#ignoring the fact that martin would never canonically meet sam

[longer-circle]

a priest and a sanguinite walk into a bar...

[a-baleful-howl]

I’m about to go full-on petty mode. So if you don’t care about my personal gloating and back-patting, scroll on by lol

This post contains spoilers for episode 1 of season 8, and also spoilers for my fic The Lone Wolf Dies.

I recognize this post is really only for me. I’m a salty bitch.

This is fanart the wonderful and lovely @cathcacen drew for me when I was at my lowest and receiving the most hate I’ve ever gotten for a fic. 

I ranted about it for a bit, deleted the worst of the flames I could off of FFN, and I haven’t actually been back to FFN since this all happened. Don't think I havent noticed the love and support I got from the JonsaFam, either. I very much appreciated it, and I know many people enjoyed my fic (and are begging me to finish it...).

Here’s some highlights of the comments I received on FFN accusing me of being “unrealistic” or of committing “character assassination” (sad thing is, these aren’t even the worst reviews I got):

“Arya would never let Sansa or the Northern Lords do that to Jon[...]This story is making Jon a bit of a wimp and Arya willing to betray him even though she loves him more than Sansa.” [saphirablue25 on chapter 1]

“Another story about Jonsa, and Anti-Dany, and pro-norte and pro-stark? these crap stories are becoming common since season 7.[...]and this kind of stories, without any artistic or literary value, just deserve to be vilified. is just another excuse to be myopic and criticize character without reason, especially when it is already something practically canon that Jon / Daenerys will be in the books too, as one producer of the HBO series said, who was told George Martin. waste of time.” [flayjunior15 on chapter 1]

“this story is rubbish, more crap without sense…” [guest on chapter 1]

“This is character assassination. Arya Stark would never betray Jon Snow; no matter what;[...]Of course now it’s a Jon and Sansa pairing ignoring everything that happened in season 7 b/c why not?[...] The leaps you Jonsa writers take to mischaracterize daenerys just b/c you’re not getting the ending you want in the show or the books is a little ridiculous. You can’t write a story that’s based on show-canon and then ignore all obstacles presented in said canon just to put your two favorite characters together. That’s not how good storytelling works.” [FanofLogic (lol) on chapter 1]

“I don't think Arya would ever betray Jon, it's just not plausible.[...]There are gaping plot holes, that need to be seriously addressed, the writing and the punctuation are fine, it’s well spaced and makes sense in a linear sense, but in terms of plot and story, it crumbles to dust before you even finish reading the chapter in its entirety.[...]I don’t want to stop you from writing, that’s not my intention, you just need to sit back and ask yourself, if it really makes sense.” [carpenoctem20 on chapter 1]

“Well, I read your story. It is sad really because your writing style is good and enjoyable but the stupidity of your character's actions[...]Too bad, your writing is promising but the story lacks logic…[...]Also, thank you for butchering Arya’s character - she is my favourite and you completely ruined her.” [malb901 on chapter 1]

“I realize that this story is an AU because our characters are written not how they are portray in television or books…” [GUEST VIII on chapter 1]

“If your goal was to write Arya completely out of character and Sansa as a short sighted idiot with the northern lords as her peanut gallery...then good job. Otherwise your characterization needs a lot of work.” [guest on chapter 1]

“Arya...well how she is written is so absurdly offbase from canon you would have been better off write my that part as an of to avoid having preconceived about the character.” [guest on chapter 1]

“What a load of complete garbage. So much character assassination across the board is an injustice to GRRM’s work!” [guest on chapter 1]

“Another junk Jonsa story, I see that many of these losers, are very salty, because their crackship (because that’s the Jonsa, a crack) shipwrecked last season.[...]The author of this story is another salty loser with no sense, just like all the Jonsa fans of this crack ship.[...] even Arya has a stronger relationship with Jon than with any member of her family, she would care less about the North, even threatening to kill the Northern Lord, if they hurt Jon. Only two idiots of Jonsa, defend this story.” [JonsaSucks on chapter 1]

“Highly questionable characterization and plot holes big enough to fly a dragon through...pass” [guest on chapter 2]

“With Arya, she's so OC in this that it would have made more sense to make her a new character. She would never choose Sansa over Jon.” [saphirablue25 on chapter 2]

“So disappointing! This story is a complete disservice to anyone who is not a blind Sansa worshiper.[...]The plot holes don't do you any favors either.” [Zmrzlina763 on chapter 3]

“Poorly written, plot holes, unrealistic” [guest on chapter 3]

“What a pile of crap. So many plot holes and character assassination. You should be ashamed to publish such garbage.” [guest on chapter 4]

“I hated this story...thought it was really ridiculous.” [guest on chapter 4]

“I would highly recommend rereading GRRM’s work as it’s obvious you are basing your characterizations on contrived reimaginings with no basis in the work you claim to be a fan of. Please do us all a favor and quit polluting the fandom with this nonsense.” [guest on chapter 4]

And finally, for the piece de resistance!

“Oh boy that story became retarded real quick” [guest on chapter 1]

Now, I might be biased but my brain kept pointing out similarities to the first episode of season 8 and my fic - which I never claimed to be writing what I thought was really going to happen, but that this what I wished in a best case scenario would, my interpretation of all the info we got from Season 7, and it was always only ever supposed to be a Jonsa one-shot but it kept growing.

Now, one of the biggest complaints I got was “character assassination” - saying that the characters would never behave the way I wrote them to. This is mainly what I want to focus on as clearly the fic is not exactly the same as the episode - and I never expected it to be. Fanfic is fanfic for a reason. For one, Sansa and the North refuse Jon and Dany, and that's kind of the catalyst to everything else that happens in the fic. Thats a big change - so I’m not saying “My fic was exactly like the show!!” I just wanted to point out all the moments while watching the show I was like “See! I didn’t assassinate anyone’s character!” since that’s apparently a crime I was committing against all of fandom.

If you haven’t read the fic, I highly suggest you do since many of these quotes are small snippets taken from a bigger context.

All the text is from my fic, the pictures are the moments I thought were similar from the show.

Daenerys had chosen to forgo her dragons to mount a horse instead, as a show of equality and peace to the Northern people.

The Hound, Sandor Clegane, rode beside them, seemingly reluctant to be there, in his own way.

“Greetings,” she announced. “How gracious for you to meet us.” Though her words were not sweet - they never were - and she measured the air between the two parties cautiously.

“You’ve traveled very far,” Sansa responded, her horse shifting impatiently under her. Her voice did not waver, and it carried loud and clear across the void. “It would be rude of me to not turn you away personally.”

Daenerys remained silent.

“We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark.” Lyanna Mormont bellowed from her own steed. Her eyes were glowering, stern and furious. Not little Lyanna…

“First the Wildlings, and now a foreign whore,” Lord Glover spat, his horse just as wide as he was. “You’re not a Northerner. You’re anything but.”

He looked to Sansa for an answer. Surely Sansa would not leave him to the wolves. Yet she avoided his eye.

“I missed you too, Jon…” she called back, and his heart knew that she meant it. “But Starks stick together. I know that now. What would Father think?” His heart broke. If only they knew…

Jon had warned her. He knew before heading to Dragonstone that the Northerners were not likely to kneel to a foreign ruler. Sansa had said so herself many times. He resisted the urge to gloat, to remind the Dragon Queen of his words.

“Sam?” he whispered. Surely he must be imagining it. Sam was here? In Winterfell? The round man came stumbling towards him, his arms waving madly by his sides to catch Jon's attention.[...] The two clasped each other in a strong embrace for a moment before Jon pulled back. [...] “Gilly?” Jon asked absently. “And the baby?” “They're fine!” Sam answered, finally with a dim smile. “They’re here.”

Arya . Oh, Arya! She’s safe. He frantically grabbed her, sweeping his hands over her hair and face, feverishly kissing the top of her head, thanking the old gods that she was here. Thank the gods his little sister was alive. She had wrapped her arms so tightly around him he could barely breathe.

“You leave him alone!” Arya barked, running swiftly down the hall towards them.

“Don’t you understand what this means, Jon?” Sam insisted. “You’re the heir to the Iron Throne.”

Jon didn’t care about that. Not now. Suddenly everything he thought he knew was a lie. His father- no, his uncle... had lied to him his whole life. This meant that Daenerys was his aunt by blood. And Sansa was his…

He suddenly felt very ill.

[...]Everything tasted bitter to him now. Everything he had ever known was a lie, but oddly, it made sense. Eddard had gone south to save his sister and had returned with a child. It made sense. How - how - had he not seen it before?

[...]People die and stay dead. That was a fact. Unless he had believed more lies than the one his uncle had told him his whole life.

He had traveled on horseback many times, but never alone. [...] When he drew nearer to Winterfell, the snow and winds were so strong he was forced to cover every inch of skin but his eyes.

“You look like you’ve seen the seven hells.”

“You don’t look any better,” Sandor replied. Jaime tried to ignore the slight. It was true he was unshaven, unwashed and frozen to the bone.

“It’s too late,” Bran interrupted. Jon’s blood ran cold at the words.

“What do you mean it’s too late?”

“The Wall is gone. Eastwatch is gone. There is a dragon that breathes blue fire.”

Now, I’m not trying to say “I’m Nostradamus and I guessed the entire first episode.” No. That is absolutely not what I’m saying. I thought I made an informed guess into how the characters might react to the events in season 7 and amongst each other, and used my own opinions on the characterizations to write a story based around one thing: Jon realizing he loved Sansa because she died. Everything else was secondary to me. 

It’s only because I got such immediate and hostile push back to something I saw as obvious foreshadowing that made me feel so vindicated when the first episode had so many similarities to what I wrote. Anyone could have come up with these same lines as I did - because the evidence was there and the Jonsa fam was pointing it out the whole time. 

I just reallllly hate how fanfiction, especially in ASOIAF and on FFN, has the default accusation of “character assassination” to use when you just hate a story, when all fandom characterizations are just opinions. Only the author of the original source material can decry character assassination. Fanfiction is everyone’s personal choices when it comes to things like this, and it appears that a whole shitload of Dany Stans descended on my story, and instead of saying “I hate Jonsa and Dany can do no wrong” they personally attacked me for horrible writing - when in fact I was the one more on point than they were. I never expected Sansa and the North to literally turn Dany and Jon away at the gates - but thats why I wrote a fanfic about it. Because that was the only way I was going to see it told.

I was so upset by this (can’t you tell? lol) that seeing this episode really made me feel good and feel more proud in what I wrote. 

okay. rant over.

[cajunquandary]

THE EYES ARE WINDOWS (Michelle’s 2K Follower Challenge)

Pairing/Characters: Eventual Dean x Reader, Sam, mentions of Benny

Word Count: 5400

Warnings: Alcohol use, flashbacks to implied rape and torture, mentions of PTSD, canon level violence, light cursing, mention of Alzheimer’s.

Prompt: “I’ll keep fighting. I’ll keep swinging til I got nothing left.”

Summary: Dean Winchester begins to investigate a strange case in a small town in Louisiana, meeting a local hunter. Expecting a simple salt-and-burn or demon, the actual culprit was not what the local hunter could have prepared for.

A/N: This is for Michelle’s 2K Follower Challenge, @luci-in-trenchcoats. If any of the above triggers affect you, PLEASE, please don’t read this. It’s not too angst-y and ends with lots o’ fluffy goodness.

(Not my gif)

Louis and Christine’s was especially packed, even for a Thursday night in the college town. You shouldn’t have been surprised—fraternity guys and coeds loved $2 shots as much as any hunter. You quickly secured one of the two high-top tables left for yourself and your research. Halfway through your double whiskey on the rocks, you hardly noticed the din from chanting students or the scruffy looking man who had slid into the opposite seat. Last week, Alexandria had a mysterious string of deaths that you were sure was the aftermath of voodoo performed by an angry civilian. Pretty run of the mill for Louisiana, and nothing you hadn’t come across before. In fact, I’d be damned if it wasn’t little old Miss Maxine Martin causing trouble for the nursing home again. Alzheimer’s is difficult for anyone, but when those who spent their lives dabbling in voodoo develop it…

“So are you going to sit there and ignore me all night? What’s a pretty little girl like you doing reading that crap anyway?” You nearly jumped out of your skin as the gravelly voice caught your attention, shutting the laptop and stowing the newspapers with it.

“That depends. Are you going to buy me a drink?” You leaned back in your chair, finished the whiskey, and folded your arms. He motioned for another round, then leaned back mirroring your body language.

“You still didn’t answer my question. What’s a girl like you doing reading about voodoo in a place like this?” His lips remained turned up in a smug, flirty fashion, green eyes glinting in the dull light of the bar. Freckles faintly littered his nose and cheeks. You wondered how many were…wait, what was his question? “I see we got off on the wrong foot. Name’s Dean. Winchester.”

“Y/N Y/L/N.” You leaned forward, thanking the waitress for your fresh drink. After a moment, you recalled why the name sounded so familiar—Dean Winchester, a legend among hunters—and smiled. Having only met a few other hunters in your brief time in the life and being a sucker for their stories, to hear some from a legend was an opportunity that left you giddy.

Several hours and many drinks later, you and Dean had become familiar with the scariest, funniest, and most bizarre hunts you’d been on, and briefly discussed your families.

“So, Y/N, what made you start hunting?” You always hated that question. It was a long and painful story, best left untold to other hunters. There was a reason you hunted alone. Well, not completely alone.

“Hey Y/N, I see ya found a nice beau, but we closed an hour ago, cher. Do you need me to walk ya home?” Everette, the bartender and a friend of yours, gratefully interrupted, while giving Dean the classic ‘stink eye.’

“No, thank you, Ev’, we were just leaving. I’ll see you tomorrow night,” you smiled and slid not-so-gracefully from your seat. After a quick hug and polite nod toward Dean, he walked away to finish closing up.

“Mind if I walk you home?” Dean asked, taking your arm in his.

“Not at all.”

The walk was not too far to your simple little apartment, and you discovered along the way that Dean was in town for a string of recent suicides that had been kept from the news. Apparently they were all young men in their twenties and thirties. Some had grown up here, like you, and others were just passing through, but all walked themselves miles to the outskirts of town to an old farm house that had been abandoned twenty some odd years ago. He had already spoken to the former owners who said nothing weird ever happened while they were there, and only left because they couldn’t afford the mortgage anymore. Since then, the home and land had been in the bank’s possession and had never been resold. “What’s been weird is that none of the locals want to talk about the house. There’s more to this, but I can’t find it.”

“Where exactly is this house, Dean,” afraid you already knew the answer. You wiggled your apartment’s key into the lock until the door was freed. Normally this took a few minutes of wrestling and bargaining with the door, but you were thankful that this time it gave easily. Your spine was crawling and every hair on your body was standing on end in anticipation of his answer.

“Cute place.” Dean looked around and found the bathroom, unaware of your shaking hands closing and double locking the door. “Mind if I..?” he pointed towards the bathroom. You nodded, and he slipped away. Not but a moment later, Dean burst out of the bathroom and tripped on the mat. “Did you—uh—do you know you have a pluming problem? The sink just shot water out of the side at me while—um—never mind. Not important.” Dean’s eyes cast downward, his face flushed and sporting a sheepish grin.

Laughing and allowing some of the tension to leave your shoulders, you couldn’t help but roll your eyes and pick up the silver pocket knife you’d accidentally left behind, placing it protectively in your pocket. Dean laughed as well, and flopped into your armchair.

Picking up where he left off, Dean replied, “The house is on Magnolia Way, right off of the highway, close to campus.”

Silence flooded the room, like molasses suspending everything in place. Dean tried to read your face, but you didn’t notice, staring out the window and into another life, a painful memory. The icemaker in the fridge released all of its contents onto the kitchen floor before you could get pulled too far away and you jumped up to clean it, Dean helping to gather the stray cubes. You pushed the memory away and focused on the mess at hand.

“The last one!” Dean said excitedly as he pulled a half melted cube from beneath the counter, popping to his feet quickly. Too quickly he realized, hitting his head on the corner of an open cupboard.

Knowing very well that neither of you opened it, you closed it quickly and turned him around. Grinning, you offered, “Want some ice for that?” He wrapped his arms around your waist and twirled, both consumed in a fit of laughs.  Oh, how his arms, his scent, his laugh, and the way the corners of his eyes scrunched were intoxicating.

“There’s something you should know,” you pulled away from Dean, grabbing the dishtowel to fidget with. “About me, about this apartment.” He raised his brows in question. “I don’t usually bring strange men home from bars—“ Dean looked mildly offended at being lumped in with such a crowd, but then nodded in understanding and leaned forward, kissing your forehead.

“I get it,” he cut you off. “You need your space, and I need my beauty rest. Meet me at the diner at 6am. You’re buying!” And just like that he had sauntered out your door, leaving the small space feeling empty.

You shrugged, and prepared to shower and sleep. “You can come out now, Armand.” The ghost of the young man appeared next to you, looking rather agitated. “Don’t look at me in that tone of voice! I tried to tell him—“

“He a hunter! You cain’t let’im know I here! He send me to tha gret beyond. Then who watch you back, boo?”

“Well, I wasn’t the one causing a scene. Rest up, I’m gonna need you tomorrow. We caught a case here in town, and I need to wrap it up quick to go take care of the case in Alexandria. I think Miss Maxine is at it again, bless her poor little old heart.”

Armand disappeared again with a disgruntled “Hmph.”

You don’t know what had gotten into you that night. Maybe it was the stress from finals, or the pointed comment from your only girlfriend about you being a recluse, or maybe it was the lukewarm, charged air of the stormy season that made you restless. Whatever it was that had led you here, to the frat party, wearing a sweater and blue jeans (leaving everything to the imagination, unlike some of your fellow party goers,) and standing in a corner of the pulsating room clutching your glass of mystery punch, it was a mistake. Amy invited you, of course, but she had already run off somewhere, maybe doing karaoke, maybe beer pong. Who knew? A strapping freshman new recruit to the fraternity (dignified by his wearing nothing but a trash bag) grinned down at you. He seemed nice enough after chatting for a bit. He was studying microbiology with a minor in business, and wanted to save the world. As a junior with only a few credit away from graduation, you knew that he would no doubt change his studies and views several times before the end. His excitement, however, was infectious, and you followed him to the patio, reminding yourself that you were supposed to be relaxing and having fun. The kid was scrawny, you could take him and a buddy in a fight and win. Thanks for the training, Dad. There was something off about him though, and the other members. Maybe it was their eyes. Most of them had very pretty eyes, ranging from bright blue to amber, but something was off about their eyes. Yeah... That’s it. Their eyes don’t catch the light. No reflections. Hm. Must be the bad lighting.

The kid started to ramble about the stars, and a few partygoers ran past, playing drunk tag. You looked up and marveled the same, then the stars faded and darkness took over.

You fell out of bed, a mess of sheets and pillows on the floor, sweating and shaking. You grasped for the alarm clock behind you. 4:56am. Too late to go back to sleep now, if you even could. You sighed. After turning on the shower to warm up, you turned to gather your clothes for the day—a dark grey flannel and black BDU pants you saved for particularly difficult jobs. One quick rinse and two cups of coffee later, you twisted your hair into a bun, not caring how it looked, grabbed your bag and walked out the door. Halfway down the hall you heard a loud crash. “Crap. Sorry Armand!” You scrambled back through the door and put the pocket knife in your pocket, glad that the crash was only a few pans spilling out of the cabinet to the floor. Sometimes when Armand got really mad he would end up breaking things.

“Woah. Mornin’ sunshine. Just roll out of bed?” Dean had a mouthful of pie. Apple, by the looks of it. His eyes lingered for a moment at your head, surely debating whether or not to mention the mess.

“Yeah,” You have no idea, you thought. “Isn’t it a bit early for pie?”

Dean looked completely offended at this. “Are you kidding?” He said between chewing the mouthful.

You shook your head. The waitress set down pigs’n’blankets, eggs, bacon, and pancakes, followed by another with coffee for you and two orange juices. “Uh, Dean? Did you order all this?”

“Yup. Hm. I’m used to ordering enough for me and Sammy.” He dug into the eggs.

“Where is Sam?”

“He’s off in Alexandria. There’s a little old lady there causing some trouble, and he is helping the staff of the nursing home keep her away from the voodoo crap. Well, when he isn’t being hit on,” He winked. “What can I say, older ladies have a thing for him.”

You almost spat out your coffee laughing. “That’s the case I was about to work when you interrupted my research the other night. I’ve had to go over there a few times. Miss Maxine is always getting herself in trouble. It’s sad, she was an incredible lady back in the day. Scary, but cool. I’m now friends with her daughter. Tell Sam to tell Miss Betty that Y/N says hello, she should give him less fits.”

Dean had amusement in his eyes and a mouthful of pancakes as he texted Sam.

Surprisingly you and Dean had almost cleared your plates completely. The only mishap during breakfast being Dean’s coffee spilling in his lap. Armand could have been worse and had trays of food fall on Dean, so really it wasn’t that bad.

Dean thought that the string of suicides might be ghost or demonic possession, it was an odd one. He had already interviewed the families of the victims and visited the places they were last seen alive the day you met him. In fact, that’s half the reason he had been at Louis and Christine’s. All of the victims had passed through there. You absentmindedly wondered if you had ever seen or met them.

The plan was to take Baby to the house and scope it out for any activity, sulfur, EMF, etc. Simple enough, but you were terrified of what you might find, terrified of the personal demons you would have to face. There was a reason this town didn’t talk about it—the atrocities that occurred there had brought the town to its knees. The town leaders had done everything in their power to keep it out of the papers as to not instill panic. It was only a twenty minute drive, but you didn’t remember falling asleep.

The room was dark with only a few tendrils of light sneaking through the boarded up windows. It was like waking up from a strange dream… but ropes dug into your wrists and ankles, and there was something wrapped around your mouth. Your eyes struggled to focus, and your head ached uncomfortably. You heard a bird outside, the wind. Then the blood curdling scream from beneath the floor boards. It seemed to stretch on, panic rising, threatening to close your throat in fear. You looked for a door, it was closed. Before you could consider getting your binds off and attempting escape through the window, the door flew open, the shuffling and thumping and screaming downstairs fading. There in the doorway was the freshman who spoke about the stars, looking much taller and stronger than he did last night. Was it last night? The light caught his hazel eyes—there was still no reflection. It was as if the light was sucked into them, and nothing escaped. Maybe it wasn’t bad lighting after all. Mama always said the eyes are the windows to the soul. This is my fault—shoulda known. Dammit! The kid pulled you sharply by the binds on your ankles, dragging you down a hall and a flight of stairs, your head, shoulders, and back taking the brunt of it. You were in the basement, if you could tell by the cold, damp, stale air and tiny windows by the ceiling. Your eyes wandered from the windows to the ceiling and stopped, taking in the blood spray. Based on the layers, you and the screamer were not the only victims. You and the kid were surrounded by people in black hooded robes. Seriously? How original. You shouldn’t have rolled your eyes—your ear was met with a swift kick and blinding pain. Your head lolled and you felt blood trickle down your neck as they hoisted you up, suspending you by your wrists from the rafters. Those who were cloaked circled you, chanting with deep, low voices. The kid laughed maniacally, lifting his arms as if this gave him more power, then spent unfathomable time carefully slicing into your skin. This you could take, focus on, and despite the blood loss, you knew you could recover fairly quickly. What happened after the sun set until it rose again, you wouldn’t recover from. You refused to cry out, but cried the same, praying for release, to pass out, for death. No relief came.

“Y/N… Y/N! Hey, you okay?” Baby was parked, Dean was crouched down next to you from the outside, his hand on your shoulder and concern in his eyes.

Unable to move for a moment from the paralyzing sensation that these dreams bring you, your eyes drifted to the house.

“I can take you back to town. C’mon, you don’t need to be out here right now.” Dean moved back towards the driver’s seat.

“N-no I’m good, I swear. Just didn’t sleep well last night. Too much whiskey,” You lied. You grabbed your bag and followed him towards the house. With the front door completely boarded up and wrapped in Police tape, Dean decided to entire through the first floor window. Knocking off the half-rotted boards was easy enough, and you set them to the side as he climbed in, EMF reader in one hand, gun in the other. You set the old board in the grass far enough that if you needed a quick escape you wouldn’t land on them upon exit. Turning and standing, the basement window caught your eye. It was the one with the crack running jagged and crossways through it. How many hours, no, days, had you looked at that crack?

Dean’s voice pulled you from your trance. “No EMF yet, and I don’t smell sulfur. I’m gonna check the basement. You comin’?” He poked his out of the window.

“Right behind you.” You followed him in, clutching the little knife in your pocket tightly, and it warmed in response. You knew you could face this. Dean wouldn’t let anything happen to you, and Armand, even though he was a pain in the butt, was fiercely protective of you, helping you through the last three years of recovery.

You followed Dean carefully down the stairs, keeping an eye out for any movement, ectoplasm, or other indication of what was killing these men, trying not to focus on the familiar notches in the walls. As you closed the distance, you jumped and fell, back hitting the stairs, as Dean’s EMF reader went from zero to sixty in no time flat. You smacked your forehead with your palm, realizing that you should’ve left the knife in the car. The EMF was picking up Armand. But it was too late.

“Woah. Jackpot,” Dean turned and gave you that million dollar smile.

“Hey Dean, I left something in the car, I’ll be right back.” You ran to Baby, Armand appearing.

“Hey, don’tcha leave me out her! What’tif tho boys comen back and findju? Huh? You don needta be out her anyway! Les go home, cher, please.” You knew Armand had been through the same ordeal as you but hadn’t been lucky enough to survive it. After all, this is where the knife came from. In life, it had been his. Armand was a local young farmhand fond of attending the parties at the college, until the night he was taken a few months before you.

“Y/N, whatch out!” Dean yelled, and shot Armand with rock salt.

“No! Dean, NO!” You held up your hands in defense, Armand seriously pissed off and back behind you, hiding from the Winchester. “Armand is my friend. Please, I tried to tell you, let me explain.”

Dean slowly lowered his gun. Was there a tear welling up in one eye? He turned slightly, and it was gone. You had heard about Bobby, so hopefully Dean would understand.

“Y/N… you need to let him go, it doesn’t matter wha—“

“You listen to me, Winchester. Whatever is killing those guys, it’s not Armand. He protects me. In return, I protect him. He and I, we have history with this place. Bad history.”

Dean turned his gaze to the house, and back between you and Armand. The sun’s last rays rested in the trees, leaving the house shrouded in darkness.

“Okay, fine. But you owe me an explanation. Now.” Dean stormed back to Baby.

You couldn’t remember ever being this hungry or tired—no, you couldn’t even remember hunger or a time when your bones didn’t strain and ache. There was only numbness, inside and out. You watched without interest when the kid received his own cloak. You felt nothing when they all scampered about, something about police? You couldn’t quite make it out. You just stared at the crack in the window. You liked the way it caught the rain, when it caught the sun, or the glint of candlelight. You liked that window; it was broken like you.

When the police had come and arrested or shot the cloaked people, you just watched. Suddenly they didn’t seem so big anymore. But it was all distant. You fell in and out of consciousness as you had for… how long? That was the day Everette knew he loved you. He cut you from your bonds, covered you and carried you out. He was there when you woke in the hospital. Shortly after, he retired from the force and opened a bar, named after his parents. Said his twenty years were time enough, and he was too old and tired to be carrying pretty girls out of basements. It was time for the young men to do that.

They had held you for a week, some kind of imitation ritual. From the bodies the police found, the victims were both male and female. Whoever was unlucky he guessed. Many victims couldn’t be ID’d and were cremated, including Armand. Everette had given you Armand’s pocket knife when you were finally ready to go back to your apartment. You had thanked him even though it wasn’t yours. It was six months before Armand showed himself (and nearly killed you in fright), but you grew very close even though you never met him in his mortal life. It was a year before he could move things. Two years after the event, you started hunting monsters with Armand by your side. Monsters weren’t as scary as people. In fact, Armand proved himself a better partner than any mortal human could be, with his invisibility, telekinesis, possession, super strength, and ability to see the supernatural beings shrouded from your view. He even helped you send the crossroads demon those men had sold their souls to for strength and power back to hell.

While you relayed your experience to Dean, you failed to notice the weight lifted from your pocket.

Dean sighed and pursed his lips, a hand running through his hair. “Look… Y/N, I’ve been to hell. From the sounds of it, you’ve had a taste as well. But Bobby… ghosts don’t stay good. They lose themselves over time, some slower than others, but it happens. They go vengeful. Especially those who died violently. You have to destroy the knife. Let him go.”

“But—“

“Do you really want a vengeful spirit on your hands? Because he’s getting there,” Dean started to raise his voice gruffly. “These victims—“ Dean was interrupted by a horrible scream.

You froze. “Armand, what was that?”

You got no answer, and instinctively reached for the knife, finding nothing. “Armand! It’s gone!” You turned to Dean in panic. You both jumped out of Baby, armed now with rock salt, guns, and an iron crowbar. Dean ran down the stairs to the basement with you shortly behind. There was a young man, beating himself into a wall. It looked as if someone had also thrown him down the stairs. Startled, he turned to us, staring right down Dean’s shotgun barrel. There was the tiniest black teardrop rolling down his cheek. Dean shot the man with rock salt in the chest without further hesitation, sending Armand out of him. The man slumped down in the corner and moaned, hurt, but alive. Armand growled, the room shook like an earthquake, dust raining down from the rafters.

“Burn it, NOW!” Dean yelled and swung the crowbar through Armand and dissipating him. The ghost was attacking viciously, throwing a bench, glass jars, wrapping dean with bloodied rope. Dean struggled to get free, but managed to toss you his lighter and keep Armand distracted as you lit a small, extremely hot fire with debris under the stairs. You frisked the victim for it, finding it in his hand. You threw the knife in, crying “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Armand,” over and over, until the room was quiet, and warm, strong arms were around you.

Neither of you spoke on the short drive to drop the victim off at the hospital. His injuries weren’t too bad, considering.

Dean was cut and bruised, had a busted lip and a few rope burns. You didn’t realize you were staring on the way back to your apartment, but you had memorized the angles of his profile, the way his brow furrowed, and all those freckles. It had been so long since you’d let anyone into your life. Especially men. Armand had kept them at bay…

“It’s not your fault you know,” Dean put Baby in park and shifted a concerned gaze to you. “Even Bobby possessed and tried to kill in the end. Armand held out for a long time. He protected you. Those men—all he saw was your captors. I don’t blame him. Or you. You gotta know that. Those hunts you talked about—you both saved lives. That’s worth somethin.”

“Dean,” you said quietly, “I can’t live here anymore. Armand was mine. He’s been by my side for three years. He always ate all the cereal—do ghosts even eat?—but I swear he did, and he always messed up the laundry, or changed the TV channel at the good part. He always had my back on a hunt, kept me safe when I walked at night. I can’t stay here. He’s gone. This town, my home, it’s all foreign now. How did you do it Dean? How did you come back from hell, and purgatory, and keep going? This world? It weighs on you. And after a while…I don’t belong in it.”

Dean muttered a son-of-a-bitch under his breath. “Okay. You got to listen to me. You got to keep fighting. When you want to stop, fight harder. Me? I’ll keep fighting. I’ll keep swinging til I got nothing left. You’re gonna do the same. Now you’ve got a choice. Get out of this life while you can. If you don’t you’re gonna die bloody. We all do in the end. What’s it going to be?”

His words gave you strength. The sun started to peak on the horizon, spreading light pinks and yellows at the edge of the trees. You watched it, the sun now blinding your eyes with the first rays. You turned to meet his gaze. He was so beautiful lit up like that. If it weren’t for a little blood here or there, you could surely count those freckles. The green folds of his irises were lined with flecks of gold. Peace slowly rolled over you with the warmth of those rays, reflecting off those beautiful eyes. Mama always said the eyes are the windows to the soul… and his is the most radiant, beautiful soul I’d ever seen.

“I’ll fight too. I’m a hunter. And if I go out bloody, that’s okay,” you said with steely resolve. There was a strength in your chest, one you hadn’t felt since before the last three years.

“You know, you remind me of someone I used to know. From purgatory.”

“Oh, you mean Benny?” Dean’s jaw dropped. “Close your mouth or you’re gonna catch a fly, Winchester. Benny would swing through town occasionally. He and Everette could talk for hours over nothing, and I loved to listen. He spoke about you the most.” You grinned at the memory. It was no wonder Benny spoke so highly of Dean, or how Dean’s soul radiated warmth and beauty. You understood the intoxication and the draw that every beast in Purgatory had felt towards Dean. “I miss him, haven’t seen him around in a long time.”

Dean cast his eyes downward. “He chose to go back to Purgatory. Didn’t even let me talk him out of it. He went back to save Sam, and chose not to cross the threshold. Kept talking about it’s purity…” He trailed off. “I won’t let you do the same, so don’t even try.”

Dean waited while you packed your duffle bag with clothes, and a few pictures of your family, and other miscellaneous items from your former life in a small box, left the key in the lock of the stubborn door on your way out. Standing in the middle of the hallway, you waited to hear Armand make things crash because you didn’t grab the knife, but smiled sadly and walked away when there was only silence.

Sam met up with you and Dean at the diner for breakfast. He was a lot taller than you expected.

“Uh, you smell like old lady.” Dean turned up his nose and Sam plopped down next to you, disheveled and tired looking.

“And you smell like moldy basement, jerk.”

“Bitch.”

The waitress brought another feast.

“You must be Y/N. It’s nice to meet you and um—Miss Betty says for us to take good care of you or she’ll let Miss Maxine turn me into a faut carot?”

“What, a fake carrot?” Dean asked with a mouthful of—apple pie or pancake? You couldn’t tell anymore.

You laughed, “No, Sam, she threatened to turn you into a large black grasshopper.”

Dean hummed humorously through his mouthful of—okay it’s definitely pie—and nodded, raising his eyebrows jokingly at Sam. Sam huffed and crossed his arms. “She said both of us, Dean.” Sam lifted his eyebrows right back. “Said she would know otherwise.”

The brothers caught up, and you filled in the details for both cases that the brothers couldn’t. Bellies full, you all retired to the motel to catch up on much needed sleep, Dean taking the couch. You didn’t dream this time. It was discussed that you would return to the bunker with them until you got back on your feet. Before you left town, though, there was someone you had to talk to.

Everette was shining glasses at the bar, preparing for the busy weekend night ahead. “Bonjour mes amis!”

“Hey Ev! This is Sam and Dean, Winchester.” He nodded in greeting. He knew who they were, knew the whole time. Dean was more than a legend among hunters and those who knew of the supernatural world around them, like Ev. Dean had a reputation regarding ladies, which is why Ev had given him the nonverbal warning. “Ev, I’m leaving town. There’s nothing left for me here.”

“Well boo, it’s about damn time! C’mere,” He walked around the counter to pull you into tight embrace. “You get on out of this Bayou and make somthing of yourself. And don’tchu worry, I’ll come check up on you.”

You held tightly to him as the finality of your leaving struck in you an odd sense of calm and excitement at the same time. “You better. Take care, Ev.” You traded sad smiles, Everette threw a few hairy eyeballs towards the boys, and before you knew it, you were on the road to Lebanon, Kansas. Sam slept some more in the back seat, obviously exhausted from his case, leaving you and Dean in the front. He reached for your hand, and you smiled.

“Dean?”

“Hm?”

“Me too. I’ll keep fighting, til I got nothing left.”

He unbuckled your seatbelt and pulled you closer. Now in the middle, you refastened your belt and leaned on his shoulder, the time spent in your hell washed away by his warmth. He held you close, and didn’t let go. Not when you got to your new home, or during the tour of it, and in the night when the dreams would come back, he was right there to push them away again, and so were you for him.

A/N: Thank you so much if you actually made it all the way through this! Here is a bonus gif (not mine).