#i will have the lore squirrel haunt you for the rest of your life if you do it

[collecting-stories]

Nightmares - Sigurd Ragnarsson

@flokidottir-imagines-br : So, can you please write something really fluffy for Sigurd, late-night conversation with his pregnant girlfriend?

Nightmares | Sigurd Ragnarsson x reader

Sigurd was not his brothers or his father. He was not cut out for the viking life, he had no desire to travel the seas of the world in search of riches or kingdoms or powers. If he could live the way that he truly wanted he thought that he might be done with his brothers. That he would pack his belongings and shed his name, no longer would he allow himself to be Sigurd Ragnarsson or even Sigurd, Snake in Eye. He would be just another traveller on the road, weaving lore for people to listen to and playing music that they could be eased by. He wanted to go places but not for personal glory or the fame of title.  

He could not have that life though. Perhaps he could still live as a farmer somewhere, a coward who hides from the ships and refuses to go near the fjord in fear he could be swept to far away places. But he couldn’t run from his name then. He would be the greatest disappointment that Ragnar Lothbrok had even fathered. Weaker than his brothers. His mind was plagued by thoughts of dying in battle or dying at sea or dying simply from the diease that Hvitserk said existed in those places. Terrible illnesses that the gods thrust upon their people who in turn infected the viking ships until all the men were sick and their families were sick and villages died.  

Nothing could quiet those voices. Nothing could ease his mind. He’d tried some herbal remedy that he’d seen a healer use in the village but he was still riddled with an uneasy stomach and nightmares that kept him awake for hours. He tried walking around the village at night, letting the cold, salty air of the fjord wash over him as he strolled barefoot along the banks. But being so close to the water only made him feel worse and he imagined it infested with sirens and monsters that pulled him down into the black depth, smothering him beneath the surface. He tried sitting in the field and playing his music but his hands forgot the melody and he stopped more times than he started.  

Sigurd had always been troubled by the thought of becoming a viking but the nightmares and the insomnia and the gripping fear that he tried to hide were more prominent now than they had been before. As if they had grown in size within a few short months. And they had. Because so had you. He had not yet proposed marriage as he had not yet decided whether he could provide you with a worthy life but you had fallen pregnant just five months ago. As you started to show so too did Sigurd’s insecurities and doubts about himself and his future. You had grown accustomed to waking in the morning to an empty bed, you companion already outside, shivering in the cold as he sat on the bench near the door, trying to talk himself into boarding a ship. He was no viking.  

On the first night of your sixth month you laid down and pretended to fall asleep, listening for the sound of Sigurd’s even breathing. When you were sure he had nodded off you sat up, quiet so as to not wake him earlier than he would wake himself. It went just as you knew it would, he slept only an hour peacefully and then he began to toss and turn until finally he sat upright. He was so distraught over his dream he didn’t even notice that you were awake, sitting up in bed, as he leaned over, pressing his head to his knees.  

“Sigurd,” Your hand on his back startled him and he shot up, looking over at you with eyes that were almost wild. He was still disoriented from his dream.  

“You’re alive.” He breathed, almost hysteric as he sat on his knees and gathered your face in his hands and kissed you. “And the baby is healthy.”

“So says the seer.” You replied, holding his wrists to pull his hands from your face, “Sigurd, it was only a dream.”

“It was so real. I was on the ship with my brothers and there was a terrible sickness. I thought I was okay, that the gods had spared me but then you fell ill. I cannot go with them, I cannot be gone from you for even a moment’s time. The baby will come soon and I must be here to make sure you are alright.” He spoke frantically and as he did you attempted to guide him toward you. He moved easily, still pliable from sleep. Sigurd laid against you, head rested against your breast and arms around your stomach. The sound of your heart beating eased him somewhat and you petted his hair lovingly.  

“Ubbe has said that you are not expected on the raid.” You reassured him. Raids took months, they were long and tiring and the travel was not for the faint of heart. While you knew Sigurd would’ve been fine and the ship might’ve been home in time you had still appealed to Ubbe to let your love stay with you.  

“I do not ever wish to go.” Sigurd admitted. “I have been sick over it. I cannot give you a life to be proud of under the name Ragnarsson but it is not in my heart to be a viking. If I were to go I would never be happy.”

“Then I see no reason for you to leave.”  

“I cannot be selfish.” Sigurd lifted his head to look up at you, “I cannot trade the happiness of my family for my own. You would be ridiculed, the wife of a man who’s father, the legendary Ragnar Lothbrok, a king, is nothing more than a farmer.”  

“My happiness has nothing to do with the name of your father or your title here in Kattegat. My happiness is yours Sigurd and I would gladly spend my years in the field with you if that would be what you truly want.” You replied.  

“I think of the ships leaving everyday and I’m terrified. The gods did not make me for the voyage, I am not Hvitserk or Ubbe or Bjorn. I cannot withstand the armies that they face and I do not wish to die in battle so that I may be raised in Valhalla...gods forgive me for saying so. I just wish to be here, with you and our children in our home until we are old and sick of each other.” Sigurd laid his head back down and let you brush through his hair, closing his eyes.  

“Then we shall do that. Though,” you kissed his head, “let us not get sick of each other.”

“I do not believe we shall.”

“Sigurd,” you called to him before he could fall completely back to sleep. “You mustn’t let these things haunt you the way they do. You are not so alone that you have to walk the streets by yourself to get rid of your nightmares, not when I am right beside you having worries of my own. We must meet them together.”

“I will come to you first.” He promised, eased out of his own terrors for the night and reassured by the sound of your heart beating steady beneath his cheek.  

-

I’ve never written Sigurd before and I haven’t written Vikings in a spell but here is this! 

taglist: @breathlesssouls @lif3snotouttogetyou @demonhunter1616 @flowers-in-your-hayr @alwaysadreamingoptimist @ms-allenbrown  @arses21434 @glopsifum @aeflenpath @moose-squirrel-asstiel @vikingalexthedane @another-life-addict @born-in-19-96 @naaladareia @mysticthinking @thinkingsofamadwoman @mixedwiththemoon @titty-teetee  @queenmissfit @marvelismylifffe @iluvmesomemarvelndc @absentmindeduniverse @his-paradox 

[cross-roads-blues]

Deep Inside Your Mind /ch.4

[chapter 1]  [chapter 2] [chapter 3] [ [chapter 5]

Notes: Your author is not dead. However, now that my break has ended, updating this story on a daily basis has gotten a bit harder for me, so the updates may be every 2 or 3 days. Also, need to establish some timelines.

1) Takes place before Mary gets brought back

2) Angels still have wings

3) Dean doesn't have the Mark of Cain

4) Crowley and TFW have a complicated relationship but none of them is actively trying to kill another.

Warnings: None, really. 

Summary:  While on a usual hunt, Dean Winchester is hit by something. While Dean recovers, he can’t remember neither Castiel, who’s been harboring feelings for Dean for over 5 years, nor Sam Winchester, his brother, who is 💔 by such turn of events. Can Cas and Sam reverse the damage, while battling their inner demons?

Chapter: 4/?

Word Count: 6520/?

Chapter Title: Way Down We Go

Jamie exited the hospital room and shut the door behind her. Or rather, the demon that was possessing the nurse made her exit the room and shut the door behind her. Word travels fast and talk about the comatose Winchester brother spread like fire in the middle of June. But now the demon didn’t need the meatsuit of the nurse. Everything he needed to know was already revealed: Dean Winchester was indeed amnesiac and he didn’t remember a damn thing about his past.

The demon in nurse meatsuit made his way to the storage room. The nurse locked the door and turned around on her heels approaching the corner of the room where in the dark, a man, seemingly unconscious, was sitting, leaning on the wall. The demon smoked out of the nurse and in the form of red smoke traveled to the man, possessing him. The man opened his eyes, stood up, dusted his pants and sighed with relief, looking at his hands. Being back in his meatsuit made Crowley very happy. After all, it was a rather handsome meatsuit. Crowley didn’t like to leave his meatsuit, but he had to take the nurse for 15 minutes to check on Dean. Anyway, he was on the new objective now.  “Huh,” smirked Crowley  and in the second, there was no one in the storage room of Dallas Municipal Hospital.

“Raised? By an angel? Why would an angel want to raise this scum?” Sam turned around and rubbed his temples.

Castiel squinted and again glanced at the top of the trees, slightly glistening from the start of sunrise. “I don't know. I could be able to trace the angel, though.”

“Great! Let's start with that! C'mon, do your mojo.” !” said Sam, with way too much tension in his voice.

Castiel pressed his lips and walked away from the grave. “I can’t just do it right here right now,” he said finally, making pauses between words. “I need to lay hands on something that the angel has touched.”

Sam aggressively ran his hand through his hair. “The ghost witch probably. If the angel yanked it out of Purgatory, or wherever this thing was, like you yanked Dean out of Hell, there should be a mark. ”

Castiel nodded. “Yes, there must be a mark.”

“Okay, zap us back to Dallas, we need a plan,” said Sam with a frown on his face, “Why can’t life just be easy?”

“You’re a Winchester and I’m an angel, I’m guessing that’s the thing,” murmured Cas, as he transported both of them back to the motel.

“Ugh, your teleport mojo always messes me over.” Sam stumbled over to the refrigerator, bumping into the kitchen’s doorway and grabbed another can of coffee. “I feel like shit now.”

“Maybe it’s because of your poor sleeping schedule,” commented Castiel, as he grabbed a book titled “Native American Legends” and collapsed in the chair, flipping through it.

“Definitely not.” Sam threw the can in the garbage bin, this time missing the bin and letting the can skittle in the corner.

“Right,” mouthed Castiel. “What’s the plan?” he said aloud, glancing up at the younger Winchester.

Sam shrugged. “We need to figure out how to track this thing. Get you to it for a long enough time and then have a nice talk with our feathery friend.” He dropped into a chair, letting his hair fall over his face. “I combed through all lore on ghost witches at least twice and I got no idea how to do that,” he added in muffled voice.

“Cheer up, Moose.” A way too familiar voice was heard from the doorway. Both Castiel and Sam jumped from their seats and bared their weapons: Castiel pointed an angel blade while Sam reached out for Ruby’s knife.

“I come in peace.” Crowley raised his eyebrows and displayed his empty hands. “Offended that you’d even think anything else of me.”

“Why’re you here, Crowley?” spat out Sam, still pointing the knife at the demon.

“To cuddle and watch Mean Girls,” smirked Crowley, “A little birdie brought on its tail that Squirrel forgot my pretty face. Now that’s a problem I’m interested in.”

Crowley strolled to the armchair and casually sat in it. “Ah yes, I know all about your little amnesia problem. About Skudakumooches, too. Wanted to help,” he continued in his gruff voice.

“Why?” Castiel slightly relaxed his stance, weapon still tight in his hand.

Crowley gave him a tight smile. “Because we’re besties. And because your ghost witches  are going after my crossroads demons.”

“Okay, what?” Sam put the knife away and set on the bed.

“Heard me right. Etchemin spells. Killing my best salesmen. Guessing that’s the work of your best buds.” Crowley leaned back in the armchair and crossed his hands.

“Okay and how are you gonna be useful, Crowley?” Sam rested his elbows on his knees and glared at the King of Hell.

“I got a friend who got a friend who got a friend who used to be a shaman before they went to Hell and I got a summoning ritual on my hands.”  Crowley did jazz hands. “Tada.”

Sam raised his eyebrow. “Okay, Crowley, why do you think we want to summon this thing?”

Crowley stared back at him, feigning surprise. “Why, to kill it of course. This thing is murdering my demons, it turned your brother Jason Bourne, I assumed you want it dead.”

Castiel and Sam exchanged glances. “What do you want in return?” finally spoke Sam.

“I want it dead. Seriously, did you listen to the word I said?” Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. “I said that it kills my guys and my little establishment known as Hell-” he accentuated that word - “is losing clientele! So I am more than willing to cooperate.”

Castiel looked at Sam, furrowing his brows and pushing his lips tightly together. Sam didn’t say anything, just nodded. Castiel hesitated for a second, then turned back to Crowley. “Deal. Give us the ritual.”

Crowley gave him an enigmatic tight-lipped smile. “Attaboy. Kill it real hard for me, will you?” He handed Castiel a folded piece of paper. Before taking it, Castiel gave Crowley a glare and practically yanked the paper out of his hand.

“We’re not killing it for you, Crowley,” said the angel in a haunting deep voice.

Crowley grinned. “Wouldn’t think so. Still you get the job done and that’s all I care about. I’d hate to lose any more of my salesmen.  I have a reputation to maintain here.” With these words, Crowley teleported, leaving Castiel and Sam staring at an empty armchair.

“Okay, now Crowley is involved and he knows about Dean’s situation. This just got more complicated,” said Sam, stowing away the knife and sighing.

Castiel tilted his hand and squinted. “If Crowley knew, it means that the word about Dean got out. This can’t be good.”

Sam nodded. “I’ll talk to the doctor about getting him here tomorrow. We should head to the bunker, do the summon, trace the angel, force him to force the ghost witches to give Dean’s memory back and then kill them all.” Sam exhaled and leaned back, lying on the bed completely. “Man, I swear,  sometimes it’s like the Universe is against us.”

Castiel looked at Sam. “You are going to get some sleep, while I-” he skimmed through the paper Crowley gave them “-am going to collect the ingredients for the ritual that we don’t have in the bunker.”

Sam got himself up from the bed, blinking rapidly and squinting. “No, Cas, wait, I can help with the-” he stuttered, looking for the word- “the, the…. the search of the ingredients.”

“No.” Castiel determinedly got up and walked up to the door. “I’ll see you later.”

“Wait, I’m not done, I’m not done!” Sam started to get up from the bed, but the exhaustion and many sleepless nights started setting in. “Okay, I’m done,” he admitted, collapsing again on the bed, “I’m done.”

Castiel cast one last glance at the younger Winchester, turned off the lights and headed out of the door. He shut the door behind him and felt light morning breeze on his face, as the sun continued rising. The angel pressed his lips together and tilted his head up, letting weak sunlight fall on his face. For the first time in weeks, they had a lead. They had a real shot at saving Dean. Castiel glanced down as he thought about the angel that had risen the Skudakumooches and ordered them to do that to Dean. He imagined jamming an angel blade in his throat and that thought felt really therapeutic. With a flap of the wings Castiel wasn’t anymore on the porch of the motel room.

The sunlight lit up Dean’s hospital room, as the light wind from the open window played with the curtains. The angel stood in the middle of the room, not sure why did he come there. Dean was sleeping and Cas rejoiced at seeing the hunter so calm and at peace. He slowly approached the bed, being careful not to make any sound. Dean not remembering him hurt like hell, hurt in the ways he couldn’t imagine. The pain of his human not remembering him, while the angel’s most cherished memories were with Dean stung and Cas couldn’t get rid of it. The angel spent a couple of minutes looking at Dean’s face and, as he wanted to leave, the hunter’s green eyes slowly opened.

“What, what time is it?” sleepily murmured the hunter, blinking slowly.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up, I was just checking up on you…” rambled Castiel, moving away from the bed, embarrassed.

“Wait!” called out hunter.

“What is it?” The angel hesitated and lingered for a couple of moments by the bed.

“Your eyes… they’re blue,” muttered Dean, weakly raising his hand and pointing towards Cas’ face.

Castiel tilted his head and furrowed his brows. “Yes, I’m aware of that.”

Dean, still half asleep and a bit dizzy from the meds, hesitated for a second, but then continued. “I had a memory… lots of pain and everything red and black… and then I saw a flash of white-” Dean stopped and stared directly in Cas’ eyes- “and in that flash, I think I saw your eyes. But that doesn’t make any sense. So, Castiel, tell me who the hell I am, who the hell you are and what did I see?”

Castiel gave him a tight-lipped smile and contemplated his answer for a second. "No more secrets," he thought.

“I am an angel of the Lord.”

[chapter 1]  [chapter 2] [chapter 3] [chapter 5]

[hekate1308]

Negotiations

More Season 12 AU, and yes, this time there’s a plot. Enjoy!

It happens on a hunt, because, as Dean put it, “Turns out we still have those. Good old-fashioned hunts!”

The ghost they are dealing with turns out to be a Vila, the spirit of a young woman who died disappointed in love, who now targets men by making them dance with her until they perish.

Unfortunately, she decides to target Dean, who, since he’s in love with someone else, is utterly immune to her charms.

They underestimated her powers however, because she manages to whisk him away from the rest of them and throw fog across the whole forest they’re hunting her in.

Mick finds Dean, alone, but only to watch as the Vila, furious, plunges her hand into his chest.

“Dean!”

He shoots her with rock salt and runs to his fallen – friend’s? – side.

He coughs up blood as Mick falls down to his knees, terrified.

“Was stupid... need to update... lore...”

“Dean, you shouldn’t – “

“Tell them – tell Cas – “

He coughs again.

“Best years... of my... life...”

“You’re not what – “

“What? No, no – “

Only later will he realize Crowley sounds genuinely distressed.

Mick turns around.

“Do something!”

“I can’t!”

“You’re the King of Hell!”

“There are rules – “

He thinks quickly.

“Make a deal with me.”

“What?”

“My soul, take it.”

Crowley looks at him.

“Give me ten dollars.”

He has no idea where this is going but tears out his wallet. Crowley grabs the money and yanks him into a bruising kiss.

It’s over so quickly he doesn’t understand what’s happening until Dean sits up, completely fine, and the fog has dispelled.

“I added getting rid to the Vila to our deal. You should have thought of that, really.”

“How much time do I have?”

“What do you mean?” Crowley waves the ten dollar bill at him.

“We’re even.”

“Did you seriously just save my life for ten bucks?” Dean asks, getting up, squeezing Mick’s shoulder.

“Thank you but next time, think a little bit harder about throwing your soul away, okay?”

“It’s not throwing it away if it means saving you.”

Realizing what he’s said, he steps away, blushing once more, but before Dean can reply, Cas and Sam burst into the scene and the former throws himself into Dean’s arms.

That evening, Mick watches Dean and Cas preparing dinner. The hunter is already laughing again, carefree, happy.

No one would guess Dean Winchester almost died just a few hours ago.

He’s mesmerizing.

“It’s not going to get you a one-way ticket to Hell, take it from me.”

“What do you mean?” Mick asks, looking away.

Crowley rolls his eyes.

“It’s okay to be attracted. I’m pretty sure the Winchesters are the cause of gay crisis in at least 25% of the witnesses they interview.”

“I’m not...” he trails off.

“I’m not homosexual.”

“Don’t have to be to appreciate a nice view, Captain Peachfuzz.”

Until now he’s been spared one of Crowley’s nicknames. Although maybe “spared” is the wrong diction for it.

It’s more like he’s passed a milestone of some kind.

“Still, it’s not like... he’s very...”

“Obnoxious? Much Plaid wearing? Annoying?”

Mick ignores the suggestions.

“Come on, work with me here.”

“You’re the King of Hell” he points out.

“And yet you’re content enough to sit at a table with me. Your point?”

It’s true. Once they rescued him, he didn’t think twice about Crowley’s presence. He’s a great help on hunts, and he’s really not that bad for a demon.

Say what you want, he did kill Lucifer as well.

“Just a statement”.

“Here”.

Crowley offers him a glass of Craig. He accepts, but sips it slowly, remembering the evening Dean and Sam had to bring him to bed.

“What you did today... It was... nice.”

“I’m just a nice person”.

He almost spits his drink all over the table. Crowley chuckles.

“Now, you almost sound as if you don’t believe me. I’m offended.”

“Nothing offends you.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

It’s easy to forget all the things Crowley must have done over the centuries when you’re just talking to him like this.

Still, he has been nothing but helpful, and without him, Dean wouldn’t be alive.

Cas has made abundantly clear that he’s aware of it, going so far as to hug the King of Hell.

To his credit, he didn’t even flinch.

“Do you have any idea what the Men of Letters are planning?”

Yes, he did something right today, but Mick still knows what this question is supposed to be.

Another test.

“No” he answers honestly.

“Dr. Hess never lets anyone know what to do until the very moment it needs to be done.”

“Hm” Crowley hums. “Very inefficient way to run a business.”

“Efficient when it’s founded on terror and guilt.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“All I know is that everyone needs to be very careful”.

He’s only spent two months with them, but he already cannot imagine going back.

This... all of this... It’s insane. Overwhelming. Downright mad at times.

And he can’t imagine a better life.

“Oh, Peachfuzz, no one here’s ever careful. Doesn’t mean they don’t look after one another.”

They finish their drinks in silence.

Crowley expects the knock on his door that night, so when Dean shuffles in, he only raises an eyebrow.

“Squirrel. Trouble sleeping, again?”

“Thank you, Crowley. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Don’t be absurd. We both know I did.”

It’s something he’s never admitted, not even to himself.

Crowley, the King of Hell, couldn’t stand a world without Dean Winchester in it, and it’s going to become a problem eventually. Inevitably.

But for now, Dean is standing in front of him, unharmed and healthy.

Dean smiles at him, a private, somewhat sad smile.

He understands.

Moose’s visit a quarter of an hour later is a surprise. Cas thanked him right in front of everybody, of course, Sam’s just not quite there yet – for an honest apology, that is; he’s pretty sure they both remember the one he forced himself to after they killed of Lucifer’s hellhound.

“Dean would be dead without you”.

“I am pretty sure every single one of you would be dead without me several times over.”

“Yes, we would. But still. You saved my brother today. Thank you, Crowley.”

Wonders will never cease.

It happens later that night.

Crowley is no longer used to being summoned. The boys were the only ones left who did it in the first place, and the last one who had to was Moose in his desperate attempt to find Squirrel and his boyfriend.

He doesn’t even recognize the sensation for a second.

It’s the middle of the night anyway, who would –

Ah. He should have known. He’s in a devil’s trap, of course, but that’s hardly reason to worry.

Neither is Mummy Winchester glaring at him. Quite frankly, he’s been more scared of her sons at certain points than he ever was of her.

Killers are always scarier when they have a reasonable motive for what they are doing instead of being a ruthless fanatic.

He hasn’t seen the other woman who’s staring at him with the same kind of disgust on her face. It must be Dr. Hess, the woman who made Mick Davies do many things, and several of them downright disgusting, he’s ready to bet.

He knows what a haunted man’s eyes look like.  

He’s reasonable sure the two guys who are standing behind them are those he slammed into the wall when he saved the boys.

“Mr. Crowley” the woman greets him. “I have heard that you are the one to speak to if one’s interested in making a deal.”