#but it is also Crowley being miserable and lonely and kind of not knowing why

[yellow-faerie]

Wow, I have a fic description and a fic title before I've even established a proper fic plot

(this is probably because I'm very excited about this fic and it's potential...)

Edit:

Here are my tags because I started explaining the plot and want it actually in the post rather than just the tags lol:

[blackthorn02]

Human feelings🥀 (Ferid Bathory x reader)

—>Imagine happened after the battle in nagoya-fluff rated

* (Y/n)... your name

* (L/n)...last name

* (H/c)... hair colour

The sun was shining trough the window in her face and luminated (y/n)’s (h/c) hair that fell slightly in her face. She felt as if she had risen from death and every bone in her body left a terrible pain when she started to move. “Well,well. You’re finally awake. I thought you would never wake up again (y/n)”- Crowley looked up from the report he was reading and smiled at her as if he was a madman. To be honest (y/n) didn’t even noticed that he was sitting there-vampires sometimes can be really disturbing, when they sneak around in total silence. (Y/n) looked up at the red haired vampire and gave him a questioned look. What happend and where even was she? Crowley grinned and read her questioned face:”hmmm let me think what happend-ahhh now i remember: you were fighting with this annoying livestock from the Hiragi clan, i think kureto was his name, when you suddenly fainted. We subdued the humans and Ferid decided to make a deal with them. You really should have seen his face when he saw that you were badly injured-hehe. But to be honest I was actually also a bit concerned about my little kitten.” (Y/n) looked at him dumbfounded. She sat in a big fluffy bed with red silk duvets that kept a well known smell that always included security.Suddenly it dawned on her. No it couldn’t be! “why the fuck am i lying in Ferids bed?!”, (y/n) shouted in shock. Crowley just grinned : “ Hahaha- you only noticed that now?! Our new beloved king thought that would be a good idea since you would be safe here and no one would come to disturb your healing process. Ohh by the way- you should be really a little bit careful (y/n) and eat something. Mi little kitten was faint for a long time!”- and with that he stood up, waved with his gloved hand and left her alone in Ferids noble room. (Y/n) looked around an found a white vampire uniform that laid on a chair next to the bed. It was clearly a uniform for her and she went to take it on. Why happend she to be always in such awkward situations? when she was fiddling with the ribbon of her coat, it knocked on the door. “Come in!”. A purple haired vampire stuck his head trough the door and smiled happily. “ i am really glad you are well (y/n). I really thought you are going to die on me.” (Y/n) grinned and hugged him tightly- “lacus, i don’t think i was that bad injured like you all claim i was.” She clung away from him and began again fiddling with the red ribbon of her uniform-failing. Lacus came standing behind her, took the ribbon from her hands to beginn binding it behind her neck, while she lifted her hair up. “ soo that would be finished- now you should really hurry and go to Ferid since he doesn’t really like to have him wait!” (Y/n) nod and Lacus escorted her to the throneroom where he knocked on the high wooden carved door, before he opended it and signaled (y/n) to go in. (Y/n) stood in a massive hall that shined in red,and golden colours. Before her sat Ferid in his new throne looking down on her with a penetrating look. “ ahh (y/n)- as i see your wounds all healed. That is good because i really like you to meet someone. You can thank me later for saving your life and for my endlessly goodness!” God, he was such a brat sometimes. (Y/n)gave him a questioning look: “as i can see you really settled into the role of the king very well. Now you’re more charming than ever! I am really greatful for your kindness, king ferid the great!”-(y/n) bowed mockingly and Ferid just rolled his eyes, “ save your jokes for later (y/n)”. Another knock on the door brought them back to reality. Rene came in with a small vampire in tow, that looked a little bit like crowley. “King Lest Karr, my majesty!”-Rene bowed and left. Ferid clapped his hands:“(y/n), let me introduce you King Lest Karr-the vampire king of the european vampires. His job is to evaluate and watch me, since i could plan bad things to subordinate the other vampire reigns. Not true, Lest karr?”

Lest Karr looked at ferid disgusted and nodded: “ i will see your every mistake and punish you mercyless if you even think about betrayal!”. Lest Karr turned to her and looked at her appraisingly: “ so, you are (y/n) (l/n). The last survivor of the (l/n) family who holds mighty power?! If they take advantage from you, i will slaughter every one of them. Your value is inconceivably high for us vampires!”-and with that he turned away and left both of you speechless in thethroneroom. Ferid started laughing out loud-“what a nice child he is! in the afternoon there is a meeting with the top people of the humans and I want you to show up there too. we will work out a plan to get the seraph of the end back!” (Y/n) sighed and nodded at his terrible plan, when Ferid suddenly approached her and slung his arms longingly around her. (Y/n) could feel his warm breath on her neck and a shiver ran down her spine. “If you are going to bite me i am totally willing to rip your arm out!” Ferid laughed fearfull at that thought and wispered in her ear: “ I am really glad you are okay. When you suddenly fainted on the battlefield i feared the worst.” He let go of her and walked out of the throne room, leaving her alone as if nothing ever happend.

The afternoon came fast and (y/n) was on her way to the meeting. She steppend in the controll room where Crowley and Ferid already waited for her. The humans had brought Shynia Hiragi, Guren Ichinose,who was possessed from his sword demon and Kureto Hiragi. Kureto looked at her pejorative and hissed: “well well, there she is. The traitor that now warms all of the vampire beds!” (Y/n) looked at him angrily and punched her fist into the table: “at least i didn't kill and slaughter my own race to seize world domination!”. Suddenly Ferid jumped up from his chair, grabbed Kureto by the neck, pierced his pointed claws in his neck so that it started to bleed and rammed him into the wall aggressively. but as soon as he grabbed kureto he released him, straightened his uniform and declared the meeting over: “ you can all go now- except crowley, i need to talk with him!” (Y/n) looked at him shocked but Ferid averted his gon from her and ignored he

At first she thought nothing of it, but his ignorance and distance continued for the rest of the day. (Y/n) felt terrible and left alone. it hurted a lot to be ignored by a close friend and treated like air. so she decided, in her unwillingness, to sleep in her own room today and get out of his way to give ferid the freedom he wanted so obviously. When she opened the door to her room, she was greeted by a bare cold room without much decoration and nonsense. a room in which she didn't really feel comfortable and was lonely. (Y/n) took off her uniform and a nightgown on. then, exhausted, she slipped into her cold bed and tried to fall asleep, which was obviously difficult for her without the security of ferids presence and fragrance. she fell into a restless dreamless sleep, but a little later she frantically woke up because she felt watched and uncomfortable. Ferid stood in her room, back faced to her, and looked outside the window, trough which light moonlight into the room fell. He noticed her waken form but didn’t turn around to face her: “(y/n), you know i would never hurt or use you I could never do something like that, you have become far too important to me. when i saw you die at the battlefield i thought my heart would be torn to pieces. I never thought that I would still perceive something like human feelings. I really didn't want to hurt your feelings. but when that scum of human said such nasty words about you, I just couldn't control myself anymore. I wanted to wipe out this miserable human being and I only really realized that I would do anything to weigh you in safety. nevertheless you took his words to heart and doubted my person.” his eyes were sad and his voice sounded like it was breaking away. (Y/n) had never seen him so hurt before. she always thought that vampires would not feel anything, just caring for themselves and their race and loathing people. she would never have imagined in her life that Ferid could feel that way for her. she suddenly felt very sad and all she wanted to do now was get up and hug Ferid. (Y/n) went to him, wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his back. ferid stiffened at first but then fell into her touch. He loved her touch and warmth. he always felt cold but her heat warmed his heart. (Y/n) hummed and sighed: “ dont be afraid! the only bed i am going to warm is yours, Ferid! you are the only vampire where i feel really safe and where i can let myself go. I didn't believe Kureto's words - and you know that too. Nothing gets me so easily upset. but since you ignored me and treated me like air, I thought you would need space and I wanted to give it to you.” Ferid turned to look at her deeply. he put his hand on her cheek and she leaned in to his touch. he ran his thumb over her lips and she saw a tear trickle down his face. she wiped away the single tear and put her arms around his neck. ferid smiled and before she knew it he kissed her softly on the lips. it was a sweet gentle kiss that soon became a demanding one that burned like passion on her lips. Ferid backed away and grinned: “ i love you too, (y/n)!” ferid picked her up and carried her bridal style to his room where he gently placed her in his bed. he took off his uniform and layed next to (y/n) under the blanket where he gently wrapped his arms around her and both fell into a sweet dream.

If you enjoyed this oneshot,please leave a comment and feel free to reblog💜

-blackthorn

[youwearfiinethingswell]

lemon honey chamomile (a little ineffable husbands ficlet)

Crowley is not very good at showing his feelings. Don’t get me wrong, he feels a lot. But there always was some kind of barrier right there. Machiavelli once said it’s better to be feared than loved. Well, Crowley wasn’t sure if it was better, but for him it was definitely easier. Being a demon means that you’re supposed to be hated and feared and those things don’t really require a lot of demonstrating your feelings anyway. Being a demon also means that you are alone. It means that you don’t love and are not loved.

When Crowley’s sad, he needs to suck it up. When he’s happy, he’s got no one to share. Even during his most miserable nights, not only alone but feeling really lonely, there wasn’t much he could do. It’s in his nature to be hated and feared.

That’s why he loves Aziraphale so much. Aziraphale is made of love. He is entirely love and that was the reason he gave away his sword in the first place. Crowley realizes he loves Aziraphale, but the wall he built around his own feelings is too high and too thick.

But, for the first time, Crowley feels like what they have, even if it’s messed up, is the reason he’s gonna wreck that wall. And it only took the almost end of the world for him to realize that.

Crowley has some kind of emotional barrier and that’s why Aziraphale was the first one to say i love you. Crowley didn’t say it back and the reason wasn’t because he didn’t love Aziraphale. He did. He loved Aziraphale so much.

When Aziraphale tells him that, Crowley’s heart melts a little. He feels like he’s home after months away, he feels full, warm. He does love Aziraphale and desperately want to tell him that!!! But he doesn’t.

The barrier he put around himself stops him from saying it (even though he really feels that way and he really wants to tell Zira).

It’s a slow process, to destroy that barrier. He put that up so many years ago. It was protection. But what’s the point of living your life without any risks?

Crowley wanted to say it so many times.

When they wake up at Aziraphale’s and he’s cuddling with his angel, almost if they’re only one. Aziraphale says he has been up for a while but he knew Crowley was tired and didn’t want to wake Crowley up.

When Adam visits them and he tells about school and about the Them and Aziraphale just sits there listening to the boy.

The time they slept at Crowley’s instead of Aziraphale’s and he sees Aziraphale talking to his plants.

Everyday when Aziraphale is just being his normal self, because to Crowley, Aziraphale’s perfect.

Every movie night; every rushed lunch; every dinner date.

Crowley loves Aziraphale more each day.

So many times he felt the urge to say it and felt the words coming up to his throat, only to choke on them and change the subject awkwardly.

One night Aziraphale is lying on the sofa with his eyes closed, but awake. Crowley’s making some tea for them. Lemon honey chamomile for a good night sleep. Crowley approaches the sofa and runs his hand through Aziraphale’s hair, thinking he’s asleep already. Crowley knows what he feels is real. And reciprocate. It has been for years.

But then again, time really moves differently when you’re immortal. He can’t remember the last time he felt so warm, so loved. But he still can’t say it out loud. So right now he does the next best thing: a kiss on Aziraphale’s forehead and a whisper. I love you, Aziraphale, says the whisper. No one heard that, Crowley thinks Aziraphale’s asleep. Aziraphale needs to hold himself from smiling because he knows Crowley isn’t ready to say this to his conscious self and he thinks he’s asleep and he wants to respect that. He wants to give Crowley all the time he need to deal with that emotional barrier, because after all, he loves Crowley as much as Crowley loves him.

[ineffable-snowman]

Day 15: Laughter

Read on AO3

They laughed. It was neither laughter of joy nor laughter of companionship. They laughed at him.

Aziraphale laughed, too. Not because their laughter was infectious or because he wanted to. He laughed dutifully although he did not understand why they thought him so ridiculous. What was so laughable about his idea? He did not know how to phrase the question because he did not want to give them even more reason to laugh at him.

Gabriel was quick to lecture him anyway. “Aziraphale, I’m sure this idea comes from a pure heart but, forgive me for saying so, it really proves a stupefying lack of insight into the greater good.”

“These things are bound to happen when you are out of touch with everyday divinity,” Michael said with a pitying look. “With only humans as company for centuries, it’s no wonder your perspective is a little skewed.”

“I suppose it is.” Aziraphale tried to chuckle to show that he was in on the joke. “So I take it you won’t consider my suggestion?”

Gabriel snorted and shook his head in amusement. “You certainly haven’t forgotten that Heaven does not attach value to material objects?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed in relief. Just a misunderstanding then? “It wouldn’t necessarily have to be material objects for everyone. I thought about blessings, about healings for the sick and hurting, giving the hungry something to eat… Or just little miracles like snow on Christmas. A white Christmas really makes humans so happy.”

“Good Lord,” said Michael, “you are slobbering over this.”

Aziraphale flinched. He threw Gabriel a nervous look, hoping for validation from him.

“Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale. Haven’t 6000 years on Earth taught you anything? Happy humans are not necessarily devotional humans.”

“As we have highlighted in our final reports every century,” Michael added. “Statistics show that miserable humans in hopeless situations are more likely to turn to Heaven. How is that news to you?”

“I-I-I know that, of course. I-I just thought it would be nice to give them at least one good day a year. So they could be happy on Christmas even if their lives are otherwise miserable. They would be so thankful, I’m sure. Wouldn’t that secure souls for us, too?”

Gabriel sighed in exaggeration. “Enough of that. You should pay more attention to your routine business instead of this wool-gathering. I hear the demon Crowley has trapped you in London in an infernal ring of fire.”

That was wild. “Er…” Aziraphale did not know how to react to that because he did not want to get Crowley into trouble. That idea must have come from one of Crowley’s embellished reports to Hell (because Aziraphale was fairly certain that he was not trapped in an infernal ring of fire…although he had not left London for quite some time). He should have warned me about that, Aziraphale thought, mildly put off because it presented him as an incompetent angel once more.

“Do you need assistance?” Gabriel asked. He sounded almost worried.

Well, better make the best of it. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I have already breached the ring of hellfire. You see, over the millennia I have become quite experienced in thwarting the demon’s wiles.” See? He was not completely useless.

“That’s good to hear.”

Then Aziraphale had a sudden flash of insight: It would not be so horrible if Crowley had really trapped him in a ring of hellfire in London. In fact, it would be very convenient this weekend because Heaven had ordered him to go to Manchester of all places to bless the launch ceremony of a little church, and the weather forecast looked grim and he really would have preferred to go to the Royal Opera House to see Hansel and Gretel. It was one of his favourite operas and the new production had gotten favourable reviews. He cleared his throat. “However, I’m still busy with extinguishing fires around London. So… I might not be able to make it to Manchester this weekend.”

“Oh, no worries there. I myself will deal with the Manchester business,” Gabriel promised. “You stay in London and focus on that hellfire.”

“Oh, thank you. That’s very gracious of you.”

“Well, it’s what we do, isn’t it?”

***

Now Aziraphale had the weekend off but he was still not over the archangels’ patronising behaviour.

“And then I suggested we – that is, all the angels – could make a collective miracle on Christmas,” he told Crowley when they had lunch in a new Korean restaurant. He needed to get a few things off his chest before he could fully enjoy his delicious starter. “How does the saying go? Peace on earth for everyone et cetera. You know how the humans have invented so many lovely Christmas traditions to spread joy but there are still so many people who are ill or hungry or poor or homeless or just don’t get any presents and feel lonely. So I thought if all the angels put in an effort we could make Christmas a happy event for everyone. A bit like those human fund-raising galas.”

Crowley gaped at him. “You – you suggested that to the archangels?”

“Yes, and can you imagine how they reacted?”

Crowley snorted. “So you – you practically proposed they should dress up as Santa and come to earth to, ha, spread festive joy?” He snorted again and then – he laughed. “Ooooh, I wish I could’ve seen their faces! Bet they loved it!”

Aziraphale huffed and put down his napkin, trying very hard not to let it show how Crowley’s reaction hurt him. “Excuse me,” he said primly, “I need to go to the restrooms.”

Crowley raised his brows because there really was no reason for a supernatural being to go to the toilet. And Aziraphale did not know what to do once he was there. He adjusted his bowtie, washed his hands and miracled away a rude doodle from a tile. He felt stupid and a little betrayed because he had thought Crowley was the only supernatural being to understand. But he had laughed at him, too. Why was it so ridiculous to want to give a bit of kindness once a year? It made Aziraphale angry and so he reached a vicious decision: He would spread joy on Christmas, no matter what the archangels or Crowley thought. Let them laugh!

When he returned to their table, their main dishes had been served but he was not hungry anymore.

“You alright?” Crowley asked without looking at him.

“I’m perfect, thank you,” Aziraphale said icily.

“Is your food not good? You can have mine, I’m not really hungry anyway.” Crowley pushed his dish towards Aziraphale.

“I’m not hungry either.” Aziraphale pushed the dish back.

“Right. How about a digestif?”

“No, thank you. I have work to do, seeing as I will have to do the seasonal blessings all on my own and with the job in Manchester… oh, and apparently I’m trapped in an infernal ring of fire, so I’ll have to sort that out, too.”

Crowley stared at him. “What? How – who?”

“Oh? Isn’t that what you told Hell you’d achieved?”

“Of course it wasn’t me, what do you take me for?”

“But you told them.”

“No! Aziraphale, whoever did this – I had no idea. This is – shit. They must’ve… fuck.” Crowley put a black credit card on the table and stood up abruptly. “I’ll deal with this. You stay away. Okay? You just go back to the – no, you better stay here or…” He frantically looked around, visibly shaken.

“Crowley, stop.” Aziraphale put a hand on Crowley’s arm to make him calm down. All his anger had evaporated. “There is no ring of hellfire. Well, at least I’m fairly certain there isn’t.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean, I can’t be entirely sure but to me it just sounded like the archangels had, as usually, no idea what was going on.”

Crowley took a calming breath. “I hope you’re right. But I’m going to check anyway.”

“Be careful, please.”

“You know me, angel, I’m always careful,” said the demon who had once walked into a church and directed bombs onto it.

***

There was no ring of hellfire. A misunderstanding, as Crowley found out once he contacted Hell to make an enquiry. Apparently, the demons had not fully grasped yet how the M25 worked.

“I have no idea how that bit of information got to Heaven,” Crowley said, “but luckily you can rely on angels being daft idiots.”

Ah, yes. There it was again. Crowley had always made it clear that he thought angels spineless, empty-headed creatures. And he had laughed at Aziraphale’s plan like the archangels had done, too. A plan even too stupid for the daft idiot archangels.

“Don’t look like that,” Crowley said. “I obviously didn’t mean you.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “Well. You obviously thought my… Christmas plan was stupid.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. You laughed.”

“Oh, come on. I wasn’t laughing at you. It was just that it was so funny to imagine the reaction of the other angels.”

“They thought it funny, too.”

“You can’t have seriously thought they would ever…” Crowley grimaced. “You did.”

“Why is it so ridiculous to expect angels to do good?” Aziraphale said in a huff.

“Because they aren’t…they aren’t good, not like you. Come on, Aziraphale, you said it yourself: They have no idea what’s going on on Earth. Why do you listen to them?”

“Just so you know, I will spread as much joy on Christmas as is in my power. And don’t even try to thwart me.”

Crowley grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it. You defying the archangels – that’s pretty badass.”

“They didn’t exactly forbid it.” Aziraphale considered. He was not stupid. He knew Crowley was making fun of him – not in a condescending way now, more in their usual needling each other. He also knew that Crowley still felt at least slightly remorseful. If he played his cards right… “Anyway, you could help me. Seeing as it’s something the archangels don’t exactly approve, it’s only proper for a demon to participate. Who knows, it could get you another commendation from Hell. Maybe this time even for something you actually did do.”

Crowley muttered something to himself and rolled his eyes and grimaced and then said: “Just for the record, I know what you’re trying to do here, angel – tempting me to do good deeds.”

Aziraphale tried to suppress his grin. He almost had him. It always thrilled him to tempt Crowley to be nice. “I’m sure we could work some more demonic elements in. Let’s say, I take care of getting some presents for humans who can’t afford it, and then you can wrap the presents with tons of sticky tape and tie the bows very firmly and with several knots so they will be so annoyed when they try to unwrap the presents.”

Crowley grinned toothily back. “Let’s make a deal. We do your evil Christmas plan on Friday and on Saturday we go to the cinema to watch the new James Bond film.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale could not really see what Crowley liked so much about that James Bond fellow but he would endure it for the sake of, well – the greater good or evil or whatever. For a happy human Christmas. “We can go to the cinema on Sunday. I wanted to see Hansel and Gretel at the Royal Opera House on Saturday.”

Crowley shrugged. “Fine with me. But weren’t you meant to be in Manchester on Sunday?”

“Gabriel will do that one.”

“Really? Gabriel wants to go to Manchester?”

“He, er, might be under the impression that I am busy extinguishing infernal fires in London.”

“You – what! You didn’t – you can’t – holy shit. You just sent Gabriel to do your tedious work so you could, what, enjoy a weekend off in London?”

“He offered. And I really wanted to see the premiere.”

“You are such a bastard,” Crowley said in delight.

Aziraphale knew he meant it as a compliment, but still, an angel should not strive to be called a bastard. “There’s really no need to insult me.”

Crowley snickered. “I can’t believe you did that! Ha, can you imagine Gabriel doing the shitty work in Manchester while…”

Just for the record, Aziraphale really tried to suppress his giggles but Crowley’s laughter was just too infectious.

[aiaranradnay]

Grief

A/N: this is for the spn angst bingo challenge hosted by @spnangstbingo ​ . I've finally begun this journey, and am really excited about it <3

Square filled: Free Space

Pairing : Dean x Reader

Warnings : Loads of Angst, canon typical violence, torture and tears. 

word count : almost 5k.

Inspiration : Scientist by Coldplay. also shoutout to @effie-w coz its that vintage clock of hers that got me in love with this song <3 

Betaed by @wingedcatninja who offered to help my rusty head. thank you so much<3 your support and guidance refined the fic a great deal. she’s also named the fic, so thank you<3

feedback is much appreciated :)

It had started out as a pretty decent morning – Sam just back from his morning run, Dean sifting through the newspaper pile looking for a case. He had been grouchy lately – ever since he had been stupid enough to drunk dial his ex at one in the morning. He had woken up the next day instantly regretting his actions. She had left him; it was not his fault.

No matter how many times he thought of it, he couldn’t help but blame himself for the end of that relationship. But that call, she had specifically told him that it wasn’t him, she had taken the blame; he should probably accept it.

But she sounded so broken ... was she hurting too, just like he was?

His head whirled around the same thoughts over and over as his eyes raked through the most recent paper, finding an article about a gruesome animal attack two towns over – nowhere close to the wild. An uneasy feeling crept into his gut, his mind repeating her last words; her voice sounding pained and forlorn – “Goodbye, Dean, take care.”

Then his phone rang out, your name flashing on the display as the guitar riff blared out.

“It’s Y/N,” he told Sam with a scowl of pure hatred, masking the tiny seed of hope that had blossomed in his chest.

Sam watched his brother answer the call with a gruff ‘hello’, his expression rapidly changing into one of shock and fear. His face got paler by the second as the person on the other side spoke.

Dean felt his eyes burn as he withheld the tears. The hand that held the newspaper trembled, the article now making sense. The officer at the other end of the call requested him to collect the body and ended the call.

The first tear rolled down his cheek and his world came crashing down as he looked back into Sam’s concerned eyes.

“It’s Y/N,” he whispered.

It took them a whole month to get done with your ‘funeral’ – to get your mangled remains and a handful of bloody photographs from the police, put you back together as best as they could and bury you; for Dean to begin coping with your death; for Sam to accept your absence; for them to start living like normal hunters again. Sam probably tried to get his closure, but neither one was over it yet. At least once every week, one of them would be at your grave, Dean wishing he could have prevented it all, wishing he could go back to where it all started.

The first week, he was a mess; it was supposed to be a short visit, but the nearer he got to your place of resting the more he shattered. The impala too had picked up his sombre mood; her purr sounded like mourning, her radio softly singing one of your favourite songs. He then clambered out and seated himself beside your grave, whispering apologies to you – for not being there, protecting you as he should have.

His mind flew back in time and stopped by the pool table at a dingy bar where he was hustling his daily quota from the other players. They were idiots, and he was taking complete advantage of that. Then you had sauntered in. You were a stranger looking for some fun time; at least that was what you said. Two rounds later, he had miserably lost his entire day’s income to you. While you gave him a victory smirk, he desperately tried convincing himself that it was not your skills but his distracted mind that got him losing. However, you split the money with him the moment the blokes left and the table was cleared. “For all the trouble we go through for these losers, I think we deserve the money”, you whispered showing him the anti-possession tattoo on your wrist.  A few beers later, you had traded hunting stories and he had, to his own surprise, offered you a place at the bunker.

His entire frame shook as he sobbed over the death of his best friend, his love, who was unfairly snatched away from him.

Two weeks later, when he returned, he was exhausted – both physically and emotionally. The case they had just finished had been rather gory; but it wasn’t the gore that affected him – it was the victims. They all had something that eerily reminded him of you – the hair colour, the age, the physique. Every time they had a body in the morgue, the boys couldn’t help but remember your mangled form that lay six feet under.  The third time, Dean refused to go, unable to stand the grief. That day, the reaper at the crime scene who had popped up to harvest the soul confirmed that your soul was somewhere deep in hell, in some maximum security cell, with the best torturers available. The exact location however was unknown.

Castiel had called in a few days later, only to let the boys know that he couldn’t get that deep in the pit. Crowley had been smart enough to stay away. Dean felt terribly helpless as he sat there by your grave, not knowing how to help you. The usual strings of self blame wove around his head as he thought of endless scenarios where it hadn’t ended this way, where he had managed to save you. What he wouldn’t give to make a deal and take your place... wait a moment.

He abruptly stood up, a plan formulating in his head. Hurrying to his car’s trunk he pulled out everything necessary. Half an hour later, he was ready. The traps and sigils were strategically placed, and the tiny box buried in the middle of the crossroads. The only thing missing now was the demon. Soon enough the putrid stench of sulphur filled the air and a young man in a dark suit popped up, his eyes blood red. At first, Dean bargained his own soul in exchange of yours. When that failed, he drew out the demon blade, threatening and torturing the dealer for information. However, his attempts were fruitless, and ended with the orange-red glow of a dying demon when Dean buried the knife into the monster’s chest in blind fury.

As the sun descended, the rays shone on his handsome face, making the splatter of demon blood glisten. The tips of his dirty blonde hair glowed like embers as he stormed towards his Baby, seething with rage.

When you had first joined their ranks, you had requested just one small thing. “Don’t ask me about my past,” you had said. Both boys had readily agreed; they respected your privacy, knowing firsthand that a hunter’s life never starts with a happy event.  

As time passed any kind of discomfort or doubts you had about each other had evaporated into thin air. You had found a family you never thought you’d get again. The boys found you filling in the void they never knew they had in their lives.

To Dean you were like his saviour. He often watched you as you fooled around the bunker, loving how you patiently sat through research with Sam, despite being utterly bored. He loved your enthusiasm when he asked you to accompany him to the bar. He loved how the two of you had fun at the bar, even helping each other get someone for the night. It was all jokes and stupidity, for neither of you took anyone home. Ever since you’d waltzed into his life, his one night stands had diminished in number, and replaced by actual blissful sleep.

Sure, he still got nightmares and woke up in a cold sweat; but somehow every time that happened, you’d be at the door with a look of concern. Neither of you exchanged words – you just walked in and wrapped your arms around him, calming him down with your mere presence. He’d often apologize for it, but you’d always brush it off with a ‘doesn’t matter... wasn’t really sleeping anyways’. You would then soothingly coax the bad dream out of his mind; and he’d simply pour out all his secrets, answer all your questions and then spend hours reminiscing about the early days of hunting when things weren’t this painful. You’d listen earnestly, commenting at some points and by the end of it, Dean would be snoring softly yet again, a part of his burden having disappeared.

Sam loved how you took care of his brother; he saw the love you had for each other, the love that neither of you were even aware of yet. You had now become his best friend, and he often had hinted that Dean and you would make a good couple, but you were ignorant of it. He knew for sure though, that someday it would all click into place. He simply couldn’t wait for the day when his best friend would officially be family, be his sister-in-law.

Now, with you gone the world seemed to have lost colour. The research work was too tedious, the bar nights too lonely and the nightmares more gory and terrifying. The boys no longer had that caring hand comforting them, or that soothing voice loving them. The bunker was too quiet with no sound of high pitched laughter bouncing off the walls, or the steady hum of a song being sung.

Your death had ripped open a huge hole in their lives, and they had nothing to patch it back up with.

By now, it had become a very common sight to have a Winchester mourning at your grave; the mornings were filled with Sam’s tired yet ever hopeful voice, and the evenings reserved for Dean’s pain. They never came together; never even told each other about the frequent visits.

The fourth week thus passed with them wondering why you’d never told them that you were dying.

Dean had always considered you to be his rock; maybe it was your constant support, or your everlasting optimism... to him you were invincible, a constant. So, that one day when he saw you break down he panicked. He had never seen you so broken... and now the memory of your voice, you crying, fallen crumpled in the middle of the road, haunted his mind. It was obvious that hunting was affecting you too and he didn’t like that. So he did the only thing he thought was sensible – he benched you. He gave a different reason every time but it always ended with ‘you’re not going Y/N’. You didn’t like it one bit. You were a full fledged hunter who’d given up on everything other than hunting; to be forbidden from doing the one job you knew didn’t sit well with you... and thus the fights started. Misunderstandings and arguments escalated. Moreover the two of you had just begun being ‘more than friends’, and it didn’t work well.

Your fights left Dean restless and as a result, the hunts often got botched up. Both your minds were losing peace, your lifestyle got more reckless and your relationship got rockier. Sam tried his best to calm the two of you and make you see sense, but you were stubborn and you butted heads ever so often. It finally took one hunt to sever whatever was left. You were benched but you broke protocol and followed them. Time wasn’t on your side, and you almost ruined it for all of them. Cas had turned up last minute and saved you all.

By the time you reached home, Dean was seething with rage. The usual argument turned heated, both your voices loud and bellowing, a volley of angry accusations tossing back and forth until you broke. “You know what?! I quit! I FUCKING QUIT!! I’ve had enough, Dean! It’s clearly not working. We’re over.” Minutes later, you were at the front door, a duffel bag hitched up your shoulder.

Time froze for a millisecond before Dean exploded. “Y/N, DON’T YOU DARE! You walk out that door, don’t you ever think of coming back! IF YOU LEAVE, YOU ARE DEAD TO ME! YOU GET THAT?” for a split second he sounded so much like his father, even Sam flinched at the turn of events – like history repeating itself.

Maybe Dean would hate himself for doing it if only he was thinking straight. Maybe he’d have noticed your tortured face, his comment hitting much closer than he could have possibly imagined. Maybe he’d have apologized and things would be okay. But at that moment, it was a game of egos. “That would be just perfect, wouldn’t it?” you hissed, before storming out, the door clanging shut behind you. The silence that followed was deafening.

The silence seemed to have seeped into the bunker to this date.

In the stifled whimpers of the older Winchester, living his nightmares on repeat.

In the slumped frame of Sam Winchester, aching with suppressed emotions.

In the hushed flutter of the angel wings, as Cas popped by your grave, his eyes sunken with helplessness.

In the quiet of your absence, your grave remained still.

A dull grey evening.

A broken black car, grey with soot and dust.

A lonely grey headstone in the middle of nowhere.

A  defeated young man with a pale grey face staring hopelessly at the grave, leaning against the car.

He doesn’t know how to bring you back; he doesn’t know how to move on. The world has stopped for him, it doesn’t even have a meaning.

Regrets. A billion regrets; it’s the same thing haunting him.

Realization... of how the two of you had wasted your time fighting; all the time that you could’ve spent together; if only...

Memories... flooding in – cheesy lines and flirting; hugs of comfort, of love; stolen kisses, fearing the risk; giving in to your feelings; the nights together, loving each other.

“Hey Dean?” you mumbled, your head resting against his shoulder as the two of you sat, leaning against a tree in a tiny meadow Dean had discovered. It was hidden in the woods, a tiny paradise for the two of you. “Yea?” he whispered, not wanting the moment to end.

“Tag. You’re it,” you squeaked, before dashing into the wilderness. It took him a second to process, before he got up and sprinted in your direction.  Peals of laughter echoed through the trees as you ran, Dean right at your tail. You knew he'd easily catch you, despite the headstart. “Gotcha,” he growled as he tackled you, holding you close as the two of you came crashing down onto the forest floor. You squirmed under him, giggling the whole while as he watched you in awe.

And suddenly, you looked him in the eye, and he saw pure fear in yours. “Dean!” you gasped out. Startled, Dean pulled back slightly. “Dean!!” you cried out.

A blink of his eyes; you were gone.

“Dean!!!” your voice called out... but you weren’t there.

Sheer panic filled in Dean’s heart as he looked around in vain. Where did you go?

“DEAN!!!!” your voice was right there... where was it coming from? Under the ground?

That just didn’t make any sense.... yet there it was. Right from the depths of the earth.

A voice of pain; a voice of fear.

“DEAN!!!”

A sharp pain burnt his cheek as Cas slapped him out of his stupor; eyes focusing as he came back to the real world, his gaze meeting the concerned looks of Sam and Castiel. No one uttered a word. They simply helped him into the car and drove home.

The skies turned dark; the grave, once again, lonely.

Another case was done and dusted; and here he was yet again. His legs folded beneath him, his shoulders hunched carrying immense grief. A single tear rolling off his cheek and many unshed ones held within. His hands trembled, as he clutched a scrapbook – your scrapbook – tightly.

You had called it a journal; an art journal. And you wrote nothing about monsters in there. Dean hadn’t got it then; now that he had gone through it, he understood it all; hell, now he knew every little thing that was in it. It started out from when you’d joined the boys and contained every happy event that had followed. There were a million photos, drawings and cute cut-out crafts woven into a beautiful tale of a lonely huntress who found the best family. Faces – his, Sammy’s, Castiel’s – were delicately drawn around the day’s events. He didn’t even know how you’d gotten so many photos and it made him smile as he went through over and over. Those tiny flip-book motion pictures of the boys peeked out here and there. His smile only widened when he reached the timeline where the two of you had gotten together. There weren’t many photos – “I can’t even think straight around him, much less take photos”, you’d written. There were drawings though, where you had tried to recreate the time spent together as best as you could... and it was magical; like a fairy tale dream where you’d made him the prince. His heartstrings tugged in grief at the few missing photos, because he knew they were the best ones. They weren’t lost; as a matter of fact they were right there in his hand – slightly frayed and caked with grime and the remnants of your blood from when you had held them while you got torn into ribbons. Why had you made that deal anyway?

His vision blurred as the tears took over, his body casting a long shadow of a broken man, as the sun slipped below the horizon.   

Almost the end of week ten; yet Dean hadn’t come to you. Sam however did.

He knew that you were gone, and probably wouldn’t hear what he had to say; but if you could – then you had to know.

The young man knelt by the headstone, a bunch of fresh flowers in his hand – your favourite ones. “He wanted to come... Dean I mean; he wanted to see you, even put up a fight... but I... I just couldn’t let him out; he isn’t well, you know. Mentally – he...he’s crumbling, Y/N/N. He’s hallucinating; he sees you everywhere, and he...he just keeps saying that it’s his fault. He’s drinking himself to sleep, he’s hurting himself... it’s like your break-up all over again; a million times worse this time.” His eyes clouded with unshed tears as he remembered your heated arguments; the way you two butted heads. It seemed all so trivial then; all couples tended to fight – he could see the intense love you had for each other despite all the bicker.  

But over the days, your fights simply intensified; almost as if you were doing it all on purpose. And finally one day, it erupted with a final,’it’s over’ and you had walked out, never to return.

This time when the sun set, it cast its final rays on the longer locks of your best friend. “He’s losing it, Y/N; the pain, its killing him. He couldn’t even stand straight today, but he was so persistent about meeting you,” he chuckled sadly, “I had to add a few sleep meds into his drink to knock him out... I know that he’ll hate me when he wakes up, but you do understand my intentions right?”

Sighing softly, he rose. “Y/N, if you can hear me, come back to us. We miss you... Dean needs you back; hell, I need you back. I miss my best friend,” his voice broke towards the end.

The darkness settled in as he drove away.

Week eleven and yet you were still dead; they hadn’t found anything that could get you back. It was a Thursday and would have been your birthday if you were still alive. Sam had visited in the morning, a bouquet of your favourite flowers in his hand. He had sat there for quite a long while talking to you. He was suffering – it was even worse for him because he hadn’t just lost you but also his brother; no matter what show Dean put up every day, he knew that the older one was no more the same.

That evening as the sun set, loud screeching of tires burned away the thick silence around your grave. A car – sleek, black, classic from the 60’s – swerved violently before shuddering to a stop right where the dirt trail to get to your grave started. A man stumbled out; a bottle of whiskey in his hand. He was drunk beyond measure, struggling to stand upright.

How many could he have possibly downed just so he could get to this stage?

He fell on his knees with a thud. “I’m so sorry, baby. I was going to celebrate your birthday you know? But you weren’t there,” his broad frame violently shook as the pent up grief and sorrow flowed out of him.

“Why’d you leave? We could have worked it out, why’d you just give up like that?”

The ‘angry young man out for revenge’ facade that he held all day had crumbled, leaving behind a broken shell.

The worst part of it was that you were helplessly seeing everything. Hell apparently had wonderful reception to watch the outside world. Ever since the traditional chop-chop techniques of torture had ceased to affect you, the demons had improvised their torture methods – mind games.

They started out with a regular dose – your family dying, all your best memories with them changing into horror flicks while you watched helplessly. Surprisingly it didn’t affect you; years of recurring nightmares, Dean’s reassuring arms telling you that it wasn’t real, Sam’s wise counselling and all the love you got from them, had finally let you find the closure you sought. You now had a new family.

Then the visions of your family were replaced by the boys – you betraying the two, them suffering, dying, asking you over and over “why, Y/N/N?”... But you survived those too, convincing yourself that it was just trickery and that the boys were safe; they were Winchesters.

And finally one day they just let you see what the world upstairs was up to. That was where you crumbled – at their mourning faces; at Dean’s reckless attempts to bring you back, at Sam’s silence and their frequent visits to your grave.  That week was the worst, both for you and Dean. He visited everyday and you watched helplessly as he blamed himself for your death. The boys hadn’t taken a case that week, yet Dean seemed to have injured himself – bruised knuckles, multiple cuts and burns on his arms; never anything serious enough to kill him, but immensely painful. You screamed and bled freely as they carved into your skin, knowing that you were slowly giving up.

The last day of that week or maybe it was the next (or so you assumed for time ran differently out there), the torture seemed way more intense, and though you put up your best fight, you felt your body collapse and black spots dancing around your eyes. The last thing you remember before blacking out being a blinding light encompassed in gigantic golden wings followed by a searing pain in your shoulder.

Four months since your death, three since your funeral and yet he was there every week, reminiscing the time you spent, wishing he could go back to where it had all started.  

Thirteen weeks since your funeral; yet he wasn’t over your death. He still found himself pining, wishing, praying, hell even begging for you to come back. This week too, when they returned from the hunt, his hand automatically sought Baby’s keys. Despite the exhaustion, and the desperate need for some booze, he had yet again driven straight to your burial site. Like every week, ever since the funeral, he flopped down on his knees with a soft thud, right beside your grave. His eyes all teary, his voice all hoarse, he repeated the same three words he always said.

“I’m so sorry.”

The sun crawled down towards the horizon, casting its glow on the grief stricken man who sat by the grave. Silent tears rolled down his cheek as they did every time. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, as always, before recounting the week’s events. Soft noises of the underground rodents scraping through and scampering filled the silence as the darkness crept in. The noises – they seemed louder today; not that it mattered to Dean.

Then, just as he rose to leave, the soil that marked your grave started caving inwards, forming a shallow ditch. A hand shot out, feebly pushing off the dirt. A head followed, coughing and spitting out mud. The man’s tired green eyes widened, a gasp escaping his lips.

“Y/N.”  He breathed. 

@writingthingsisdifficult   @thing-you-do-with-that-thing   @petrovadixon   @the–blackdahlia   @peddlergirl   @eturtle2002  @laura160604  @super100012 @rosey-persephone  @theas-bedtime-stories  @firedhomearrow  @trollhunter94   @percywinchester27 @mrs-squirrel-chester ​