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hobiespick · 1 month

Note

Heya! I was wondering if you got any headcanons for Sam Winchester x werewolf! Reader, except, reader can actually turn whenever she (or gn if you want) wants, and the only real thing a full moon does is force her to be in her werewolf form (aka force her to keep the wolf teeth and claws out for no reason)

The thing that should not be

Pairings : Sam Winchester x reader

a/n : FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, HI, HELLO, IM SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG I SUCK SO BAD, IM SO SORRY. My requests aren't open (yet) but its not even your fault I should have 100% specified that, but this is my first ever ask and ur also one of my favourite moots and I didn't want to dissapoint so here are some fuckinf cute Sam x Werewolf!Reader. I felt the carnal need to write a metric fuckton of context before getting into the actual headcanons (which are very long I have no idea if they can be considered as hcs) so the reader gets beaten up by earth-shattering plot purposes :3. Sammy juicy headcanons start when you see the '🧿' emoji if you don't wanna read the context (melodramatic sigh). And yes the title of the fic is based on the metallica song :). as always, enjoy my shitty thoughts <3

Warnings: angst with comfort (no don't clap it's fine, omg ur makin me blush); guess who joined the cool kids club and uses "____." instead of "Y/n"; literally a flash of gore, shitty dad(s), fake death, mentions of suicide, Sam looks at you and goes DO YOU WANT M-; Dean being himself; reader is also a hunter and has been raised like that (fml); Dean makes a twillight refrence; reader is frankenstein coded in the most nuanced way, Mary Shelley please don't haunt me; Dean is very happy to have a bestfriend/sister :)

word count: 8,102

- Okay, so for starters, the fact that you aren't actually a monster (you don't get the urge to kill or wreak havoc) is actually a supernatural miracle.

Your parents haven't talked to you since you called them the night you were hunting a werewolf and told them, horror-struck between sniffles and voice cracks, that it bit you, and you’re going to turn, and you’re horrified, and you’re going to drive home to put a pistol in your father's hand and hopefully stop you from turning in the thing you shouldn't be.

Your father replied, after successfully not saying a word besides "Hey, kid-" before getting cut off by you and your hiccups. He sank his teeth into the inside of his cheek, enough to draw blood.

"You are not to come home; your mother won't bear to see you like this."

Your father objected before telling you you can finish the job by yourself; you always have.

He abruptly ended the phonecall like you weren't his daughter, more like an annoying salesman. You don't know what he'll say to your mother after that call; that was the hospital, and you tragically died? "Died a hero.." Your father would say when he described another hunter's tragic passing at the dinner table—paranormal tragic passing. So paranormal that your mother had knocked on wood and prayed it wouldn't get you or your family.

So you don't call, It's really me, dad. I'm fine, I figured it out by myself. How could you? after him suggesting it's better to kill yourself than take a shot at finding a solution together? You would rather have him believe you're dead. Or at least cry with you; it's okay, honey. come home; it'll be okay, spend the last days at home, please-

The last word you get from him is a text message you are too quick to open on your flip-phone to see the next day. When you rub at your eyebags after tracking down a witch, the witch. It was the second day when everything about you felt off; you were squemish, anxious, and haven't left your motel room all day. if you get this—the message read, "if you get this?!" if you get this, if you get this, if you get this—your brain repeats it over and over, taking the words apart and tattooing itself that phrase, because it held much more meaning to it than your father probably didn't intend; he would hear it if he read it before sending, you thought, that little 'if' haunting and tormenting like a damn demon. if you haven't already killed yourself; if you haven't already turned into something that took my daughter, my pride and joy, away from me; if you haven't already died–

- speaking to you like he's directly referring to the disease in your veins. Your brain moves on and reads the next ridiculous waste of your attention. I wanted you to know I told your mother that it was the hospital I was talking to yesterday, calling that you’re dead, house fire, so no remains to pick up—Damn, you know him or what? Even your fake death is stripped away from it's respect—"no remains to pick up"—like a toppled statue, a monument of what was once a hero (in dad's old-fashioned monster-hunting world), shattered and insignificant, no longer breathing or living, if you ever even had. Or a tree struck by lighting, again, "no remains to pick up" no meaningful remains or genuinely nothing, just a memory of another young hunter who died 'tragically'. You could imagine your tombstone with an even dumber epitaph to match it and an empty or nonexistent grave lying six feet underneath for closure. Your eyes move on, there will be a funeral with no grave, of course, I just wanted you to know that your mother and everyone else is devastated, we miss you, sugar. I love you, kid. Your father had overestimated your suicidal tendencies, and the way he didn't try to save his daughter in order to not go against the rules and possibilities of hunting only showed you how much he loves you.

So you track down the witch. You barely make it to her doorstep when she opens it with a too reassuring smile, saying your name and that she expected you, even going as far as offering you tea after opening the door and letting you in, to which you declined. You're not an idiot. But you do sit down, forced, when she, Willow Thorne, won't have you, a guest, standing up, a whole damn hunter being forced to sit down and accept being treated kindly like you deserve. When you walked in, the entire image of a satanic worshipper who sold her soul to demons and hexed everybody—that you betted all your life savings fitted the description of Willow shattered and laughed in your face.

Her home was filled with plants hanging and resting in every corner she could place; various crystals were sitting in cute porcelain plates like candy, candles of different colors on a bookshelf filled with books like The Language of Flowers, Astronomy for Beginners, and Sigils. Even more crystals, bigger and taller ones on a purple tablecloth. The house is adorned in shades of dark purple, violet, green, and warm colors. This home was a whimsigothic musem that would send your thirteen-year-old self into a shrieking, excited mess. Your parents never let you own crystals or a tarot deck; they were too afraid you'd turn darkside one way or another. well, mommy, daddy, if you could see me right now with lycanthrope blood pumping through my veins.

Willow Thorne is a wiccan type of witch; she does not receive her power from demons; she receives her magic from nature and probably practices her witchcraft the way she sees fit. This doesn't help build back the distrust you were trained to have in her. You flinch when you feel a tail curling around your bouncing leg; you glance down, and your eyes are met with a black cat's green ones—this must be her familiar—the little words on his purple collar reading 'Creek'. She gives you another flash of her warm smile and starts talking about her cat. This can't be real. Your every instinct screams that you should take her down or that she will take you down. Your options shrink the longer you stay. You keep a hand anxiously fiddling with your belt, thinking about the gun in your waistband. She's deceiving you with honeyed words and unassuming appearance; who the fuck knows, maybe the cat is manipulating you too. Throwing up would be the calmest reaction you could have right now, because the thoughts in your head started going at each other's throats and doubting in this situation could get you killed. Thoughts like, fuck her, her cozy house with purple witchy twitchy girl interior, and her affectionate black cat she mentioned she rescued when nobody would because of superstitions—you curse in your head, you're not actually upset at her although you do not let your guard down, you're upset at yourself for being so easily coaxed into trusting her, it's all too easy, and it is intimidating you.

You're pretty sure you're gonna rip your vocal cords out of frustration and an overall feeling of overwhelmingness; everything seems to piss you off today, even more than usual. How are you good?! All bright and beaming with nothing but positivity. You're not supposed to be good! I have believed all my life you aren't!..are you like me too? A thing that should not be? Before breaking down and crying about your situation, and if you did, she would make you that tea and rub your back with her hand that radiated ease and made you slump your shoulders with relief.

Before you get other fun thoughts like Am I on the wrong side of the war? You start discussing bussiness since you forgot that's what your here for. Even if your eyes water like a little kid after being scolded for something they didn't do, your voice is nowhere near close to sounding like one. You demand a cure, bargaining for a deal to stop the lycanthropy metamorphosis you feel taking over little by little and make you human again. If she can't, you have a gun with silver bullets in your trunk and your will written out, but by now it probably has no significance.

Much to your disappointment, she—Willow—insisted you called her, tells you she cannot take away your curse, but she can soothe it a little, keep it in a cage locked deep into your subconscious. In exchange, she could ask for fucking anything in the world, but she wants loyalty.

"Define, loyalty." You ask through gritted teeth, yeah, that will stop the tears, definitely, great intimidation skills, _____ .

"I'm talking about respect, mutual aid, when it all comes down for me, when I get threatened by a hunter, I want you to be there. I need you to have my back." She admitted, studying your eyes trying to reslove the conflict in them, anything that could give her hope. You couldn't explain this to anyone, ever, Yeah I almost turned into a werewolf once but my witch friend did a ritual on me, so i'm all good now.

Willow is now sitting on an ottoman facing her couch, where you're sitting. Her hands fidget with her bracelets until she clasps them together, and she is leaning towards you. Her gentle tone is imbued with gentle authority that commands her mutual respect without making her overbearing. Keeping steady eye contact, she is discussing serious matters with a serious tone like she should. You can't lie, it catches you off-guard, it herds you in the corner and softly shakes your shoulders, forcing you to listen.

You'd be every synonym in the dictionary for the word 'idiot' if you hadn't accepted this deal. You shake hands, and the warm smile she wears causes a domino effect, making you do the same, even if you had been crying.

It's a funky ritual. She makes you lay on the couch while she lights all sorts of candles; she closes the curtains even though it's already dark so light cannot come in. The only light present is the salt lamp in the far corner and the numeruous lighted candles. She even has to kick Creek out of the room, much to the cat's protests outside the door. They slowly come to a stop as he finds something that's more interesting than whatever ritual his owner is cooking up with a guest—that he feels drawn to for whatever reason. You feel nervous, and she feels nervous too, because you are. Willow reassures you and tells you that after it ends you will pass out for a while, but that's fine because she says you can spend the night if she isn't pushing it.

The celling becomes your newest fascination, and you study every small bump and gray spot in order to distract your mind from... well, thinking. Not for the ritual, but for reassurance, she lies and says you have to hold her hand. Her warm hand against yours seems to punch out of your lungs every doubt whether this will work or not and the sadness your father produced with an unfatherly amount of bluntness and cold parenting that was the verbal equivalent of stabbing your spine and twisting the knife, but you can't pull out the knife, well, you can try, but it will hurt even worse and it will infect spreading yellow or purple marks around it–. She—her hand—has the ability to make you breathe again without feeling like you have leg irons around your neck dragging it down and hands squashing your lungs to bits. She speaks incantations in what you know is latin and instructs you to close your eyes. You swear you hear a candle stop burning in the process—something you can't physically hear, but you had. You can make out a few words (your ears keep ringing and something is happening because you hear her voice; it's distorted and weird, but she told you, strictly, not to open your eyes, so you don't). Words like: lupus-wolf, tollere-take away? You're not sure on that one; that's what three straight days of crying might do to one, mutare- which means change. Okay, that was a nice distraction now what el–

You feel the imprint of a huge dog-like paw pressing into your Adam's apple and cutting off your breath. She obviously takes notice by the way you're writhing and choking and swatting away at nothing—something you're trying to fight even with closed eyes, but there is nothing there. Your palm doesn't make contact with anything. Quickly, Willow chants something you're too busy choking to catch. The pressure on your throat dissolves, and you can breathe again. She calms her own breath and squeezes your hand. When she doesn't feel you squeeze back, she remembers that you're supposed to pass out after the spell. Willow drapes a blanket on you and goes off to order something to eat. When she opens the living room door, Creek doesn't hesitate to run in and settle on your chest. The cat purrs as he patiently waits for you to wake up.

You wake up fifteen minutes later with the smell of food flooding your nostrils, stronger than it has ever been before. It's almost like it's sitting right under your nose. You open your eyes, and the smell has a color, and you can clearly see how it snakes its way in from the kitchen into the half-open door. Your nails feel heavier than usual. This is hopefully a fever dream. But the food isn't here, nor is Willow; you can hear her humming a song in the kitchen, Voodoo Chile by Jimi Hendrix.

The weight of the shadow on your chest brings you back to earth, and you run your hands through his black fur with closed eyes as your head falls back onto the couch. The feeling of fur on your fingertips feeding to your serotonin levels rising. Creek seems to know what it's like to be disowned by your own father and forced to have a fake death in order to 'die' in a way that won't make your mother think you were cursed, or worse, that the whole family is now. Creek notices you're awake and gets off you, but not before making biscuits.

"Thanks, Creek." You mumble before pushing yourself up in a sitting position with a groan.

You can feel the rich, velvety, dark green rug beneath your socks; you would have appreciated it properly if you could actually see the details woven into it. Your eyes keep focusing and unfocusing like they're getting adjusted, and the room doesn't seem so dark anymore. God, how long did you pass out? As you tried to gather your thoughts (if the spell was easy on you enough to actually leave some), memories of the ritual came flooding back—the chanting in latin, the flickering candle(s), the punching smell of herbs, the murder attempt from a wolf spirit/ghost?! who the hell knows anymore? Now you were wide awake, and everything felt different. If it weren't for the fucking ritual that was just performed on you, you would've blamed the faint ringing in your years, shitty eyesight, and banging headache on a terrible hangover or a cold so bad it would make your throat ache for the tea your mom would make you when your immune system failed you. She promised she would teach me how to make it. Your grief echoed to you.

You rub at your temples at thats when you notice why did your nails feel heavier than usual. You had fucking claws, well, not animal claws, but they are honorably elongated and sharper than they had ever been. As you looked up from your lap, your eyes fell on a mirror.

A tall mirror leaning on its back legs, with black edges and details on the rim, you would again appreciate if you had the ability to see a single thing in the distance.

Your eyes widened, mortified, seeing yourself. It looked like one of your parents's worst nightmares. Something out of a dream your mom would have—a nightmare so nasty and vivid she would be forced by her paranoia to get up and check that you're still in bed sleeping soundly.

Your eyes were no longer the familiar color you have seen in the mirror or in old photos of your family members you've grown to love. The shade wasn't even close to yours; crazy how one small change made such a big difference in your appearance. Your pupils were slitted vertically, shrinking only to dilate a little once again, getting adjusted. You slowly got up on foal legs and fell on your knees in front of the mirror. Even if you didn't think it was night because you weren't seeing darkness, the light of the moon shone down on the mirror and floor thanks to the now open curtains. That's when your vision stopped unfocusing and finally cleared.

You were now looking at yourself. It felt incredibly alien and familiar at the same time; you looked at yourself every day, whether it was the mirror in your bathroom at home, a crappy motel one that faced the bed (which you cover up with a scoff each time), or a reflection in the car of your vanity mirror checking yourself before going in a precinct, pretending to be a reporter (the things middle-aged pigs would confess to a doe-eyed girl from the press..).

You gently pulled the corner of your upper lip only to reveal your enlarged and sharpened front canines. Your hand fell and instead went to cover your mouth in order to muffle your sobs. You must have done a horrible job because the second you slapped the hand over your mouth, you heard Willlow gasp as if she felt it too.

She drops the food she was unpacking and runs in, taking a moment to calm her heaving chest in the doorway; her hands were holding it like an earthquake had shaked her up; even her round glasses had slipped and rested on the tip of her nose.

"_______, you woke up!" she exclaims cheerfully. "I was just—how do you fee-?"

She kept stuttering and cutting herself off. Willow didn't need to say anything else; she saw the tears welling up in your eyes and felt the same shock you did from the kitchen.

🧿🧿🧿- later on, you have to bump into the Winchesters one way or another

- and it's exactly on a full moon when this time the ball isn't in your court and you don't get to decide whether you turn or not.

- your claws are sharp, your eyes have changed their original color completely with your pupils vertically slit, and your teeth (conveniently) remain the same; only a few of your front canines are enlarged and sharpened.

- as for senses, it's downright spectacular.

- you can hear deer stepping on tree branches, foxes running, and owls hooting when you're driving by the forest

- you smell how many people are in a room

- you have night vision (yes, your eyes to the flashy thingamajiggy when someone blinds you with their flashlight).

- as a hunter, you already know that your claws and fangs can rip out a human heart.

- ironically, as this whole situation is, you hunt alone on the principle that you don't long for companionship as some lycanthropes do.

- you've turned into a literal killing machine with no instinct to kill, so hunting with others is off the table since at the first sign of a threat (they think you are one, but you really aren't), a hunter exterminates.

- you meet the Winchesters on a ghoul hunt

- you have taken the case before them, but when you couldn't get anywhere with identifying whatever evil being was tormenting the locals with their mere presence, you thought about ditching it since it doesn't look like your type of thing and took the consideration that maybe humans were fucking around this time.

- so when you heard the FBI are in town investigating the case (detective Page and Plant), you placed that town in your rear view mirror; they got it covered..right?

- but something didn't feel right- it wasn't the shame of leaving a case with your tail between your legs (pun intended) with the weak motive, 'Maybe humans are really fucking around this time.'

- something wasn't right, so even if you were tired, you abruptly stopped the car and went over your research spread out on the flat of your closed trunk

- the slits of your eyes dance over the words on your laptop, your papers, and an old lore book you fought tooth and nail for. When you realized it's a ghoul you're dealing with, you turned the car around and went over every speed limit like hellhounds were scratching at your tires. It was your job to not let anybody else get hurt or someone else's grave be violated

- as the light of the moon shined down on you and your wild eyes looked back at you from the rear view mirror, you knew you couldn't have anyone see you, you had to be invisible

- *time skip* (as much as it pains me 'cause i am a sucker for details :))- you swoop in time to save the Winchesters

- and if they weren't tied up, they would've started fighting you too, because why was there a whole ass werewolf fist fighting a ghoul?? John trained them like Spartan warriors, but nothing prepared them for something like this.

- so they sit there like:??????

- they watch you take out a fucking ghoul all by yourself

- the head of the ghoul's person they're impersonating rolls onto the floor. You have to remind yourself it's not a real person; it's an evil spirit who kills to feed

- by the time you wipe the blood off your face, smearing it a bit in the process, and cut the ties holding the hunters loose, Sam is unnable to look away from your slit eyes adorned by a strange color that strangely suits you

- literally hearts in his fawn brown eyes like you still don't have blood on your face and you aren't trying to catch your breath; also, you took a nasty punch to your cheek, and he's pretty sure it's gonna leave a bruise, but he totally doesn't care, why? why do you ask?

- by the way Sam is scrunitizing you, and oh yeah, Sam is scrunitizing you, you're sure you're gonna have to ditch since you've been in this situation before and you know how it always ends

- there was no 'explaining yourself' to hunters when they saw you under the full moon or when they saw you change because you had to.

Before you can even open your mouth they have their methaphorical pitchforks sharpened and torches lit up, prepared to slaughter you, and if you're honest, you can't even blame them for it because you would've done the same.

- Dean rubs his wrist with his right hand; the imprint of the rope is still fresh on his skin like a tattoo. Sam focuses on not choking when you catch him staring.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean thinks out loud. You take a big lungs-exploding sigh and give a shot at introducing yourself since they seem more civilized than most hunters are

- Sam geeks out about you

He doesn't question you because he is suspicious (he has the right to be but surprisingly isn't). He has to feed his noisy, information-hungry brain or he will spontaneously combust

- "Are your senses even more enhanced during the full moon, or are they the same?"

- "Can you smell when somebody is afraid? Like the hormones from their pores?"

- "Is it annoying to always have super hearing? Like has it ever caused you to be..I don't know.. Anxious? It did?" He mourns over you, trying to imagine himself in your situation but possibly can't.

- "I'm really sorry you had to go through a whole..change all by yourself, but it just shows how strong you are, some don't even make it 'til the end."

- After you were done explaining to Sam (to which he gladly sat himself down and listened) how sometimes you genuinely consider you're inevitably going to become what you hunt and how in the beginning you and your senses have butted heads, how you had no idea how to go through it without having panic attacks because the click of a doorknob was sensitive to your hearing like a veteran was scared of fireworks, how you accidentally ripped a motel door off its hinges, a result of you being slightly irritated, still getting acoustumed to your abilities. Dean would go.

"..Do dog whistles work on y–" Before getting an elbow in the ribs by a glaring Sam.

- more shit Dean would ask you for the sake of his own little curiosity

- "Is 'bitch' even more offensive now?"

- "Who do you think would win in a fight? You or Jacob Black?"

- "What do I smell like? Y'know, since you can pick up on scents and alldat."

- Dean calls you Cujo

- It's the one nickname you can get behind, asking him what he thought about the book, and he's like, "Oh, I watched the movie, but i know a little. Sammy used to rattle on and on about his books when he was younger."

- if you think about it, an alais doesn't sound so bad in theory or practice while hunting.

- it's secretive, the boys don't need to divulge your real name, and it's actually high-key kickass (I literally watched Cujo just so I know what I'm talking about, a.k.a. the second reason why it took a millenium and a half for me to post these; the first reason is that i suck)

- Dean is thrilled to get to call you that- he gets this fucking smirk, like a dad about to drop the worst joke ever made on everyone, you and Sam brace yourselves for what's coming with matching eyerolls-

"Let's fuck em' up, Cujo."

- "Cujo, dude, you're just itching to raise a little hell right now, aren't you?"

- "Uh- a bacon cheeseburger, soda, yo, Cujo whaddya want? My treat >:]."

- "Cujo, put on that song you were listening to; I had it in my head the entire hunt." (I didn't mention the genre or artist bc I like to imagine Dean listening to everyone's fav category; ex. I imagine Dean screaming bikini kill lyrics whenever i'm sad)

- if you thought the 'canine/wolf' teasing stopped here, you're so painfully wrong

- Dean made you a mixtape, because that's his love language apparently, with only songs that are about werewolves

- I feel like it took him a longer time to find a suitable title than the songs themselves

- he has all of the possible picks on a piece of paper that stays in the pocket of his fifty pound leather jacket.

- the titles are: Songs to transform into; The howlin' hits; Songs that will make you wag your tail—that one is crossed out because he knows you will make him eat the tape if he does settle on it; Love at first bite; and finally the one he settled for is Songs you can sink your teeth into. Dean smiled at his work, it didn't feel like a prank anymore it was more like a gift and he didn't feel any ugly emotion or insecurity try to pull him back into not getting attached to you.

The final touch was a note saying

"Hey, Cujo, thought you might want these howlin' hits whenever you need to tune the world out.

P.S. : Sam told me to add one of the songs, it's that punk stuff you like - Dean"

- The songs he prudently picked out are these : Of Wolf and Man by Metallica; Bark at the Moon by Ozzy Osbourne; I Was A Teenage Werewolf by The Cramps; Wolf Moon by Type O Negative; Witch Wolf by STYX; Run with the Wolf by Rainbow; Lycanthropy by G.B.H and others.

- you accidentally made a kid cry once- a ball was literally flying towards you and you caught it just in time, thanks to your reflexes

- instinctively, you turned around in time and caught the ball as your claws grew and sank into the inanimate object

- it's all "Nice relfexes, _____" praise from Dean and proud and shy smiles from Sam until the owner of the ball starts sobbing in front of you

- it's a kid, a boy with red hair, no older than six years of age

- but we all know Dean's charm is basically made for this

- so he handles both the kid and his mom (flirting with a milf all day, poor Dean)

- you keep apologizing to the kid and the mom, but Dean just waves you off; you don't understand his generosity until Sam tells you that you accidentally secured Dean's hookup for tonight.

- Since Dean is not coming, not until early morning, nor is he there to call you and Sam 'dorks', you and his younger brother take advantage of it.

- you guys have a movie night with the most random movies ever

- it is chaotic

- from rom-coms you switch to a world war II documentary, then you watch re-runs of House MD on tv.

- Dean stumbles in at like five something a.m. and takes a picture of you and Sam snuggling under a blanket while the tv light casts shadows of orange and cold colors on your defenseless expressions.

- but can somebody actually blame you? Or Sam, for that matter?

- honorably want to mention your body heat is also enhanced

- You and Sam were sitting with your sides pressed into each other

- you were radiating pure furnace body heat, how could he not be sleepy??

- but that's not the only reason Sam knocks out so heavily

- it's you he's sitting down with (relaxing for once in his life) watching a ridiculous episode of House with thirteen ads rolling every ten minutes accompanied by lazy talking as if you're not debating books only you and morally grey forty-year-olds read (where that Kansas drawl of his is much more audible and pretty), after a marathon of fatally random movies

- younger Sam who had trouble going to sleep/getting some shut-eye because Dean and John are out late on a hunt.

- Sam especially couldn't fall asleep because Dean wasn't there

- it was a different story when Dean was at the age where he couldn't hunt but he could use a pistol and take care of his little brother

- both of them in a relatively warm motel room, alone (since John fucked off to god-knows-where, to hunt a monster they are never to breathe in the direction of as a conversation subject.)

- little Sammy (age where he believed nothing could beat his older brother) could peacefully fall asleep knowing Dean stays up and watches over him like a hawke, reading comic books by the tv light

- where little Dean keeps chanting in his head what Sammy is supposed to do after eating his dinner.

- Watch tv or look at the comic with me (Sammy can't read yet), brush his teeth, then tuck him in bed.

- now pre-teen Sam can hardly sleep

- he is plagued/tormented by flashing images his overthinking big brain mades of a thousand situations where his family got hurt, if not even killed

- Sam's grip on the shotgun is shaking; it shakes even harder when John's bark booms over his shoulder, right into his ear.

- "Sammy, dammit, what are you going to do when a demon breaks through the door and me and your brother aren't there to protect you?!"

- but Sam isn't twelve anymore

- he's a responsible adult

- snuggled beside you and denying any eepy allegations you decide to accuse him of

- so, the heat you contribute, the soft speaking on the tv, the darkness of the room, you being there is enough to lull Sam to sleep

- studies show you feel sleepy around the people you trust ;)

- the position you two fell asleep in cannot be described in any other word than childish

- somehow you would catch two kids, sleeping over at one of the other's houses, knocked out, and snoring in the same bed after watching a horror movie

- on one of the two queens the motel room contributes (the one closest to the tv) you and Sam have made this fluffy nest full of pillows, a huge blanket, plus a random quilt Bobby pulled out of thin air and gave it to you when he heard you complaining about the petal-thin blankets motels have during cold ass weather.

- When you both lied down on the bed with your legs greedily streched out, backs pressed against the headboard, and your head is resting on the wall while Sam, magically, was still able to hold his up after the very long day all of you endured. You predicted one of you wouldn't survive being in each other's presence and make it out not asleep, and god, you hoped it was you.

- Sam's breathing slows down after a while of comfortable silence, and you’re sure he's dying until you spare one quick glance and see him, downright snoozing with his lips parted without a care in the world, ghosts and eerie phenomenons weren't bothering or needing him now.

- during all of the movies and documentary and fuckin lazy intellectual commentary nobody else would have the patience to discuss with you or Sam, he somehow migrated on the bed/nest with his side flush against yours, like a magnet to another; it was inevitable not to stick together, literally.

- your shoulder was now pressed into his forearm, your head no longer resting uncomfortably, and his temple is resting on the top of your head.

- but (unfortunately) you weren't hugging or anything- like a mirror or a copycat, Sam has his arms crossed, just like you, so maybe that's why you didn't wake up full on cuddling, that does sound good though your brain mourns

- When you do wake up, the only slight change you notice is that you're sleeping on your side..so is Sam. You're facing Sam's neck and chin, and up close and personal, you can actually count the too-sexy amount of moles he modestly posesses. His arm serves the role of a pillow underneath his head, and the other is resting with his palm down facing the mattress.

- with Sam taking up the entire attention of your senses, it takes an emmbarassing while for you to hear the shower running, Dean; did he see you both like this? Was he going to mention it? Your gut fills with a small dose of embarrassement, preparing you for what's yet to come, and it protests at that.

- much displeasure from your senses to your brain and your heart that wanted to breathe Sam in more as he (hopefully) breathes you out, you turn on your other side, unconsciously careful not to disturb Clifford over here, and you try to determine what time it is from your surroundings alone.

- the light blue sneaking its way through the dark closed curtains and the slight chill in the air points all arrows to seven or eight in the morning, you could go back to sleep.

- Dean wasn't just feeling gracious; he didn't and wasn't even planning on sparing you or Sam

- that day, when he separately gets the both of you alone, he has the exact same conversation with different but not so different people.

-"You should've seen the two of you this morning when I came in, two kittens snoring together, it was fuckin' adorable." Dean teased–

—Monday, 13:34 p.m. — as he tossed his clothes into one of the laundromat's washing machines, making Sam paralyze in his seat as his fingers started fidgeting with the edges of his hoodie.

"You did?.." He inquires, not knowing what exactly Dean saw just this morning. Sam only woke up a little after you went back to sleep. He swore his cheek must have burned a hole through the pillow with how hard he was blushing. You were so close. There was a good distance between the edge of the bed and you. So your back was flush against his chest. If you're wondering where his arm went, it was around your waist. Sam—your own personal seatbelt. He probably thinks it's his fault too. Dean never ceased to describe Sam as a 'cuddlebug'.

"Uh-huh" Dean hums a confirmation, acting casual, scarily casual. Sam feels the teasing in Dean's tone; it's there, but Dean is not fully teasing yet, like he wants Sam to confess something first after boiling in his embarrassement for long enough.

—Monday, 20:02 p.m. — as he pulled the Impala into the driveway of a fast-food place you were so invested in you even forgot the name of; you froze and looked at him, searching for any emotion that might give him away, but Dean was a brick wall, a slight very Dean siginificant parted lips smirk paired with squinted eyes over the wheel, carefully driving into the driveway. Even the car seemed to betray you in your moment of weakness because you swear the volume is lower than it was a few seconds ago. Ozzy Osbourne's laugh can still be heard from the speakers, even if it's barely audible over your racing thoughts or your hearing trying its hardest to pick up on Dean's thoughts. The rythym of the drums seems to sync up with your heartbeat, or the other way around, you're not sure. Over every little sound, there still seems to be a little silence to fit in. You swallow a lump in your throat.

"..We had a movie night, we just fell asleep like that, that's all." You mumble, and Dean starts to feel a little bad for letting you be a victim to his spotlight-teasing and giving you no shade to reprieve to or show his undying approval.

Somehow, you still worry if Dean believes you have ruined the dynamic, and now he's cornering you to tell you to stop it or something (overthinking anxiety worms are eating away at your critical thinking skills). You just worry about what he thinks of this. You still worry about the Dean who doesn't correct random people on cases who mistake you and Sam for a couple; the Dean who just has to leave some arsenal or luggage in the front, just so you are forced to share the backseat with Sam; the Dean who always has to group you and Sam in a category when he teases you both (Geeks, nerds, smartasses, etc.). Cupid works hard, but Dean Winchester works harder.

"Hey-, Cuj- Doll." Dean sputters, switching glances between you and the wheel.

This didn't go as he planned it would, and now he is facing the consequences. The way you shrink in your seat and the way you avoid catching his eye makes Dean feel like a douchebag. If he didn't know any better he would thinks he is, but then you would actually be able to read him like a book and tell him otherwise. You hear the desperation in his voice; your candle of hope comes back to life and lights up. Your head turns to look at him with pleading eyes. Please don't be angry, please don't kick me to the curb, let me stay in the backseat a little more. Dean lets out a shaky exhale that turns into a laugh; he runs a hand down his face. You've watched him do that every time he got jumpscared by the monthly spirit with unfinished business. It was something you imagined Dean picked up from John, the picture in your head so clear (at least from the pictures you saw)— a tired dad in an old squeaky motel chair with a whiskey glass in his hand doing the same motion Dean was doing right now. Dean would mimic his father's gestures to try to look more like him; he didn't have his brunette curly hair, his dark brown eyes, Sam did.

Dean never had his voice either; he only perfected his bark to match his dad's. Sam hated the way his reflection resembled his father, Dean was either jealous of him for it or couldn't wrap his head around as to why his brother hated being their dad, probably the latter. Dad, at least in Dean's eyes, was a hero, a figure to be admired and emulated. But Sam? He didn't even have to try. Sam and John were so alike that they clashed constantly like two stubborn stags locking antlers in a duel.

"..Dean?" You call him out; you had no idea what was going on in his head; it would be pretty damn nice if you could know. Dean shots his head up at the mention of his name.

"Yeah?—sorry, I just, you and Sam are just so—" He sighs. "it's about time you two crazy kids broke that touch barrier." He guffaws, slowly pulling up to the ordering kiosk.

A new song starts playing on Dean's "hot summa' nights driving" mixtape, Emmit Remmus by The Red Hot Chili Peppers, he added it when Sam said that's one of his favorites.

- do I need to talk about how much of an immense help you have been on hunts?

- you don't need to help out on every hunt despite Sam's disappointment and Dean's kid-like joy to have their friend help them out who is a professional/werewolf/hunter/geek, who kind of gets his references?? But you are geniunely so good it's funny to have the boys call you up and be like "..so we need help". They're happy you'll show up but there is still that lick of shame that taunts the Winchesters whenever they are forced to call for aid.

- this one time, you wanted to hug them after not seeing them for two weeks, and when you went to attack Sam, you heard his bones crack.

- your strength still surprises you and knocks other people off their feet

- it was so loud (atleast for you), you were sure you broke something

- Sam did nothing but give you his (killer) dimply smile and reassure you didn't do anything (even if he slightly grunted); while Dean whined like a kid saying (lying) he doesn't want a hug (you coaxed him into it eventually)

- Sam feels like he's not allowed to call you by your nickname, like he fears it's Dean's thing and not his

- so when he finally puts on his big boy pants, he's like, "Uhh–Cujo- 🧍‍♂️so get this.."

- all red and shy, trying to act casual, as if he doesn't wonder about the reaction you might have if he calls you other nicknames, like honey, sweetheart, even baby, or if he had the excuse to hold your hand, how would you hold it? Fingers interlocked or palms flat?

- Sam would also love to just marvel at your slit eyes; if he could he would take a picture and put it in his wallet; don't get me wrong if he had one where you were normal, he would cherish it just as much.

- Sam thinks your nickname is actually really cool (probably because it's a Stephen King reference, nerd), and you take that as a compliment. Sam is hard to entertain or please by his brother's antics.

- But he prefers saying your name

- there's something so intimate about the syllables rolling off his tongue so easily

- "_____, Are you okay? What is it? The soundproof earmuffs? I'll go get them." When everything, and I mean when every sound is just too much.

- Sam got them for you; he couldn't handle seeing you wince one more time whenever a car with a bad engine would pass by the motel (during a stressful hunt); its tires squealing under the concrete, making a faint sound for the boys, but for you so much louder.

- you know how pathethic it is to be affected by such small things when you're blessed with such powers? How can you call yourself a hunter when decibels, frequencies, and fucking tire squeals make you their bitch? You wish you could train yourself in a way that would make you less sensitive to certain sounds. It just adds to the reasons why hunters have the excuse or classify you as "the frail one" not only because you're a girl. When you used to hunt with your dad and sometimes mom, the amount of dog-shit comments from other hunters who had sons, were nothing but mysogynistic, curlish, and ruthless. "Are you sure the riffle isn't too heavy?", "Does she even know how to kill this thing?", "She's going to drag us down, do you want us to die?"— the type of comments that would make your dad shoot daggers into them, defend you "She's a goddamn ______, what do you think?", and whisper into your ear "Show em' what you're made of." and you would (stubbornly) listen to his advice to the damn letter after you almost mouthed them off.

Your dad believed in "Actions are sometimes louder than words." and all that adult crap, you were not as zen.

Your mom actually encouraged the sarcasm you have replied with in the past. The funniest memory your mother can recall is a story she tells at every gathering and every chance she gets to everyone, she praised you like crazy. When another hunter's son had the nerve to fuck with a twelve-year-old you. "Aren't you afraid of breaking a nail out there?" The boy sneered, puffing out his chest like a peacock. You stared at him with pure disbelief. "The only way I'm breaking a nail tonight is by kicking your ass, you cocky brainless jerk." You spat back, your mother and father were there and so was the boy's father; the gravity of the situation was on your shoulders, and their stares felt even heavier in comparison; intimidating him was 100% on the table. You felt like everyone had the same exact thought occuring them, an unspoken demand passed everyone there, even you: Do something. And you did. Your mother's jaw went slack; she doubled over, gripping whatever surface was near her and she started to chortle, with her shoulders shaking like never before. Your father was holding in a chuckle while massaging the bridge of his nose.

- Sam has to disagree with you whenever you complain about how your senses make you look or about the way you underestimate yourself. "What?! You can't be serious. _____, It doesn't mean you're weak. In fact, it makes you even more interesting. Everyone has an Achilles heel; yours is stronger because you're an amazing hunter who figured a way out. It makes you even stronger, I have no idea how you deal with this crap! Dean and I would've gone insane if we were in your shoes for more than a day."

- he is also forcing back his infamous (spectacular) bitchface

- he doesn't 'hold back' actually

- he geniunely cannot glare at you, not when you're like this. He can make a few exceptions, like when you join in Dean's teasing/joking (the silly rambunctious energy Dean carries around had, unfortunately, contiminated you or awakened yours)

- or when you start teasing Sam yourself, he shoots you a glare that classifies as nothing but hot (in your book at least), the kind of Sam glare that makes you flush knowing he doesn't mean it at all.

- Dean making you those fake ass I.D's like "Joan Jett", "Stevie Nicks", "Kathleen Hanna" and when you asked him to make more subtle ones he was like, bet. "Kelly Hammer", "Diana Bowie", "Laura Ulrich".

a/n: I wanted to apologize again for taking so long and for the unnecessary amount of context that literally nobody asked for. Uhh yeah and feedback would be very much appreciated<3, sava out *mic drop*

#sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #supernatural #dean winchester #spn #supernatural fanfiction #jared padalecki #jensen ackles #supernatural headcanons #supernatural fandom #supernatural season 1 #reader insert #supernatural imagine #supernatural fic #sava preaches

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johnslittlespoon · 5 months

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https://www.tumblr.com/johnslittlespoon/749533871172993024/tryna-study-but-puppy-bucky-brain-rot-how?source=share

ACTUALLY GOING INSANE RIGHT NOW, YOU GET IT SAM YOU GET ITTT.

I can’t believe I’m reading this at a wedding right now. I’m sitting in a corner far away from my family just in case. I may or may not be obsessing over this right now, who needs religion imma be praying to this every night.

The way Gale would never be harsh or mean to John and even when he is he never means it because he sees so much of himself in John (specifically him when he was younger) and how he knows what it feels like having a shitty dad and not feeling at home in your own house. He’d try his best to make John feel at home and safe in his house even if it does take a while. Even if sometimes John is “too much”/self-sabotaging, Gale sees through it and understands it’s just John is scared of losing him.

The way John would just walk around the house waiting for Gale to come back from work, literally trying to find anything to keep him distracted. He’d probably do some school work and if he doesn’t have any, do some housework like cook or clean the house (Like some type of housewife holyldkfijf, Gale would definitely tease him about it). And yes he would definitely raid Gale’s closet for his hoodie to chill around the house in it, maybe even fall asleep in it and Gale would come back from work to find him on the couch, hugging himself with the hoodie on. (Just imagining John’s smaller body wearing one of Gale’s big ass baggy hoodies…)

And oh how they would fight and how angsty it could get but at the end of the day both can’t be apart without each other and would eventually apologize and talk it out, how John would probably lock himself away after a fight but eventually come out and see Gale on the sofa head in hands and he’d just walk up to him and hug him. They’d stay there for hours on end just laying and cuddling and Gale would whisper sorry’s and comforting words/praises into John’s ear.

The oral cockwarming is so perfect because it lets John just relax and focus on one thing and that’s pleasuring Gale, which he loves and wants to do so badly (The people pleaser in him and also thinking it’s another reason for Gale keeping him around, whoops more angst. Obviously not the reason Gale keeps him around but John’s self-sabotaging is always there in the back of his mind.) Gale also returning the favor to John helps him see that he does love him beyond anything sexual and Gale knows this. In any situation, Gale would always show John just how much he loves him and genuinely appreciates him as a person and that he isn’t some kind of burden. The praises he whispers to John when he cockwarms him also help with that.

Anyway, *cough* *cough* can you tell I'm absolutely obsessed? Your writing and the things you come up with are just chefs kiss. Take your time and absolutely no pressure but I really can’t wait till you turn this into a full fic. THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME GOTTA GO BACK TO THE WEDDING NOW <333

linked post | PLSSS at a wedding lmfaoo no but that's so real. this leaving!bikerider shit is taking over my life fml

YES EXACTLY!! to tackle the angst first: there would be sooo many dots connected with gale's own childhood/upbringing/relationship with his dad that he would see in john, and it would make him even more fiercely protective and determined to make sure he never ever makes john feel the way his dad made him feel, or how john's dad makes john feel. when he's frustrated with john, he can usually trace it back to a behaviour he himself used to do, and he can realize that it's out of insecurity, or anxiety, or fear, etc.

he knows sometimes he just has to let john push and test boundaries, because as long as he patient and proves to john he will never raise his voice, or lay a hand on him, or abandon him, john will realize that he's someone he can let his walls down with and trust fully, and over time he'll stop feeling the need to push. he just needs to be shown consistency and stability and unwavering love. :(

there's also the fact that this is john's first longterm/serious relationship outside of highschool, whereas gale's had a lot more experience and time to learn communication skills (it's something he still finds himself coming up short with a lot though).

they're on very opposite sides of the spectrum when it comes to fights/arguments. for gale, some issues that might seem small/insignificant might feel really big for john; for example, the way gale words something after a long stressful day might sound at worst blunt to him, but to john it might sound like gale's being short and is angry about something john hasn't figured out yet, so then tension builds.

again, circling back round to insecurity on john's part because of how he's grown up, and circling round to gale needing to work on communication skills because he's not used to having to since he's usually on his own if he's not around friends. and yk, daddy issues on both ends lol.

i think also their ways of trying to resolve conflict would differ from each other, so it would be something they both have to learn to compromise on too. like you said, john is for sure the type to lock himself away or leave the house to get some air and calm himself down, anything he can do to self–isolate until he feels ready to talk, whereas i feel like gale is the type to either brush past it and assume it's no big deal/it'll blow over, and/or the type to want to sort things out the moment something happens, to talk it out until it's resolved. and obviously those immediate reactions to conflict kinda grate on each other, so they have to figure out how to balance things out.

but john's an easy crier and he feels just as guilty when he blows up and walks out on gale as gale does when he's too blunt or harsh when they're arguing, and neither of them can ever go to bed upset with each other. by the time john comes back home, the reflexive anger/hurt has always seeped out and made room for quiet sadness and guilt, and all he wants to do is find gale and attach himself to him and mumble his apologies and be held (and in turn have the relief of the confirmation that gale still wants to hold him.) or if john's shut himself away in the spare room or is sulking on the back porch, gale will be the one to go to him and crouch down in front of him and take his hands in his and ask what he needs, and ask if they can talk. <3

angst aside, YEAH. john doesn't mind being alone sometimes, but in general he's very social and gets his energy and good mood from being around other people, so if gale's at work and his friends are busy and he doesn't have any studying to be done, he keeps himself busy around the house (which also helps alleviate his guilt over 'intruding', or gale not letting him pay rent, because he can feel like he's making himself useful.)

and gale without a doubt teases him about it, calls him his little housewife one day when he comes home to john cooking and pounces on the way it makes john flush, wrapping his arms around him from behind and pulling him and murmuring "yeah? you like waiting for me to get home, like a cute little housepet?" and it's all banter, but it gets to both of them more than they expect. >:)

it definitely does gale in too when he sees john get comfortable enough to start stealing his clothes like that, loving how he looks in them and feeling his heart soften with the knowledge that john still wants a piece of him as close as possible when he's not with him. (he also lays john out on the couch and fucks him in nothing but gale's hoodie the first time he comes home to that <3)

and yes to the sex dynamic stuff, 100%. gale never gives john any reason to believe that he's only in it for sex, especially since gale's the one who holds off on jumping into hooking up straight away, but john does worry sometimes at the beginning until he starts to feel secure with gale. i think gale would be aware of this being a possible issue too and it would contribute to him keeping things slow at first because he wants to establish to john that he's not just a pretty body to him.

and as time goes on gale realizes how he can use stuff like gentle submission/instruction/etc like in that cockwarming drabble to get john out of his head, to help him relax, etc without directly asking john to take breaks or calm down, because john is stubborn and will work himself into the ground unless he sees that ask as something that benefits gale too. (they work on that, though.)

YEAH can you tell i'm obsessed too? this is cooked lmfaoaoo. but omg THANK U i will cry </33 i have so much fun writing all this shit out and bouncing ideas back and forth <33 i don't feel pressured dw!! i'm so excited to write the fic once i finish my current one :'-) thank you for YOUR time, hope the wedding was fun!!

#leaving bikerider au #sighghh so many good headcanons/dynamics for this au #i love me some conflict and then healthy conflict resolution <3 #and now i sleep #johnslittlespoon asks #johnslittlespoon brainrot #johnslittlespoon spicy #buckbucky

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17snifflesandsnzes · 6 months

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Hello! I love your writing and I'd like to request a Vernon allergy fic, with hiphop unit as caretaker.

Thanks for the compliment! Here it is, I hope you enjoy!

I'd Say It Had Been A Pretty Eventful Day

Vernon pov:

I really should have known better than to even think about writing a song while it's peak allergy season. Guess I just didn't think it through. We had about a month left before our official comeback with the album FML and even though all the group songs had been recorded, all the units still had to record their songs. As far as I knew, the vocal unit had finished their recording and the performance unit would start recording later this week. But of course, we hadn't even written our song.

Jihoon hyung had left the writing and recording to us because we usually went with the flow and how we feel at a given moment but now, with the deadline so close, there was a sense of urgency that I could feel whenever Seungcheol hyung scheduled a hip hop unit songwriting session. So of course, when I checked the pollen count of the day we were going to finish our song, I couldn't help but groan. With my luck, it just makes sense that the day the pollen count is at an all-time high is the day I gotta write a song and record it. And unsurprisingly, I felt the effects of the pollen almost immediately after I woke up. I rubbed my hands over my face, groaning, as I sat up.

I went through my morning routine basically on autopilot and when I walked into the kitchen, I saw Mingyu hyung in the kitchen making breakfast. “Morning, Hansol!” Mingyu called out and I smiled. “Morning, hyung.” I took a seat at the table and rested my head in my hands. Wonwoo hyung joined me at the table. “I checked the pollen count for today. Are you gonna be okay?” I sighed before lifting my head to look at him. “We're only gonna be writing and recording. I'll be fine, hyung. Plus, we don't have a lot of time left and both Jihoon hyung and Coups hyung are getting pretty stressed right about now.” Wonwoo hyung looked like he wanted to say more but for my sake, he kept his mouth shut.

Seungcheol hyung joined us at the table for breakfast soon after. “Guys, let's try to finish up with writing the song and at least get some recording done today, okay?” All 3 of us nodded but I had the underlying feeling of dread. Knowing my allergies, it was wishful thinking to hope that I would get any work done. But maybe I'll push through this time? Right?

Wrong.

As soon as we stepped outside of the dorm, the sunlight hitting me in the face, I immediately felt a buzzing itch in my nose. I rubbed my wrist against my nose, trying to lighten the tickling sensation but that only seemed to elevate it. Accepting defeat, I turned my face directly towards the sun, my breath hitching, bringing up my arm to my face. “hh'ItShuhHh!- hh'hKtChuHh!-'' Mingyu looked back at me. “Bless you.” I thanked him, my ears burning from the attention.

After we entered our company van, I pulled out my phone, scrolling through it as we made our way to the company. Even after the sneezes from earlier, the tickle at the back of my sinuses absolutely refuses to dissipate. After about 5 mins in the van, I felt the tickle grow and I immediately pinched my nose hoping to hold back the sneeze. Unfortunately, that did nothing to relieve me of the tickle instead making my nose even more tickly. I brought my hand up to cup my nose and mouth, my eyes fluttering shut. “hh’AtKShuHh!- hh'IkKShuHh!-” I sighed as I rubbed my nose, which had started to run. I could feel the eyes of all 3 of my hyungs on me but I chose to ignore them, keeping my eyes on my phone instead.

Thankfully, we arrived at the company soon enough. At this point I just wanted this day to end but since we hadn't even started yet, I guess I can't complain. When we reached our recording studio, Mingyu hyung and Wonwoo hyung started to set up the equipment while Seungcheol hyung pulled me aside. “Are you gonna be fine today, Sol?” I sighed at the concern in his voice. I really needed to get through this recording. I smiled at him. “I'll be fine, hyung. Seriously, you don't have to worry.” Seungcheol nodded before joining the other 2 to help with setting up the equipment.

Soon, all 4 of us were sitting across from each other with a notebook in front of us, trying to come up with lyrics. We had come up with the main melody in the last songwriting session and now we had to come up with lyrics to that melody. I had hoped the tickle in my sinuses would eventually go away as I wasn't directly exposed to pollen. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case. I had the irritating need to sneeze almost every second I was sitting there, coming up with lyrics. Though I hadn’t sneezed even once since I entered the studio, the tickle in my sinuses refused to go away. My eyes were also watering and my nose wouldn't stop running. I could tell the others were also aware of my growing discomfort and I was grateful that they chose to ignore it as I was already embarrassed enough.

We were coming up with lyrics for Mingyu's part and since I had helped with the writing of this song, the members kept asking me for feedback. “Vernon-ah, what do you think about this?” Mingyu asked me, passing me a notebook. Even though I tried really hard to focus on his lyrics, the tickling sensation at the back of my sinuses had finally reached its peak and soon enough, my breath started hitching again and I cupped my hands over my nose and mouth. “hh’KtShuhHh!- hh’HktCHuhHh!- hh’KtChUhHh!- Sorry.” Wonwoo handed me a tissue. “Bless you. And don't be sorry.” I nodded, heat rising up my cheeks from the attention I was getting. I cleared my throat, focusing my attention back to Mingyu's lyrics. “These are good, hyung! But for the ‘I got the fantasy and I got the dream’ I think saying ‘I got the’ in English and ‘fantasy’ in Korean would be more effective. It'll sound better too.” Mingyu nodded, scribbling in his notebook before he looked back up at me. Unfortunately, at the same time, I felt the annoying tickle return and my breath started hitching immediately. I felt my eyes water as I tried to keep them open to look at Mingyu. “Hansol, how about-” “Wait a sec, hyungHh…hh'hTkShuHh!- hh'AktChuhHh!- hh'KtShUhHh!- Ugh.” I took out a few tissues from the box Wonwoo had kept in front of me and blew my nose into them. My eyes still watering, I looked back up at Mingyu. “Sorry, hyung.”

Mingyu (and the other 2 hyungs for that matter) looked concerned. “Bless you, Sol. And it's fine. Are you okay?” I nodded and groaned, my nose tickling again. I felt my breath start to hitch but the sneeze just won't come, no matter how much I rubbed at my nose. Letting out a noise of frustration, I rubbed my knuckles back and forth on the bridge of my nose. That seemed to have finally urged the sneeze to come and I quickly pulled out a tissue from the box and turned away from the others. “Hhh…hh'HkTShuhHh!- hh'TtShUhh!- Hh…hh'ItChUhhH!- Oh my god…” I blew my nose again and then turned back to my hyungs. All 3 of them looked concerned and stern. “Are you sure you're okay, Vernon? You don't sound okay at all.” I looked at Seungcheol, meeting his eyes. “I'm fine, hyung. Plus, we really need to get this done. It's just allergies.” Even though I knew that it would probably be easier to just go home and rest, I didn't wanna quit now. I can pull through this, okay? The rest of the hip hop unit looked like they highly doubted I could pull through though. We continued writing lyrics and after what felt like hours, we finally finished the song. I heard Mingyu cheer loudly and Seungcheol let out a sigh of relief. “Okay, we're done with the song. Vernon, do you want to help us record since you wrote the track?” I nodded, moving over to sit in front of the computer.

Mingyu pov:

I seriously wanted to tell Vernon that he was fooling absolutely no one when he said that he was fine. He had been sneezing on and off for the entire day and right now, he looked absolutely miserable. The more time he spent in the studio, the worse he seemed to get even without direct exposure to pollen. But as he refused to rest, there was little we could do to make him comfortable. Right now, he was seated in front of the computer. He looked like he could barely even see through his watering eyes and I'm sure the bright screen wasn't helping at all. Seungcheol hyung had set up his mic to try and record the first few bars of the song unofficially so that we could pick up from there in our next recording session. Just as he was finishing up with his rap, I could see Vernon gearing up to sneeze again. He turned away from the computer, his arm coming up to his face. “hhTkChuhH!- Hhh…hhKtShuhH!- hh'HkTChuhHh!- Hhh…hhKtChUhhH!-” I could see his eyes shining with allergic tears as he turned back to the computer screen and I watched (in horror) as he accidentally clicked the wrong button and deleted the track.

For a minute, I could see him buffering as he probably didn't even understand what he had just done. And then I saw both Seungcheol hyung and Wonwoo approach him in shock. “Oh my god, Vernon-ah, did you just delete the track?!” Seungcheol sounded angry and Wonwoo just looked utterly shocked. Vernon stared at the screen in surprise. “What?”

“Did you just delete the track?! How could you, after all the effort we put into it?!”

I could tell Seungcheol hyung was on the verge of exploding so I quickly stepped in. “Relax, hyung. Maybe we can fix it?” I turned to the computer screen before taking Vernon's seat and scanning through the computer files. Wonwoo hyung joined me. “Try the recycle bin.” He told me and I scanned the app and immediately found the deleted track. I let out a sigh of relief as I restored it. From the corner of my eye I saw Seungcheol collapse onto a chair, looking lightheaded with relief. I scanned the room for Vernon and I found him with his hands cupping his face, his chest rising and falling with desperate gasps. “hh'AktChuhHh!- hh'HkTShuhHh!- Fuck.”

He looked up as he saw all 3 of us staring at him. “Sorry.” He said after a while, looking sheepish. Seungcheol let out a breath. “It's fine, Hansol-ah. But we're taking you home, okay? You need rest and we're not risking you working and then accidentally deleting our track again.” Hansol nodded, keeping his eyes down. I approached him, patting his back. “Hey. It's fine, Sol. We just want you to rest, that's all. Your allergies look like they could kill you right about now.” Vernon laughed at that and I turned to Seungcheol. “Do you want me to drive him home while you work?” I asked and he nodded. I turned to Vernon and picked up my keys. “C'mon then.”

I entered the company parking lot and entered my car, Vernon behind me. The ride from the company to our dorm was a bit long and I could see Vernon slowly falling asleep next to me. When we reached the dorm, I didn't wake him up immediately wanting to let him rest. Eventually, I patted his thigh. “Come on, Hansol-ah. You could sleep more inside.” He nodded tiredly and we entered the dorm. Upon entering, he immediately made his way to the couch and buried his face in his hands. I was about to offer him some water before he gasped softly, his eyes fluttering shut. “hh'HgTChuhHh!- hh'AktShuhHh!- Hhh…hhKtChUhHh!-” He sniffled wetly before looking up at me with tired eyes. I smiled sympathetically. “Bless you. Do you need some allergy meds?” “Yeah, hyung. Thanks.”

I nodded before taking out some antihistamines and handing them to him. After taking the medicine, I could see him fighting sleep almost immediately. I patted his shoulder. “You should get some, Hansol-ah. Today's sneezing must've tired you out.” He nodded tiredly before making his way to his room. Before he entered, he turned around in the doorway. “Thanks for today, hyung.” I smiled at him. “No problem, Sollie. Sleep well.” He smiled back at me before entering his room and collapsing on the bed. I saw him fall asleep almost immediately and I smiled, making my way out the door. As I was driving back to the company, I recalled all the things that had happened that day. I'd say today had been a pretty eventful workday.

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