#recently replayed/finally finished endless summer

[hsslilly-blog]

michelle ma belle

[offdensen]

so, if you’re someone who started reading confectionery (that one ice cream!au subscorp fic) nearly four years ago and have been wondering what the hell is going on with it since, this post is for you.

(also, if you haven’t heard, there’s a new chapter! read it here ♡)

i should begin by apologizing. i wish i was more forward about my feelings on the work and why i stopped working on it, and i regret not doing so. i also feel like i should explain myself a bit.

i began writing confectionery after being inspired by a parody video (I WANTED ICE CREAM) and trading ideas with my best friend during the summer of 2015.

that summer, i was in a weird spot mentally; i had just finished my first year at a university i hated, where i spent most of my time between classes crying my eyes out due to the stress of being unable to afford the tuition, as well as just not being ready for that transition in my life yet. i decided to transfer to a school in my hometown that was much cheaper and allowed me to stay home for that following fall.

however, i still struggled to find work, so i had two and a half months of seemingly endless free time, which allowed me to write plenty during that break. i had managed to finish and publish chapter six right before the next semester began, and i knew after my first day of class that i wouldn’t be able to continue writing, but i pretended that i could force myself to. i started chapter seven and then promptly gave up when i couldn’t write more than three sentences before wanting to give up and try again tomorrow.

the thing with fanart and fanfiction is that it’s purely meant for pleasure; fanartists can make a (legal) profit from their work, but fanfic writers cannot, and so the only thing driving me was the creative need to make something. but starting school again and having to figure out what the hell transfer students were supposed to do (my university did little to help me or other transfers with this kind of transition) drained me significantly.

my interest in mk waned around the same time, and i knew that forcing myself to write something i wasn’t feeling passionate about would hurt the quality of the work, which i simply could not allow myself to do; i take way too much pride in my writing ability and skills to post something i’m not satisfied with. i also felt that it would be unfair to the piece itself and to everyone who was actively reading it.

i didn’t want to orphan it, though, and instead put it on hiatus because i knew i definitely wanted to start working on it again at some point, but also realized that i likely wouldn’t want to return to it until the next mk title rolled around (which is exactly what’s happened lmao).

however, i also received some very frustrating and entitled comments in 2016 that lead me to resent confectionery and as such, made me want nothing to do with it; i ended up publishing four unrelated fics during that year (after marathoning simon pegg films and becoming INCREDIBLY hyperfixated on star trek because of it), which is where all my creative energy went.

anyone who’s looked at my work history will find that i haven’t published anything since then, though. my depression is a constant thing i’m dealing with, and it hit me hard at the time. i also found a job (fucking finally) in may 2017, which shortened my free time between work and school. i tried to write, but never finished anything. i think i have three or four projects i’ve started since then, but couldn’t force myself to complete. i poured most of my personal time into playing overwatch instead.

so, writing’s been hard for me lately. i put a lot of creative time into sfm and not much else, but eventually burnt myself out on that, too. i’ve also barely made any gifs or edits in the past few years. capitalism has a way of draining you of any and all creativity lmao.

but, now that i’ve graduated with my bachelor’s and found a new job where i’m actually utilizing my knowledge instead of making pizzas under a manager who couldn’t give less a shit about me or my efforts, i’m feeling much more satisfied with the direction my life is going and also have a lot more time to do things for myself.

i recently replayed the story to mkx to give myself a refresher of the plot so far (i referenced this in a recent comment on confectionery, for you eagle-eyed readers) and also got to do a few towers during the mk11 beta a couple weeks ago. since then, i’ve been fleshing out the plot line to confectionery and finally wrote the next chapter (one that i was super excited to write before my interest wilted and died rip).

so, if you’re reading this, that means i also finally published it!! we did it kids!!! we’re back on the mortal kombat ice cream train!!!!

if you’ve made it down here, thank you so much for reading this whole thing. my intent isn’t to make excuses but to simply explain myself for the very long hiatus. your patience and support means the absolute world to me. i hope you enjoyed the recent update, and that you’ll stick around for the next one! ♡

[i4z-0892-il]

Anniversary

Author: Jena @i4z-0892-il

Summary: The Anniversary of a past trauma is only days away, the Reader finds comfort in someone who’s been there.

Pairing: Sam x Reader

Word count: 2588

Warnings: Angst, PTSD, flashbacks, anxiety, mentions of sexual assault (nothing graphic.) Don’t read if easily triggered.

A/N: This piece is very, very personal to me, and was written for processing and therapeutic catharsis. Therefore I have no expectations for its reception.

It revolves around struggling and dealing with PTSD after an assault. Due to the sensitive nature of the content I have not tagged anyone in my tag list.

Close - is a similar oneshot dealing with the fallout of Sam’s trauma.

Tag List

Masterlist

It wasn’t like you hadn’t had nightmares before. You’d had plenty of them, usually he was coming back to finish what he’d started. Invading your space, and violating you all over again. It wasn’t always exactly the same, but it was the same story just told different ways. The day had been coming, you’d never be able to forget it. The countdown ticking off days of your mental calendar only grew stronger, and louder, reminding you more frequently in the days leading up to it.

Anniversaries were supposed to be reserved for good things. Birthdays, engagements, weddings, and so on. But this one wasn’t. It was a day you’d been dreading for months, wishing you could set the clock back, or skip ahead entirely. It was ever present in your head, that constant alarm blaring at all hours of the day reminding you both waking and asleep of what was coming. There were only a few days left and you were a mess.

Thinking you were doing okay, and then actually being okay are two entirely different matters. You could collect yourself well enough to make it through the day on autopilot. You learned the coping mechanisms. Stop and take a breath to recenter yourself when those horrible memories started bubbling under the surface of your skin. Look at your surroundings and ground yourself when the pain in your chest threatened to drown you.

Think of your safe place, the Peach Orchard you used to go to as a child. Where you would sit in the trees and eat Peaches straight from the branch and read all day until the sun went down, or until your stomach hurt. The place of endless sunset, fresh fruit and unyielding summer twilight. The place before the bad. Before you knew how bad the bad could be. Preparing yourself was the easy part, but really there is no preparation for reality.

It was no real surprise when the nightmares became more intense, more vivid, or when the flashbacks you had all too often began to play on an almost constant loop. You were trapped in that vicious cycle of remembering more than you were present and coherent in the days leading up to the Anniversary.

A year later and you could still feel him there. You could still feel the ghost of him in places so intimate and private that you were afraid you’d never scrub yourself clean enough. Closing your eyes you tried to swallow down the nausea that crept up your throat, suffocating you as blood rushed to your head making you dizzy.

It came in unpredictable waves, half the time you didn’t even know what triggered the flashbacks so vivid you were reliving what happened. All you could do was shut your eyes tight and breathe through it, reminding yourself where you were.

The kitchen. You’re in the kitchen. The coffee pot is right here, it’s black plastic, with a brushed steel faceplate. The fridge is over there, it’s old-school from the 60’s, white with silver-chrome handles, and 5 doors. The table is right behind you, with 4 attached stool seats. If you thought about it hard enough you could visualize the whole kitchen in your head, if you concentrated you could will the wave to subside.

“Y/n?”

His voice startled you, making your whole body flinch with a gasp as your eyes snapped open and you gaped at him wide-eyed like a deer in the headlights. Heart nearly beating out of your chest you set the pot of coffee in your hand back on it’s hot-plate as you tried to catch your breath. Sam’s brow furrowed as he stood at the top of the short set of steps.

“...You okay?” Caution in his voice as he asked. Slowly he stepped down the set of stairs but kept his distance. There was no telling how long he’d been standing there watching you zone out, but it was clearly long enough for him to observe the storm brewing in your head.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. I’m fine.” You said with a half-hearted smile trying to recover, trying to shrug off the cruel full-body vision your brain kept replaying like some sort of cosmic joke.

I’m fine. It was a lie you told so often that you’d hoped eventually you’d convince yourself. Stepping around him with a wide berth and your eyes glued to the floor you mumbled, “it’s a fresh pot.”

“Y/n.” He said holding his hand out to stop you from walking away, but he didn’t touch you, he only gained your attention. Keeping your face in control, keeping stoic in spite of the panic that filled you to the brim was no easy task as you turned your eyes up to meet his soulful hazel ones.“Your mug is empty.”

Dropping your attention to the plain white mug in your hand you gazed at it for a moment your mind blank with the overload. You had no good excuses, no witty remark, you could say nothing. Eyes stayed on the cup as you extended it, offering it to him. Sam watched you carefully and accepted the mug. Every fiber of your being was so fried you had no idea what you were even doing. Your hand stayed frozen in time for a moment too long, fingers wrapped like a vice around the porcelain handle so tight your knuckles flushed white, and when you finally managed to pry them away your hand trembled. Everything snapped back into place as another wave of nausea rolled up from the pit of your stomach into a crushing pressure threatening to cave in your chest.

“I changed my mind.” You whispered, voice threatening to crack if you were only a little louder. Without giving him a chance to speak you vacated the kitchen, and only once you were out of view completely could you breathe again. Sam watched your odd exit, turning his eyes back to the cup in his hand not convinced in the slightest that you were fine.

Legs slung over the arm of the chair in the library you flipped absent minded through the pages of the book in your lap. You were reading the words on the page but if anyone asked you wouldn’t be able tell them what a single one said. Your focus was elsewhere, mind lost somewhere in that numb gray fog that seemed to close in all around you. When you weren’t hyper focused on the event that played out against your will you were drifting listless through the motions of the day and the tasks you were expected to complete. But your heart wasn’t in it, you weren’t even on Earth. You’d left your body. Floating somewhere in endless space simply waiting. Sleep took you at some point, there was no real telling when, time didn’t seem to matter or make sense when you were drifting in the void.

Then the nightmares started again. Seeing his face was all it took for your chest to heave struggling to breathe, paralyzed in fear, sucking in only short unsatisfying shocks of air. Then you could hear his voice, and feel his hands touching you, violating you, burning his fingertips into your skin and making you feel unsafe in your own body. He turned you into a prisoner of your own mind, robbing you of your security and in return leaving you filthy and desecrated. More than that, he left you afraid, paranoid and ever vigilant. And no matter how many times you told yourself that what you were seeing wasn’t really happening, that you were safe, that you were home where he couldn’t find you, where he couldn’t hurt you again it was never enough. He still came back, visiting you no matter the time of day. Reminding you of what he’d done to you, of what he took from you, of what he was still taking from you.

Sitting up with a start your eyes snapped open as you gasped a full lung of air. Your hands finding your face, palms pressing into your eyes as if you could wipe it away, but the echoes of his touch still vibrated on your skin, seeping into your bones. There was no stopping it, all of the coping mechanisms in the world weren’t enough to stifle the ever present reminder of your assault. And it was becoming too much. The strength you had struggled to cultivate over the last year was quickly faltering and you couldn’t seem to snap yourself out of the endless loop.

Sam eyed you from the table keeping to himself, only watching. You had been acting strange for days, less and less your usual self, more and more out of it. The thousand yard stare glossing over your face leaving your eyes increasingly more empty and dead had him worried enough to not want to leave you alone for too long. But simply keeping an eye on you and leaving you to your space was becoming more and more challenging. Something was eating you alive, and he feared what it might be. The far-away look in your eye, and how skittish you were had him terrified that he knew the answer.

Stone like a statue you remained with your hands covering your face until you could steady your breathing enough to stand without falling off the face of the planet. Dropping the book into the chair behind you as you stood you made a line to your bedroom. If you were going to lose it you were going to do it in private, where no one could see or hear you, where you could fight your battle alone. You just had to make it through the next few days. Then the clock would reset and you could begin healing again. Blood rushed to your head and you stumbled, pressing your hand flat against the concrete and brick wall of the hallway. Just a little further.

The moment you reached your room you shut the door behind you and braced your shoulders against it, pressing the back of your skull into the wood as you slid to the floor.

Maybe it was hours, maybe it was minutes, you couldn’t tell how long you sat there focusing on the inhale and exhale of air in your lungs, but a faint knock on your door jerked you unceremoniously back to reality once again.

“Y/n? It’s Sam.” His voice was soft and kind, he was concerned about you. Moving from your spot on the floor took far more effort than it should have, and by the time you were standing you were already exhausted. His eyes searched your face when you opened the door, you were so tired, and worn-out, it broke his heart a little. In one hand he held a little white mug full of creamy coffee, and it seemed so tiny in his large hand, and the other had a plate of toast and eggs, and bacon. “Hey, I didn’t think you had anything to eat this morning. There’s more bacon, Dean kind of went overboard.”

“Thanks.” You answered taking his offerings, not having the heart to tell him that even looking at the food, or thinking about it made your stomach churn.

“Do you, uhm…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Do you want some company?”

“Do I have to talk?”

“Only if you want to.” He answered, soulful eyes on you just wanting to be there for you. Thinking hard about it you finally answered with a short nod, and stepped to the side to let him in. Setting the plate and coffee mug on your dresser as he walked in you slumped to the floor at the foot of the bed with your knees tucked to your chest, and Sam followed suit, sitting beside you. Making good on his promise he didn’t ask you to speak, didn’t ask you to pull yourself together or to do anything other than simply exist with him at your side.

For a while you sat motionless and empty, but the longer he sat beside you the more your resolve had begun to deteriorate. Scooting closer you leaned your head against him and he shifted to make you more comfortable, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and holding you to his side. That suffocating feeling in your chest both seemed to grow overwhelming and subside simultaneously under his touch and the dam finally burst.

Air shuddered in your lungs as you fought to keep yourself composed, but when his grip tightened you fell apart. Wrapping your arms around his torso you hugged him and buried your face in the soft fabric of his plaid shirt as you choked back your sobs. He pulled you tight, arms enveloping your frame, long fingers threading through your hair and his lips pressed against the top of your head. He only held you as your body quaked riding out wave after wave of heart ache.

Not being able to help ease your pain was gut wrenching. He was helpless and it killed him. All they live for is to help people, to save people, but he couldn’t save you. He knew that hopeless, scared, weak feeling all too well. Knew how intense the flashbacks could get, sometimes feeling so real you could swear you’re back in the thick of it, reliving the trauma over, and over, and over again. Knew how deep that wound was, and how it never seemed to really heal. How that hurt only seemed to fester and reopen. And he wished to God that he could take that pain away.

After a while you began to settle, the pattern of breathing eventually slowing to match his, the thrum of his heart beating in his chest soothing your frazzled mind and bringing you some relief. The warmth radiating from his body seeped in through your skin warming your bones that had turned to ice, letting you, for a brief moment, feel more alive than dead.

Sam didn’t move, holding you tight, warm and comforting, and content to do so for as long as you needed, time meant nothing. He never asked you to explain yourself, never pressured you to disclose what had happened, he already knew. He could see it in your eyes, hear the pain in your cry, see the frailty in your jumpiness. He only offered you empathy, support and love, he’d have given you anything, you only had to ask. But you wouldn’t because that was what you needed. A release and his understanding without expectation.

“I’m sorry.” You whimpered, sniffing back the remaining tears, you had been tired before but now you were all but depleted. Every ounce of energy sapped from your body under the crushing weight of it all. Sam shook his head, the stubble on his chin scratchy against your forehead.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” He reassured, pressing a kiss into your hair. Unless you asked him to, or moved yourself, he wouldn’t let you go, willing to keep you wrapped in his arms for the remainder of all time if need be. “We’ll get you through this.”

“Will you stay with me?... Please?” Voice barely above a whisper, as if you were afraid of his answer, afraid of being alone. Afraid of the monster lurking in your own mind, ready to pounce the second you were left to your own devices. He nodded giving you a light squeeze.

“Of course. I’m not going anywhere.”

[huntertales]

Let’s Write a Different Ending.

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Prophet!Reader

Word Count: 4,343. // Episode Setting: The Monster at the End of This Book.

Summary: What if the “Supernatural” book series wasn’t written by Chuck Shurley? Instead, by a young woman named Y/N Y/L/N? She finds herself living out her most recent story—about the end of the world, an archangel whose sworn to protect her is moonlighting as a trickster and two fictional characters by the name of Sam and Dean are about to drag her straight into it. (Semi-rewrite from episode 4.18 The Monster at the End of This Book to—?)

Full Masterlist | My Other SPN Rewrite

Note: Is this a possible semi-rewrite of the show for my Sam girls???? Yes, it is! And no...This is not like my regular rewrite where I do it episode by episode, this is more like I’m taking Chuck’s entire plot line and writing it as the reader up until the season five finale. Along the way I’m gonna try to focus on a Sam/Reader element ‘cause my boy needs some love.

And before you fret...this is a side project. My original rewrite will always come first. Plus I’m still figuring out the details of what I want to do, but updates for this are gonna be really scarce. I don't know how many parts this will be or how many episodes I will cover, but it'll be part by part. Updates are probably gonna be scarce until I finish season six. More importantly, if you guys like this and want to see more, please let me know. I hope you guys enjoy possibly a new series! 

Chapter One: It Started With a Knock. 

Carver Edlund: it was a name nobody would be probably familiar with if you asked a stranger on the street who he was. To Sam and Dean, he was a man who knew too much. A thief who made a buck and gained an underground cult following from a book series he wrote called "Supernatural." Twenty four books detailing the lives of two hunters who traveled across the country in their 1967 Chevy Impala, saving people from monsters and seeking revenge on the yellowed eyed demon who killed their parents. Each action, every little personal aspect of their lives—from their upbringing, to every internal thought—was all in paperback for the world to read. 

The brothers made the horrifying discovering when they were working a case in town, the first stop on the list of places to check out was some run-down looking comic store. The guy behind the counter mistook their questioning as a game of "LARPing" and failed miserably in attempting to remember the main character's names, only for the younger Winchester to correct him after the third time. That's when they discovered the first book in the bargain bin, a hidden gem abandoned with other comics no one bothered to read. The cover alone looked like a seedy romance novel someone might find on their middle middle-aged mother's nightstand. Sam and Dean found every copy they could find and examine each word. 

Sam tried to figure out who this Carver Edlund was, but he was shady as the characters he wrote about. There wasn't a single paper trail or photograph of him in an attempt for either of the boys to recognize his face to figure out who he was. Best guess the guy was using a pen name to keep his identity. All they knew that the books started rolling out in early of'05, the year Sam left a life behind after tragedy hit. His girlfriend Jess, the only woman he was weeks away from asking to marry him, was killed in the same gruesome manner as his mother. The finale of the "Supernatural" series ended in of Dean being torn to bits by Lilith and Sam alone, just like reality they were forced to live in.

Sam and Dean doubted it ended here. There was someone behind this name, a person the boys were itching to have a  “formal” chat with to figure out how he knew so much about them. The boys decided to start with the most obvious place to track down the author’s real name, the publishing company that printed the crap. A lovely young woman held the possible trail to finding out who it was, only it came with a test when Sam and Dean claimed to be journalists wanting to write an article about the books.

The publisher wouldn’t give up any sort of information so easily. She grilled them with all sorts of questions each of the boys got correct, but only seemed satisfied they were the real deal as she sat in her office chair, watching with a close eye as Sam unbuttoned his flannel and under shirt slightly to reveal the anti-possession tattoo on his chest. She had one of her own, right on her bare ass to show the boys. But the view that made Dean’s day wasn’t the only parting gift she gave the boys. She might not have known the true identity of the person who wrote the books, she had a  current address the boys could visit. All though she warned them—authors were temperamental people.

“He’s very private.” She warned them. “Like Salinger.”

You lifted your hands away from the keyboard when you attempted the second draft of the newest edition to a series that ended months ago. But it didn’t mean the adventures that ran through your head would stop. It flowed vividly as it did after the first dream you had them and sat down to write the first page of the "Supernatural" series. You read the words back to yourself as another part of the newest story printed, waiting for your approval to join the rest of the story you were working on.

Writing was a tedious process. Some people could whip out a beginning line to sink the reader in, others thought to start in the middle and figure out the rest later. Your process was a jumbled mess. You wrote down fragments until everything connected itself together into a perfect story you were happy with. However, the newest story you were working on was a bit...different.

You sat in your office, a small room containing a desk pushed up against the window to enjoy a spacious backyard and the rainy days when you felt the most inspired. Behind was you as book shelf taller than you, crammed with novels your family collected over the years along with bound and unpublished books that haven’t seen the light of day. You reached out to grab the second cup of coffee you made for yourself and the still warm papers from the printer. Skimming the words, you snickered into the ceramic mug at what the hell you were attempting to write late last night.

You took pride in being a creative person since early childhood. Maybe it came with having both of your parents being successful writers and having a hunger for all sorts of adventures you tried to seek in reading endless books. Ever since you could hold a pen and form proper sentences you were writing down all your crazy stories. You were a daydreamer, with a wild imagination to match. Never did you think any of it would be good enough material to be published.

It was the summer before you were supposed to start your freshman year of college when you had a dream that felt so real. Normally you forgot the dream you had the night before the second you woke up. But this one stuck like glue. All day your mind wouldn’t stop replaying what you dreamed about, thinking about these characters you named Sam and Dean. For a week you had dreams that felt so vivid about them, the first adventure of many to come. Over the years you had some that were pleasant and quite enjoyable to form into words. Other ones made you wake up in a cold sweat, terrified from the horrendous things your brain could think of all on your own. You showed the first fifteen pages you had wrote nonstop in the span of three days to your parents—who suggested you to go for it. Write a novel and see where it took you.

It took you farther than you ever expected. You made the decision to publish the name under a pen name of Carver Edlund, You were afraid nobody would take an eighteen year old with no prior experience seriously. You sent the books off to every publishing company you could think of and waited for nothing but rejection letters. Almost all of them were a fail, until you got your lucky break with an Indie company that loved your work. She gushed over the first "Supernatural" book and how good it was, so good that she was reading for the second time after finishing it all in just a day. The work was so good, she  desperately pleaded for more. You agreed to work on more stories, if you were granted complete and total privacy. She agreed.

You placed the cup back down on your desk in favor for a pen, deciding to edit the part you were working on last night. You felt a tinge of embarrassment from what the kind of nonsense your mind was able to come up with. It was always the day after you decided to edit. A fresh perspective to edit the mistakes you might have made and correct words that might flow better. However, it didn’t take much effort to slip back into the fictional world you thought you created.

“Sam and Dean exited the Impala and stepped onto the sidewalk. Dean took out the ripped piece of paper with the address scribbled down and read it one more time, wanting to make sure it was correct. All though he wasn’t sure what kind of house a man who wrote the lives was to look like, what they saw wasn’t what they...perceived. A small two-story house laid in front of them didn’t look like it belonged to a person they never met. It looked like every other one on this street, a white picket fence and a flourishing garden blooming this early spring. The boys knew looks could be deceiving. They wanted to make sure this was the residence of the man who knew personal details about themselves, things nobody should know.

The boys waited not a second longer. They approached the front door with trepidation. Did they really want to learn the secrets that lay beyond that door? The brothers traded soulful looks, answering the question without speaking a word. With determination, Dean pushed the doorbell with forceful...determination."

You furrowed your brow when you noticed you accidentally repeated the same word twice. You clicked on your pen and scratched out the word for something better. Before the tip of the pen could even touch the paper, you found yourself looking over your shoulder when the doorbell rang. Your dog, who had been peacefully resting at your feet, raised his head in curiosity. You rolled your eyes when he followed the behavior by a series of loud barks. You shushed the German Shepherd, mumbling for Winchester to calm down as rubbed a hand across his fur. You weren’t expecting any visitors today. And it’d been ages since you ordered any packages. You pushed yourself up to your feet, deciding to answer it anyway.

You heard a set of nail tap across the wooden floors, Winchester followed behind you to join you in the adventure of who was bugging you this early afternoon. You lived in a safe neighborhood, it was the reason why you moved here in the first place. Plus the rent was cheap. You unlocked the dead bolt and opened the door a crack to see who stood on your porch, two men you’d never seen before.

You noticed their hands were empty—no bible, no useless products to sell you. It meant the “No soliciting” sign worked. But the “Beware of Dog” didn’t ward off strangers who weren't’ here with a good explanation. You were a single woman living on your own and two men that looked to be twice your size were visiting you. Nobody could be too cautious these days with all those sickos running around. Winchester peeked his head out from behind you to see who it was.

“Excuse me, we don’t mean to bother you, but…” The man standing closest to you greets you with an expression that makes it look like he’s having a bad day. He trailed off momentarily when he saw Winchester peek his head out, the dog staring at him. The stranger continued on by asking you a question that made your welcoming smile drop slightly. “We’re looking for a Carver Edlund.”

“Never heard of the guy.” You lied straight through your teeth, shrugging your shoulders. You gave the two strangers another smile, this time, more sympathetic. “You got the wrong house.” “We’re looking for the man who wrote the ‘Supernatural’ books.” You turned your head to the second man, who’s taller, but much more nicer looking. “We know he wrote them under a fake name. But we didn’t get his real one, just his address. We were told he lives here.”

“We really need to talk to him.” The man standing next to you said, urgency in his voice. You could tell he was trying to be polite. Your swallowed slightly as you wrapped your fingers around the door frame. It seemed he could read your hesitance. “Let me guess, he’s your boyfriend. He probably likes his privacy. But this is important. Is he home, by chance? It’ll just take five minutes. That’s all.”

“Why do you want to meet him so badly?” You questioned the both of them.

“We’re...We’re really big fans.” The taller one said. You narrowed your eyes slightly when both of them share a look before directing their attention back to you. “You see, my brother and I are journalists and we were hoping to have an interview with him, see who the real man is behind these books. Shed some light on the series to gain more attention. That’s all.”

You looked at the two of them for a moment, wondering if what you were hearing was true. You had never had something like this happen before. Most journalists, all three of them, contacted you through email to try and get a personal interview with you. You never had someone show up on your front door, trying to figure out the true identity behind a book series that paid your way through college, something that started out from a vivid dream. Your body relaxed as you let out a sigh, deciding if they were big fans, you’d let him in on a secret.

“Well, since you guys went all this trouble...Hi,” You opened the door slightly wider and leaned yourself against it, your lips stretching into a smile when you spoke the truth you had been trying to hide for over four years. “The name’s Y/N Y/L/N. I’m the author of the ‘Supernatural’ books.”

"Wait, you? You’re the sucker who wrote all those books?” Your face scrunched up slightly when the man standing closest to you changed his attitude. He suddenly broke out into a smile, acting as if you told him a funny joke. You slowly nodded your head and gave him a dirty look. If he was here to make fun of your work, you’d be more than happy to tell him to shove his arrogance where the sun didn’t shine. It seemed that wasn’t the case. He sobered up when he realized you were telling the truth, he was in the right place, and he was speaking to the author. “Well, nice to meet you. Let me tell you who we are. I’m Dean. This is Sam.” He pointed a finger to the taller man stan is next to him. “The Dean and Sam you've been writing about.”

You stared at the two men standing on your porch, trying to process what they just said as the ends of your lips slowly stretched into a smile. You didn't know what you should laugh first at. The fact that these two men went through all the trouble of tracking down your publisher that you hadn't talked to in almost five months for an address to figure out who the real writer of a barely popular book series. Or they were crazy, pretending to be fictional characters you made up. You didn’t even bother wasting your breath to give a response. You stepped back and slammed the door right on their face. You reached up a hand to lock the door, but before you could, you heard the doorbell go off again.

You contemplated for a moment if you wanted to do the right thing and ignore them. Worst case scenario if they got rowdy you'd call the cops and get their asses hauled off. However, you found yourself suddenly overcome with anger when you heard them switch from the doorbell to furiously pounding on your front door. You rolled your eyes, you decided to confront the two very delusional men who needed a dose of reality.  

“Look, uh... I appreciate your enthusiasm. Really, I do. It's, uh, it's always nice to hear from the fans. But how about you be like everyone else and drop me an email or something. Not show up on my doorstep like a bunch of freaks. The reason why I wrote under a fake name was so I could keep my privacy. And I’d like to keep it that way.” You spoke in a serious tone, informing them they needed to get out of here. “For your own good, I strongly suggest you get a life.”

Your left the two men with the words of advice they should take as you swung the door shut to end this conversation once and for all. Instead the one who called himself Dean thought it was a good idea to reach out a hand and slam it against the door, using his strength to keep it open.

“See, here's the thing, sweetheart. We have a life.” He said. You scoffed loudly at his words that sounded like a lie from how they were acting. You attempted once more to shut the door and lock it, but he was quicker than you. He inched himself closer so his fingers wrapped around the edge of the wood. “You've been using it to write your books.”

“Right.” You mumbled, chuckling at the tough guy act this idiot was putting on. You didn’t try and make Winchester calm down when he prowled closer to the two strangers. He let out a low, threatening growl when he sensed a changed in the atmosphere. “You have five seconds to get your hand off my door and off my property before I call the cops.”

It seemed “Dean” would take his chances with your threat. He pushed his way into your house, making you stumble slightly into the place as Winchester jumped in between the both of you, making the men suddenly stop dead in their tracks before they could do anything else. The dog began to bark incessantly and growl at the strangers when he thought one of them might try and do something stupid.

“Look, we’re not here to hurt you.” The one who thought he was Sam reassured you. Your face scrunched up from his words that sounded the least bit comforting. Their actions spoke louder, and it screamed they were a bunch of lunatics. “We just want to know how you’re doing it.”

“Doing what?” You asked them. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Are you a hunter?” The other man questioned you.

“What? Are you high or something? Get out of my house. Now” You ordered, as if you had any sort of authority to do such a thing. It took all of your control to keep your voice steady as your heart pounded roughly against your ribcage. The two men didn’t listen, they just stared at you, waiting for an answer. "I'm a writer. That's it."

“Then how do you know so much about demons and tulpas and changelings?” Dean threw out a few fictional monsters you wrote about in your series. You backed away slowly, wondering how to stop this situation before it could escalate to the nightmares a single woman had while living on her own. Murdered, robbery...other things that made a shiver run down your spine just form the thought.

“I read a lot of science fiction and horror books. H.P. Lovecraft, Stephen King all that stuff. That’s where most it came from. And I did research, too. I wanted it to be realistic as possible.” You admitted. You thought the answers would be enough, but the one who thought of himself as Dean wouldn’t back down so easily. “Look, is this some kind of weird ‘Misery’ thing because I killed off Dean?”

“It’s not a ‘Misery’ thing. Believe me, we are not fans.” He said, shaking his head at the accusation. You didn’t believe one word he spoke. The man looked down at your dog when he heard it stop barking but showing no signs of backing down. Because it thought his owner was in danger. He quickly realized barging in like this made a wrong impression. They didn’t think a twenty something year old woman wrote their lives. The man changed his tone of voice, into more of a calm one. “Look, we aren’t here to break your legs. We just wanna talk. That’s it. Five minutes. And then we’ll be out of your hair for good.”

You didn’t feel the least bit reassured by his promise, but as a sign of good faith, or stupidity on your part, you stepped forward and shushed Winchester to keep quiet. You ushered him to back down and reassured that everything was fine. You stared at the two men in front of you, wondering if they were going to keep to their word.

“Fine. Who are you?” You asked them. “Really?”

“I’m Sam. This is Dean.” The taller man must have thought you were stupid when they tried to keep pulling this little act.

You rolled your eyes and pushed yourself back up to your feet, trying your hardest not to lose your patience with them. “For the last time, Sam and Dean are fictional characters.” You told them in a quiet, strained voice from what was going on. “I made them up! They're not real!”

The two men thought they could change your mind with some proof. You didn’t know why, but you found yourself following outside to their car—which was a 1967 Chevy Impala, color black and in mint condition, kept a single scratch on it. You’d never seen one in person, but she was a sight for sore eyes. Winchester trailed behind you to the outside and sat himself down on the sidewalk after you told him to. He was quiet, but he remained diligent, waiting for one of them men to try something.

The one who called himself Dean wanted you to take a look at the inside of their trunk, the words were a bit more creepier than he expected. You crossed your arms over your chest, expecting it to be empty and for one of them to shove you inside before locking you in there. When the trunk opened up, it wasn’t empty and you remained where you stood, but what you saw was even more horrifying. You inhaled a deep breath as you felt your eyes jumping around at all the stuff they had in there, an arsenal for a mad man.

“Are those real guns?” You asked in a meek tone.

“Yup.” The one who thought of himself as Dean said. You swallowed when he pointed out all the things you mentioned in the book. “This is real rock salt, these are real fake IDs.”

“Well, I got to hand it to you guys. You really are my number one fans. That’s,” You scratched the back of your neck as you felt yourself choosing the flight option in this situation. You nervously chuckled and began to slowly back away, hoping you might be able to dash inside the house and call the cops before things got too far. They were crazy, you thought. Obsessed. “That’s awesome. So, I-I think I've got some posters in the house.” You turned so fast on the back of your heels, you had a shot at running for your life. But before you could take a single step to safety, you heard the one who was pretending to be Dean spoke up. “Y/N, stop.” He called out to you, and for some reason, you listened to him.

“You lay one finger on me and I’ll start screaming.” You warned them as you turned back around to face the two men. You gave them a deadly glare as Winchester pushed himself back up on all four legs and came back over to you. "What the hell do you want?"

“How much do you know?” The taller one, Sam, questioned you with all sorts of things that you had written about in the secrecy of your own office. “Do you know about the angels? Or Lilith breaking seals?”

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” You mumbled, shaking your head from what he was asking you. You looked at the two men in front of you with a confused expression from what was going on, all of a sudden you had a few questions of your own. “How do you know about that?”

“The question is,” This supposed Dean asked, “how do you?”

You furrowed your brow slightly, "'Cause I wrote it."

“You kept writing?” Sam, or so he called himself, wondered.

“Yeah, even after the publisher went bankrupt, but those books never came out. Nobody's ever seen them except for me.” You said, telling them as you pointed a thumb over your shoulder and to your house. You suddenly felt a nudge against your leg, the dog was growing funny all of a sudden when he let out a low whine. You rolled your eyes and gave him a command, speaking his name for the first time in front of the boys. “Winchester, sit.”

"You named your dog Winchester?" You nodded your head, knowing this was the conversation that you would make up the lie that it was about how your dad was a big fan of guns and you named the dog after him. The man decided to formally introduce himself. "Well, nice that's a mighty fine coincidence. Cause you see, like I said...I'm Dean Winchester, and this is my brother, Sam."

You looked up from your dog after you began to subconsciously ran a hand through his fur to try and calm him down. You felt your face fall in surprise from what they told you. "Last names were never in the books. I never told anybody that. I never even wrote it down. Nobody knows I even wrote those books. People only think I named my dog after a freaking gun. You mumbled. You suddenly felt yourself hit with a dizzy spell from the things that were slowly connecting in your head. You stared at the two men in front of you, the ones you had wrote God knows how many books on and years of dreams about. Alive and in the flesh. “Sam and Dean Winchester...Well, nice to meet you.”

[Next Part]

[ladykiaras]

another choices tag game that youll probably skip over anyway :-)

so i’ll uh put it under the cut

BUT THANK YOU @beccas-awful-bangs FOR TAGGING ME ILU!!

Favourite book(s): trr and ilitw!!

Your MC’s LI for each story you’re playing:

The freshman/the sophomore: chris 

The Royal Romance: liam

Home for the Holidays: real talk does anyone play this

Red Carpet Diaries: the one book where all lis are so good atm that i genuinely cant pick.... aka pb let me hoe it up with all of them

High School Story: o shit i forgot

Rules of Engagement: im replaying roe as a joke n i havent decided if i wanna romance conchobar (bartender), big time rush (sloan), or liam (leo)

Endless Summer: sean

Hero: eva (i should finish this bc i can finally buy that diamond scene in the last chapter o wow!)

Ilitw: andy

Tc&Tf: raydan

LoveHacks: i didnt finish this either and i never made it official w anyone or whatever it is u do

what about thobm?? my ghost gf eleanor didnt die like twice for you to exclude her!!!!! 

Favourite MC ship: mc x sean!! mayb?

Least favourite MC ship: due to recent dash activity we gonna say mc x caleb from hero

Favourite non-MC ship:  idk man... diego x varyyn 

Least favourite non-MC ship: tyler x abbie just let it die pb

Favourite character and why: andy kang bc he is andy kang

Least favourite character and why: i think im pretty chill and dont hate a lot of characters ya kno? but characters like natasha (tf) or cody (ilitw) really get my goats

Character you like that most people don’t: see i dunno... maybe grayson? well its not like people dont like him but nobody talks abt him

Character you don’t like that most people do: lissen i dont hate or even dislike her but ava was written terribly at times like they were rly trying to make her edgy™ (whenever she hissed?? so unnecessary and i cringed all the time) n it was just too much sometimes. ava deserves beter

Which character are you most like in real life: DEFINITELY LUCAS like me and that kid are almost the same (apart from being student body president i was class rep once so its similar enough) and we both wanna make differences through policy change in the future. and the pressure from parents to do well all the time?? a forever mood :-( and other things i dont remember but ya girl is tired

If you could be in any Choices story, which one? yall know im a slut for trr like imagine living mc’s life. sis u were fine in nyc thats my dream (apart from waitressing i gues?s) and then some rando takes her to go try and become royalt?? travelling?? fancy balls and gowns?? sign me tf up bich!!