#friends i fixed it i have a real header i’m a big boy now

[thatsthetriick]

Y/n looking at Jojos as competitions/rivals (hcs)

Summary: You consider the Jojos a rival, and competition when it gets to grades and all, they never did anything to you but you’re just generally annoyed at them because you think they’re better than you and you’re annoyed that they are better than you, you’re not jealous just annoyed that they exceeded you. (basically enemies to lover for short) Inspiration: Based on real life thoughts with a person honestly lmaO I really think they are a compeition(they don’t know) but in the end it’s just a friendly thing. Disclaimers: Underage smoking (Just because this action is being done here it doesn’t mean you should do it too, for both my adult and teen audiences i rlly don’t recommend this and just because I used it in this fic doesn’t mean you should do it as well) , and  mentions of violence, or implied violence, drugs are also mentioned( i repeat i do not encourage these behaviours in real life) Header: Orange Other writings: Masterlist/Taglist Requests/questions: Ask/Request Box

Jojos as your Rivals

Jonathan Joestar

  ✧ God. To you he was really annoying, teachers praised him and he was a top student in the rankings and a teacher’s pet, you’d never see him complain, cry, or anything at all.

  ✧ Of course he was the class president and a student council so it annoyed you more since he was kind of like a mary sue in your eyes, the fact that he got good grades and doesn’t seem to have a hard time in the things he does really annoy you.

 ✧ You were in the top 3 top students except you’re in 3rd place and you could never beat Jonathan, moreover he’s also an athlete and you were bothered that girls were practically drooling to him. But despite this you’ll never do anything to seek revenge, you won’t embarrass him or frame him because you still have morals.

 ✧ Though you were just grumpy and passive agressive to him sometimes whenever the teacher asks him to help you, you really didn’t like receiving help from him because for you, you think that’s a sign of weakness.

 ✧ Of course you get parterned up with him a big project that was considered as your examination and you hated it. You treated it more of a individual work, but after knowing him a bit from that project you kinda like how he acted, polite, kind and patient.

  ✧ Everytime he sees you struggle and you decline for help he’ll just go behind you or besides you and either guide your hands to fix it or he’ll fix it himself and he’ll just smile afterwards, it was really cute and you’ll mentally slap yourself for liking him, were you forgetting he was rival?

 ✧ He’ll slowly consider you as a friend and he would really really feel guilty for assuming that you were a rude person base on you act towards him but he eventually thinks that you’re a kind person in the inside but a bit stubborn and he finds that cute.

 ✧ If it’s a love story you and him will secretly date and its not obvious to the world that you two are dating, you were never touchy with him in public, you two still acted the same honestly, a bit stubborness coming from you and stubborness from Jonathan because he’s really willing to help you with everything, eitherway you two only have playful fights and a few REAl arguments here an there but you two eventually make up again a few days later.

 ✧ If it’s a platonic relationship you two would be the bestest of friends and you two would have playful arguments and some people would literally ship you two because of your friendship.

 Joseph Joestar

 ✧ This guy was intelligent but lazy and yet he still gets 1st place in the class as a top student with A+ grades, and you found it also annoying that he was naturally talented and effortlessly got them, you sometimes wonder if he cheats.

 ✧ And because you think he cheats you go out of your way to site his essays and public works to see if he uses references or anything, but no this guy is just naturally talented and you felt like he didn’t deserve especially with his laid off attitude.

 ✧ Now you don’t show your passive aggressive side to him because you know better not to make him think that you’re literally angry at him, for you he’s just a competition and another boss level to defeat, it’s not personal just a fun thing you do so you don’t take out your anger out on him.

 ✧ He is also an athlete, of course the Joestar bloodline and legacy literally revolves around the sports they take, so it was no surprise, you on the other hand is also an athlete and you would most likely take the competition seriously whenever there’s a boys vs girls basketball game, you were the MVP let’s just say, sports was like your whole life.

 ✧ Of course there’s an annual event that the high school hosts where as every student will be competing against each other, the remaining 4 players will be the ones set out to compete to another sports festival in a different school. They will choose 4 players per sport.

 ✧ Of course you chose to marathon since you were honestly swift and that was more on your main sport, running. And it was Joseph’s as well and you two had to compete with each other among other students, he’ll say something cocky to you that is enough to motivate you to defeat him.

 ✧ Eventually you and Joseph were one of the 4 people chosen to compete in another school, and though it took awhile for you two to agree on things you two won the tournament with teamwork and ever since then your friend consists of constant and non stop teasing and playful banters.

 ✧ “What do you mean? I clearly made our team win!” he’d say and you’d just roll your eyes at his cockiness. Though you’d retort with something cocky as well.

Jotaro Kujo

 ✧ You honestly don’t know why this guy was even a top student he often gets into fights and the teachers just shrug it off,  you find it annoying he gets to answer everything before you and finish quizzes before you and you get so pissed and can’t understand why is he quick and he doesn’t seem like a type to review.

 ✧ He’s pissed at every fangirl he has and he is pissed at you sometimes as well because you try avoiding him, yeah he’s aware of your competitiveness and he doesn’t really care that much.

 ✧ But you do so you basically you’re like legit pissed at him and you think that he also doesn’t deserve his intelligence since he’s just wasting it away by smoking cigarettes at the back of the school and fighting people it was honestly annoying and you wish you had his intelligence at the same time.

 ✧ Unlike the others maybe in this one you’re being constantly pressured by high grades so you started smoking as well to relieve your stress, you’d somberly sulk at the back of the school as well smoking your problems away it made you feel calm for some reason.   ✧ He sees you there and mumbles a “Tch” while he adjusts his cap and walk near you and light up his cigarette and doesn’t say a word, he doesn’t honestly care what you were doing, anyone was allowed to do anything they want to do so he left you there.  ✧ Honestly he started getting concerned of you when you were often doing it, even he knew that too much is too much. “ That’s enough” he’ll say and take your cigarette pack away, “Touche” you’ll just roll your eyes and walk away. He’d always stop you from smoking, you were getting addicted honestly and it’s not helping since every minute you were getting stressed out.  ✧ When you’re not listening to him he’ll agressively tell you to “cut it off bitch.” or something along those lines, and you didn’t really know he was a person who hid his feelings so you snapped and scolded him that you were a mess because of him  and took out all of your anger and left honestly.  ✧ He couldn’t care less what you said about him and tried to accompany you at the back of the school or in the rooftops everytime it’s break or the end of classes, he didn’t speak that much but he was a good listener and constantly listened to your problems, eventually this is a routine and you treasured every second of it.  ✧ It became a thing that you two basically  sit on the rooftop talking to each other, from then on he’d accompany you outside of school as well and you two would hangout and it would be nice quiet moments when he’s around, he’s also a very protective friendship. Josuke Higashikata  ✧ This guy really doesn’t care about his grades and yet he gets high score it was also annoying that teachers adore him, and that every girl adores him as well. Unfortunately you two were partners for a spelling Bee. Only professors were allowed to choose who participates, and though Josuke might not be accurate with his english pronounciations and spellings he still had high grades and it annoyed you that he got to participate his weak subjects just because he has high grades.  ✧ Honestly he’d hate it as well and would just play games all day long instead of studying or anything, and during the spelling bee he didn’t help at all and you were pissed at him. Even though you were softly and passive agressively scolding him he didn’t get mad back and just said a “Okay okay! I’m sorry.” he’ll apologize and try to study but he’ll get distracted.  ✧ Teachers still continued to praise him and gave no praise to you at all even though you carried your partner to the finish line, that’s why you hated Josuke, he was loved by everyone and you never understood why, was it his personality? Smarts? What was it?   ✧ From that then you’ll break into his house with no permission and catch him playing video games. You’ll scold him to study the words and act like a strict teacher towards him, he dozed off a lot and was laid back and distracted, yet he was still able to answer some of them.  ✧ This is why you didn’t like him he was too laid back and didn’t seem to take things seriously, because of this you suggested a break and he went back t o playing his video games and getting frustrated, and even though you were tight while teaching him he was kind enough to still offer you to play with him. You were going to decline but you still accepted it.  ✧ This is where you saw his true personality, he talked about a lot of things and you two ended up having fun as you two play, you didn’t mind this moment and you’d want it to treasure it forever honestly. You brought up your personality as well to him, you started showing your true colors and he really liked the fact that you weren’t an overbearing person at all.  ✧ ever since then you two manage to win the competitions and manage to play at the same time. You two became the bestest friends which was unexpected since you considered him as a rival, though you’re still annoyed because everytime you ask him to teach you he’ll teach really badly and you wouldn’t understand anything from him. Giorno Giovanna   ✧ This guy was a quiet yet smart type, he often sits at the back of the class dazing off the window and yet still able to answer questions of the teacher even when not paying attention.   ✧ Though you compete with him you know not to mess with him honestly, though a lot of really negative rumours constantly spread about him. Like his family problem and things like that so you pity him at some times.  ✧ Girls adore him, something about the Joestars getting fangirls annoys you a lot. They baby him, and even though sometimes he gets annoyed and straightforwadly tells them to go away sometimes he’d entertain them and be kind. Teachers always saw him as a role model student it makes you barf.  ✧He’ll also probably hangout with his school gang, nobody knows what this gang does honestly, the teachers just leave him be just because they want to just leave him be and they’re too naive; thinking that it’s just a normal innocent gang where it’s a group of kids hanging out.  ✧ You caught up his ‘gang’ beating up someone and since you were a witness he saw you as a immediate threat(or so you though) and this quiet kid did a whole 180 with his personality and looked at you menacingly.  ✧ You don’t know how to approach him that you won’t tell anyone you’ve witnessed and always ran away everytime he approaches you or everytime his gang approaches you. Now your rivalary and competiting against grades is now ruined because this guy could always beat you anyday when it gets to physical fights, or so you thought.  ✧ You always ate lunch at the rooftop so he kind of took this opportunity to calmly sit besides you and talk to you about what you saw, he just wanted to give you context so that you wouldn’t get the wrong idea. Apparently that guy was an adult selling drugs to a bunch of graduating elementary kids.  ✧ You were relieved he wasn’t gonna beat you up and put you in the sewers, you took this time to also talk to him to actually see he was a nice guy, a gentle man and that you thought he was a cocky student because you always assumed him like that, not only that but you assumed him being a playboy as well since he gets so much attention.  ✧ You confess all of this to him and he let’s out a quick chuckle and you just laugh as you confess all of your thoughts and competitiveness against him, he was a good listenered actually, and didn’t take it really personally, he knew deep inside that you were a good person even though before you used to give him a scary glare when you two didn’t talk yet.  ✧ From that day on you start catching up to him in the hallways and talk and all his fangirls would practically hate you and give you glares as you two are having a good time.  ✧ He’ll make sure you’re out of his school gang businesses and arguments with other gangs, he may not say or sometimes express it but he always cares for you and tries to be supportive in littliest ways such as listening and remembering to every detail you tell him.  ✧ you’d still playfully compete with him and if he wins you’re okay with it unlike before

Thanks for reading! Reqs are open! My only requirements is no nsfw and probbably not part 5 yet since im not there hihi.(P.s I do canon x oc :) ) Sorry for not uploading for awhile

[vcg73]

FIC: Kurt Birthday Drabbles

Earlier this week @elledelajoie left a comment on something I wrote all the way back in 2014.  I had genuinely forgotten I ever started it, but the original idea was to write 21 Kurt Hummel birthday drabbles. I had written just 7 of them, but after we chatted about it, I decided to go ahead and finish.  

If you’re not familiar, a drabble is a scene of exactly 100 words, not counting title headers. Since Chris Colfer and Kurt Hummel’s co-birthday (May 27) is coming up this Thursday, here they are. This goes definite AU at Birthday #19. Because you know I would never sentence my beloved Kurt to a life of being a doormat to people who did not appreciate and value him.

Never underestimate the power of feedback!

~*~*~*~*~

Birthday #1

Kurt’s blue eyes went wide as a frosted cupcake was set upon his high-chair tray, a single candle ablaze on its surface.  

When Mommy, Daddy, Uncle Andy, Grandpa Curtis and Grandma Eileen started singing to him, he smiled and clapped both hands hard around the tempting pile of frosting.

Kurt laughed when the sugary topping went flying and a big splatter of white abruptly decorated Daddy’s surprised face.

Everyone else started laughed too, including the startled father, who retaliated by giving his birthday boy a sticky peck on the cheek and then helped him to blow out a new candle.

Birthday #2

Kurt looked between his presents, confused.

Mommy had given him the pretty dolly he had begged for at the store. Daddy had given him a truck, not big enough to ride but too big to live with the little cars Daddy gave him at Christmas.

His parents seemed to be mad at each other.

Kurt looked at the doll, then at the truck. He smiled and placed Dolly inside the truck and began to drive her around the carpet.

Mommy and Daddy seemed surprised by his actions, but then they laughed, and Kurt knew he had figured out the puzzle.

 Birthday #3

His shoes were black and shiny, buckles on the sides and 1-inch heels on the base. He clomped over the hardwood floors, listening to the click-tap-click-tap in delight. They went perfectly with his dove gray coveralls with “Kurt” sewn on the pocket in black sequins. Mommy had made the outfit for him.

Spotting Daddy watching him, Kurt threw himself into waiting arms. Daddy’s smile looked like he had an owie but was trying to be a big boy and not cry.

Kurt hugged him. “It’s okay, Daddy.”

Burt looked surprised but hugged him back. “Yeah, buddy. I think it is.”

 Birthday #4

Ballet girls were nice. When they heard it was his birthday today, they threw him a party. Kurt puffed up with pleasure when presented with cookies, a sparkly wand and a tiara that read ‘Happy Birthday’ in shiny letters. He was not as fond of the kisses they gave, but four was very grown up, so he screwed up his face and allowed it. The teacher even let him wear the special puffy pink tutu over his little black leotard! 

 He saw Mommy and Daddy up in the gallery taking pictures, so he waved.

Kurt hoped today would last forever.

  Birthday #5

“Can I have cupcakes?”

Kurt’s mother looked up from her book. “I don’t think we have any, sweetheart.”

“Can we have some Thursday?  My birthday is the last day of preschool.”

“It is?” she said, looking surprised. “Is it your birthday already?”

He nodded seriously. “Don’t you remember, Mommy? You were there.”

She laughed. “Well, you have me there.  What kind of cupcakes would you like, sweetie? And don’t say cheesecake. Those are two completely different kinds of dessert.”

Kurt’s hopeful expression fell. “Oh,” he said, clearly disappointed. Then his face brightened again. “Chocolate?”

She nodded. “That we can do.”

   Birthday #6

“Daddy!”

Burt sat up just in time to catch the little body that launched at him. “What’s wrong, slugger?”

“It’s my birthday!”

Grinning despite the way his heart was hammering at the abrupt awakening, Burt asked, “Yeah? I like birthdays. Do I get a present?”

“No,” the boy scoffed. “I get presents!”

 Burt squinted at the clock. 3:15am. “Not until morning, you don’t.”

Kurt pouted and tried, “It’s almost morning.”

“Not close enough, kid. C’mere,” Burt pulled him into the warm bed between himself and his wife.

Kurt snuggled down and went right back to sleep.  

Burt was less lucky.

 Birthday #7

Kids had started treating him funny this year. He was too fancy, too girly, holding hands was weird.

Nobody was coming.

“I’m sorry, sweetie.”

“Am I too late?”

They jumped as a little black girl with pom-pom hair popped out of nowhere.

“I’m Mercedes,” she greeted. “We just moved here. Mom said you would have invited me if you’d known.”

“I’m Kurt.” He smiled. “Do you like tea parties?”

“Is there cake?”

Mrs. Hummel beamed. “Cake, ice cream, and Kool-Aid.”

Kurt shrugged. “Nobody else came.”

She grabbed his hand like she’d known him forever. “More for us!  Happy Birthday, Kurt.”

 Birthday #8

Kurt took a deep breath, thought for a moment, and carefully blew out the candles. All but the extra one that his parents always put on his cake.

“Aren’t you gonna finish, bud?”

He looked from Daddy over to his mother, home again, but so frail he was sometimes afraid to hug her, worried she might pop like a fragile soap bubble. He offered her the candle. “Here, Mommy. Blow it out. Maybe you’ll get another year to grow on.”

The eyes of the two adults met, then Mommy nodded. The three of them blew out the final candle together.

 Birthday #9

Barely daring to hope, Kurt came down the stairs.  Birthday cakes and presents had been Mommy’s specialty.  Daddy had forgotten his own birthday and had nearly forgotten Christmas.

Kurt gasped when he saw it, waiting, shining and spectacular against the front door.

“A bike!”

Bright green, sissy bars with foil streamers, and a banana seat. Perfect!

Burt smiled. He had scoffed a such a “girly” bike when Kurt spotted it at the toy store. But now, looking at the all-too-rare joy in his son’s eyes and feeling the approving smile his wife would have given, he nodded. It was perfect.

 Birthday #10

Buying gifts was tough when your kid always clammed up on you. A dad had to be observant.

Ten years old. A landmark like that needed something special, but the only thing Kurt seemed into was clothes. He had enough of those for ten kids.  

He’d probably like a Barbie he could change in and out of different outfits, but Burt cringed at the thought.

He did doodle pretty good though. Sure, it was mostly pictures of clothes, but that was a start.

A fancy sketchpad with a case and a hundred different colored pencils. Yeah, that was the ticket.

 Birthday #11

“Dad, where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

Kurt sighed with exaggerated impatience. He had come home from school to find Dad waiting at the truck, ordering him to get in, then not saying another word. The suspense was killing him.

“Ta-Dahhhh!”

They had pulled up in front of a nondescript brick building. “Columbus Culinary Arts?”

“You like to cook right?  Well, we’re gonna fix your birthday dinner this year with the help of a real chef. Lessons are once a week for the next couple months.”

Gourmet cooking lessons!

“Oh wow. Dad, this is amazing!”

Burt grinned. “Happy Birthday, kid.”

 Birthday #12

Last year’s surprise had gone so well that Burt had decided on a repeat. But when he saw the excitement on Kurt’s face at finding a pair of tickets inside his birthday card turn to disappointment and horror, quickly masked with a fake smile, he knew he’d goofed.

“I know baseball isn’t your thing,” he said, almost pleading. “But you’ve never seen a live game before. It’s a whole different experience. It’s a home game. We can yell and scream, and cheer our team on with thousands of other fans.”

The stiff not-smile never wavered. “Sounds . . . fun.”

 Birthday #13

Dad had bought out one of the partners at the garage this spring and now owned a majority share of the renamed “Hummel Tires & Lube”. Kurt wanted to snicker at that name, but he was proud too.

His birthday this year coincided with Friday Night Dinner. Dad had invited all the mechanics over for a potluck. They’d had Mary’s special fried chicken, Cassius’s homemade cornbread, and Davy’s mac’n’cheese. Now Dad brought out the cake.

Kurt laughed. A sheet-cake with a tow-truck and two little plastic mechanics for decoration.

“You and me kid. Partners.”

The mechanics cheered and everybody dug in.

  Birthday #14

Kurt froze when he saw tickets peeping out of his card. Not again. Noise, sunburn, unhealthy food, tacky uniforms, and Dad trying so hard to make a boring sport seem like fun.

He sighed and pasted on a smile, which quickly transformed into shock.

“Wicked?” he squeaked, staring hard at the little papers as if the printing might change if he dared to look away.

“Embassy Theater is giving regional business owners a discount this year,” Burt said apologetically. “It’s just a traveling production, not real Broadway, but I …”

His apology was cut off by a joyful teenaged hug.

 Birthday #15

“Don’t worry, son, you got this.  Just remember everything I taught you.  You got a whole year to get ready for the practical test.”

“I know.”

“And it’s okay if you don’t get it right the first time. Not everybody does.”

“I’m fine, Dad.”

“I’ll be right here waiting for you when you’re through.”

“I know that, Dad. I’ll be okay, really.”

At that moment, Kurt’s name was called and he sprang from his hard green plastic chair. His dad’s repeated reassurances were making him jumpy.

Twenty minutes later, a brightly grinning Kurt was waving his freshly minted driver’s permit.

 Birthday #16

Burt patted the giant blue bow the dealership had provided over the hood of the shining black Lincoln Navigator.  

Kurt was gonna flip! He’d passed his DMV test with flying colors and was no doubt showing off his shiny new license to all his friends at school.  

He paused. Did Kurt have any friends to share this accomplishment with? He always seemed so alone.

Maybe that’s why he had decided to spoil his son with a huge birthday gift.

It wasn’t right for such a good kid to be all alone. Maybe having his own ride would help change that.

  Birthday #17

A dozen teens gathered in Kurt’s basement to celebrate the end-of-school, non-disbanding of Glee, and Kurt’s birthday, all in one.

“Not like ten years ago,” Mercedes said to Kurt, as they watched Mike and Brittany dance.

“Ten years?”

“Your seventh? It was just you, me, your mom, and lots of chocolate cake.”

Kurt was astounded. “That was you?”

“You forgot?”

“I remember a little girl who showed up and invited herself to my party.”

“And I remember a little boy who needed a friend as much as I did.”

He squeezed her hand. “Thanks for coming.”

She squeezed back. “Always.”

 Birthday #18

Kurt stared at his birthday cake, unable to think of anything to wish for.

He was 18-years-old today, a legal adult. He had new family in Carole and Finn, his dad was on the mend, he would be back at McKinley for senior year, he had made his first visit to New York City, and he had a boyfriend! One who had just told Kurt that he loved him for the very first time.

‘I wish for next year to be as good as this,” he thought, taking a deep breath and blowing.

The flames flickered out, all except one.

 Birthday #19

Senior year had been a disaster, and now he had not gotten into NYADA, despite his well-praised audition.

“Blaine wants me to spend another year here,” he whispered. “I just can’t.”

Burt’s callused hand squeezed his neck. “Then don’t. You’re 19 now, a man. You got talents galore, work experience from the garage, enough drive for ten kids, and your mom’s life insurance money to give you a start.”

“But…”

“No buts,” Burt said firmly. “You go on to New York and grab life by the balls.”

Kurt felt his optimism rise. “Help me look for apartments?”

“You got it.”

 Birthday #20

What a difference a year made.

He’d dumped Blaine after being cheated on less than a month after leaving Lima.  He was enrolled at FIT and sharing a shoebox apartment with a fellow design student and a Broadway hopeful, but both were young gay men from small towns, and they had a lot in common.

“Happy Birthday!” Elliott shouted, tossing a handful of glittery sequins at him.

Adam came in playing the birthday song on a kazoo he had gotten from who-knows-where. “Ready for Callbacks? $20 on who gets the first hot guy’s number!”

“I already have yours. I win!”

 Birthday #21

“I have the honor of presenting your first official grown-up drink,” Adam said, smiling lovingly at his grinning boyfriend of nearly a year. He set down a martini glass with a cherry floating on top. “A Manhattan seemed appropriate.”

Kurt beamed and gave him a kiss, then took an experimental sip. “I’ve had alcohol before,” he admitted. “Mostly wine, though.  Mm, this is good!”

“I thought you’d like it. Happy Birthday, my love.  May the future bring every good thing you wish for, and never more heartache than you can handle.”

Kurt could not have asked for a better sentiment.

THE END

[itmighthavebeenintentional]

I’m Ready

Summary: “I can’t...I can’t take my forever if you’re not in it.” 

Picks up right where the show left off. Not technically a fix-it, as I didn’t change anything, but I promise it gets better. 

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of (canon) child abuse and neglect, mentions of past trauma, working through trauma, denial, bit of pining (but, like, in a denial sort of way), some fluff, some angst (but not as much as there is fluff)

Author’s Note: So many thanks to @there-must-be-a-lock​ for endless suggestions, fixes, and beautiful images (header AND dividers!!!). Thanks to all my friends for cheering me on, especially @thoughtslikeaminefield​ ; I probably wouldn’t have kept going with the story without you.

This is my first Destiel story and my first time posting in a while. Please be kind.

Word Count: 7704

In case you missed it: ItMightHaveBeenintentional’s Masterlist

Dean isn’t sure how long he’s been in heaven, at least not by heaven’s timeframe. Probably years, maybe even a couple of decades. He doesn’t age in heaven, and time works differently, running fast and stretching slow. 

For Dean, heaven is a chance to rest, catch up with his massive found family, and just breathe for the first time since he was a kid. No worrying about Sam, no waiting for the next monster to pop out, no prepping for the next apocalypse.

Nothing like heaven to give a guy time to kick his boots off and just relax. 

Unfortunately, relaxing has never come easy to Dean. Sure, he can go through the motions (binge watching horror movies, binge drinking, hell, just bingeing in general), but relaxing is an entirely different matter.

Relaxing means letting his guard down. It means giving up his hypervigilance. It means sleeping hard and staying asleep until he wakes naturally and unassisted by attackers. It means spending long moments reminding himself the monster at the end of the book is really gone.

Sam is safe. Everyone he’s ever loved is safe and close, where he can reach them.

Almost everyone. 

...

Jake Walker is born on the ninth of July at twenty-one seconds past 9:14 AM. His mother Samantha is exhausted after a two-weeks-early delivery, but both she and the baby are strong and steady. Her wife didn’t faint, none of the medical team ever sounded the least worried, and she heard her son’s first shocked wail as he came into the world. Exhausted, but definitely good.

His mom Betty, on the other hand, is an absolute wreck. She’s been anxious the entire pregnancy, despite good news from the doctor at every visit, and she is terrified that the unexpected early arrival of their son means her worst fears are just beginning. 

Betty takes slow, calming breaths, focusing on not clamping down too hard on Sam’s hand. She has to stay strong, calm, for her new family. She has to keep her head on straight, in case—in case —

“Your son is absolutely fine, seems he just had a real particular time he wanted to arrive. Here he is.”

Betty opens her eyes to find a delivery nurse beaming at her, proffering a small, swaddled bundle.

“Never seen such a calm baby. Here, he’s been waiting for you.” 

Betty looks down into the startlingly clear, mossy green eyes gazing up at her from the squashed, serene little face, and she feels something click into place in the middle of her chest. Samantha leans her head back against her pillow, letting out a long slow breath as she smiles, and Betty’s pulse slowly finds its way back to something like normal.

“We’ve been waiting for you, too, big guy.”

...

Trauma doesn’t heal in a day, not even in heaven. All the shit Dean remembers — all the shit he tried to forget — everything he ever managed to suppress — drives him from his bed at night, leaving him sleepless on his front porch, staring blankly into the night, or tinkering on Baby in the garage, digging into the perfect engine, determined to distract himself from his spiraling thoughts. 

Dean has never been an idiot, no matter how many times he played the fool in life. The people he and Sam couldn’t save, the people he let down, none of those deaths are on him. Dean isn’t responsible for the pain and suffering, but he’s haunted by it all the same. 

The problem is, haunts don’t go away on their own. Every hunter knows that. 

It’s not that he wants forgiveness; how can he be forgiven for something he isn’t responsible for? He needs to see those people, though, see that they’re okay and at peace. He has to make sure everyone is where they should be, safe and at least content. And even if he ultimately isn’t their killer, didn’t want their deaths, would have done anything to prevent them, he still needs them to know...to know everything. 

He needs absolution.

And if the person who needs to hear those things the most is MIA, well, they’ve got a history of not saying a lot of things face to face. There’s always prayer, right? 

Dean starts by visiting a couple of people he hadn’t been able to save along the way, feeling strangely like someone following a twelve step program. Objectively, (ie, according to the people he talks to), he’s got nothing to apologize for. He did his best; he made tough decisions in situations forced upon him. They don’t blame him in the least, and most are truly and obviously thankful for his intervention.

Their words don’t make much of a dent in the mountain of guilt Dean carries on his shoulders, but it’s a start. 

Once or twice, Dean finds himself looking up at the sky, so far from empty, opening his mouth to call out — an action so common on earth it nearly became reflex —but he stops himself both times. He’s not ready for that conversation.

But he needs to talk to someone closer to him, a deeper connection than the monster victims he’s been visiting. 

He’s restless, needs to move a little, needs to talk to…

Someone. He needs to talk to someone. But he can’t. Hell, he can’t even say the name. 

Pacing the garage turns to a wandering ramble down the road, past Sam and his family’s house, past Mom and Dad’s house (there’s a conversation or fifty that he’s not ready for), until he finds himself in front of what can only be described as a hobbit hole. He shakes his head, not for the first time, the corner of his mouth tilted up as he knocks on the circular front door. 

He’s greeted by bright red hair, a surprisingly crushing hug, and one of the brightest smiles Dean has ever seen.

“Hey, Charlie. Can we, uh...You up for a walk? I was hopin we could talk for a while.”

...

Jake grows quickly and steadily, always near the top of all his growth charts but never alarmingly so. He’s bright, quick to anger and quick to laugh, and fiercely loving. He is both his mothers’ boy, always up for a cuddle or a wrestle, and he loves to build block towers and demolish them with equal abandon. 

He makes his displeasure with vegetables known early on. On this particular morning, he introduces his strained peas to the kitchen wall with surprising velocity. Betty knows better than to encourage this attitude, so she hides her smile behind calm, controlled admonition as she offers another spoonful. 

Jake looks her straight in the eyes, his smile dazzling and laughter bright, and she knows she hasn’t fooled him one bit. She sighs and lets her own smile match his. He won her over the day he was born; there’s not much point trying to fight it now.

“Come on, babe, eat your peas and we’ll see about some of those stewed apples left over from Mommy’s pie filling. Deal?”

She scrunches her nose and wiggles her eyebrows. Jake’s little eyes widen at her expression, and he tries to imitate it before dissolving into giggles. Betty takes the opportunity to poke a spoonful of peas into his open mouth. 

She’s not spent much time around kids before this, but Betty swears she’s never seen a baby look so resigned and exasperated in real life. But she’s played her trump card. He’s too young for the crust, but a couple of spoonfuls of smashed up fruit (apple is his favorite), and Jake is guaranteed to eat just about anything she presents.

“Pie?” she asks.

Jake smiles and opens his mouth wider.

...

“SURPRISE!!!”

The last time he was shocked this badly, Sam didn’t let him forget that fucking cat for years. Or ever, really. Seems like everyone he ever knew is stuffed into his living room, barely leaving room for the balloon bouquets and a massive… That’s not a cake, it’s…

That’s the most beautiful apple pie Dean has ever seen in his entire life. 

Dean is engulfed by arms, hugging and patting and slapping his back (was that a pinch on his ass?), everyone eager to get their turn with him, wishing him a happy birthday, saying they can’t wait until he opens his presents, it’s so good to see him, he’s looking so rested!

He manages to extract himself from the wellwishers, citing parental obligations, and finally makes his way over to Mary, smiling warmly and offering him a knife and a plate. His eyes flick anxious from his mom to the golden brown circle of perfection before him, but he can’t bring himself to ask. Mary’s smile widens.

“I didn’t lay a hand on it except to take it out of the box. Happy Birthday, Dean.”

Six plates of pie later, Dean reclines on his couch, letting the relaxed atmosphere of the party sink into his bones. The excitement and crowd of early have begun to wind down, leaving a double handful of family, both blood and found, all telling the most embarrassing, terrible Dean stories they can think of.

It’s possible Dean’s never laughed this hard in his entire life.

He heaves a deep sigh of contentment and props his feet ponderously on the coffee table, draping an arm across the back of the couch and surveying the room. 

Donna, one of the apparent party conspirators, tosses him a sparkling grin over her shoulder before turning back to a rather animated conversation with Charlie about the length of Dean’s wig at the LARPing battle. Sam and Kevin are recounting Dean’s worst cooking disasters to Garth’s wife, and Bobby is entertaining Mary with Dean’s disastrous attempt to flirt with the pizza delivery girl who delivered to Bobby’s house most weekends when Sam and Dean would stay with him. 

If Dean had to describe one perfect day, this would be just about it, down to the flakiness of the pie crust and the amazing collection of horror movies and original vinyls he’s been gifted. Almost every single person he could possibly want present is there, and since he isn’t dwelling on absence today, Dean decides to push his wandering thoughts out of his head and just soak it all in.

Every muscle in his body hums contentedly, and Dean feels strangely warm and peaceful, but excited, all at once. It’s weird, just sitting here and enjoying the moment, not worrying about the next minute or hour or day or even year. He’s full of pie, he’s got great tunes to look forward to, and there’s nothing to worry about. 

He’s happy.

Naturally, that’s when the panic sets in. This won’t last; it never does. Happiness can’t last. He learned that a long time ago. 

Sure, it’s heaven, but he doesn’t deserve to be here, so something is going to spoil it for him, for everyone. Probably Dean himself, he thinks as his eyes dart from his mom to his dad. Dean always seems to find a way to fuck things up, couldn’t take care of Sam, couldn’t keep himself alive, couldn’t even keep the Empty from—

“Hey, birthday boy.” Jody’s voice somehow reaches Dean through his darkening thoughts, and he comes back to himself in stages, focusing on the warmth of her hands on his shoulders. She stands behind the couch, leaning down to squeeze his shoulders. “Wanna get some air?”

He nods blindly and climbs numbly to his feet. Jody guides him efficiently out the door and points Dean in an arbitrary direction. They walk for what could be moments or hours as Dean plows through the morass in his mind. 

“I get it,” Jody finally says. 

Dean glances sharply at her. 

“I still have random panic attacks sometimes, wondering if Alex is safe at the hospital, if this is going to be the hunt that gets Claire.” Her eyes are fixed on some point in the distance, and he gets the feeling she’s deliberately not meeting his eyes. “I check on Owen every thirty minutes on my bad nights, and I have to lay hands and eyes on Sean to convince myself he’s really there before I can calm down. It always takes me a minute or sixty to make myself remember where we are, where everyone is, and that there isn’t some big or even small bad waiting around the corner or under the bed.”

Dean stuffs his hands in his pockets, stuffing down his automatic reassurances. The first half of his life was spent avoiding conversations like this, and it took him a long time to unlearn the knee-jerk reaction to brush off people’s concerns with some variation of “Everything’s fine.”

Jody, with an awareness born of decades of hunting and parenthood, senses his discomfort. She slows her steps and catches Dean’s elbow, turning him gently to face her.

“That feeling in your gut when the happiness comes, the panic, that knowledge deep, deep down that everything good is bound to turn to shit.” Jody reaches out and wipes a trickle of moisture from Dean’s face.

It’s not raining, he thinks, frowning. Where the hell did that come from?

“You're going to unlearn it. You’re the toughest bastard I’ve ever met, Dean, and you've been through literal hell. If anyone has earned their happiness up here, it’s you. You’re allowed to be happy, and someday you’ll know it.”

Dean would love to reply right now, to contradict Jody. He’d love to remind her of all the bad calls he made, of all the torturing he did in hell, of all the lies he told... 

But this knot in his throat is choking him. And still Jody persists.

“I know how goddamned stubborn you are, but you’re not stupid either. We have nothing to forgive you for. Maybe once you’ve talked to everyone on your list, you’ll see that, too. But in the meantime, take a deep breath, give me a hug, and at least say in your head that you’re allowed to enjoy yourself at your own damned birthday party, even if you can’t admit it out loud.”

And if the damp patch on Jody’s shoulder bothers her as they stroll back to Dean’s house to grab a couple of beers, at least she’s tactful enough to not mention it.

...

Jake takes care of his family. He’s a fairly serious, empathetic toddler, quick to kiss other’s ouchies. After receiving his first Elmo bandage, Jake insists on bandaging his stuffed puppy’s tail, his tyrannosaurus rex’s left eye (“He fight with stegosaurus,” Jake solemnly informs Samantha as he presses the adhesive strip in place), and then an old, almost-healed shaving cut on Betty’s left knee. 

“Mama better now?” Jake asks, somehow managing to sound strictly professional and absurdly adorable at the same time. He looks up to Betty for approval, and she wonders how she manages to let him touch the ground at all with how much she just wants to hold him all day long. 

“Mama so much better now,” she informs him, careful to stay serious. He rewards her with the golden smile that is the highlight of her days before rushing off to find someone else he can fix up. 

Both Betty and Samantha marvel in his quickness to share his snacks. They never refuse an offered Cheerio from him, no matter how damp or sticky (though a few of those disappear quickly when Jake’s attention wanders). 

The discussion over a first pet is fairly quick and decisive. Everyone agrees the pet must be something fluffy that can be cuddled. Betty vetoes anything smaller than a cantaloupe, citing her clumsiness and tendency to step on things that should never be trod upon. Jake vetoes cats, saying he just doesn’t trust them, and Mommy and Mama share one of their silent conversations before Samantha speaks up.

“A puppy it is, then, Jakey. Let’s go look up some good breeds.”

Their first pet is a rescue named Garth, at Jake’s adamant insistence, though they're still not sure where he learned that name in the first place. Garth is clumsy, awkward, easy-going, and the most spoiled and cared for pet in the neighborhood. 

Jake’s little sister Tabitha comes along shortly before his fourth birthday, and he takes to big brotherhood with an authority and self-assurance that delights every stranger the family meets. When she eventually starts walking, Jake is right by her side, guiding each one of her toddling little steps while a beaming Mommy and Mama follow close behind.

No one is even a little surprised when Tabby’s first whole word is “Hake.” She masters the letter j eventually, but continues to refer to his big brother by the name she gave him for most of the rest of their lives. Jake doesn’t even pretend to be annoyed.

“It was just a matter of time,” Samantha says one night, as she and Betty are getting ready for bed one night not long after Tabby has given Jake his new moniker. “You know what I mean?”

Betty, who has known exactly what Sam means since the day she literally tripped over her future wife at university, smiles and turns down the covers on her side of the bed. 

“That’s Jake,” she says. They’ve spent hours, discussing their son’s odd, charming quirks long into the night, offering up phrases like “old soul” and “wise,” and eventually realized nothing they said could ever completely encompass the loving little person they somehow managed to bring into the world.

“That’s Jake,” Sam agrees, and turns her version of Jake’s golden smile on her wife. Mischief sparkles in her eyes, and Betty wonders how she ended up with three people in her life that she absolutely cannot win against. 

“Ready to get sweaty, Betty?”

Betty groans but can’t hold back her grin. “You are the absolute worst, and that is exactly why I love you.”

…

Sam manages to shock Dean when he insists on a big family Christmas. His extra years on earth apparently helped the younger Winchester warm to the idea of holidays, finally getting to enjoy them with his son as he never did during his own childhood. 

Sam doesn’t have to try very hard to talk everyone into celebrating. Things have been calm and serene, more than a little on the uneventful side, and Dean figures it will add some variety to his afterlife. Something to plan, something to look forward to that won’t be crashed by murderous Elder Gods or various other supernatural entities. 

Probably. 

Dean secretly loves that feeling of finding the perfect present for someone, something he was never really in a position to do back on earth. He takes a deep breath, proactively reminding himself that this is okay, this is allowed, this is good, that everything is not only okay but actually kind of great, really.

He can be happy. He can. He can do this. 

 The shade of red Sam’s face turns before he finally dissolves into laughter is a thousand percent worth the degradation of actually gifting someone a signed vinyl copy of Celine Dion’s first solo album.

“It’s perfect, Dean. Thanks, man.” Sam pulls his brother into a hug, and his giant paw slapping Dean in the middle of the back literally knocks the panic right out of him. Deans huffs, at a loss for words, and hugs Sam back perhaps just a smidge too forcefully before letting him go.

“You’ll never top Sapphire Barbie for best Christmas present, but this runs a close second.” Sam shakes his head, still grinning as he reads over the back cover of the album while Mary and John look on, varying levels of confusion and amusement on their faces.

“What’s he talking about, Dean?” John asks. He takes a long drink of his whiskey. “Sapphire Barbie? Some kinda code word or something?”

Sam and Dean glance at each other, their shoulders tensing automatically. For a moment, Dean can actually feel the phantom hunger pains transposed over the current fullness of his belly, and he can see a tiny Sam (still way more hair than necessary), huddled despondent and hungry under a shitty, moth-eaten motel blanket, convinced there would be no Christmas. 

“Dean, uh...accidentally got me a Barbie for Christmas one year, it was — a, uh — yeah, he wanted to make sure I got a present, so he grabbed it, and…” Sam trails off. 

John huffs a confused laugh, and Dean’s hackles rise at the scoff, so like Sam’s and yet so much more...condescending. John rises from the couch and goes to refill his glass. Sam seems content to let the moment pass, but something in Dean’s gut, something latent and ignored since his heavenly ascension, sparks and smolders bitterly. 

“How the hell do you ‘accidentally’ get somebody a Barbie?” John asks, still chuckling, and Dean suddenly realizes he’s real fucking tired of biting his tongue.

“I stole the Barbie. Stole a couple of other things, too. A Christmas tree, some decorations, a baton.” 

Mary glances between her sons, confused, before turning to John. “Where were you while this happened?” 

A parade of emotions march over John’s face: confusion is followed by slow recognition. Guilt makes a quick appearance only to be chased away by dull, ashamed anger. 

Dean can practically see John’s mind flashing through the scenario, recalling more about the hunt than his own sons on that cold, nasty Christmas Eve. He knows the instant his dad reverts to default setting of laying the blame on his eldest son. Dean braces himself automatically, his body viscerally reacting to the familiar storm on his father’s face.

Dean has the fleeting thought that at least his dad is drinking from a glass now; ought to hurt a lot less than being hit with a whole bottle.

“You left your brother to go steal from somebody else’s home on Christmas? After what happened with the shtriga?” 

Dean knows true anger, near rage, for the first time in heaven, and the bitter wash of it through him is cutting and all too familiar. 

“Pretty stupid thing to do, I know, but I wasn’t even twelve yet, so I wasn’t making the wisest of decisions.”

“Not even twelve?” Mary cuts in. “Sam? Does anybody feel like explaining this to me?”

“What the hell were you thinking, Dean, anything could have—” 

But Dean had a lifetime of being plowed under by his dad’s inability to take responsibility, has had way more than enough of shouldering the blame for shit he should never have been left with in the first place.

“I was thinking that somebody should get a seven-year-old something for Christmas, should make sure he has enough to eat. Where were you, Dad? What were you thinking? Because you sure as hell weren’t thinking about us.”

That knot starts up in Dean’s throat again, the muscles tightening against the fear that blossoms in his chest, echoed from decades of training. Sam’s hand finds Dean’s arm, and Dean looks to him. Instead of the caution or reproach he’s expecting, though, all Sam simply nods. 

“Say it, Dean.”

Dean stands slowly, facing John Winchester with every bit of strength he’s built, every bit of courage he’s earned from a lifetime of terror, and realizes that the angry, bitter man before him is no more a threat to him anymore than Chuck is. And without looking, he knows Sam stands behind him, solid and resolute.

“I wasn’t even twelve. It was Christmas, and you abandoned us. Yeah, I stole Sam a Barbie doll. You know what I got for Christmas that year? The year before? Every fucking year before that for almost as long as I can remember?”

John opens his mouth, even now unable to admit his faults, but Dean barrels on before his dad can get a word out.

“Not a damn thing from you. Not one damn thing. Not presents, not food, not a warm place to sleep or a word of thanks or approval. Not even a fucking phone call to say Merry Goddamn Christmas.” Dean pauses one last time, and it suddenly feels like he’s towering over the man whose shadow always felt too dark, too large, too suffocating; the man whose respect he used to crave more than food and water. 

“What about me, Dad? Huh? What about me?”

Dean doesn’t recall leaving his parents’ house, doesn’t remember driving home, but he finds himself on his own front porch, leaning forward in his rocking chair. He takes in a long, deep breath before scrubbing his hands through hair and leaning against the back of the chair.

A breeze rifles the leaves of a nearby tree, ruffling Dean’s hair. He taps his thumb against the arm of the chair and takes a long moment to breathe in the night air. 

Dean lets his thoughts roll around for a while. The stars creep slowly across the black, the crickets chirp, and the breeze continues to tickle through Dean’s mussed hair. 

“You and I could write the book on shitty dads, am I right, kid?”

He’s not sure why he decides to talk to Jack. Just nice to have someone to talk to, knowing they’re not going to talk right back.

“Could just cut him out. Dunno how that’d work in heaven.” He thinks a moment, then grins to himself. “Not sure Mom’d let me get away with that. Sam would back me up, though.” Dean grins into the somehow not-empty night. “I would be the guy that brings a family feud into paradise, huh?”

Dean takes in the wilderness around him, the empty house at his back, the extra rocking chair for...a visitor, he supposes. He has learned today that heaven, as perfect as it is, still holds anger and bitterness and loneliness, and he figures that’s to be expected. 

“You still did good, kid. You and me, we did good even with our shitty old men in and outta our lives. Glad we cut yours out for good. Guess I’ll figure out how to deal with mine eventually. All I’ve got now is time, anyway.”

Dean pushes up slowly, still surprised at the lack of cricks, pops, and aches that accompanied the action his last couple of years on earth. 

“Night, Jack,” he says into the wind. He glances over at the empty rocking chair one last time. “If you see him, tell him —just tell him—” 

Dean frowns, shakes his head, and turns his back on the night.

…

Jake’s not a crier, not really. There are inevitable tears that come with bad falls, but Jake sheds tears like it’s a physical reaction that he’s getting out of the way so he can move on. 

So when Betty goes to change the sheets in her son’s room, only to find him silently crying on the floor, she panics. Sheets flop forgotten to the side as she drops next to his, reaching instinctively for his still-plump cheeks.

“Baby, what’s wrong? Are you hurt? What happened?”

“Nothing happened, Mama, I’m sorry I scared you,” he sniffles, his eyebrows down low on his small forehead. 

Jake has never lied in his entire young life, and Betty is torn because he is obviously upset about something, but his face is full of nothing but truth and confusion.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Jakey,” she says, settling on the floor next to him and opening her arms. He instantly climbs into her lap, hooking his own arms around her neck and nuzzling under her chin. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Can you tell me what made you cry?”

“I...I don’t know,” he says, his little voice quiet and heavily confused. “I was playing with Tabby, she was helping me build a tower with my blocks, and then Mommy came to get Tabby for her snack.”

Betty is stumped. Jake has never had any kind of separation anxiety, as far as she can tell. He’s spent nights with both sets of grandparents, even a couple of weekends with aunts, uncles, and cousins, and never shed so much as a single tear.

“You...are you crying because you miss Tabby? She’s right in the next room, baby, you can go with her for snack time, you know that.”

“No, Mama, I —I don’t know why I’m crying. Tabby hugged me, she said she loved me, then she went with Mommy, and I felt...really happy. Like —the happiest ever, and...it was too much happy?”

The last part comes out as a question, and honestly Betty isn’t sure how to answer it. 

“Well, baby,” she starts hesitantly, not sure where to lead this particular discussion. “Can you explain  what you mean when you say ‘too much happy’?”

He snuggles closer against her chest, his forehead pressing along her jaw. “I dunno. I think...maybe I’m not supposed to be that happy? Is that why the tears came out? Because I got more happy than I’m supposed to get? Was I wrong, Mama?”

Betty breathes slowly, tightening her hold on the little boy in her arms. “You weren’t wrong, Jake. You can be as happy as you want. There’s never too much happy, I promise.”

She feels him shift, and she looks down to meet his clear, green gaze. He studies her carefully, scrutinizing her expression, and she’s reminded why she’s always been so very careful to tell her children the truth, albeit on levels they can understand.

“You pinky promise?” 

The proffered pinky is smudged, pudgy, and absolutely perfect. Betty hooks her pinky finger with her son’s, bumping his nose gently with her own. 

“Jakey, you have my eternal permission to be as happy as you are capable of feeling. And no one is ever allowed to take that from you. Good?” He nods, and she carefully brushes the tear tracks from his cheeks. “Sometimes feelings are really big, and they’re just a little too big for your body. They have to find a way out, and that’s why the tears come out.”

“Is that why you cry when you watch the kissy movies?” he asks, suddenly smiling. “Your feelings are too big, too?”

“Yup. We’ve got big feelings in this family, Jakey. Better get used to it, kiddo.”

...

More time passes. Dean walks, he talks, he goes through the motions. He heals a little with every conversation, every time he reaches out, and even though some of the wounds feel as fresh as the day he got them, eventually all that’s left are faint scars. He’d never willingly erase the scars, anyway. He earned them, and he’ll be damned if something like a little death and talk therapy could just wipe them away.

Gradually — so gradually Dean doesn’t realize it until Donna makes a comment one night after their regular poker game — Dean learns to not only let his guard down but drop it entirely. He’s shocked to realize the loss of his emotional armor doesn’t even bother him. 

Dean works on Baby, drinks with Bobby, teaches Mary how to make an apple pie from scratch, and even manages to have a couple of honest, semi-civil conversations with his father. They don’t exactly reach Andy and Opie levels of father-son bonding, but John does eventually manage to grudgingly admit he fucked up some (a lot). Dean supposes anyone can make progress in heaven if they try hard enough. 

He’s talked to everyone he can think of, settled scores, smoothed ruffles, filled himself to bursting with absolution. Dean is so absolved he thinks he might punch the next person who pats him on the back and tells him how much good he’s done for the world.

And still, he comes home every night to that extra rocking chair. 

He waits now, waits while he talks with Sam, waits while he walks through the woods, waits while he changes Baby’s oil. He can’t shake the feeling that something is coming. He can feel it around himself, like a suit of armor or a second skin. Nothing terrible, nothing ominous, but something. Which is weird because nothing ever seems to happen in heaven, not really. 

Could be he’s just bored, but Dean doesn’t think that’s it. Not entirely.

He talks to Jack nightly now. It’s a habit, something to help Dean talk through and untangle his thoughts into something he can understand. He looks forward to their talks, being able to get his feelings out without being either validated or rebuffed. Just letting some steam off.

He’s done it for so long that he can barely remember the night he started. Dean knows Jack can hear him, but the kid’s been true to his word, stayed hands off and radio silent. He lets mortals deal with their own issues, keeping himself and the supernatural world well away. Even the angels leave people alone in heaven.

Especially the angels, Dean grudgingly admits to himself, late one night after leaving Sam’s house. Instead of going home to that extra rocking chair, he drives Baby slowly, aimlessly, yet somehow ends up back on that same bridge where he met up Sam all those years ago. 

He parks right at the end (no traffic in heaven) and strolls out to the middle, scuffing his boots and sending little puffs of dust in the air. His hands are stuffed deep in his pockets, out of habit more than anything else, and he lifts his gaze from the ground up to the full moon in the sky.

“Hey, kid,” he says softly. “Hope it’s goin good for you.Things are pretty good here. I know you know, you’re everywhere and all that,” Dean waves his hand vaguely, then continues, “Just wanted to let you know, I guess. I didn’t tell you enough, but we—I —really appreciated you. Appreciate you. You, uh...you did real good, kid. Then and now.” He pauses, then takes a breath, standing straight and letting all pretense go.“Please tell Cas...he did good, and...I miss him. And I know you’re all taking the hands-off approach, but —I dunno, maybe...he could —stop by? Or…”

The silence around Dean is heavy, comforting like a thick blanket.  

Or a tan trenchcoat, he thinks.

“Jack —“

He cuts himself off, though. He spent all this time in heaven working through rivers of bullshit, wearing down mountains of lies and self-loathing until he can finally be honest and open with everyone. And if he’s going to be honest with himself tonight, Jack isn’t who he needs to talk to.

“Sorry kid, I gotta put you on hold.”

Purgatory flashes before his eyes, that sense of loss and being lost, the desperation and certainty that he’d never see his best friend again. 

I can’t do this anymore, he thinks. I can’t pretend anymore. And I’m done lying to myself.

“Cas. Castiel. I hope you can hear me. I miss you. I don’t know where you are. Bobby said you were here, that you helped remake this place into something pretty damned awesome, but I never see you. I can feel you sometimes, can tell some things are up here just because you put ‘em there. Someone will tell a story, and I swear I can feel you standing right beside me, can almost hear you frowning and not understanding the joke. I…”

He knows there’s something left —knows he hasn’t found the right words yet. He has no idea what that right thing is, or even what he’s still waiting for, but he figures if he just barrels on, it’ll come to him. 

“There was too much in the way, back on earth, in Purgatory. Too much always coming after us, trying to kill us or worse. I got in my own damned way, never knew what to say or how to say it. Didn’t think I deserved...I should’ve…”

He’s not sure what’s more bizarre, that he’s praying to someone who probably won’t respond — probably can’t even hear him — or that he’s doing so in a place wildly opposite from that last time he prayed like this. 

Dean isn’t sure how he keeps ending up in this situation, but here he is, gasping out his feelings to the night air, barely able to squeeze the words past that perpetual knot in his throat. 

“It’s a lot clearer up here, more room to breathe and think. This heaven you and Jack made...it’s great. Hell, it’s damn near perfect. But there’s no you. And I just can’t see my heaven as right without you. I can’t...I can’t take my forever if you’re not in it.”

A wispy cloud, silver in the moonlight, drifts across an otherwise flawless sky. Dean stares upwards for several minutes, wondering if Cas can see the same stars tonight, wherever he is. 

“Maybe...I don’t know if you can come back. Or if you even left. I don’t know how any of it works.”

He’s on the cusp. He can almost taste the next step. 

Dean’s at a loss, though. He could be brave: he could say everything he should’ve said in that last moment, everything he should have told Cas. 

Or he could take the comfortable path, revert to being a dick and tell Cas exactly how he feels about all this silent treatment, about the no-show in heaven or not telling him about his deal with the Empty until it was too late, about waiting until the last second so Dean would have no time—

Or he could do both. 

Both is good.

Metal railings squeak under Dean’s punishing grip. He’s not sure when he grabbed hold of the bridge itself, but right now he needs all the support he can get.

“You left me! You should have told me, given me a chance. Another chance, just one more. I’m sorry, Cas, I knew but I didn’t. I— I should’ve told you, should’ve held you, I could have—“

The tears flow unimpeded, the air squeezed from his lungs in convulsive gasps, but Dean can’t stop now.

“I should have told you everything I felt, every day. I should have trusted you more, and I’m so sorry. You were always family, you were always there for me when I needed you. We both fucked up so many times, lost so much time together. I was so angry at you, at me, at everyone and everything, and I let it get in the way.”

The silence around him is maddening. Here he is, ripping his guts out in the middle of the bridge, and all he gets back is crickets and evening breezes. Dean shoves off the railing, too frantic to stay still.

“Gimme something, Cas, anything! I’m pouring my heart out! I fucked up, and I’m sorry, and I swear I’m gonna do better, but you’ve gotta give me the chance! Just...just give me some sort of answer, please? Let me know you’re there!”

The silence persists. 

Just as quickly as Dean’s rage crescendos, it fizzles suddenly. He drops to the ground, back and head slamming hard against the side of the bridge as he lets out a roar of helpless rage. His fists grip his hair, teeth grinding against the wave of helplessness that threatens to overwhelm him.

“I missed my chance, I waited too long, I should’ve said— I should have—“

And then it comes to him.

His hands draw down from his hair, scrubbing his face before steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. He can’t believe it’s taken him this long to realize. 

“I’m an idiot.” His voice is barely audible, even to his own ears, but he has no doubt his words will reach their intended destination. “This place you built, you and Jack, it’s as good as it gets. I deserve it, I earned it. I got my family, I got the easy life for a while. I got my family. I had my rest. There’s only one thing left in the universe I need, only one person I want.”

Dean stands, dusting himself off and turning his face back up to the stars. 

“I’m ready, Cas. I— I love you. And I’m ready for the next thing. Whatever that is. However that is. As long as—”

One last pause.

“As long as you’re there, that’s all I need.”

...

The inevitable day of separation comes: Jake’s first day of kindergarten. Samantha is proud of her guardian warrior, knows he’s going to succeed at everything he puts his little bullheaded mind to. Betty hopes very hard that he won’t be too lonely without Tabitha there with him. Tabitha only knows that Jake’s finger tastes good and makes her gums feel better when she chews on it.

Jake, as always, approaches this monumental step with aplomb and logic. 

“I’ll give it a shot,” he says casually as his little sister gnaws on his thumb. “An’ if I don’t like it, I’ll just stay here and take care of Tabby. You an’ Mommy can go to work, then, ‘kay, Mama? I can make nut butter n’ jelly sammiches. But I’ll try it out.”

...

School isn’t so bad, Jake decides on his second day. His teacher Mrs. Harris seems to know what she’s doing (she already knows who she can trust with scissors and glue), and the other kids are nice enough. There’s different toys (“learning tools”, Mrs. Harris calls them), so that’s interesting enough, but—

Something is missing.

“Can you tell me what you mean, Jakey?” Betty asks at dinner that night. “Are there supplies you need? We got everything on the list.” She wipes a smear of sweet potato off Tabitha’s face before looking back to her son. His mouth is turned down in a frown of concentration, like he’s trying to remember something.

“I don’t need anything, Mama, just...someone. I need someone. My friend hasn’t come to school yet.”

“It takes time to make friends, baby,” Samantha says. “It’s only the second day of school. Have you tried asking anyone to play yet?”

“Yeah, and they’re fun and all, but they aren’t my friend. My friend isn’t here yet,” Jake says. Then his frown vanishes with the sudden mood change of a five-year-old, and he turns beseeching eyes on Betty, aiming unerringly at the softer target. “I finished my green beans. That means dessert now, right, Mama?”

Jake decides on the third day that the best place to wait for his friend (he just knows he’s going to show up any day now) is the playground.

“My friend likes the playground,” he murmurs. “That’s good, I like the playground, too.” He eats his lunch slowly, watching the other kids wolf down their food so they can have extra playtime. He’s barely finished his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, though, when he’s distracted by movement on the other side of the play yard. The door to the school opens and the school secretary steps out. Then she turns and gently pulls someone out from behind her.

A small boy stands in the doorway, white shirt tucked neatly into black slacks. His blue tie is a little loose, as if he’s been tugging on it, and his tan jacket is a little too big, hanging loosely around his small frame. His hair looks like someone was in too much of a rush to comb it properly. He clutches a pink piece of paper in one hand and, in the other, a backpack inexplicably decorated with flying, winged slices of pizza. 

“Late drop-off, parent had to run,” the secretary tells Mrs. Harris before tiptoeing out of the room. 

With an anxious glance at the other children, the boy scuttles forward and immediately trips over his own untied shoelaces.

Jake is at the little boy’s side before anyone else can react, kneeling down to check on him. The prone child is too shocked to cry, both by the fall and by the sudden appearance of this unknown factor. Jake checks him over, then nudges him until he sits up. 

“You gotta keep ‘em double tied,” Jake says seriously. “Or else that’ll happen all the time.” Without waiting for an answer, Jake sets about the laborious task of looping each set of laces in turn, rabbits chasing each other around trees and down holes until the shoes are secure.

Jake climbs to his feet and reaches down, gripping the other boy’s shoulders and helping him stand. A dark smear of jelly stains the shoulder of the coat in the shape of a smudged purple handprint.

“Thank...thank you,” the smaller boys whispers. He lifts his eyes hesitantly, and clear blue meets olive green for the first time. “I’m Chris.”

“I’m Jake.” He thinks for a long moment, frowning. Something is settling in his chest, something big and permanent and scary; at first he thinks it’s too much. 

Then he thinks back to what Mama told him: you can be as happy as you want. 

He smiles at Chris. “You’re with me. You’re the one I was waiting for.”

Hope and just a bit of delight flicker across Chris’s eager face. 

“I am? You mean it?”

Jake nods and grabs his new friend’s hand. “Yep. Now you’re here, that’s all I need. And nobody's allowed to take you from me, Mama said so. C’mon, let’s play cars.”

[itsworn]

Vincent Troncoso’s 1966 Chevy C10

I love writing about old cars and trucks, especially when there’s an interesting story about the owner and/or the vehicle itself attached. It’s the life stories that truly make it all the more worthwhile sitting behind the computer punching keys rather than throttle pedals. But occasionally, getting those stories out of people is like pulling teeth—and even when the old chunk of enamel’s been successfully pulled, so to speak, the information provided is less than helpful. Or, it’s the exact opposite and I get a novel’s worth of info, which I can deal with. This time, well, let’s just say I got more than I bargained for … and not from the owner, Vincent Troncoso.

About a year ago, Jimmy Ruiz had just finished up this cleaner-than-most daily hauler for his customer, Vincent Troncoso. After arranging to have it shot in the studio for a feature, Ruiz supplied the requisite tech sheet … which I inadvertently threw away at some point. When asked to fill out another, he un-begrudgingly obliged—but instead, Ruiz sat down one evening and wrote a feature! While I’d normally transpose something as such into my own verbiage, the story wasn’t half bad, so minus a few grammatical edits, here you go!

“Vincent grew up around his uncle who was a collector and early American automotive enthusiast. He spent a lot of time with his uncle going to car shows and events, all the while soaking in the different and unique styles of yesteryear—both stock and custom. But one vehicle in particular always stuck in his mind, a first-generation C10 shortbed pickup truck.

“Fast-forward a couple decades and Vincent was now at a place and time in his life where he wanted to get an early American truck, a 1966 Chevrolet shortbed big-window to be exact. He initially just wanted a truck to be used as intended—able to haul house project supplies and such in the back—but still wanted that vintage feel and smell that us early iron junkies chase! So after months of searching the Internet, he finally found his project to be: a small-window cab, and not the big-window shorty he wanted, but it was close enough to satisfy his hunger at the time.

“Vincent took his uncle in-law ‘Tio Steve’ along with him to co-ride in the truck’s journey back to its new house. Well, as it would end up turning out, the ride home was a little more exciting than they expected. Once they made the deal, signed the pink slip, and took off down the road, things got flavorful! The two jumped on the freeway and headed back home to Riverside, shortly thereafter realizing that when the truck needed to stop, it didn’t! So began the panic of pumping the brakes while nervously driving down the road. At this point, the exhaust is getting louder, as pipes are cracked and broken, lights aren’t working, and the ‘dream’ 1966 shorty is now starting to look like it might have been a real bad and potentially dangerous acquisition.

“Nevertheless, Vincent tried to attack the items that he could fix, then took the truck to a local muffler shop—you know the old type with the car rack outside right on the corner, with a couple of Tin Man looking statues out front made of old mufflers, exhaust pipes, and catalytic converters, with the old guy still welding exhaust with a gas torch? So the 1966 shorty gets some new twin pipes and mufflers, and they got it to stop without having to panic pump! Most might be satisfied with that alone, but not Vincent. He is now stepping back and looking at his dream truck saying, “What if I did this or that … what if it was lowered … what if it had new rims … what color would look cool?” Without realizing, he’s now crossing over and getting ready to join the club of the Unchosen Many, and all old-iron junkies know exactly what this is! It’s an incurable disease that we car guys get, to where there is a point of no return once you lay your sights on an idea of ‘what it could be.’ So, this where my shop, Sledsville Hot Rod & Kustom Co., comes into this story.

“I recall a text message I received one day from an unknown phone number, the sender saying he’d been recommended by his brother in-law, who grew up and went to school with my son, Jesse. Putting two and two together, when it came time for Vincent to pursue getting the custom makeover started, his brother-in-law said, ‘I know just the guy for the job!’ I reached out and contacted Vincent to see just what he was after. The conversation initially started out with the usual type suspension and brake upgrades, but before we hung up, Sledsville would be building him a full frame-off, high-performance, custom 1966 shorty!

“Once we had the truck torn completely apart, all the sheetmetal was sent out to R&R Coatings for media blasting to see just what was underneath the suspect paint on the old Chevy. To no surprise, when all the dust settled, the truck was covered in an inch of old bondo, mostly hiding the huge dents in the bed that, sadly, were beyond repairing. The rest of the cab, doors, and fenders were in desperate need of some metal magic, and so my Sledsville team began to resurrect the old, decrepit steel.

“At the time, 1964-1966 shortbed replacement sides were not being reproduced yet, and it was near impossible to find a good, straight, rust-free shortbed for sale for a reasonable price, if at all. So, I contacted a friend who just might have what I needed—but a set of perfectly straight and rust-free ‘long’ bed sides were not exactly it. Since we’re a fabrication shop, however, we made them work. As the amount of hours in metalwork stacked up, Vincent asked if we could make the small-window cab into a big-window cab—so yet another not-so minor job was added to the build list. While the huge undertaking of doing bodywork on a long, flat-paneled vehicle was being executed by Sledsville’s very own understudy and bodywork-oligist, J-Mo Reveles, the rest of the boys went to town on the chassis, suspension, and powerplant.

“After blowing the entire rolling chassis apart and fixing some cancer and cracks in the frame that are inherit with these years of trucks, the rear section got a C-notch for better axle clearance at a lowered stance. The frame was then sent out to R&R for some gloss black powdercoat. Meanwhile, the Shortys 12-bolt GM rearend was sent to DiffWorks to have new billet axles and posi gearset installed. Once those were done, the suspensions were set up with CPP’s tubular arms front and rear—and with the ultra-low stance Vincent desired, the only way to achieve that was by adding airbags on all four corners. He also wanted something traditional looking when it came to the wheels and tires, yet in a larger and more performance-type package. Ultimately, the truck ended up getting a set of custom-offset 20-inch American Racing aluminum Rallyes wrapped with Pirelli rubber. Now with the new wheels and tires, this new girl needed some braking components to help stop this truck on a dime—before, it couldn’t stop on a dollar. Now, behind the new rollers is a full set of Baer brakes with a matched ReMaster-machined aluminum master cylinder.

“When the time came to choose the heartbeat of the matter—well, Vincent likes high performance, likes power, and wanted the truck to make a statement not only when being driven but more so when the hood’s open. So the choice clearly seemed to a be simple one, and that’s why the truck got a 383 stroker with aluminum heads, Lunati crank and rods, 9:1 compression pistons, all matched to handle a Weiand 144 supercharger topped with a performance worked Holley 750 double-pumper. The engine was all dressed up with some nostalgic finned aluminum valve covers and air cleaner. The transmission that was chosen was a GM 700-R4 built by ‘Tranny John’ Salsman to match and handle that supercharged heartbeat.

“With any and all customs—and even not-so-custom builds—choosing the color is important, as that’s the first thing anyone sees. Vincent had his eye on a dark Brandywine paintjob I’d done on a chopped 1949 Mercury (something of which I’m more accustomed to building). The tasteful warmth of that Brandywine spoke to him and he had to have it on his Fleetside! I mixed up a couple gallons of House of Kolor’s Brandywine Kandy Koncentrate and sprayed it over the top of a PPG Mercedes red metallic basecoat, followed by many coats of PPG’s Glamour clear.

“The inside of the cab got a split bench seat from Glide engineering, while Craig Hopkins of Kiwi Kustom Interiors topped it, the door panels, and the rest of the interior in black diamond-stitched leather. A set of black Classic Instruments gauges dressed the dash, and a Vintage Air SureFit system kept the shorty’s cab cool, while an ididit steering column and restored Impala steering wheel gave Vincent what he needed to steer the old gal straight. Sledsville’s Kenny Hollenbeck installed an American Autowire harness, as well as all the Alpine Audio components. With the final touches being completed, Vincent wanted a little more flare out of the truck’s bed floor. So a custom bird’s eye maple was chosen for the 1966, stained in a smooth honey tone and joined with boltless stainless bed strips.

“And that, in no short order, is Shorty’s ‘new’ life story!”

Facts & Figures Vincent Troncoso 1966 Chevy C10

CHASSIS Frame: Modified-stock by Sledsville, Riverside, CA Rearend: GM 12-bolt by DiffWorks, Mira Loma, CA Rear Suspension: CPP Totally Tubular with airbags Rear Brakes: Baer 13-inch rotors with four-piston calipers Front Suspension: CPP Totally Tubular with airbags Front Brakes: Baer 14-inch rotors with six-piston calipers Steering Box: CPP Wheels: 20-inch American Racing Rallyes Tires: Pirellis Gas Tank: CPP aluminum

DRIVETRAIN Engine: GM 383 Heads: Edelbrock Valve Covers: Cal Custom Manifold / Induction: Weiand / 144 Pro-Street supercharger Ignition: MSD Headers: Doug’s Headers ceramic-coated Exhaust / Mufflers: Custom / Porter Transmission: 700-R4 by John Salsman Shifter: ididit

BODY Style: Custom Cab Fleetside Hood: Stock Grille: Stock Bodywork and Paint by: Sledsville Paint type / Color: House of Kolor, PPG base / Kandy Brandywine, Mercedes Red Headlights / Taillights: Stock Bumpers: Stock

INTERIOR Dashboard: Modified-stock Gauges: Classic Instruments Air Conditioning: Vintage Air SureFit Stereo: Alpine Steering Wheel: Retro 1959 Impala Steering Column: ididit Seat: Glide Engineering split bench Upholstery by: Kiwi Kustom Interiors, Mead Valley, CA Material / Color: Black / Leather Carpet: Wool

The post Vincent Troncoso’s 1966 Chevy C10 appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

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[jafreitag]

Tambo Tuesday

Hey.

So New York was great. The city itself, obviously. But the conference was amazing, too. I met so many people who are really passionate about listening to music, and dialoging (that word was new to me, but it came up alot – as in, creating a dialog) about it. From the folks at bigger sites – Pitchfork and Paste, as well as Brooklyn Vegan, Consequence of Sound, Drowned in Sound, and The Line of Best Fit – to the folks at smaller, but still totally sweet, sites like ours. I can’t tell you how many new contacts that I have in my phone, haha. I’m now on a group text with a dude who runs a blog about Shoegaze and dudette (I went there) who runs a blog about Sassy magazine and features playlists of stuff it featured back in the ’90s.

Speaking of the ’90s, this week’s playlist is thematic. It’s my mom’s birthday tomorrow, so I wanted to dedicate my eleven to her. My mom is my best friend, and always will be. If that makes me a mama’s boy, then fine. She and my dad split up when I was a little kid. Fights about money, mostly, I guess. She was a single parent (header image, yo) at a young age, but always busted her ass to raise me and my big sis. I can’t imagine what that was like back then for her – schlepping us to school and games and music lessons and other activities. In the car, we always listened to her music – aka, Mombs Jambs. Here’s sort of a “Best Of.”

Love you, Ma. (She hates it when I call her that, but whatevs, lol.) HBD! And to you and all the Moms, thanks. You made us what we are, literally.

Apparently, we’re on hiatus blog-wise. It’s like the calm before the storm, as they say, around the office. OM is still on the road. He’s back Thursday, thank jah. So JF and JTB (Jane the Barber – funny nickname bc her real name is actually Jane Barbour and she cuts her friends’ hair for fun) have been in the conference room this week making chalkboard lists of what they call “possibles,” which is LN-speak for records that may make the 2017 Top 20. Scribble something, wipe it off. Rinse, repeat, ugh. I randomly poked my head in there and whispered “Reputation?” As in T-Swift’s new one – I’m an unapologetic Swiffer, yo. JTB tossed an eraser at me and told me to fix my hair, lol. My hair was ok, and she missed. So Receptionist Devin (sweet dude) had to spend ten minutes wiping chalk dust off the glass door. #chalkdusttorture? +10 for the Phish ref, OM??

Yeah. Imma try to sneak in a Turkey Day playlist next week. If it gets deleted by the higher-ups, sobeit.

OH. Oh. Oh, snap x3. I have totally forgotten to inform y’all about my NYC dinner “date” with someone. Smh. I’ll leave it at that, and explain later.

Peace,

Tre

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[barcastat]

Andrés Iniesta - Top of the World

Andrés waited until everyone else in Johannesburg was asleep. He has always been able to find a silent space to listen to his own body, and now finally off of Raúl's treatment table, that is exactly what he wanted to do. He carefully opened the door of his hotel room and he began to run. He began to run as if he was running for his life, from one end of the hallway of the team's South Africa hotel to the other. He was satisfying an irresistible urge to carry out his own personal fitness test, with no one watching, and even though there was no ball at his feet. He was a long way from the pitch, but this was enough to know that he was cured. It was enough to convince him. He wanted to shout: “I'm ready, the torment is over.”  At long last, Iniesta could run, he could play, all the way to the World Cup final. Those damned muscles injured months ago had finally been fixed as if by magic. After so many setbacks, they were once again synchronized like the hands of a Swiss watch. They had been made good again thanks to the precise care of Raúl Martinez and the advice of Emili Ricart, two men separated by thousands of kilometres but joined together by the common link of Iniesta. “l was not there with Andrés. Nor do I know when it was that he started running. He did not tell me. Sometimes certain injuries have no real scientific explanation. I never fully understood this one. After various tests we found a part of the muscle fibre, that we had previously ignored, which seemed to be provoking a sort of disorganization in the leg. I thought that could be the crux of the problem.” Raúl said. Raúl unblocked the leg and Emili cleared the head with a video that Andrés watched every night before going to bed, as if he was reciting the 'Lord’s Prayer’ as a small boy in Fuentealbilla. Pep Guardiola loved the subject of motivation and just as with the Gladiator video he showed his Barcelona players before the Champions League final in Rome in 2009, he also prepared, along with Emili and Santi Pedro, a TV3 journalist, a video to inspire Barca to a second-leg comeback against José Mourinho's Inter in the Champions League semi-final of 2010. That tape recounted various big defeats and then some very big victories; moments of huge frustration and of great euphoria experienced by Sporting figures such as Roger Federer, Fernando Alonso, synchronized swimmer Gemma Mengual, the Spain basketball team and the Spanish handball team. It also included the 'Iniestazo’ as Iniesta's semi-final goal against Chelsea in 2009 had become known and that Rome final with some opera from Bocelli to accompany Leo Messi’s famous header and the image of him hanging from the sky of the Olympic Stadium as he scored the second goal of the 2-0 win that night. The film started with the euphoria, the embraces, the high-fives, the unity in victory. But the glorious colour of the opening frames then gave way to the black and white images of defeat, of sportsmen free-falling towards failure. There were around 30 seconds of the suffering of finishing second of Puyol and Estiarte lamenting Essien's brilliant goal from the main stand of Stamford Bridge in London in 2009 as Laporta nervously ran his hand over the top of his hair, imagining the worst. Then the colour returned as defeat was turned into victory once more, until the last image of Barça, together in a circle, celebrating the club’s third European Cup in Rome. It was a great way to visualize beating Mourinho's team. Guardiola, however, never let his players see that DVD in the Camp Nou dressing-room before the game against Inter. The coach sensed a degree of over-excitement in the journey to the stadium when the team bus came down from the hotel on the Tibidabo mountain through a sea of expectant Barcelona fans lining the streets. He decided he did not want to crank up his players' level of adrenaline any higher and so that video of four minutes and four seconds stayed in the hands of Emili. At least that was the case until he decided to give it to Iniesta at the 2010 World Cup. Emili exchanged messages with Andrés every day, so he knew that it was working for him as soon as he found out about that solitary run down the hallway of Spain's team hotel. Raúl did not even need to speak to Andrés. The player gave the game away with that deliriously happy look of illumination on his face. Now used to playing with pain, he felt free at last and anxious to reach the boat in Johannesburg’s Soccer City the light that waited for him on the other side of those Soweto suburbs. “You would struggle to find anyone as honest, dedicated and so willing, to work as Emili.” Andrés says. “I never knew him personally until Guardiola brought him with him to the first team. Since then we have become practically inseparable. I can identify with him, with his way of thinking and his way of working. He is very special to me.” says Andrés, who also feels much the same way about Raúl. “I knew that Raúl was a phenomenon in his field. And he showed that during the World Cup. I can honestly say that, in sporting terms, he saved my life. He knows my body and how it works as if he had given birth to me. He has become indispensable.” One is ‘special' and the other ‘indispensable’. Both are there to help Andrés. They understand the doubts and concerns of a player who needed to test his fitness in private; who needed to listen to his body and hear that everything was now in the right place. “Yes!” resounded in the hotel hallway from the mouth of Iniesta whose World Cup started at that very moment. “On 13 April 2010, I injured my right hamstring training at Barcelona’s Ciudad Deportiva. It really felt that I had torn it and there was only a little over a month before Del Bosque  would name the squad for the World Cup. Time was very tight and I really believed that l was not going to make it.” said Iniesta. That moment of pain is still remembered at Barcelona’s training ground at Sant Joan Despí. Everyone was shocked to see Andrés abandon the session in tears accompanied by Emili, and eventually also by Carles Puyol as soon as he realized just how serious the injury was. “Cheer up, Andrés, everything will be fine.” The defender whispered in his ear as they left the training pitch together. Andrés heard nothing as they took the long walk back to the dressing-room. He was paralyzed by the fear that he was now back in the abyss, one that he was convinced he had left behind for good. All he could hear was his own sobbing. I told him: "Don't worry, Andrés. You are going to be the best player at the World Cup. But he was crying so much I don’t think he heard me.” says Paco Seirulo, the fitness coach at Barcelona whose words had been almost lost in the sound of the falling water from the shower. “Of course I heard Paco. But I could not bring myself to respond.” Iniesta says, remembering the scene inside the dressing-room moments before Puyol, captain, friend and confidant, would open the door to the solution to his problem: “You have to talk to Raúl, okay? Everything will be fine but you must speak to Raúl.” “My heart and my morale were on the floor. I had suffered with injuries for a year, but it seemed I was in the clear and full of excitement for the World Cup. But now I was back on the brink of missing the tournament.” says Andrés. “And yes I spoke to Raúl.” It may have appeared that Andrés had not been listening, but he was soon surrounded by the best specialists, and they were determined to put the boy from Fuentealbilla right once again. “The first thing Raúl told me was: ‘Don't worry, you will make the World Cup! And once you are there, we will do everything we can to make sure you get back to normal.’” ‘Normal?’ Such a low-key word for such a desperate situation. A footballer on the verge of missing a World Cup finals. “It is one of the most difficult moments that l have had to go through. But life has shown me not to give up, ever.” Andrés wrote at the time. There were now less than two months before Spain's first game in Durban. “Before the tournament began we had a month of spending every evening together. After dinner, it would be ‘time for Rail’ and I would lay down on the treatment table and put my body in his hands.” says Andrés. “What did I do to him?” Raúl still takes a few seconds to answer the question he has set himself. How did he change Andrés’ body? The video from Emili got him through the night but it was the magic hands of Raúl that helped him survive the day-to-day struggle to get his muscles right to play again. Both men knew that something was not right with Andrés. Something that not even the calm transmitted by Vicente del Bosque could remedy. “Don’t worry, I will wait for you right until the end.”  Del Bosque had told him. The man from Salamanca, fair and sensitive as ever, a man of his word, was showing his usual common sense. The patience of the coach was as decisive as the work of the two physiotherapists and the work and attitude of Iniesta himself. One week before his World Cup debut against Switzerland, Spain played their final friendly, in Murcia against Poland. Andrés was back. The midfielder picked up the ball on the left wing, whereas a right-footer he had always been so comfortable finding space and then bringing the ball inside. This particular move lasted 16 seconds and took him to the edge of Kuszczak area. He had swapped passes with Xavi and Silva before receiving the ball again with his back to the Polish goal. He controlled with his left foot, stepped on it with his right and turned to face the five Polish defenders between him and the goal. With the Murcia public on the edge of their seats, he flicked the ball up and over the Polish wall and played in Xavi who squared for Silva to score. Now you see it, now you don't, and all in the blink of an eye. “There we saw a magician inventing a pass, inventing a space, Xavi arriving from deep, the assist, the finish from David, real team play.” That was Andoni Zubizarreta version of the goal. He was an analyst at the time and only later become sporting director for Barcelona. It was another expression of a long-held admiration and one that told him what would happen as soon as the ball left the right boot of Iniesta. The game was no more than 14 minutes old and Raúl and Emili, the former sat on the bench of the Nueva Condomina stadium and the latter preparing a holiday to the Dominican Republic, were smiling broadly, accomplices in the happiness of Andrés who after setting up Villa with that right-footed pass for the first goal, had now played in Xavi for the second. There was euphoria in the stands and in the squad as everyone celebrated Iniesta's recovery. Until he came over to the bench and asked Del Bosque to take him off. “I have to learn from my experiences.” argues the player, wise enough to know that if he feels even the slightest pain he should ask to be replaced as he did in Murcia. Del Bosque was concerned and the team doctors were worried because this was minute 39 of a game being played on 8 June, just one week before Spain's Opening World Cup match. “We took him off because he felt some discomfort in the back of his thigh.” Spain doctor Oscar Celada told journalists after the game. “lt is not a tear and it has not deteriorated since. It was at the start of the game and he felt the discomfort so we made the change. It is a minor injury, we will do some tests but initially we can rule out anything serious. We just need to be cautious.” He was speaking for the press but also for Andrés who was now unsettled once more, trapped between the contrasting feelings of positivity for the way he had played and negativity because of the new setback. The right thigh was broken, almost. According to tests carried out in Barcelona there was a slight hamstring strain and the inflammation would require patience if it was to heal. “There is some small swelling in a muscle in the back of the right thigh. Initially the prognosis is good because there are no torn muscle fibres. We are not ruling him out for the Switzerland game.” said Juan Cota, another of the team’s doctors. The initial prognosis was good. But that word ‘initial’ had been cruel on Andrés in the past. He had suffered other injuries that had an ‘initially’ favourable diagnosis and turned out to be much worse, none more so than the torn thigh and the groin problem that blighted his season at Barcelona. The World Cup was about to start and Del Bosque was even more worried because he knew the subtleties of Spain's best football came from Iniesta. The player himself felt suffocated, annoyed at himself for having suffered so many injuries, too many. Iniesta did make it back for the game against the Swiss at the start of the World Cup but he injured himself again. This time after an hour of play, when he was brought, down by the right-back Lichtsteiner. He took his time getting back to his feet, obsessed with avoiding another major setback, he spent the next minute or so touching the back of his right thigh. That was the root of all his muscle problems. He was so worried he was unable to remember if, as nearly always, it had been Pedro who had gone on to replace him. The ritual repeated itself regardless of the opponent and even at a World Cup. Del Bosque would start with Iniesta, he would get injured, and Pedro would come on to replace him. And it seemed the better he was playing, the more likely it seemed he would pick up an injury. Andrés had played two passes inside the Swiss central defenders that had left a team-mate alone in the area. One found Piqué who had become an auxiliary centre-forward as Spain searched for a goal. Then he played a magical back-heel in another of Spain's best moves. He was on good form as he showed with a curling shot from the edge of the area from almost the same spot on the pitch from where he found the back of the net at Stamford Bridge. Then came the foul from Lichtsteiner. The injury appeared more serious this time. For a split second it seemed Andrés wanted to be swallowed up by the South African turf, something that did not pass without Canal+ commentator Michael Robinson noticing: “l don’t like the look on Iniesta’s face.” the ex-Liverpool forward told co-commentator Carlos Martínez: it was going to be necessary to revive the routine of messages from Emili and massages from Raúl. The psychological and physical therapy would be needed again and the blind faith that one day Iniesta would not have these relapses. “I came on and saw him touching the back of his thigh and said: ‘It seems like a blow to the back of the leg! Andrés.’ ‘No, no doctor, it's cramp at the back of the muscle.’ he said, which sounded the alarm bells. ‘Madre Mía! Let's walk very carefully off the pitch without hurrying, Andrés, okay?’ I said as we left the Durban pitch.” The coaching staff assumed that he would not be fit to play Honduras in five days time, but they trusted in him being ready for the last and potentially decisive group game against Chile. The Spain manager, a man of profound convictions, now had to face the criticism for the 1-0 defeat to Switzerland.“We are not going to lose perspective, we will be true to our style.” said Del Bosque. “lt was a mishap that is difficult to explain.” said Xavi. It was double frustration for Andrés with the defeat and the old injury now behaving slightly differently in South Africa from how it was in Barcelona. The situation was so delicate that they decided not to carry out tests on the injury and the doctors assured everyone that it was just a knock that would not become anything more. They didn’t want to take it any further. Convinced that if they showed Andrés one more image of the affected area, it could be the end of his World Cup. “You can’t treat a player by just showing him scans.” says Raúl “Sometimes you anticipate, or you take a risk, or you use your intuition with the aim of making sure he does not begin to obsess over his injury.” “Between the Switzerland game and the Honduras match, I had a very bad time of it.” remembers Andrés, immersed in a rehabilitation programme which naturally involved falling asleep at night to Emili video and, of course, Raúl's treatment table. And it was there in that player's confessional where a sportsman must lay himself bare and give up all his physical secrets to the perceptive hands of the physiotherapist, that he noticed the most subtle of changes, a change that would then need to be tested in the hallway of the Johannesburg hotel on the eve of the game against Honduras. “Raúl had hit the right spot, I just knew it.” he remembers. “It was not easy getting a handle on him; he's difficult to understand and sometimes I think l still don't.” says Raul. “But once you do, you see what an enigma he is. He lives in his own world, you never know what he is thinking, as if he is a little disconnected, and at first not overly-trusting it's hard to get inside his head. And when he is injured, it’s worse because he is anxious.” Raúl did get through to him though; the pair did strike up an understanding: “He is like a Swiss watch: in as much as we both know how he works, what he responds to, and we have learned what makes him tick.” he says. “He is as sensitive as he is mechanical. We had to harmonize his body again. And that is what we did.” But if what was happening in South Africa pointed to him returning in time for the Honduras game, another message was coming to him from Barcelona. It was a phrase that he had heard so many times before that it echoed around his head. “Andrés, you have to respect your body clock. You must always do that.” Emili never abandoned that one message - the time frames had to be respected. And so it was nine days later, on 25 June, when Andrés was able to celebrate a double victory after the defeat to Switzerland and his injury. Spain beat Chile and he scored the goal from a Villa assist - the world back to front, but who cared? He finished the game smiling like a schoolboy who had just got away with something, or at least one who had witnessed something turn out just as he had predicted. Andrés loves nothing more than that feeling as he heads back up the tunnel of being completely exhausted but wholly fulfilled by a well earned win, and even more so if one of his famous pre-match predictions has come true: “Victor, today I will score and I will dedicate it to you.” he had muttered to the team-mate on the seat next to him on the coach to Pretoria. The best victories always make fertile ground for the more intimate of anecdotes. “You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife.” remembers Del Bosque whose team were fully aware that they were playing for their very survival at the World Cup. There was a tense silence barely broken by the occasional whisper, such as Iniesta’s murmured promise to Victor Valdés, the boy who protected him in La Masia, the player who was justly given the opportunity to play for Spain precisely because of the influence of Barça on Del Bosque. The goal was started and finished by Iniesta. He won possession and he combined with Torres and Villa before hitting the back of the Chilean net shot with his right foot, his good foot, now completely cured, unstoppable even for Claudio Bravo, one of the best goalkeepers around who would later become his club team-mate at the Camp Nou. It was not just any goal either, because he had only scored one another in 42 games for Barcelona in that dramatic 2009-10 season in which he finished up playing just five minutes of the last match, as Guardiola's team beat Valladolid to win the league at the Camp Nou. Andrés had stopped touching the back of his leg and was now looking at his boots instead. He was no longer thinking about the games he had played, and was instead focused on the matches to come. There was no longer any trace of that pain in the right leg so well cared for by Rail. “A lot of the problems I have had with the hamstring derive from the injury I sustained playing the Rome Champions League final.” Andrés confesses. He might not be a doctor but he knows his own body as if he were a fusion of Raúl and Emili. “There were so many months of difficulties but when Raúl got to the root of the problem and liberated that area of the muscle everything started to work properly again.” says Andrés who always expresses himself best, not with words or gestures, but with his feet. When his body is right, stable and in perfect harmony, that’s when he can let the ball do the talking. “If I feel good, then everything else just flows.” There is no middle ground with Andrés, he is indestructible when he is fully fit, and fragile when he is injured; even slightly fatalistic. “Why did this have to happen now, just at the moment when l was feeling so good?” he would ask after every setback, not differentiating between small or big injuries and demanding so much from his body. But he felt good again now; good on that journey from the last group game in Pretoria to the final in Johannesburg. The muscle had healed and so had the memory of it in Cape Town in the last 16, the front pages had told of victory over Portugal and Ronaldo taking the defeat badly. ln Johannesburg in the quarter-final against Paraguay, Casillas had saved a decisive penalty with a little help from reserve goalkeeper Pepe Reina who had previously faced spot-kicks from Oscar Cardozo and told him which way to dive. And the semi-final against Germany was a happy return to the scene of all the uncertainties from the first match of the finals it had been in Durban on 16 june when he picked up the injury against Switzerland. But it would also be in Durban on 7 July when he was able to enjoy the moment Puyol threw open the doors to the World Cup final. “Please Xavi, the next corner, put it there for me, okay?” came the request from the Barcelona captain Puyol to his club team-mate. “But why would I put it right in the centre for you? Can't you see how big the Germans are?” Xavi responded. “For fuck sake, Pelopo. You just put it there on the penalty spot for me, can’t you see they are like statues?” came back the response. “Okay, okay! Like it’s that easy!” said Xavi, or ‘Pelopo’, the nickname he has had since his days at La Masia (a body hair reference, explain his teammates whenever asked.) “lf you don't put it there, I’m not coming, up for any more corners.” shouted back Puyol. Television cameras captured this heated discussion at half-time as both players walked off with the score at 0-0, Xavi repeating the phrase to himself. “Like it’s that easy!” It certainly was not easy, especially with the Jabulani, the glorified beach ball that despite having a life of its own had become the official World Cup match ball. Any doubt that Xavi could deliver lasted only until Spain won their first second-half corner. More convinced of his own ability than ever, he trotted across to the corner to the right of Neuer’s goal. “Right now, you are going to get it, Puyi.” Alongside him was Iniesta, no more than five or six metres away. Although Iniesta did not know it at the time, his job was one of distraction: operation Xavi and Puyol needed a decoy. Xavi wanted the German defenders to think that Spain would play the kick short, as they were tending to do, trying to draw the German giants out of their area. The short corner was straight out of the Barça and Spain textbook but the textbook was torn up in favour of the stubborn belief of Puyol and the complicity of Xavi. The Jabulani obeyed the maestro's right foot and flew directly over the penalty spot where it was met by Puyol's head. The Catalan centre back rose a split second before and jumped a centimetre higher than any of the eight German defenders marking the five Spain players in the area. it is no secret that the football of both Spain and Barcelona is precisely a question of time and space in which one centimetre and one second can make all the difference. Players have to think quickly and arrive before their opponents and even their team-mates. Puyol got to the ball ahead of Piqué. “I was going to head it but right at that moment, he got in front of me, I thought it was a plane.” joked Gerard Piqué afterwards Puyol’s header was as powerful as it was accurate and was only ever going to end up in one place. It took just two seconds to score such a historic goal from Xavi's boot into the back of Neuer’s net. lt was a set-piece made in Barcelona and one which had already been successful against Real Madrid in the famous 6-2 Clasico win in 2009. Spain had not scored a goal from a set-piece before in a World Cup and they have not done so since. It had been the most important goal in Spain's history. “What have you done to my country? Why? What have we ever done to you. Eh?” The question did not sound friendly or tongue-in-cheek. It was more rude and unpleasant; uttered by a disgruntled passer-by towards the table where Puyol, his brother Josep and friend Javi, Iniesta and the players’ agent Ramon Sostres, were sitting. The five of them lifted their gaze towards the arrogant-sounding German voice that had addressed the captain of Barcelona. It was Lothar Matthéus, a proud Bavarian whose intimidating curriculum included no less than five World Cups and a winner’s medal from Italia ‘90. “I haven’t done anything. Just a little header.” responded Puyol, smiling through that mop of curly hair. His reactions had been as quick as for the goal itself. “Relax, relax! I hope you have a lot of luck in the final!” said the German. Matthéius smiled and walked away and everyone else smiled too, their conversation having been interrupted by what at first seemed like a provocation but had then turned into light-hearted congratulations once the Latinos had decoded the German humour. “Do you realize what you have done, Carles? You have scored the most important goal in the history of Spanish football and everyone knows it.” said his companions at the table. “Let’s hope only until Sunday.” said the goalscorer. “Only until Sunday.” “Relax, Carles, I will take care of that. Don't you worry.” Suddenly all eyes were on Andrés. Everyone was surprised by the forcefulness of the statement he had just made, and filled with hope too because whenever he made such bold predictions it was usually because he had seen what was about to happen. When everything seems straightforward, his is the voice that warns against complacency; and when everything seems difficult, his is the voice that announces the arrival of a better future. “Do you believe in destiny, Andrés?” came the question from the table. “Destiny is a very complex word. l was certainly in the right place at the right time.’ And if he was in South Africa it certainly was not by coincidence. The relief at being there after thinking his chance may have gone explained his relaxed mood leading up to the final; one that allowed him to intervene in these post-match discussions, to enjoy Emili's therapy video every night and to raise a glass to Ram's treatment table. Soccer City, 11 july 2010, the day of the World Cup final, and the minutes leading up to a game the whole planet would stop to watch. A planet intrigued by a Holland side who now played like one of the fierce Spain teams of old, up against a Spain team that now more than ever before resembled the classic Dutch masters whose Total Football may have lost the World Cup to Franz Beckenbauer's Germans in 1974 but won over the whole of Football. Roles had been reversed since the arrival of Luis Aragonés and Del Bosque, who both encouraged teams that looked to control matches through possession who were built around the talented ball-playing Spanish midfielder, and therefore. naturally, around Iniesta. With Aragonés, Spain won Euro 2008, their first title in 44 years; now two years later, they were 90 minutes away from a first-ever World Cup. Andrés reached the dressing-room and went deeper and deeper into his own world, only coming to the surface for a moment to speak with Hugo Camarero. He had something to say to one of Spain's assistants, a member of the backroom physio team, one who has hands of silk that calm the most tired and pained of muscles, Hugo was in the dressing-room when he heard Iniesta. “Hey Hugo, please..” Hugo, consumed by the usual pre-match hustle and bustle, and even more so because this was a World Cup final, stopped what he was doing to attend to Andrés. “First, Jesús Navas sent for me to arrange to dedicate a shirt, then Andrés came to see me. He was working with Raúl at the time. I don’t know if he had seen what I had done for Jésus in the dressing-room before a game so many things happen, so imagine before a World Cup final: treatments, bandages, massages." Andrés came over: “Hey, Hugo, make me a shirt for Jarque, please.” “What size do you want it? Big, small, short-sleeved, long-sleeved, a vest? Short-sleeved, okay don’t worry, when you come back from the warm-up we will have it ready.” Andrés continued: “Please put: ‘Dani Jarque, always with us.’ and make sure it's written large on the front.” “Don’t worry, when you come back in it will be there for you.’ Andrés went out to warm up. Hugo also had to go out onto the pitch at Soccer City to accompany and help the physical trainer Javi Mihano take the session. But before that he now had something to do. “As fast as I could, I went to look for Joaquin who is one of the kit men with the Spain team.” recalls Hugo. “Here you go, Hugo, the vest you wanted!’ But who gave him the marker pen? “That was also Joaquin. They always have them for the corners and free-kick sheets that are given to the players before every match. But Joaquin, and don't ask me why, already suspected something. ‘Don’t use too much ink. We are going to need that marker pen. You will see why.’ he said to me.” With every letter he wrote, with a sort of accelerated patience, he could feel the stare of Joaquin on the back of his neck. Would there be enough ink? “I am very meticulous and I was pressing down hard on each letter, using more ink than Joaquin wanted me to. Why? Because I wanted people to be able to read the words. I wanted it to look perfect.” Hugo was acting with an unshakeable faith that this shirt would be seen by the whole world. Andrés was still out on the pitch warming up and Minano was missing Hugo, but Hugo had still not finished. “Come on, Hugo-come on.” Between the pressure he was being put under by Joaquin and the pressure he was under anyway, he finished as quickly as he could. “Perhaps six or seven minutes. Not much more.” When Andrés returned, the shirt was waiting for him. “I don't think he said anything to me.” remembers Hugo. “Maybe he raised his hand. You  know what he's like. He says more with a gesture or a look than with words.” Hugo returned to the quiet of the dressing room after the warm-up had finished. Andrés had withdrawn into his own silent space. It was the calm before the storm a very delicate mix of subtle gestures, looks and whispers ahead of the game they all knew was the biggest of their lives. Nobody saw him put on that second layer beneath his red and blue Spain shirt. Nor did anyone notice that Andrés, superstitious and never comfortable with long sleeves had cut the sleeves on his shirt. “I remember that the tunnel from the dressing-room to the pitch was so long and steep.”  Andrés says. “When you saw the light at the end of it, it gave you the feeling of entering a Colosseum. You didn't see the stands until you were right in the mouth of the tunnel.” In that tunnel, Andrés, with the sleeveless white tee shirt carrying Hugo’s handiwork on the front of it, under his own Spain number 6, begins to feel something inside. It isn't fear or anxiety. Is it nerves? A little insecurity, perhaps? He walks down that tunnel, on edge. “When I see that photograph, it still makes my hair stand on end.” says  Hugo. “So imagine what it was like for him! I see that message and my mind is swamped by a thousand flashbacks. And I think about all that he went through at that World Cup. Did he suffer? Yes, he did. He suffered a lot.” says Hugo. “It was fifty five days, including the preparation leading up to the tournament. Days and nights of treatment, sometimes until four in the morning. Look what happened in Murcia before the trip to South Africa. He was home free but the injury caught up with him. Look what happened against the Swiss. He was so nearly a hundred percent right again, but he had to start all over again. Every morning the same routine, the same scene. Let’s see now, the good morning greeting you get from Andrés. How does it go? We didn't really need words by the end. I think he ended up having more training sessions with me than with the rest of the team. If he gave you a smile, then that was enough. With a simple gesture, it was enough. There were nights when I spent more time praying than sleeping. Praying that the following morning, his good morning smile would be a reassuring one.” The kit men for the Spain team worked with the utmost care to make sure Andrés wanted for nothing. Before going to South Africa, the Spanish Football Federation even set up a gymnasium at the team’s training ground at Las Rozas with machines especially suited to his needs. “We brought the same machines that Xavi and Iniesta used in Barcelona” said Hugo. “And then we pressured them to take similar machines to the World Cup including the same running machine for Ramos. Andrés is very superstitious. But then many players are.” One day when Hugo was at training with Spain defender Raúl Albiol, the team doctor rushed on to the pitch shouting at Hugo: “You need to be with Andrés so you can do the same exercises with him as always now please and then you can come back to work with Albiol.” The patient was sure that with the same exercise routine every day, the body would end up synchronizing. That is why Hugo left everything he was doing and marched off for his meeting with Andrés Iniesta's legs. The routine could not be broken. “We had to manage the process very well with Andrés.” says Hugo. “The tests that we gave him, the information that we gave him, everything had to be really positive. I remember Raúl always repeating the same message to him so there were no doubts: ‘Relax, Andrés everything's going well. Relax.’ In fact, everything was not going well. It was going badly. But no matter how badly, we had to be positive.” Hugo was thinking about so many of these tiny details experienced during those 55 days as he made the long walk down the Soccer City tunnel. He was happy because Andrés had found exactly what he had asked for when he got back to his locker in the dressing-room. Everything was as it should be as he walked on to the pitch passing -without looking at it the World Cup he hoped he would end up kissing that night. “We got no idea what happened to that marker pen. I was a little bit annoyed when I gave it back that much I do remember.” says Hugo. There was a message on Jesús Navas' shirt that night too. The same one, written instead for Antonio Puerta, who had died tragically on the pitch when playing for Sevilla. The shirts were different too. The one used by Jesus was short-sleeved and blue and the one used by Andres, as the a whole world saw, was white and sleeveless. Both were the handiwork of Hugo Camarero. “Why did I never think of it before? I don't know. I don’t think too much about things. Perhaps it was inspiration from somewhere.” says Andrés. In the build-up to the final; Iniesta was occupied with more domestic affairs. He was making sure that his closest friends Jordi, Joel, Sesi and Alexis reached Johannesburg in time to see the final. “I didn’t need to think about the shirt when I scored the goal. It is something instinctive. You score and you immediately take off your shirt. lf I had thought about it too much, then maybe it would not have worked out so well. It went perfectly, it never got caught up, I took it off cleanly. It never fell to the ground. I never fell to the ground. It was incredible.” Hugo's handwritten message had ceased to be hidden beneath Andrés' Spain shirt. The message stirred millions of hearts, shaken by the unforgettable goal that had preceded it. ‘Dani Jarque, always with us.’ “I saw the goal in a different way to everyone else.” Andrés says. What is it like to score the goal that wins a World Cup and buries the footballing frustrations of an entire nation with one shot? “When I received the ball, I couldn’t hear a thing.” he says. “It feels as though when l controlled the ball the whole world stopped. It is difficult to explain. I didn’t feel anything in that moment, there was just silence. The ball, the goal, and  me. It is true that just before the ball is passed to me, I take a step back just to be sure I'm not offside. I knew that I wasn't, it was something instinctive. It's something your body does on autopilot. And then, then came the silence.” The ball arrived and sat up sweetly for Iniesta to control it and strike it “You have to hold back for just a moment, just so that you catch it perfectly. You're in charge. You and only you. The ball was Newton’s apple. And so that made me Newton. I just needed to wait for gravity to take its course. You control the situation. You decide the height the ball is at when you hit it, how hard you hit it, and where you send it. In that moment of silence, it's just you and the ball. My intention was to 'shoot as far into the corner as I could so that the goalkeeper could not get to it, but it ends up going in more centrally. But I hit it hard, that’s for sure. The truth is I don’t like to think too much about the process. When you think you lose a tenth of a second, and if you think too much you can miss.”The ball, struck a little more centrally than planned, bent back the right hand of Stekelenburg. With the Dutch keeper now on his knees beaten by the shot, Andrés turned towards the linesman hoping he had not committed the monumental injustice of raising his flag, because he had been onside. He also looked back towards the centre of the pitch remembering something else: “I participated in the entire move for the goal.”He speaks with pride about the way he had helped knit together the move that went from Sergio Ramos' zone at right back, to the centre-forward position,formerly the home of Fernando Torres before he injured himself in that second period of extra time, the backheel to Navas, the movement into space, the pause; all of it necessary for the move to go down in Spanish football history. Andrés is there in all those details. The player who says he doesn’t like to think too much. He did not suffer in those agonizing final minutes despite the nervous moments in the Spain area. “When I saw Robben coming in on Casillas, I was expectant. Nothing more than that. In the end you trust the goalkeeper, it's as simple as that. Now, after watching replays of the chance many times, I think Robben had enough pitch to dribble around Iker. But, luckily, he hit the shot and met with an immense Casillas. That save was so vital. What is more, the more minutes that were played the better I was feeling. I had the feeling we were going to win. The team was getting stronger, I was getting stronger. It is something you can feel. You can see it in the way you are receiving the ball and I wanted to play an important part. I wanted to take responsibility and I had the energy levels to do so. l felt no fear with the ball at my feet! I was empowered. And I'm not saying that just because of the goal, because that was just one of the many moves we put together. Before the goal I remember one chance when l controlled the ball well but just could not finish: There was the move when Heitinga was sent off and two or three other chances. I had the feeling I was going to have to dig even deeper than the rest for us to win that final. Don’t ask me why, that is just the way I felt.” says Andrés. What is more, it was not an easy final and not just for purely football reasons or because it had gone into extra time. Andrés knew right from the first kick that he was playing a thousand mini-matches in one massive game. This felt like something that had started four years earlier in 2006. “Of course I remember the challenges from Van Bommel. How could I forget them! He stepped on me on purpose and then committed two fouls against me that could have both been straight reds. And to think I was almost the one sent off! Imagine if I had been shown the red card. That was when I stuck my hip out and he went down as if I had killed him. I was furious when he had deliberately stepped on me to hurt me. I know in that moment I could have been the one receiving the red card, so..” He can't even bring himself to finish the sentence. But then the memories come flooding back of that moment when he became unrecognizable even to himself. “They kicked us all over the place in the final: the foul from De Jong on Xabi Alonso, the ones on me. And it’s true that I don’t usually lose my cool.” But he did lose his cool to the point where for a moment, caught up in that conflict with Van Bommel. Andrés was no longer himself. Rather than talk about what almost happened, he prefers to talk about what did happen. The goal. “It is not the goal the people see on the television.” he says. “It resembles it but it was not quite like that. Through my eyes, the perspective changes. The feeling I had on the pitch is something I can’t put into words. It was just very much my goal and I know I have never scored a goal like it. I don't know how to explain it, I don’t know how to do it justice.Everything around me froze for a few seconds, I heard the silence. That sounds like a contradiction but I can't think of a better way of describing it: an audible silence.” And then the ball hits the net, Andrés removes his Spain shirt and the world sees that message and remembers Dani Jarque. That white sleeveless t-shirt written on by Hugo, is in Daniel Jarque's spiritual home - Espanyol’s Cornellà-El Prat stadium. There where the crowd applaud their former captain in minute 21 -his shirt number of every single game. The game plays on but the supporters forget the football for a moment and give Dani, Andrés' friend, a minute's ovation, match after match, season after season. The blue Spain shirt with the sleeves hurriedly cut in the Soccer Qty dressing room is another football artefact and that is not in Andrés’ possession either. Who has it? “That particular treasure is in very safe hands.” he says. Emili still can't believe the gift that Andrés gave him when he came back from South Africa, a blue Spain shirt with something very special written on it: “Our secret worked, we became Champions! Thanks for being by my side! With affection. A. Iniesta 6.” This time it was the hand, not of Hugo but of Andrés, dedicating the shirt that still did not have the star above the badge reserved for teams who have won the World Cup but would be here forever more. Everyone remembers the goal. No one will ever forget it. But few remember that Andrés played six of the seven games at the World Cup and in three of them was voted man of the match; including the final of course.

[janicho88]

Fire, Fur & Mistletoe Chapter 3

Pairing- Eventual Dean x Female Reader.

Word Count-2,383

Warning- Mentions of: loss of parents, death, and fires.  Possible swearing. Slight angst. Fluff

Summary- A rewrite of the Nine Lives of Christmas, Hallmark movie. AU, Dean is a firefighter who doesn’t do commitment, the Holiday’s don’t mean much to him.  Coming home after a shift he finds a dog in trouble.  The reader is a veterinary student who works in a coffee shop trying to make it to graduation, until someone causes problems there for her.  She isn’t interested in finding anyone other than her own dog until after she finishes school.  Do their four legged friends have other plans?

A/N- This series is written for @spnchristmasbingo.  The square filled for this chapter is Christmas Tree  The first two chapters will stay closer to the movie than the rest will.  

This chapter also fills my entry for @supernatural-love14​,100 Followers writing challenge.  Prompt - I don’t remember the last time I truly enjoyed Christmas.

This has its own tag list and it is open.  That way I am not tagging anyone who doesn’t want to be tagged in Christmas stories.   This story is unbeta’d.

Header by the amazing @winchest09

Divider from freepngimg.com

Series Masterlist

To say you were surprised to end up at an elementary school would be an understatement.    Dean’s group of fascinating people were the kindergarten classes. He even had plastic fireman hats for them, and of course an extra one for you. 

The kids were so caught up in his speech about fire safety and the important things to remember if there ever is a fire.  He was so good with them and kept them all interested.  He finished his presentation talking about Christmas trees and how they should all make sure their parents keep them watered, so the lights don’t catch them on fire. 

Dean took questions at the end.  Some of the boys wanted to know what it was like to drive the fire truck, someone asked if it was fun to slide down the pole.  They were disappointed when Dean told them there wasn’t one where he worked.  One little girl at the end ran up and gave him a great big hug before you guys left.  He was so adorable with her. 

When you left there Dean asked if you were interested in helping him pick out tiles for the kitchen backsplash.  You didn’t have anything else to do and had been enjoying helping him with the house so you agreed. 

Getting to the store he had three different ones selected and had you help him decide.  After the paint he trusted your opinion on the color selection.   

They had enough in stock of your choice to let you two get started on it when you got home.  The rest would be in soon.  You had a system worked out, you put the mastic on the back and Dean applied the tile to the wall. 

That afternoon Dean headed into work for another 24 hour shift. The second call of the afternoon was for a house fire.  Thankfully for the residents it was mostly contained to one room, just the living room.  But that room had a bit of damage done.

Hoping out of the truck back at the station he asks, “Okay who seriously is going to BBQ a turkey in the fireplace.  And plan on doing it twice because this was just going to be a test run before Christmas?”

“It’s the Holidays,”  Bobby stated.  “People are going to be doing crazy things.  You’ve been here a few years don’t you know this by now.”

“That is true.  Y/N and I were talking about that earlier after we left the school presentation.”

“Wait, WE, left the presentation?  Did you take her with you?”  Benny wanted to know.

“Well,”

“She’s living with him now, didn’t you know that?” Sam asks him.

“What, really?”  Benny couldn’t believe it.

“She moved in a couple days ago.”

“Wow, you two move fast.”

“It’s not like that you idiots.  She got kicked out of her condo and had nowhere else to go, and she already got fired because of me.  I’m just giving her a place to stay till she figures things out.  The house has the room.  Our dogs get along great.”

“Is that why Miracle isn’t here?”  Cas wants to know.

“Yeah, Y/N’s taking care of him and Dean. He’s falling in love.”

“Who Dean or Miracle?” Cas questions Sam.

“Dean, probably both.  She is very easy to like.”

“You’ve met her, besides that day she was in here?”  Benny wanted to know.

“Yeah, Dean called me to help move her.”

“I would have helped the nice pretty girl move, why didn’t you ask me to help?”

“I’m not sure packing would have been the only thing you tried with her, Benny.  I just found her again, I’m not letting you scare her off.”

“He didn’t deny the love.”  Sam says with a smile. 

“I’m not falling in love with anyone, bitch.”  Dean shakes his head at the whole thing as he removes his gear. 

“I’m sorry, my jerk of a brother, is falling in love, but he doesn’t know it yet.”

“That can’t be true Dean, come on man.  I look up to you, playing the field avoiding commitment, a constant string of beautiful women.”

“It’s not true, we aren’t falling in love, not dating.  I still don’t do commitment, and never getting married.”

“So what are you doing with Miracle if you don’t do commitment?”  Bobby asks as he takes off his coat.”

“Temporary long termish house guest.”

“Uh huh.”

“I told him when the house is sold he’s on his own.”

“Let us know how that works out in a couple of months, you idjit.”

“I’m calling your bluff with the girl.  Can you say no to these three things.”

“Really Cas?”

Cas ignores Dean and continues on, “ You live with her?  That’s a yes.  Two, you spend all your free time with her? Yes.”

“Well.”

“Three, you think about her when you aren’t with her? Yes,”

“No, no, you have it all wrong.  Like I said she is only staying till she gets back on her feet.  We are getting to know each other so we hang out, but only  because she’s already there.”

“Getting to know each other like you would if you were dating someone?”

“Shut it Sam.”

“Are you saying he is falling in love?  The legend, is human after all?”  Benny questioned.

“No, I’m not falling in love.  Y/N is a temporary roommate.  That’s it.”

“Man, you are like five minutes away from marrying this girl.”  Sam tells him.

“I hate you all.”  Gear off Dean leaves them behind to take a shower.

“Keep telling yourself that!”  Bobby yells after him.

Wandering around Dean’s house alone while he was at work, you got to thinking.  There was one thing you were really missing this close to Christmas, and it was something you didn’t think you would be able to have this year.  A Christmas tree.

When Dean gets home the next afternoon you bring it up.

“I was wondering if you were going to get a Christmas tree this year?”

“Usually don’t.  I don’t think I’ve had one in a few years.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I haven’t seen a reason too.  I buy a house, fix it up and sell it.  Usually I don’t stay in one long enough.  I don’t do much for the Holidays.  Why do you ask?”

“I was thinking maybe we could get a tree?  I have a little artificial tabletop tree, but wouldn’t it be nice to have a real one?  To have that Christmas smell when you walk in the door?”

“If you like real ones so much why didn’t you already have one in your place?”

“It was against the bylaws. Apparently too much of a fire liability.”

“That didn’t stop you with Dakota.”

“The tree can’t be hidden quickly like she was.  She was worth risking it for.”

“You really want to get a tree?”

“Please, it helps it feel more like Christmas.  If you don’t want one I understand.”

Dean threw his head back and sighed.  “Fine we can go get a tree.  I think there is a tree lot near the station that hasn’t sold out yet.”

“Let’s go to a tree farm, get the whole experience.”

“You’ll be the death of me Sweetheart.”

Dean didn’t have to work at all the following day, so after breakfast the two of you headed out to the Christmas tree farm.  Dressed in warm clothes and boots you were ready to walk all around the 8 acre tree farm if you needed to, just to find the right tree.   There was a wagon ride that took you around to the different types of trees.  Dean and you got off in the back lot figuring you could walk your way toward the entrance. 

“There’s a tree,”  Dean points out as you start walking down the first row.

“Yes, and it’s also like four foot tall.  It’s still growing, let the baby be.”

“Okay, miss Christmas tree expert.  How do you pick the perfect Christmas tree?”

“It’s really pretty scientific you know.”

“Oh really? Please do explain it to me.”

You laughed at his expression. He had turned to you with wide eyes and a cheeky little grin.  Like he was going to absorb whatever you said.  “You dork.”  Heading over to a tree you reach for a branch pulling your hand back toward you slowly.  “First you need to check the freshness.  If the needles stay on when you do that it’s good.”

You drop your hand to the side, “Then you need to inhale deeply and see how it smells.”

Dean did just that, “It smells like a tree.”

“Okay, but does it smell Christmassy.”

“Christmassy?  Pretty sure you just made that word up.”  

“Nope it’s totally in the dictionary.”

“Okay, Webster.  Then what does it mean?”

“To be filled with Christmas spirit.”

Dean just stared at you for a moment.  “You think a tree is going to smell like it’s filled with Christmas spirit?  Just wondering if you were drinking before I got up this morning?”

“Oh come on, it’s that fresh cut pine smell that fills the whole place and makes it feel like Christmas.”

“Whatever you say, I’ll leave the nose work to you.  What is step three?”  He wants to know as you two walk down the lane looking at the trees around you.

“The lean test.  You need to look at a tree straight on, then lean to the right and to the left, then stand back up straight.  You don’t want a tree that is leaning too hard one way and is crooked.”  You stop to inspect a tree, but continue on down your way.

The fourth step is checking the trunk and making sure nothing is wrong with it.  Sometimes the tree might be straight but that isn’t.  Or it could have a double one that won’t fit in a tree stand.”

“Height is important too.  Your ceilings are fairly high so we could get a foot tree no problem.”

Dean is just smiling listening to you go on about trees while you walk through the lot. “Yep that is extremely scientific.”

You two stopped and looked at different ones but kept going.  There was one you stuck a stick up in top of to mark if you didn’t find anything else you liked. Around an hour into your search you stopped in your tracks.  Dean was lost in his thoughts and took him a moment to notice.  

“That’s the one.”

“The one?”

“Yep, that’s the tree we should get.”

“There is only one?  How do you know it’s the one? What if you are wrong, but you’ve already committed to it?  What happens then, fighting and hurting the kids?”

“You lost me, Dean.”

“I um,”  He just realized what all came out of his mouth. “I  mean it’s a great tree.  Let’s get that one.”

“You sure you are alright?”

“Yep great.  Hold that steady, till I need you to push a little, will you?”

While you were helping to hold the tree from moving too much Dean got on the ground and started sawing back and forth till he had it lying on the ground.  You couldn’t help but notice the muscles in his arms as he worked. 

The two of you carried the tree toward the path in the hopes the wagon would be around soon and you wouldn’t have to carry it all the way to the front.  Thankfully only about five minutes later you could hear it coming around.  Up at the front they shook and bagged the tree for you.  

They also had Santa, and some petting animals around.

“Did you want to go tell Santa your Christmas wish?”  You asked Dean.

“You know, I already saw him this year.  He and I are pretty tight.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

After seeing the animals you hopped in his truck and headed to the store.  Neither of you had a stand that would fit the newly bought tree.  With that accomplished you were on your way back to the house.  Getting the tree inside it was set up in the living room not to far from the fire place, but not near enough to catch any sparks that may pop out. 

Dean didn’t have any decorations in the house, but you had some you had been saving.  After the lights were on you went to the kitchen to make some hot chocolate for the two of you and pulled out some of the peanut butter blossom cookies you made the day before.  Coming back Dean still hadn’t turned on the tv so you asked if you could.  Finding the different music channels you finally came across a Christmas one.

The two of you were enjoying the music and each other’s company as you decorated the tree. 

It was late afternoon by the time everything was done and cleaned up.  You offered to start dinner and Dean came in to help you.  The two of you working easily in the newly finished kitchen. 

After dinner you two retired back to the living room turning off the lights in the room and just letting the tree shine.  There was a roaring fire going, The Santa Clause 2 playing on tv.  Chet had to be one of your favorite reindeer in training. It was very relaxing.  

After the movie Dean mutes the television and turns to you.  “Thank you for suggesting the tree.  It’s actually really nice to have it.  I don’t remember the last time I truly enjoyed Christmas.  My parents fought a lot when we were little after the fire, before and after separating.  After we lost them it was just Sam and I.  Both of us just worked double shifts on Christmas at the station so others could have the time off.  Now Sam has Jess so he works part of the day, but doesn’t do a double anymore so he can spend time with her and her family.

He looks around at the decorations on the mantle, “I wouldn’t be opposed if you had some other small decorations you wanted to get out too.”

“Okay, I’ll see what I have that won’t be in the way.”

He turns the volume back up and the two of you settle back to watch another movie.

Thank you for reading!

Chapter 4 

Tags- @winchest09  @waywardbeanie @whatareyousearchingfordean  @flamencodiva @deanwanddamons @jensengirl83 @abuavnee @lunarmoon8 @amyzombie1013 @akshi8278 @that-one-gay-girl @mandalou29  @igotmadskills

[itmighthavebeenintentional]

ItMightHaveBeenIntentional’s Masterlist

Supernatural Stories

Shackled After nearly ten years, Sam Winchester calls Miriam Bard to collect on a life debt. Unfortunately for Miriam, Sam leaves out a few important details.

Characters: Dean Winchester, Miriam Bard (original female character), Sam Winchester, Castiel Rating: EXPLICIT. 18+ONLY. PLEASE READ/HEED WARNINGS.  Warning: Warnings change each chapter, please check every time. Ch 1 Warnings: Implied loss of family, grieving, depression, cursing, Demon!Dean, Sam’s tendency to leave out vital details for folks helping him to save Dean (read: Sam’s tendency to be a Winchester)

...

Walk Me Home Twenty-four years ago, Kimberly Harper met a boy who changed the course of her entire life before up and leaving one night. She spent years moving past the memories, building a stable, satisfying career as professor of folklore and mythology at the local university. Then the accidents start, and she’s forced to seek help among her hunter contacts. All it takes is a knock on her office door to send Kimber’s carefully built emotional walls crumbling to the ground. Inspired by P!nk’s “Walk Me Home.” A birthday present for the incomparable @thoughtslikeaminefield.

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Dr. Kimberly Harper (original female character), Mysterious Big Bad,  mention of Garth Fitzgerald, John Winchester/Teenage Dean/young Teenage Sam (flashbacks) Rating: Mature.. 18+ONLY. PLEASE READ WARNINGS. Warnings: Show level violence, show level parental neglect (let’s not John bash, I’m just saying), show-style witchcraft, show-level mental manipulation, stalking, bit of angst, sexual content (higher than show level),swearing, general yearning. ...

Dear Mr. Fantasy  Sometimes when he sleeps, Dean sees flashes of other Dean Winchesters, in other universes. Inspired by Traffic’s “Dear Mr. Fantasy” and the header image; prompt given by @thoughtslikeaminefield​. @cabin-fever-bang​ prompt fill.

Characters: Dean Winchester, AU Dean Winchester, original female character, Sam Winchester; mentions of Castiel, Chuck, AU John Winchester, AU Sam Winchester, and AU Danny Elkins  Rating: Teen Warnings: SEASON 15 SPOILERS, bit of angst. ...

To My Soul You’ve taken to walking when insomnia strikes. Dean and Sam have their own means of dealing with their occasional insomnia. Every now and then, your paths cross. Inspired by Van Morrison’s “And It Stoned Me”. Image by @there-must-be-a-lock

Characters: Reader, Sam Winchester, mentions of Dean Winchester Rating: Most anyone. Warnings: Some loneliness. This story is very soft, there’s not much to warn about. ...

Detours on the Road So Far - OR - Why Sam and Dean Need Actual Adult Supervision Shenanigans. Lots of them. Probably some pie. THIS IS CRACK FIC.

Characters: Our main dudes. Some friends, frenemies, and various other entities. Rating: Range from Teen to Adult, changes each chapter. WARNINGS CHANGE WITH EACH CHAPTER. READ/HEED WARNINGS FOR EACH CHAPTER. ADULT THEMES THROUGHOUT, SOME ADULTIER THAN OTHERS. ...

The Rose “She’s fifty today, and in Dean’s opinion, there’s never been anyone more beautiful.” An alternate Dean reflects on the life he’s led. Sequel to “Dear Mr. Fantasy.”

Characters: An Alternate universe Dean (no, not that one), his wife (original female character or female reader, depending on how hard you stare at it), mentions of Sam, John, vague reference to Chuck. Rating: Most anybody can read this one.  Warnings: SEASON 15 SPOILERS, bit of angst. Honestly, it’s pretty sweet. ...

Crossword Clues and Coffee A chance encounter in Lebanon’s finest (read: only) diner leads Dean to find the one thing he never knew his life was missing.   

Characters: Dean Winchester, Esther (original female character), Sam Winchester, Castiel Rating: Most anyone. Maybe a smattering of language. Warnings: Tiny bit of language? Angst. LOTS of sass. Honestly, it’s a lot of fluff. No romance. ...

I’m Ready “I can’t...I can’t take my forever if you’re not in it.”  A Destiel story, eventually. Picks up right where the show left off. Not technically a fix-it, as I didn’t change anything, but I promise it gets better.

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel. Many Original Characters, Appearances by John Winchester, May Winchester, Bobby, Jody, Donna, Charlie, Kevin, and a few other name drops you’ll appreciate Rating: Teen Warnings: Cursing, mentions of (canon) child abuse and neglect, mentions of past trauma, working through trauma, denial, bit of pining ...

We’ve Got Tonight  “It’s not your job to do this, Andy. You make people happy. I was in the diner all of ten minutes, and you knew exactly how to get me to smile. You do normal, real things like garden and sing karaoke. Saving the world is my job, Sam’s job. Sometimes it’s even Cas’s job, but it’s not yours.” Inspired by Bob Seger’s “We’ve Got Tonight”

Characters: Andy (Original Female Character), Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Crowley Rating: Mature Warnings: Major Character Death, More Major Character Deaths (sort of?), higher than show level violence, blood, light smutting, language, demons, apocalypse, inferred suicide, cult activity.

...

Marvel/MCU Stories

Breathe With Me “The magnitudes of the rocks and trees and streams are so delicately harmonized, they are mostly hidden.” John Muir

Characters: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, original gender neutral character (reader) Relationship(s): Established poly relationship.  Rating: Teen, but probably not even that Warnings: This is meant to be a comfort fic, rather than a triggery, angsty one. Anxiety attacks, stress, someone with a news-watching trigger, but otherwise the story is people finding ways to cope/deal with their triggers and supporting others who are doing the same. ...

After Midnight She calls him one last time, determined to put an end to their tryst. Loki feels differently. Written for @fvckingavengers Quarantine Challenge, prompt #32: “After Midnight” by Dorothy. Be gentle, this is my first posted Loki story. Beautiful header by @there-must-be-a-lock ; thank you so much, friend!

Characters: Loki, unnamed female character/reader Relationships: Loki/unnamed female character/reader Rating: Mature. 18+ONLY. Warnings: sexual content, Loki being persuasive

...

How Long The call comes sometime after midnight, pulling you instantly alert from your deep sleep. Your phone is set to “Do Not Disturb,” and only one number is programmed as an exception.

Characters: Reader, Steve Rogers (Nomad Steve Rogers, Nomad Captain America) Relationship(s): reader x Steve Rogers Rating: MATURE. 18+ ONLY. 

...

Shadows and Pills Some people come away from the Battle of New York with scars and broken bones. Some come away with nightmares and years of therapy ahead of them. Some don’t come away at all. Alexa comes away with a shadow.

Characters: Alexa (original female character), Dark/Evil Loki Rating: Explicit. 18+ONLY Warnings: RAPE, Torture, Abuse, Self Harm, Negative Images of Psychological Services/Mental Health Professionals, Hallucinations, Stalking, Supernatural Horror, Prescription Drug Use and Eventual Abuse, Mental Illness, PTSD, Flashbacks of Violence, Flashbacks of Tragedy, Starving Oneself, Isolation, Physical and Mental Exhaustion, Denial, Self Neglect, Gaslighting, Mental Spiraling, Mental and Emotional Abuse ...

Real Person Fic

Binging “The last thing he wants you to think is that you’re simply a convenience, someone he just keeps on the hook for when he’s got time.” Inspired by Mr. Stan’s infamous Men’s Health photo shoot, as well as his “Cheat Day” video.

Rating: M, 18+ONLY Warnings: Language (heh), smut, fluff, excessive use of breakfast foods. Characters: Sebastian Stan, Reader/Unnamed Original Character Word Count: 2.4k ...

Every Now and Then “It’s a simple case of not enough versus taking what you can get. Sometimes she sees him for a day or two, then not again for almost half a year.” Relationships are hard. When one person is a world-wide superstar and both people are idiots, they get that much harder. They both take what they can get, but eventually that may not be enough.

Characters: Tom Hiddleston, Reader Insert/Unnamed Original Female Character Rating: Mature, 18+ONLY Warnings: Two large dollops of smut, a half-cup of angst divided, several pinches of language, dash of loneliness, and a good sprinkle of lack of communication. Fold ingredients together gently, bake at 200c fan for 20 minutes, then serve piping hot from the oven.