#and dean probably doesn’t even know why that sits wrong with him but.

[marvelfanfn2187a113]

Face Your Fears

Sam and Dean Winchester & little sister!reader

Requested by Anonymous

Synopsis: You get into a fight with your brothers, but your recklessness that follows creates problems for everyone.

“You were hunting before you were my age! I don’t get why—“

“It doesn’t matter if you get it or not! I said no!”

Sam rushed to the library when he heard his siblings’ voices raised in argument.

“What’s going on in here?” He asked, trying to keep a calm and neutral tone.

“She—“ Dean started, but you cut him off.

“Dean is being completely unfair!”

“Ok, ok, calm down,” Sam sighed.

“Calm down?! You two are off all the time, actually helping people, putting your lives on the line, and I’m—“

“Exactly! You don’t need to be putting yourself in danger like that!” Dean interrupted.

“It’s what you do! And I sit here and read books!”

“Don’t downplay what you do,” Sam said. “We need you here.”

“But I could do so much more out there with you!” You argued. “I’ve been training, I know I can help!”

“Yeah, or you’d screw it up and get killed, and I don’t need your blood on my hands!” Dean exploded.

The silence that followed was deafening.

“Dean—“ Sam tried to speak up, but you interrupted him.

“So that’s it, really? You think I’m some kind of screw up?” You scoffed, and continued before Dean could speak. “It’s not like you’re perfect! You’ve screwed up the world before, and no one’s stopped you from going out to screw it up again!”

“Y/N—“ again Sam’s attempt to calm the situation was met with resistance.

“Well fine then, if I’m too much of a screw up for you, then I’ll get out of your way!” You shoved past your brothers and beelined for your room, slamming the door behind you.

…

Your brothers didn’t try to go after you. They were probably angry. You knew you went too far with what you said to Dean, but he called you a screw up; were you just supposed to take that and not say anything back?

It didn’t matter either way. You didn’t want them to try to talk to you, because you had something to do.

You had a hunt to go on.

You’d been researching one before you went to ask Dean about joining the next one; since he’d said no, you would take this one whether he liked it or not. And you were going alone.

…

It wasn’t hard to sneak out—back when you lived in motels, it would have been almost impossible to leave without one of your brothers waking up, but with the bunker it was easy.

You didn’t take the Impala—that would be too far, even for this rebellious streak. Instead, you took a cab to the next town over; you had struck gold, finding a hunt so close. It was pretty simple, too; three victims with hearts ripped out, definitely a werewolf. You had more silver bullets than you’d need packed up with a couple of guns in a duffel at your feet.

Dean was wrong about you, you could do this. After all, how hard could one little werewolf be?

…

Dean was right, and you were suffering the consequences of being wrong.

You struggled to pull your phone from your pocket, your fingers fumbling as your phone slipped around in your blood-soaked hands. Your breathing was labored, and every breath brought stabs of pain to your slashed-up abdomen.

You hadn’t noticed the signs of the second werewolf, so determined were you on taking the first one down. You hadn’t even seen him until he’d been right on you, ripping into your stomach. You’d had your gun in your hand, and by some miracle you’d managed to fire off a round into the werewolf on top of you, but not before he’d injured you pretty bad.

You finally got the phone in your hand, and you didn’t hesitate to press Dean’s number. You held the phone just slightly away from your face, wary of irritation the cuts on your cheek.

The phone barely had time to ring before Dean’s voice flooded your senses.

“Where are you?” His voice came out in a growl.

“D-De…” you hadn’t realized you were crying until you had to push your voice out past your tears.

“Sweetheart?” Dean’s anger was gone in a second when he heard your pained voice. “What’s going on?”

“I’m-I’m sorry, De,” you sobbed. “You were right, I’m-I’m sorry.”

“Shh shh, hey,” Dean soothed. “It’s alright sweetheart, I forgive you. Just tell me where you are and I’ll come get you.”

“I-I turned on my phone’s location,” you said. “Ple-please hurry. It hurts…”

Dean tried to ask you more, but a bang from somewhere nearby had you flinching, and the phone slipped out of your soaked hands and shattered on the concrete floor. You realized it was only your own gun, slipping off the table you’d laid it on. But it was too late; your phone was broken, and you had no way to call Dean back.

You could only hope that the tracker would still work.

…

Dean broke both the law and probably some speed records getting to your location. Sam was in the passenger seat, a first aid kit in his lap as he held on for dear life.

“I should’ve known she’d do something stupid,” Dean grunted.

“Dean, you couldn’t have known,” Sam reasoned. “And blaming yourself isn’t going to help her.”

Dean didn’t speak, and the rest of the ride was tensely silent.

“Here,” Sam said as navigator. “Turn left here, and she should be close by.”

Dean swerved the Impala to the left and screeched to a halt in an empty parking lot near a warehouse. Sam was right at his heels as he burst into the warehouse.

“De?” Your pained voice echoed throughout the building, so that it took Dean a moment to find you. When he did, he swore his heart skipped three beats. You were sitting in a pool of your own blood, propped up against the wall. Dean rushed to you, kneeling next to you and almost slipping in your blood.

“Hey, hey,” his voice was a mixture of soothing and panic as he brushed your blood-stained hair away from your face. “Alright sweetheart, tell Doctor Dean where it hurts.”

It was a pathetic joke, but you laughed anyway; Dean’s jokes always made you laugh.

But your laugh sent you to a fit of coughing. Dean winced as he examined the long gashes on your stomach.

“Ok, you’re ok,” Dean leaned back in relief when he saw that it wasn’t too deep; you’d be ok. “But I’m gonna have to carry you to the car, ok? Brace yourself.”

You gritted your teeth and clenched your fists, but you still couldn’t hold back the cry of pain when Dean lifted you into his arms.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Dean cringed. “I’m sorry. You’re gonna be ok.”

Dean laid you on your back in the backseat of the Impala, before taking the first aid kit from Sam and retrieving a needle and thread.

“Can’t we just bandage it up?” You whimpered, already squirming away from the needle. Dean’s finger froze for a second before he shook his head, his features softening. Both brothers were very aware of your fear of needles, but sometimes it couldn’t be helped.

“Sorry sweetheart, it’s gotta be stitched. Just close your eyes, it’ll feel worse if you watch.”

You closed your eyes, trusting your brother completely. However, before he could make the first stitch, your eyes popped open and you grabbed into his wrist.

“Wait,” you said. “I-I…I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” Dean sighed. “I’m sorry too. I said some things that…that I didn’t mean. You aren’t a screw up, ok?”

“What do you call this?” You gestured to your own banged up body.

“Inexperience,” Dean answered. “And you never should’ve been out here alone. Going solo on your first hunt is never a good idea.”

“I’m sorry about that, too,” you mumbled.

“It’s ok, kiddo. Maybe later we…we can talk about you tagging along on one of our hunts.”

“Really?” You grinned.

“Later,” Dean said sternly. “After you’re all better. Now let me get to this.”

As Dean lifted the needle, you closed your eyes again. You felt Sam’s large hand grab onto yours, and you squeezed his hand gratefully, holding on as Dean started to stitch you up.

“I didn’t really think you would screw up the hunts,” Dean said as he worked. “I just…I don’t want you out there. It’s dangerous, and I…I’m scared something will happen to you. But I guess I can’t keep you from it if it’s what you really want.”

“It is,” you said. “I want to do what you guys do. I want to help people, and I wanna be with you guys.”

“Ok then,” Dean said, tying off the stitches and patting your side to let you know he was done. You opened your eyes, and he smiled at you.

“I guess I’ll just have to face my fears.”

Taglist:

@nyotamalfoy @mrvlxgrl @chocorade @aestheticdaisies @inlovewhithafairytale @that-wannabe-vangoghgurl

[stargazedwinchester]

Casual | Dean

love a bit of chappell don’t we guys xox

i rlly enjoyed writing this so i hope you enjoy reading it!! this is very much inspired by the song, but not necessarily a songfic :)

CW: mentions of s*x, nothing too provocative

Summary: You and Dean are casual friends with benefits until you uncover the truth about how you actually feel toward him.

Word count: 1,133

♱⁺. ⋆˙✧⋆✧˙⋆⊹.♱

“I, uh, think I should get you home,” Dean says. The silence is palpable. You feel awkward and like you don’t belong, so you let out a defeated sigh. He’s shirtless, his slight 6-pack glistening with sweat as he attempts to dry himself off with a towel. You felt as if you couldn’t catch your breath, whether it was just from the insane sex you had just endeavoured or Dean’s pitiless words that filled your lungs with regret.

“Okay.” You give up. Each time you attempt to feel a connection with him — a real, deep connection, it’s like he wipes it from his memory as soon as you’re both finished and goes back to reality. Post-nut clarity, if you will.

It’s not like he doesn’t find you attractive. Hell no. It’s his intense lack of commitment issues and mommy/daddy issues that give him such a hard time completely dedicating himself to someone. The hundreds of arguments you had gotten into over the people he had slept with whilst also sleeping with you just gave you second-hand embarrassment. In fact, it was downright wrong it should’ve been illegal.

You manage to tumble out of bed butt-naked, slowly getting your clothes back on ready for the silent drive home. You almost gape in awe at Dean’s silhouette. Heavy feelings weigh down on your heart for someone who doesn’t even think of you in any other way other than for intimacy is so challenging, especially on your own self-worth.

Dean doesn’t say a word to you. He sits back down on the bed and starts typing on his phone. He’s wearing a light grey t-shirt and charcoal grey jeans. The small screen lights up his face and a slight grin slowly appears and your heart sinks. Without even looking, you already know he’s talking to some other bitch, in which he’s probably going to go pick her up after he’s dropped you off at home.

“You ready?” You ask him, breaking the one-way tension in the room. “Yeah,” He says, standing up and leading you out toward the car.

♱⁺. ⋆˙✧⋆✧˙⋆⊹.♱

On the drive home, it’s dark and rainy. The streetlights emit a dim, dusty champagne colour, yet the awkward tension isn’t anything worth celebrating.

“What’re you doing after this?” He asks, not breaking focus from the road. “Probably just go straight to bed,” you reply, shrugging lightly. “What about you?”

“I’m going to go visit a friend of mine,” He coughs, then purses his lips. “She lives about half an hour thataway.” He motions his pointer finger toward the left.

She.

The anger builds up inside of you. After all this time, you had thought that he wasn’t seeing anybody else, that you had only mindfully agreed that this thing stays between the pair of you, and this included sleeping around. What a fucking tool.

“Listen, it’s nice and all that you’re giving me a lift home, but you’re really taking the cake by pretending like you’re not seeing other people.” You lock eyes with him, and his expression changes.

“What, so you’re jealous now? Is that it?” He scoffs, and you freeze up. “So what if I am? We had an agreement that we weren’t gonna sleep with anyone else! We said that!” You start to raise your voice, frustration running right through your blood as it starts to boil.

“I’ve mentioned it to you multiple times before. I don’t understand why you can’t listen to me! It’s fucking gross, Dean! You need a huge reality check because this isn’t gonna last forever.” You wave your finger between yourself and Dean, indicating that whatever it is that you both have going on is at its final straw. He scoffs again, shaking his head. It’s almost like he wants to say something, but bites his tongue. He presses his foot on the pedal, coming to a stop. It’s that sudden you hit your head on the headrest.

“Y/N-“

“I don’t want to hear it. Take me home.”

“Lis-“

“Fucking take me home, Dean. I mean it.”

For the rest of the drive, you’re in silence. Nothing on the radio, no cassette tape playing, not even the windows open to hear the sound of the rain pattering on the windscreen.

♱⁺. ⋆˙✧⋆✧˙⋆⊹.♱

He parks the Impala outside of your house, and since the quietness has given you a second to rethink the whole situation.

“Dean,” you start, and his big, puppy-dog eyes glare at you with regret. “What’s up?” He asks and this time it sounds like it was with genuine concern.

“I have to tell you something before I go.” You state, and he nods, listening.

“The reason why I was jealous is that I’m in love with you, Dean. It’s hard seeing you go away and spend time with all these different people and I just get a fraction of you. It’s unfair that I’ve spent the last year or so falling in love with you and you see me as nothing more than someone to play with.” You pause, then take a deep breath.

“You don’t need to say anything else because I’m done. It’s friends or nothing. If I hear nothing from you within the next 3 days, then I’ll know where your priorities lie.”

You start to collect your bags together and open the passenger door. He’s left stunned, his eyebrows raised, his mouth slightly agape and his eyes showing enough sadness to make you want to apologise for going off at him and then travelling back to the motel for round 2.

You can tell that the cogs are turning in his head, thinking of what to say that would completely win you over. But there’s absolutely nothing that he could do or say that could make you turn back around. You shut the door, but the window is still open.

“Y/N, hold up a sec,” He yells through the window while you’re almost halfway up the path. You turn around and lock eyes with him.

“Please come back, let’s talk about this.” He leans over to the passenger seat, his gorgeous forest green eyes staring up at you.

“3 days, Dean. Prove that you’re not an asshole and I’ll think about it.” You say one last time before turning back around to the front of your house. The last thing you want is Dean never wanting to see you again.

You enter the entryway to your home and make your way up the stairs. Opening up your bedroom door, you take a moment to collect yourself, instead of thinking God, what have I done? You sit proud that you have stood up for yourself against someone who has clearly used you for nothing more than his own selfishness. And if that is the case, well... so be it.

[aylacavebear]

Soulmates? Yeah, right, pft. - Ch. 11

When you turn sixteen, and your soulmate's name doesn’t appear anywhere on your body that you can find, you figure you had to be the only person on the planet who didn’t have one. Most of the town shuns you, so you stick close to family. Your Aunt Ellen raised you after your parents died in a car crash when you were two, but what happens when the Winchesters return to town and buried secrets begin to come to light?

Pairing: Mechanic Dean Winchester x OC Reader/You

Word Count: 3380

Warnings: Lots of inuendos, Lots of insinuations (nothing actually happens), some fluff, Dean being Dean (yes, this is a warning), some alcohol, thoughts pertaining to the reader's toy, little bit of angst.

A/N: This is my non-Supernatural fic I'm attempting. Please let me know what you think, as I always love hearing from my readers.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 11

You weren’t in the mood for much of anything after you’d heard that and had spent most of the day sitting on your bed attempting to read a book. Your phone had been left abandoned in the kitchen at some point. It wasn’t that the book wasn’t interesting, it was just that your mind was on other things.

Dean gave you space, letting you spend the day in your room. You’d even stayed in your pajamas and hadn’t bothered brushing your hair. On top of everything, the mark on your collarbone was burning again. However, at the moment, you were being far too stubborn to deal with it.

A knock on your doorframe pulled your gaze from your book, and there was Dean, a playful smirk on his face. “You know, Sweetheart, I think you’re far more stubborn than I am,” he teased, injecting a hint of levity into the room.

“Why do you say that?” you asked, setting your book down on the bed next to you.

All he did was hold up the cream in his hand, which elicited an eye roll from you. You wanted to ask him how he always seemed to know, but at the moment, you weren’t in the mood. He gently applied the cream to your mark as you watched his expression.

How does he do that? It’s like he doesn’t want me to figure out what’s going through his head. It’s so frustrating. But, somehow, he always seems to know exactly what the hell is wrong with me. It’s not fair.

“What’s got you so frustrated?” he asked, his gaze fixed on your mark as he applied the cream.

“How are you doing that?” you asked, doing your best not to sound frustrated or annoyed that he seemed to read you like a book.

“Why can’t you just answer my question?” he asked, looking up at you through his thick lashes for a moment.

You grumbled and looked away from him, “Lots of things have me frustrated, and I feel like I have cabin fever,” you mumbled, but it was only half true. “I’ll probably journal about it when you’re done,” you added, looking away from those damn emerald orbs that always pulled you in.

Dean finished up and capped the cream with a light sigh before he looked at you again. When he cupped your cheek and looked into your eyes, you practically held your breath. “Sweetheart, you don’t have to go through this alone,” he told you softly before gently pressing his lips to your forehead and then leaving your room.

I hate it when he does that, the thought making you grumble quietly through a pout. You grabbed your journal and began writing, just wanting to get all your thoughts out of your head in hopes that they would stop. 

The aroma of searing meat began wafting into your room sometime later. You closed your eyes and breathed the scent deep into your lungs through your nose, licking your lips. Setting down your journal, you made your way to the kitchen, your stomach now growling as the aroma only intensified.

“You really need to stop skipping lunch,” Dean chuckled from where he stood at the stove.

You licked your lips again but then wiped your mouth, realizing you were drooling a little. “I wasn’t hungry,” you replied absentmindedly, making your way to the stove.

It was a sight to behold after the last couple of months of weird concoctions that Dean had come up with. Two beautiful, thick steaks cooking in a cast iron skillet, sizzling away and seasoned in a tantalizing way that teased your senses.

“If I knew all it took was some cooking meat to make you drool, I would have gone looking for some months ago,” he teased you, doing his best not to chuckle too much in amusement.

“Shut up,” you mumbled, swallowing again as your mouth watered.

God, I missed steak.

He did chuckle at that, “Have a seat, it’s almost done,” he managed through bouts of amusement.

“But, I can’t look away,” you mumbled, licking your lips, then pulling your bottom one between your teeth for a moment, and you missed Dean’s expression, which was probably a good thing.

You did notice how a low groan came from him, making you look up at him a little puzzled. You straightened yourself up a little, realizing you had partially leaned over his arm to get a better view of the steaks, and sat down at the table. At least your thoughts about everything else had stopped, for now.

Your eyes never left Dean, although that was more because he was standing in front of the stove. Your thoughts were only on the steak he was cooking. It wasn’t like you and Dean were lacking in any sort of nourishment, as the non-perishables were plenty healthy. No, you just missed steak or more; you missed meat. Canned meat was definitely not the same, no matter how good a cook Dean was.

He plated the steak, some corn, and mashed potatoes with gravy and set one in front of you. Your eyes never left the plate, and his eyes never left you as he sat across from you. “Hope you like it, Sweetheart,” he told you, and you could hear the smirk in his words.

You licked your lips once before cutting into your steak, then savoring that first bite with your eyes closed, making sounds of delight. Although, out of context, they probably sounded sinful. You didn’t even hear Dean shift slightly in his seat. 

“My God, Dean,” you practically moaned, still savoring the tender and juicy piece of steak in your mouth.

You opened your eyes slowly, a very happy smile on your lips as you looked over at him. However, your expression went to curiosity when you saw how his breathing had changed slightly, and he almost looked flushed.

“You okay?” you asked, a little puzzled.

Dean coughed in an attempt to clear his throat as he looked away from you, “Glad you like it,” he barely got out in a surprisingly gruffer tone than you were used to.

For a moment, you watched him debating, wondering what was going through his head and why he seemed frustrated. He hadn’t answered your question either. “Well, are you okay?” you asked a little hesitantly.

“Yeah. I’m good,” he replied quickly, not even looking up at you.

Then why won’t you look at me?

Grumbling silently, you went back to enjoying the amazing meal he had cooked for the two of you. There were a few more times that those sounds left your lips as you enjoyed your steak. You couldn’t help it. You would have even said it was the best steak you’d ever had in your life, but figured that was more because of how long it had been since you’d had any.

After dinner, you took care of the dishes. He’d cooked, so it was your way of showing him how you appreciated his cooking skills. While you did that, he went and showered. Your mind wandered again, mostly wondering what he’d been thinking about during dinner that had kept him so quiet. You headed into the living room and plopped down on the couch, still hearing the shower running, which seemed to be a little longer than he typically took, but didn’t stay on the thought. Your mark burned again, but you ignored it as your thoughts drifted back to when he’d kissed you. A smile tugged at your lips at the memory and the feelings it brought up.

Slowly, you let your fingertips glide across your lips as the memory played out. Then, quickly pushed it away, shifting how you were sitting on the couch. Another twenty minutes had passed, and he was still in the bathroom, and the shower was still going.

What the hell is taking him so long?

With that thought, you went to the bathroom, and just as you were about to knock, you heard him moan, deeply. 

Oh…

Now, you were attempting to get the image of Dean, naked in the shower, the water steaming down his body and his cock hard in his hand as you stood frozen just on the other side of the door. Your body began reacting to the sounds that came muffled from the bathroom, and your thighs rubbed together, almost instinctively.

Fuck, this is so wrong.

But that didn’t stop the image of him jerking off in the shower to get out of your head any faster. It wasn’t like you had remembered to grab your toy before the two of you had locked yourself in the bunker, but at the moment, you weren’t sure you’d need it. You heard another deep growl from him, and your walls clenched around nothing as your breath quickened.

Damnit!

Your room was near the bathroom, and you wondered if you dared to take care of yourself or if you had the time. You quickly calculated how long he’d already been in there, and when he moaned one more time, you knew you didn’t. I was deep but guttural. You even heard his hand hit the shower wall like he was attempting to steady himself.

Quickly, you went to your room and cleaned yourself up, changing your underwear. Now, you were utterly flustered in an entirely different way. All you could hope was that you could calm yourself down before he found his way to the living room. The shower, of course, stopped, and your eyes shot to your bedroom door.

Shit!

You slipped out of your room and into the living room as quietly but as quickly as you could, getting comfortable on the couch. You knew your face was flushed, and you felt far too warm, even in the thin material of the pajama pants and tank top. Dean emerged from the bathroom minutes later, dressed, but his hair was still damp, and it looked as though he hadn’t brushed it.

“Why don’t we go play some pool?” he suggested, seeming quite relaxed now.

“Oh. I thought you’d just want to watch another movie and call it an early night,” you replied, looking over at him, mentally cursing as sinful thoughts began drifting through your mind.

“Not tonight, Sweetheart. It’s New Year's Eve, and I saved a bottle of whiskey to celebrate,” he smirked.

Dear God, if you’re listening, please help me restrain myself.

“Sure, why not,” you replied, giving him a neutral smile and praying he wasn’t reading you like a damm book, which he had a tendency to do.

“I’ll meet you down there. Don’t need you finding my hiding spot,” he smirked, putting his hands on his hips. You rolled your eyes but headed down to the game room; your thoughts of nothing but him and God were they only getting more sinful. You mentally berated yourself as you set up the pool table for a game, grabbing a pool cue as Dean joined you. He did indeed have a bottle of whiskey and two glasses in hand, along with that damned smirk on his lips as he approached the pool table.

He poured you each a glass, holding yours out for you. Doing your best to focus on the glass and not his hand around it, you went over and gently took it from him.

“Happy New Year’s, Sweetheart,” he told you, gently tapping his glass against yours and giving you a slight nod.

“Happy New Year’s, Dean,” you replied, giving him a soft smile before taking a sip of the whiskey.

You hissed as it burned not only your tongue but all the way down your throat. It had been a while since you’d drank anything alcoholic. Making a mental note not to drink too much, figuring your tolerance had dropped drastically, you set your glass down on the border of the pool table. Dean grabbed a pool cue while you grabbed yours.

He seemed to have a cocky smirk as he turned to face the table, and you, then set his hands on the top of his cue, just watching you. You pulled your hair back into a ponytail with your cue tucked in your elbow, leaning it against your shoulder.

“Did you wanna go first?” you asked, finishing with your hair.

“Go ahead,” he replied fairly casually, but you swore there was a hint of something else there. You just couldn’t put your finger on it.

You eyed him for a moment, then took the opening shot. Your mind wasn’t really focused on the game, as it was like your mind thought of every dirty innuendo for literally everything, like when the balls would roll and then slide down one of the pockets. It only made your body warmer, or was it the whiskey? You figured it was probably both.

The game played out, and you were losing, badly. You also swore Dean was teasing you on purpose but wouldn’t accuse him of that outright. It wasn’t anything direct, and that was why. The way he’d lick his lips after he sipped his whiskey. Or the way he slid the pool cue almost suggestively between his thumb and index finger. It was sinful, to say the least. 

Then, there was the way he’d look up at you through those thick lashes of his just before he’d take his shot, and his eyes never left yours. Your first drink had gone down quickly, and you were trying to nurse the second one. However, when the man bent over right in front of you to take his shot, you inhaled deeply, downing the rest of your drink.

“You alright, Sweetheart?” he asked you as he took another shot from another side of the pool table.

“Fine. Why do you ask?” you replied, trying to act as nonchalantly as possible and ignore the heat that only seemed to intensify within your body.

“You seem… distracted,” he said, glancing up at you with a knowing smirk.

It has to be a sin for anyone to look that fucking hot playing pool.

“I’m just out of practice,” you replied, waving your hand and playing it off, or at least attempting to.

Dean just chuckled and shook his a little, and you could have sworn he missed the shot on purpose. However, you knew you couldn’t call him on it and win that argument. He did notice that your drink was empty as you moved to take your shot, so as you missed yet another shot, he filled your glass again before you could protest.

“Definitly distracted,” he chuckled, capping the whiskey bottle.

You’d already begun feeling the light buzz from your first two glasses and knew you’d have to stop after this one. “Out of practice,” you argued, attempting to give him a serious glare.

“Whatever you gotta tell yourself, Sweetheart,” he teased, leaning over to take his shot.

Stupid thoughts, stupid hormones, stupid bunker. God, why did I have to forget my damned toy.

You weren’t mad at him, far from it, but you still refused to get your hopes up that he was your soulmate. Just because he said he could feel your emotions and the name on him was the same as yours wasn’t enough proof for you. Plus, you were stubborn. 

The smirk never left his lips during the rest of the game. You noticed how he watched you, even when he was taking his own shots. Briefly, you wondered if he could tell that you were turned on and wanted him, but there was no way you were going to ask that. One thing you noticed, he’d only poured himself one drink and never refilled it. 

He suggested another game after that one, but you weren’t in the mood, not for pool, at least. You also weren’t sure you could trust yourself to cuddle with him and watch a movie. Between the alcohol and your thoughts, you needed to take care of yourself so you could think straight again.

“I’ve had three. I think I’m gonna call it an early night,” you told him, feeling comfortably buzzed but also far more aroused than you’d had to deal with before.

“Come on, Sweetheart. Just one more,” he pouted, and you could tell he was trying to make you give in.

“Dean, that’s not fair,” you whined, doing your best not to think about just how plump and soft his lips looked when he pouted the way he was.

“Well, I cooked you an amazing steak and saved whiskey, your favorite, for tonight. It’s New Year’s Eve. Just one more game, please,” he told you, giving you the most adorable puppy dog expression you’d seen on him yet.

“You’re cheating when you do that,” you protested, wanting so badly to look away, then groaned. “Fine, one more game, then I’m going to bed.”

He grinned triumphantly and set up the next game. You attempted to concentrate on the game, but your mind refused to let you. Your thoughts were of Dean doing utterly sinful things to you on that pool table, and he wasn’t helping get your thoughts on anything else. He still wasn’t doing anything directly. It was all subtle, and it was driving your body up the wall.

There was no way you were winning this one either; you were far too distracted to focus on taking your shot, especially when Dean stood directly in front of where your focus needed to be. You’d glare at him, but all he would do was smirk in response. You weren’t mad at him; you were just sexually frustrated, and he wasn’t making it any easier, just by being his usual self. That was what was more infuriating than anything. He didn’t have to do anything to get to you.

“You really are out of practice,” he chuckled when the game was over as he followed you back upstairs.

“I told you,” you huffed, praying that he really had believed that. 

“Looks like we’ll have to play more often. Get you back into practice,” he replied, sounding far too amused for your liking.

“I don’t see why not. I’m sure the whiskey didn’t help my chances any,” you retorted.

Dean chuckled again and followed you toward your room, at which point you stopped and turned to him, “Why are you following me?”

“Just wanted to give you a hug, since I know you won’t be staying up with me to watch a movie, and I don’t get my cuddles,” he replied with that devilish smirk of his.

You rolled your eyes but gave him a hug. As you wrapped your arms around his back, the scent that was all his engulfed your senses. You felt his arms around you, and there was a sense of safety there. Leaning your head against his chest, you sighed. 

That was when it hit you, almost like a ton of bricks. You didn’t want to let him go, and oddly enough, it had nothing to do with how your body felt. Dean rested his chin on the top of your head, just holding you close as the emotions rushed through your body.

No one in the town had wanted much to do with you, at least not anyone that wasn’t family. Now, there was Dean, who’d become your best friend. You didn’t want to let go of him, but you also couldn’t let yourself go with him. You knew that if you gave in and allowed yourself to get that close, that intimate, it’d only hurt more when your soulmate’s name fully appeared. If it wasn’t his, you weren’t sure you’d be able to go through that sort of heartache.

He’d begun pulling away, so you did the same, taking a step back and giving him a small smile, “See you in the morning. Try to get some sleep.” “You too, Sweetheart,” he replied, giving you a soft smile, but he didn’t come closer.

You closed your door and crawled into bed, snuggling up with your pillow in the darkness. A single tear slipped down your cheek when you finally let the thought you’d been fighting slip past your lips.

“I love him…” you whispered into the darkness.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 12

Story Master List Main Master List

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If I missed tagging, please let me know. I had a lot of requests for tags for this one. If you'd like to be tagged, drop me a comment.

[idkiwasntsupposedtobebackhere]

my unpopular gilmore girls opinions (like actually):

-i don’t mind lane’s husband zach. like i think he was kind of a moron but he stepped up to the plate and was consistantly there for lane. why do people want lane to pine for dave 10 years later like he was her one and only soulmate instead of a really cool guy who was a really cool guy bc he wasn’t on the show long enough to get a villain arc. i think the problem with lane’s storyline is that she didn’t get to go out on an adventure, not that she settled down with zach instead of dave. i would have been pissed if she got pregnant and stayed in SH for life even if it was with dave.

-i don’t think everything that went wrong with luke and jess was jess’ fault and that he only had himself to blame for getting kicked out. like luke taking jess in no questions asked was a really great gesture but he didn’t know what he was doing from that point on. him doing a nice thing doesn’t mean he’s somehow abow getting slightly critisised for handling a lot of things wrong. like i do think a 17-18 yo is entitled to a place to stay without conditions and despite screwing things up and luke needed to either fully be that person or not at all

-i often hear ”rory said no to logan’s proposal just to be his mistress later, she should have just said yes”, which… no, it’s ok to want something at 32 that you didn’t want at 22 (disclaimer: it’s not ok to sleep with someone else’s fiancee). i even hear a lot of people say rory should have said yes to logan even without bringing up AYITL and i really don’t understand why this is the general opinion. and i’m not saying this because i’m team jess over logan, i wouldn’t have wanted jess and rory to get married at 22 either. we’ve known since season 1 that rory has dreams and plans to travel and when logan proposed and they presented it as kind of a 50/50 thing i was baffled because ofc it’s a no. also if someone tells you ”either we get married or we break up”, always break up!!!

-luke and lorelai… are not compat- i mean initially they were cute, but just on a fundamental level- i mean… ok actually i’m not brave enough to go there, maybe in the next post. all i’m saying is that i rooted for them as much as the next guy and that they probably wouldn’t have been truly content if they never gave a relationship a go and they’d probably always be jealous of the other’s romantic relationships a little bit BUT that they’re too different (both personality wise and in handling stuff in general) to actually create a life together. they work in the diner setting but seeing each other 24/7 and agreeing on day to day decisions? idk. oops, looks like i went there anyways. also i’m not saying i don’t like them together, in fact they’re together in every single gilmore girls universe i have in my head but yk

-jess wasn’t the best boyfriend but a lot of their issues was rory subconsciously comparing what jess did with what dean would have done and their relationship was never going to work with such a fresh breakup hanging over them like that. the issue of jess not calling rory and making a plan and rory being mad that she had to sit around and wait for him to do it for example is not jess being malicious, it’s just them genuinely having different expectations and ideas of what a relationship is which could have been solved with a) some communication and b) dean and lorelai not breathing down their necks and preying on their downfall

-i think lorelai could stand to butt out of rory’s life and be a bit nicer to her step-nephew but i’m always gonna back her when it comes to her parents. i have no patience for the ”richard and emily weren’t that bad”-crowd. i’m tired of hearing ”lorelai is pissed because she gets thousands of dollars in exchange for a free meal, is she stoopid?” when it’s so much deeper than that. her sacrificing her own boundries for the sake of rory’s education is actually quite admirable (would emily swallow her pride and values and do something like that?). bc now i actually love emily as a character and enjoy her more than the gilmore girls sometimes. and as an audience we can obviously see that she cares about lorelai. but it’s emily’s responsibility to actually make lorelai feel that. because even tho emily thinks she did what was best for lorelai, it clearly did not make lorelai feel loved, because it was all according to what emily herself wanted.

-i don’t think this is that unpopular but i’ve heard many different takes on this. if lorelai wanted to be overdramatic about rory fracturing her wrist that is within her right, her kid was in the hospital after all and that is scary. however, where she was absolutely just objectively in the wrong is where she went ballistic at luke who’s supposed to be her best friend when he got the tiniest bit concerned over his nephew’s whereabouts after he had also been in that car accident. her screaming at him that he had more of an obligation to herself and her kid than the kid he’s literally in responsible for? this is just one of those situations where i feel like she wasn’t being an adult. it would have been understandable for like lane to barge into luke’s and yell jess’ name and scream that he should never have been allowed in this town but lorelai is 33.

part 2 soon?

[undyinwxnchester]

‘Everybody knows that I’m a good boy, officer.’

(Officer!MaleReader x DeanWinch).

NSFW THEMES - SLIGHT AGEGAP

‘Everyone, and I mean. Everyone knew who Dean Winchester was in the force, FBI, and so on. And it seemed whilst pulling a black impala over, you just so happened to be lucky enough to pull him of all people over.

You weren’t aware of what he looked like, just name. So given the fake ID name you are thrown off guard.’

“yeh, names Ozzy Smith.” He says. Odd name, but you brush it off. But you have to still question him given the speeding and lack of paper work.

“Uh-Huh. Why don’t you step out for me, son.” You say in your usual tone, just keeping it stern but not so much to the point it’s going to scare the person off. He doesn’t as first, but complied after a moment. Even in your late 30s, your not dumb enough to think a kid a decade younger than you is going to be named ozzy.

Even if he had shit parents name him. Your sceptical.

His hands fidget in his pockets, a clear sign of something off to you.

“How old are you?”

A simple question he should be able to answer. Still his ‘ID’ in hand, he’s been caught out.

At that - it’s not a surprise he ends up in cuffs, not knowing his supposed age on the ID by heart seems silly. You end up in his trunk, plenty of fake ids, weapons. Everything you don’t want to find in someone’s car.

Hes trying, so hard to do something. Swoon and beg his way out. The flirting is new, for men anyway. But it doesn’t work anyway.

“Oh come on man! Cut me some slack, I didn’t do nothing wrong.”

That’s all that escapes his lips, excuses. Dean is beyond annoyed - he hadn’t planned on being pulled over for little reason and he knows it’s going to be annoying to get out of this. Sams at some cheap motel an hour away without baby. And it seems this cop won’t budge.

He tries his hardest - his usual charm, being oblivious. His usual cocky ‘Fake manner’. But your not a woman, that’s not as easy. So he takes a latter when you’ve eventually got him in a questioning room, alone and cuffed to the table.’

You sit opposite him - your a small department and little of the others know how to question people. Especially people like him. They’d probably end up in tears or confused.

He’s seemingly tired - seemingly.

But acting odd, shifting in the chair and cuffs, before he asks the usual question.

“Need the’ bathroom.”

So, you provide the right like you’d supposed to even if you know it’s something fishy. Your correct. Soon as you unlatch him from the table; even with his cuffs still on.

Your pinned, he’s a big kid. Some muscle on him so it’s no so hard for him to do with you, as you grunt and the cuffs press at your throat you realise this probably wasn’t the best person to allow a bathroom right.

You struggle - eventually pushing him away and able to grab him, but in a rather odd place given he knew his way around a good fight. He ends up.. bent. Over the table.

Your body behind him and you sort of. Freeze. This doesn’t look good. At all.

His breathe hitches - this is a new position for him. Usually he’s the one bending someone over but - welp.

He bucks, tries to. But it ends up with him pressing his behind against your groin, you grunt. And just pin him more in response. This isn’t good at all. For either of you.

“You know- you could have bought me a drink.” He teases, of course when given the circumstances he will in fact still be a weird about it. He’s that kind of guy. Even though he feels.. odd. He’s not used to such kind of people near him.. but he’s not’

Opposed to it. So he uses it to advantage, even though it’ll probably get him into more trouble.

Before you can respond to his crude comment - he bucks again. But more, and more. He’s not used to doing this but he’ll do it for the sake of hopefully getting out of here. His rear moving swiftly, slowly but with a harsh push. You feel your cock twitch - its interested. Your head isn’t.

You move he gets away - you don’t move he gets his own way. Your screwed- oh it feels so good though. He’s not bad looking at all. A pretty kid.. and that ass is just. Speaking wonders.

—

You fucked it- your screwed. Your fired for sure. So sure. After his little charade you ended up giving in, he didn’t mind even though he sort of shit himself at first. Your cock deep into his hole as he’s leant against the table. Cuffs rattling with each heavy thrust.

He’s a heavy moaning mess - and your groaning behind him. As his tight behind sucks you in like no other, taking your inches generously. It’s a little dry, you only used spit but it serves well enough. You don’t care if it hurts him - he’s a criminal after all.

Your hands are tight on his hips, each pound earning you a whine as it barely pushes against his prostate. He’s so close. So close already. Cock leaking onto the table as it shifts with each movement from behind, leaking pre and swelling for some form of attention. It doesn’t get any.

You grind, and you thrust. He even meets your movements- back arching just that bit to move with you. Till he pops. His ropes of white lathering against the table. You continue with him. His orgasm ridden out and his hole just that bit tighter because of it.

Your closer now too. But need just a bit longer. This isn’t an intimate moment. It’s just a fuck. No words are or will be exchanged - or so you thought. He mutters, just barely with such a gruff husky groan, And you almost immediately finish as he does.

‘A-Hah- Right there deputy..”

He’s filled to the brim right after.

———

He leaves. You let him go - no questions asked. Of course you do.

He could just decide to snitch on you and it’ll cost your job, you help clean him up before he does go of course. Little words exchanged, glances at best. Before he goes though. He gives you - his number.

And your left with guilt and dread - fear of your job. But that all heavy feeling of lust and want for more.

You didn’t think The Dean Winchester would end up a good fuck.

——————————————————

Request anything if you want!

🫡

[narrynukezankielover]

I find the beginning of I’m No Angel cute and funny. Dean is worried sick about Cas especially once he finds out that the angels are working together and killing people. He says if they get to him before we do and all Sam does is sit there trying hard not to tell Dean to calm his ass down. It’s an example of Sam knowing which I really like. Then when they are looking for Cas and Dean describes him as dark hair and blue eyes. It’s a simple description yet I still love it. He’s spent enough time eye f*cking Cas he should know the colour of his eyes.

The poor boy looked like he was about 2 seconds away from losing it from seeing Cas dead and i’m pretty sure in the script it doesn’t say Cas dies then Dean places his hands on both sides of Cas face lovingly anf gently.

I absolutely love this part. First of all as Ezekiel (I know it’s Gadriel but at this point they don’t) is fixing Cas Dean is mouthing come on. Sam faints after Ezekiel fixes Cas and Dean is about to go over to check on Sam and as soon as he hears Cas say his name his head whipped around soooo fast. Then Dean takes another opportunity to put his hands on Cas leg and chest. Think this is Jensens choice again and I’m very happy with his choices.

This actually made me bust out laughing. Cas told Dean and Sam that he had sex with April (think that was her name). Dean looks proud and Sam looks disgusted. I think Sam is trying to figure out why Cas would tell them that not realizing that Cas told Dean back a few seasons ago that he was a virgin so he knew Dean at least would be happy for him. Personally I don’t think Cas really liked misses even before she started torturing him I think it was just a human thing he wanted to experience.

This broke my heart. I feel bad for Dean. He’s in such a hard place. He either has to tell Cas to leave and have him defend for himself as a human which he’s not used to doing and running away from angels that want to kill him or he lets Cas stay and Sam dies. The worst thing is he was extremely happy to finally have Cas in the bunker where he could protect him and take care of him and then gets his heart broken when told he has to tell Cas to leave. I’m guessing the writers tried to explain it with Dean defending Cas and saying that he’s the one that the angels are after, he only let Ezekiel possess Sam because Cas said he was a good angel and that he has the tattoo. Ezekiel saying that misses found Cas even with the tattoo but they never explained how misses found Cas. Dean is extremely confused because he knows the tattoo keeps the angels from finding people so Cas should be protected. I feel bad for Cas because now he has to be by himself again but I also feel bad for Dean because he had to be the one to tell Cas to leave.

If Cas could see the love and sadness in Dean eyes here he would forgive him right away (Heaven Cant’t Wait). I know Dean doesn’t want Sam around or talking to Cas because he knows if he does Sam will say something about Cas deciding to leave and Cas would tell Sam that Dean told him to leave and Sam would know something was wrong since Dean wanted Cas in the bunker but it’s a nice excuse for Cas and Dean to be alone. Sam questioned Dean if there’s no case and you’re not going to see Cas then what’s the point? At least Sam knows how much Dean wants to see Cas. Cas obviously wanted to see Dean too since he called him about the case not Sam. Well 99% of the time he does call Dean but right now he’s feeling rejected by Dean and yet he still calls him and probably knows Dean will drop everything to go there.

Dean says I can’t let you do this and I didn’t see the way Cas looked at him at first but then I realized Cas was hoping he would say don’t go on this date stay here with me.

Dean tells Cas to unbutton some of the buttons on his shirt and Dean is obviously enjoying the sight. He has a huge smile on his face and checking Cas out then when he realizes Cas is looking at him he goes back to making sure Cas looks good.

Earlier in the ep Dean was being as asshole telling Cas he was too good to be working in a little store not realizing Cas has to get money now for food, supplies and whatever else he needs or wants. I think Dean still looks at Cas and sees the strong (as in mentally) angel that he’s used to. He’s used to Cas being more then happy to help them with cases and now that Cas wants to be good at his job Dean didn’t understand it until this point. He now realizes Cas is still mentally strong and if he got to be human he’s going to do it the best he can. He even tells Cas he’s proud of him and Cas looks happy to hear it. I think hearing that Dean is proud of him made him feel better about Dean telling him to leave the bunker. In an earlier ep (the dead people turning to zombies one) Dean couldn’t understand why Bobbys wife wasn’t telling Bobby the truth. She said to Dean you’ve never been in love have you. She wanted to keep Bobby happy and protected (I can’t remember her exact words). Here Dean didn’t tell Cas that the spell was irreversible because he thought Cas was happy as a human and didn’t know what he would do if he knew he was never going to be an angel again. I guess Dean is in love now. Lastly when Cas got out of the car you can see how hard it was for both of them to say goodbye. Dean actually had to let out a deep breath before he could look at Cas again and Cas looked sad as he walked to the store.

[dulceackles]

Ambivalent Part Four - The keys

Previous part: (x)

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader

Warnings: angst, strong language, sex, violence, enemies to lovers, alcohol, all that. Mention of dead body, a little bit of horror. English is not my first language, so sorry for typos. Also, it is a Y/N, but I’ve created a background story and a fictional place around it for creative and storytelling reasons. Will not be describing exterior characteristics, tho!

Summary: Dean used to be really important to Y/N but ever since he suddenly left her without telling her why, she’s been avoiding even mentioning him. Now, after years, he’s back in town, but not because of her. There’s a case. The only things she’s certain is that she doesn’t like him being back.

Word count: 1.7k

Dean walked out of the bathroom, looking for Y/N but there was no sign of her at the bar anymore. He had no idea how things had gone down to shit so fast, well sure he had a little bit of idea, but not on a grand scale of only including tonight. Maybe she had gone to the actual women's bathroom? His green eyes scanned the bar, looking for Y/N's friend.

"What now?" Sam caught up to his brother. He knew something had gone wrong by the way he looked distressed.

"Y/N got mad," Dean shortly said.

"And that's news to...?"

"Quit with that attitude." Dean snarled. His eyes locked with Joselyn talking to some guy next to the table she and Y/N had been sitting at previously.

He walked over to her. "Where's Y/N?"

"and you need to know why?" She patted her eyelashes to him.

"Because it's important!"

"Ssuree..." her voice slurred a little bit. Dean sighed and pinched his nose. This night... he regretted all of it starting from the get-go. He wished they'd just showed up to Victors' door at some random afternoon and asked the questions like reporters. But no, here they were.

"She left," Joselyn said, locking her eyes with Sam. They were two handsome brothers, she thought.

"Left? alone?" Dean yelped.

"Relax Prince charming. She's a big girl, she doesn't need a babysitter. And this is just Dimdale." She laughed at him. For a cheater, he was awfully paranoid about her but maybe it was the cheating exactly that caused paranoia.

"Let's go, Sam." Dean said, nearly dragging Sam after him to the parking lot.

"You take the baby and drive that way," Dean pointed out to the direction towards the towndown, "there's a gas station open 24/7, it's the only one open here at this hour. It's where she went if she went to get food. Drive there, check the sidewalk, if she's not there turn around and start driving straight back to this address, 46th Dawn street" Dean pulled his car keys from his pockets, "and drive exactly like she would have walked home from here. I'll start walk that way already, if you find her just give her a ride and if not come pick me up, I'll find her." Dean was already starting to leave the second he finished his breath.

"Relax Dean! I mean are you sure she needs us right now? Or is it's a good idea to split up? She probably won't even take my drive even if I find her." Sam yelled after him.

"Are you out of your mind? There's a monster loose that specializes to women walking alone at night! You heard what Victor said, now we find her before anything else does!" Dean turned around and kept walking again.

She was drunk and they left only a couple minutes after her, she couldn't have gotten far, Dean thought.

***

Y/N had decided to go for a hot girl walk. She needed to get her mind cleared up before going home. She was angry at herself for behaving in such a way and disappointed she had given in so easily. Dean probably thought she was easy fuck. That's probably why he had come to the bathroom in the first place. It's like she couldn't stop embarrassing herself. First crying in some old bar, then landing straight into his lap even though she had promised herself never to fall for his shit again.

He was like a waterfall, pretty but if you fell then you die. Now she felt like she was at the bottom of the fall, gasping for air and trying to get back to the surface but just drowning more under. Drunked Y/N had an idea. She was going to meet with him, in private, and then demand him he tell her the truth. Even if she had to blackmail him with the ring. She wanted to know every detail. Why he leave her over the phone? Why he left her in the first place? Was there a second woman and if yes, why he had picked her? Why did he come back to Dimdale and most importantly had she ever meant anything to him and was he over her? But drunken Y/N knew before she had a chance to embarrass herself furthermore, sober Y/N would be back in the leads and she'd continue, to her best effort, to pretend to him that she had no interest in anything to do with him whatsoever.

It was almost pitch black. Not a single street light was on but she had already started to head home. She checked her phone for a time. It was 2.53 Am but it was not the time that caught her attention. There were several missed calls and few messages.

Dean: Where are you? Dean: answer you phone please Dean: are you home? Dean: Y/N??

Dean had not called her since he left her, she thought he didn't even have her number anymore. She had thought that she was ridiculous for not deleting his. She didn't know if she should text him back.

Y/N: I'm walking home.

Dean texted her back immidiatly.

Dean: No you're not. I've walked to your apartment like two times now. Where are you? Y/N: I went for a walk. I'm heading home now. Dean: Where? Y/N: on a helicopter. Dean: Baby I'm begging you to drop the attitude, please. Where are you? Y/N: I went on a walk, I'm going home now.

Y/N put her phone back into her handbag. She could feel the hanganxiety lurking behind her, waiting for the morning after. She wasn't sure would she be more anxious that she had pushed Dean away or that she hadn't pushed him away sooner. She just couldn't shake him out of her head. He looked so handsome tonight, She thought. He had been so caring too, he had even texted her afterward. Sometimes Y/N wished things could go back to how they were. But the way they had been had never been what she had wanted it to be yet somehow how things were now was worse. She wasn't going to admit it but she wanted him back. But how do you make a man like him stay? Did you have to lock him in your closet? No, she'd never take anyone back who hurt her the way he had hurt.

She was almost home, just a couple more blocks but even that felt like a marathon to her at the stage she was in. A strong wind ran through her and as it did, she started to feel a bit eerie. The street was dark as nothingness, not a single light on. She could barely see two steps ahead of her but she wasn't afraid of the dark. Still, something felt wrong. Something was wrong. She sped up her tempo.

She was about to turn to the last block but as she tried to grab her keys from her handbag, she realized they were not there.

"Fuck.." She muttered. They must had dropped when I took my phone out of the bag, she thought. Well, there was no point in trying to find them now when the streets were all dark but then again, where else she was going to go if not home? She decided to walk back to where she had texted Dean in hopes of finding her keys and if not, she was going to call Joselyn, hoping she was going to pick up.

Y/N turned around, her eyes glued to the ground. Suddenly, all the street lights went off, and it made Y/N quail. They came on so bright it made Y/n feel like she could burn underneath the spotlight they created. She had never seen the street lights on at night but if there was going to be a night they were on, it was definitely amazing it was this one.

Only her steps echoed in the night as she walked down the street, looking for her keys. A slight panic was starting to mix up in her head. She couldn't believe she hadn't noticed her keys dropping.

"I hate my li...." She was going to conjure her existence to hell but then stopped dead in her tracks. She had seen someone or something and she could still see it, standing on the road in front of her.

Y/N screamed and turned around to run as fast as she could. Her heart was racing and feet shaking as she ran but then she could see the creature appear right in front of her. She froze in her place, it was not a human. It reached out its hand towards her and she fell to the ground trying to avoid it.

"Y/N!" She heard a scream, then a gunshot and then all the street lights went out. She wasn't sure if she was even conscious anymore because she might have well been passed out or dead but then she felt someone light her head off the ground.

"Y/N? Dean asked, he looked afraid. She had never seen him like that, he seemed so disoriented it didn't fit with his character.

"Dean?" It came out like a question and then Y/N realized she would start crying.

"It's alright. Are you alright?" He asked.

"No, we have to run." Y/N said, trying to get up.

"It went away, I'll call Sam to come pick us up," Dean said, holding her down. His sudden calm behaviour made Y/N feel uneasy.

"Did you see it? Fucking run!" Y/N struggled out of his hands, tears streaming down her face. She grabbed his hand and tried to pull him with her but he stood still.

"Are you crazy?" Y/N turned to face the man who had suddenly become a three.

"We can't outrun it, let's just wait till Sam comes. We'll drive you home" Dean argued, he seemed awfully emotionless. Like all the panic had washed away and now left was a man whose walls could not be broken down by an ax. Y/N figured it had to be due to shock.

"I don't have my keys," Y/N sobbed

"What?" Dean asked.

"I lost my keys," She yelped. Her fear and panic were slowly being replaced by frustration and anger.

"You can sleep at my motel," Dean said, flipping their hands over so he was holding hers.

[zmediaoutlet]

Well, Sam wasn’t wrong. The panic room wasn’t any kind of paradise to be locked in, no matter how much the occupant needed it. Cot’s a piece of crap, too. Dean knows Bobby doesn’t go for the softer things, much, but man. Given that being shut in here had a pretty decent chance of turning into your last night on earth, he could’ve at least sprung for a mattress pad. A decent blanket. Something.

Dean sits on the edge of the bed. He turns his wrist against the handcuff and looks at the underside, the blue veins. Knows he could pick it if he had any damn thing left on him to pick it, but Sam didn’t leave him much but his boots. Knows he could pull, and bleed, and dislocate or even break his thumb and force his way out that way, but Sam’s locked him pretty tight and he’s not positive he could drag his way out, and if he screwed it up then he’d just be in a bunch of pain, and Castiel’s probably too mad at him to heal it. He could just bleed out. He turns his wrist in the cuff again, grips the edge of the mattress with both hands. Easy to imagine. The blood sluicing down—and it’d take a while, unless he hurried it along somehow—snapping a spring off the bed and making the wounds jagged and wide and red—making the world slow and slide and shut down, hopefully permanently, so he wouldn’t have to bear it anymore. So Bobby and Cas and everyone who ever relied on him wouldn’t have to bear it, anymore. Except of course it wouldn’t be a solution because he can’t. Everything he was ever taught flooded up against that last lead door and stopped. More’s the pity.

The panic room door opens, creaking. He keeps looking at the floor.

“You want some water, or something?” Sam says.

Dean smiles at the iron between his boots. “I’m good.”

Drag of metal on metal—Sam pulls the desk chair over, sits a yard away from Dean. Not far enough away that Dean couldn’t grab him, if he made the lunge. If he wanted to. He doesn’t know why Sam isn’t worried about it.

“What’s in the box?” Sam says. Dean smiles at the floor. “Don’t make a Brad Pitt joke. The box you had, in the motel in Cicero. I put it in the trunk before I drove the car back up here.”

Dean looks up. Sam’s watching him. Small frown but he’s not mad. He doesn’t even seem disappointed, even if Dean’s been—everything he’s been.

“What I had,” he says. His voice is rough and he clears his throat. “Just… stuff. I thought maybe you’d…” He shakes his head. “Feels stupid. Talking about, you know, crap maybe you’d remember me by, except here I am. Just stuff. Dad’s jacket, my gun, my keys. Wrote a letter.”

Sam raises his eyebrows. “A letter.”

Dean shrugs. “Doesn’t matter, now.”

Sam looks like he’s not sure about that. Dean wishes he hadn’t mentioned it. Imagines Sam ripping off the duct tape and reading the stupid crap he’d written down and thinking that it was all Dean had wanted to say. Felt too messed up to leave without even a note but he couldn’t—formulate it, not out loud and not in writing either, turned out, especially if Bobby or someone else might see it too. How much he loved Sam and resented him and needed him and how this hole in the center of his gut that had started who knows how long ago had just gotten bigger, and bigger, and he’d worried that what he felt for Sam would fall into it and get lost but it didn’t seem to work that way, somehow. The hole got bigger and what him-and-Sam meant got bigger, too, and stranger and stronger and more unwieldy, until there were days that Dean thought he’d suffocate under it, or drown maybe, or that he’d lose his mind with worry, or that he’d—start to hate Sam, maybe, for making him this terrified. For being this thing he couldn’t stand the idea of losing and yet that had been lost to him over and over. Until the hole felt like it took up all of him, just this absence held vastly empty under the barrier of his skin, and what him-and-Sam meant was going to destroy the whole planet, and it felt more right to just—simplify the equation. Subtract the thing by half and maybe there’d actually be something left, afterward. Even if Dean weren’t around to see it then at least there’d be something.

“I wish I could make you believe it,” Sam says. Dean refocuses. The spinning shadow of the fan above cuts random light over Sam’s face. His mouth tucked up on one side, sorry. “I don’t know how. There’s not any—evidence I can show, or logic. It’s not a case. It’s just something I know and I can’t make you understand.”

“Guess I shouldn’t have dropped out,” Dean says, and Sam smiles in this weird flat way that doesn’t look like smiling at all, and Dean can’t make him understand, either, how sorry he is, and how little it matters that he’s sorry. That he has to say yes to Michael because there is no other way he can think of in the world to save as many people as they can but also to save Sam, from Michael and from Lucifer and from himself, most of all, and to save Dean from having to see that, too. He’s thought about how it’ll go. When they got to talk to Jimmy Novak he explained that being possessed by an angel was like being chained to a comet: terrifying, absolute, a blaze of blinding light, and Dean thinks—hopes—that that’s true, that with an archangel it’ll be worse, that he can close his eyes and sink into it and there’ll be pain, he’s sure, but he’s been through hell and pain’s nothing he worries about, if he won’t have to see his brother fall.

“I’m kinda jealous Cas got to beat you up,” Sam says. Dean snorts. Then Sam leans forward, quick, takes Dean’s face in both hands. Dean stiffens but Sam doesn’t—hit him, or choke him, or kiss him. All equal possibilities considering the day. Sam only looks him in the eyes, with this expression like—he’s five years old and wishing for answers Dean can’t give. Dean reaches up with his uncuffed hand and grips Sam’s wrist. His pulse fast under Dean’s thumb. Sam takes a deep, shuddery breath in, closes his eyes tight. When he opens them they’re damp but he doesn’t look five anymore. “We’re going to save Adam and you’re not going to say yes. I don’t care if you don’t believe it. I know.”

This year’s been too terrible for the empty pit in Dean to feel any smaller. “Okay, Sam,” he says, because it’ll get him out of this room. Sam nods and stands up and goes for the keys. Dean watches him, tall and broad and beautiful, and wishes he had faith.

[blue-eyed-cutiepatootie]

who will take care of me

established destiel, kid!jack, single parent castiel

wc 780

Castiel is ignoring his ice cube toes when he hears the front door open. He burrows further into the blankets. Covering his face, he wills the shame away.

It's been building all day. He hears boots hit the floor and keys jangle on the table. 

Jack woke up cranky and it all went downhill from there. He had forgotten to buy more blueberries for the oatmeal. Jack refused bananas as a substitute and Cas couldn't blame him. Wrong texture. Looking for Jack’s other Thomas the Tank Engine shoe put them late to preschool which in turn put Castiel late for work. Jack was in tears as he walked away. Castiel tried not to cry as he called his boss.

Continue reading below or on AO3

Work was a steady stream of students and coworkers in sour moods as the cold and rainy Friday stretched on.

And on.

And on.

The water runs in the kitchen.

Who will take care of me? Castiel used to wonder as he juggled single parenting with a full time job.

Jack was at least in a better mood when Castiel picked him up on his lunch break. Fridays were always half days at the preschool and it was Anna's turn to watch him. His sister's house is always a favorite of Jack's. Lots of craft supplies and an old dress up trunk keep him occupied for hours. Castiel is forever thankful Anna works from home.

And that she knows him so well. 

Why don't I keep him overnight? I'll take him to the library in the morning and you can pick him up there?

Castiel squeezes his eyes shut even tighter. He knows he can't do everything on his own but the shame at being relieved to have a night to himself engulfs him.

He's not even making use of the time.

His bedroom door creaks open. Clothes softly fall to the floor and then Castiel is enveloped in strong arms. His toes come in contact with warm shins and there's a yelp in his ear.

"Shit, Cas! Would it kill you to put some socks on?"

In response, Castiel turns in his arms and buries his face in Dean's t-shirt. He inhales the smell of coffee and baked goods. Hands come up to stroke his hair, followed by a kiss.

"Rough day, huh?"

Castiel nods, tears finally leaking down his nose. 

"Jack still with Anna?"

Another nod.

"You in the mood for pizza or chinese?"

Castiel taps Dean's bicep once. 

"The Two Towers or Star Trek Beyond?"

Two taps. 

"Excellent choice. Today really was crazy. Is it a full moon?" Dean claws his fingers and gently scratches circles on Castiel's back. Castiel doesn’t believe in the full moon affecting people’s behavior but he’s starting to rethink that. His phone pings several times on the bedside table, most likely videos of Jack from Anna.

After a few moments Dean says, "Alright, I’m gonna go order the pizza." 

Dean starts to pull away but Castiel clutches at his t-shirt. Dean makes a wounded sound, "Baby, c'mon I’m starving and I can hear your stomach growling." 

Castiel lets Dean roll out of the bed. He hears Dean open a drawer, probably for some sweatpants, and is also greeted with clean socks in his face.

"I hear the couch calling your name!" Dean says in a sing-song tone as he leaves the room. Cas grumbles, but after watching the videos Anna sent, he’s shuffling down the hall, wrapped in the comforter. The sight greeting him in the kitchen nearly makes him weep. Again.

They’ve only been dating a few months, but Dean has already made himself at home. He's great with Jack and always helps out with chores that Castiel can never seem to catch up on. Like, right now Dean is tackling the mountain of dirty dishes in the sink. Castiel flops onto the couch in the front room and draws the comforter tightly around him. Maybe it’s time to ask him to move in. 

The sound of Dean’s singing lulls him into a doze that the doorbell ringing tears him out of. Dean plops the pizza, sodas, and paper towels on the coffee table before lifting up Castiel's legs to sit on the couch. He presses play on the DVD menu. Subtitles already on. They've both seen this movie too many times to count and Dean says half the lines along with the movie. 

Castiel is in the middle of his third slice when he reaches out for Dean's hand. 

"I love you." His voice breaks as he interrupts Dean's running commentary. 

Dean smiles tenderly, pulls Castiel into a hug, and says "I love you most."

Castiel doesn't have to wonder anymore.

[oldsargasso]

Re those KimDeanKenta thoughts: One day Kenta accidentally calls Dean cute (I mean, dean IS cute he’s not wrong) and Dean gets really affronted about it, thinking Kenta sees him as a kid/doesn’t take him seriously 

So Dean, wanting to be more assertive, sulks for a bit and then asks Kim to give him kinbaku lessons, and they use Kenta for practice (of course). And Kenta is so good and still and quiet, as always, slowly drifting under as the rope eventually starts to squeeze in all the right places.

Dean is so intent and focused on the task that Kim has to turn his chin and make him look at Kenta’s glassy-eyed expression. “Look at how much trust he’s putting in us, Dean. We have to take special care of him when he’s like this.”

Dean leans forward to put his mouth on Kenta’s ear. “He’s so cute like this,” he says, mirroring Kenta’s earlier words to him, before slipping his tongue into the shell of Kenta’s ear, making him moan softly. 

ANYWAYS THAT’S, YEAH. Dean being like “how dare he call me cute, I’m gonna make HIM look cute—in BONDAGE.” Also I think he would be very practice-oriented when it comes to kink! Also Winner is possibly maybe already tied up and gagged in the corner from Kim’s earlier demonstration. 

I had to sit in a zoom meeting this morning knowing this ask was waiting for me 💀good thing I'm already a terrible employee!!

anyway I LOVE THIS I LOVE YOU

I can't remember if we talked about it or not but yesss Dean's insecurity re: his age compared to Kenta! (I feel like Winner's around Kenta's age as well? maybe I made that up. We have Kim's age from his driver profile) it's interesting that probably Winner and Kim have the most similar life experience out of all of them (assuming they both started out with normal driving careers prior to the show). Kenta has ...very specific life experience. at least Dean knows how to wash dishes. of course Dean would get all worked up about the most innocent compliment, he's very much "well I'm full of rage and I'm picking all of [the battles]".

but YES omg. Kim already very skilled in kinbaku 😌 Kenta the very willing practice subject. it goes perfectly with his desire for ownership - kinbaku takes time and focussed attention, and for Kim and now Dean to give all that to Kenta? perfect. ughh the TRUST!!!

100% Dean is the 'practice until it's perfect' type, of course that would extend to kink! but also coming from a different perspective than Kim, I think - Kim does it for the experience, for how he can use it to provide something for whomever he's tying up; whereas Dean does it for the act of it, in order to be Good at it (sorry I cannot get past Dean's massive praise kink) like he likes the effect it has on Kenta obviously, but even if it was Dean tying up Kim while they just chatted I think it would be the same sort of thing for Dean. (side note thinking perhaps a thought about Kim demonstrating why it's okay to want/like certain things by directing them to be done to him first?)

THE TEASING he so would!! cute is perhaps not the word I would use....

screaming Winner would get gagged so often 😔 if he's not going to put his mouth to the right use he doesn't get the use of it at all.

[hannahssimblr]

Chapter One (Part 3)

I am sitting in a café on Patrick street with a sketchbook on the table. Fintan, the manager, has provided a free coffee while I work, remembering the way I like my cappuccinos without any chocolate on top, and apologises for the latte art when he carries it down to the table. 

“These new waitresses.” He says to me quietly. “They can’t do those wee hearts and leaves the same way that you could.” Watching them scurry around in their aprons makes me feel wise and important, like I know something that they haven’t learned. I’ve been here, I’ve worked this shift and I survived it, and they will too, they just don’t know it yet. I go back to my sketchbook. 

I can’t decide which design I like best. One says “Life is better with good coffee” in a looping font, and the other says “Let’s take a coffee break!” In this retro cartoonish style. It’s not usually the kind of art I would make, and I would be embarrassed to tell anyone from college that I’m doing something like this, but I privately enjoy the process. Fintan says he likes both designs, and I can choose whichever I want, so I go with the second. I finish my coffee and then start drawing the outline with white liquid chalk pens. 

There’s a young man sitting near the window who’s been watching me work for a while, and I’ve been pretending not to notice him. Perhaps I want him to think that he’s being more subtle than he is so as not to make him embarrassed. Or perhaps I’m afraid that if I look him in the eye he might take it as a signal to come over and talk to me. I don’t look, but eventually he comes over anyway. 

“Hi there, I was just watching you work over there, you’re doing a nice job.”

I glance up at him from the floor. He’s not from Offaly, he doesn’t have the right accent. Perhaps he’s from somewhere up north. He doesn’t look like he’s from here either, as he’s bravely chosen to step out in a pair of slip-on Vans and an oversized beanie hat, even though it’s about nineteen degrees this afternoon. I want to ask him is his head not boiling, but I just thank him for his compliment instead. 

“I’ve never seen someone actually doing this kind of work before.” He continues. “It’s always just kind of there one day, like, poof.” He does a hand gesture like clouds of smoke have burst from his palms. ‘I’m just a bit interested by what you’re doing, and even more by the fact that you’re doing it in reverse.”

“Yeah I never anticipated that it’d be so difficult to write words backwards. I suppose now I’m thinking that I should have done a sketch on the outside of the window first and then rubbed it off later.”

“I see what you mean.” He rocks on his heels with hands in his pockets. “Would you like me to get a coffee for you to drink while you work? Might keep the energy up and the head working.”

“Oh, thanks a lot, but actually the manager is keeping me fed and watered today, so you’d only be wasting money on me.”

“I see.” He pauses like he’s trying to think of something else to say. “My name is Geoff, by the way.” 

“Evelyn.” I say back, not really sure why I felt the need to go with my full name, like it’s a protective shield against him. Against Geoff, the very nice man who’s not doing anything wrong. I have a distant thought that I’m probably still a bit fucked in the head since Dean, and then I quickly try to stamp that thought out and think about something else. 

“That’s a nice, old fashioned name.” He comments. “You don’t meet a lot of Evelyns around the place anymore.”

“No, I suppose it’s a bit granny-ish. It’s actually an old family name, I don’t know if I like it that much really.”

“I like it.” He insists. “It’s very pretty.” And so are you seems to hang in the air after he speaks. I turn back to what I’m doing, rubbing out the crooked “O” I’ve drawn with some soapy water and going in for another attempt at it. 

“Are you from around here?” He wants to know. 

“Yeah, I am. But I don’t really live here anymore. I go to college in Dublin so I won’t be around much after this month.”

“Ah cool. I’m not from here either. I’m from up in Monaghan.”

“Miles away.”

“Yeah. I actually work here now, but I’m up and down to Dublin the whole time. Have to pass through on the bus to get home, sure.”

“That’s the thing about Dublin.” I say. “Everyone has to pass through it, against their will usually, I imagine.” “Yes, the horrors of Busaras station. I know it so well.” Geoff laughs. “Here, I’ll leave you to work, but if you change your mind about the coffee, give me a shout.”

I smile, and he goes back to where he was sitting. I don’t look in his direction once, but I feel his eyes on me the whole time. 

About half an hour later he leaves, and as he does he quickly, awkwardly hands me a folded piece of paper. I look at it in surprise. “Oh.”

“Nice to meet you.” He says, blushing, and dashes out the door. I leave the note there for ages. I finish doing the window first, and then I clean up my workspace and wipe the floor after me. Then, when there’s nothing else to do, I take it and fold it open.

Hello Evelyn, 

Just a note to say that you’re completely gorgeous. 

I’d love to meet you in Dublin sometime and buy you that coffee. 

Geoff (From Monaghan)

His phone number is scrawled at the bottom.

I take the note along with all of the kitchen roll I used to wipe down the window and toss it all into the bin in one go. Then Fintan tells me he likes what I’ve done and hands me fifty euro from the cash register. I walk away with a small, satisfied smile on my face, knowing that now I can say I’m a real artist. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[casbeeminestiel]

I had a really fun time writing this one. I've got zero plan for where this month takes me, but much like Dean in this fic, I'm enjoying the ride.

This one is mildly spicy. I haven't quite worked up to a full M or E, so I'll go ahead and rate this one a T for now. Ask to tag!

Day 4: Wicked

Hunts are few and far between these days. With Chuck’s downfall came a few months with no paranormal activity, giving every hunter in the country a bit of a much needed break. Even though cases have begun to appear once more, Dean has realized that they are nowhere near the volume they were before they iced God. In fact, about half of the leads they chase these days turn out to be false.

Still, a job is a job. This is why, when a potential haunting pops up in Rhode Island, he decides to take the case. Dean shoots a quick text off to Cas. The angel is currently out doing “bonding activities” with Jack and Claire, who had shown up shortly after breakfast for a surprise visit. Dean shakes his head and wonders what they’re up to, knowing that bonding activities probably means at least one felony. 

From the looks of it, the spirit is not out for blood yet. Right now, it seems to be more of a nuisance for real estate agents. Whatever it is has chased out four potential buyers from an old house in Newport.

He raps on Sam’s door.

“Sammy, I’ve got something in New England. You and Eileen want to come along?”

He hears a muffled curse from inside Sam’s room, followed by a thump. Sam’s voice carries through the door.

“What is it?”

“A casper in Newport is shaking up the housing market.”

Sam opens the door, hair in complete disarray and a deeply skeptical look on his face.

“And you need my help for that?”

Dean sighs. “Tone down the bitchface, man. I don’t need your help, but I thought we could make it a family thing. Sue me.”

Sam unclenches and reaches a hand up to smooth down his diva hair. “Yeah, ok. Give me an hour to get ready.”

“Make it two. This thing ain’t urgent. No one will touch that house. Plus we’ve gotta give Cas and the kids time to clean up whatever situation they’re getting into right now.”

Sam laughs a little at that. “What, you don’t think they’re apple picking or something?”

“Not a chance.”

“Wanna bet ten bucks that Claire is somehow roping Jack into trouble and the kid doesn’t even realize it?”

“We both know I would lose that bet. Claire is evil.”

“She gets it from you,” Sam teases.

Dean will accept that. “I feel sorry for Cas.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Cas can hold his own. He also gets that from you.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m a bad influence on the guy,” Dean shrugs. “At least his music taste is better than yours. I don’t know where I went wrong with you, but you really put the hair in hair rock.”

Sam just squints at him for a moment, letting him sit with his own joke before straightening. “Right. Anyways, I’m going to tell Eileen the plan and get ready. Let me know when the others are all set to go.”

“You do that, bitch.”

“Whatever, jerk.”

………

Almost exactly two hours later, they’re all packed in Baby. Cas and Claire are in the front with Dean, and Sam, Eileen, and Jack are in the backseat. Claire has her own car of course, but it died unexpectedly in the driveway when she tried to start it.

“No I didn’t leave my light on, jackass,” had been the preemptive reply to Dean’s question. Claire scares him a little, but mostly she reminds him of himself in a not-totally-reassuring way.

As snarky as Claire is, she chooses to be a good sport and rides with them rather than calling AAA. Dean promises to fix her car when they get home from the case. Her one condition is that she gets to sit shotgun. Nobody wants to argue with her, including Sam.

They roll Northeastward as fast as Dean can go without getting pulled over, taking all the backroads they can to avoid major traffic. Dean has been on some truly long drives before, where the roads seemed to lead nowhere and the next gas station was easily one hundred miles away. He shudders, thinking of US 95 in Oregon. Talk about desolate.

But this one is shaping up to be good. He’s got all his favorite people in one vehicle, his favorite cassettes on deck, a nice and easy haunting to squash, and no big bad on the horizon. Hell, he even has money to burn on a nicer hotel for the night, and he will be using it.

Maybe I can get some alone time with Cas. 

He glances at Cas over Claire’s head where she has it buried in a book, only to find him watching Dean already. Dean smiles bashfully and hopes Cas can’t see the pleased flush rising to his face. Judging by the way his eyes light up though, he can.

This thing between them is largely responsible for the high he’s been riding for the past few days. It’s a wonderful development, truly, but it’s also very new. Dean wants to enjoy the honeymoon phase of their relationship just a little longer before they settle into things more. 

He knows, of course, that he’ll enjoy being with Cas just as much in ten years as he will in ten days, because it’s Cas, and he’s perfect even when he’s the most idiotic and infuriating son of a bitch alive. But he reserves the right to be horny and dumb about his partner when he’s in his prime.

So yeah, he’s booking two singles and one double for the night. 

Humming along the highway, lost in his own mildly solicitous thoughts, Dean doesn’t hear Sam at first when he pipes up from the back.

“Dean, are you listening?”

“Hm?” Dean very resolutely does not look at Cas right now. He especially doesn’t look at his lips. Nope, that would be a bad idea. He needs to pay attention to the road. 

“I said,” Sam starts imperiously, “that I was reading this article about regional dialect, and there was this link to a quiz at the bottom. It’s supposed to guess where you’re from based on your vocabulary. I think we should take turns taking the quiz.”

“Huh, alright. Lay it on me.”

Sam starts in on a series of questions, asking Dean how he pronounces different words and the terminology he uses for a variety of commonplace objects. The others in the car offer their own commentary, especially Claire.

“There’s no way people call a water fountain that.”

“Claire, you’re literally from the midwest. Have you never heard anyone refer to it like that?”

“I like that word,” Jack says, not looking up from his game.

“It is a fun word,” Eileen agrees. “Bubbler.”

“Sam, did it give you my social security number yet?”

Sam is frowning in the rearview, clearly puzzled. “Actually, it can’t seem to pinpoint your region. Your map is showing some similarity everywhere.”

Dean thinks on this for a moment before he gets it.

“Dude, we were raised on the road. You and I have picked up words from everywhere.”

“Oh, I guess that makes sense. So we have generic dialects then?”

“Guess so.”

Soon, Claire demands to take the quiz, and is the first one who gets a fairly accurate location, unsurprisingly. She’s spent more of her life in the midwest than not. 

Cas thinks the quiz is a waste of time (“I don’t think they have enochian in their database, Dean.”), but he indulges his family anyway.

“Cas, the results are showing your location as somewhere around… Kansas.”

“I do spend most of my time in Kansas.” His tone is dirt dry, but Dean can tell he’s secretly amused by all of this dialect business.

“You’re a billion years old. Have a few years in Kansas really made that much of a difference?” Claire asks.

Cas tilts his head, meets Dean’s eyes with intention. “Perhaps.”

Oh, he’s flirting with you.

Dean swallows. Cas can definitely see that he’s blushing now. 

……… 

Sam seems to be down a dialect rabbit hole today, telling them facts about different regions and how they developed linguistically over time. By the time he reaches a few articles about New England, everyone's a little punch drunk and overtired. Dean is determined to make this drive in one go. The others can sleep if they want. He just needs a little coffee in him, and he’ll be able to make it to Cleveland before he switches off with Sam. 

“Get this. People in Massachusetts and Rhode Island emphasize things they really like as ‘wicked.’” 

Dean snorts, startling a half-asleep Claire from where she’s been nodding off against his shoulder. She glares at him, earning an apologetic grin.

Cas, who has been “resting his eyes” but is seemingly aware of this conversation, murmurs a request for an example from Sam. Dean wants to wrap him in a blanket so fucking bad right now.

“So uh, imagine you’re eating a good sandwich.”

“I don’t know what a good sandwich tastes like, Sam. I don’t need to eat.”

“It’s just a hypothetical.”

“I personally like the footlongs from Subway.”

“Gross, Dean.” Sam pulls a face.

“The more inches the better, right Cas?” He winks at the angel. The look he gets in return is so worth Sam’s disgusted noises from the back. Half-lidded eyes track lazy and hot over his frame from the passenger side. Dean finds his lips suddenly very dry.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Your face says otherwise, Sunshine.

“Anyways,” Sam coughs, “someone from New England might say the sandwich is wicked good or wicked awesome.”

“Doesn’t wicked have a negative connotation?”

“Normally, yes. But people make their own rules for this stuff, man.”

“After all this time on earth, humanity finds new ways to surprise me.”

“I’ll bet.” Sam chuckles.

“Hey Sam, what do they call a sandwich in New England?”

“They have a few terms for sandwiches. Subs, spukies, grinders-” Sam cringes, immediately knowing he messed up. “No, Dean. Don’t.”

“Grinder?”

“Please.”

“But Sammy-,”

“Stop.”

“I don’t even know her!”

Sam groans and buries his face in his hands. Dean for one is very pleased with himself. And hey, he even made Cas crack a smile.

“That was a wicked good joke, Dean.” Eileen, apparently not asleep, chimes in. 

“I’m here all night.”

“I don’t get it.” Jack is right behind Dean, so silent for the past hour that Dean forgot he doesn’t need sleep. Dean immediately does damage control to spare himself from Cas’ wrath.

But he’s hot when he’s mad.

Shut the fuck up, brain.

“I’ll explain it when you’re a little older, kid. Adult joke.”

“But physically I’m-,”

“Don’t care. You’re not old enough.”

“Dean!”

“Talk to your dad about it.” He means Cas, who does not look happy to be saddled with this conversation, but he forgets one important thing about Jack.

He is swiftly reminded.

“Which one?”

“The one who isn’t Lucifer, obviously.”

“You? I’m already talking to you.”

Dean gapes, just a little. He won’t get emotional about Jack seeing him as a father figure. He won’t.

Wait.

“Kid, you ain’t fooling me. You know I’m referring to Cas. Talk to him about it. He makes the rules.”

“Oh, but I was hoping you could override them.”

Dean’s mind is going down a very specific path regarding Cas and rules, so it takes him a second too long to catch up. Unfortunately for his overheated brain, Cas decides to intervene.

“Dean knows better than that.” There’s a suggestion in that rather confident statement that makes Dean go hot all over, the tips of his ears burning and his palms sweating. 

He really likes this, the back and forth routine they’ve got going on right now. They haven’t had sex yet, content for now to let things simmer while they get used to each other in this new capacity. They haven’t really talked about it either. There seems to be an understanding between them that they are both ready, and have been ready in some way for twelve years, but neither of them have made a move.

It feels less like first time nervousness and more like a game. It’s anticipation undercut with mutual responsibility and respect for each other. Cat and mouse, a delicate dance, etcetera. Bottom line is, Dean loves this, and he loves Cas even more. 

………

Sam takes the wheel in Ohio, and Dean passes out for a few hundred miles.

When he wakes up with a familiar crick in his neck, they’re well into Connecticut. The trees lining the freeway are a watercolor riot of red, yellow, and orange leaves and striking birch bark. He presses his palm against the window, feeling the chill seep into his hand from the pane. It must be early, then.

“Morning sleepyhead.” He’s greeted by a grinning Eileen, whose shoulder he has definitely not been drooling on this whole time. He knows immediately by the sing-songy cadence of her voice that she has a picture stored away for blackmail.

In the front seat, a ray of morning sun lights up Cas’ side profile as he appears to be deep in a discussion with Claire and Sam. Dean forgets all about his blackmail suspicions, breath caught in his chest and warmth percolating through his body at the sight of him.

It’s not even lust, is the craziest part. Obviously he feels desire too, but this is much bigger than that. Because for a moment, his sore neck and pins and needles and the other occupants of this car whom he cares deeply about all fade away when he simply looks at Cas. 

Goddamn, I want to wake up to see your face every day. 

He must’ve prayed it, because Cas turns to look at him with a smile so sweet, Dean swears his tooth begins to ache. 

Dean thinks, certainly not for the first or last time, that he might be dreaming. That Cas, grounding, charming, genuine, stubborn, perfect Cas couldn’t possibly be real. But when the angel winks like a dork and turns Dean’s insides into mush, what he does know is that what they have is too wicked damn awesome to ever let go.

[sarcasticdolphin]

todolf conservatory au if it's okay to request?

More conservatory au as requested :)

Todolf conservatory au "Hooded"

Usual power imbalance with these two. Yes, the weird hood things do exist are are used for graduate students (at least where I went to college).

I do have one more idea for this au lined up as a direct sequel to this one, but after that, I don't really have any more ideas 'on deck' for this au (as it were), so if there are particular moments of college life etc that you wanted to see in this au, sending in a more specific ask is also fine.

Cut for power imbalance and length.

The mutterings start in March, but preparations don’t really start until April. Dean Colloredo gives the same instructions he does every year. That each college does its own graduation ceremony for the graduate students. That each and every one of them is responsible for finding a member of the faculty to place their hoods on their shoulders. And that keeping your grades up is a requirement to graduate no matter what any past students might say.

That’s the official line. The unofficial one disseminates through the students like wildfire.

It’s expected that each student will ask his or her advisor to place the hood on their shoulders, but Rudolf wouldn’t dream of asking anyone other than Tod. It’s his right, really. Rudolf is his student before he is anyone else’s.

Rudolf does drag his feet about it for a few days, waiting until Tod’s office empties on Friday before broaching the topic.

“Professor.”

“Mmmm?” Tod looks up from his papers, nodding to the door when he sees Rudolf.

Rudolf shuts the door quickly, locking it. He doesn’t want any interruptions for this.

Tod’s gaze is focused on him as he shrugs off his bookbag, sitting at the chair in front of Tod’s desk. He hates this chair. Tod’s desk always feels like an uncomfortable wall between them when they sit like this.

“Tod.” He does remember to use the professor’s name. They are alone. But he doesn’t know how to ask the question. A dozen different versions run through Rudolf’s head, but they all seem wrong.

“Rudolf.” Tod’s hand is gentle on his shoulder. Grounding. The professor must have rounded the desk while Rudolf was lost in thought. Rudolf stands in a fluid motion at a tap to his shoulder. They’ve done this little dance before. Tod’s warm hand guides Rudolf around the desk before he sits back in his chair, even as Rudolf half sits on Tod’s desk.

The papers don’t look like some variety of sheet music, as so much of Music Theory usually is. They look like-

“Geography?” Rudolf glances at his professor. “Are you covering for a Geography class?”

“No.” There’s no anger in Tod’s tone. No reproach, but that is the end of that line of the conversation. 

Rudolf takes a deep breath. As much as he likes just basking in Tod’s presence, he did come here for a reason. “Graduation is soon. Dean Colloredo said we should start finding a professor to be the one to hood us.”

Tod is almost smiling, his head just tilted to the side.

“He also said that we should probably ask out advisors, but…” Rudolf trails off.

“You don’t want to ask your advisor.” Rudolf nods.

“I would much rather it be you that puts my hood on.” An understatement if ever there was one. Rudolf doesn’t even know if he could imagine anyone else doing it.

Tod flows to his feet and takes a step toward Rudolf, his fingers coming to brush against Rudolf’s chin, to guide it as he desired. The gentle kiss to his temple is all it takes for Rudolf to relax. Why was he worried?

“I don’t want to cause drama. Dean Colloredo strongly implied we should ask our advisors.” And for all Rudolf was unquestionably Tod’s student, Tod was not technically Rudolf’s advisor. Rudolf was an organ student. He had an organ professor as his advisor.

“Relax.” Rudolf melts at Tod’s words, nuzzling his hand as a cat might. “Your hood is mine to place, Rudolf. There won’t be drama. I’ll make sure of it.”

And at his words, Rudolf knows it will all be alright. “Thank you.” His voice sounds small, but he feels so safe. Tod’s lips brush against his temple once more. A promise.

—----

The rehearsal is awkward. There are only a dozen students in all, and it should be a simple affair. File in order to the stage. Kneel on the kneeler. Get a hood draped over you. Have your name announced. Walk off the state.

But with a department so small the order of steps is amended. They aren’t using a grand stage - not enough students. A medium-sized conference room is serving in place of some great arena. The kneeler is more of a low stool with a cushion on it - there is an official kneeler that they will use on the real day, but the real one is in use so they are making do for the rehearsal. It’s not strictly necessary for everyone - Tod is enough taller than Rudolf so they don’t particularly need it, but one of the pair of trumpet majors must be over two meters and his advisor is barely 150 centimeters. They make an interesting pair to see. 

Rudolf accepts a few condolences as he takes his place in line for the little rehearsal. His advisor - the actual one on file with the registrar - had died of a sudden but not unexpected heart attack. He hadn’t exactly been a young man and had smoked more than a pack a day for much of his life. So there was no issue with Tod stepping in. In fact, at least as Tod had recounted it, Dean Colloredo had managed to thank him through gritted teeth for stepping in at the last minute. 

He’s at the front of the line soon enough, then kneeling on the rickety little stool. They don't have the hood yet, so Tod’s hand goes to his shoulder, and Rudolf has to consciously make sure he doesn’t lean into it. 

Tod’s fingers are calling him to his feet with a subtle tap a moment later, and Rudolf shuffles off to stand in front of whichever administrator is standing in for the dean before taking his place back in line.

—------

The hood is something of a disappointment when Rudolf gets his. Not really a proper hood, just a stylized one that is more a piece of fabric than anything else. The robes too aren’t what he expected. Lightweight. Cheap. They’ll play the part well enough when it comes to it, but some part of Rudolf had expected a proper hood and heavy black fabric.

The ceremony itself is brief. They are all called up, each after the other, to kneel and be hooded before receiving the piece of paper from Dean Colloredo. The faculty robes, at least, are interesting - a mottled assortment of colors, proclaiming where each professor had come from. Vivid reds and brazen yellows abound, but so too are deeper colors - blacks and blues and greens. Tod’s are the deepest of all, and combined with his blonde hair he looks more like an angel than any man - his robes darker than any shadow, his hair more a halo than anything else. He’s beautiful. 

Rudolf’s own hooding goes smoothly, Tod’s hands sure and effortless. It’s all too brief for Rudolf’s tastes, and he’s back in line soon enough.

Nothing feels different. In some ways, it seems like some archaic cultic ceremony that has been watered down over the decades and centuries. 

They go into the next conference room, where a spread of food and champagne is laid out, and it finally hits Rudolf. It’s over. He’s done. And now, an insidious voice comes within him, he’ll have to face the world. He’ll have to face his father.

Rudolf’s fingers tremble as he undoes the collar. It’s not really tight, but he needs it open. His feet what quickly, taking him away from the noise. Perhaps he can focus properly if he’s away from the noise.

Tod’s hand is warm and gentle on his back, especially through only the thin robe and a flimsy t-shirt that Rudolf had worn underneath.

“Hey.”

The question, the plea, must be written on Rudolf’s face as Tod’s hand immediately slips to the small of Rudolf’s back, guiding him away.

“My father-”

“Can wait a few minutes.”

They are out of the building before Rudolf even really realizes what is happening, and at Tod’s door what feels like only a moment later.

[quietwings-fics]

Authorial Intent (+Podfic)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: N/A Fandom: Supernatural Ship: Gen Additional Tags: POV Second Person, Season/Series 05, Chuck Shurley is God, not evil chuck or good chuck but a secret third thing, Writing, Drinking, Alternate Universe, Implied/Referenced Suicide, POV God | Chuck Shurley Wordcount: 2829 Summary:

You became subject to the rules of your story the moment you stepped inside it.

Here is how the story will end:

Two brothers.

Four brothers stand in a cemetery. And assorted other figures, one forgotten, one rebellious, one a father.

Why are they there? They aren’t supposed to be there. New line.

Four brothers stand in a cemetery. Lucifer wears Sam Winchester. Michael wears Adam Milligan.

Michael, you think to yourself, is wearing the wrong vessel. What is he doing? He’s going to get himself killed.

That’s the whole point. Why does it bother you so much? Dean will still be there. Dean rides in on his chariot of steel and victory, and Michael… You stand up. You circle your chair and wring your hands. You don’t know what to do about this. You’d expect this kind of behavior from Lucifer, or Gab-

Michael is not supposed to disobey you.

He is wearing Adam Milligan.

Start over. New line? New document. This chapter has to be finished today. Your publisher will have your ass otherwise. And the world is ending. These seem of equal importance. You grab something to drink and sit down again.

It takes you a few minutes to realize that you’re rambling about yourself. This story isn’t about you. It’s about:

Two FOUR brothers. Standing in a cemetery. It doesn’t matter who is wearing who or whose father is standing watch in the moments before they tear themselves to shreds. This is where the story began. This is where the story will end. It was always going to be like this.

Focus. Breathe. Remember those wrist stretches Becky sent a PDF of.

You wonder if you should tell her that she might die in a few hours. That everyone might die. You decide against it. She’s having a nice day. You don’t want to ruin it.

You settle down to write your world’s elegy again. A few hundred miles away, Becky is exchanging messages with a friend online, laughing. Further away, Sam is preparing to say yes. Dean is not. Because Michael, apparently, has decided to wear Adam, and this is your fault for introducing a red herring and expecting him to understand it wasn’t a loophole. Michael is not, bless him, your brightest child.

There will be interlopers on the sacred battlefield. Lucifer won’t take kindly to that, will he? He will probably take care of it on his own, but… You scribble a note anyway, to make sure. There can be no more mistakes. He won’t feel you pull the strings too tight if it’s something he’s already inclined to.

This is exactly why the last book came out late. Why they’ve all been a struggle to write, ever since you became a part of the narrative. This is not a story about you.

This is a story about-

Once upon a time, there were two siblings, and they loved each other more than anything else. (For nothing else yet existed for them to love.) And as time passed, the younger grew outside the bounds he was allowed. The younger began to create, until this was a story about Him, until the stories about her were locked away. You heard her scream and rage against the confines of her prison for centuries until she went suddenly silent. She is alive. You know this because you are alive. She is still there, and some nights, when it gets unnaturally still, you can hear her scratching at the walls of her cell with bloody fingers, the nails long since ripped out, scrape and scrape and scrape with the rhythm of a guilty heart.

You slam your hand against the table. This is not a story about you!

It was a mistake to write yourself in. This is a story about Sam and Dean, who are not you and Amara, who are not even Michael and Lucifer. You look at them, and you tell yourself you don’t see your sons. Not in anything but promising parallels, the kind that would make a reader’s eyes light up as they connect the dots. You tell yourself Dean does not look a bit like Michael as you write about his Father leaning over him and whispering a solemn order to slay Sam. You tell yourself that Sam does not look like your favorite child as he screams and sobs inside Bobby’s panic room and begs for his brother to let him out, for anyone to let him, for anyone to even stand near the door and tell him it will be okay and he will be allowed his freedom again and he will be forgiven, isn’t it extended to everyone, isn’t it meant for him, too, Father, don’t leave me in here, it’s so cold-

Amara went silent. It took centuries.

Lucifer went silent. It took decades.

Sam went silent. It took seven hours. Dean nearly drank himself into a coma. He would have, if you hadn’t written, “His hand is shaking, and he can’t grasp the bottle. It shatters on the floor next to him.”

You reach for another drink. You miss. It shatters. The mess is a terrible, stinking thing. You fold your hands over your face and peek through your fingers at the words you’ve tangled around yourself.

Oh, God, what have you done?

You lay your fingers on the computer keys again. You write, and they all lived happi

The computer freezes. You swear. You smack it until it obeys again. In doing so, you’ve been skipped to the next line again.

You became subject to the rules of your story the moment you stepped inside it, but before that you condemned it with the thought, it will end in fire and brotherly blood. It’s like poetry, it rhymes.

States away, a lone angel looks up from his books. He’s not sure what he’s looking at. He’s just gotten the strangest urge to yell, “Hack!” He ignores it and goes back to reading.

So, now this story is about you. Fine. This story has always been about you. Fine. You are a selfish person. Who else could call down floods and fire on what they love? Are you going to get cold feet now that you have to stand in the wreckage rather than look down from above?

You can’t do what I do, Amara would say, if Amara was here and she didn’t hate you. If she was your older sister, ready to taunt and tease you about your newest work. Her words would not be a mark against your power but a simple truth. Destruction is not the role suited to you. You do it badly. You regret. You don’t have the stomach for it, she would say, and then her mouth would curl, Isn’t that one of mine? Stomachs?

“Yes,” you say to a sister who is not listening, “hunger was one of yours.”

That one, she does not answer, you wear very well, little brother.

You are a selfish person. You wanted to stand closer. You wrote yourself in. You can’t write yourself out. You can’t write any of you out. You are locked inside the story.

There has to be a way. You lay out the options. You can come up with two.

One, Michael kills Lucifer and Sam. He will wait for the paradise promised. You will give it to him, and he will pretend it was worth it.

Two, Lucifer kills Michael. For that, he must be punished. It is fratricide, after all. You will curse him to wander Earth, forever, alone but for the boy locked inside his head with him.

Three, Sam Winchester overwhelms Lucifer’s control and throws them, all of them, Sam and Lucifer and Michael and Adam, into the pit. It swallows them whole.

You stare. That’s not supposed to happen. That’s not supposed to be an option.

But neither was Adam. You set it up without thinking about how it might pay off, and here it is again, a chance! You leap upon it. Down this road, there must be some way out. Sam must escape, body and then soul, and that still leaves the other three locked away but- And then Raphael dies. Dies scared. Dies alone. And Castiel becomes you, tries, fails, falls. Maybe further. There is light at the end of this narrative thread, you can feel it.

The light is an oncoming train. It hits you with a force unimaginable. You learn to wear destruction well. You write a story where you must be defeated. A very scared, very hungry little boy eats everything up, light and dark and all in between. He becomes you. You become him. Amara screams inside a brand new cage. Nothing ends. Nothing ever ends.

You want to throw your computer.

You put your head in your hands. You fall silent. It took less than two hours.

There is no way for you to end this story. Not in a way that you can accept. Because you are a selfish person. You are selfish, and you love your children, more than they know. That’s why you were going to sit here and write instead of watching them kill each other with your own eyes. You are executioner in all but action.

You are also a coward. People wonder where Gabriel got it from. The lineage is clear to you. You pour a little of yourself into every creation. You couldn’t even go to him as he died. You have not woken him up again. You don’t know how to face a son who surpassed you.

Because, yes, you are proud, too.

People wonder where Lucifer got it from.

God wanted the Devil. God wanted His favorite son to feel special, to not feel forgotten again. God wanted Lucifer to turn his back on this plan because it would mean that everything coming apart would be his fault. Because it would mean you don’t have to admit what you did wrong.

Except, you locked him in a cage in Hell for centuries. Of course he didn’t come out raring to disobey again.

Can you admit it now? Can you say,

“

The quotation lies open. A broken promise. Your mouth is dry. You want more to drink.

You wonder if Raphael will drop in to stop you if you try and drink yourself to death. Not that you can. You’ve already tried that, and it doesn’t work. God is not dead, because no one can kill Him, and it’s starting to become a fucking problem. You lose the glass this time. You drink from the bottle.

What of yourself did you give to little Raphael? What sin did you stamp into them when you formed their wings out of space-dust and their eyes out of nebulae? Wrath to Michael, Pride to Lucifer, Cowardice to Gabriel, and to Raphael…

Happy birth day, child. I bless you with your Father’s exhaustion.

Well. No one ever said parenting was easy. You should know. You did it first.

What if you did stop?

You stare at the question. The audacity of it. Fear wells inside you. You can’t stop. You have to keep writing. What are you, if not the writer? What is your purpose, if not to create this story and see it to it’s conclusion?

What if you stop and nothing changes? And you are not there to chronicle it?

What if you stop and everything changes? And you won’t know what’s happening.

Your heart is beating fast.

What if.

Michael, I order you to walk off the chessboard.

So much for free will. Baby steps. You scribble that onto a piece of paper and tear off that end. You wonder if you should sign it somehow, so that he knows it’s you. Then you realize how stupid that is. You only developed a signature when you realized that you’d need one to sign contracts.

You’d have better luck carving the commandment in stone. Unfortunately, you seem to be all out. You hold the paper scrap gingerly.

This might not be enough. This might not change anything.

If it does, it doesn’t feel like it will be a victory. It feels like it will be a ceasefire.

You don’t need Michael to make the choice to stop. You will take that burden on. You are choosing now. Later, he will choose not to start again.

Or he won’t. And you will lose a son.

You will lose both your sons.

You clutch the paper scrap close to your chest. You pick up your pen and write on the torn paper at the table what you will repeat on your computer.

You should tell Raphael who you are.

You aren’t going to. You should. You are still a coward.

You will tear this page in half, even as you tell yourself you won’t, even as you write these words. Raphael is watching, but this will be nothing suspicious. Every writer has their editing process. They are well-acquainted with your tendency to burn the slate clean.

A bottle of whatever’s closest. A wastebin. A match, because you aren’t Dean Winchester and you don’t make enough off these books to afford tossing a lighter into your every mistake.

Your publisher is going to be furious with you. For the first time in ages, you bark a laugh. For now, your document lies blank, but soon, the words you've burned will rise again to haunt you on it.

You pick up a shard of glass off the floor. Raphael is watching. You feel their eyes upon you. You turn the shard over in your hand. You shut your eyes and scrunch up your face before you try to stab it into your throat. God can’t die, but He can still feel pain.

A steady hand grabs your own before impact. You look up into your child’s borrowed eyes. They look tired. They say nothing. You let the glass drop. It breaks in two on the floor.

“I have a message for you,” you say.

“From your dad,” you say. Raphael has already mourned you. Your words don’t even wake the kind of false hope in them that you could disappoint all over again.

“It seems important. Um. So.” You thrust the crumpled scrap into Raphael’s hands. They read it.

“This is a very sad attempt to stop Michael,” Raphael’s voice cuts. They are speaking to Chuck, the prophet. Chuck, the God, hears them. Both versions of you wince.

“It’s a command,” you say. “From on high? Aren’t you supposed to follow those?” Raphael looks at you the way someone might look at an endangered species of bird as it poops on their porch and they consider how good they have been to that bird to not let their cat wander around outside. “Don’t you want your brothers not to kill each other?”

“You’re human. You don’t understand how little want plays into this.” You can feel your chance slipping. Not like this.

“If- if you’re so convinced that no one can stop the Apocalypse, then take that to Michael. Take it to him, and tell him the prophet you’re supposed to watch over gave it to you, and then when he ignores it, you can come back here and gloat!” You are scratching the walls of the story, nails coming loose. “But take it to him!” Raphael looks at the smoldering fire in your wastebin. “What are you-” They step over to the fire and hold out the scrap.

You leap forward. “Raphael, take it to Michael, now.”

Raphael stares at you.

Humans sometimes say that when someone becomes a parent, they acquire a voice. A mom voice. A dad voice. The kind that makes a child shut up and listen, if they know what’s good for them. You have never thought of yourself as having one. You have thought of yourself as having a prophet’s trembling voice, wracked by anxiety and the knowledge of the coming end. Raphael is still staring at you, and you are now aware that you also do, in fact, have a dad voice.

“Please?” You tack on at the end, in the voice of Chuck the Prophet. Raphael doesn’t believe you. They hold the paper you passed them tightly in their fist.

This is the part where, if you were a better person, you would tell them you’re sorry for leaving. You would tell them that you’re coming back home.

“Raphael,” you order, “go and tell Michael to stand down.”

Raphael nods like they are in shock. They vanish.

You look around at the place you’ve lived for years now. You aren't going to be able to stay here much longer. You look at your computer. You sit down. You finish this part of the story.

Somewhere, Metatron snorts. You shoo the part of you that sounds like him, the part of you that is him, your own personal critic.

You starve for resolution. The keys tempt you to continue.

You will have to learn to go hungry a little while.

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

[hoffmannwrites]

On My List

1  - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 + 1 Masterlist

Author’s Note: Hello, little gay people in my phone!! This is probably my favorite part so far just because it's like so very on brand for them and also we get a little bit of Steve being eye candy and Eddie being a sexy mechanic and I just love them!

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Eddie Munson

Description: 5 Times Steve and Eddie kiss as friends, and one time they don't.

Warnings/Tags: Everyone lives, Nobody dies, 5+1, Kissing, Fluff, Idiots to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, some pretty brief mentions for drinking, smoking, uhhh they're gay your honor, no beta we die like Barb, very vague sexy talk (like pg-13 mention of pulling the padge), call him Daddy but in a friendly way ya know, let me know if I missed anything?

Drive

Wayne had a saying while Eddie was growing up. Well, actually, Wayne had a lot of sayings. But one of Eddie’s favorites was “first time is an accident, second time is a coincidence, and third time is a hobby”. For weeks, Eddie ponders what a fourth time is. Because him and Steve have had their mouths on each other four times now and he had no goddamn idea what that meant. Obviously, Steve wasn’t, like, homophobic. He was Robin’s biggest support and he’s never freaked out after any of the times he and Eddie…But the metal head can’t help but wonder what that means. He’s never actually come out or said anything even remotely close to liking a boy. Straight until proven guilty, Eddie liked to believe. Had his heart toyed with by experimenting and down-low boys too many times to give anyone the benefit of the doubt. So Eddie doesn’t say anything- convinces himself that this is just Harrington being comfortable in his masculinity and sexuality. Self-assured enough to know that kissing his guy friend every once in a while isn’t gay, it’s just dudes being bros.

And they were bros! So much so that when Steve’s BMW breaks down around the corner from his own home, that Eddie is the person he calls to help. Steve jogs the block and a half back home and calls two people in quick succession. First is Robin, to let her know that he can’t make it in because something is wrong with his car (“Did you get a flat? Why don’t you know how to fix a flat?” “No, Robs. It’s not that. Yes, I’m sure. No really, I can’t just drive it anyway because it’s fucking smoking.”) Robin agrees to cover for him, but makes the vague threat of him owing her big time. They both know it’s unnecessary because he would do anything for her in a heartbeat regardless.

Second, he calls Eddie. Because Eddie knows about cars. If he can hot-wire a trailer, he can take a look at a smoking BMW. So Eddie drives over and meets Steve around the corner, where he’s sitting on the curb enjoying the unseasonably warm weather. He’s practically sunbathing in his stupid tight acid wash jeans and white tee with the sleeves cuffed and sun glasses on, smoking a cigarette. He looks like an 80’s James Dean but with somehow better hair, Eddie thinks. He rolls down the window of the van and shouts out “Hey! I’m looking for a damsel in distress? About yea high, prettiest hazel eyes you’ve ever seen, and no clue how cars work?”

“Ha-Ha, you’re hilarious, Munson,” Steve replies dryly, as Eddie parks the van right in front of the BMW on the side of the road. He gets out and walks over to the beemer to pop the hood. "So you really think I have pretty eyes?" Steve asks while Eddie sets up the hood strut. But Eddie just clears his throat and hopes the blush on his cheeks isn't noticeable. “So you said it was smoking?” He inquires.

“Yeah it just started to smoke, so I panicked and pulled over immediately,” Harrington explains. “Ah,” Eddie nods in acknowledgement. “Good thing too. I’ve got good news and bad news. Bad news is, this” he says dramatically while pulling out a thin black belt from under the hood into the air, complete with frayed ends, “is not supposed to look like that.” Steve’s eyes go wide, automatically freaking out a little because that looks really bad. But before he can completely shit himself, Eddie continues. “Good news is, I can fix it and it’ll only take me about an hour once we get the part.”

“Oh thank Jesus,” Steve let’s out the breath he was holding.

“Not Jesus. Just little ol' me,” smiles Eddie. “However I have been told the resemblance is striking. I think it’s the hair.” He gestures to the van. “Hop in, let’s go get Daddy a new belt, huh?” He doesn’t miss the way Steve’s face heats up at the nickname, but chalks it up to regular embarrassment. Once they’re both in the car and Steve is sure he locked the beemer for the 4th time, they’re on their way to the nearest Northern Automotive. Eddie doesn’t even blast the radio too loud or anything. “Hey, do you need to me to drop you off? Like you were obviously going somewhere so, I can take you if you need and then just fix it on my own,” Eddie offers, realizing this is probably not how Steve wants to spend his day.

“Oh. No. I already called out of work and it’s a Wednesday, so it’s gonna be dead anyway. Honestly, I could use the break and it’s goddamn gorgeous out today, so I don’t mind. Thanks for asking, though. Are you sure you’re okay spending the day fixing my car?” Steve asks, suddenly aware that he never really asked Eddie to fix it, just take a look and the metal head just lept into action.

“Oh yeah, it’s fine. I was actually super busy smoking weed by myself, jerking off, and watching M.A.S.H. reruns, but it’s alright I guess I can reschedule those super important plans,” Eddie dramatically sighs. Steve smiles wide. “Good to know that you jerk off before watching M.A.S.H. I’d be totally concerned if that was what got you going.”

“Actually, Stevie, I’ll have you know that Alan Alda gets me all kinds of hot and bothered, thank you very much.” 

By the time they have arrived back at the car, the sun is hot in the middle of the sky. They got the new belt needed and some Burger King and a case of beer on their way back too, at Steve’s insistence. He tried to offer Eddie money for fixing the car, but the makeshift mechanic refused. “You literally saved my life. I can fix your car,” he had said, blankly, but Steve decided he could at least feed him. Eddie had scarfed down his Whopper on the way back, and got started on the car immediately.

Steve tried to be helpful, handing over a wrench or a beer every now and then. He even gave Eddie a hair tie to put up all those beautiful curls. Mostly though, Steve just watched. Watched Eddie’s arms flex around metal. Watched his tongue stuck between his teeth while he looked at his work in concentration. Watched as his hairline dripped a fine line of sweat down the side of his neck, and disappeared under the collar of his Pantera t-shirt. Watched his ass and that stupid black hanky in his left pocket. Steve just watched Eddie work and thought about how he could get used to seeing the older man sweaty and dirty, as long as he wasn’t bleeding out like that time Steve saw him so filthy. Sure, they talked too, but Steve could barely pay attention to the conversation because he was so focused on just how fucking pretty Eddie looked.

Eventually, the belt was fixed and Eddie slammed down the hood, startling Steve out of his very unholy reverie about all the other ways to make Eddie sweat. “Alright, Big Boy. Let’s give her a test, make sure she starts up for ya nice, and drive her around the block a few times.” Steve jumped up from his spot on the curb and hopped in the drivers seat, put the key in the ignition and turned.

“Beautiful!” Eddie practically shouted, jumping in the passengers side as the car sprang to life perfectly. “Now let’s drive her around a little, make sure she’s all set.” Steve did as he was told and took the car around the neighborhood in complete silence, as Eddie made sure everything sounded, looked, and even smelled correct (“If it sounded wrong, I’d know it. If it smelled wrong, I’d know it. And if it started smoking again, I’d definitely know it,” he insisted).

They pulled back over to where Eddie’s van was. “Man, you have no idea how much I appreciate this,” Steve said when they were parked. “Seriously, I could kiss you right now.”

“Alright, if you insist,” Eddie replied with a theatrical eye roll. He pursed his lips and shut his eyes comically, expecting Steve to laugh him off and shove him away. Instead he felt two soft hands grab the side of his face and an even softer pair of lips on his own. And for just a second, in the silence of Steve Harrington’s BMW, Eddie felt like he was melting way more than he had standing out in the sun. Steve pulled away, hands still on his friends face. “You wouldn’t let me pay you, so that’ll have to do.”

You’d think that after weeks of overthinking the last four times this had happened that Eddie would have had anything worth while to say, that he would have seized the moment and asked Harrington just what the fuck was going on in his head. But he was Eddie Munson. So of course, he made a joke out of it. “I’m not sure what the exchange rate is on that right now, but I think we’re even,” he said feigning confidence, shifting his eyes as far away from Steve’s as possible, and scrambling out of the car as quickly as he could all while trying to not look suspicious. He held the door open and bid Steve good bye, “I won’t tell Robin that you can totally go to work now, by the way. See ya around, sweets.” And with that, Eddie was in his van and speeding away, blasting the radio by the time he got to the end of the block.

Steve had intended on asking Eddie to come back to his house for a while and maybe, finally, get somewhere with the metal head, after dancing around each other for so long, thought he had sealed it with today’s kiss. But Eddie had left so abruptly, that Steve didn’t even get the chance. Obviously, Eddie was totally freaked out by Harrington’s forwardness. He sighed loudly and cursed to himself, driving to Family Video anyway because he needed to talk to Robin. 

A/N:

Steve's car is a 1983 BMW 733i in Burgendrot-Metallic.

Apparently, the thing that holds up a cars hood is called a few things, mainly a hood prop or hood strut. From what I could find, BMW uses the phrase hood strut.

Also apparently, only a BMW motorcycle is called a Beemer, while the cars are "bimmers". But as both a person who has never heard that before, and a German speaker, I have decided that is fucking stupid and I won't be calling it that.

Once again, I don’t know shit about fuck about cars. I only know this because one time my serpentine belt broke. It’s a pretty quick fix if you know what you’re doing (allegedly) and you can drive short distances with a broken belt, but it’s not recommended. I have no idea if Steve’s car would be as easy to fix as mine was. Hell, his model might not even have a serpentine belt. Don’t know, don’t really care. I’m a fanfiction writer, not a mechanic. 

Northern Automotive was the most popular auto parts store in 1988 according to a news article I found on Reddit. I have never heard of this store, have no idea if they were in Indiana at the time (I mean, they should have been. Indiana is pretty fuckin Northern if you ask me) , and it looks like they either went out of business or rebranded to North Auto Parts at some point. Who’s to say? 

M.A.S.H. went off air in 1983, after 11 seasons in as many years. It’s a Korean War drama/comedy and it is one of the most amazing and heartfelt shows ever made. Eddie grew up watching it with Wayne and now he watches the reruns whenever they're on. I strongly recommend you watch it. 

I asked my mom what food she ate in the 80s. She said BK (like enthusiastically, too). Here we are. 

[quietwingsinthesky]

Authorial Intent (+podfic)

(Other Links: Dreamwidth - FFNet - Pillowfort - Squidgeworld)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: N/A Fandom: Supernatural Additional Tags: POV Second Person, Season/Series 05, Chuck Shurley is God, not evil chuck or good chuck but a secret third thing, Writing, Drinking, Alternate Universe, Implied/Referenced Suicide, POV God | Chuck Shurley Wordcount: 2829 Summary:

You became subject to the rules of your story the moment you stepped inside it.

Here is how the story will end:

Two brothers.

Four brothers stand in a cemetery. And assorted other figures, one forgotten, one rebellious, one a father.

Why are they there? They aren’t supposed to be there. New line.

Four brothers stand in a cemetery. Lucifer wears Sam Winchester. Michael wears Adam Milligan.

Michael, you think to yourself, is wearing the wrong vessel. What is he doing? He’s going to get himself killed.

That’s the whole point. Why does it bother you so much? Dean will still be there. Dean rides in on his chariot of steel and victory, and Michael… You stand up. You circle your chair and wring your hands. You don’t know what to do about this. You’d expect this kind of behavior from Lucifer, or Gab-

Michael is not supposed to disobey you.

He is wearing Adam Milligan.

Start over. New line? New document. This chapter has to be finished today. Your publisher will have your ass otherwise. And the world is ending. These seem of equal importance. You grab something to drink and sit down again.

It takes you a few minutes to realize that you’re rambling about yourself. This story isn’t about you. It’s about:

Two FOUR brothers. Standing in a cemetery. It doesn’t matter who is wearing who or whose father is standing watch in the moments before they tear themselves to shreds. This is where the story began. This is where the story will end. It was always going to be like this.

Focus. Breathe. Remember those wrist stretches Becky sent a PDF of.

You wonder if you should tell her that she might die in a few hours. That everyone might die. You decide against it. She’s having a nice day. You don’t want to ruin it.

You settle down to write your world’s elegy again. A few hundred miles away, Becky is exchanging messages with a friend online, laughing. Further away, Sam is preparing to say yes. Dean is not. Because Michael, apparently, has decided to wear Adam, and this is your fault for introducing a red herring and expecting him to understand it wasn’t a loophole. Michael is not, bless him, your brightest child.

There will be interlopers on the sacred battlefield. Lucifer won’t take kindly to that, will he? He will probably take care of it on his own, but… You scribble a note anyway, to make sure. There can be no more mistakes. He won’t feel you pull the strings too tight if it’s something he’s already inclined to.

This is exactly why the last book came out late. Why they’ve all been a struggle to write, ever since you became a part of the narrative. This is not a story about you.

This is a story about-

Once upon a time, there were two siblings, and they loved each other more than anything else. (For nothing else yet existed for them to love.) And as time passed, the younger grew outside the bounds he was allowed. The younger began to create, until this was a story about Him, until the stories about her were locked away. You heard her scream and rage against the confines of her prison for centuries until she went suddenly silent. She is alive. You know this because you are alive. She is still there, and some nights, when it gets unnaturally still, you can hear her scratching at the walls of her cell with bloody fingers, the nails long since ripped out, scrape and scrape and scrape with the rhythm of a guilty heart.

You slam your hand against the table. This is not a story about you!

It was a mistake to write yourself in. This is a story about Sam and Dean, who are not you and Amara, who are not even Michael and Lucifer. You look at them, and you tell yourself you don’t see your sons. Not in anything but promising parallels, the kind that would make a reader’s eyes light up as they connect the dots. You tell yourself Dean does not look a bit like Michael as you write about his Father leaning over him and whispering a solemn order to slay Sam. You tell yourself that Sam does not look like your favorite child as he screams and sobs inside Bobby’s panic room and begs for his brother to let him out, for anyone to let him, for anyone to even stand near the door and tell him it will be okay and he will be allowed his freedom again and he will be forgiven, isn’t it extended to everyone, isn���t it meant for him, too, Father, don’t leave me in here, it’s so cold-

Amara went silent. It took centuries.

Lucifer went silent. It took decades.

Sam went silent. It took seven hours. Dean nearly drank himself into a coma. He would have, if you hadn’t written, “His hand is shaking, and he can’t grasp the bottle. It shatters on the floor next to him.”

You reach for another drink. You miss. It shatters. The mess is a terrible, stinking thing. You fold your hands over your face and peek through your fingers at the words you’ve tangled around yourself.

Oh, God, what have you done?

You lay your fingers on the computer keys again. You write, and they all lived happi

The computer freezes. You swear. You smack it until it obeys again. In doing so, you’ve been skipped to the next line again.

You became subject to the rules of your story the moment you stepped inside it, but before that you condemned it with the thought, it will end in fire and brotherly blood. It’s like poetry, it rhymes.

States away, a lone angel looks up from his books. He’s not sure what he’s looking at. He’s just gotten the strangest urge to yell, “Hack!” He ignores it and goes back to reading.

So, now this story is about you. Fine. This story has always been about you. Fine. You are a selfish person. Who else could call down floods and fire on what they love? Are you going to get cold feet now that you have to stand in the wreckage rather than look down from above?

You can’t do what I do, Amara would say, if Amara was here and she didn’t hate you. If she was your older sister, ready to taunt and tease you about your newest work. Her words would not be a mark against your power but a simple truth. Destruction is not the role suited to you. You do it badly. You regret. You don’t have the stomach for it, she would say, and then her mouth would curl, Isn’t that one of mine? Stomachs?

“Yes,” you say to a sister who is not listening, “hunger was one of yours.”

That one, she does not answer, you wear very well, little brother.

You are a selfish person. You wanted to stand closer. You wrote yourself in. You can’t write yourself out. You can’t write any of you out. You are locked inside the story.

There has to be a way. You lay out the options. You can come up with two.

One, Michael kills Lucifer and Sam. He will wait for the paradise promised. You will give it to him, and he will pretend it was worth it.

Two, Lucifer kills Michael. For that, he must be punished. It is fratricide, after all. You will curse him to wander Earth, forever, alone but for the boy locked inside his head with him.

Three, Sam Winchester overwhelms Lucifer’s control and throws them, all of them, Sam and Lucifer and Michael and Adam, into the pit. It swallows them whole.

You stare. That’s not supposed to happen. That’s not supposed to be an option.

But neither was Adam. You set it up without thinking about how it might pay off, and here it is again, a chance! You leap upon it. Down this road, there must be some way out. Sam must escape, body and then soul, and that still leaves the other three locked away but- And then Raphael dies. Dies scared. Dies alone. And Castiel becomes you, tries, fails, falls. Maybe further. There is light at the end of this narrative thread, you can feel it.

The light is an oncoming train. It hits you with a force unimaginable. You learn to wear destruction well. You write a story where you must be defeated. A very scared, very hungry little boy eats everything up, light and dark and all in between. He becomes you. You become him. Amara screams inside a brand new cage. Nothing ends. Nothing ever ends.

You want to throw your computer.

You put your head in your hands. You fall silent. It took less than two hours.

There is no way for you to end this story. Not in a way that you can accept. Because you are a selfish person. You are selfish, and you love your children, more than they know. That’s why you were going to sit here and write instead of watching them kill each other with your own eyes. You are executioner in all but action.

You are also a coward. People wonder where Gabriel got it from. The lineage is clear to you. You pour a little of yourself into every creation. You couldn’t even go to him as he died. You have not woken him up again. You don’t know how to face a son who surpassed you.

Because, yes, you are proud, too.

People wonder where Lucifer got it from.

God wanted the Devil. God wanted His favorite son to feel special, to not feel forgotten again. God wanted Lucifer to turn his back on this plan because it would mean that everything coming apart would be his fault. Because it would mean you don’t have to admit what you did wrong.

Except, you locked him in a cage in Hell for centuries. Of course he didn’t come out raring to disobey again.

Can you admit it now? Can you say,

“

The quotation lies open. A broken promise. Your mouth is dry. You want more to drink.

You wonder if Raphael will drop in to stop you if you try and drink yourself to death. Not that you can. You’ve already tried that, and it doesn’t work. God is not dead, because no one can kill Him, and it’s starting to become a fucking problem. You lose the glass this time. You drink from the bottle.

What of yourself did you give to little Raphael? What sin did you stamp into them when you formed their wings out of space-dust and their eyes out of nebulae? Wrath to Michael, Pride to Lucifer, Cowardice to Gabriel, and to Raphael…

Happy birth day, child. I bless you with your Father’s exhaustion.

Well. No one ever said parenting was easy. You should know. You did it first.

What if you did stop?

You stare at the question. The audacity of it. Fear wells inside you. You can’t stop. You have to keep writing. What are you, if not the writer? What is your purpose, if not to create this story and see it to it’s conclusion?

What if you stop and nothing changes? And you are not there to chronicle it?

What if you stop and everything changes? And you won’t know what’s happening.

Your heart is beating fast.

What if.

Michael, I order you to walk off the chessboard.

So much for free will. Baby steps. You scribble that onto a piece of paper and tear off that end. You wonder if you should sign it somehow, so that he knows it’s you. Then you realize how stupid that is. You only developed a signature when you realized that you’d need one to sign contracts.

You’d have better luck carving the commandment in stone. Unfortunately, you seem to be all out. You hold the paper scrap gingerly.

This might not be enough. This might not change anything.

If it does, it doesn’t feel like it will be a victory. It feels like it will be a ceasefire.

You don’t need Michael to make the choice to stop. You will take that burden on. You are choosing now. Later, he will choose not to start again.

Or he won’t. And you will lose a son.

You will lose both your sons.

You clutch the paper scrap close to your chest. You pick up your pen and write on the torn paper at the table what you will repeat on your computer.

You should tell Raphael who you are.

You aren’t going to. You should. You are still a coward.

You will tear this page in half, even as you tell yourself you won’t, even as you write these words. Raphael is watching, but this will be nothing suspicious. Every writer has their editing process. They are well-acquainted with your tendency to burn the slate clean.

A bottle of whatever’s closest. A wastebin. A match, because you aren’t Dean Winchester and you don’t make enough off these books to afford tossing a lighter into your every mistake.

Your publisher is going to be furious with you. For the first time in ages, you bark a laugh. For now, your document lies blank, but soon, the words you've burned will rise again to haunt you on it.

You pick up a shard of glass off the floor. Raphael is watching. You feel their eyes upon you. You turn the shard over in your hand. You shut your eyes and scrunch up your face before you try to stab it into your throat. God can’t die, but He can still feel pain.

A steady hand grabs your own before impact. You look up into your child’s borrowed eyes. They look tired. They say nothing. You let the glass drop. It breaks in two on the floor.

“I have a message for you,” you say.

“From your dad,” you say. Raphael has already mourned you. Your words don’t even wake the kind of false hope in them that you could disappoint all over again.

“It seems important. Um. So.” You thrust the crumpled scrap into Raphael’s hands. They read it.

“This is a very sad attempt to stop Michael,” Raphael’s voice cuts. They are speaking to Chuck, the prophet. Chuck, the God, hears them. Both versions of you wince.

“It’s a command,” you say. “From on high? Aren’t you supposed to follow those?” Raphael looks at you the way someone might look at an endangered species of bird as it poops on their porch and they consider how good they have been to that bird to not let their cat wander around outside. “Don’t you want your brothers not to kill each other?”

“You’re human. You don’t understand how little want plays into this.” You can feel your chance slipping. Not like this.

“If- if you’re so convinced that no one can stop the Apocalypse, then take that to Michael. Take it to him, and tell him the prophet you’re supposed to watch over gave it to you, and then when he ignores it, you can come back here and gloat!” You are scratching the walls of the story, nails coming loose. “But take it to him!” Raphael looks at the smoldering fire in your wastebin. “What are you-” They step over to the fire and hold out the scrap.

You leap forward. “Raphael, take it to Michael, now.”

Raphael stares at you.

Humans sometimes say that when someone becomes a parent, they acquire a voice. A mom voice. A dad voice. The kind that makes a child shut up and listen, if they know what’s good for them. You have never thought of yourself as having one. You have thought of yourself as having a prophet’s trembling voice, wracked by anxiety and the knowledge of the coming end. Raphael is still staring at you, and you are now aware that you also do, in fact, have a dad voice.

“Please?” You tack on at the end, in the voice of Chuck the Prophet. Raphael doesn’t believe you. They hold the paper you passed them tightly in their fist.

This is the part where, if you were a better person, you would tell them you’re sorry for leaving. You would tell them that you’re coming back home.

“Raphael,” you order, “go and tell Michael to stand down.”

Raphael nods like they are in shock. They vanish.

You look around at the place you’ve lived for years now. You aren't going to be able to stay here much longer. You look at your computer. You sit down. You finish this part of the story.

Somewhere, Metatron snorts. You shoo the part of you that sounds like him, the part of you that is him, your own personal critic.

You starve for resolution. The keys tempt you to continue.

You will have to learn to go hungry a little while.