#his excited little giggles and exuberance has captivated me | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shannaraisles · 5 years

Text

Fire & Fidelity - Chapter 2

It is a truth universally acknowledged that no fandom can ever have too many Pride and Prejudice AUs. A straight retelling of Jane Austen’s P&P, based on the 1995 BBC miniseries adaptation, with a few tweaks here and there along the way.

Note - I have lifted characters and story elements from Dragon Age and placed them in Regency England purely in order to use the locations in P&P rather than confuse myself with making the geography of Thedas work for this story.

[Read on AO3]

Chapter Two

There truly was nothing quite like a peaceful walk through the countryside, Lizzie reflected a month later, closing her eyes to feel the breeze on her face.

The last grasp of winter was fading into spring, sunshine beginning to pour down over the landscape more regularly, allowing for these long escapes from the tension of home. Ever since Mr. Trevelyan's announcement that he would not visit Mr. Theirin upon his arrival in the neighborhood, Mrs Trevelyan had been increasingly waspish and difficult, far more prone to her performative hysterics and self-pitying wails on a daily basis. Lizzie and Jane had taken to alternating their constant presence in the house day by day, if only to spare Mary from their mother's snapping remarks. Kitty and Lydia thought nothing of remaining in such poor company, more often out and in Meryton than at home during daylight.

Still, with her mother making life at home more than a little uncomfortable, it was nothing less than sheer pleasure to be able to walk out here in the peace and quiet of the countryside, letting the tension fade from her form as she went. The wind caught at the brim of her bonnet, one gloved hand rising to press against the crown before the whole thing could tug painfully at her scalp via the pins that held it in place over her hair.

"Lizzie!"

The peace was shattered by the raucous sound of Lydia yelling her name from the lane on the other side of the field she was following. She turned, finding both Kitty and Lydia walking back toward home with excited smiles on their faces. They had been out walking in the hope that the fresh air would soothe Kitty's chest cold, but it seemed as though the lure of Meryton had been too much, again.

"Wait 'til you hear our news!" Lydia went on, waving wildly before continuing on her way.

Lizzie sighed softly, watching her youngest sisters tramp toward the track that would bring them to her side for the last stretch back home. So much for peace and quiet ... but perhaps what they had to tell would brighten their mother's temper and remove at least some of the discomfort from being at home. Unfortunately for her own peace of mind, it meant that she was obliged to walk along listening to Kitty and Lydia arguing over who was going to share their news first. Lizzie loved her little sisters, but they were extraordinarily strident at times, almost seeming to enjoy the screech of their own tempers clashing and destroying the calm of everyone else around them.

They found their family gathered in the drawing room together - their father reading from his newspaper; their mother listening with her eyes closed as Jane read a letter from her sister, Mrs. Cousland, who lived in London; Mary silently practicing the fingering for her favorite tune beside the piano to keep from disturbing anyone else. Shed of gloves, spencers, and bonnets, Lizzie followed her youngest sisters into the drawing room, unsurprised by the eruption of their enthusiasm as she took up her sewing and sat beside Jane.

"Mr. Theirin is come to Netherfield!" Lydia exclaimed excitedly, thumping down into a seat at the round table. "He was a Templar, they're saying, before he inherited his father's fortune, and still keeps his sword and shield -"

"Sir Malcolm Hawke has called on him already," Kitty interrupted, ignoring Lydia's offended look in her direction even as she coughed uncomfortably.

"Save your breath to cool your porridge, Kitty, I will tell Mama," the youngest Trevelyan told her sister sharply.

Jane caught Lizzie's eye, the two elder sisters sharing long-suffering smiles that echoed their father's irritation at the gossip behind his newspaper. Their mother, on the other hand, was not in the mood to hide her own irritability.

"I do not wish to know," she informed both Lydia and Kitty in a prim tone, waving her lace handkerchief dismissively. "What should we care for Mr. Theirin since we are never to be acquainted with him?"

She threw a distinctly pointed look at her husband - or rather, at the newspaper her husband was currently behind. Lizzie hastily looked down at her sewing. She'd seen the twitch in her father's fingers and knew what it meant. Mr. Trevelyan was enjoying listening to his wife attempting to be both calm and cool about a subject that had riled her up for a full month thus far.

"But Mama," Lydia began, cut off when Kitty coughed once again.

"Don't keep coughing so, Kitty, for the sake of Andraste!" Mrs. Trevelyan snapped. "Have a little compassion on my nerves!"

"I don't cough for my own amusement!" Kitty objected, but Lydia was already protesting her own side of things.

"He has thirty servants, forty servants," the youngest urged, trying to spark her mother's interest with a subject she knew interested the woman. "And he is very handsome, and wears a blue coat."

"And he declared to Sir Malcolm that he loves to dance," Kitty added, taking a sip of water to clear her cough if she could.

"He's promised to come to the next ball!"

"At the assembly rooms -"

"- on Saturday!"

"And he is bringing six ladies and four gentlemen," Kitty finished decidedly.

"No, it was twelve ladies and seven gentlemen," Lydia corrected her, frowning in confusion.

"Too many ladies," Lizzie murmured to Jane as their littlest sisters stared at each other, now thoroughly confused as to what they had heard and what they had made up on the road.

"Oh, Lydia, I beg you would stop," Mrs Trevelyan exclaimed, her aloof tone gone in favor of being close to tears yet again despite the quiet mirth of her two eldest daughters. "For we are never to know Mr. Theirin, and it pains me to hear of him."

"But Mama -"

"I am sick of Mr. Theirin!" the mother declared, torn between upset and fury at her own frustrated ambitions.

"I am sorry to hear that," Mr. Trevelyan commented mildly, folding his paper. "If I had known as much this morning, I should never have called on him."

So that was why their father had braved the drawing room for the first time in a month. Lizzie had to avoid Jane's gaze entirely at the sight and sound of her mother and youngest sisters' utter astonishment, only to catch Mary's quiet smile and splutter a little in her own attempt to keep her laughter to a minimum.

"You have called on him?" Mrs Trevelyan shrieked, shock and disbelieving delight battling in her tone.

Mr. Trevelyan offered up a resigned sigh, his own smile teasing as he looked on his suddenly happy little family.

"I'm afraid we cannot escape the acquaintance now," he commiserated, setting the paper down on his knee to watch the consequences of his little charade with interest.

There was a brief pause as the news sank in, and Mrs Trevelyan let loose a squeal of sheer, unadulterated pleasure.

"Oh! My dear Mr. Trevelyan, how good you are to us!"

She threw herself out of her armchair to embrace him where he sat, never minding his quiet chuckle at her delight.

"Yes, well, well," he muttered, almost embarrassed by her affection in front of their daughters.

"Girls, is he not a good father?" his wife exclaimed, all but bouncing on her toes in her expression of joy. It really was no wonder Lydia and Kitty had little control over themselves when their mother never displayed any control at all. "And never to tell us? What a good joke!"

She cackled with laughter, skipping away from her husband to clasp the hands of her two youngest girls and dance in a circle with them for a moment. Behind the trio, Mary rolled her eyes at the display, smiling for their happiness but not expecting to be included. Lizzie, to her own delight, heard Jane actually giggle beside her, finally letting herself laugh just a little to release some of the tension they had all been carrying for a full month now.

"Oh, and you shall all dance with Mr. Theirin!" Mrs. Trevelyan was declaring as she skipped around with Lydia and Kitty.

"I hope he has a strong constitution, Mama," Lizzie said with a warm laugh, her smile relaxing further when her mother only laughed more in answer, squeezing the captive hands she held.

"And a fondness for silly young women," Mr. Trevelyan added, his own amusement bright in his voice as he smiled at the exuberant display.

"Oh, my dear Mr. Trevelyan," his wife sighed happily, turning to wiggle her fingers near his nose. "Nothing you say shall ever vex me again."

"I'm sorry to hear it," he answered with a chuckle, rising to his feet. "Well, Kitty, I think you may cough as much as you choose now."

And he left them to their laughter, smiling at the success of his own joke. It had been worth a month of sulking and spite just to see the silly women he shared his home with suddenly lit up brightly with happy excitement, even if he would now have to endure a week of silks and laces and balls while his wife prepared the girls for the assembly rooms. He would no doubt hear all about it afterward, too, for several days if all went well. He could only hope that Mr. Theirin and his guests could cope with three of the silliest women in England, and might notice the three quieter, better-tempered women who kept them in check.

Of course, he himself would not be attending the assembly rooms. Mr. Trevelyan had a high opinion of himself and his position, and did not like to attend the crush of a ball to which anyone might purchase a ticket, though others of his own stature seemed to pay such an indignity no mind. He looked upon such events as something sprightly and social to which he could send his wife and daughters, so that he might enjoy an evening of peace before they descended upon him to shatter it with enthusiasm.

Thus, on the very next Saturday, Mrs. Trevelyan gathered her daughters to her and escorted them with great pride into the assembly rooms in Meryton proper. They made a handsome sight, even with the mother bobbing along like an excitable hen. Jane, as the eldest, was set front and center of their group, sedately accepting of the looks that fell upon her golden hair and fine figure displayed to perfection in mint-green embroidered muslin. Lizzie made sure to keep to her side, her own appearance an equally handsome contrast to her elder sister in striped blue cotton. Mary, shadowing the two eldest as much as she could when her mother did not forcibly drag her away, was a shy wraith in pale yellow; Kitty and Lydia, having argued excessively all week, had finally decided upon wearing the same shade of soft pink. Each one had hair fashionably curled and pinned and, like every lady in the place, wore long gloves that covered them to the elbow. A very pretty picture the Miss Trevelyans made walking into the Meryton assembly rooms - it was no wonder that Mrs. Trevelyan was so proud to show them off.

Yet within moments of arriving, the pretty party was split up - Lydia and Kitty to charm their way into dancing near constantly with a few of the limited male partners, much to the dismay of other young ladies; Mary to sit beside her own particular friend, Bethany Hawke, under the warm eyes of Leliana Rossignol, Meryton's very own mystery woman. Mrs. Trevelyan was quick to join Lady Leandra Hawke, Mrs. Mac Tir, and Mrs. Montilyet, determined to gather as much gossip as was possible from the ladies of nearer her own age before the night was through. Jane and Lizzie moved more sedately through the mass of people, side-stepping the dancers to greet Sir Malcolm. Lizzie was unsurprised when young Carver Hawke stepped up and nervously asked Jane to dance - the heir to the Hawke businesses and lands had carried a torch for Jane for a few years now, but they all knew he would never ask for her hand. His mother had greater plans for him.

Left to her own devices, Lizzie was not long without a partner herself, joining in the dancing of the assembly room gathering before graciously relinquishing her partner to another young lady who also longed to dance. She and Jane found themselves stepping quietly to the wall, sharing a resigned smile as Lydia's distinctive cackle of laughter made itself known through the throng.

"Your sisters appear to be enjoying themselves this evening," a familiar voice commented, prompting Lizzie to turn with a bright smile on her face.

"Marian!" she declared, embracing her friend swiftly and allowing Jane to do the same. "How wonderful to see you - we did not think you would be back so soon from London."

Marian Hawke - older, wiser, and still an affectionate friend - shared her distinctive broad smile with the two elder Trevelyan girls, tucking her arm through Lizzie's as they surveyed the dancing masses before them.

"Mother summoned me back," she informed Lizzie in a confidential tone. "For the same reason, I assume, that so many other eligible ladies are here this evening ... I simply must snag myself a Mr. Theirin."

Lizzie bit down on her laughter, knowing that Marian, at least, felt keenly the weight of her mother's expectation. Ideally, Marian should have been married years ago, her age now putting her on the cusp of becoming an old maid. She had no desire to be dependent upon her parents and brother for the rest of her life, and yet that seemed to be the fate intended for her.

"I am delighted to see you returned, in any case," she told her friend fondly. "Meryton has been dreadfully dull without my Marian to aid me in poking fun at myself."

"Honestly, Lizzie," Jane objected in her soft manner. "There is no call to be quite so hard on yourself."

Chastised, Lizzie's smile turned mischievous for a moment, her mouth opening to pass further comment when the activity of the assembly rooms came to a staggered halt. The music faltered and stopped, a susurration among the gathered revelers drawing the eyes to the wide doors, where a party of strangers now stood. Ah, Lizzie thought to herself. This must be the much feted Mr. Theirin and party.

And no wonder their entrance had drawn every eye. London fashions took at least a season to reach Meryton, where the finer fabrics and bolder styles were never available or, if they were, rarely adopted for fear of what the neighbors would say. The Netherfield party consisted of two ladies and three gentlemen, dressed in their best and certainly out to impress the simple assembly ball. The ladies' gowns were, to Lizzie's mind, garish in the extreme, in bold orange and sharp pink, satin and silk liberally peppered with expensive lace, and hair coiffed with astonishing complexity only to be topped with lavish ostrich feathers. Even the men, though their attire was a good deal more subdued than their female companions', wore evening dress of exquisite cut and design.

It was the faces that drew Lizzie's attention. The taller of the two ladies, red hair clashing horribly with her orange silk, wasn't plain by any means, but the expression of distaste on her face twisted her mouth as though she was sucking a lemon. She looked at the Meryton assembly as though surveying something unsightly that had stuck to her shoe on the street. The other lady, whose sharper features were already a drawback to her presentation, was openly disgusted with the company she found herself in. The oldest of the three men simply looked bored with the entire affair. Yet the taller of the two remaining men provided a delightful contrast; his face was wreathed in smiles, no sign of any discomfort or displeasure about him at all. Indeed, that smile made his handsome face even more pleasant to look upon, sending a ripple of yearning sighs through the young ladies of the assembly.

Beside her, Lizzie felt Jane tense ever so slightly, but a single glance was enough to tell her all she needed to know. Her beautiful elder sister's face was flushed with a sweet hint of rose, blue eyes sparkling with a suddenly hopeful smile, fixed on the smiling man whose gaze had skimmed over her and returned as though dragged into the daylight. Smitten, both of them, in an instant, Lizzie was certain. She caught Marian's knowing smirk, not even trying to hide her own delighted smile as her own gaze turned to the last of the Netherfield party.

It was her turn to stiffen, her smile fading in surprise at finding a pair of arresting brown eyes leveled on her. Beautiful eyes, set in a beautiful face, crowned with an abundant crop of golden hair. He was, quite simply, beautiful, the mere sight of him enough to make her breath catch in her throat. But first impressions gave way to other impressions, such as the stiff way he held himself, the disdain in his gaze as he turned his eyes from her to survey the gathering. Lizzie felt a brief pang of disappointment at this obvious sign of superior pride, turning her own gaze back to her sister as the taller of the Netherfield men smiled and bowed to Sir Malcolm Hawke, and the music played once more.

"Only two ladies then, after all," she declared under the sound of the renewed dancing and chatter, hugging Jane's arm with a fond smile to her elder sister. "Do you know who they are, Marian?"

"The taller is Mr. Theirin's sister, Goldanna Theirin, I understand," Marian told them, in the unique position of having this information to share simply because her father was the one who had made the first overtures of friendship to Netherfield's new owner. "The other is a lady of some relation nearing cousin to them, so I believe, formerly Babette Delauncet - the older gentleman is her husband, Monsieur de Montfort. She is his second wife, I understand, of an age with his son."

"They are very elegant," Jane said, as all three women flicked their eyes back toward the party, now being introduced to various pillars of the community.

Lizzie raised a brow as she found herself smiling once again.

"Better pleased with themselves than what they see, I think," was her comment, her eyes falling on the stiff-backed gentleman who had startled her with such a piercing look not so long ago. He had yet to show even half the warmth of his taller companion.

A familiar voice hissed across the room, just a little too loud to be ignored and nowhere near quiet enough not to draw the attention of the gentleman himself.

"Lizzie! Jane!"

As the two young women turned their heads in her direction, Mrs Trevelyan gestured enthusiastically with one gloved hand for them to join her. She had already gathered Mary close, Bethany Hawke moving to replace the Trevelyan sisters in keeping her own sister company while Mrs Trevelyan shared her excited news with her daughters. Exchanging a tolerant glance with Jane, Lizzie murmured an apology to Marian before following her sister into the clumsily fond wrap of her mother's arms through theirs.

"You see that gentleman there?" Mrs Trevelyan asked, gesturing with surprising subtlety toward the man who obviously was not Mr. Theirin or Monsieur de Montfort. "Lady Hawke has just told me he's Mr. Theirin's oldest friend. They trained in the Templars together, and he served under Seeker Pentaghast during the Blight. His name is Rutherford, and he has a mighty fortune and a great estate in Derbyshire. Theirin's wealth is nothing to his - ten thousand a year, at least!" She sighed excessively. "Don't you think he's the handsomest man you've ever seen, girls?"

Yes, indeed, a treacherous part of Lizzie's mind immediately responded, but she suppressed it, refusing to think well of someone so obviously determined to be displeased with everything he saw around himself. She leaned over to Jane, murmuring so their mother would not hear,

"I wonder if he would be quite so handsome if he were not quite so rich?"

Jane giggled, batting at her arm with gentle censure. Lizzie subsided, in deference to her sister's shy discomfort with her own amusement, and instead sent Mary a reassuring wink over their mother's head. Between them, Mrs. Trevelyan suddenly let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a squeak, flapping her hands abruptly at her girls before settling her expression and posture into something far more suitable for the matron of a family.

"Oh, Lizzie! They're coming over." Mrs Trevelyan planted a hand in the middle of Jane's back to straighten her spine. "Smile, girls, smile."

Within moments, Sir Malcolm was before them, with Mr. Theirin at his heels and Mr. Rutherford trailing behind like some kind of chaperone. Lizzie had to bite down on her own wide grin as once more Jane and Mr. Theirin seemed lost in one another's eyes from the moment they looked upon one another.

"Mrs Trevelyan," Sir Malcolm declared in his jovial manner. "Mr. Theirin has expressed an interest in becoming acquainted with you and your daughters."

As if by magic, Mrs Trevelyan's voice rose a few social classes in response to the polite introduction.

"Sir, that is very good of you," she said, letting loose the barest suggestion of a nervous laugh as she curtsied to Mr. Theirin.

Jane, Lizzie, and Mary curtsied with their mother, much to the delight of Sir Malcolm, watching over the proceedings with a proud, paternal eye. No doubt he would enjoy relaying every manly detail to Mr Trevelyan in the days to come. Beside him, Mr. Theirin bowed to the ladies, drawing himself up to his considerable height, his face flushed with what Lizzie could have sworn was embarrassed courage.

"This is Jane, my eldest," Mrs Trevelyan went on, indicating Exhibit A. Jane blushed prettily, inclining her head in a shy nod as Mr. Theirin repeated her name soundlessly behind his broad smile. "And Elizabeth, with Mary. And Kitty and Lydia, my youngest, you see there dancing."

For a reluctant moment, Mr. Theirin looked at the dancers, spying the two youngest Trevelyans and their enthusiasm for the dance with a warm expression in his eyes. Mr. Rutherford, behind him, was apparently listening to every detail as well, for his eyes followed the introductions with his friend's. Lizzie was exceedingly glad he hadn't expressed a wish to be introduced to them. Handsome is as handsome does, but unfeeling pride was awful. However, before Mr. Theirin could get even one word out, Mrs Trevelyan was speaking again, necessitating her elder daughters to swallow down a shared wince at the lack of subtlety in their mother's ambitions.

"Do you like to dance, Mr. Theirin?"

Finally given the space to speak, Mr. Theirin seemed to leap on the opening with enthusiasm.

"There is nothing I like better, madam," he assured Mrs Trevelyan, glancing toward Jane for the briefest moment with shy hope of his own. "And ... if Miss Trevelyan is not otherwise engaged, may I be so bold as to claim the next two dances?"

Lizzie had to exert extreme control over her smile, utterly delighted to see her beloved elder sister so quickly singled out by such an agreeable young man who appeared as taken with Jane as she seemed by him. Indeed, Jane's eyes were alive with happiness as she answered the request.

"I am not engaged, sir," she confirmed, and her smile grew bright at the sudden sense of energy this produced in their new acquaintance.

"Good!" he declared, sharing her smile for a long moment.

But Mrs Trevelyan just had to interject. Not for the first time, Lizzie found herself wondering just how scandalous it would be if she clapped a hand over her mother's mouth or locked her in a closet for the duration of a social gathering.

"You do us great honor, sir," the matron of the family declared. "Thank the gentleman, Jane."

Jane, embarrassed by the lack of courtesy shown by their mother, let her smile fade into a look of apology that was thankfully accepted with a sympathetic smile in return.

"Mama," Lizzie murmured warningly, giving the woman a pointed look.

Mrs Trevelyan seemed to get the hint, but her attempt to correct the mistake just made things even worse. She raised her voice, addressing Mr Rutherford directly, much to her daughters' chagrin. They had not been introduced!

"And you, sir ... are you fond of dancing, too?"

Lizzie wished to any deity who might be listening that Mr Rutherford might simply have an imposing expression when at his ease, but alas, she was to be disappointed. As the man realized he was the one being addressed, his disdainful expression sharpened into stern disapproval at the lack of polite manners being displayed by the matronly woman before his friend. A friend who, when he noticed that Mrs Trevelyan was looking over his shoulder, turned to correct the oversight of not having introduced the man sooner.

"Oh! I beg your pardon, Mrs Trevelyan," Mr. Theirin said, gesturing toward the man just behind him. "May I present my friend, Mr. Rutherford?"

Swallowing down an urge to run away from the stern gaze leveled on them from those beautiful eyes, Lizzie curtsied once more with her mother and sisters as Mrs Trevelyan responded.

"You are very welcome to Hertfordshire, I am sure, sir," she said happily. "I hope you have come here eager to dance, as your friend has."

Mr. Rutherford's bow was exquisitely performed, but there was a sharpness in the motion that suggested he resented being expected to bow to a woman who had yet to prove herself worthy of his manners. Lizzie's eyes narrowed a little, studying the man a little more closely. Broad-shouldered and taller than most, if not taller than his friend, it was easier to see now that he was the superior of the two in garment and bearing, if not in disposition. Her initial impression of him as handsome was waning at every example of his apparent certainty in being the superior of every man and woman here, purely because of his wealth and background.

"Thank you, madam, I rarely dance."

Six words, and while the voice sent a frisson down her spine that was almost shameful, Lizzie couldn't help sympathizing with the man a little. He had obviously come to the assembly at Mr. Theirin's request, as a friend, and now would likely be badgered all evening by mothers just like her own, eager to make a conquest for their daughters. Mothers who couldn't take a hint, even one made so politely but obviously.

"Well, let this be one of the occasions, sir," Mrs Trevelyan insisted. "For I'll wager you'll not easily find such lively music, or such pretty partners."

At this, she looked directly at Lizzie, her intent obvious and painfully embarrassing for the young woman in question. What was worse was the way Mr Rutherford's eyes skimmed over her briefly only to focus on the Circle brooch pinned to Mary's shoulder. His jaw tightened visibly, evidently disgusted by the presence of a mage, and he bowed again, just as sharply as before, turning to walk back to his party without another word. Lizzie bristled, not so much at the insult to her, but to the implied insult to her mage sister. Mr. Theirin looked over his shoulder, and his own smile faded awkwardly. He, too, bowed to the ladies, but with a good deal better humor.

"Pray, excuse me, ma'am," he apologized, turning to follow his friend and hopefully give him a few lessons in manners.

As Lizzie took Mary's hand into her own, squeezing it gently in reassurance, Mrs Trevelyan fumed, utterly failing to keep her voice down.

"Well! Did you ever meet such a proud, disagreeable man?"

"Mama, he will hear you," Lizzie murmured, aware of the gentlemen's eyes on them once more, but her mother was in high dudgeon.

"I don't care if he does," she declared, furious at the slight given to her daughters. "And his friend disposed to be so agreeable and everything charming. Who is he to think himself so far above his company?"

"Well, the very rich can afford to give offense wherever they go," Lizzie countered, hoping to soothe her mother's temper before it did damage to any hope Jane had of keeping that engagement to dance with Mr. Theirin. "We need not care for his good opinion."

"No, indeed," Mrs Trevelyan agreed, reaching out to take Mary's other hand in hers with an affectionate pat. "Pay him no mind, Mary, nor you, Lizzie."

"Perhaps he is not so very handsome after all," Lizzie suggested softly, delighted when her arch, secretive smile elicited a curious frown from the gentleman in question. Beside her, Mary giggled quietly behind her handkerchief; even Jane smiled at the obvious steering of their mother's opinions.

"No, indeed!" Mrs Trevelyan declared, quite happy to see nothing but fault in the man now he had offended her. "Quite ill-favored. Certainly nothing at all to Mr. Theirin."

Lizzie caught Jane's eye as their mother moved away to share her new opinions with her friends, both elder Miss Trevelyans biting down the urge to smile more widely than would be considered polite.

"I am sorry, Jane," Mary said quietly. "I should not have been here for your introduction."

"Don't ever say things like that, Mary," Jane countered, shaking her head. "You are my sister and I love you. I would not have you hide away for fear of other people's opinions."

"He served under Lady Seeker Pentaghast during the Blight," Lizzie shared, trying to mitigate some of the harm done to Mary's confidence in that one moment of clear distaste from a stranger. "It is no excuse for his rudeness, but it does explain a little of it."

"But he was so rude to you, too, Lizzie," Mary pointed out, surprised when her dark-haired sister laughed cheerfully.

"So long as Jane keeps smiling with Mr. Theirin, I shall consider the evening a perfect success," Lizzie declared, and all three sisters laughed then, too.

Let Mr. Rutherford glare at them from his hiding place behind Miss Theirin and her friend. He was the outsider here; that pride would get him nowhere.

#fire & fidelity #dragon age fanfiction #regency au #pride & prejudice au #lizzie trevelyan #jane trevelyan #the family trevelyan #alistair theirin #cullen rutherford #malcolm hawke #marian hawke #how to tease your wife 101 #how not to make an impression at a country ball 101

18 notes · View notes

daneeelleee · 7 years

Text

Blankets, Band-Aids, and a Brand New Start

Part 2 of Kismet on Aisle Three

Part 1

@oqpromptparty

Prompt 11. Regina mothering Roland

Prompt 28. It’s cold and OQ share a blanket

FFNet

Trigger warnings for mentions of car accidents and cancer

He doesn’t call her.

He wants to - pulls the card smudged in her elegant script out of his wallet so many times that he’s surprised it hasn’t fallen apart yet. His fingers hover over the screen of his phone daily, itching to type in her number. But really, what would he say? Hasn’t he made a fool out of himself enough with this woman? She was lovely and kind and humored him far more than he deserved after his rude interruption into her life. And he can’t stop thinking of her.

He thinks of her in the quiet moments of his days, as Roland sleeps off his fever and Robin unpacks boxes. He thinks of her as he runs his fingers through the messy curls of his toddler’s hair, and he wonders after her own son. Is she reading him a bedtime story as he reads to Roland? Does she sing her child to sleep with that lovely warm voice of hers? Will she watch him drift off before she curls up in her bed with a good book and a glass of wine from the bottle he spotted in her cart?

Does she think of him as he thinks of her?

He tries to focus on other things, so he busies himself. He’s certainly not lacking in things to do. Every day, this new house begins to feel a little more like home, as boxes finally empty and the walls are adorned with family photos and the messy, treasured Crayola creations of his child. They’re adjusting, him and his boy, settling into a new routine. Roland finally got past that nasty virus and has returned to his normal level of world-spinning, eardrum-shattering exuberance. He’s come home from daycare the last two days carting stacks of finger-painted masterpieces and chattering on and on about his new friends. It’s adorable and his heart melts at every giggle.

Regina was right. All it took was mentioning her name and suddenly there was a spot for his boy at Granny’s. Though he expects that the “pull” she claimed to have with the woman he now knows is Eugenia Lucas has less to do with Regina’s status as mayor and more to do with the warmth in Eugenia’s voice as she speaks of her. There’s a story there, and as it seems to be with all things related to Regina, he wants to know what that story is. He wants to know her.

As luck would have it, after a week of daydreaming about her, he finally sees her again. It’s so unexpected that he squints his eyes shut for a moment thinking he must still be fantasizing. But when he opens his eyes, she’s there, real and only a few feet away. And of course she is. It’s a small town. It’s really not so unusual that they would bump into each other, or rather that he would catch a glimpse of her dark tresses from across the playground. He’s suddenly very glad that Roland asked to go to the park last night as he tucked him in after bedtime cuddles.

She hasn’t seen him yet. She’s perched regally upon a bench, eyes intent on the young boy that’s running towards her. Her son. He’s older than Roland - 7, maybe 8 years old. He’s talking animatedly to her as she adjusts the warm scarf around his neck and tenderly wipes a smudge of dirt off of his nose. He squirms at the gesture, embarrassed, and she pokes at his side until he lets out a ringing peal of laughter. And she’s just…stunning. She’s smiling – beaming really – with all of the pride of a mother and she just looks so soft and care-free that he can’t look away.

He feels the swing and pull of Roland’s hand as he practically drags Robin along, eager to run to the swings. “Papa, look!” The gasping excitement of his boy pulls him out of his thoughts and steers his attention away from Regina and in the direction of an outstretched little finger.

Well, that’s a sight to behold. A rather elaborate little castle stands in the middle of the play area, brightly colored and full of all manner of twisting, turning parts. No wonder Roland is so excited. “It looks just like the castle in my book!”

“Yes, my boy. I suppose it does. Ready to go defend the castle, good sir?”

Roland nods with all the seriousness of a four-year old playing pretend and Robin does everything he can to hide his smirk. “Lead the way. Where shall we go first?”

Roland hums and wiggles his fingers against his chin, “can I slide?”

“I think that’s a fine idea, Sir Roland.”

Just as Robin reaches his hand again to bring him to the slides, Roland stops him, “Papa, no. I can go by myself.” And his heart sinks.

“Are you sure, son?” Robin always waits near the bottom of the slide, ready to catch his boy if he falls. But it appears his little man has other ideas today.

“Yeah, Papa. I can do it. I can.” He’s so brave, his little boy. He’s handled the move far better than Robin could have hoped for, and now he’s ready for a little independence. Robin’s chest fills with pride as his heart fills with an unshakable sense of loss. His baby is growing up, and he has a sudden desire to freeze time. But time continues and it’s him that’s frozen as he watches Roland run off onto the soft mulch covered ground and right towards the slides.

He’s snapped out of his moment of melancholy by a voice, her voice. “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

His grin is instant as he turns to face her and gives her a small bow in jest, “Good afternoon, your majesty.”

He’s enraptured by the roll of her eyes, “Hello, thief. Here to run me over again?”

“Hmm the thought hadn’t crossed my mind but now that you mention it…” her amused scoff cuts him off and he bats his eyes playfully, “Actually, if I promise to behave myself, would you consider sharing your bench with this lowly peasant?”

She hums in consideration and makes him wait just to watch him squirm. But she smirks at him and tucks in the corners of the blanket he’s only just noticing covers her lap, eyeing the space next to her in silent permission. He sits slowly, careful not to crowd her. It’s then that he gets a better look at her.

Gone are the high heels and dark make-up from last week – replaced by warm, wool-lined boots and a softer looking Regina. The tailored pantsuit has been traded for a pair of equally enticing jeans and a warm knit sweater. Her hair flows in soft waves, framing her lovely face and damn he’s captivated by this woman.

The clearing of her throat alerts him to the fact that he’s been staring. He can feel the heat that spreads to his face as his eyes snap up to lock onto hers. And oh, she’s amused, holding back laughter as she raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him.

He remembers her words from last week and directs them back to her with a grumbled “Don’t look so smug.” She hmms at him playfully before she turns her attention back to the park in front of her and the little boy swinging from the monkey bars.

“Papa, look.”

Roland’s voice brings his attention fully to the boy just as he was starting to look for him. He’s sitting at the top of the small slide waiting for Robin to watch. With a smile and a wave from his father, Roland giggles all the way down the slide, and Robin has to stop himself from running to him when he stumbles a bit and trips at the bottom. But Roland doesn’t seem bothered by his little fall, just stands back up and runs to the bench Robin and Regina are sharing.

“Did you see me, Papa?! Did you?” Roland’s little voice is full of joy as he comes barreling into Robin’s knees.

Robin grunts as he bends over to pick up Roland and set him on his lap. “Yes, my boy. You were very brave.” Roland just giggles and pats his father’s cheeks until Robin makes a silly face at him.

Regina is pulled out of watching the sweet scene before her by Roland’s soft and curious voice. “Who’re you?” She stares startled into his big brown eyes for a moment before Robin comes to her rescue.

“This is Papa’s friend, Regina.”

His answer is so simple, and yet it fills her with warmth. Friend. When was the last time someone wanted to be her friend? She can count the people close to her on one hand – the few that see the real her, see past the reputation she has as Cora’s daughter, see past the defenses she puts up. How has the man, this stranger, already managed to weasel his way into her good graces? What is she doing?

She hears them continue to speak as Robin’s hushed voice whispers conspiratorially to his son. “Roland, do you know what Regina also is?” At the curious shake of the boy’s head, Robin looks to Regina and winks. “Regina here is the mayor of Storybrooke.” He says it like it’s a secret and the boy’s awed gasp shows his excitement.

But then he scrunches his face in confusion and asks “What’s that?”

“Well, that means she’s in charge. She works in a big office and makes sure everything in the town works just right. She takes care of everyone here.”

Roland looks at her like he’s in wonder, and his excited question of “So, you’re like a queen?” makes her laugh and look at Robin accusingly.

“I swear, I didn’t put him up to that. He just likes fairytales,” he chuckles.

She scowls at Robin then ducks her head down to speak to Roland, “I guess you could say I’m a little like a queen. But, I don’t live in a castle, and I don’t wear a crown.”

“That’s ok. You’re still pretty like a queen.” Oh, this kid is adorable. Her heart swells at his innocent compliment and his adorable dimples.

“Why, thank you, Roland. You’re such a little gentleman.” She taps the end of his little button nose and he grins and fidgets in Robin��s hold.

“Papa, can I go play more?” At his father’s approval, the boy is back on the ground and running off again with a shouted “Bye, Papa! Bye R’gina!”

Regina and Robin both sit back and chuckle as they watch him play. “He’s adorable.”

“That’s all his mother. That boy is the spitting image of Marian.”

She shouldn’t ask him, she really shouldn’t. But she finds herself wanting to know this man as she asks “When did she pass?” and at his intake of breath, she regrets her question. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to…”

“No, it’s okay. Talking about her…” he sighs “It helps. It’s been two years.” At her sympathetic smile, he continues. “It was cancer. She hadn’t been feeling well for a while. By the time they caught it, it was too late.”

“I’m so sorry.” She reaches over to give his hand a squeeze and he holds on for a moment. She knows that feeling, the helplessness that comes with losing your everything. It’s been 10 years since she lost Daniel, and she can still remember the sound of the doctor’s voice as he told her that they did everything they could. All it took was one rainy night and slick roads to turn her world upside down.

He strokes a thumb over her finger and takes a deep breath. “Honestly, I didn’t know how I would survive when I lost her. She was so strong, you know. She never seemed to be bothered by anything. Loving her was more than I could ever ask for, and being loved by her was more than I deserved.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. I can tell you’re a good man.” She can see him retreating, can see the self-loathing on his face as he speaks, and it’s heart-breaking.

“She made me better. She met me at a low moment in my life, at a time I wasn’t proud of myself. She never gave up on me. And she gave me the best thing in my life.” He doesn’t need to say it. She knows he’s talking about Roland.

“You’ve clearly done a good job with him, Robin. He’s such a sweet boy.”

“I’ve tried. It’s hard without her. She was such a great mom, so patient and loving. On my bad days, I find myself asking what would she do? I hate that he’ll never know her. He deserves so much more.”

“Robin, look at me.” He looks at her with those clear blue eyes, so filled with pain she understands and she’s desperate to chase it away. “You’re giving him everything he needs.”

He exhales heavily and nods. “What about your boy’s father?”

She spots him now. He’s swinging almost high enough to make her nervous. That child is the light of her life, and she can feel how she’s beaming in his direction when she tells Robin, “Henry’s adopted. It’s just the two of us.” She leaves out the fact that she always planned to adopt a child with Daniel. They’ve just gotten past one emotional moment, no need to bring up her past pain.

“That’s admirable. And I wouldn’t have guessed. He almost looks like you.” And he’s looking at her with so much affection that her breath catches in her throat.

“Hmm, we’re a good example of nature verses nurture. That sass is all me. I’m not looking forward to his teenage years.” Her groan is playful and it makes him squirm in his seat.

“Oh, I can imagine.”

She shoves him for his remark and he looks at her in mock offense before a gust of October air makes them huddle together.

“Here.” She lifts the corner of her blanket in invitation at his shiver. He looks a bit surprised, but scoots over anyway, entering her personal space and overwhelming her senses with all things Robin.

She tries to ignore the warmth of his thigh pressed against hers and the way she can smell him now, making her want to lean over and breathe him in. God, he smells good, like pine and sandalwood and soap. This man is going to be the death of her.

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment, enjoying this new found closeness. Somewhere in their readjusting, he’s taken hold of her hand again, their fingers tangled gently. He looks a bit nervous about his boldness until she strokes her thumb over his, and he lets out a relieved breath.

They make small-talk, getting to know each other while they watch their children play. She learns he’s a landscaper and that he moved here from England to be close to his younger sister. She’s surprised to learn she actually knows his sister, Belle. The young librarian is always kind to Henry when she takes him for new books. The library is one of their favorite places to go together.

They watch in awe for a moment when they see Henry and Roland playing hide and seek. He’s taken aback. The two boys aren’t close together in age, but Henry is happily letting Roland follow him around. It’s a heart-warming sight. He compliments her on the kindness of her child, and the brightness of her smile could rival the sun.

She tells him about her job as mayor and how she was raised by a political family. He learns that she used to spend her weekends crammed with her books into a booth in the back of the diner that Granny also runs. “That woman practically raised me. She used to snatch my books away and make me eat.” She laughs at the memory of granny scolding her. You have to eat, Regina. Get your nose out of that book for a minute and take care of yourself.

“Sounds like she cares about you a lot.”

“Mother was...” she searches for a word to describe Cora and settles on “difficult. It was nice to have Granny. She looked out for me, kept me sane. And she’s so good with Henry. He loves her as much as I do.”

“I’m glad you had her. And I can’t thank you enough for helping me. Roland loves it at Granny’s.” He’s still stunned by her kindness.

“I knew he would. I was happy to help. I know what it’s like struggling on your own.”

He stares at her for a moment and she can’t place the look on his face.

“You’re brilliant, you know. Positively stunning.” They’re closer to each other than before, and she honestly doesn’t know who leaned in first. All she knows is she’s entranced by the way his breath feels on her face and the soft way he’s playing with her hair. She can’t look away from him.

Just as he’s leaning into her, they’re jolted out of their little bubble. He hears a crash and a cry and suddenly his heart is racing for another reason. Roland.

He looks away from her tempting lips and towards the playground where his boy sits crying as Henry tries to comfort him. Him and Regina both jump into action, leaping from their seats to run to their children.

Through Roland’s cries, he can hear Henry. The boy sounds nearly as upset, is apologizing to his mother and to Roland. They were playing chase, running too quickly, and Roland lost his footing. He can hear her voice, soft and soothing as she presses a kiss to Henry’s forehead and tells him not to worry. Accidents happen, sweetheart. Good. One child taken care of.

He looks to Roland, fat tears running down his little red cheeks, and tries to soothe him. He’s holding his knee, won’t let Robin look at it, and he certainly fell hard enough to tear a little hole in his jeans. He’s speaking soft words and asking his boy to be brave. Papa just needs to look, my boy. It’s alright. He hears Regina murmuring to Henry, her soft voice asking him to get her forgotten bag from the bench, then she’s kneeling down next to Roland, stroking a soft hand through his curls.

Henry returns with her bag and she pulls out a first aid kit. Bless this woman, she’s an angel. A very well prepared angel. As he’s rocking his crying little man, she’s pulling out colorful bandages. She puts an assortment in front of him and looks at Roland softly, stroking tender fingers over the tear tracks on his face.

“Roland, do you like superheroes?” she coos softly. At his little nod and wimper, she smiles. She’s gotten his attention. “Really? Because I have all these cool superheroes here. Would you like to pick one?”

He looks to Henry standing behind her shoulder and the sweet boy jumps to action, “Go ahead, buddy. They always make me feel better.”

She looks at her son proudly as he crouches to sit down beside her before turning her attention back to Roland. He’s astonished by this woman as he watches his son sniffle and look at all the superhero bandages. He settles on a Captain America bandage and Henry smiles and tells him “That’s my favorite.”

Robin rocks his son from side to side gently as Regina explains that to get a bandage, Roland has to show her his knee first. He looks back at Robin with watery eyes and Robin nods at him and kisses his forehead. “Go ahead.”

As he moves his hand, Regina oohs gently and tells him how brave he is, and what a big cut, what do you think Papa, should we call an ambulance? She looks over Roland’s shoulder at him and he falls a little harder for her.

Roland giggles at her through his sniffles and holds his knee still when she asks him to. She carefully cleans his cut, soothing his cries as the antiseptic stings. It’s really just a scratch; Roland was likely startled more than anything else. But still, she tends to it and never makes him feel ashamed. She covers his scratch with a bandage and a kiss before she pokes tickling fingers into Roland’s side to make him laugh. She shows the same easy affection to his child that she shows to her own, and his heart fills with gratitude.

As they all stand, Roland happily clings to her hand as she dusts herself off. She’s swinging their linked hands back and forth as she softly asks Henry if he’s ready to go home. Robin’s not quite ready to let go of her yet, and by the looks of it, neither is his boy. So he takes a leap.

“Actually, I was thinking about taking this little champ here for some ice-cream.” He ruffles Roland’s hair. “Would you and Henry like to join us?”

Henry is already looking at her with excitement and begging “Please, mom!” before she can even process the request.

He waits on baited breath as she looks between the three of them giving her puppy-dog eyes. But she chuckles and agrees, and he’s honestly more relieved than he should be. But as they walk away towards the park exit, she links their fingers together and smiles that dazzling smile at him.

He can’t wait to see what happens next.

Author’s Note: Thank you so much for reading and a special thanks to Charlee ( ( @regaloutlaws ). There will be a 3rd and final part of this fic that will also use a prompt from OQPP but unless I can make a miracle happen tonight, it’s not going to be ready on time. I hope you enjoy!

-Danelle

#oqpromptparty #oq ff #kismet on aisle three #danelle writes #getting it in under the wire here #hang in there for part three #i'm slow

27 notes · View notes

theyoungwritersblog · 5 years

Text

The Peepal Tree

When my grandpa was still a boy, the peepal tree stood tall on the chautara. The three circular stoned steps leading to and surrounding it, was the resting place for the people of the village. The shadow it casted provided shelter from the scorching heat to the villagers and passers-by. The people returning to, and from the city rested to their hearts content on the chautara. The tired passers-by, who were often hungry when they arrived at the chautara, ate the lunch they carried in their backpack. The peepal tree, although stood alone on the mid-hill, was never actually alone. The people resting on its lap always provided it company and the peepal tree reciprocated the favour. Even when no one was sitting with it, it was in the hearts of many who had had the chance of passing by.

Fifty years later, the village has now turned into a bazzar. The once six distant houses are now in the hearts of the six major toles. Our house, built by my grandpa, is one of the old houses- a magnificent old beauty. People look at it and tell tales of how the house was built.

"The stones were carried from a village nearby, the woods from a forest nearby- around an hour and a half farther."

Grandpa had even managed to bring transparent glasses during one of his visits to the city. For years, the house was known as Sisa Ghar- the glass house.

Grandpa had probably sat on the lap of the peepal tree as he tired on this return from the city. He must have lowered very carefully, his prized possession, the glasses on the steps of the chautara. The shadow and the cool breeze a welcome relief. A much-needed rest. He must have taken out the boiled eggs from his khamdaani- tiffin box, peeled off the shells, dipped it in a pinch of salt and gobbled it up in a bite. Home was not very far now. He could rest. A two-and-a-half-hour journey and he would be home.

I can vaguely remember grandpa telling me the stories of his travels. He never failed to mention the peepal tree. The peepal tree always stood two and a half hours away from home. And grandpa was grateful to it. He had an unspoken relation with it. It was his friend. A friend that was always there. Whenever he recited his stories, a different glow came to his face as he reached the chautara and ate his tiffin. Just as it did in his youth, the memory invigorated him in his old age.

Last year, on the day of his birthday, I accompanied grandpa to the peepal tree. I carried, in my backpack just as grandpa did, some boiled eggs and a bottle of water. Grandpa, who was in his sixties, was still quite strong. Early in the morning after a heavy breakfast, the two of us left home. Each of us had a ghangeru cane.

"Remember little-man; always use a cane when you travel."

" I will always use this Ghangeru grandpa."

***

It was midday with the sun high in the sky. The day was bright and the surrounding was radiating. Far-off you could see the blue hills with jungles and a few houses here and there. The blue sky and the blue hills were in a perfect marriage. The green hills in the foreground added further to their beauty. The silvery line at the base made the scene even more captivating. The river looked marvelous from the chautara on the hillside. The green rice fields in the basin with a narrow path running through it looked equally beautiful.

A little man was standing on the edge of the chautara with a sturdy cane in his hand. Nearby a small herd of goats were grazing the green grass. Every now and then, the little man shushed at the goats as they went astray into the barley field at the side. The little man brought the herd to the chautara every day, but today he was also there for himself. He was expecting his father to return from the city beyond the blue hills.

The sight of a humanoid silhouette on the path in the green rice fields excited the little man. Seeing those silhouettes made him euphoric. One of the silhouettes would be his father returning from the city. His father would bring him gudpak, which he would eat as he shepherded the goats.

About half an hour away was a tiny two-storied house with a thatched roof. That was where the little man lived. Today his father would be back, and although the house was not as huge as it was in the city, it was what he called home. It was his home. It was their home.

Throughout the day, people would pass by the little man and the chautara. There would be porters, travelers and fellow villagers; some going to the city, some returning from it. Finally, almost at dusk, his father would arrive. His father would rest on the stoned steps of the chautara gracing the cool breeze and taking time to catch his breath. The father and son would then head home. The little man, with a cane in one hand and a packet of gudpak on the other, would run excitedly in front of his father. Every now and then, he would use the cane to guide his goats.

"Be careful little-man. You may fall down. I do not want to see your mother angry the very day of my return. Walk with me little-man."

***

Thus, began our hike to the chautara. For grandpa it was a journey into the past, in to his memories. For me it was something I would cherish for the rest of my life. The steep, uneven, stony path we took that day was indicative of the realities of human life. It was life's way of telling me, it is not all going to be smooth.

Grandpa had handed me a ghangeru stick just as he had to my father and his father had to him. In this journey, we both needed a cane and, in life's journey, I would need a cane too. I did not know it back then but grandpa had given me a valuable lesson.

Along the way as we came downhill through the hillside forest, we came across the remains of a small two-storied house. Algae and ferns ha covered it and only its structure was apparent. It looked almost as a tiny bust by the hillside. As we reached it, grandpa stopped by it. His cane firmly fixed on the ground, grandpa stared at the apparent bust. He remained transfixed as I noticed his watery eyes. Still those eyes had a sense of delight about it.

As grandpa gazed, probably, to the days gone by, I busied myself to playing with the touch-me-nots and jumping around. As I touched yet another touch-me-not and giggled at the amusement, grandpa came to me.

"Are you done playing with the lajawati, little-man?"

“Touch it grandpa. Touch it, touch it."

"Little-man, when I was a little-man like yourself, I used to spend hours playing with the lajawati.” grandpa smiled.

"How far is the chautara grandpa?"

"Not very far now little-man. It used to take me about half an hour from here. Let's see."

After almost an hour later, we reached the chautara. The peepal tree looked glorious with its lush green wide canopy casting a huge shadow of relief and reinvigoration. The minutely audible sound of the leaves raffling, the faint sound of the river flowing at the foothills synchronized perfectly to arise a feeling of calmness in the passersby.

As the cool breeze touched our skin, a feeling of joy and exuberation ran through us. Then came the realization that we had made it, that we had reached grandpa's peepal tree. As I sat on the stoned steps of the chautara by my grandpa, I felt something I had never felt before, an overflow of calm and joy and I could sense the same in grandpa too.

Grandpa had countless memories here as a village boy and as a traveler from the bazaar at the hilltop. As a boy his eyes had mapped the blue hills, the silvery river and the narrow path through the green fields. And as a man, as a traveller, he had travelled through them. And the chautara had been his resting place- the peepal tree a constant in all of his journeys.

From my backpack, I took out the eggs and the water bottle, peeled off the eggs and gave one to my grandpa.

"Here grandpa...an egg...just like you used to have."

"Little-man, do you have some salt too?"

"Yes, grandpa. Here."

"Did you bring these from my youth or my childhood, little-man?"

"I brought it from the market, grandpa. And mother made it."

After the lunch, I napped at grandpa's lap. When I woke up it was almost dusk, grandpa had been patiently waiting for me to wake up. Unlike the hustle and bustle of midday, it was eerily quiet at the chautara. In the absence of the birds chirping and distant animal noise, the sound of the leaves and the river was not the same. In the distant, dark hills had laid claim as the sun accepted defeat. Darkness was taking over.

"Little-man, it's time. We have to return home."

As we left the chautara, grandpa took one last glimpse of the peepal tree. And as we turned our back and headed home, I could see tears roll down grandpa's eyes.

#short story #story #fiction #childhood #memory #nostalgia #nepali #blog post #blogger #short reads #english #spilled words #life is strange #grandpa #grandson #village

0 notes

girlwsoftsound · 7 years

Text

The First Move || Adam Hann Oneshot

Word Count: 2,061 Summary: “Hey! i was wondering if you could write something along the lines of you being friends with the band and going on tour with them but you're in love with adam and try keep away from him, matty notices and does something about it”. Author’s Note: This is so freakin cute and sweet and I am in love with every bit of it. Hope you feel the same. Be sure to throw in a like or comment if you liked it! I love seeing feedback from you all. Please feel free to read my other work here! Enjoy!

It was love at first sight.

He just was so soft and handsome, Adam was. He had those big ol’ green eyes, and that straight brownish-blonde hair that fell slightly in his face to make him look edgy. Just one glance at him had you blushing like a silly little girl. After being introduced to him and hearing him speak, you were done for. The entire time you spent with the band, chatting, befriending them, you could not get him out of your mind. He just was so captivating, even from the start. You were sure that whatever friendship you created with the band would probably end up making that fact harder on you.

And it did. The more you grew closer to Matty, George, and Ross, the closer you also grew to Adam. He was sweet with you, teasing you subtly and going out of his way to be a gentleman when he could. The small crush you formed when you saw him first soon grew to a full-out attraction. It got so heated, so intense, to the point to where you swore Adam nearly kissed you after a night hanging around Matty’s place listening to music. He certainly looked like he wanted to anyway, those eyes of his staring you down and asking the world from you. You had no idea how no one had seen it. Perhaps Adam was just that good at knowing how to move without them catching on. Or, maybe they all knew his intentions and were merely giving privacy. Either option made you squirm in your seat. It was too much, so fast. Your head barely knew how to catch up with your scrambling heart.

Just when it seemed like your head had made some progressed, you were blindsided with simultaneously the best and the worst offer you could have ever hoped for. Matty outstretched an offer to go and tour with them, getting to see the cool lifestyle they led night to night. You would have been stupid to say no. It was anyone’s dream to be able to go on tour with a band, especially a band as up and coming as the four boys you knew were. To say no would have drawn more heads your way than if you were to drop on the ground where you stood and yell you loved Adam Hann with all your heart and soul. Your answer was made up for you. Matty brought you into his arms and was exuberant over your yes. Later when he told the others your answer, they all were as well. You could not forget the look of pure glee in Adam’s. That heart-pounding sight would haunt you in your dreams, all the way until the day of the tour.

He was there for you waiting at the edge of the steps, extending his hand out to you to take your clothes bag and help you up into the bus. You could barely handle to see him looking so excited without also smiling back equally as such. He took your things and then brought you on with a hug, welcoming you to what he promised would be loads of fun. You took his word for it and followed him back to where the bunks were.

“You’re going to be bunking across from me and above John,” he told you, tossing your stuff into a side compartment. “Don’t worry, we don’t snore. Only Ross and George do, and they’re in their own set of bunks.”

Giggling, you looked over to where you saw their stuff spread out. Thankfully, it was on the other side and down from Adam. You saw Matty’s stuff on the one directly next to yours. He seemed to be a fairly quiet guy when he was to himself anyway, so you doubted it would be any problem. “Thanks. Where are they all?”

“They’ll be around,” replied Adam. Suddenly, the bus felt rather tight around you, rather confined. It became all too real that you were alone, in a bus, with Adam, the boy you had so many feelings for. He caught your eye, and for a split second, you felt like you did when he almost tried to kiss you. The same butterflies pestered you from that day. Before you knew it, he was taking your hand and opening his mouth to speak. As soon as you felt his hand on yours, your eyes flew to it, a gasp escaping you at the touch.

“{Y/N}, I-”

“We’re back!”

Another gasp was heard. This time, it came from none other than Matty’s mouth. He was the one with the triumphant exclamation, and the first one inching down the narrow hallway of the bus. He also was the one who saw Adam’s hand holding yours before he jerked it away in surprised embarrassment. You stared between the two as a silent conversation occurred. Adam was pleading for Matty not to say anything about it, while Matty’s smirk made him look as if he wanted to do anything but keep quiet. However, after a bit more pleading, Matty kept silent and walked forward. Everyone said hi to you, jumping into their bunks or plopping down in the kitchen area. Adam dove into his bunk, closing the privacy curtain tight. You bit your lip and got into yours. After that situation, you were not entirely sure you would ever leave it. Or Adam with his, for that matter.

Touring commenced, whether you felt like you could look at Adam again or not. The first few dates were awesome, and you enjoyed being shown around by different crew members as to all of the different setups. Though it was tons of fun, you still had the looming feeling of awkwardness between you and Adam. He rarely spoke to you, even though you seemed to be around him way more than usual being cooped up on tour. When he did speak, it was a one word response. You decided to avoid him in response, mostly out of fear of the awkwardness, but also to not cause any drama. The last thing you wanted was for the others to be made aware of what was going on and get sucked into it. They had better things to focus on. Or rather, you thought they did.

The fifth tour date, somewhere in Spain, Matty caught your arm before you were able to go out to swim in the hotel pool. He caught you in the hallway, merely passing by you on his journey back from getting some food from a downstairs eatery. He smiled, menacing.

“Have you talked to Adam yet?”

“What?”

“C’mon darling, you need to speak to him sometime.”

“First off, it’s none of your business,” you spoke, glaring under your eyelashes at him. “Secondly, maybe I don’t want to.”

“Yes you do,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You like him. A lot. Don’t even try to hide that, we all know.”

You nearly choked on air. “Y-You know?”

“I’ve personally known since that first day we met you. You’re not really sly, you know.”

“Matty.”

“It’s nothing to shy away from! It’s cute that you are so fond of Hann.”

“You,” you whispered, looking around nervously, “need to shut up before he hears us on accident.”

“How could he? He’s downstairs, finishing up eating.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he replied, sighing dramatically like a child. “I’m positive. Seriously though, you should just confess how you feel. He likes you too, you know.”

Your eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

He nodded. “Don’t believe me, go ask him yourself.”

“I-”

“I’ve got to be on my way,” Matty said, cool as ever, as he stepped past you and headed towards his shared room with George. “Have a nice swim, {Y/N}.”

“I...fuck off, Matthew.”

You heard a chuckle as you stormed off. Who did Matty think he was? Getting into your business with Adam, telling his feelings to you. You froze in the elevator as it took you down to the pool. Had he told your feelings to Adam already? Were you so easy to read that he had been aware even before Matty said anything? Your head spinned, and you barely realized the elevator had made it to the pool’s floor when it dinged. Stepping out, you made your way to it in a daze. For fear of your safety, you stayed out of the water. Laying down on a chair was what you needed. It felt good to give your brain a rest.

After the sun’s rays had done their job warming you up, you went back inside and up the elevator. A few seconds passed, and then you were back up on your floor. Your breath caught as you passed Adam’s room. You didn’t even want to think about what he was up to behind the door. You couldn’t think. You pushed past and swiped your card key just to distract you from it.

What you saw inside took your breath away.

Sitting on your bed was Adam, an acoustic guitar in hand and rose petals scattered on the white bed he sat on. He was dressed in a nice outfit, one you were sure was meant for touring, and those emerald eyes sparkled. A light blush dusted his cheeks. He got up as you stood frozen, and began to softly sing you what sounded like one of Matty’s elaborate poems. It was a love poem, and it was beautiful. Beautiful enough to cause you to cry, still frozen at the door. When he finished, he gently took off the guitar and strolled over to you. An outstretched hand brought you inside. With the door shutting behind you, he took both of your hands into his and gazed lovingly into your eyes.

“I don’t know if you’ve gotten the hint yet,” he mumbled, so endearingly sweet that you couldn’t help but break your frozen nature to giggle, “but I like you so much, {Y/N}. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever set my eyes on, and you make me feel like a day is not complete when I am without you. Not telling all of this to you these past few days since tour began has been absolute murder. Simply not getting to talk to you has been that way. I was so scared to speak because I was afraid me taking your hand had been far too forward, and well...I didn’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose you, {Y/N}. If you’ll have me, I would be so happy to be your boyfriend. Officially.”

Shutting your jaw that had dropped halfway through his speech, you instead put on a brilliant grin. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “Of course. I care so much about you.”

“Then your answer is yes.” Grinning, you squeezed Adam’s hands. “I would love for you to be my boyfriend, Adam. Hell, I’d love nothing more.”

His lips flew to yours in seconds, sweeping you off your feet. You could barely process it, his lips being so soft against yours. Suddenly, your world tilted into place. The man you wanted, craved, was now yours. Both of your feelings were confirmed. It was incredible. You simply could not believe it.

“Matty’s going to be thrilled.”

Pulling back a bit to look at Adam, you giggled. “Did he say something to you?”

“Only that you might like me back and that I should get off my arse and do something about it before we collectively drove the entire bus mental.”

You shook your head. “That bastard. He told me you liked me and that I should talk to you. Wait, did he help you with all of this, too?”

“Only the song lyrics and rose petals,” he replied, leaning to kiss your lips again. “I supplied the music and the whole heart-felt speech.”

“Really? I thought Matty would do that as well.”

“Nah, he’d be shit at it.”

“Oh, of course.”

Smiling, you brought Adam back over to the bed and sat down on him with it. “Would you mind kissing on top of these rose petals and putting them to good use?”

Smiling back, he nodded and brought you close. “Sure, though we need to hurry before soundcheck starts.”

“Screw soundcheck, you only have one first-time makeout session with your new girlfriend.”

Adam sighed happily. “Fair point. Screw soundcheck.”

#adam hann #Adam Hann fanfiction #Adam Hann imagine #Adam Hann Preference #Adam Hann writing #Adam Hann oneshot #the 1975 fanfiction #The 1975 fic #The 1975 imagine #The 1975 #The 1975 writing #The 1975 Oneshot #adam hann x reader #adam x reader #oneshot #The First Move

27 notes · View notes

seenashwrite · 8 years

Text

Easy As Pie.

Status: Complete Word Count: 12.8K Category: One-shot; Behind-the-scenes canon-compliant; On-the-case; Cross-Over [“Pushing Daisies”]; Humor; Friendship Rating: Teen & Up Characters: Dean, Sam, “Pushing Daisies” Main Cast, Minor Male O/C Warnings: None ...However! The facts are these - If you've never seen "Pushing Daisies", this might leave you wanting, possibly feeling a bit like an angel lacking understanding with regard to references and verbiage and tone.You can see what the cast looks like by scrolling to the bottom of this post. And find a link to hear The Narrator's voice. AND a link to watch "Pushing Daisies" (for free!) Just go clear past the daisy banner, so you won’t see the ending of the story. Author's Note(s): Narrator’s “voice” is in BOLD ITALICS; more post-story Overall Summary: Herein lies a tale of the Winchester brothers, who are investigating the story of a zombie being harbored in an unusual eatery called The Pie Hole.

At this very moment in a town not terribly far from Coeur d'Coeurs, a black Impala has brought two visitors to an idyllic little hamlet.

Sam Winchester is 33 years, 9 months, 17 days, 10 hours and 16 minutes old.

His older brother Dean is 38 years, 2 months, 20 days, 9 hours, and 18 minutes old.

And not one minute older.

SPLAT!

Dean had spotted The Pie Hole and was enraptured, overtaken, bewitched, intoxicated at the sight of his soulmates waiting for him in the windows, and thus did not pay heed to the very large, very old-fashioned milk truck plowing down the street.

So it was that Sam found himself in a state of wonder. The wondering regarded how he could possibly be finding himself in this situation.

Again.

And he wondered why there existed a museum-worthy milk delivery truck in this strange little place.

Or, at all.

Sam also wondered why, apart from the occasional dialogue, this case seemed to be accompanied by a narrator.

Suddenly, a man exactly one inch taller than Sam came rushing out of the fanciful eatery that had so captivated his older brother and knelt by said older brother's corpse.

"Is it very important that he lives?" the man with the large eyebrows asked Sam.

Sam's own eyebrows raised in astonishment as he slowly nodded his head.

"There may be enough squirrels..." the nervous man muttered.

Nervously.

Sam glanced around, putting a hand on the gun tucked in his waistband, hidden under his suit jacket. As the voice from nowhere went on, he pulled it out and began aiming down the empty street, then up at closed, curtained windows, then back down at innocent trashcans and an unsuspecting fire hydrant.

It seemed that one Greer Garmin-Gelleher, a local arborist, had worked wonders on the trees in the small park just up the block from The Pie Hole and as a result, dozens upon dozens of squirrel families had set up shop, fiercely foraging, then making dozens upon dozens of little squirrels.

They wreaked havoc, exploring neighboring apartment attic spaces and scaring cats and children, and seemed to gain arrogance when the bumbling animal control dispatchees failed to capture even one bushy menace. That, however, is another tale.

Sam now picked up Dean's body.

"Sam did what, now?" Sam asked the air.

"I can help," the aproned man told Sam. "We just need to get him to the park."

Sam now picked up Dean's body.

Huffing at The Narrator, Sam returned his gun to his waistband, picked up Dean's body, and tossed him over a shoulder. Then Sam spoke to the would-be helper with more than a little glare from his eyes.

"You better start talking, and I mean right now. I have a gun."

"I noticed. It's a nice one." A pause. "I mean, I would think. I know more about gunshot wounds than guns--"

"Good," Sam said through a grunt, adjusting his grip on Dean. "I'll let you pick the spot if I need to shoot you."

As Sam carried Dean to the park with no help whatsoever, the man - who introduced himself as Ned, the owner of The Pie Hole - began to explain that he'd heard talk of supernatural investigators coming to town.

Well, more precisely--

"I think you two are here to find me. I've been threatened," said the pie-maker.

"Who threatened you?" asked Sam.

Sam laid Dean under a cluster of trees. The squirrels were practically growling at the intruders. Some began gathering walnuts to throw. They were suspicious of these super-sized bi-pedals.

"You're gonna want to go now," said Ned.

"I'm not leaving my brother," said Sam.

Sam's voice was quite firm.

"Knock it off!" Sam yelled up into the air with more firmness, hoping to shut up the voice invading his mind.

This was for naught.

Sam rubbed his forehead. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. He looked to the pie-maker once again. "Why do I need to go away?"

"That's the thing," Ned said. "It's why you're here."

"We're here about a zombie report - and you're not one."

Ned hesitated. "I prefer to call them alive-agains."

Sam waited as a few moments passed, then finally prodded the pie-maker. "What does that mean, Ned!?"

"I can raise the dead."

Sam opened and closed his mouth a few times as if he were trying to decide how to respond, when a kamikaze squirrel landed on his shoulder. It issued a battle cry before dragging teensy scratches down Sam's neck.

Making a mental note to check the date of his last rabies inoculation, Sam knocked it away.

This was quite ill-received, as the men noted a distinct uptick in the chatter amongst the trees.

"They're plotting now," Ned warned.

"So what did you mean when you said there may be enough squirrels?"

"If one minute passes after I touch something dead and bring it back, something else nearby dies. It's a trade-off. But I can't pick the trade."

Sam stayed quiet. He didn't need Ned to tell him what an awful burden that must be. He knew from life-and-death choices, deals made that had uncontrollable ripple effects. He knew all too well.

"This time I'm hoping it will be a something. Somethings," Ned added.

The pie-maker glanced up to the trees and Sam followed his gaze. The fluffy-tailed demons all clutched nutty missiles, seemingly poised to launch an aerial assault. The two men looked at each other once more.

Sam nodded. "So I should get away."

"You should get away," Ned confirmed.

Sam got away.

The delightfully congruous nature of the situation was not lost on Sam, that Dean would be saved in a round-a-bout way by squirrels. Dean would likely note the same, were Sam to be saved by a moose. Following an abundance of side-splitting laughter.

"Funny, ha-ha," Sam commented, and dryly.

Sam ran his hands through his luxurious mane.

"Thanks," Sam said, and with a little smile.

And back in the park, after a tap to the tip of his nose, Dean sat up, no worse for the wear, once more exuberant to be this close to true love.

Except he was not staring into an empty plate inside that marvelous eatery shaped like a pie.

Instead he stared into the eyes of a man with quite the worried face.

"Who are you?" he asked the hovering stranger in a very gruff manner.

"I'm the pie-maker," Ned answered simply.

Ned chose to leave out the fact that he was also Dean's resurrectionist, his life-giver du jour, though he had already made himself a hero in the elder Winchester's heart by way of his occupation.

It was then a series of soft plops began to occur all around them as squirrels went to meet their maker.

Dean did a brief double-take at the litany of rodentia corpses beginning to surround them before getting back on task with a simple request:

"Pie?"

Sam had gone all the way back down the block and was standing where they had started, across the street from The Pie Hole, when he spotted his very alive and very excited brother.

Dean had come running around the corner, a bright smile on his face, Ned following behind at a slower pace with a less-bright, more solemn expression.

"Dean!" Sam cried out, waving to get his attention.

For you see, while Ned was troubled over facts yet revealed, Dean was in love. His eyes were shiny with unwept tears of joy. The glistening desserts in the windows of The Pie Hole were whispering his name almost seductively. His desire was beyond measure.

"Okay, wow," Sam called out to the sky. "I am really done with this!"

Sam was persistent.

Sam rolled his eyes.

The freshly reborn hunter then ran up to Sam, pointing excitedly to The Pie Hole, his own private wonderland which held his most divine wishes come true.

"Dude, pie!" Dean exclaimed, grabbing his brother by the upper arms. "I think I may have to move here."

"I think I may be schizophrenic," Sam replied.

The brothers followed Ned's lead, all three meeting up at the door to Dean’s new idea of heaven.

"How old is that pie?" Dean said to the pie-maker, pointing to a specific one in the window.

"That pie?"

"That pie."

"That pie is two hours, sixteen minutes and 45 seconds old. Forty-six. Forty-seven..."

"We get the point," Sam interjected.

The fruit-and-sugar-scented air poured out to greet them as soon as Ned opened the door.

But they were prevented from entering, as a horrified yelp shot through the sugar, highlighted by the sound of minuscule steps hitting the sidewalk at a feverish pace, headed right for them.

Those steps belonged to one Olive Snook, proprietress of The Intrepid Cow, which was dedicated to the fine art of crafting all manner of macaroni and cheese, from plain to exotic, made with any kind of noodle one could desire.

And the petite blonde was currently wracked with guilt.

"I am just wracked with guilt!" Olive exclaimed, rushing up to them and then stopping cold in front of Sam.

Olive's tiny voice matched her tiny feet and tiny stature, as she stood exactly 4 feet, 11 inches tall. And she took a moment to gaze up at Sam, giving him a thorough once-over. A tiny giggle emerged from her tiny lips.

"Olive?" said Ned.

She blinked, pulled from her admiration for the moment, turning her head towards her friend and speaking rapidly. "Magoo had asked if he could deliver to The Intrepid Cow early today and I said yes and then one of my assistant chefs said he thought he saw Magoo run over something after he left, and I was scared to death it was all my fault and then I was scared to death that it was Digby."

"Yeah. Something got run over alright. Him," Ned clarified, sticking his thumb in Dean's direction.

Dean's brow creased, his gaze drawn away from the window at this revelation. "I did?" he asked Ned, then looked to Sam.

"You died," Sam informed him.

These words had passed between the brothers many times before.

Dean thought on this for a moment. “Huh. Like, all the way?"

It could be said that Dean Winchester was better at dying than he was at living.

Perhaps more accurately, it could be said that Dean himself often thought this to be so.

Sam Winchester did not comment on The Narrator's posit as he found it quite a sad thing to consider.

“Did you do the thing?" Olive asked Ned.

Ned sighed.

“Did you tell them about the thing?” Olive asked Ned.

Ned sighed more.

“You don't seem very shaken up, are you in shock?" Olive asked, but not of Dean, whose forehead was leaned against the window, surveying his options, biting his lip. She was speaking to Sam, reaching up and rubbing one of his biceps.

Olive's stature was at odds with her large amounts of bravado.

"Oooh," she said under her breath.

"We're used to weird things," Sam said by way of an explanation, stepping to the side a bit when Olive's comfort began to edge around to his back.

Entering slowly, Dean resumed ogling the offerings while Olive rushed forward, kneeling and hugging the dog that had just come from the back.

"Oh, Digby! I'm so glad you're safe!" she exclaimed as the dog wagged its tail and gave her cheek a quick lick.

A woman came from the kitchen and walked behind the counter, carrying a freshly baked pie, placing it carefully on a tiered stand.

Dean immediately walked over. "What kind is it?" he asked.

"It's pear, with a little gruyere in the crust," she answered with a big smile.

"Ohhhhh..." Dean murmured, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

She laughed. "One piece, coming right up?"

Dean nodded, eyes now open and shining with anticipation.

Ned locked the door, flipped the sign to "CLOSED", and then slowly walked towards the counter. "Um, Chuck, I need to tell you something," he began, an eye starting to twitch.

"Chuck?!" the Winchester brothers exclaimed at once, eyes wide.

"Well, Charlotte, really. I know, it's a silly nickname for a girl, isn't it?" Chuck replied.

"No... no, we just know a Chuck is all," Dean told her, then took a seat at one of the counter stools, watching as she plated his piece of pie.

"Chuck, I really need to ---" Ned tried again, only to be ignored.

"Nice suits!" Chuck commented. "You two here on business?"

She set the pie in front of Dean, along with a fork and napkin, which he practically snatched out of her hands.

"Sort of," Sam answered slowly, glancing over at Ned. "I'm Sam, and that's Dean."

Dean glanced up, raised a finger in silent greeting, then continued his assault on the pie.

Walking over to stand by Dean, Sam rubbed his temples, no longer bothering to address The Narrator, accepting his reality.

"Not so much," Sam said through gritted teeth.

"Sorry?" Chuck asked sweetly.

"There's this voice, it keeps telling me what everyone's doing, even telling me what I'm doing," Sam explained. "But then it doesn't tell me some things - it's only telling me what it can make sound witty or poetic or something."

Sam shook his head in amazement and awe at The Narrator's discretionary tastes.

"Nope, no, no, no - it's annoyance,” he - loudly - corrected The Narrator.

“Oh, that's just your narrator," Chuck said, patting Sam's hand. "It's really nothing to worry about."

Olive and Ned and Chuck explained to Sam that The Narrator is different for everyone. Sometimes on special occasions, everyone is blessed with the same one.

And so that is how he should think of the words melodically tickling his ears: a blessing.

More or less.

"Yeah... well, my Narrator should know that one of my specialties is getting rid of mysterious voices that come from nowhere, and I'm about to start handing out blessings, myself," Sam stated, glancing around with a not-so-friendly grin and narrowed eyes.

.............

"That's what I thought.”

“At first, I wondered it was my guardian angel - well, other than Ned," Chuck said. The lovely brunette's cheeks grew as pink as her cardigan when Ned shot her a tiny smile. "Or, you know, maybe even a higher power, like God."

"It's not God," Sam and Dean said at precisely the same time.

"My Narrator sounds like Stockard Channing," Olive said in a dreamy tone, rising and walking behind the counter. "We sing 'Hopelessly Devoted to You' all the time."

"I didn't know she sang that!" Chuck exclaimed.

"That was Olivia Newton-John," Dean informed them through a partially chewed piece of pie.

They stared.

Dean swallowed.

Chuck noted his now-empty plate, so she reached into one of the cases and selected a new treat. "Here! Try a Cup-Pie. Coconut Chocolate Cream."

Dean's eyes narrowed at the chunky treat she'd plopped onto his plate, then he brought those eyes to hers, suspicion over this cupcake-like confection written all over his face.

"I will leave you to it," Chuck said, a bit of trepidation in her expression as she slowly backed away several steps before turning, in the way one might behave when faced with a rabid animal.

"He is very serious about pies," Ned commented in a low voice to Sam.

Sam then made a decision - he would be taking the lead on the case, since Dean was apparently only going to be good for dying and pie-ing.

Olive clearly knew Ned's secret, Chuck and Ned were clearly in love, so he had reasonably assumed they clearly must know about Ned's predicament.

Thus, Sam asked:

"Can we maybe get serious about this threat thing? About the zombie thing? I mean, exactly how many people have you brought back?"

Sam was mistaken.

(That dying and pie-ing line notwithstanding, that was quite good, well-played)

Perhaps his Narrator could have prevented his error in revealing Ned's secret. Alas, we'll never know.

Sam tightened his jaw.

And Chuck's jaw began to drop as she turned her head to Ned.

And Ned's head dropped as he looked at his shoes.

“Magoo ran Dean over with the milk truck," Olive said, going to the shiny machine at the end of the counter and making herself an espresso.

Chuck turned to Olive and her eyes widened. "What?"

"Yup."

Chuck whipped back around to Ned. "But... but..."

"That's what I needed to talk to you about," said Ned sheepishly, coming behind the counter.

"Uh-oh," Dean mumbled to Sam, shoving more Cup-Pie into his mouth. "Now ya done it."

"How? Ned! Who took his place?" Chuck cried.

"The squirrels."

"The squirrels?"

"Oh, goooood thinking, Ned!" Olive complimented him, coming back over with her cup and saucer. "Those tree rats were out of control, kept digging the Almond-Pecan Brie-Right-Back Tortellini out of our trash down at the 'Cow."

Dean raised an eyebrow.

"They like to nut up."

Dean raised both eyebrows.

Olive huffed. "To get ready for winter." A pause and a giggle. "You nut!"

“But ALL of the squirrels?" Chuck asked, astonished.

Ned nodded and shrugged. "He's a big guy."

"Yeah, you should try carrying him," Sam pointed out.

"More like a growing boy," Dean said, holding up his empty plate at Chuck and grinning.

Her neck flushed and her cheeks flamed. "What next?" she asked.

"What's your favorite, sweetheart?"

Sam covered his face with his hand.

Ned attempted a glare, though the persistent twitch took off its edge.

"Give him the Kahlúa Cream Cheese," Olive suggested.

Chuck nodded in agreement and selected it from the stand.

Dean looked over to Sam mouthing all manner of incomprehensible words, his expression practically post-coital.

"I'm going to our car," Sam announced to the group, "and I'm going to bring back all kinds of fun things. And then I'm going to exorcise what is, I'm pretty sure at this point, a spirit who is haunting one of you. Or this place. Or this town." Then Sam shrugged. "Doesn't much matter. It'll be packing it in all the same."

Sam was a bit wild-eyed, making silly suggestions that certainly wouldn't work. No. They wouldn't work at all.

The Narrator is definitely not some sort of harmless, lonely poltergeist who doesn't want to cause mischief, and only wants to bring de... de... deliiiiiight....

Sam glanced around, slightly perplexed. “Are you... was that a sniffle? Are you crying?"

Someone's cutting onions.

“Ned, what is going on? You tell me right this instant, or I'm going to my aunts' house and I'm not coming back," Chuck said, and nothing about her indicated she was anything other than serious.

"They're here... Dean and Sam are here because... they're here to look into us. Me. You," Ned began.

"What?" Chuck said again, now in a whisper.

Olive had been sipping from her cup, then spat it right back in at Ned's revelation, followed by upping the ante on Chuck's reaction. "What?!" she bellowed.

Dean and Sam jumped, startled at the booming voice that practically shook the pies from their stands.

"Is she just a giant pair of lungs inside?" Dean muttered to Sam.

"Holy moly, Ned!" Olive went on.

Then she turned to Dean and Sam.

"Are you guys feds? Like X-Files feds? You look like feds."

"How would you know what federal agents look like?" asked Chuck, briefly distracted from mulling over Ned's kept secret.

Olive let out a tiny chuckle. "Heh-heh. You know, I'm going to go check on that pie, is there pie in the oven, sure does smell like it, be right back." And with that, Olive dashed away to the kitchen.

"Wait, are you saying your gal here's the zombie?" Dean asked bluntly. Then he rolled his eyes, scooping the last bite of pie onto his fork. "Yeah, right."

Chuck's face crumbled like the crust detritus on Dean's well-scraped plate. It was rude of Dean to say it this way, and he darn well knew it. His mother would be ashamed of his behavior.

Dean's eyes darted around briefly, but didn't ask about the voice when he observed how right it was, noting the look on Chuck's face.

“Sorry," he told her, but only received a solemn nod in response.

Olive came out of the kitchen. "I just got off the phone with Randy - he's going to take care of all the squirrels," she informed the group.

"Who's Randy?" asked Sam.

"My fiancé," Olive replied. "He's a taxidermist."

Dean frowned. "How many squirrels we talkin'?"

"I think about a hundred, give or take?" Ned replied.

"Is there that much of a market for real stuffed squirrels?" Chuck pondered.

"Oh, you'd be surprised," answered Olive.

"I wonder how that balances on the scales with five pigs?" Sam said, shooting a grin at Dean; it was met with a scowl.

"I'd say that's at least six pigs, maybe even seven," Olive replied.

They looked at her.

She huffed.

"My recipes don't just have noodles and cheese - any ol' body can do that!"

"Recipes like, say..." Dean replied, interested.

"Well, there's The Royal Mountie. Canadian bacon and bow-ties, tossed with a Yukon Jack-and-poutine sauce with extra curd, and topped with crumbled maple-candy-coated bacon."

Like no other woman before her, Olive had Dean's undivided attention.

"And then there’s The Fiver."

Dean licked his lips. "What's, um, what's the--"

"It is love in a bowl," Olive replied with a wink. "Pecorino, Prosciutto, Pancetta, Porcini, and Pappardelle. Not to mention the times when I practically just fondue a wad of bacon-stuffed shells. Hello. I know pig. Our prized truffle-sniffer is my pet, Pigby."

"No kidding?" Sam asked. "How do you manage--"

"You just have to make yourself keep the work and the personal separate," Olive explained.

Dean and Sam might learn a thing or two from Olive.

Now Dean pointed at Sam. "First - we're going to The Intrepid Cow when all this is done. Second - Crowley never hears of this."

Sam once more grinned, but he nodded in agreement.

Now that the elder Winchester's head was clear of the fog brought on by the pie, the bright light of a question cut through the last bit of haze.

"WHAT is that VOICE? Is anybody else hearing this?" Dean asked.

Dean got back on track and asked about the squirrels mentioned only moments ago.

"FINE! Third thing is, I wanna be real, real clear on this whole I'm-back-from-the-dead-but-bye-bye-squirrels thing," Dean continued.

And though the pie-maker said this next part in his typically gentle tone, he unknowingly said the exact right thing to make both brothers' blood run cold.

"I granted you life after death, Dean. And I can take it back."

Dean blanched. "Sam. What does he mean?" he asked.

"There's a price," Sam answered. "Something nearby dies when Ned brings back the dead."

“Not touching a dead thing twice means something else... maybe even someone else... has to die," Chuck added, her voice very soft and very sad.

The sadness extended to both Ned's face and her own as they gazed at each other, with as much love as Dean had channeled whilst gazing at the pies.

And it occurred to the brothers that this meant the pair could never touch each other, else Chuck would be lost. Permanently.

Permanent death was a difficult concept for the Winchesters to fully grasp. Nonetheless, they did feel pangs of sympathy for this unusual zombie and her equally unusual reaper.

Sam cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "Ned, I really don't want to push, but--"

"We're going to need to know some facts," Dean finished.

The facts were these---

"There's definitely a lack of facts," Chuck said pointedly to Ned, interrupting the voice Dean heard ever-more-clearly. Now that all his mental faculties were no longer focused on pie. And only marginally on the cheese and bacon Valhalla awaiting him.

Dean's eyes and brows darted up, around, to, fro, this way, that, his face twisting and turning, yet somehow remaining so handsome it made both Chuck and Olive swoon against the counter top, leaning on their elbows and placing their chins atop their clutched hands, uttering twin sighs.

"The hell?" Dean muttered, possibly questioning in equal amounts both the voicing and the swooning.

"Just go with it," advised a very resigned Sam.

And then they all looked to Ned, who began the explaining.

"We - Chuck and Olive and I - used to work with a friend, a P.I. here in town," Ned began. "I would touch murder victims, get the story on how they died, then touch them again so they'd go back to being dead."

"You guys are heroes, maybe collect rewards, yeah, got it," Dean cut in, trying to rush him along.

If Dean would be patient, his Narrator would be pleased to present a montage for him.

Dean rolled his eyes, took his brother's advice, sighed, and then said, "Knock yourself out."

Ahem. As I was saying, the facts were these:

Ned had told neither Chuck nor Olive about the threat he'd recently received, wanting to investigate further. And investigate he did, learning that the person behind said threat was none other than THE investigator about town, one Todd Cod.

Their friend, the town's former premier solver of mysteries, was Emerson Cod. He had handed over his P.I. agency to his cousin, the aforementioned Todd Cod. It was a fiscally sound decision, as none of the advertising needed to change - Todd Cod was a dead ringer for his cousin. They simply marked through Emerson's name and wrote in Todd's.

Emerson had moved with his daughter to Australia, funded by the success of his popular children's book series, "Lil' Gumshoe". Seeing as Australia is the second largest producer of wool, this made reasonable sense to his pie-maker partner, the pie-maker's true love, and the diminutive cheese connoisseur.

Emerson's love of knitting was only surpassed by the love for his daughter, and he found the yarn down-under to be---

"Don't give a squirrel's ass!" Dean proclaimed loudly.

"Thank you, that was getting tiresome," Chuck admitted.

"The point is, we all thought it was a good time to let it go," Ned concluded. "Our part in it. We didn't want anyone else to know about my... my gift, just wanted to go on with our lives."

"As it were," Chuck added. Then she looked at Dean with a bit of a twinkle in her eye when she tacked on, "My fellow zombie."

Dean had been served humble pie and put in his not-so-dead place.

"So how do you think Todd found out?" Sam asked.

"There's no way Emerson would have told him, no way," Olive answered with confidence, and Ned and Chuck agreed so heartily, the brothers believed them.

"Meaning somebody else around town must know about it, too," Sam concluded.

With that, Dean stood, wiping his hands and dusting crumbs off his suit, then tossing his napkin onto the counter. "Let's take care of business.”

Sam gave a confident nod. "We're on top of it."

The Winchesters emitted such taking-care-of-business tones and assumed such being-on-top postures, reminiscent of what one might find described in a dictionary under “manly”, that Chuck and Olive promptly swooned once more.

Ned huffed, looking around and pointing into the air. "You know, I've always been nice to you ---"

My apologies, Ned. I confess I am also swooning more than I would like.

"Apology accepted."

"Okay, here's what I think," Dean began, looking at Olive. "You help... Randy?"

Olive nodded.

"Help Randy wrangle up the squirrels - the last thing we need is someone else asking around."

Olive nodded again.

"And we ---" Now Dean gestured at himself, Sam, Ned and Chuck "--- are gonna split up, do some digging. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Ned and Chuck said in unison, but Sam was silent.

"What?" Dean asked his brother.

"You and Chuck should pair up and I should go with Ned," Sam answered.

"How you figure?"

"They know this town, the people in it," Sam pointed out. "Two fake feds are gonna make them clam up, but this way they've got a friendly face. Plus, you shouldn't be anywhere around Ned."

Ned nodded. "He's right, Dean - what if we accidentally bump into each other?"

Dean thought on this briefly. "Fine." Then he looked to Chuck. "You okay with that?"

Chuck smiled and shrugged. "Team Zombie and Team Colossus it is!"

Olive scurried from behind the counter and had opened the door only slightly when she stopped and turned, snapping her fingers. "I think I just... hey, Sam?"

"Yeah, Olive?"

"Which way did the milk truck come? When it ran over Dean?"

Sam's brow creased slightly as he tried to recall on which side of him the sun had set. "I was across the street, facing The Pie Hole, so... East-West?"

Olive let the door close and came back over to them, pure joy lighting up her face. "I knew it!" she cried.

"Care to share with the class?" Dean asked.

"Magoo only uses that truck twice a day," Olive explained. "Once at the crack of dawn, to re-supply the supermarkets, and then once in the evening, to The Intrepid Cow, so I have plenty of milk for the mac the next day."

"The cow, how, what, now?" Dean interrupted.

"Sshhh," Olive scolded him with a quick slap to his arm.

Sam, Ned and Chuck grinned at one another upon Dean's rapid-fire facial expression reaction.

"Anyway," Olive went on, "the 'Cow and the markets are the dairy's biggest customers, he doesn't need that big ol' eyesore for the rest of his runs. So if he was still in that truck this evening, and he was leaving from the ‘Cow to go back to the dairy when he ran over Dean... Get it?"

They did not get it.

Everyone looked at Olive blankly, when suddenly Ned spoke.

"East-West!" Ned exclaimed.

Olive nodded excitedly. "East-West!"

Now Chuck gasped and clapped her hands together a few times. "EAST-WEST, Olive, you GENIUS!"

Dean frowned, saying, "Up, down, forwards, backwards, righty-tighty, lefty-loosey, full cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, what the hell are you people talking about?”

“You know, I liked you better when you had your face stuffed in my pie," Chuck commented, crossing her arms and frowning right back.

Dean then fought a mighty internal battle.

He was biting the inside of his cheek in an effort to halt a stream of word vomit that would have included several tasteless and assuredly unfunny jokes.

Again, The Narrator ponders what his mother would think.

"Well she ain't here, now is she?" Dean shot back.

"You know what is in that direction, though," Chuck said.

"Lemme guess - the office of Todd Cod, Private Investigator?" Sam asked.

The trio nodded in unison.

"It's late and everything's closed," said Ned. "So if we want to look into the Magoo thing ---"

"And Todd Cod," Chuck added.

"--- then there's sneaking around to do, and I vote we should probably do it now, put off questioning townsfolk til tomorrow."

"Yeah, it's too weird a coincidence," Dean said. "This Cod character and the Magoo dude, there's gotta be a connection."

Everyone nodded in agreement.

So it was that as Olive went to meet Randy at the park, Sam and Ned climbed into the Impala. They drove some fifteen miles away, over a bridge and then around some woods, until they reached Grandma’s Dairy. Dean and Chuck, however, remained right where they were - only higher.

"The building where Cod's office is - well, we actually have a pretty good perch on our hands," Chuck explained to Dean as they went up the stairs.

She'd already shown him how she and Ned lived above The Pie Hole, and he got to see their quaint apartment when dropping off Digby and picking up Chuck's binoculars. And onward and upward they went, until they emerged on the rooftop. Then Dean's eyes went wide.

"It's not even a mile away, just a block or so, really, and since his office is on the top floor and the building is a little lower than ours, we have a---- oh goodness, what's wrong?"

Chuck had cut herself off because while she walked over to the telescope near the ledge, Dean had remained by the door, staring at the line of pedestaled box hives that made up a modest apiary.

Chuck smiled. "It's my bee yard."

Dean glanced from the hives to her.

"My comb away from home."

Now Dean's eyes went narrow - puns were typically his job.

"My honey pot!"

Dean stared. "I can't with you."

Unlike the pie comment from earlier, Chuck seemed to know precisely what she'd said based on the wiggling of her eyebrows and the widening of her smile. "Don't worry, they're all buzzed out for the day. C’mon, let's get this cranking," she said, waving him over to join her at the telescope.

Meanwhile, Ned and Sam had stealthily climbed over the modest fencing at Grandma's Dairy, entering the large field and making their way towards the barn.

In the car, Ned had explained that the owner of the dairy for which Magoo served as delivery man was none other than his grandmother. Due to Grandma Magillicutty's advanced age, Magoo was practically running the place though he was not even part owner.

This was because of Grandma's stance that every cow should be milked by hand - she did not believe in having the cows stuck in stalls, being milked by machinery. Her cows were all descendants of the first little herd the Magillicutty clan had raised from calves generations ago.

Grandma wanted it done just as it always had been - because Grandma knew the milk tasted better when the cows were happy.

And according to Olive, Magoo had been grumbling about it for ages. Said with the milking machines, they’d be making triple what they were now, could hire more drivers, expand to other towns.

But both Olive and Chuck agreed with Grandma. They - and The Intrepid Cow and The Pie Hole customers alike - could taste the difference anytime either cooked with any brand other than that which came from the Magillicutty herd.

Sam immediately began to speculate that this could have something to do with the blackmailing, though neither he nor Ned were certain now how cows meant something was afoul.

"Really?!" Sam whispered to The Narrator, then promptly came to a halt and sighed deeply, as he’d now been the recipient of a different sort of pie for the third time.

Sam had enough forethought to remove his suit jacket and tie, but neglected to change his dress shoes. And though abnormally bright moonlight - par for the course in this strange little place, Sam supposed - was on their side, it didn’t illuminate as much as one would desire.

That “one” in this case being Sam Winchester.

Some, possibly The Narrator, might consider this comeuppance for a grumpy attitude.

"Let's get closer to the side of the barn," Ned whispered. "Should be safer for your shoes there."

The towering duo were fortunate to have an even taller stack of hay bales to hide behind, and it wasn’t long until, there amongst the occasional mooing of the bovine army stalled inside, they hit - heard - pay dirt.

“.....and things change, Cod!”

Sam and Ned glanced at each other.

"Magoo?" Sam mouthed to Ned, who nodded.

“Those investigators of yours? The paranormal ones?”

Sam made a little face but then shrugged. Close enough.

“Well when I was on my way back here from your office, one of the idiots ran clean out into the middle of the road! They’re morons! They’re not gonna get done what we need getting done and you know what that means for your little scheme! It's like Grandma says - those dogs won't hunt!”

"Dogs?" Ned mouthed to Sam, who nodded.

Sam pulled out his phone, but Ned touched his shoulder to get his attention and shook his head. Then he made a motion in the air with his finger, circling it around.

Sure enough - barely any bars. But he took his best shot, sending Dean a short, simple, understandable text.

"...and I'm telling you that unless you get that pie-maker to lay off the fruit and start laying on the cows, your puppy plans are over!"

And then Sam watched as a somewhat horrified look of realization swept over the pie-maker’s face.

Dean frowned. "Cod Dog."

"What?" asked Chuck, leaning up and removing her eye from the telescope.

She was seated on a small stool, keeping close watch on the windows of the P.I. office, as well as the building in general. Dean had been scoping the street with the binoculars. They wanted to make certain everything was good and vacated before they - well, Dean - picked the lock and started snooping around.

Yet now, Chuck observed that her new hunter friend was looking down at his phone with quite the quizzical expression, for his younger brother had sent what he found to be the stupidest text ever.

"Oh, not ever, but close," Dean replied to The Narrator casually, then darted narrowed eyes side-to-side, considering how he was suddenly finding it normal to talk to a disembodied voice.

Chuck giggled. “What’s that supposed to mean, do you think?”

“Well, unless there’s a corner stand around here that’s serving fish wieners, I guess Ned and Sam found out something to do with our friendly neighborhood blackmailer and some pooches.”

“You know.... Todd has made the papers off-and-on because he’s been so good at recovering stolen dogs.” Now it was Chuck who was frowning. “Come to think of it,” she continued, “there’s been SO many dogs going missing! For months and months! That’s not normal, right?”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Normal to you is gonna be a hell of a lot different than my kind of normal, and believe me - that’s saying a lot.”

Chuck grinned. “Fair enough.”

Dean glanced around at the hives again. “We’ve got a friend who would love this, he’s a big fan of bees.”

Chuck put her eye back to the telescope as she responded. “Well, if he happens to have a rooftop handy and can get his hands on some friendly bees, I highly recommend it.”

A tiny smile crept to Dean’s face. “Yeah. Yeah, I know a pretty good place with a big rooftop. Even got a telescope hanging around.”

“I’m beginning to suspect Ned got this for me just so he could spy on Todd,” Chuck commented. “It was my half-birthday gift this year.”

“Half-birthday?”

Chuck nodded, pulling her eye away to look at Dean once more. "My aunts started it - back when they thought I was dead," Chuck explained. "It’s more an anniversary, I suppose. They said it was because it was the day that was exactly one-and-a-half birthdays prior to... you know. Prior. Pre-nose dive off a cruise ship."

"So they know about the... about how Ned does the..."

"Mmm-hmm," Chuck replied, but then she looked a little worried, adding, "They have nothing to do with this, I promise. Plus, they've been on tour, with their mermaid act," she added.

Dean asked nothing about this, wisely assuming he could consult The Narrator for this tale at a later date should he find it of import.

And then The Narrator could tell by the smirk on Dean's face that he was imagining "tail" instead of "tale". Nicely done, Dean - I let that one slip right by.

Dean reassured her he wasn’t suspicious of her family, then walked back over to the ledge and put the binoculars to his eyes. Chuck followed suit with the telescope. After a few moments of silence, Dean spoke.

"This isn't the first time it's happened. To me. The dying and the... I’ve got some priors, myself," he said quietly.

Chuck thought on this over a few more silent moments. "You did seem pretty relaxed about it," she observed, adjusting the focus on the telescope a bit.

Dean moved his head as he scanned another area of the street. "It's ah... it's weird, huh? Being back."

"I didn't even know I'd died at first. Did you?"

Dean didn't answer right away, but when he did, he said, "I knew. Every time."

This made Chuck quite sad.

"Thanks, Captain Obvious," Dean said to The Narrator, and then pulled the binoculars away to glance down at the top of Chuck's head. "I'm sorry. I mean, I’d guessed it probably would make you sad, but... with Sammy and me... talking about that stuff sometimes..."

Chuck looked up at him. "You get on a merry-go-round? Just keep on bumming each other out?"

Dean nodded. "And getting pissed at each other, for him doing what we did, then him thinking I wasn’t grateful. He'd just... you know, he’s made a real mess of things, trying to do what he thinks is best for me, and... that. What you said, that's it. Merry-go-rounds."

"Just no horses or cotton candy," Chuck commented, the corners of her mouth turning up. She was pleased when Dean's mouth followed suit.

"I'm a muscle car and pie kinda guy anyway."

"I was mad at Ned at first, too. Well. Disappointed. Then mad and sad when I found out about the proximity person. And then there was the thing with my father."

“Thing with your father? Does that mean what I think it means?”

Once settled back in the Impala - Sam’s feet now in boots and his destroyed dress shoes now residing in the trunk - Ned explained his reaction back behind the hay bales.

It had suddenly occurred to him why Magoo had mentioned fruit.

While Olive had spoken the truth earlier regarding Magoo’s routine, he did on occasion have to make a stop before heading to the supermarkets - and that stop was The Pie Hole.

By virtue of their menus, Olive needed milk - and a lot of it - every day. And while Chuck needed milk to make certain recipes, a weekly delivery from Grandma’s Dairy sufficed. The more frequent needs were the flour and the sugar and the butter and so on.

And of course, the flowers.

"Flowers..." Sam muttered under his breath.

But the one thing they never needed on a frequent basis was fruit for the pies. Ned could stretch several baskets of peaches for a week or two. A crate of bananas for three or four. A bushel of apples for perhaps a month. The Pie Hole’s fruit never had to go bad - and only a handful of daisies had to die to make it so.

Ned had concluded that Magoo must have witnessed this during an early morning milk bottle drop-off. The pie-maker’s own daily routine was to deal with the fruit rejuvenation only when the shop was free of customers - late at night or early mornings were it, as he’d almost been caught one too many times. He never thought about who could be peeking through the back door.

Then the conversation between Sam and Ned abruptly took a turn, just as abruptly as Sam had slammed on the brakes, halting their progress across the bridge.

"I accidentally killed her father when we were ten."

Sam's eyes grew wide.

They were going over the bridge when Sam stopped for a pair of meandering box turtles - an unusually slow pair, even by turtle standards. And Sam had just been moving to exit the car so he could help them along to the river when Ned dropped his bombshell. The two had actually been having a conversation very similar to the one being had on the rooftop by Dean and Chuck, though The Narrator kept this to himself.

Settling back into his seat, Sam looked at Ned, who shrugged.

"It all started when I made Digby come back."

"That's not so ---"

"Then I made my mom come back. And then next thing I knew, Chuck's dad just fell over in their front yard. It’s how I learned about the proximity side-effect."

"Wow, Ned, I'm... jeez," was all Sam could manage.

"And then a few years ago? I made him come back."

Ned then uttered the understatement of the century.

"It didn't work out."

"How do you mean?"

"He was... he was what I would consider a zombie," Ned explained. "He'd been dead for so long... First off, it was disgusting."

Sam stifled a chuckle, but couldn't help a little grin. "I bet."

"And he was different. Kind've mean. He was really mad about it, when we told him what happened. I figured he would be. But it was what Chuck wanted."

Sam stared at him for a moment. "Why are you telling me this?"

Now the pie-maker's expression and voice were filled with earnestness. And perhaps a touch of desperation And most assuredly love.

"Because she's not a zombie. Chuck. She's just a girl who got murdered, and... and it wasn't supposed to be that way. So if you and Dean need to take out something supernatural? Then it's me. Do what you want with me, I'm the problem, not Chuck."

Sam's brow creased. "Whoa, Ned - hang on here, man. Dean and I aren't 'taking out' anybody, alright?”

Ned looked at him almost skeptically.

“There's plenty of people out there with... with gifts... and they do just fine,” Sam explained. “I mean, I know I haven't known you long, but listen - you've got a good handle on this, you know exactly when and where to use it. Trust me. I've seen what it looks like when gifted people let things get out of hand."

"But when I've make mistakes, there's really bad consequences, Sam," Ned said, the earnestness now sliding into grave seriousness. "I've been selfish."

A highlight reel of all the times in his life that Sam had felt and behaved precisely as Ned had began running on fast-forward through his mind. He had also been selfish. He had also brushed aside consequences to save the person he loved more than anyone else in existence.

He'd do it all again in a heartbeat.

And he told Ned so.

"I don't see it as selfish," Sam said. "I've been in your shoes. This is definitely not the first time Dean or I have dodged death. We've just used... well, not the same means as you do. When we've done it, though? There's been... there's been times we could've really screwed over the entire world."

"I just think the world - the universe - is a better place for having Chuck in it," Ned replied softly.

Sam nodded. He and the pie-maker weren’t just on the same page - they were reading from the same book.

Both men exited the car, each picking up a turtle and carefully navigating down the small embankment to ensure the shelled duo were safely in reach of the river. They took the opportunity to watch the happy pair slowly get closer to each other before they made a move towards the water's edge.

"What can I say?" said Ned. "From the time I was a kid, from the first time I saw her, I was pie-eyed."

"I had somebody like that once," Sam told him, then paused for a moment. "Several somebodies like that - people you love so much, you can't imagine life without them. So I get it, Ned. I do."

The light of the moon was briefly hidden behind a few stray clouds.

“There's only one thing I worry about," Ned said, and now he sounded so heartbroken, it made Sam wonder if somewhere in the dark, the pie-maker's eyes were filling with tears. He knew his own did, once he heard what Ned had to say.

"I just wonder what's going to happen when ---"

"--- when he's gone," Chuck said softly.

Dean had grown very quiet while she shared with him her greatest worry. He couldn't just merely sympathize - he knew exactly how she felt.

"I tell ya, Chuck - I can't picture my life without Sammy. Can't do it, haven't been able to let it happen."

Chuck's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Don't tell me ---"

Dean nodded. "Afraid if we're callin' a spade a spade here, then both the Winchester boys are... what'd you say Ned called it? Alive-agains? Try again-again-again-again agains."

Chuck's face was awash with compassion. "I'm sorry you two have had to go through that.”

“Yeah, well..." Dean had resumed his observations when not five seconds later, he found himself batting at Chuck's arm and passing her the binoculars with his other hand. “Hey. Hey, look!"

Chuck did so, then glanced up at Dean with excited eyes and an equally excited nod. "That's him," she confirmed.

Dean had spotted what he thought might have been a new shadow down the sidewalk, bulging out from a little alley, but didn't put much stock in it until it moved and a silhouette began to take shape.

Sure enough, there was Todd Cod, looking up and down the street, glancing around with every step he took, finally opening the door to the office building.

Dean and Chuck watched as the light went on in the front room of the office. He seemed to be moving around quickly. And then just as suddenly as he'd arrived, Todd Cod shut off the lights, moments later exiting the building and performing the same not-so-effective routine of keeping out of sight as he scurried back down the street.

But before they left the roof to investigate the office, Chuck did not bat at Dean's arm as he had hers, rather she took hold of it gently and slid her hand down to grasp his and squeeze it.

"You were the one who did it, weren't you? Bringing Sam back."

Dean just looked at her, his eyes answering the question for him.

"I'm going to tell you what I told Ned when I found out what he'd done."

"Thank you?" Dean replied, giving her a little half-smile, trying to cut the mood.

But while Chuck's face remained full of goodness and sweetness, it was also quite burdened. And when she spoke again, it was in possibly the sincerest tone Dean Winchester had ever heard.

"Every minute I'd been celebrating? They didn't belong to me. Those minutes belonged to someone else."

Dean kept silent for the moment, just listening.

"That first minute? The one he has, the one where he can take it back? Ned calls it 'death's grace period'. He really got it down, too, to where he sees it as a long time. And I think he's right - a lot really can happen in a minute."

"What are you getting at?"

“It's good that it's a minute. The longer someone's around when they're not supposed to be around... Ned says the longer they're around, it's more likely that something will happen. Not necessarily because of them. Just... because."

"And?" Dean pressed, but he hadn't dropped her hand. He didn't know why. He just had the feeling she was about to tell him something he needed to hear.

"And..."

Chuck told him a secret. Her biggest one, he already knew. But this one might’ve bested it. It was the secret of how she'd managed to start seeing those minutes as her own.

And how Ned was right - the longer someone's around who isn't supposed to be around, things DO happen. Except the gifted pie-maker had gotten the last part all wrong.

Things WERE happening because of that undead someone. Because of her. Because of Sam. And, to be sure, because of Dean as well.

Dean squeezed her hand one last time before letting go. "Let's go bust into that office," he said with a grin.

And now they were moments away from completing that very task.

"Whatta you think we'll find in here?" Dean asked once they were inside the building, the lock had been picked, and Chuck's hand was on the doorknob, ready to turn.

"It'd be too much to wish for a document laying out on the desk detailing the terms of the blackmail on Grandma's Dairy stationery, right?" she joked.

"I mean, it ain't like we're gonna find dairy cows in there, right?"" Dean added on, chuckling.

Exactly 82 seconds later...

“What is happening?"

Dean had finally found his voice again after being in an understandable state of shock for approximately 49 of those 82 seconds.

"We may've died again, gone to heaven, I think!" Chuck exclaimed breathlessly from her seated position on the floor, where she was practically being consumed by lightning-fast balls of energy.

The not-so-dead hunter and the not-so-dead girl were surrounded by no less than twenty-two dogs, most of them small, including a baker's dozen worth of puppies. The grown members of the menagerie were lying about on a variety of fluffed and tufted floor pillows as if they couldn't have cared less about the unexpected visitors.

Though there was a Great Dane eyeing Dean carefully from Cod's desk chair. A very excitable Schnauzer humped one of his legs. And Chuck was accepting puppy kisses from a pudgy Golden Retriever on one cheek and a curly-eared Cocker Spaniel on the other.

Dean's jaw was set and his neck flushed. "Cod. Dog," he said through gritted teeth.

"I'll say this for Sam, when he's right, he's ---" Chuck cut herself off, and she and Dean looked at each other with wide eyes, both pairs then turning towards the door as it opened.

And there stood Todd Cod.

Dean began edging his right arm around slowly, prepared to pull his gun if need be.

There was no need to be had, however, because while Todd Cod did react to the intruders, it was not to confront. It seemed comfort was on the menu instead - and Todd was the one in need.

He broke down into sobs, shuffling through the pile of puppies on and around Chuck in two strides, enveloping Dean in such a hug that it lifted him right off the ground.

Dean shot Chuck a HELP ME look, and she stood, patting the weeping man on his back.

"Todd! What is all this? What are all these dogs doing here? Isn't that Patchy over there, Mrs. Luna's dog? And didn't Mr. Wainscott's retriever just have a litter?"

A sniffling Todd Cod let Dean down. "I thought you were dead, I can't tell you how tied in knots I've been, drinking the pink stuff and the white stuff like crazy - which one are you, Sam or Dean?" he asked.

Dean just stared back with one of his indescribable looks.

The indigestioned investigator then turned to Chuck.

"I'm gonna tell you everything, I just want this over, Miss Charles."

And so he did. Todd began to explain how, following the transfer of investigatory duties to himself from his cousin, the aspiring P.I. soon found himself in a slump. There seemed to be a shortage of cheating spouses and missing jewelry and just suspicious people in general. To make ends meet, he decided to take a different tack--

Dean cut off Todd's explanation. "Hey, shut your pie hole about the whys - I don't give a crap about your reasons. I care why you and the dairy douche are coming after my friends."

Hearing this made Chuck's heart so full, she thought it might run out of beats before all the happy could be distributed from tips-to-toes.

As for Dean, he was momentarily distracted as the puppy he’d somehow managed to end up holding licked along his jawline, making him shiver and grin.

He summarily cleared his throat, though it somehow served to make his already gravelly voice even rougher, then causing it to hit an even lower register.

“Start talking about what this blackmailing’s all about - and what it is exactly that you and Magoo think you’ve got on Ned and Chuck,” Dean ordered Todd, probably more sternly than he normally would, but there was that puppy thing to account for and all.

And Todd's shoulders began to slump so much it traveled to his entire body, slumping him so far down his rump slumped right onto the edge of his desk.

All three groaned at The Narrator.

"Not your best," Chuck commented.

The Narrator plans to take five once there’s certainty regarding that nasty exorcism business from before.

Dean closed his eyes, rubbed across his forehead with his un-puppied free hand. Then he sighed. Then he made a promise he hoped he wouldn’t regret. “If you can get us through this faster? Do it. And no exorcism. Deal?”

The rest of the facts were these:

Todd’s search for more in his life led him down a path of pup-related treachery. He was allergic to cats and birds made him nervous, so dogs it had to be. As Dean and Chuck had already come to suspect, Todd Cod, the number one finder of lost and stolen dogs had only become so due to kidnapping them himself - and, it would seem, keeping them in the office’s side rooms until it was time for them to be “found”.

That is, until he became too greedy and shortly found himself overrun. Todd's great need for cash and the even greater desire for recognition that outpaced his famous cousin led him right into Magoo’s scheming.

Magoo knew Emerson Cod had been quite close to the pie-maker and the once-reported-to-be-dead but suddenly alive-and-well Charlotte Charles. So when he’d witnessed Ned seemingly turning back time for various fruits one morning, a plan began to hatch in his mind.

If Grandma Magillicutty wouldn't listen to reason about mechanizing the dairy, then he'd have to make her listen - and he was going to do it through her beloved cows.

Magoo was no fool. He had connected the dots - at least, the ones around the edges of the picture - to surmise that not only had Ned brought strawberries and a childhood sweetheart back to life, he had likely also brought corpses back to life. Specifically for the gain of one Emerson Cod. And yet the bodies at the center of Emerson's solved cases stayed dead.

If Ned could reverse death and give life back to things, then make them dead all over again, that was all he needed to know - he would put something in the water troughs to do the cows in, then show Grandma Magillicutty that her bovine beauties could be made well again.

Her eyesight was worse than his own - she wouldn’t know they were actually grazing at the big cow pasture in the sky. And he was sure she’d finally hand over the dairy.

The dairyman wasn't sure how Ned was doing these things, but he convinced himself that Todd Cod must. And when Todd couldn't say, Magoo watched him carefully, skirting his duties at the dairy to extend his time in the delivery truck, earning him more ire from Grandma but also earning him some primo blackmail material:

Todd Cod was running a con.

“So you’re being blackmailed, too!” said Chuck.

Todd nodded, then reached behind him, picking up off his desk a small stack of photos that had a single sheet of paper clipped to the top, and then handing it to Chuck.

Dean scratched the puppy’s head as he looked over Chuck’s shoulder. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” he said in a dry tone.

“This is so stupid,” Chuck stated, the first critical thing either man had ever heard pass her lips.

And she was right - it was very stupid, just the thing Dean and Chuck had only wished they’d find.

As one might expect, the photos captured multiple instances of Todd’s dog-napping, even the time where he’d struggled to wrangle the Great Dane into a Prius. They were fuzzy, not quite in focus, but it was unmistakably Todd Cod in every one.

The note - written in Magoo's handwriting - was indeed on Grandma's Dairy stationery, and it detailed his intent to blackmail Todd with said photos unless he helped make Ned start working his magic outside of The Pie Hole once more.

Todd’s solution had been to blackmail Ned with the summoning of the Winchesters if Ned did not comply - only unbeknownst to Todd, Sam and Dean had already heard of the supposedly-harbored zombie on their own.

Dean - almost regrettably - put the puppy down and then took the letter from Chuck as she continued to look over the photos. Dean scanned the rest of it, rolling his eyes at how Magoo had actually signed it, then looked up at Todd.

“And you believed this crap? Raising the dead? Fruit un-rotting?”

Chuck glanced at Dean out of the corner of her eye but kept quiet.

“Well you all showed up to investigate it, didn’t you?” Todd snapped in response.

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Me and Sam? Ha! We’re the ones who expose fakes, my man. We call out con-artists. I mean, not the puppy-popping kind, but those jerks on TV that stage all that haunted house ghost crap for the camera. Psychics. Tarot card readers. All that jazz.”

“And you don’t think that voice we’ve all been hearing is as fishy as my last name?” Todd countered.

“First thing we’ve ever come across that may actually be real and hell, I could chalk that up to whatever’s in those pies of hers!”

Chuck briefly seemed to be taking umbrage with Dean’s statement, but she was thankful he was going to bat for them, and was thankful The Narrator was going along with it.

And also because, well, his lie happened to contain a bit of truth, though he didn’t know it.

“I do eat pie from you all on occasion,” Todd said, casting suspicious eyes on Chuck.

Dean gave her an encouraging look.

“Well if you must know, we put drops of homeopathic mood elevators in all the fruity pies,” she replied, adding on a faux-offended huff for good measure. “And you do love your Peach-and-Berry Cup-Pie Surprise, don’t you, Todd?”

Now Chuck leaned in, punctuating her words via little jabs to his chest with an index finger. “You do, and I know you do, because it’s not occasionally - you eat one every day!”

While Todd stroked his chin and seemed to be considering this, Dean shot Chuck some side-eye - that particular delicacy had not been on his binge-tour of The Pie Hole.

“What’s the surprise?” he asked out of the corner of his mouth.

Chuck gave him a look. “Can we stay on track here, please?” she hissed back.

Dean raised his eyebrows once more.

Chuck sighed. “It’s like a molten center in a brownie dessert, except mine is vanilla bean-and-honey whipped frosting.”

“I love you,” said Dean.

“I still don’t understand what Magoo wanted to happen to Ned after the cow-tipping,” Chuck said, ignoring Dean and again speaking to Todd.

“Well, maybe he can answer that for all of us later - assuming Randy and Olive didn’t kill him.”

All three humans and the canine cadre turned at the sound of Sam’s voice coming from the doorway. He and Ned made their way into the office carefully, to prevent furry escapees. The Great Dane sauntered up and stopped beside them briefly before positioning himself in the middle, sitting up nice and tall, apparently feeling as if his pack had finally arrived.

Ned did a double-take at what he supposed was the newest member of his and Sam's team, then went to elaborate on his human partner's statement. He opened his mouth, but seemed to reconsider and closed it, glancing up and around the room warily, almost positive The Narrator was going to jump in.

Chuck and Dean widened their eyes and gave mini head shakes at the same time.

Ned took the hint, and spoke. "When Sam and I were coming back, we drove by the park and it was just in time to see Olive and Randy knock out Magoo. He was hiding behind a tree and taking pictures of them."

"What?!" Chuck and Dean and Todd exclaimed.

"How did they manage it?" asked Todd.

"Olive jumped on his back and Randy nailed him in the head with a bag of squirrel."

Ned said it in such a bland manner, like it was just an everyday thing, that Dean burst into laughter, so raucous he bent at the waist and clutched his knees. A beagle sprang up and licked his nose. He laughed even harder.

"Well all kidding aside, is Magoo okay?" asked Chuck.

Sam nodded. "But out like a light. We helped load him into Randy's taxidermy truck. They're taking him to The Pie Hole now."

"Truck?" Dean managed to gasp out.

"That's his motto ---" Chuck began, and Ned and Todd joined in for the rest:

"Randy Mann, Traveling Taxidermist: I'll Bring The Stuffing To You."

Dean stood up, trying not to choke on the last of his laughs, wiping tears from his eyes.

"Dean and I have explained to Todd that Magoo is full of... stuffing... and that what he's said about Ned is a total sack of... squirrel," Chuck said, giving Ned and Sam pointed looks.

"And Ned - I can't tell you how sorry I am, Magoo had me by the nu... the, ah, squirrels," said Todd.

"Listen, let's just get back over to The Pie Hole and finish this, can we?" Dean asked, and everyone - including the Dane - nodded in agreement.

"Say, you got any more of those peach ---" Todd began to ask Chuck as he was locking up.

"Yeeees," she cut in, but with a smile. Then she announced: "Pie for everyone! I think we've all earned it.” Chuck glanced down at the Dane, who had calmly exited with them, and whom no one felt up to wrestling back into Todd’s office. She gave him a scratch or two behind the ears. “You, too,” she whispered, and his tail wagged.

Back at The Pie Hole, they found Olive sitting at the counter, singing to herself as she flipped through the pictures on Magoo’s camera. Digby was at her side. And there was Magoo, tied to a chair positioned in the middle of the floor, still out cold.

Dean elbowed Sam, then pointed with his chin towards Olive. “She’s radio good,” he whispered.

“No kidding,” Sam whispered back. “She’s Broadway good. Wow.”

"What the heck are those, Olive?" Chuck asked, pointing to the bottle-thick glasses perched atop her friend's head.

"These are Magoo's glasses - they were in his pocket, I didn't want 'em to break - you know how near-sighted he is," Olive replied.

"Well that explains the blurry photos," said Todd.

"And me," Dean commented under his breath.

"Where's Randy?" Ned asked.

"He tied up our blind blackmailer here, then had to get those squirrels back to his place," she replied. "Besides, I have Digby to help keep me safe."

"Can't hurt, but I couldn't honestly say that you need any help looking out for yourself - way to go back there, Olive," Sam told her, holding up his hand for a high-five, which she met with her own hand happily.

"Thank you!" she beamed.

The Dane and Digby sniffed at each other briefly, then The Pie Hole's newest guard dog laid down next to the veteran, both keeping a wary eye on Magoo.

Ned offered to warm up the Cup-Pies Todd was craving so that Chuck would have the opportunity to add a little homeopathic sleep-aid glaze to the crust. And as he was dozing off in one of the booths, Magoo began to come around.

The Winchester brothers and the spirited trio started firing questions at the captive, all at once.

Magoo squinted his eyes in an effort to make out the noisy blurs. Olive sighed, hopping off the stool, walking over and putting his glasses on. And once his now-usable eyes lit on each of them in turn, he finally spoke.

"I ain't telling a darn thing!"

Perhaps I might be of assistance.

“YES!” everyone - but Magoo - shouted.

The facts - for the final time - are these:

Magoo’s plan for Ned following the pulling-of-cow hide over Grandma Magillicutty's eyes were quite odious, indeed. He wanted to continue his chicanery, taking a hefty cut of The Pie Hole’s profits as well as profits from Todd Cod’s investigations - of which he’d insist Ned and Chuck play their parts once more.

And he’d found it fortuitous to spot Randy and Olive in the park that night, cleaning up a curious amount of squirrels. Convinced Todd had failed in his mission to blackmail Ned on his behalf via the manipulation of the Winchesters, Magoo had been en route to reveal his identity to the pie-maker as the true blackmailing mastermind and proceed with making his demands.

But the peculiar actions of the traveling taxidermist and his cheesy fiancée ---

“Hey!” Olive exclaimed.

--- his enigmatic and quite talented fiancée made Magoo wonder if yet another scheme could be executed, bringing him even more profit from both of their businesses.

“What!?” said everyone at once.

“Maybe Ned made all those squirrels die so they could get mounted and blondie here could dip the rest in her cheese!” spat Magoo.

“Bleerrrgh,” said everyone at once.

But now Magoo found himself hoisted on his own petard.

For little did he know that at this very moment, Sam was in the kitchen alerting the authorities that he and his brother had not uncovered other-worldly activity in this - sometimes - quiet little town.

Instead, the devastatingly handsome duo had stumbled upon a web of deceit, blackmail, and fanciful accusations, all stemming from the clearly confused mind of one Magoo Magillicutty.

Sam grinned as he pulled out his phone and walked into the kitchen.

And it would seem quite likely that Dean - a master at talking his way into and out of anything and everything - would be very convincing when he pointed out that perhaps Magoo’s poor eyesight had led him down this futile path, his actions further fueled by a vivid imagination.

For you see, Dean would most assuredly then go on to explain to the authorities that before embarking on a career as a supernatural debunker, he was actually a psychologist, specializing in delusional disorders.

Dean would definitely have them nodding in agreement over his suggestion that Magoo be committed to a psychiatric facility. For his own well-being. Immediately.

Dean leaned against the counter, a smirk planted on his face.

“You can’t do that! You won’t get away with it!” Magoo gasped.

Oh, but they did.

The new group of friends had a bit of a roving party that night - first waking up Todd Cod, of course, who was elated to hear that Magoo had been carted off while he slept.

They then dropped off the Great Dane, snuggling him into his spacious dog house in the front yard of his owner’s home with one of Digby’s treats, leaving a note on the front door inviting him back to The Pie Hole anytime.

And over a late-night meal at The Intrepid Cow, Todd vowed to return all the dogs first thing in the morning. Olive offered her assistance by way of Randy’s taxidermy truck, then immediately realized this was likely a bad idea, not wanting owners to assume the worst.

But then she had a very good idea.

“You’re great with those dogs, Todd. You couldn’t have managed them for so long if you weren’t. I think you should give up the P.I. stuff, start a dog charity! We’ll hold a fundraiser! Sell some of Chuck’s cup-pies and ---”

“Oh! We could do cup-mac-cheesy goodness,too!” Chuck cut in.

“--- so we’ll do that ---”

“It is so, so much goodness,” Dean cut in, barely looking up before leaning over his bowl of Macaroni Mania to engulf the last few bites.

“--- and Ned can juggle ---”

“I-- I don’t - I don’t juggle,” Ned cut in.

“--- and I don’t know what I’ll do, but ---

“Olive? You sing,” Sam cut in, and a round of emphatic nods backed him up.

“I’ll sing! And everyone will love you!”

A slow smile spread across Todd’s face. “That ain’t a bad idea, Little Bit. And, you know... now that those squirrels are gone... what do you all think about kicking off the charity by using all the reward money I got and turn that joint into a dog park?”

While the Winchesters pulled the Impala around to the front of The Pie Hole, preparing to say their goodbyes and get on the road, The Narrator spoke to them one last time, since for the moment, the brothers were alone.

Todd Cod, the one-time wannabe private investigator with pie-in-the-sky ambitions, would indeed become the founder of Cod's Canine Charity, shortly finding himself almost too busy, a proverbial finger in every pie.

Olive Snook, following the vigorous response to her singing at both the charity kick-off and the opening of the dog park, would dip her toe into community theater whenever she wasn’t busy helping customers dip her new invention of Pasta Pocket Fondue-It-Yourself into table-top buckets of cheese.

Ned and Chuck would get married, following quite the interaction with what Chuck knew in her heart to be her guardian angel.

She would find him on the rooftop one crisp fall evening, admiring her friendly colony of bees with the brightest blue eyes she’d ever seen. His touch to her forehead would serve to make her touchable to anyone of her choosing, from that very moment on.

And as for what would happen to The Narrator?

Sam and Dean shared a look, but then both said in unison:

“Nothing.”

Olive and Todd came down the sidewalk from the direction of The ‘Cow just then, both carrying armfuls of foil take-out containers with the logo of a mooing cow perched on a brick of Swiss cheese on the tops.

“Nooooo....” Dean said in disbelief.

“YES!” Olive replied in a no-nonsense tone. “Now open a door on that black beauty so we can load this baby up!”

As Dean complied, Ned and Chuck caught Sam’s eye from behind the display windows and when he saw what they had done, his jaw dropped and he quickly moved to hold the door for them.

And then when Dean saw the ten-to-twelve carry-out boxes in their arms:

“NOOOooooo....”

“He’s not actually saying ‘no’, is he?” Todd inquired.

“No,” answered Sam, Ned, Chuck and Olive.

Once the food was securely settled, Todd extended his hand to Sam and then Dean, shaking and thanking them for their help. Then he headed back to his office to check on the dogs, a stash of bacon from The ‘Cow tucked in his pocket.

And Olive reached up, almost yanking Dean down, hugging him tightly around the neck, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. She moved in front of Sam, performing quite the impressive vertical jump, giving him the same treatment before skittering away, heading to her own apartment above The Pie Hole.

Chuck enveloped both brothers in a warm hug, stretching her arms around them as far as she could. “Thank you both, from the bottom of my heart,” she said upon release.

“We really can’t tell you how much ---” Ned began, but Sam held up a hand to stop him.

“It’s our job,” he said simply. “It’s the family business.”

“Will you... is there any chance that...”

The pie-maker was still filled with trepidation as he glanced to Chuck, then back to Sam and Dean.

“You don’t have to worry,” Dean promised.

“Your secret’s safe with us,” Sam promised.

Ned believed them, just as he believed their goodness did not stem simply from job-related dutifulness or carrying on a family tradition. His concern faded, transforming into a very happy smile. He and Chuck remained on the sidewalk, waving goodbye until their heroes were out of sight.

And so, as the Winchester brothers drove off into the sunset with boxes of pies and cheesy pasta filling the backseat of the black Impala, they agreed that this was a job well done.

For the rest of their lives - and they were long ones, indeed - both Dean and Sam kept their promise.

They never spoke of what they'd seen to other hunters, or even to their spouses, their children, their grandchildren. Nor did they ever document their adventure in any files or journals. Never again did they visit that little town not terribly far from Coeur d'Coeurs.

And they kept the singing macaroni-maker, the charitable former detective, the pie-making reaper, the cheerful zombie - and even the friendly poltergeist - in their hearts, down to their very last minutes.

See Nash Write : Master / See Nash Write : Mobile

🏷️🏷️Wanna be tagged? Hit me up! 🏷️🏷️

Author’s Note #2: Originally written for the SPN Writing Challenge "Do It Like Dean", courtesy of @jalove-wecallhimdean , in celebration of her 500th follower.

Challenge Prompt: “Dude, Pie!”

Author Prompt(s)/Inspiration(s): Dialogue, narration & characters from Bryan Fuller's "Pushing Daisies".

~ The Pushing Daisies Cast ~

The Original Trailer for the Show

The Narrator's Voice

The Entire Series [for FREE!]

#supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfic #500doitlikedeanchallenge #dean winchester #sam winchester #Pushing Daisies meets Supernatural #SPN meets Pushing Daisies #Nash Writes

40 notes · View notes