#memory and loss
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Honey Locust is a bittersweet love story about memoryâs quiet endurance. In a world where even his own mind has begun to betray him, Robert clings to the memory of a forbidden love that once bloomed under a thorned tree. As time runs out, he journeys back to the place where it all began, seeking not forgiveness, but the simple, aching proof that what they shared was real, and that some promises echo long after they are whispered.
Honey Locust
1
Robert thought he was turning forty-three. Heâd told the nurse that just that morning, certain of it. âBig year,â heâd said, with a crooked smile and a sip of lukewarm coffee. âForty-three. Thatâs the age a man settles into himself.â
He was, in fact, nearly eighty.
Most days, Robert remembered that. Most days, his mind held steady like an old dock bracing against a strong current. But sometimes, the numbers unraveled and time slid sideways. He would find himself staring into mirrors and seeing a face too worn for how young he still felt inside.
He lived alone in a modest apartment near the edge of the town where heâd grown up. The place was clean, uncluttered, lined with small reminders: sticky notes on the kitchen cabinets, a calendar marked with birthdays he barely remembered, and a digital clock that also told him the date. A nurse came by twice a day, once in the morning to check his vitals and meds, and once in the evening to make sure he hadnât wandered too far into confusion.
It was a temporary arrangement. He knew that. One fall, one bad episode, and the decision would be made for him. A facility. Supervised care. These thoughts floated around him like clouds he couldnât quite push away.
He still had a little time. A little freedom. And there was something he needed to do before it was gone.
On his refrigerator, tucked beneath a magnet shaped like a fish, was a hand-sketched map.
It showed the edge of town. A winding trail. A tree marked with a single word: "Honey."
He looked at it every morning. Sometimes he stared at it for minutes, other times just long enough to feel the tug in his chest. A quiet ache. A name on the tip of his tongue. And a whisper at the back of his mind: Go before someone tells you that you canât.
2
It was 1964 when he met her. Lena.
He was seventeen. White. Raised in a church where the pastor spoke more about damnation than mercy. She was Black, with eyes that caught the light like polished onyx; calm, deep, and unblinking. Her laughter came slowly, like she was testing whether the world deserved it.
They met by accident. Or maybe fate. Robert had wandered down past the old tracks behind the mill with his sketchbook, looking for quiet. Lena had been gathering wildflowers in a coffee tin, barefoot in the grass.
He watched her for a few minutes, afraid to disturb the moment. She looked like a painting half-finished, paused in motion.
"You gonna keep staring or say something?" she called without turning.
He flushed. "SorryâŚI didnât mean toâŚ"
She turned, smirking. "Itâs okay. Just figured Iâd make it easier on both of us."
That was Lena. Forward, but not unkind. Confident, even though the world around them had taught her to walk small.
The second time they met wasnât by chance. Nor was the third.
The honey locust tree stood like a crooked guardian where the woods met the creek. Its long thorns curled from the bark like warnings. But beneath it, the air felt still, protected.
That tree became their place. They would sit on the mossy roots, knees touching. Heâd draw. Sheâd read poetry aloud from borrowed books. Sometimes sheâd write her own. He loved the way she whispered her verses, like she was letting him in on a secret no one else was worthy to hear.
One line she wrote he still remembered by heart:
"Some things grow in places theyâre not supposed to. Doesnât make them weeds. Might just mean theyâre brave."
3
They couldnât be seen together in town. Not at the diner, not at the county fair, not even on the sidewalk. Both families wouldâve been furious, for different reasons, maybe, but equal in force.
So they made the honey locust their world. When they couldnât meet, they wrote.
A dented tin box, tucked under a thick root, hidden beneath loose earth and leaves. They wrote on scraps of paper, folded small and hidden like treasure under the tree. Robertâs were short, nervous. Lenaâs were full, flowing, always signed with a doodle, usually a flower or a sun.
They wrote about the things they couldnât say aloud: how she liked the way he listened. How he felt like he could breathe around her. How everything felt a little less broken when they were together.
And slowly, note by note, he realized he loved her.
He didnât say it right away. He didnât know how. But she did. One letter said:
âI think I love you. There, I said it. And I donât regret it, even if I should. Even if the world tells me I should.â
He read that note a dozen times. Folded it. Unfolded it. Wore the crease into the paper like a scar.
4
They were found out in August. Her brother caught her reading one of the notes and gave it to their father.
Lena was told she would be sent to live with her aunt in Knoxville. Not immediately, two weeks, maybe three. Just long enough for her family to plan a quick and quiet departure.
Her last letter arrived the day after she was caught.
"They know. My brother gave Daddy the letter. Theyâre sending me to Knoxville to stay with Aunt Maybelle... Will you meet me? One more time. At the tree. Saturday. Just before sunset. If you donât come⌠Iâll understand. But I hope you do. I hope you remember me. I love you."
Robert read the letter twice. He wanted to run to her that very moment. But he didnât.
He waited.
His fatherâs words rang in his head like a sentence: "That part of your life is over. Youâll be grateful we didnât tell anyone what youâve done."
Saturday came. He stood at the window and watched the sun dip below the hill. The world outside was quiet, just the distant hum of a mower, a crow calling overhead. And he stayed inside.
And he did nothing.
He told himself heâd write. That heâd explain. That she would understand.
He waited a week. Then another. Then the guilt pressed in, thick and sharp, and he finally wrote a reply, an apology, an explanation, and a cowardâs hope.
He folded it carefully. Walked to the woods. Buried it in the tin beneath the honey locust tree.
But by then, she was already gone.
5
The decades blurred.
Robert married once. Briefly. It didnât last. No children. No scandals. He worked a quiet job. Kept to himself. He aged without fanfare.
But sometimes, when the sun had set and his eyes felt heavy, he saw her. Heard her voice. Smelled the wildflowers. Felt her fingers brushing his as she passed him a note.
He couldnât remember where he put his keys, but he remembered her.
And one morning, there it was. The map on the fridge. He didnât know when heâd drawn it. But it was hers. It was theirs. It was the way back.
And he knew, soon, someone would take the keys. Decide it was time. A facility. Routine. A life with less wandering.
He had one trip left.
6
The woods were thinner, the trail forgotten. Kudzu curled over rusted fences and broken signs.
But the honey locust tree still stood.
Crooked. Thorned. Proud.
He knelt, breath shallow. The dirt was soft from spring rain. He dug with his hands, slow and reverent, until metal touched his fingertips.
The tin.
Inside: his letter.
And beneath it⌠another.
He unfolded the paper, yellowed and curled at the edges.
Robert,
Itâs been two summers since I left. I donât know why Iâm here now. I guess I just needed to see if the world we made still existed.
It does.
Iâm seventeen now. Still hoping you might come back one day. I found your letter in the tin. I read it sitting under these branches, right where we used to sit. The bark has grown thick with thorns, like itâs trying to protect something soft inside. I think we were that softness once.
I donât blame you for what you didnât do. We were just kids, standing in the middle of something bigger than both of us. But you should know: you were not a dream I made up. You were real to me.
Maybe one day youâll come back to this place. Maybe you already have. I hope you remember me kindly. I will always remember you.
âLena
Robert sat with the letter in his lap, the world still around him.
He looked up through the branches, light filtering through lace-like leaves. A breeze stirred the pods, and one fell beside him with a soft thud.
His hands trembled. His breath caught in his throat.
âShe came back,â he whispered.
And then, louder, steadier:
âIt was real.â
He leaned back against the bark of the tree, and let his eyes close.
Above him, a few pods drifted loose and spun gently in the air like memories shaken free.
And he smiled.
#short story#original fiction#literary fiction#memory and loss#bittersweet love#regret and redemption#soft prose#honey locust#quiet heartbreak#creative writing
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The most terrifying part of having memory issues is when you can feel something from 5 seconds ago be thrown out the window and there's an empty hole where it once was. You remember that you forgot something.
#amnesia#adhd#memory#memory issues#memory loss#adhd problems#neurodiversity#neurodivergent#amnesiac disorder
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seeing people my age talk about how scared they are of memory loss, which they only associate with old age, is so surreal to see as a 24 year old who has actively experienced memory loss for a long time now
there are causes for memory loss besides dementia and alzheimerâs, i hope yâall know that. dissociative disorders, trauma, brain injuries, thyroid problems, even just stress and lack of sleep can fuck up your ability to store, process, and access memory. and thatâs just a few of the many causes i can think of off the top of my head right now.
please stop treating disabled people like some scary âotherâ that you might become only in the distant, decades-away future. we are your age, too. you may become one of us sooner than you know. stop acting like memory loss marks the end of a life, when so many of us have so much living left to do!
#diary#memory loss#memory disorder#dementia#alzheimers#dissociative disorder#dissociative amnesia#dissociation#dissociative identity disorder#trauma#brain injury#memory#amnesia#actually dissociative#complex dissociative disorder#osddid#osdd system#dissociative system#other specified dissociative disorder#did system
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Apparently this needs to be said so
Forgetting things is morally neutral! Memory issues are morally neutral!
You're not a bad person if you...
forget things quickly
forget people
can't remember entire stages of your life
can't remember important things
can remember some things very well and forget other things all the time
can't remember things (or anything!) about your interests
forget to eat, sleep, go to the bathroom, etc
forget to reply to texts
remember things and immediately forget them again
can't remember birthdays, events, etc
frequently answer 'I forgot' to questions
can't retain new information
forget things you used to know
only remember things when it's too late
have vague, distorted and/or unreliable memories
depend on others to know how an event you were in played out
have other symptoms that are worsened by memory issues and vice versa
... and anything else I might have missed!
#muted#memory issues#adhd#actually adhd#dissociative amnesia#amnesia#memory loss#dissociative identity disorder#what other things cause memory issues#ptsd#i can't think of anything else#reminder#positivity#neurodivergent#neurodivergent positivity#memory problems#ice speaks#i tried to include as many experiences as i could think of#but out of everything i tagged i only have adhd so i probably missed a lot of stuff#so feel free to add your own experiences!#brought to you by... uh ironically i can't remember what prompted me to write this#something my mom said. i don't remember what it was tho
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The Garden Doesnât Know Sheâs Gone Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom Fanfic by MythboundCal
Zeldaâs garden doesnât know sheâs gone.
It still blooms like sheâll be back any secondâlike the sunflowers havenât noticed she stopped humming to them, like the lavender didnât watch her vanish into light.
Link stands at the gate. The wood is soft with age, half-swallowed by ivy. The watering can rests exactly where she left it in Hateno. Rusting. Waiting.
He doesnât touch it.
Not out of neglect.
Just⌠fear.
That if he waters the garden, it might forget herâthat its roots will stop searching for her footsteps, its blossoms will stop blooming in her colors.
So he lets it grow wild.
The basil climbs the wrong wall. The squash vines curl over the porch. The chimes still sing when the wind hits just right, a song no one ever wrote down.
And her gloves still hang on a bent nail by the shed. One turned inside out. He doesnât fix it.
Somewhere beneath the soil are seeds she never named. He wonât dig for them. If they bloom, they bloom. If they donât⌠heâll wait with them.
Today, he sits. The Master Sword leans nearby, but he doesnât reach for it.
The porch creaks under his weight. He watches the marigolds twitch in the breeze, reaching for hands that never come.
The villagers donât ask anymore. Heâs glad.
Because how do you explain a wound that grows flowers?
Even now, he hears her voice on the airâlight, scolding, fond. âDonât overwater the rosemary, Link. It hates being fussed over.â
He doesnât answer.
Just lets the wind rustle the leaves. Lets the garden carry the silence.
And when a white lily opensâout of season, out of placeâhe doesnât wonder how.
The garden remembers.
So he doesnât have to.
#legend of zelda#tears of the kingdom#zelda totk#link#zelda#linkzelda#zelink#zelda fanfic#zelda fanart#link fanart#totk fanfic#totk art#post game zelda#the garden doesnât know sheâs gone#bittersweet#melancholycore#emotional storytelling#poetic prose#aching softness#nature as memory#grief in silence#love and loss#overgrown garden aesthetic#hauntingly soft#longing#unspoken love#gentle sadness#dragon lore#light dragon#1000
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I'll Crawl Home
Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist
Read on A03!
Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, memory loss, angst, pining (unrequited love but not really), smut (blowjob, fingering, p in v sex, creampie), love confessions, no use of y/n
Summary/Warnings: You don't know who these men are, but they seem to know you. Your body seems to like the Handsome one a lot. But the more you manage to remember, the more lost you feel.
Author's Note: This might be one of my favorites. Enjoy!!
Title from Work Song by Hozier
Word Count: 8.6k
You donât know who these men are.Â
There are three of them, all gathered around you with frowning faces and drawn brows, and they seem worried. The tall one in the middle keeps saying your name and asking the one in the tie and trench coat if he can figure out whatâs wrong with you. Trench Coat keeps snapping variations of no, he canât, because the object was guarded against outside interference.Â
The third one is silent. Heâs a little behind you and wearing flannel like Tall, but his hair is shorter, heâs less lanky, and heâs touching you. His hand is on your arm, his grip so tight it almost hurts, and youâd⌠barely even noticed. Not because heâs almost inhumanly handsome, or because when he does grumble something in his voice is deep and soothing to your mind, but because your body hadnât seemed to really register it. And if it had, it hadnât been worried at all.
But youâre worried. As your brain starts to kick into gearâdragging itself out of an odd, hazy sludgeâyou are very worried about why Trench Coat, Tall, and Handsome are so close to you. Why Trench Coat keeps saying youâre sickâyouâre tired, but overall you feel fineâand why Tall knows your name. Why Handsome is still touching you, why heâs so quiet, why when he looks at you your skin heats and your heart does a little, happy hum.
Why when you yank your arm from Handsomeâs grasp, he blinks at you in confusion. Why he says your name so slowly. Why when he reaches back out to you, your body leans forward of its own accord.Â
âNo!â You shout, and itâs more at yourself, but Handsomeâs whole face falls, and he looks like heâs been shot, stabbed, and bled out.
âShit, sheâs talking- Hey,â Tall says your name, reaching to grab your shoulder, and you start to crawl away from him. âCan you- Wait, where are you going-â
âShe seems to be experiencing panic.â Trench Coat tilts his head, glancing over your shoulder. âShe is likely trying to get to Dean.â
You follow his gaze, and your body is moving to where HandsomeâDean?âhad backed away.
âFuck!â You try to scramble to your feet, ready to run for your life, but you barely make it to your knees before darkness clouds your vision and your head starts to spin.
All three men shout your name, but Deanâs deep voice is the loudest, and when the world grows clear again, he the one whoâs holding you upright.
Your body is slumped into him. Itâs the same way youâve slumped into your bed. The same way you used to slump against you mom when you were a kid, because you never thought she could hurt you. Because sheâd felt like the safest place to be in the world.
But you donât know Dean.Â
âDonât- donât touch me-â You try to shake him off, but he doesnât let go. He just lowers you carefully down and moves away, staring at you with an expression that makes your heart ache for reasons you donât understand. âWho are you people?!â
Tall says your name again. How the fuck does he know your name. âItâs just us, itâs-â Tall moves to touch you, and frowns when you flinch away.
At least you still know how to flinch away.Â
âI donât knowwho the fuck you are,â you hiss at him. âOr what the fuck is happening, but I want to go home.â You hug yourself, everything suddenly cold, your voice growing small. âPlease let me go home.â
Trench Coat nods. âI am able to-â
âCas.â Dean grunts from behind you, and Trench CoatâCasâfrowns at him. âDonât.â
âShe has requested something I can assist with-â
âShe doesnât fucking know who you are.â Dean snaps, stomping past you, never looking down. It makes the ache in your heart worse. âWhat the hell do you think is gonna happen when you zap her back to a home she doesnât remember?â
Tall shakes his head. âWe donât know that she doesnât remember the bunker-â
âYeah? Hey,â Dean says your name, his glare and tone firm. Your body has a very confusing reaction to it, your thighs squeezing together as your stomach fills with heat. âYou believe in angels?â
You blink. âLike, with wings?â
Dean gives Tall a pointed look, and Tall just shakes his head again.
âThat doesnât prove anything-â
âIt proves enough, Sammy.âÂ
âNo, it doesnât!â TallâSammyâcrosses his arms, glaring at Dean. âShe remembers her own name, itâs not unreasonable to think she might remember her home!â
âThatâs cause her name is her name! She doesnât remember who we are! Sheâs not going to remember anything else-â
âIt may be productive to find out what she does remember before we make assumptions.â Cas cuts Dean off with clipped words, and barely flinches as Dean glowers at him. Youâre impressed. Dean seems scary.
Even if your body doesnât seem to agree.Â
âGood idea, Cas, letâs just-â Sammy drops to the floor in front of you. âHi, Iâm-â
âSammy?âÂ
âItâs actually Sam- wait.â Sam blinks at you. âYou remember my name?â
âNo.â You shake your head, nodding up to Dean. âHe said it.â
âOh.â Sam follows your gaze with a small frown. âDo you know his name?â
âItâs Dean.â You whisper, and another strange expression flashes over Deanâs face. âBut I donât remember it, I just heard it. Iâm sorry.â
Deanâs jaw clenches, and Sam sighs.
âDonât apologize, weâre just- Itâs complicated.â Sam runs a hand through his hair, scanning carefully over your face. âCan I ask you a few questions?â
You nodâyou donât seem to have a choice, and youâre not nearly as panicked as you should beâand Sam swallows.
âOkay, you know your name, so how about- What year is it?â
You tell him, and he nods slowly. It goes like that as he asks you the date, the president, how old you are, and when your birthday is. It only flips when he asks you where home is, you answer, and all three men gape at you.
âWhatâs wrong?â You look between their identical expressions of worry. âThatâs where I-â
Sam says your name carefully, his voice tense. âYou havenât lived there in almost six years.â
You blink at him. âNo⌠I- I live there now.â
âNo, you-â Sam lets out a long breath. âHow about this, do you know what your job is?â
âYeah, Iâm a librarian.â
That was clearly not the answer they wanted, but Sam pushes on. âOkay, what kind of car do you drive?â
âI donât drive.â You glance up at Cas and Dean, and theyâre exchanging a taut look. This is so fucking weird. âI, um, I take the bus.â
âFuck!â Dean shouts suddenly, throwing his hands in the air. He sounds agitated. Itâs making you agitated. âGoddamnit, she doesnât remember anything-â
âActually, she seems to remember selective things.â Cas lowers down as well, his gaze seeming to drive right into your soul. âAre you aware of how you arrived here, in this room?â
You arenât. You try to remember, and it hurts. Your whole head lights up with pain and you double-over, but that seems to answer the menâs questions all by itself, and they exchange low, tense words as you lay on the floor.
Dean keeps looking at you. Heâs not speaking to you, but he keeps staring at you, and your body always seems to respond to it. His jaw clenches as Cas helps you to your feet, and your legs want to walk right into him. Dean scowls as Sam explains that you do know themâthat theyâre your friends, and youâre cursed, and theyâre taking you somewhere safe to help youâand your skin prickles under the feeling of it. As they move you into a sleek black muscle car and take off down the road, Dean keeps glaring at you in the rearview mirror and you want to reach out and touch him. You think it would be really good to touch him.
You really want to touch him. Heâs beautiful, in the shadows and low lights of the highway, and right now itâs really just Dean in the whole universe.Â
Just Dean. Here. With you.
The wind is cold in your hair and loud in your ears, but the Impala is warm, and the music is louder.
Dean is louder. Singing at the top of his lungs and drumming a little off beat on the wheel, his eyes alight and his smile wide.Â
Heâs warm, too. You giggle and roll your eyes when he makes a terrible joke, and he grabs your face with a strong, rough, warm hand to pulls you into a kiss, all as the road keeps rushing past you-
Cas says your name, and you blink at him. Youâre not sure what the fuck just happened.
âAre you experiencing memory recall?â
âI, um, what?â
âYour eyes.â He says, and you notice Sam twisting around to watch from the passengerâs seat. âThey began to move in a manner similar to human REM sleep, however you remained awake the whole time. Were you thinking of something you had previously forgotten?â
âI, uh,â you glance in the rearview mirror. Deanâs suddenly fixated on the road, his grip on the wheel white knuckled. âHave I been in this car before?â
âYeah, you have.â Samâs words are cautious, his eyes trained on you. âA lot. Cas, you donât think-â
âI do. I believe it may be our best shot.â
And thatâs how it begins. The moment you return to the bunkerâa strange, underground building they claim youâve lived in for yearsâyouâre rushed through the grand tour in the hopes of triggering just a little more of your memory.
Youâd consider it useless if it wasnât working. If your hands didnât already know how to sort through their strange classification of books. If you didnât get flashes of laughter and visions of Sam and Dean around a table in what they call the War Room. If Sam doesnât show you the kitchen, and suddenly your brain is washed over with a memory of sitting at the table, across from him and Dean.
Dean winks at you as Sam tries to show you something on his laptop. Youâre going to kill him. Heâs being obvious, and a little mean.
It doesnât stop you from following him out of the kitchen only minutes later, even though it snaps your dignity in half.
âYouâve got something?â Samâs almost jumping in front of you, and you give him a small smile.Â
âYou drink smoothies.â
âTheyâre healthy.â Sam shrugs, his voice raising to a shout. âCas! Itâs working!â
Dean shuffles into the kitchen, barely glancing at you. âCas left. Said heâs going to look for a better fix.â
Sam frowns. âWhy didnât he tell me?â
âHe told me. And you should bring her to her room.â
Your eyes widen as Sam nods, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
âShit, yeah, good idea. Câmon,â Sam says your name, walking to the hallway. âThis should be good for you.â
When you see your room, it does seem like your room. Itâs decorated how youâd decorate it, clothing scattered on the floor that you recognize, the walls painted how youâd paint them, but thereâs also a shotgun on the dresser and a knife on your bedside stand.
âShit, sweetheart, this is an awesome gun, whereâd you find it?â
You look up at Dean from your bed, fidgeting with your blanket between your fingers. âIt was in one of the storage rooms. I can show you later, I think there were a few more.â
âHell yeah,â he aims it at the wall, his smile easy and boyish. Itâs adorable.
You wish heâd stop.
âDean?â
He hums, still turning the gun in his hands, and you take in a long breath.
âAre we going to talk about it?â
Dean freezes, his eyes wide and almost panicked on yours as he sets the gun back down.
âI donât think thereâs anything to talk about. I mean, itâs us. We can be cool.â
âCool.â
âYeah, cool. You have a problem, I take care of it. I have a problem,â he gestures between your bodies with raised brows, and you sigh.
âOkay.â
âAwesome.â
âYeah.â You smile at him, and this might consume and destroy you. But fuck you, youâre going to let it. âAwesome.â
âYou got anything?â Sam asks, and you nod. You might have too much.Â
And none of it is making any make sense at all.
The week passes like this. More small memories come to you in visions, your head pounds and stabs with pain, Sam hangs over your shoulder and shows you countless places you can navigate but donât recognizeâtheir dungeon, their gun range, a place called the Dean Cave, a field, and a corner store down the streetâall as Dean swirls around your head, but remains just out of sight. Barely crossing your path, looking like a deer in headlights when he does.
But you think youâve sat with your legs over his lap in the Dean Cave. Youâve trailed after himâholding onto the sleeve of his jacketâin the corner store. Youâve had his body wrapped around yours in the gun range, his voice low and teasing in your ear as he guides your hands.
And the most memories come in your bedroom. Sitting on the mattress with him towering above you, lying on the floor with him under you, giggling as he pins you against the door.
He still wonât look at you. He doesnât even acknowledge you anymore. Heâs locking himself in his room, only coming out to get food, sort through the library, or take his car and leave for hours on end.
Sam is worried.
âThis⌠isnât like Dean.â He tells you, frowning at the door Dean had just disappeared through. âI donât know whatâs up with him, but you guys were really good friends before. Like, really good.â He gives you an odd look. Youâve been getting a lot of those lately. âThere was a while where I was pretty sure that he was finally-â He shakes his head, cutting himself off. âNever mind. Iâll talk to him later.â
You sleep in your room again. Itâs felt strange, because your body doesnât seem to like your mattress. It doesnât relax into it like it should, if youâve really been sleeping here for years. You keep waking up reaching for the other side of the bed. You keep being unable to fall asleep at all because something feels off.Â
Heâs still here when you wake up. His arm heavy over your stomach as he presses your back against his chest, his breath hot on your neck.Â
You shouldâve kicked him out last night. You try to never let him fall asleep next to you, let alone wake up in your bed. Itâs cruel to you.
Because now you have to have this, and then let it go. Youâll never be able to wipe the feeling of Dean wrapped around you from your skin, and your muscles will never forget how easy it was to relax when he was holding you.Â
When you roll over your hands will always know how to linger on his bare, warm chest. Your fingers will always know how to map his every freckle, even if you were blindfolded and submerged underwater.Â
Your heart will always know to slow down when you look at him. Especially like this. Heâs peaceful here. His eyelashes fluttering and his lips parted, his brow dropped to yours as he sleeps.Â
As he has no way to know that heâs doing it.
Heâs vulnerable. Deanâs body is letting him rest with you at his side. Itâs letting him fall into a strong sleep with steady breaths and slack muscles, even though thereâs something foreign pressed against him.
And thatâs why this is cruel. It feeds your hope that this could be more. That Dean could ever see you as you see him, that heâd chose to rest with you because deep down, he loves you like you love him.
Deeply and powerfully. Irrevocably and brutally. Made of gnashing teeth and blood caking your nails, but also simple in loud music and wind, soft in golden streetlamps that cast halos around his head. Concrete. Dependable. You will always love Dean, even if you lose everything else youâve ever had.
And he will not love you.
And this is cruel.
But you still let your face bury itself in his neck. You still let your nose memorize the evergreen and amber smell of him. You still let his skin leave burning marks on yours, as he stays asleep.Â
And you just watch him.Â
You have to drag yourself out of bed. You have to give Dean a close-lipped smile when he walks right past you in the kitchen, and not scream when his skin brushes yours.
Itâs not foreign.Â
It feels like you.
And youâre so lost.Â
You donât ask any questions. The few questions you have asked made Sam sad, like you should already know the answer, and he always does this puppy-dog face that breaks your heart. The only questions youâd really want to ask were questions about Dean. About if Sam talked to him, about whyâif youâre as close as Sam claims, if these strange snapshots are trueâhe wonât even look at you. About how heâd looked at you before.
About how youâd looked at him.
But Samâs too busy for you to even really consider it. Heâs calling Cas and someone named Rowena all the time, heâs researching day and night to try and fix you, and heâs coming up with strange new ways to trigger your memory every day.
âSit there.â He points to the driverâs seat of the Impala, moving around the hood of the car. âYouâre driving.â
You shake your head. âI donât know how to drive stick-â
âYeah, you do, Dean- fuck.â Sam groans, rubbing his forehead. âWell, letâs try having you sit in it? Just to see if anything happens?â
You nod, and things do happen. When you put your hand on the gear shift, a phantom of a bigger, calloused one covers it, and suddenly you can drive stick. You donât even have to think about it, you just can.Â
It might be worse when you think about it. Sam makes you driveâtelling you to go somewhere and refusing to specify any possible destinationsâand whenever you try to actually dwell on what youâre doing, you make a mistake.Â
So you let your body take over. You drive the Impala where your hands want you to go, and where they want you to go seems to be a dive bar parking lot.
âHuh.â Sam glances around as you both climb out of the car, a small frown on his face. âIâve never been here before. I know itâs a stupid question, but do you know where you are?â
âNo,â you sigh, letting your feet carry you to the edge of the pavement, letting your knees bend down as you sit on the curb. âNot at all.â
âShit.â He mutters. âWell, you want a drink while weâre here?â
You nod, Sam goes into the bar, returns with two beers, and drops at your side.
âThis isâŚâ Sam glances at you, his voice soft. Apologetic. âIâm really sorry this is happening. I mean, Dean went through something similar a while ago, but at least we had an idea of how to handle that, you know? Iâm- I donât even know where to start here.â He says your name, rolling his bottle between his hands. âAll weâve got is Dean saying you touched a cursed object, but heâs being really weird and when Cas and I went back to the building there was nothing. Weâre going to fix this, I promise, but...â
He sighs, trailing off, and you clear your throat. You havenât just sat with Sam since thisâwhatever this isâstarted. This might be your only chance to try to get answers in a way that doesnât make your skull cave in and your heart burn.
âCan I ask you some stuff?â
Sam nods, and you take a long, slow breath.
âHow did I end up here? Doing,â you gesture vaguely to the air. âThis.â
A small smile ghosts over Samâs lips. âDean and I were hunting a vamp nest, and you were one of the witnesses. You helped us out a little, we told you some stuff about how you deal with vamps, and then you got kidnapped. We- Well, we tried to save you, but by the time we got there youâd kind of saved yourself. Youâd covered yourself in dead manâs blood from one of their discarded vics, and none of them would go near you. After it was done, you asked to come with us, and you havenât left since.â
âAnd weâre⌠friends?â
âWe are.â Sam says, rubbing his forehead with a sigh. âI mean, I know you and I are. You helped me organize the library when you moved to the bunker. I taught you most of the stuff about the lore, and we made up a game about it. Dean calls it dumb, but he just hates that heâs bad at it. Sometimes you go on runs with me, and then you say youâre never running again. Youâre the one who convinced me to ask out my girlfriend-â
You blink at him. âYou have a girlfriend?â
âYeah, Eileen. Youâre friends with her too. Youâre friends with everybody.â Sam offers you another smile, and this one seems less painful. âEven Rowena likes you. We didnât have to threaten her to help us out here.â
Even as you return Samâs smile, a last question eats at your tongue, and youâre too tired, too confused to think better of asking it.
âWhat about Dean?â You whisper. âAm I friends with him?â
Sam sighs. He seems to do that a lot.Â
âYes. Kind of. I⌠I donât know.â He mutters, frowning at the pavement. âItâs complicated. Iâm not- This isnât really my place, you know?â
You swallow. âDoes he hate me?â
Sam laughs at that. A loud, full laugh that echoes around the parking lot.Â
âNo.â He shakes his head, clearly amused by something you donât understand. âI donât think either of you could hate each other if you-â
âI fucking hate you!â You scream, shoving his chest. He doesnât flinch. He never flinches.Â
Asshole.
âYouâre drunk.â Dean grunts your name, catching your hand against his chest. âWe need to go home.â
âIâm not going anywhere with you, Winchester-â
âYeah, you are.â
Dean starts to tug you across the parking lot, back to the car, and you hate that you just let him. You always let him. He takes you somewhere and you just follow him like a fucking lapdog. Waiting for him whenever he leaves. Whining and whimpering at the door when heâs gone and lighting up from the inside when he returns.Â
Barely getting a treat or a smile when he pays attention to you. Only really getting his attention in brief flashes that build your body to an explosion before leaving you to pick up the pieces yourself. Leaving you alone, wracked with a love he canât return, mending your own heart until he asks to break it again, and you let him.
âYouâre going to sleep it off.â Dean mutters from ahead of you, and there are little blond hairs at the nape of his neck that seem silver and gold in the low light. Just another piece of him thatâs impossibly beautiful. Another piece you get to touch but never keep.Â
âI donât need to sleep it off!â You yank your hand from his grip as he tries to guide you into Baby, and drop on the curb with a dramatic sigh. âJust leave me alone, Dean.â
âI am not fucking abandoning you at some sketchy bar-â
âWhy not?â You raise your chin at him, narrowing your eyes. âAfraid Iâll find someone else? That Iâll crawl into another bed, and theyâll actually like me, and youâll lose your favorite pet?â
He scowls. âWeâre not having this conversation right now-â
âWhy not?! You know itâs the truth, Dean! Iâm just, Iâm your fucking toy and you hate sharing-â
He says your name in a low warning, but you canât stop now. This pain has been building up and up in your chest and lungs for years, and now that itâs out itâs volcanic. You couldnât keep it in if you tried.
âBut youâll never actually care about me! Iâm easy for you! That was the fucking deal, right! Weâre easy for each other and thatâs it, just using each other until one of us fucking dies! You keep acting like I mean nothing and then you get all fucking possessive when I try to get over you-â
âYouâre not trying to get over me.â He mutters, not fully meeting your eyes. âYou donât have anything to get over. Youâre just fucking wasted-â
âYeah, I am, because you wonât just say that I matter to you-â
âOf course you matter to me, youâre my friend-â
âYouâre not my friend!â You scream, your voice echoing through the parking lot. Your head is starting to spin. âFriends donât do this to each other!â
Youâre dizzy. You feel a little faint.Â
And youâd just spend an hour telling Dean you hate him. But heâs still grabbing you and keeping you steady.
You really wish he wouldnât. It would make it easier to pretend you really did hate him. That just his touch didnât make you feel safe and cared for, even when the dickhead didnât really care.Â
âYou done?â He asks, and you hum, something hot and wet stinging at your eyes.
âI hate you, Dean.â You mumble, even as you slump into him. âI fucking hate you.â
He brushes some hair from your face, and your eyes flutter. âI know you do, babygirl.â He mutters, and you donât think he knows youâre still awake. âLetâs go home.â
Samâs frowning at you when the real world comes back into view. And when you whisper that youâd really like to leave, he doesnât ask questions. He doesnât even make you drive, or try to talk to you as you stare out the window.Â
He doesnât push for the rest of the day. He shows you a few more things that trigger smaller memories, and you donât see Dean at all.Â
But heâs everywhere. In every memory. You walk through the library as Sam explains a system you allegedly designed, and a memory of you explaining this exact system to Dean flashes through your brain. Heâd made jokes, and youâd giggled, and his smile had numbed your brain. You try to make yourself dinner, and suddenly youâre laughing and throwing food at Dean, right before he presses you against the counter with a searing kiss. You wander through the halls and you can hear heavy, controlled steps behind you. You return to your room, and heâs at your side in bed, wearing the same flannel from the memory in the parking lot. Making you drink water and helping you change, muttering low apologies you canât actually really hear. Tucking you in bed and tracing his hand over your face, grabbing you a trash can to vomit in when you shoot back up, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.Â
His whole face is set in that memory, but itâs all hazy. You donât know if you trust it, because all the other memories have been sharp and clear, but this one is dreamlike. Like even before you lost your memory, you werenât sure if it was real. The you who all this happened to might have just made this up for herself. Made up Dean holding her hair back and pressing a soft kiss to her brow as she lay back down, even though you can still feel the warmth of his chapped lips in that exact spot. She might have made up Dean smiling at her when she mumbled that she didnât actually hate him. She might have made up him staying when she begged him to in a soft voice.Â
You donât know. You donât know anything. Youâve never felt more lost, never been in more pain. Your body is where itâs supposed to be, but your brain isnât. Itâs restless and worried and tearing itself apart, and when you fail to sleep your body knows how to walk through the halls, even as your whole mind spins and shreds itself to pieces.
Sam was sorry this was happening to you, but you donât know why. You donât know him. Every time youâve seen Cas since youâve returned, heâs asked you questions you donât know the answers to. Every day your body remembers things, but you donât. You want to, you want to so bad, but youâre adrift and drowning in a vast, cold ocean and you canât even remember how you got there. You keep feeling like thereâs a lifeline, just out of reach, but you canât grab it. Itâs not in your room, or the kitchen, or the library. Itâs nowhere Sam takes you, nowhere you remember how to go.
You feel like something had been guiding you, anchoring you in the waves, and now itâs missing. Vanished from your hands.Â
And now youâre lost, and in pain, and alone. Wandering aimlessly through the depths of the bunker in the dead of night, searching for a lighthouse youâre not sure exists.
You walk into the War Room, and Deanâs already there. Glass of whiskey in hand, head tipped back and eyes closed, the fancy headphones youâd gotten him for his birthday blasting music so loud you can hear it from across the room. You walk up behind him and run a gentle hand over his cheeks, and he doesnât flinch. His eyes just open slowly and find yours in a second, his attention soft as he tugs his headphones down, grabs your hand, and kisses your knuckles.Â
âHi.â You whisper, and he grins.
âHey.â
âItâs late.â You run a hand through his hair, and he lets you. Heâs amazing and horrible, so he lets you have this. âItâs bad for your back to sleep in a chair.â
âBad for my back?â He chuckles. âIâm not that old, sweetheart-â
âItâs bad for everyoneâs back-â
âSam sleeps in his chair all the time.â Dean raises his brows at you, and you swallow. âYouâre not on his ass about it.â
You sigh. You donât want to entertain this. Youâre too tired for the fight that it will lead to. âPlease just go sleep in your bed, Dean.â
He hums, and you let him guide you around the chair, until youâre standing between his legs.
âMaybe I will, if youâre there with me.â
âDonât say that.â You whisper, unable to move away. Heâs going to break your heart again. Youâre going to let him, because your heart is traitorous and loves being broken by Dean. It just likes that Dean has to touch it to break it. âPlease.â
He shakes his head with a long, deep exhale, and doesnât say another word.Â
But he doesnât go to bed either. He stands up until youâre trapped between his body and the table, and places his whiskey down, his eyes never leaving yours. Heâs scanning over your face with an expression like heâs lost, like heâs looking for something heâs desperate to find but terrified to see.
You donât know if he finds it.Â
All you know is that heâs touching you, and youâre molding into him, and whatever he does to you, youâll allow.Â
As long as itâs Dean doing it.
He unplugs his headphone until the music is filling the War Room, picks up his iPod, and changes the song. This one is soft, a gentle melody drowning you in honey and a daze of Dean. You didnât think heâd own a song like this. Itâs slow and romantic, and it flows so easily as he takes one hand in yours, places the other on your hip, and moves you away from the table.
He starts to sway, holding you steady in his arms, and soon youâre dancing. Really dancing, in measured, easy steps that Dean guides you through. You didnât think heâd know how to do this. You didnât think heâd ever do it with you.
But youâre lost in him, and youâve never felt like youâve belonged anywhere else. Youâre drowning in the song, but Deanâs drowning with you, so you know exactly where you are. Trapped in this infinite and fleeting moment, trapped in Deanâs eyes, trapped in the warmth of his light, casting over your body and guiding you wherever youâll need to be.
When he leans in to kiss you, you donât push him away. You could never push him away. Your hands only know how to curl in his shirt and your lips only know how to crash into his. Your tongue always craves Deanâs taste of whiskey and pecan, and your body always knows how to catch the small sparks of lighting his touch creates, then throw them through your whole body.
And Dean always kisses you with everything he has, but this is different. Itâs not desperate and needy, itâs long and deep and feels like home. When he sucks on your lower lip, itâs like heâs trying to leave a mark. When his steps still and he dips you down, you gasp, and he breathes it in like itâs more than oxygen. When your arms wrap around his neck, he pulls you closer, like you could be absorbed into his body forever.Â
When he pulls awayâthe song long over, the only sounds in the world his ragged breath and your heartbeat in your earsâhe still doesnât speak. And you donât move. Youâll be a statue until Deanâs command brings your back to life. Youâll be cold marble, sinking down, down, down until he takes your hand and reminds your body how to be.
And thatâs pathetic.
But when he squeezes your hand in his, presses a soft kiss on the space between your eyes, and starts to guide you out of the War Room, you donât even try not to follow him.
Because Dean would never let you stray from where youâre safe. Next to him.
Your legs are carrying you out of the war room, down a path that they remember but you donât. To a door that your hand aches to push open, into a room where the air is warm but fresh, and an overwhelming smell of amber and evergreen tints against your nostrils. They donât seem bothered by it. They seem to relax into it, like itâs an anesthetic.Â
This must be Deanâs room. If your body couldnât tell you that, your increasingly fragile brain would still piece it together. Itâs obviously lived in���clothing on the floor, sheets messy on the bed, small bits of evidence scattered on the shelves and dresserâand thereâs only one lived in room you havenât entered before. Deanâs.
Sam hadnât even shown you where it was.
Apparently he hadnât needed to. Your whole body had pulled you here.
And thatâs your shirt, on the bedside table-
Dean peels off your shirt without a word, discarding it to an unseen corner of the room. You fumble with his belt, your need growing and growing with every second his hands map over your bodyâheâs already explored it, found places you didnât even know existed yourself, but he never seems to get sick of youâand Dean just chuckles, keeping his brow pressed to yours as he takes care of it himself. His jeans have barely fallen around his ankles when he grabs your face between his hands and kisses you until your knees are weak.
Neither of you are speaking. Thereâs nothing to say that hasnât already been screamed or sobbed or snapped, hasnât been moaned or mumbled or whispered.Â
All that left to do is touch each other, like you have a million times before. Like you will a million times again, because you can lie to yourself that one day your patience will run out and youâll leave, but you know you wonât. Deanâs changed your body on a level that feels deeper than skin. Your heart only knows how to beat for him. Your brain only knows how to think of him. Your hands only know how to palm at his dick, tenting through his boxers, and your lips only know how to part as he groans down your throats.
You fall to your knees, free him from his underwear, wrap your hand around his proud cock, and look up at him with a soft smile. His massive, rough hand has tangled in your hair, his eyes hooded and throat bobbing, and when you take him in your mouth you know exactly how to play him like an instrument. How to suck when he bumps the back of your throat, how to flick your tongue over the head of him, how to squeeze and jerk off the base of his cock where you canât get him between your lips. You know to keep going as he starts to groan your name in a low warning, because if he wants to cum in your mouth, youâd never stop him.
Thatâs another taste youâll always crave. Salty and bitter and so purely Dean, marking you in a way he canât take back.
But he pulls you off with a firm tug of your hair, wiping a little drool from your lips with his thumb before tilting your head up and crashing his lips into yours. When Dean hauls you to your feet you crumple into him, and when he tosses you onto his bed you giggle, crawling backwards and spreading your legs in a silent offering youâve given him a million times before, and will never stop giving him as long as he takes it.
And he always takes it. Deanâs eyes always darken, and he always prowls over you. But itâs never like youâre prey. Never like youâre just a body to be taken and notched on a bedpost.Â
Itâs like youâre something heâs trying to bathe himself in. Like an external piece of him heâs trying to protect and tend to by covering himself in it. Itâs why he always dives down between your legs first, keeping you pinned to the bed with a hand on your stomach, shoving his tongue deep into your cunt and pressing his nose on your clit until youâre writhing and suffocating him between your thighs. When he moves to pull that bundle of nerves between his lipsâpressing his tongue flat against you and suckingâa coil in your gut snaps, and you drown his face in your release.
Your body only ever does that for Dean.
You donât think he knows that. And every time you think to tell him, heâs always already moved on. Risen above you and shoving two fingers into your still raw and sensitive pussy, finding the deepest part of you like itâs a magnet, and rubbing on it as he watches you come undone once more.Â
He cleans his hands with his mouth, licking them and smirking at you as you reach for him, trying to grip his body and pull it down over yours. He usually takes his timeâteasing and edging you until youâre a whining messâbut tonight really is different. His smile on your flushed, already wrecked face isnât taunting or lustful, itâs relaxed. And he still doesnât speak, but when he kisses his way over your navel, up your chestâstopping to suck on one nipple as his hand plays with your other breast, because heâs Dean and he canât help himselfâitâs louder than anything else in the world. Heâs taking him time because heâs trying to keep you in his bed. He knows that once this is over, youâll gather your things and leave, like you always do to protect yourself.
So heâs giving you a reason to stay.
He nips and sucks up your throat and over your jaw, plants kisses everywhere on your face but where youâre begging for him, and pins your squirming body to the bed with his full weight before his mouth finally makes its way to yours.Â
Heâs kissing you into the mattress, kissing you until your lips are swollen and your head is spinning from oxygen deprivation. He only pulls back to watch his hand stroke his cock, right before he guides himself into your dripping, fluttering pussy and bottoms out in one thrust. He lets out a low grunt as you adjust, and when he rolls his hips, you moan.
And he falls right back into you.
From there itâs only Dean. Fucking you until youâre scratching at his chest and putty in his arms, your mouth is slack as he groans and grunts above you. He hikes your thigh up to push his cock in at a deeper angle and marks your neck and shoulders with bites and hickeys that you hope never fade, building his speed until youâre just a squirming, whining mess and heâs slamming into you at a brutal pace.Â
He doesnât slow down when you cum, clenching around his cock and screaming a high whine of his name. He only swallows the sound with a bruising kiss, plunging his tongue down your throat and rutting harder and harder into your cunt. All you can do is take it. Youâll always take it. If this is how to you get to have Dean, youâll never push him away.
He cums with a roar against your lips, trigging one last, small, shuddering orgasm through your body, and collapses on top of you.
Dean rolls you over until heâs beneath you, caging you against his chest with big, strong arms. He doesnât pull outâletting his cum drip down and dry on your thighsâand when your look up at him heâs staring at you with a drunken, awestruck expression.Â
His eyes are already drooping, his breathing slowing to an even, steady pace as he keeps you trapped against his body. You wish your hands could remember how to pry him away before he falls asleep, because now youâre going to be trapped here for a long, painful night where Deanâs sheathed inside you and you can smell and taste him everywhere, but heâs still not yours to have.
Yet, you canât move.
And right as his eyes close, he mutters your name. You almost donât hear it. Youâre not sure you did hear it.
âDean?â
He repeats your name, and itâs barely a breath.Â
âWha-â
âI love you.â He mumbles your name one last time, and you gape at him. He doesnât even know heâs speaking. ââm sorry. Love you. Donât leave.â He buries his face in your hair, and he wonât remember this in the morning. âPlease donât leave me.â
âWhat are you doing in here.âÂ
You drag your gaze away from the bed and turn to see Dean, wearing flannel pants and a white sleep shirt. Heâs not glaring at you, even though youâve invaded his room without permission. He just looks weary. Tired.
âIâm sorry.â You whisper, rooted to the spot. âI donât⌠I donât know.â
Something pained flashes over his face, and you feel small cracks form across your heart.
âWhatever.â He mutters, walking right past you without another glance. âGet out.â
âNo.â
You donât know why you said that. This isnât your place to be, especially when Dean doesnât want anything to do with you. When he doesnât want you here. But you donât feel adrift here. And you donât want to go.
Dean stares at you. âWhat.â
âIâm not going.â You hug yourself, your eyes moving back to the shirt on the dresser. âThatâs my shirt.â
He huffs, rolling his eyes as he mutters to himself. âSo a fucking shirt you remember. Awesome.â
You swallow. âWhy do you have my shirt, Dean.â
He goes rigid, but doesnât speak, so you keep going.
âWhy wonât you talk to me?â You donât realize youâre walking forward heâs closer. It feels right. âSam said-â
âSam doesnât know what the hell heâs talking about.â Dean grunts, but he doesnât move away. Even when you move closer. Even as you push on.
âThen you tell me.â You sound like youâre pleading. You kind of are. âEvery time I remember something youâre there, but you wonât even look at me! I donât know who I am, I donât know whatâs going on, and I keep thinking about you but youâre acting like you want nothing to do with me-â
Deanâs jaw clenches, his words pushed through his teeth. âThatâs not true.â
âIt is! You canât even stand to be in the same room as me!â You feel like youâre going to cry. You havenât even wanted to cry, not since this began, but something has crashed down inside of you, and this room feels like a safe place to fall apart.
Dean feels like a safe place to fall apart.
âIâm, Iâm so lost, and I donât know whatâs going on, and everything keeps coming back to you but I donât know who you are! You wonât tell me who you are, Sam wonât tell me who you are, and I feel like Iâm supposed to know but I donât! I know who I am but I feel like Iâm missing something, and everything hurts, and I just- I need to know-â
Dean grunts your name, and you let out a choked sob.
Youâre sick of being lost. Youâre sick of not knowing. And when you meet Deanâs eyes theyâre like a beacon, and you canât help but float into them.Â
âWho am I to you, Dean?â
âYouâre the love of my life.â His voice is hoarse, and his eyes widen slightly at his own answer. You donât think he expected it.Â
âIâm-â
His hands grab your faceâholding you so carefully, like heâs practiced this a million timeâand you melt into his touch.Â
âYouâre everything to me, and I- I fucking failed you.â Deanâs thumb traces over your cheekbone, wiping away a tear. âI canât fix it. Iâve been fucking trying, baby. I promised you Iâd try, but I canât. I- I canât. I need your help but youâre-â He makes a low, strangled sound, dropping his brow to yours. It fits perfectly there. âI canât do this without you. I never tell you that, I never say that I need you, but I do, and I failed you, and now youâre-â
Deanâs whole body shudders, and your arms wrap around him on instinct alone. He falls over you, clinging to you like youâre going to vanish, and-
âYou donât have to do this.â Dean mutters in your ear, and his hug is going to suffocate you, but you donât care. Maybe heâll leave an indent on your body. âWe can just fucking destroy it-â
âBecause trying to destroy cursed objects has worked out so well for us, historically.â You give him a sad, dry smile, and he shakes his head.Â
âThereâs another way. Thereâs always another way-â
âWe donât have time for another way. And it wonât be permanent. All curses can be cured.â
âBut we donât even know what the hell this one does!â He shouts, and you donât wince. Heâs not mad at you. ââTaking what you value mostâ could mean anything, could fucking do anything-â
âI know. But it will kill you if I donât-â
âWe donât know that-â
You do know that. So does Dean. This object latched onto Dean, and it will either leech his life slowly, involuntarily, or take something from you, along with a piece of your memory. And youâll lose whatever you need to if it keeps Dean safe.
âListen.â You hold Deanâs gaze, making your voice firm. âDonât tell Sam and Cas. Theyâll get caught on what happened, and youâll all start fighting, and we canât afford that. You just need to find what I value, bring it back to me, and Iâll be okay. Got it?â
Dean shakes his head. âHow am I supposed to know what you value if you wonât tell me-â
âI donât know.â You sigh. âI- I honestly canât think of what I value most, but hopefully youâll notice something is missing, and you can track it down.â You give him a soft smile. âI believe in you, Dean. And if Iâm awake, Iâll try to help you.â
âYou wonât remember-â
âIt should only take my memories relating the thing. I probably wonât even know anything is wrong.â
âBut Iâll know.â He mutters. âAnd what if I donât get the thing back to you-â
âYou will get it back to me.â You say simply. Heâs Dean. You trust him with more than your life. âAnd Iâll be okay.â
You start to move away, but he doesnât let you go. Heâs pallid and bloodless from the object draining him, but heâs still strong. And you donât really want to leave him at all.Â
âDonât. Please.â He mutters your name, and it sounds like a prayer. âIâm not worth this, baby.â
âOf course you are.â You smile at him, tears stinging your eyes as you manage to force yourself away. âI love you.â
His eyes widen, and he looks like he wants to say something, but anything he can say will only make you hesitate.
So you turn away.
Right before you touch the object you have a thought. An epiphany thatâif your hand wasnât already pressed on the objectâs cool surfaceâwould have made you break down and scream for Dean to make you stop, to drag you away.
But itâs too late. And everything goes dark.
âDean.â
He leans back to look at you, and you know him. You know everything about him, and itâs destroying your brain and body, trying to break out but trapped down. This pain is horrible.
But Dean is good.
âYou love me?â
He swallows, but nods. He seems afraid. Tense under your hands, like youâre going to push him away and heâll have to just take it.
He wonât. Because you do the only thing youâre certain you know how to do.
You kiss him.
Itâs like fireworks, but thereâs no electrically you havenât felt before, no colors youâve never seen. Youâre swept up in his waves and wide fire, but it could never drown or burn you. Youâve adapted to move with it, to breathe in his water and smoke and trust him to bring you exactly where you need to be.
Against his chest, dipping and holding you steady, pouring his all and then some into your body. And your memory doesnât crash back into you, it just washes over you like rain.Â
Dean pulls back, and you smile at him like you always have. Like you always will.
âHi,â you whisper, and he grins.Â
âHey,â Dean says your name, and youâve done this dance before. Â âAre you-â
You kiss him again, and you know exactly who Dean is. What he is to you, how he loves you in strong, unspoken silence that kills you and cures you all at one, and how you might be built to love him.Â
You are.
And heâs built the same way for you.
End Note: Obsessed with love as a thing that happens to you physically, if you can't tell. Thank you for reading!
If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3
Taglist
@artemys-ackles @ambiguous-avery @nightxcreature @sthefferrete @lyarr24
@deansbbyx @bakugotypecrashout @foolinthera1n @globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr
@youdontknowe @nyrtopia @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @panicking-outside-the-disco @elle14-blog1
@impala67rollingthroughtown @dumb--blonde @itsdearapril @apobangpo-0613 @alwaystiredandconfused
@arcticwisteria @generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007 @jackles010378 @godhelpthisbtch
@ilovedeanwinchester4 @sleepykittycx @immastealurkneecaps @star-yawnznn
#x reader#reader insert#romance#canon typical violence#jensen ackles#jensen ackles characters#godmadeaterribleerror#dean winchester x you#dean winchester fanfiction#dean winchester#dean winchester x reader#supernatural#supernatural fanfiction#sam winchester#dean x reader#dean x you#dean fanfiction#love confessions#smut#p in v sex#angst#memory loss#happy ending#pining#angst with a happy ending#hurt/comfort
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Some time anomalies happen and a bat member is completely erased from existence. That bag only realizes this when none of their family know who they are. Iâm talking completely erased like they were never born. No media coverage, no pictures (exiting pictures altered), no birth records or anything. Not their family, not their friends, not fellow heroes, not even their parents (depending on who it was, default is Bruce and Alfred though) remember them. All except one. Phantom, who confusedly asks said bat why they are upset. Addressing them by name. (because he has a time medallion stuck in his chest that makes him immune to time anomalies.)
Danny is just passing by and sees the upset bat and goes âHey! (Insert bat), whatâs going on?â The bat freezes and then practically tackles Phantom like heâs their only lifeline.
#Kizzer55555 ideas#Dpxdc#dcxdp#memory loss#technically?#Time travel shenanigans. Again technically?#You can bet this bat will be clinging to Phantom.#Theyâve had a rough couple of days. (Or weeks depending on how long before Phantom finds them.)#Phantom didnât even register the time anomaly. Heâs just not affected by it. Doesnât mean he can tell when it happens.#(Do you have any idea how many people time travel and how many tiny changes they cause?)#So Phantom is very confused.#He is patting this sobbing hero who is from the most stoick family he knows. *there there*
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Chaper 1: Lost N Found part 1,2
#sonic the hedgehog#sonicmemorylossau#sonic memory loss au#shadow the hedgehog#sonic art#sonic fanart#sonic au#SONIC#SONICAU#sonicAU#sonic comics#sonic fan comic#sonic amnesia#jet the hawk#silver the hedgehog#miles tails prower#espio the chameleon#Nick the hedgehog#amy rose#Nickamy
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au where james and regulus have been dating since high school. their relationship started to get rocky during their law (james) and med (reg) school years. one night, during one of their most heated arguments, james decided to take a break and leave for a while, where he ended up in a car accident that left him unconscious for three days. when he finally woke up, he had no recollection of anything. overwhelmed by guilt, regulus asked their friends and family to refrain from reminding james of their relationship.
regulus packed everything that could remind james of their relationship and moved out of their home. he focused on graduating from med school and kept a distance from james. then during his first year of residency, james was rushed to the emergency room by his boyfriend to the hospital where regulus was working.
regulus was attending to another patient when he heard jamesâ boyfriend screaming for help. as he tended to james, who suddenly felt a sense of familiarity and asked regulus if they had met before. regulus quickly denied it and handed him over to an intern.
ever since that encounter, james has been unable to get a certain doctor out of his mind. he has made it his mission to learn more about him and uncover if regulus is one of the things he had forgotten in the pastâŚ. thatâs when he stumbled upon an old polaroid photo of them beaming at each other, with regulus showing off his engagement ring.
#jegulus#starchaser#memory loss#sunseeker#regulus black#james potter#wolfstar#sirius black#remus lupin#james x regulus#amnesia#ao3#jegulus fanfic rec#jegulus angst#black brothers
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so many people have lost the plot with chat blanc like we both like chat blanc for VERY different reasons
YOU like chat blanc because he destroyed the world 'for' marinette (LOUD INCORRECT BUZZER) and its all about marinette ladybug
(if you're centering around HER experience this doesnt count im talking about like CHAT BLANC)
I like chat blanc because oh ny god the HORROR of seeing his MOMS CORPSE in HIS basement then finding out HIS DAD is HAWKMOTH and he just like beat the shit out of him??? and then got akumatized and didnt want to hurt ladybug and his father told him not to point it at him so chat blanc panicked and tried to aim it at himself and it went HORRIBLY wrong and he just had to deal with learning the entire population, his friends, family, everyone was dead and it was his fault and he was just alone for such a long time (and he's ALREADY lonely like WHYYYY PUT IT ON MAX WAAAAA đ)
#wowie! chat blanc sure loves ladybug#i mean yes you're right but we have other things to focus on LOOK AT THE MOON#you think he misses his friends???#he had to greive his mother all over again???#literally had to mourn the loss of EVERYONE#bro#im#i KNOW what chat blanc was saying to ladybug#âour love did this to the worldâ#i think#he erased his memories and has to jut assume what happened#EITHR WAY#YALL FORGET WHY HE GOT AKUMATIZED IN THE FIRST PLACE#chat blanc#miraculous ladybug#miraculous#mlb#ml#adrien agreste#miraculous lb#chat noir#ladybug and chat noir#marinette dupain cheng
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I couldnât hold the urge back any longerâ
I Donât Want To Be A Magical Girl (by @ kianamaiart)!! It looks very fun and i am ever so intrigued
#I imagine hoshi makes a squeaky toy sound when attacked for some reason#also I am very interested in Devoid in case you couldnât tell#ITS ALWAYS THE MEMORY LOSS PEOPLE COME ON YOU GOTTA LOVE IT#and she looks cool so ADDED BONUS!!!#have a good day#my drawings#idwtbamg#i donât want to be a magical girl#teehee buh bye!!
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[Abandoned by the Lightners, his heart became cracked with hatred.]
Hitting a lil' too close to home?
#junie art post#ink sans#error sans#utmv#errorink#implied. but yea not the focus#this has been turning around in my mind for quite some time. im glad to finish it lmao idk if my ramblings make sense even.#so like listen. do you ever think about how similar the function of the utmv is to the dark worlds in deltarune.#in a meta narrative to fandom sense? idk the word#we are making exaggerated expanded worlds of the ordinary tools and entertainment of the real world and make it into something more#isnt that very very interesting?#and we explore every sort of possibility in that creation. both good and bad#and when all is said and done. every possibility found and the entertainment and secrets has all run out#we put it away. abandon and leave it behind#what is left? what happens to the world and characters we have created? can it sustain without us?#what of the ones left in the dark?#idk if yall saw me a few months ago but i reblogged comyet's old post of ink begging us not to leave him alone and to keep creating#yea that never left me#and seeing exactly THAT SCENARIO in deltarune made my brain iTCH#imagine an ink in King's position.... wait isnt that just underverse#mmmmmmm. darkner ink.....#also error is here too. not just for errorink or that i can't separate these two to save my life#but error is also one of the few people to be able to GET IT?? he can hear the creators too. ink cant#but hes pretty much programmed himself to avoid having a mental break down to this via reboot memory loss.#and ink has his own internal coping mechanism (hooray for short term memory loss)#these two idiots will do anything but confront truths lmfao#ahhh my favorite idiots. never change#mmmmm#deltarune
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Mohammed El-Kurd, from Rifqa; âRifqaâ
[Text ID: âI criedânot for the house / but for the memories I could have had inside it.â]
#mohammed el kurd#palestine#free palestine#trauma#home#homeland#loss#memories#excerpts#writings#literature#poetry#fragments#selections#words#quotes#poetry collection#typography
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AU idea: Tarn got injured during a mission and lost his memories, returning him to pre-empurata Damus... (I just want to draw him with a big smile đ)
Bonus DJD reaction:
#transformers#mtmte#decepticon justice division#djd#tarn#kaon#helex#vos#tesarus#Tarn memory loss AU#pericardium n glass draws
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On Grief
or, On the Best Friend You Met in Middle School who will Never Graduate College
giuliano macca / wendell berry / janice / kate elizabeth russell / langston hughes / benjamin alrie saenz / gustav klimt / @ whitealbum / @ robertszombie / beau taplin / stephen king / theodor kittelsen / @ nebulaahh / arch budzar (taylor swift) / @ inanotherunivrse / unknown / @ nebulaahh
#i compiled this while sobbing on the floor of a hotel bathroom#i made my original post and broke down#then realized other people have probably said these things too#and when we have pain we can share it so maybe that sharing can hold someone else who is sobbing on a bathroom floor too#on grief#on death#on loss#on friendship#on memory#on forgetting#web weaving#web weave#poetry#g <3
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this post is for the people with memory issues
people who's memories are getting worse every day, who's memories are stable but poor, people who can't remember what they did today or yesterday or this week, people who's childhoods are a faded blur. people who have slow greying-out amnesia that seems to just fade in and out of existence, and people who have complete blackouts, and people who have both. people who mourn the happy memories they know they've lost, who fear the bad memories they've lost that still affect them.
people who have "emotional amnesia" that makes it feel like none of their memories are their own, because there's few or no feelings attached. people who can ONLY remember the feelings from certain or even most memories, not actual events. people who's memory issues scare them or make them angry or make them miserable. people who's memory issues get them called childish or difficult or rude. who can't remember the names or faces of those they love. who are constantly forgetting the things that "you'd remember if you really cared". who misplace everything. who remember so little of their lives that they barely know who they are. people who's memory issues come from trauma/dissociation, ADHD, traumatic brain injury, brain fog/chronic fatigue, drug use, alcoholism. people who have no idea what causes their memory issues. people who's memory issues come from something else entirely.
i love you, you're strong, and you deserve support and care for what you're going through. memory issues can be frustrating and upsetting and disabling, and your suffering deserves to be recognized. whether you're soaring through recovery or are only ever going to get worse, you deserve good things in life and to live the fullest you can, regardless of how much you remember.
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