” “What, can’t hear you.”

ENTER, JERICHO

Internal impala shots galore will end up being a major vibe of our next few years. A spunky guitar theme plays that we will eventually come to know. Dean pulls out a cigar box full of fake badges ranging from FBI to Bureau of Tobacco from the glove box, quickly showing us how deep this path goes for them already.

The cops review the mystery: no fingerprints, spotless; we find out that the victim was dating the cop’s daughter, who was posting missing flyers downtown. The boys introduce themselves as federal agents, are challenged for being too young, and Dean sasses his way through, “that’s very kind of you.” -- while gathering basic intel, we quickly find Dean’s tongue getting ahead of him, calling their lack of ability to find a connection beyond them all being male victims, calling it crack police work. The brothers’ dual personas exit the crime scene with a cuff upside the head from Sam to Dean, a bickering match, and Dean leaving a Mulder and Scully crack on the cops.

They quickly find Amy, the girlfriend, and lie to claim that were Troy’s relatives and had heard about her, and move to a diner to talk about events.

No major unusual things to warrant events; Sam compliments her necklace. She jokes that Troy got it for her to freak out her parents for “devil stuff”, but Sam quickly educates her on the pentagram meaning the opposite, a symbol of protection.

But there are weird rumors in town--people talk. In-sync, “what do they talk about”; a local legend. She tells them of a girl murdered on centennial where anyone who picks her up disapears forever. The brothers quickly move on to a library with a clunky monitor, fully dating us; not just the lack of good cell phones and wifi, but the equipment and the appearance of the search engine alone. Right, we’re watching this in 2005.

The brothers slapfight again, but Sam shows that even away from the life he never lost his prowess. He asks, “Angry spirits are born out of violent death, right?” and searches for suicide. 1981, 24 years prior. “Our babies were gone and Constance couldn’t bear it.”

So they go to see where Constance took the swan dive.

The brothers begin to fight.

SAM Dean, I told you, I've gotta get back by Monday—

DEAN turns around.

DEAN Monday. Right. The interview.

SAM Yeah.

DEAN Yeah, I forgot. You're really serious about this, aren't you? You think you're just going to become some lawyer? Marry your girl?

SAM Maybe. Why not?

DEAN Does Jessica know the truth about you? I mean, does she know about the things you've done?

SAM steps closer.

SAM No, and she's not ever going to know.

DEAN Well, that's healthy. You can pretend all you want, Sammy. But sooner or later you're going to have to face up to who you really are.

DEAN turns around and keeps walking. SAM follows.

SAM And who's that?

DEAN You're one of us.

SAM hurries to get in front of DEAN.

SAM No. I'm not like you. This is not going to be my life.

DEAN You have a responsibility to—

SAM To Dad? And his crusade? If it weren't for pictures I wouldn't even know what Mom looks like. And what difference would it make? Even if we do find the thing that killed her, Mom's gone. And she isn't coming back.

DEAN grabs SAM by the collar and shoves him up against the railing of the bridge. A long pause.

DEAN Don't talk about her like that.

They’re interrupted as Constance appears, diving off the cliff, and immediately taking control of the Impala.

“Dude, who’s driving your car?” Dean holds up his keys.

They flee, over the bridge, and share another movement. One more fake card later, they find themselves in John’s room, room 10, in a motel. Sam remarks that the place is covered in Salt, and Cat’s Eye Shells. The entire room is covered in case work and lore.

I’ll break down the lore of these in a later mythos reblog, though the Asmodeus one really catches my eye for reasons outside of this episode.

Sam finds a photo-- a distinctly different family than the one on his college dresser. There, it’s John and Mary as an ideal image that framed Jessica. Here, it’s the life he walked away from. But while Dean heads out, he’s spotted by police, and their old coded dialect pops out, “Five Oh, take off.” Federal marshalls confront him: They’re looking for his partner (cue Wincest fans trying to make meta that’s about to be shot down one scene later, in the distance), fake US Marshalls, fake credit cards, is there anything about you that’s Real. My boobs.

Just putting a flag in the name Sheriff Pierce, we’ll figure out if that’s ever valid to anything later. But he tells Dean of the trouble he’s in with a room full of missing people and devil worship, for Dean to snap back he was 3 when they went missing. But they knew he had more than one partner. An older man. John’s journal is thrown out (Wincest meta dies a terrible death beyond previous scene)

Again, I’ll translate the FUTHARK in a follow up post, this is already taking a lot of time as it is.

Meanwhile, Sam is investigating the leads they and John both found. Previously spoken intents to burn her has him ask about her being buried at an old plot by Breckenridge at their old place.

SAM And why did you move?

JOSEPH I'm not gonna live in the house where my children died.

SAM stops walking. JOSEPH stops too.

SAM Mr. Welch, did you ever marry again?

JOSEPH No way. Constance, she was the love of my life. Prettiest woman I ever known.

SAM So you had a happy marriage?

JOSEPH hesitates.

Putting a flag in this for later.

But Sam decides to call the man out.

SAM A woman in white. Or sometimes weeping woman?

JOSEPH just looks.

SAM It's a ghost story. Well, it's more of a phenomenon, really.

SAM starts back toward JOSEPH.

SAM Um, they're spirits. They've been sighted for hundreds of years, dozens of places, in Hawaii, Mexico, lately in Arizona, Indiana. All these are different women.

SAM stops in front of JOSEPH.

SAM You understand. But all share the same story.

JOSEPH Boy, I don't care much for nonsense.

JOSEPH walks away. SAM follows.

SAM See, when they were alive, their husbands were unfaithful to them.

JOSEPH stops.

SAM And these women, basically suffering from temporary insanity, murdered their children.

JOSEPH turns around.

SAM Then once they realized what they had done, they took their own lives. So now their spirits are cursed, walking back roads, waterways. And if they find an unfaithful man, they kill him. And that man is never seen again.

JOSEPH You think...you think that has something to do with...Constance? You smartass!

SAM You tell me.

JOSEPH I mean, maybe...maybe I made some mistakes. But no matter what I did, Constance, she never would have killed her own children. Now, you get the hell out of here! And you don't come back!

Sam is flushed out, and makes a fake 911 call to break Dean out, pointing out that the husband had been unfaithful. More dramatic silhouette shots really capture the early spirit of the piece, with Dean using a phone booth in lieu of other options. Hell, Dean was able to find a phone booth, let that take you back. They determine that John left Jericho, and establish his ex-marine habits with the coordinates, 35-111 that Dean had lied through to the cop. But while on the phone, the woman in white appears in front of Sam on the road, non-crashing.

She controls the car again, and forces him to drive to a broken home, repeating, “I can never go home.” Sam recognizes: “You’re scared to go home.” And that’s when the creepy ghost rapey vibes start, mounting him, demanding he hold her, she’s cold. “You can’t kill me, I’m not unfaithful.” He argues. You will be. Just hold me.

As she goes to rip out his heart, she flickers with the beat of his.

Dean breaks into the scene, unloading 12 shots into the ghost with iron bullets to disrupt her manifestation, giving Sam time to sit up and say, “I’m taking you home.”, where he drives through the house. Dean helps Sam out of the car, only to be telekinetically pinned by a dresser to be disabled.

The lights flicker again. Children manifest, water runs down the stairs, looking eerily like the light could be the Winchester’s old home

Here, she falls when reunited with her children. Sam clarifies--she could never go home, she was too afraid to face her kids (while not viable for the synchronic study, for my own sanity I’m going to note this season, Home will be all but mandatory to touch back here.) Dean says Sam found her weak spot.

They drive down the road with a blown headlight, Sam using an old map and ruler to locate the coordinates. But it’s realized Sam isn’t going with Dean to blackwater ridge, colorado 600 miles away. His interview was in ten hours. Dean declares, “I’ll take you home.”

There’s banter over meeting up later, and being a good team, but Sam goes inside and calls for Jess. “You home?” He finds a plate full of cookies with a note “missed you, love you” and relaxes in bed with the distant sound of a running shower.

And of course.

And so it began.

SYNCHRONIC STUDY: IN-EPISODE PARALLELS

In a first episode, there’s only so much to address. While we may question how much the Woman in White being in White may have been intentional with Jess and Mary, who wore pink (a diachronic full text body note later), in the initial review, it’s worth mentioning for the reasons in part 1 I’ve decided to air towards white in the final text product. Resultingly, the tie between Constance->Mary->Jess seems tangible. But it isn’t really so simple.

“Home.” Home is a huge keyword.

"I can never go home." within the episode unto itself, Sam is struggling to well, get back home. And frankly, returning home is the key of it. (hears distant uppity Wincest stans) The difference here is, this isn't a direct parallel, of course, as much as a general ambient mood that will haunt is forward through the show, even if current viewers just watching episode 1 don't recognize it yet. Sam going home kills Jess, essentially; or at least witnesses her death. At the same time, Sam fears returning to the hunter life, or more doesn't think he can because John told him not to come back. But now that Jess is dead, well, Sam can never go home to the life he was building. He has no choice but TO go back to the other home--the hunter life. Even if he’s certain it’s not what Mary would have wanted for them.

DIACHRONIC STUDY: IN-SEASON PARALLELS, LOOKING FORWARD

There’s no way I’ll have them all in mind, these are just what are flagging me along the way.

1.09 Home As the “Home” rewatch is not that far away, I’m going to save this as a placeholder with general notes about “Mary apologizing to Sam,” even if frankly, she should have to Dean too. But even if, at the time, the exact details of the deal may or may not have been established or hashed out by the authors--we’re not picking at arguing if the authors intended it or not here. Here, Mary apologizes for her deal. Here, Mary apologizes--for drowning her children. For magnetizing this poltergeist to this place that she demands let her sons go, where she forces the spook to let go of Sam. She couldn’t really go home in the truest sense until that passed. (I’ll have deeper chain-link connections on this looking-forward once actually at the episode.

DIACHRONIC STUDY: IN-ERA PARALLELS, LOOKING FORWARD

They’re here, but not pinging me at 1 AM beyond vagueblogging about Lucifer showing up as Jess to haunt Sam and the inevitable time travel episodes about Mary, so placeholder for later updates.

DIACHRONIC STUDY: BEYOND-ERA PARALLELS, LOOKING FORWARD

Obviously compare to above-dropped screenshots.

11.04: Mistakes were made.

Listen, Dean’s grimace seat has been in discussion lately, don’t blame me for thinking of Joseph’s mistakes right after the season as Dean-mirror Pastor Joseph. Funny how Sam’s get shown and Dean’s don’t.

11.23/12.01: Mary’s return in the (white or pink, I’m rolling with white as-above) gown, and all extending details.

12.22: Mary's dreamspace.

12.23: Dean, Castiel's death, Sam removing Dean

15.01: Woman In White, We've got work to do

I feel like the Woman in White is the most interesting of these that hasn’t been as talked to death as, say, the 12.23 elements with the Destiel parallel. After all, the Woman in White largely focused on Sam. It was his fear of home. It was him being faithful to Jess (and being unfaithful can be more than sex, really; after all, he made a promise to come back.) But in season 15, it’s Dean that the ghost of the jilted lover approaches, shortly after Dean nearly killed Jack in his pain. Was Dean the weeping woman? Or was Castiel? Who held the animosity in the back seat?

Or is this a shared path? As Dean puts the Equalizer away under the Cigar Box, he has his own haunting issues in the mirror.

Those will be addressed more deeply when we get to that episode in like half a year. But for now, I’m just putting a pin in it. With a side scribble of “Cas got his Secrets/Mary, Sam got his serial killer and clowns and Dean got... the woman in white with Belphegor.”

15.02: Road Closed

15.03: If one insists Mary and Jess’ dress are pink, Rowena’s dress upon wedding and unbirthing to death (and queendom)

15.04: I still think about Jess (shortly before Eileen’s return.)

15.13: If one insists Mary and Jess’ dress are pink, atop the eventually-addressed meaning of lighting (death and transformation) vs the Empress symbolism (fertility, rebirth), Castiel in pink light.

15.15: If one insists Mary and Jess’ dress are pink. Amara’s trenchcoat.

15.20: Beyond the obvious quotes, and the (IMO failed) attempt at nostalgia, there’s honestly very little callback to the original episode.

That’s it on first glance, I’m sure more will rattle out as we go forward. Well, mostly. Keys to the Legacy from Mint Condition is flagging me alongside control mechanisms like Castiel losing control of his vessel. But those are thoughts to put pins in for now and develop later.

COMBAT COUNTER:

DEAN VICTORIES: 1 (sam vs Dean)

MARKSMANSHIP COUNTER:

DEAN SHOTS: 12 shots, 12 hits.

(hits for any individual will be considered accurate even if targets teleport/flicker out as long as it should have hit the body)

The mythology pasted all around John’s Room is worth a second trip, but off the top of my head I see the Bell Witch and Asmodeus from the Lesser Key of Solomon (near the motel door).

I’ll reblog later to add commentary on that.

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postmodernmulticoloredcloak · 4 years

Text

Fantasies, dreams and desires, ideas of normalcy and fears of difference. A slightly queer reading of 15x14

Mrs Butters is a delightful character who is built to parallel so many things in the show. She occupies perfectly the semantic sphere that the narrative has crafted around Dean’s desires; also, you know, cake.

We could talk for days about the significance of food and drink in Supernatural. One of the biggest themes that run through the entire show is hunger (or thirst) and food is very often a symbol for an emotional need of sorts. Supernatural draws a lot folklore, and human stories have always used symbologies that put together food, desire, love, sex, family, goodness and darkness and all those human experiences.

We have discussed the shit out of every instance of food in the show, analyzed parallels to other stories and fairytales, scrutinized queer-codings and subtexts, got called nasty names by impolite people accusing us of saying that a slice of baked good means Dean likes sitting on dicks. So, yeah, I’m not gonna start explaining everything from the beginning. Let’s jump to the parallels.

- The comfort food. Motherhood, hugs, and the past that can never return: the ideal of childhood and the 50s fantasy

We’ve already talked about how Mrs Butters functions as a parallel to Mary and a symbol of the ideal motherhood that both Mary and Dean struggled with. In Dark Side Of The Moon, we see a memory from Dean’s childhood, where we learn that Mary would cut off the crusts off his sandwiches. Mrs Butters also says that she cut the crusts off, establishing a direct parallel to Dean’s ideal of childhood and child-parent relationship. Or, we should say, as both Mary’s and Dean’s ideals of a child-parent relationship, because we know that Mary set up her life with John and the kids as an elaborate “scene” according to her idea-slash-fantasy of the perfect safe life.

She strugged with that, because her ideal life could never match with reality - she had loose ends from hunting to deal with, she at some level liked having those loose ends to deal with because as much as she hated the hunting life and craved for safety and “normalcy” that was still something she was in her element doing, probably more than the perfect housewife role. Of course when she came back she attempted to recreate the scene but quickly discovered that it was impossible and dropped all attempts to do so, embracing the opposite, or at least what she perceived as the opposite (having a pretty dualistic view of hunting life-domestic life where they cannot be reconciled).

Dean, on the other hand, started out with a similar dualistic view, figuring that he’d always belong to the hunting world and could never have the domestic, “normal” thing at all, embracing his “freakness” as opposed to the concept of normalcy represented by civilians, by the middle class, by the suburbs, by the apple pie, white fence life (insert heavy queer subtext here). And yet there was always an ambiguity with him (again, he’s never one-or-the-other, he’s always both), because, while on the surface he embraces this rebellious, devil-may-care persona, that’s not quite what he is as a full individual. He grew up essentially a housewife from a very early age, has a very caregiving personality, and thrives in taking care of others.

Dean is both Mrs Butters and Mary, where the difference between him and Mary is that Mary couldn’t (didn’t have the time, support, resources?) reconcile parts of her that Dean instead was able to (and in fact recently helped her with: before dying, she’d reached a pretty healthy balance of living her own life as a hunter and having a warm relationship with her sons, at least as healthy as it can get in that kind of circumstances).

Another important parallel to Dark Side Of The Moon, borrowed by Scoobynatural, is the nightgown that feels like being wrapped in hugs: we are reminded of Dean’s “I wuv hugz” from when he was a kid, a symbol for his early life of affection and safety that he lost with his mother. Childhood hugs, comfort food, loving gestures like cutting off the crusts are all symbols of a past that cannot return.

On a level, from a “coming-of-age story” perspective, childhood, with its innocence and perception that adults will always keep us safe, is obviously something that everyone needs to accept as something that belongs to the past and cannot return, to embrace instead the responsibilities and risks of adulthood in a healthy way. In a sense, Dean needs to go through all these steps - acknowledging that his mother was a flawed person, that in fact both of his parents were flawed people who made mistakes but he can forgive them for his own sake in order to be able to let go of trauma and carry on... - to become a healthy adult able to be a good parent to his own child.

(There’s also the cholesterol thing - Mrs Butters chastizes Dean for his diet, but we know that there’s a depth to Dean’s diet, not only his extreme appreciation of food due to experiencing food scarcity and insecurity as a child, but also the memory of his mother’s comfort food, such as the “Winchester surprise”, a monstrosity of meat and cheese. While the “meat man” persona would appear on the surface as a sterotypical masculinity thing, it has layers, in a typical Dean fashion... not coincidentally, in the latest episode he calls himself the meat man while wearing an apron that we’re told he’s very fond of, painting him, again, in a mixture of different meanings, masculinity and femininity, fatherhood and motherhood, devil-may-care attitude and caregiver attitude.)

On another level, a more political level, there’s the 50s fantasy element. We all know the significance of the idealization of the post-war period as the “good ol’ times” in American culture, and it’s an ideal that Mary definitely drew from when she built her perfect life with her family. Mrs Butters represents this in a very literal way, being literally from 1958 when she “froze” herself, and acts as a very stereotyped governess for a bunch of men that feel like they are above housework, what is considered women’s work. Dean initially comments “how progressive”, knowing exactly how bullshit these conversative ideals are, but then appreciates the comforts of the perfect caretaker.

In fact, Dean’s “giving in” to the comforts of a governess makes me think of that famous feminist manifesto “I want a wife” by Judy Syfers... because housework is very much Dean’s work in the bunker. It’s interesting that Mrs Butters immediately comments negatively on the cleanness of the bunker and their clothes: we know that Dean cleans and washes, and, while it’s likely that he cannot keep everything super perfect like a governess would because he’s busy doing many other things, it’s a way Mrs Butters uses to establish roles that she knows and is comfortable with. She is used to being the one who does “feminine” work while the Men of Letters have absolutely zero skills in that regard, and doesn’t really even stop to question if that’s the case with the men in front of her.

Anyway, let’s go back to the 50s fantasy. The show has repeatedly made commentaries on the vacuity of it. Peace Of Mind is the most obvious instance, but there’s plenty of subtext in the show that deals with that typically American aspect. Just like the childhood aspect, the narrative tells us that the “good ol’ times” are also an idealized thing that cannot return (if it ever existed, because Dean’s childhood was built on a fantasy, and the “good ol’ times” are also a fantasy, because the real 50s were horrible for anyone who didn’t swim in privilege). Mrs Butters cannot stay, the 50s fantasy-slash-childhood fantasy cannot last, and Dean embraces his role as an adult-slash-modern housemaker. Blah blah gender, blah blah cake. (Yeah, sorry, but you can fill in the blanks.)

- The contaminated drink. Poison and weakness from the forbidden sexual desire to the forbidden family domesticity

Aaaand now the second branch of parallels that Mrs Butters pinged on my radar, which sends us in an even more queer-subtext-heavy territory. We’re going to talk about the smoothies and the tomato juice. Yes, I know, the smoothies are given to Jack, not Dean, but symbolically Dean and Jack share the same semantic area; both are given a magically conjured drink, and both end up locked away waiting to be killed. For this analysis, they basically overlap.

Let’s start with the tomato juice. I don’t think that it’s a coincidence that Dean is given something that visually reminds of the blood the vampires drink. The tomato juice is a stand-in for blood, and blood in relation to vampirism has a long history of subtext in the show that connects to sexuality, sex, sexual fears and contamination. While vampires are not necessarily always invested of those meanings every single time they appear in the three-hundred-whatever episodes of the show, their main symbology is connected to sex and sexual fears, as vampires do in modern western literature, after all.

You’re probably going to think, wait, what? What has Mrs Butters got to do with sexual fears? Yeah, I know, it sounds weird, but hear me out.

The tomato juice - a stand-in for blood, with a vampire reference - parallels Mrs Butters (who represents trauma, remember) to 6x05 Live Free Or TwiHard. Sexual assault, blood, contamination via the poisoning liquid.

Next to the tomato juice there’s the smoothie. It’s a poison in disguise, a contaminated drink that makes Jack weak. We have, in fact, a pattern of Dean being given contaminated drinks that place him under another’s power. Not just the vampire’s blood, but also Jeremy from 3x10 Dream A Little Dream Of Me, who offers Dean a beer through which he connects him to his dreams. There’s Nick the siren from 4x14 Sex And Violence, who contaminates Dean through the flask. The venom in the siren’s saliva parallels straight to the gorgon Noah in 14x14 Ouroboros, and I don’t have to start explaining what all those things represent, right? (I have written posts about these things, it would be nice if tumblr didn’t suck and showed them to me when I go look for them.)

(Oh, there’s also Crowley’s human blood addiction, which is not, as one might expect, a parallel to Sam’s demon blood addition, but Dean’s First Blade/Mark Of Cain issue, and the First Blade/Mark Of Cain arc is all imbued by the queer subtext of the Dean-Crowley-Castiel triangle.)

Basically, Mrs Butters is inserted in a history of queer subtext, although it appears as obvious that Mrs Butters hardly represents homosexual desire, unless we go a pretty stretchy route of her occupying Cas’ space in the Dean-Sam-Cas-Jack family (I mean, that’s true, but it’s not simply that). It is also true that Mrs Butters represents Cuthbert Sinclair, and here the radar pings, because Cuthbert Sinclair is totally inside the pattern! He wanted to make Dean part of his collection just like the vampire in 6x05 wanted to make Dean part of his pack, with supernatural means of exorting control over Dean and heavy heavy rapey tones. (I know we don’t like to talk about this, but the show does play with incest subtext, John mirrors are often rapey.)

So, we have all this semantic area of poison, weakness and submission to external control painted in overtones of sexual assault and sexual fears especially in relation to homosexual desire. (I am NOT linking homosexual desire to sexual assult, nor the show is, it’s a wide and volatile semantic area where the common denominator is fear, fear of being hurt FOR being different sexually, it’s about vulnerability because of being different. It’s a horror narrative, guys, remember, queer fear is a recurrent theme in the genre. Dracula was about the horror of what happened to Oscar Wilde, we’re running in circles.)

Now, what kind of fear is explored in 15x14? Well, the episode is about the fear of losing family. The plot is about Dean’s feelings towards Jack after he killed Mary. Dean doesn’t know it yet, but he’s going to lose Cas soon also because of Jack. Mary and Cas are both very noisy absences in the episode, and we know that Dean is going to suffer something horrific again that will shatter his family again. This goes past the fears regarding forbidden sexual desire: we’re in the territory of forbidden familial desire, so to speak, Dean’s craving for a domestic peace with his family.

Jack is both the culmination of Dean’s process of family-building, as the son figure of the family, and the element of destruction of that family-building. Not a coincidence Jack’s birthday was referenced, as Jack’s birth coincided with Cas’ death and Mary’s supposed death or at least separation. Now Jack has supposedly killed Mary (or is it a inter-universe separation again? @drsilverfish’s theory always pops up, and we keep getting reminded of other universes - the telescope is broken...) and we know that Cas’ ultimate death hangs above us.

We’re always running in a spiral, Dean’s relationship with Mary, Dean’s relationship with Cas, Dean’s relationship with motherhood and gender roles, Dean’s relationship with sexuality. There’s a big picture of mirrors in the semantic area of fantasies, idealizations, desires and dreams. I hope I managed to make this post make sense, but I’m always open to requests of clarification or elaboration. Thanks for reading!

#my spn thoughts #spn meta #spn 15x14 #queer subtext #dean and femininity #dean and masculinity #dean and food #dean and mary #dean and childhood #dean and sexuality #dean and family #spn

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