#teenager claire

[haus-seeblick]

Suptober Day 15: "Operation Don't Burn Down the House"

Dean’s determined to be Star Baker at the school bake sale, but a missed bus means he’s gonna fall behind. So Castiel and Jack step up to help bake the perfect cupcakes.

Turns out, Castiel has a lot of questions. Thankfully, Dean is just a phone call away.

Chaos ensues.

So pumped to have teamed up again with @tsujiharu for a Suptober fic this year! This is a sequel to our 2021 Suptober collaboration, Operation Stop the Flirting, but can also be read as a standalone fic.

Read the fluff & chaos under the cut, or on ao3 here! (wc ~7500)

*****

The early evening sun slants over the kitchen island, glowing in the steam that rises from Castiel’s cup of tea. He basks in the warmth and smiles as he watches Dean sift through his recipe folder and mumble to himself. 

“Have you decided what you’d like to make yet?” he asks, sipping his tea. Dean glances up at him, and Castiel’s heart does a happy little skip when the sunlight hits those green eyes. They’ve been together for a year, but it strikes him every day how hot his boyfriend is. 

Dean seems to contemplate a moment longer, then nods. “Yeah. Think I’m gonna go with the apple pie cupcakes like I originally planned. The salted maple buttercream will be a hit.”

“You’ll definitely stand out at the bake sale,” Castiel says, and Dean grins at him, leaning over the kitchen island to press a soft kiss against Castiel’s lips.

“That’s the plan. All right, now all I need is my helper.” He pulls away and calls, “Hey, Jack, you ready to bake?”

An excited shriek echoes from upstairs, and then footsteps patter loudly down the steps and along the hall. Jack slides into the kitchen on socked feet. Beaming, he bounces over to Dean. “I’m ready!”

“Awesome. Go grab your apron and I’ll tie it for you.”

Jack hurries to the pantry and snags his little apron from the hook inside the door. It’s light yellow with a pattern of guinea pigs, a fabric Castiel just couldn’t resist when he saw it at the store. Jack slips it over his head, and Dean kneels down behind him to tie the strings. 

As he watches them, Castiel can’t help but consider how far they’ve come. A year ago, Dean was just his neighbor; a friendly, sweet man who drove Castiel to work every day so he wouldn’t have to take the bus. Castiel would wake up every morning giddy at the prospect of spending twenty minutes in the car with Dean cracking jokes in the front seat and Claire and Jack strapped in safe in the back. It was a wistful window into his dream life, and though the months and months of flirting were painful at times, it all paid off once they finally confessed their feelings on that chilly day at the harvest festival. It took their children forcefully orchestrating that pivotal conversation, but once the words were said, that was that. 

After just a few months of actual dating, Castiel and Dean decided it was time to move in together. They consulted with Jack and Claire, who begged for a yard, and in the spring they moved into a cozy two-story house. The kids each got their own bedroom, much to Claire’s relief, and Dean has a full-size garage for his beloved car. 

Now Castiel wakes up each day with Dean wrapped around him and with the knowledge that both their children are just down the hall. They all get ready together in the mornings in a chaotic flurry of backpacks and socks and lighthearted bickering, and leave the house as a family. 

And every day is filled with moments like this one — Dean crouched next to Jack, smiling and helping him adjust his apron, Dean’s black t-shirt accentuating his toned arms and narrow waist, and— it’s all too much; Castiel loves this man more than he thought possible.

Dean and Jack are washing their hands when Dean’s phone rings. 

“Can you get that, Cas?” Dean asks, making sure Jack uses soap. 

“Of course.” Castiel slips off his stool and walks over to Dean, fishing the phone out of Dean’s back pocket. “Oh, it’s Claire. I’ll put it on speaker.” He swipes the screen. “Hello, Claire, it’s Castiel.”

“I could’ve figured that out,” Claire says in greeting. “Hi, Cas. Is my dad there?”

“He’s on speaker,” Castiel says, as Dean hollers, “What’s up, kid?” while handing Jack a towel.

“I need a ride home. I missed the bus, and Kaia’s gone home already.” 

“Can’t you wait for the next city bus?” Dean says, drying his own hands and swooping in to take the phone from Castiel. 

“The app says it’s an hour away,” Claire replies, a pleading edge to her voice. “Everyone from robotics club except the teacher is gone and it’s gonna be dark, can you please come get me? I’d just walk otherwise.”

“Okay, okay, hang on.” Dean puts the phone on the counter and scrunches his eyes in thought. “Um, all right. These cupcakes really have to get started.”

“I can pick up Claire,” Castiel offers. 

Dean sucks a skeptical breath through his teeth. “I don’t know.”

“I may not have driven in a while, but my license is current.”

“You haven’t driven in years, ” Dean corrects, not unkindly. “I think I’d like to teach you to handle Baby before sending you off into rush hour traffic.”

“That’s fair,” Castiel replies, and Claire calls, “Yeah, don’t let Cas drive!” from over the phone.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Don’t be a jerk.” He chews his lip. “All right, you comfortable starting the baking then, Cas?”

“Jack and I can definitely handle it,” Cas says, and Jack high-fives him. 

“It’s kind of a complicated recipe,” Dean hedges. 

“Don’t you remember the apple pie Jack and I made for Claire’s birthday last year? That had latticework and everything,” Castiel reminds him. “We are more than capable.”

He doesn’t mention that in order to make that pie, he watched the same YouTube video at least twenty times, a helpful step-by-step guide by a cheerful baker named Donna with a heavy Minnesotan accent. But the pie turned out great, and he’s confident that he and Jack can follow a recipe. 

“Cas and Jack can do it!” Claire’s tinny voice encourages, and though Castiel knows her support is entirely for her own benefit, he still thanks her. 

“All right, well, I don’t want you walking that stretch of highway when it gets dark,” Dean says, putting the phone against his ear. “I’ll head out now. Just hang tight, stay inside the school.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Dean hangs up and nods for a moment, obviously recalibrating his plans. “Okay. The recipe is on the island. I shouldn’t be too long. Just get it all going, and I can take over when I get home.”

“Don’t worry, Dean.” Castiel smooths his hands down Dean’s arms and kisses him reassuringly. “We won’t ruin your baking reputation.” 

Laughing against Castiel’s lips, Dean winds his arms around Castiel’s waist and returns the kiss. “I trust you guys.” Pulling away, he heads out into the hall. Castiel and Jack walk him to the front door.

“You know, I’m still amazed that Claire is doing this robotics club. Never really pegged it as something she’d be interested in,” Dean comments as he laces up his boots.

“I think it has more to do with Kaia than it does with robots,” Castiel says, handing Dean his jacket. 

“Ugh, you’re probably right. I’m gonna have to have a talk with her pretty soon.” Dean grimaces, then ruffles Jack’s hair and kisses Cas again. “Good luck. Call me if you have any questions, okay?”

“We will,” Castiel assures him, and Jack waves vigorously as Dean heads outside.

Once Dean is out the door, Castiel turns to Jack.

“Alright, Jack. Are you ready to bake some cupcakes?”

“Yeah!” Jack replies with an enthusiastic whoop. He’s practically jumping in place, and Castiel thinks baking might be just the activity to tire him out before bedtime.

“Let’s go take a look at the recipe, then,” he says, guiding Jack back to the kitchen.

The recipe is actually a piece of paper that Dean’s scribbled the ingredients and steps onto. (“Nobody needs to know these people’s life story,” Dean explained to Castiel once, while copying down a recipe he found online.) It starts with a list of ingredients, and Castiel decides that gathering those is the logical place to start.

“What do we need, Daddy?” Jack asks. He leans against the island counter, fingers curled around the edge, trying to peek at the recipe in Castiel’s hands. He’s not tall enough yet, but he’s growing every day.

Castiel lowers the paper so that Jack can see. “Could you get me an apple, milk, two eggs, and butter from the fridge? I’ll get the dry ingredients.”

Jack nods and darts off to the fruit basket, ready to be of use. Castiel opens up the pantry and starts pulling out what’s on Dean’s list.

Flour, baking powder, brown sugar, vanilla extract, cinnamon—cornflour? He comes up short. Castiel rummages through several containers, checking the labels diligently, but he doesn’t see anything labeled cornflour. He looks at the few unlabeled containers that Dean uses for bulk items at the store and frowns. There’s no way Dean would have forgotten what seems like such a crucial ingredient (he was gloating about how he was going to be the Star Baker of the school bake sale for a week leading up to today), so Castiel knows he must be missing it somehow. He flips a few more containers around until he finds the cornstarch. He picks it up and squints at it.

With everything else he needs in hand (and the cornstarch), he turns back to the counter. Jack looks up at him with bright eyes, waiting patiently for further instruction, so Castiel asks him for two mixing bowls. Then he pulls out his phone and opens a browser to go to google.com.

Difference between cornstarch and cornflour

He clicks on the first result and skims the website, running a hand through his already messy hair.

“Daddy, is this okay?” In his excitement, Jack knocks the two large bowls into Castiel’s hips as he comes trotting back to the kitchen island.

Jack managed to drag out the largest bowls in their cupboard, which is likely unnecessary, but Castiel smiles down at his son nonetheless. “That’s perfect, sweetie, thank you. Daddy needs to call Dean really quickly, so can you hang tight until I finish?”

It’s a lot to ask a bouncy seven-year-old, but Jack nods and waits, counting out the ingredients sitting on the counter.

Dean answers after three rings.

“Hey babe, is everything alright?”

“Yes, I’m sorry to call, I just had a quick question,” Castiel explains, pushing down the nagging sense of embarrassment he feels for calling so soon after Dean left.

“Shoot,” Dean prompts.

“Your recipe calls for cornflour, but I couldn’t find the container. Is it one of your bulk containers?” Castiel asks. He watches as Jack reaches up on his toes to try and drag the bag of flour closer to himself, and steps in to push it toward the center of the island, safely out of his reach. Jack frowns, but doesn’t complain.

“Ah shit. Sorry, Cas,” Dean says. “I just copied it down from the website. It’s actually just cornstarch.”

Castiel squints. “But they’re not the same.”

“What?”

“I looked it up. They’re not the same,” Castiel repeats. “Cornstarch is made from the endosperm of the kernel.”

Dean snorts. “The what-sperm? No, dude. This lady called it cornflour, but believe me, it’s supposed to be cornstarch.”

Castiel huffs, dissatisfied. “If you say so. I’ll amend the recipe for next time, then.”

“Yeah, you do that. Everything else going okay?” Dean asks. Castiel can hear the smile in his voice. While he isn’t sure what Dean’s smiling about, he can��t help how his own lips curl up in response.

“I’m just gathering the ingredients for now. Jack is excited to help.”

Dean’s small chuckle is followed by a frustrated groan. “Okay, well traffic’s worse than I expected so it may take us some time to get home. I don’t know where all these people think they’re going on a fucking Tuesday evening!”

There’s a loud honk in the background and Castiel has to pull his phone away from his ear.

“Dean,” he chastises.

“People are driving like idiots, Cas!”

“Well, don’t stoop to their level.” Castiel leans his hip against the counter.

“Fine, fine.” Castiel can hear the eye roll in Dean’s voice. “Call if you need anything else, okay?”

“I will. I love you, Dean. Drive safe,” Castiel responds with a smile.

“Love you, too.”

With the necessary information acquired, Cas returns to the pile of ingredients and their two massive bowls, and rolls up his sleeves.

“Are you ready to begin, Jack?”

Jack offers an enthusiastic salute. “Yes, sir!”

Castiel chuckles and begins to line up all the ingredients. He goes through the list with Jack one last time, crossing out the cornflour and writing in cornstarch as he does so, and stares at the ingredients.

“Now what, Daddy?” Jack looks up at him expectantly.

Castiel looks at the handwritten recipe. The instructions are simple, and provide no context or details in the way Donna’s YouTube video did.

Preheat the oven to 325

Castiel does that easily, feeling slightly more confident in his abilities to complete the recipe without Dean. He looks at what’s next on the list.

Peel the apple. Cut 12 small cubes, finely dice the rest

“We need to peel the apple. Do you think you can help with the peeler?” Castiel turns to Jack.

Jack nods, running to the drawer with the peeler. On his way back, he drags over his step stool they keep next to the fridge, and steps up to the counter. “Can I start?”

“Yes, be really careful, okay?” Castiel gently pats Jack’s head.

“Yup! Slowly slowly!” Jack repeats the words he hears regularly in the kitchen and gets to work.

While keeping a close eye on Jack, Castiel pulls up Dean’s contact on his phone again.

“That was quick. Are you sure everything’s okay?” Dean’s greeting is a little more skeptical this time.

“It’s fine, Dean. Have you gotten to the school yet?” Castiel asks. He can still hear some honking in the background.

Dean sighs. “Nope. Still a little while away. What’s up?”

“How small are ‘small cubes,’ and how finely do you need us to chop the apples?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the phone, and Castiel checks his screen to make sure they’re still connected.

“Still stuck on step one, huh?” Dean replies eventually.

“It’s actually step two after preheating the oven. And the instructions aren’t the clearest,” Castiel grumbles.

Dean chuckles. “Fair. The cubes can be a bit smaller than an inch. Dice the rest as small as possible—they’re going in the batter and we want it properly baked.”

Castiel nods, though Dean can’t see it. “Smaller than an inch, and as finely as possible. I understand.”

“You’re going to be alright?” Dean checks again.

“Yes, thank you, Dean.”

“Alright, love you,” Dean says, his voice soft.

“I love you, too.”

“You don’t have to say it every time!” Jack hollers from the counter (an unfortunate callout he’s picked up from Claire).

Castiel hears Dean laugh through the phone. “Tell the kid I love him, too.”

“Dean loves you, too, Jack,” Castiel relays.

“LOVE YOU, DEAN!” Jack shouts.

They’re both laughing as Castiel hangs up.

*****

Getting the dry ingredients mixed together is a quick (albeit messy) affair.

Castiel lets Jack whisk the ingredients together, which in reality looks like Jack stirring the whisk around like a witch with a cauldron. 

With Jack occupied, Castiel checks the next step, which calls for the softened butter. The plastic-wrapped blocks of butter Jack grabbed from the fridge barely have any give when he grabs them off the edge of the counter. There’s a brief moment that Castiel considers the microwave, but he remembers Dean explaining to him while baking once that the microwave melts the butter too quickly and can’t be trusted.

He stands there contemplating with the butter in his hand for approximately thirty seconds before making the decision to call Dean again.

Dean answers after the first ring this time.

“I swear to god, Cas, the house better be burning down. My instructions aren’t that bad.”

Castiel frowns. “I’m sorry for not wanting to ruin your chances of being Star Baker of the bake sale,” he deadpans.

Dean groans. “No, no, you’re right. I’m just frustrated because of this damn traffic.”

“Are you on your way back yet?” Castiel asks, a little more sympathetic this time.

“Nope,” Dean answers, dramatically popping the P. “Almost at the school, though.”

Castiel lets out an empathetic hum.

“Anyway. What’s the next step I can help you with?” Dean pulls the conversation back on topic.

“The recipe calls for softened butter, and I know you don’t like using the microwave for that. What would you recommend to soften the butter?”

“Good memory, Cas,” Dean says, sounding pleased. “Get two bowls, fill one with hot water.”

Castiel starts getting that ready, when Jack calls out for him.

“Daddy, is this supposed to be everywhere?”

Dean must have heard him too, because after a moment he asks, “Is what supposed to be everywhere?”

The counter is covered with a fine dusting of the flour mixture.

“Uh,” Castiel hesitates. “It’s fine, we can clean it up. Jack, can you help me with the butter instead?”

“Yeah!” Jack hops off his step stool, abandoning his whisk in the bowl, and rushes over to help.

“Is what everywhere, Cas?” Dean asks again.

“It’s just some flour, Dean,” Castiel reassures him while bringing his focus back to the task at hand. “Okay, so the hot water goes into the bowl.”

Dean stays on the phone while they boil some water, instructing them to pull it off the stove before it’s fully boiling. Castiel eventually puts Dean on speaker phone so that Jack can follow his instructions easier.

“So then you put the butter in the bowl,” Dean explains.

Castiel is just about to ask which one, when out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jack pick up the two little blocks of butter and plop them in the bowl of hot water.

“That can’t be right,” he mumbles into the phone.

Dean pauses. “What can’t be right?”

“Jack just put the butter in the bowl, and—”

“How could that not be right?”

Castiel eyes the blocks of butter floating in the pool of water.

“Well, they're wrapped in plastic. It’s fine. I think we’ll manage the butter situation, thank you, Dean. Drive saf—”

“No!” Dean’s yelp echoes across the line. “Don’t you dare hang up! You’re just going to be calling me again in three minutes, we may as well do this together over the phone!”

Castiel frowns. On one hand, he senses some judgment in Dean’s response, but on the other, Castiel knows Dean’s not wrong about him having more questions.

He sighs. “If you insist.”

“Oh, I insist,” Dean gruffs, clearly frustrated.

“You know, if you knew you were going to need softened butter, you could have left the butter out earlier,” Castiel suggests.

“Wow, that’s really helpful, Cas. Thanks.”

Castiel’s brows pinch together. “Are you being sarcastic?”

Thankfully, Jack interrupts before the conversation can devolve any further. 

“Daddy, Dean, what’s next?”

Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “Get the sugar into the mixer so you can beat it with the butter.”

Once Castiel and Jack are done carefully measuring out the sugar, Dean asks, “How’s the butter doing? It should have some give if you try pressing a finger in it.”

Castiel glances at the hot water bowl with a significant amount of trepidation. Jack shows none.

He scoops the butter out of the bowl and squishes it in his small palms.

“They definitely have ‘give,’” Castiel murmurs. Dean doesn’t miss the change in tone.

“What do they feel like?” he asks.

“Like hot little wet socks of butter!” Jack explains happily.

Dean doesn’t reply, and Castiel takes that opportunity to snatch the wet wads of butter from Jack’s hand and squeeze them out of their plastic wraps into the mixer.

“Like what? I don’t think I heard that right.”

“Don’t worry, Dean. The butter is softened and in the sugar. Do we mix that together?” Castiel charges forward, determined not to get Dean’s blood pressure more elevated than necessary as he deals with traffic.

Castiel can hear Dean take a deep breath.

“Yeah, mix it together until it’s smooth. Then you break the eggs in, one at a time.”

That sounds simple enough.

Jack peers into the mixer as it beats the sugar and butter, and as soon as it looks smooth enough (Castiel is sure not to miss it with Jack asking “is it ready?” every three seconds), he looks up at Castiel expectantly.

“Can I break the eggs?”

“Of course.” Castiel smiles at his son, handing him an egg. He hears Dean whine over the phone, but ignores it. It’s one of Jack’s favorite parts of helping in the kitchen.

By the time Castiel realizes his error, it’s too late.

“One-handed break!” Jack shrieks, knocking the egg against the counter and then crushing it in his hands above the mixer.

Dean barely has the chance to shout “no,” before Castiel watches in slow-motion as bits of the shell crumble into the mixture.

Castiel jumps into action, stopping the mixer before the shells can break any further. He lifts Jack off his step stool.

“Wait right here,” he orders Jack as he goes and grabs a spoon to scoop out the little bits of shell.

There’s a groan coming from his cell phone on the counter, which Castiel once again ignores.

“I’m sorry, Daddy. Did I do something wrong?” Jack asks, lips quivering. His shoulders have deflated and the enthusiasm from a moment earlier is completely gone.

“No, no it’s fine. Daddy just needs to scoop out some of the shells that fell in. You don’t want to eat any yucky shells, right?”

Jack shakes his head. He still looks unconvinced, but he doesn’t look like he’s about to burst into tears. “I’m sorry I got shells in the butter.”

Just as Castiel is finishing up the process of painstakingly scooping out eggshells (the ones he can see, at least), he hears Dean pipe up again.

“Jack, do you think you can use two hands when you break the second egg?”

The question warms Castiel’s heart, because even after the atrocity that was Jack’s one-handed break, Dean knows how much it means to Jack to be involved.

“Yeah!” Jack replies, his excitement returning.

“Alright,” Dean says, sounding distracted. “I’m just pulling up to the school. One sec.”

A muffled rustle follows, most likely meaning Dean put the phone down on his lap. Castiel takes the moment to restart the mixer and help Jack with the second egg. 

Eventually, a car door opens on the other end of the phone, followed by the familiar tone of Claire’s sass.

“Jeez, it took you long enough. I almost started walking home.”

“Yeah, yeah, traffic was crappy,” Dean grouses. “Now get in. We’re in the middle of something.”

“Hi Claire!” Jack calls into the phone.

“Jack? I thought they were baking.” There’s a squeak of leather as Claire settles into her seat.

“They are baking.” Dean explains.

Claire barks out a laugh. “So then why are you on speaker?”

“I’m helping them out, okay?” Dean huffs impatiently. “Cas, you still there?”

“Yes, Dean. The eggs are in the mixer,” he says, checking one last time to ensure he got out as much of the shells as he could.

“Oh my god, this is just like Phoning it In.” Claire laughs. Dean must make a face, because she adds, “It’s a YouTube thing.”

Dean grunts. “Cool, I guess? We’re just finishing up the batter.”

“Nice. So we’re just getting to the good part,” Claire says. “What’s next?”

“We need to add the vanilla,” Castiel says, reading the next line of Dean’s handwriting. “Jack, that’s the little brown bottle next to the sugar. Can you hand it to me?”

Jack passes him the vanilla, and Castiel measures out a teaspoon, then starts the mixer up again, just long enough for the liquid to incorporate.

“All right,” Dean says, and Castiel hears the sound of a turn signal in the background. Dean must be pulling out of the school parking lot. “I’m gonna walk you through the next part, okay?”

“Let’s listen carefully, Jack,” Castiel says with a wink.

Dean guides them through alternately adding the milk and the dry ingredients to the bowl while the mixer runs (Castiel has Jack pour the milk, to avoid another explosion of flour). 

“Just make sure not to overmix,” Dean instructs, as Castiel shakes in the final third of the dry ingredients. 

Castiel eyes the churning mixture. “I don’t know what that means.”

There’s a sigh from the other end of the line. “Uh, it’s hard to explain. Does it look smooth? Are there any more lumps of flour, or white spots?”

“No spots!” Jack shouts, peering into the bowl. 

“Okay, let’s stop the mixer then. Go ahead and put in the diced apple from earlier, and fold it all into the batter.”

Castiel stops, holding the bowl of diced apple in midair. “...Fold them in?”

“Yeah, like—” There’s a rustling, as if Dean’s gesturing. “Just fold them in.”

Setting the bowl down, Castiel picks up a finely-diced piece of apple. “Fold them in half? Before putting them in?”

There’s a moment of silence, then Claire’s laughter peals through the speaker. “Oh my god, Cas, you should see Dad’s face.”

“Well, Dad is being rather unclear,” Castiel points out, but makes sure to keep his tone humorous for Claire and Jack.

As if he picked up on Castiel’s effort, Dean’s next words are very slow and measured, like he’s working hard to control his emotions. “Get the dough scraper from the utensil jar. That’s the soft rubber spatula. Then scoop the spatula up through the batter from the bottom and twist, until the apples are all mixed in. That’s folding.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says courteously. The spatula is already being pushed into his hands by an attentive Jack. “And thank you, Jack.”

He manages to “fold in” the apples without further incident (he privately maintains that it’s a dumb phrase). “All done.”

“Great,” Dean says. He sounds exhausted. “Now, there are cupcake liners in the cupboard over the fridge. Go ahead and put them in the tins.” He pauses. “One liner in each hole.”

“Obviously,” Castiel says, to a clearly audible snort from Claire. He stands on his tiptoes to retrieve the white liners, then hands them down to Jack, who fumbles the delicate papers out of their cylindrical packaging. 

“Slowly slowly,” Jack mumbles again as his little fingers separate the liners. 

Once the two tins are ready to go, Dean tells them to fill each liner about halfway with the batter. Jack and Castiel each grab a spoon and set to work on a tin. As Castiel scrapes the last of the batter out of the bowl, he sees that Jack managed to fill only eight of his twelve liners (with the rest of the batter making a gloopy trail from the bowl to the tin, clearly tracing the path of his spoon). Castiel figures that’s not too bad. All of the liners are filled a bit unevenly, but they’ll be covered with frosting in the end, anyway.

“Tins ready!” he declares, and Dean heaves a relieved sigh. 

“Awesome. Go ahead and tap the tins on the counter a few times to help the batter get level.”

“I wanna!” Jack grabs a tin. 

“Oh, Cas, please help him,” Dean pleads.

Castiel helps Jack get an even grip on each handle of the tin and gently bop it up and down on the counter. The amount of batter may be different in each liner, but at least the surfaces are all even.

“That one looks like it has a squirrel on it,” Jack comments, pointing at one that has some different shades of brown swirling along the top. 

Claire pipes up in the background, voice thick with amusement. “Hey Dad, are they supposed to have animals on them?”

“Mmmpf,” is all Dean offers in response. “Now you’ll want to put them in the oven on the middle rack, and set a timer for eighteen minutes.”

Castiel follows his instructions, letting Jack place the second tin in alongside the first, even though the adult oven mitts dwarf his hands. Then Castiel inputs “1 - 8” into the timer function of his phone before toggling back over to the call screen. “Done!”

“Step one done!” Dean cheers. Jack does a little dance, and even Claire joins in with a whoop. “Now you’re gonna use those other apple cubes you made. They’ll be the topping for the buttercream.”

“Ah, yes.” Castiel looks at the recipe. “Jack, can you please bring over the brown sugar and cinnamon? And we’ll need a little more butter, too.”

As Jack hustles around, Dean instructs, “Okay, first, grab a saucepan.”

There’s a whole array of pots and pans in the cupboard next to the oven, and Castiel crouches in front of it, contemplating which one Dean means. He must stay quiet a beat too long, because Dean, wearily, asks, “Do you know which one the saucepan is?”

“I presume it’s not the frying pan,” Castiel offers.

“It’s the little pot,” Dean says. “Not the big one for soup, but the one I make cocoa in.”

The pots and pans clang as Castiel lifts out the correct one. “Why is it called a sauce pan when it’s a pot, then?” He places it on the range and smiles at Jack as the boy sets the ingredients next to the stove.

The only sounds from over the line are deep breathing and the growl of Baby’s engine.

“Open your eyes, Dad,” Claire orders nervously. “Meditate later! The light’s green!”

Castiel figures he and Jack will push through until Dean’s ready to join them again. He turns on the burner, then chops the correct amount of butter off the stick and hands the rest to Jack so he can return it to the fridge. Then he puts two teaspoons of water into the pan, since that’s the easiest of the ingredients. 

By then, Dean’s brain seems to be back online, and he sounds much calmer. “Hey Jack, how about you measure out the cinnamon? Your daddy can show you which spoon to use.”

Castiel hands Jack the half teaspoon, and Jack sets about digging into the cinnamon container. The spoon he pulls out is piled high with a rather heaping serving of cinnamon, but Castiel figures it’s a key ingredient in cinnamon apples, so it can’t hurt.

“Great job.” 

Jack carefully stretches his arm up and tips the spoon over the quickly heating pot. He loses a good amount of cinnamon along the way, which Castiel decides makes up for the overfilling. Some of the powder drifts down and must get into Jack’s nose, because he sneezes. 

“Ow, cinnamon burns!” he complains, snorting and honking dramatically.

“What?” Dean demands from over the phone. “What’s burning?”

“My nose,” Jack says miserably. Castiel quickly checks that nothing got into Jack’s eyes, and deems he’s fine.

“Let’s try to keep the ingredients out of our noses,” Dean says. He then mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “didn’t think I’d have to clarify that,” at which Claire laughs, but which Castiel chooses to ignore. He quickly places the butter, the correct amount of brown sugar, and finally the apple cubes into the pot. Then he and Jack look at the mixture.

“Okay, Dean, everything is in the pot. What do we do now?”

“Oh, fantastic, you did that without me.” Dean sounds surprised. “Well, you’ll want to turn on the burner over low heat. First step is to let the sugar dissolve. Grab a whisk, too.” 

Castiel blinks and checks the burner knob. He hadn’t paid attention to how high he’d set the heat; he’d just turned the button. It’s set at 6 out of 10, and Castiel quickly turns it down to 2. “It’s dissolving, all right.” 

“Why is it all bubbles?” Jack asks. 

“No,” Dean says immediately, voice very high. “Um. In which way? Did you whisk it?”

“I just had the burner set too high,” Castiel says soothingly. “I turned it down.”

“Take it off the heat, now,” Dean orders. “Quick.”

Castiel plucks the pot off the burner and sets it on a cool one. “Okay.”

“Now whisk it, do it fast so it has a chance to cool down and the sugar doesn’t start burning.”

That doesn’t sound good. Castiel quickly grabs the whisk and starts stirring the mixture, which calms down quickly. “Nothing burned.”

“Okay, let it sit for another few seconds.” 

Castiel takes the opportunity to move a few of the utensils over to the sink, since things are piling up quickly.

“Has it cooled down to being just warm?” Dean checks.

“Should I put my finger in it?” Jack wonders. 

“Don’t let him put his finger in it!”

“I’m gonna put my finger in it.” Before Castiel can react, Jack plops his finger into the pot. 

“Dean, he put his finger in it,” Castiel says, slightly panicked, as he rushes over.

Dean makes a wounded sound in the background. 

“It’s just warm!” Jack announces.

“Jack, do not put your fingers into anything on the stovetop,” Castiel chastises, wiping Jack’s sugar-buttery finger with a cloth. “That’s dangerous. Next time, let an adult check the temperature.”

Jack wilts. “Sorry.” 

Castiel pulls him into a one-armed hug, but lets the lesson stand.

“You’re gonna give Dean a heart attack,” Claire adds from over the phone. “He almost swerved into oncoming traffic.”

“Dean, please be careful. If you can’t focus on driving, then we need to hang up.”

“Oooh, he told you,” Claire sing-songs. 

“I—” Dean breaks off with a sigh. “Fine. Okay. Put the pot back on the warm burner, please, and whisk it all again.”

The sugar is still a bit grainy, but definitely dissolving. “I have a joke,” Castiel says conversationally as he stirs the mixture. “Do you know what my favorite baking strategy board game is called?”

“What?” Jack and Claire ask simultaneously.

“Whisk,” Castiel says with a flourish. Jack obviously doesn’t quite get it, but Claire giggles.

“You’re really funny,” Dean says, “but I might not laugh, because I’m stressed.” There’s some honking in the background. “God, this really is ridiculous. Claire, I should’ve just walked to get you at this rate.”

It must be truly bad for Dean to say something like that. Castiel decides he’s going to pay close attention to the rest of the recipe and make things easier for Dean on this end. “What’s the next step?” he asks gently.

“Oh, yeah.” Castiel imagines Dean rubbing a palm over his face. “Let the mixture sit and cook, five minutes or so. Enough to let the apple chunks soften. You’ll wanna stir it once in a while.”

Castiel decides not to ask for clarification on how soft right at this very moment. “Sounds good. Jack, let’s try to do a little bit of cleanup between stirring?”

Cleanup is definitely not Jack’s favorite part of helping in the kitchen, but he just blows a big breath up into his bangs and says, “O-kaaay.”

“Dean, we’re going to start a little bit of cleanup,” Castiel says. “But you’re still on speaker.”

“Cleanup is a great idea.” Dean sounds a bit distracted, and Castiel hears Claire say “Oh my god, that guy’s stopped in the middle of the lane, what is happening today.”

Castiel is glad that they’ve reached a point where he can give Dean a break. He whisks the apple mixture once more before starting to move some of the ingredients back to the pantry.

He’s just putting the cinnamon away when a smell hits his nose. A smell he really does not want to be smelling. In the same moment, Jack says “Um, daddy? Is that smoke?”, and a split-second later, the fire alarm goes off.

“What is happening?” Dean shouts, barely audible over the shrill beeping and the new addition of Jack screaming at the loud noise.

“Jack, open the kitchen window!” Castiel orders, hoping Jack hears him, as he races over to the oven. There is indeed smoke puffing out the sides of the door. Thankfully, there are no flames, and he shoves his hands into mitts and wrenches open the oven to pull out the tins of smoking, blackened cupcakes. He quickly turns off the oven and slams the door shut. 

Fire alarms blare all over the first floor, a feedback loop of ear-splitting beeps. Jack huddles next to the island with his hands over his ears and his eyes screwed shut, and amid the cacophony Castiel can make out Dean and Claire shouting as he runs to open the window.

“Are you guys okay?” Dean yells. “Castiel?!”

“Watch the fucking road!” Claire hollers.

“Watch your mouth!” 

“We’re fine!” Castiel bellows into the phone in passing, as he rushes to the hallway to switch off the main alarm. He fumbles with the tiny button for several agonizing seconds until he finally succeeds in silencing the beeping. 

Quiet descends over the house. Head spinning from the chaos, Castiel hurries back to the kitchen and crouches in front of Jack, gently prying his hands off his ears. “Hey, sweetie. It’s okay. I know that was really loud.”

Jack blinks open big, tear-glistening eyes. He hiccups. “Sorry I didn’t help you.”

Castiel gathers him into a hug. “That’s okay. Everyone reacts differently when they get scared.”

“Um, Cas?” Claire’s voice fills the kitchen. “Can you let us know you’re alive? I think Dad’s having a breakdown.”

“Yes, yes, we’re fine.” Castiel stands and picks up the phone. “I���m not sure why my timer didn’t go off, but we forgot to take the cupcakes out of the oven. Dean, I’m sorry, but they burned.” He fumbles with the screen of his phone, and realizes his fatal mistake — he typed the numbers into the timer, but didn’t hit start.

There’s the rustle of a phone changing hands, and then the sound of Dean’s heavy breathing. “It’s fine. It’s totally fine, Cas. I’m just glad you’re okay. No fire?”

“No fire,” Castiel confirms— just as he smells it again. Fresh smoke. Whirling around, his stomach drops as his eyes land on the apple mixture on the stovetop. It’s way past simmering, the sugar having blackened and burnt onto the pot. Tendrils of smoke rise up. 

“Cover your ears, Jack,” Castiel says, and Jack obeys just in time for the alarm to go off again. 

*****

The house still smells vaguely of smoke when Dean and Claire get home. In addition to the smokiness, the house is also completely chilled thanks to all of the windows opened in an attempt to air out the smell. When Castiel and Jack go to greet them at the front door, Jack is bundled up in his scarf as if he’s about to head outside, and Castiel is left wishing that the earth would just open up and swallow him whole.

Claire hides a giggle behind her hand. Dean blinks a few times while he shrugs his jacket off.

“Well, at least you didn’t burn the house down,” he jokes, but Castiel doesn’t have it in him to laugh.

His embarrassment must show on his face because Dean’s expression softens as he walks up to him.

“Hey, it’s all good, Cas. Let’s go see what we’re working with,” Dean says, gently rubbing at Castiel’s arm. Against the crispness of the air, the warmth of Dean’s palm is grounding. He takes Castiel’s hand and guides them back to the kitchen, the children following close behind.

The kitchen is a disaster, and that would be putting it lightly.

Castiel still hasn’t had a chance to clear up all of the flour that Jack whisked around from earlier, the burnt cupcakes are still in the tin, looking sad on the counter, and the saucepan with the blackened filling-attempt is abandoned on the stovetop.

“I’ll clean everything up,” Castiel mutters, letting go of Dean’s hand. “Let me just throw these away, and—”

Castiel goes to grab the cupcake tray, but Dean somehow gets to them before he does. He picks one of the charred, dry masses out of its liner and pops it into his mouth.

The entire family watches in disbelief as Dean chews… and chews… and chews. After what feels like an unnatural amount of time for one bite, Dean finally swallows.

After a long silence, he nods. “Exactly as I intended,” he says with a grin.

Castiel loves this man with all his heart.

“They’re disgusting, Dean,” Castiel says with a laugh.

“Eh.” Dean shrugs, putting down the tray. “They aren’t that bad.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Claire jumps in between the two, plucking a second burnt cupcake out of the mold. She scrunches her face before making up her mind and biting into it.

“Claire, you really don’t need to—”

“I wanna try, too!” Jack squeals, tugging at Claire’s shirt.

He doesn’t get a response, though, because Claire is making a suspiciously high pitched noise that Castiel can’t quite decipher. Her eyes narrow like she’s eating something sour (which is concerning, as there shouldn’t be anything sour in the cupcakes). Once she’s finally done with her bite, she nods slowly, her lips curling in over her teeth. She releases them with a loud smack.

“Well,” she starts thoughtfully. “The crunch of the eggshells was a bit of a surprise. If they were any bigger I’d say they might make me keel over and die, unfortunately.” Then she bursts out laughing.

Castiel would be mortified, but Claire’s joy is a contagious thing. Unbridled laughter is a rare look on the rebellious teenager. An arm wraps around Castiel’s waist, and he feels Dean’s warmth sidle up beside him. The two share a soft smile.

“Ewwww!”

The moment is broken by Jack’s cry. He must have gotten tired of waiting for someone to tell him he can have a bite, because Jack is on his step stool with his mouth, full of burnt cupcake, hanging open. Dean starts cackling, which gets Claire to laugh even harder.

Castiel brings him a paper towel. “Here, Jack. You can spit it out, it’s okay.”

It takes a while, but once Claire’s laughing fit finally dies down, she points at the offending burnt lumps.

“You can’t bring that. Forget Star Baker, you’re going to make someone sick.”

Dean shrugs. “I’ve got enough of the ingredients. I’ll make another batch.”

“I’ll help,” Castiel offers, earning a sideways glance from Dean. Even as his cheeks heat, he crosses his arms. “I’m perfectly capable of assisting as long as you’re here to do the actual baking.”

Dean chuckles. “I guess having a sous chef will help move things along.” He assesses Castiel with an arched brow. It’s a look that Dean often praises Castiel for, but Dean pulls it off just as well. A gentle heat starts to bloom deep in Castiel’s stomach.

“Ew. You two are gross.” Claire cringes. Then, after another glance around the kitchen, she asks, “So what are we going to do for dinner? I don’t see anyone cooking tonight.”

Before Castiel, who somehow managed to completely forget about dinner, even has a chance to panic, Dean steps in.

“Let’s just order a pizza. They’re on this side of the traffic—quick and easy.” He winks at Castiel.

Castiel leans on him, gratitude filling his chest. In the past, the extra stress of having forgotten dinner might have overwhelmed him, but now he has Dean's support to make it through these moments.

In the end, the evening isn’t the nightmare Castiel expected it to be. It even turns out to be quite pleasant.

The four of them sit in the family room with their two extra large pizzas (Castiel learned early in their relationship that Dean practically needs his own pie), watching an old episode of MasterChef Junior. Dean pauses every five minutes to explain the techniques being shown until Claire eventually gets impatient and snatches the remote away from him. It doesn’t stop Jack from snuggling up to Dean and asking him more questions as the episode goes on.

After dinner, Claire offers to help with Jack’s bedtime routine.

Castiel smiles apologetically. “Would you mind?”

“Nah. You can pay me in cupcakes.” Claire grins, reaching across the sofa to ruffle Jack’s hair. “Do you mind, Jack?”

“Bedtime with Claire? It’s my favorite!” Jack looks at them with a toothy grin.

“Your favorite? What am I, chopped liver?” Dean exclaims with mock offense.

The idiom is lost on Jack (to be fair, the saying makes little sense—many cultures prefer to eat the liver of animals), who tilts his head to the side.

“Not my fault that you just aren’t as fun as I am.” Claire winks at her father. “I’ll be in my room with my headphones after story time. Please don’t have too much fun down here. It’s a shared space.”

Dean sputters an incoherent response, a blush quickly rising to his cheek and ears.

Castiel cocks his head. “We’re just making cupcakes.”

“Mm-hmm,” Claire replies, clearly unconvinced. But she sits through Jack’s goodnights without another snide comment.

*****

It’s near midnight and Castiel feels like he owes Claire an apology.

Turns out buttercream can be a lot of fun when made right, with the right person.

[beauty1sempty]

i love tumblr and pinterest sm it’s like frolicking through fields while wearing a white flowing dress and flower crowns if it was online

[housewilson]

Six Feet Under | 1x03 The Foot

[littlemissartemisia]

Any missing turtles?

[365filmsbyauroranocte]

The Myth of the American Sleepover (David Robert Mitchell, 2010)

[ogenoger]

& I liked it

[cxndiedvi0lets]

[phoebepheebsphibs]

Hey, Wait a Minute.... Where's Claire?

@littlemissartemisia @tmntaucompetition

Prev || Next

Claire paced angrily back and forth as she waited. Patience was not her strongest attribute.

Where was he? He wasn't the type to be late. Maybe it was her. Maybe it was this place. Time didn't seem to exist in this arena... or at the very least, it didn't flow properly. It was a bit screwy in this dimension. It wasn't as if there was a son or moon or stars to measure the passage of time! There were some clocks, but those were more like general estimations than actual time-telling. One minute could pass in your home dimension, and it would have been a full week here. Or, one hour could go by here and it would have been a month on the outside. One end of the compound could move faster than the other. It was all relative, fluctuating, and nothing seemed scientifically plausible. So, while her wristwatch said that she'd sent the message and invitation to the TMNT AU Competitions to Baron Draxum only a few hours ago, it felt like it had actually been weeks!

A pink and magenta portal suddenly appeared a few feet away from her. Finally, he was here.

Draxum slowly stepped through, his gargoyles perched atop his shoulders as he looked around, scanning the compounds with a mix of caution and curiosity.

"How interesting..." he murmured.

"Glad to see you finally made it," Claire grumbled, crossing her arms.

"I wasn't sure the coordinates you gave me were correct, they didn't lead to anywhere on our plane of existence," Draxum noted. "But after some thorough examination, I saw that there was a pocket universe hidden within the destination. After that, it was simply a matter of finding the correct potions and spells to infiltrate without being seen, as per your instructions."

"Took you long enough. But I'm glad you're here," she said. "We have work to do."

"So I gathered from your message. You said that the subject is here?"

"Not just her," Claire said with a wicked grin. "This whole place is filled with variants of your original experiments! And even more! There are even some that were actually raised by their universe's version of you."

"Really? Hmm. I should like to see that..." Draxum said, grinning as he considered what these variants would look like. They must be the most effective warriors, strong and able-bodied and fearsome and cutthroat.

"Ooh, I wonder what Draxum would be like as a father," Huginn chuckled. "I'm sure he would be loving and caring as always!"

"You'll probably see soon enough," Claire noted. "But first, our plans."

"You didn't say much in your message. Crypticity does not become you," Draxum said, gritting his teeth. "I don't think I need to remind you that I dislike being summoned as though I were some resource you can play with when it suits you. I am a busy Yokai, Claire. You and your little Artemisia are not the only mutant turtles I am preoccupied with."

"I know, but this will be worth your while!" she promised, her voice raising in excitement.

"Prove it."

"How would you like to have not one, but FIVE experiments?"

"Five?" Draxum repeated, unsure if she was jesting or being serious.

"Misa is travelling with an alternate version of the teenage mutant ninja turtles that you created all those years ago. They are essentially the same, with the same genetics and similar traits as yours. And most of them have been reverted back to their early childhood, which means they would be extremely pliable and easy for you to manipulate, while also being just old enough to understand orders and be capable minions!"

"And you couldn't capture them on your own? Five little toddlers?" Draxum huffed. "I wonder if I should be disgusted by your lack of skill, or impressed by their abilities."

"Do not blame her, they are not alone," said a voice from behind Claire's head.

The Hand.PNG slowly crawled around, perching itself on her shoulder, almost mimicking Huginn and Muninn, who recoiled in disgust at the thing.

"The turtle tots are traveling with three young adults. They shall not be easy to defeat, mind you. But you may leave that to me."

"And who exactly are you?" Draxum questioned.

"This is the hand I wrote you about; it told me how to capture the specimens," Claire explained quickly.

"And why would it do that?" he growled, sensing some ulterior motive within the disembodied appendage. "What would you have to gain?"

"I have nothing to gain, expect the fulfilment of my purpose."

"What purpose is that? Are you some enemy of the turtles, that you would want to see them captured by me?" Draxum challenged.

"I am not their enemy, though most would think of me as such. I am a prompter, my purpose is to continue the story, to get it moving, keep it flowing. For the time being, that means assisting you in capturing Misa and the turtle tots. Now, I must go..."

"Go?" Draxum questioned, still unsure of the hand's motives.

"Yes. As of right now, the odds are not in your favour. I must set this right. By tomorrow, you shall have the upper hand. Ahem, so to speak. All I need do is change the perspective of one particular player in this act, and the scene shall be set."

The Hand.PNG jumped down from Claire's shoulders and skittered away.

"...I don't trust it," Draxum growled low.

"I don't either. When I first met it, the Hand said something about how it didn't want to hurt Misa, but would let me do it. I'm not sure what goal it's working towards... but I can't see any reason for it to betray us," Claire explained. "For the moment, it seems to be on our side. I say we wait a bit before killing off the golden goose, hm?"

"Fair enough," Draxum sighed. "But you still have yet to tell me why I am here."

"Oh, right! Well, these variants that Artemisia is travelling with? One of them is named 'Donatello Von Draxum', sound familiar? Apparently he was raised by you in his world, and until just recently, he was your loyal little soldier. And that's where you come in..."

Claire continued to explain the plot that she'd been given, as the Hand.PNG followed it's favourite playthings to their rooms... its new story unfolding, its plan coming together.

Although, it had not been completely honest with them... yes, it had plans for Donatello, but there was one other person whose perspective it planned to change...

[starry-eyed-adam]

they r going to illegally experiment on you

@littlemissartemisia she deserves to be an ominous villain. where is Claire’s evil arc.

unfiltered version below vv

[evediaphoenix1123]

Reposting this because like- I forgot tags

[milfcodeddean]

I think dean would love being a “girldad” and they were cowards for not letting him keep his daughter.

[beauty1sempty]

it’s so weird how going outside actually helps improve mental health...srry for being inactive!!

[jimiscribif]

Finally finished my color wheel! My only theme was using characters from eight different fandoms

[niobe-loreley]

Heaven Is In A Shortcake {xvii}

AND NOW~ IT WAS TIME~ FOR TUMBLR TO DROWN IN THE SWEET SORROW OF THIS FIC'S 17TH CHAPTER

disclaimer: The Gray Man and the characters are NOT mine, even the reader. I only own the plot and the reader's character lol. Pictures used in the fic are NOT MINE, but only the edited version (u can msg me if u ze owner); credits to the rightful owners and canva + weheartit. Additionally, I am not a Subic/Zambales native, so my apologies for any wrong locations, descriptions, or languages.

Six x F!Reader / Courtland Gentry x Female Reader

warnings: moderate amount of swear words. some filipino dialogues. slow burn. fluff. trust issues. dramaramramamama. comedy if you use a magnifying glass. culture shock. word count check. slightly proofread/revised.

CHAPTER SELECTION IS IN THE ✨Masterlist✨ Chapter 16 was the icon Chapter 17 is the legend

word count: 3.9k (N/N) = nickname *Kiara = Clare *Kurt = Court *cover names = reader doesn't know YET (except you do know #wreckthe4thwall)

This has got to be kidnapping.

Yet how can it be when you're not even verbally struggling to escape?

The only physical binding you have is your sprained ankle. If you didn't have that, you can easily jump out of the car.

But you dare not anger Court any further. He might not let you leave them until you ripen of old age.

Would that be so bad, though?

You blush, sharply averting your gaze out the window as if it would throw the thought away. Being with Court and Claire in less than three hours for thrice a week should be enough for friends hanging out.

Right?

So, why are you wishing for more time?

Why are you always at the edge of your seat waiting for them?

Why is it always hard to watch them walk out of the cafe without you?

The answers are obvious. You just don't want to indulge them again, especially after what happened tonight.

"Home runnnn!" Claire shouts happily as she races through the garage. She certainly looked like she batted a ball out of the field, arms raised overhead, open-mouthed grin, and keys dangling noisily.

You and Court stay silent as Claire unlocks the door. He has you in his arms again, but you don't breathe a complaint this time.

"Want to take a bath, (N/N)?" Claire asks when the three of you entered the guestroom.

You nod. "Sure, that'd be grand."

Court gently sets you down on the bed. "Do you, um, need help?" he questions with a red face, "Taking a bath?"

You laugh. "I'm not that incapacitated, dude. Just get me a chair, towel, and clothes."

"Here's a towel!" Claire gets one from the closet and deposits it on the bed in a flash, "I'll go get a plastic chair!"

She's out of the room before either of you can blink.

"What a proactive teen," you comment amusedly before the silence becomes awkward.

Court snorts in agreement, looks at you for a few seconds, and turns away. "Hey, listen, you can borrow my clothes for the time being."

"Do you have my kind of underwear this time?" you tease.

"About the underwear.. we can buy some tomorrow morning." Court awkwardly rubs his nape, "There's a— what do you call this.. a small market at the park tomorrow. It's always there every Saturday, from 6 AM to 10 AM."

"A tiangge?"

"Yeah, that!"

"Alright, it'd probably be good for me to walk around tomorrow."

"Who says you'll be walking around?"

"Uh, I did?"

"No, you're staying in the car."

"What?"

"My house, my car, my rules."

You chuckle. "Court, seriously.. what are you doing? This is rather sweet and all, but you're lowkey scaring me." you swiftly add to ease his growing anxiety, "It's scary in a funny way, actually. But I'm getting worried that you're over-worrying about me."

He glances down at the floor. "Isn't this what friends do?" and peers at you with eyes so dubious it's as though he doesn't know the meaning of friends.

"Yeah, it is.. and I would do the same for you, it's just that…" you look straight into his eyes, "This kind of overworrying feels different. I can't help but think it feels different. This, us, we.. feel different. But I don't want to think it does, I want to know." 

You're quick to realize what you just said, their weight and meaning, so you let out a loud laugh. Hopefully it will dispel your statements.

"Or maybe it's just me!— Me being silly ol' me," you snicker.

Yet Court is looking at you as though he understands the facade you're wearing.

"What's so funny?" Claire drags a monoblock chair into the room.

You shake your head. "I was just mimicking Flint Lockwood."

"You know Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs?!"

"Know it? I've watched it a hundred times!"

"There! Good as new!" Claire declares, satisfied.

After taking a bath, the father-daughter duo helped you with your wounds again. Claire has just finished bandaging your elbow. While Court went to get another compression bandage after leaving an ice pack on your ankle.

"Kiara.. may I ask you something?"

She snorts. "Of course. And no need to be all formal."

"How did you and Kurt find me?"

Claire freezes, the look on her face somewhat resembles a search engine loading continuously due to a weak internet. "Um, well.. we were going to invite you to watch a movie with us," she smiles sheepishly, "It's Friday. And it's been a while.

"Anyway, we knew you were going to Lillia's, so we turned around and drove to the hotel. We got there just as you were being chased."

You resist a shudder when you hear derisive howling in your ears. You wonder how long those guys will be in your mind, their laughs and hoots bouncing back and forth, reverberating your skull.

"I'm glad you two turned around," you smile at Claire with glassy eyes. "Thank you, Kiara."

She's stunned until tears brim her eyes. But Claire doesn't let them fall. "Don't just thank me. It's Six who beat their asses," she snickers.

"Who?" you ask.

"What?" Claire replies and freezes in realization.

"(Y/N), are you hungry?" Court inquires, sidling in the room.

"No, thank you." you glance at him from head to toe, "How about you? Didn't all that ass kicking got you starving?"

"Not really." Court sits on a chair at the edge of the bed. He takes off the ice pack from your ankle, which he towel-dries before he mindfully wraps a compression bandage around it.

He's too focused on your sprain while you're so engrossed watching him that neither of you notice Claire sneaking out of the room.

"Hey, can you come over here and hand me the ice pack?"

Court just finishes bandaging your sprain. Yet he wastes no time obliging you. This, again, neither of you notices.

"You found another welt on you?" he asks, sounding like he's half-joking (but he's not).

You snatch the ice pack from him and press it up against his left jaw. Court is monumentally unprepared for the "assault" that he winces in pain.

"Nope! Found a bruise on you, though." you say, snickering.

Court lets the astonishment wash over him. "You notice that?" he asks, somewhat amazed.

"At first, I thought it was a tattoo."

"Really?"

"No, I'm joking."

"Oh.."

You snort. "Doofus."

"Twerp," he fires back, flaring.

You double over, laughing. But you still have the ice pack steady on his jaw. "Sometimes you're a sore loser," you examine his face for any more injuries, but it's hard when he's scrunching it up to a scowl. "No, scratch that, you are one."

"And you're just infuriating. All. The. Time." he remarks with hardening emphasis.

"But you love me," you intone jokingly.

Court stares at you, astounded. And as the blood creep up his face, your laugh dies down in shame.

He knows you're joking, right?

You know you were joking.. right?

Sure, you like-like him, but you wouldn't call it love. Infatuation is more like it. Or stirrings, as Captain Jack Sparrow termed it.

Your inner self gives you an unimpressed look.

'Ok, fine.. feelings.'

Court calls your name.

"Huh? What?" you snap out of your stupor.

Court grabs the ice pack from you and off his jaw. "I asked if you want to call somebody." he says with genuine concern.

"Oh… I don't think I can talk to anybody about what happened just yet."

"Okay," he pauses, "Sorry.. I thought you'd feel better if you talked to Mindy. Or maybe Erick."

You chuckle. "I would if we were still dating."

Court blinks at you.

You elaborate. "I mean, we were only dating. He's not really my boyfriend in the first place."

"So… You two aren't dating anymore?" Court asks.

"That's right." you nod and pretend like your heart is not leaping up your throat because of what you plan to say next. "I told Erick I can't  date him anymore because I realized I already like someone else. Even before him."

"So," he hums inquisitively, "You're dating this someone now?"

You shake your head, smiling sadly. "No, I haven't told him I like him yet."

He gulps. "Why is that?"

"Because after what happened tonight, as much as I want him to know.. I don't want him to think it's because he saved me."

Court is looking at you like you're a thousand-piece puzzle.

You blush. "I know I've liked this guy for a long while now. And I know this isn't the right time, but.. I'm idiotically still trying to tell him. That I like him."

Silence spreads to every corner of the room. And if it weren't for the crickets serenading outside, the silence would be awkward the way it should be.

Court is still saying nothing. He has his eyes on the floor and you have no idea what's going on in his mind.

Typically, you're that friend who advises their other friends to just say it— do it!— Don't ride the merry-go-around.

Yet here you are, dangling on one of the carousel horses as it spins for all eternity.

"You should get some rest." Court says finally.

"Huh?"

"I said, you should get some rest."

"Oh… That's what I thought you said."

He hauls out something from his jacket pocket. "Here.. the channel is all set," he nods at the walkie-talkie, "Keep it open and call me as soon as you need me— or anything."

"Sure," you grab the device absentmindedly. "Good night."

"Good night."

And then he leaves, shutting the door behind him.

You look at the transceiver, place it on the bedside drawer, and expel a hefty sigh. "Ang tanga mo talaga," you tell yourself, forcibly lying down. "Stupid, stupid, stupid! You should've just told him!— Why didn't you tell him? Oh right, because I'm an idiotic, no good, shit for brains, twat!"

A sharp twinge rises up your leg as a scratching pain erupts from the rest of your body. "Ow, ow, ow," you stop thrashing, slowly placing your sprained ankle atop the pillow it was on. You sigh exasperatedly, "I'm such a dumbass."

"You're such a dumbass!"

"Excuse me?" Court glares at Claire over his shoulder as they climb up the stairs.

She rolls her eyes. "Her message was as clear as the archipelago sun!"

"Whose?"

"(N/N), duh!"

He furrows his brows. "What message?"

She snaps her fingers. "And that's why you're such a dumbass."

"Fine. Whatever. Just get to bed."

"Fine! Let's all see how this stupidity between you and (N/N) plays out!"

Claire storms in her room and noisily shuts the door before Court can retort. He ponders what she's got to be mad about.

He takes a short bath, sets another set of clothes aside for you, and checks the house's security.

No one's after you three.

That's not just why Court suggested you stay with them for a few days. This is better than you staying all night at the cafe alone. And like hell he'll ever leave you alone after what happened tonight.

Court checks the handgun under his pillow as he looks at the guestroom's feed.

If someone did come after them, he'll have no choice but to take you with him and Claire.

Suddenly, he recalls what you said earlier as he lays on the bed.

"...as much as I want him to know.. I don't want him to think it's because he saved me."

You're not talking about him, right?

"I know I've liked this guy for a long while now—"

There's just no way, right?

"—And I know this isn't the right time, but.. I'm idiotically still trying to tell him. That I like him."

Court abruptly sits upright. "Fuck!" he breathes out, wishing he can do the same to the heat in his cheeks. "Don't do this to yourself, man. You're 100% uncertain."

Maybe you were just delirious from the trauma.

Yeah, that's plausible. 

But also worrisome.

Court glances over to his desk, where the security feed is showing any events live inside, outside, and ten meters around the house. But he's focused on one feed: the guestroom.

You're fast asleep already. And how you're so unmoving sets paranoia ablaze in his veins. 

He has the right to worry, right?

So, it's okay for him to switch on the guestroom's camera audio and cranks it up until he hears your breathing, right?

He puts on one earbud and doesn't dwell on the fact that what he's doing is downright creepy.

Setting up a tablet beside him on the bed, Court finds the security feed on the device. He then lies back down and tries closing his ends. Not after a minute, he ends up watching you on the screen.

'Hopeless..'

He ignores his demons snickering at him.

As he continues eyeing the security feed of the premises, particularly you, Court doesn't realize he fell asleep.

Until he hears you scream.

"NO! NO! STOP— PLEASE!"

Court practically becomes The Flash. He bolts down to the guestroom before his eyes can fully open.

He shouts your name as he bursts in the room. Opening the lights, he finds that you have no (external) attacker.

You're sitting down, yet you looked like you ran a marathon. "Hey, Kurt," you wipe the cold sweat off your brow. "I'm so sorry for waking you."

He stammers. "No. Not really, I.. I just got up to get some water."

You glance at the time, 1:35 AM. "Still, sorry for disturbing you and shit."

Court sighs. "Stop apologizing. How many times do I have to tell you?"

"Maybe 99 more to get it through my thick skull?"

"That's probably not enough."

You laugh, shaking your head, and you scratch behind your ear. "Did I wake Claire up, too?"

Court glances out the door when he hears footsteps. Claire carefully rounds the corner, armed with a handgun dipped towards the floor. 

"No, she's still asleep." he blankly says as he turns back to you.

You heave a brow. "Why are you lying?"

Court is taken aback. Was he that obvious? No one can usually read him, not even Claire; although, Donald and Margaret used to.

"Oh, Claire!" you holler in a singsong voice.

The teen reluctantly peers in the room, hiding her weapon behind her. "H-Hiya," she smiles nervously.

You chuckle. "The two of you should get back to bed. I'm sorry for getting you out of there in the first place."

"It wasn't your fault you had a nightmare, (N/N)." says Claire. "Would—"

"Would you like some company?" Court asks just before the teen could. He looks at her in befuddlement, while she sneers maniacally at him.

"No, you two should rest." you give a small smile, "I'll be fine."

Except you didn't get to be.

For the past three hours, you've woken up from several nightmares. Only a few of them did you wake up screaming. Sometimes you can't even sleep immediately because it takes you back to the same bad dream. 

It takes all of Court's might not to barge back in the guestroom, lay down next to you, and kick all those nightmares in the ass.

After your first nightmare, Court hasn't slept a wink. He returned to his room and watched you through the security feed. When you've had your second nightmare, he quickly sets up the sandbag in his room and starts whaling on it.

But there's only so much that he can take from hearing your cries. He tried muting your security feed, yet for some reason, it's worse than before.

So, Court has selfishly decided that you need someone with you tonight. Whether you like it or not. 

He waited until you're back in deep sleep after a nightmare.

Without little to no sound, Court sneaks into the guestroom and places a chair beside the bed. And as he sits there, it just hits him that he doesn't know what the fuck to do. You'll probably have a heart attack when you wake up and find him staring at you.

How should he comfort you?

He pinches himself when the first thought he has is to get in bed with you. There's got to be another way other than that— it'll be the last resort.

You suddenly let out a grunt, stirring, and Court flinches, readying to flee. But you're still asleep. It's another nightmare.

Court spots your clenched fist and tightens his jaw. He looks at your grimacing face, and for some reason, it's similar to your concentrating face. Now, here's a thought: what if you're suppressing yourself for him and Claire? So that you won't wake them up because of your nightmares.

He chuckles in both disbelief and admiration. That'd truly be you. Even when you're having trouble, you're still looking after them.

Breathing in and out, Court takes your balled hand in both of his. He strokes your fist, tracing patterns on your skin until he feels your muscles release their contraction. Gently, he unfurls your tightened fingers and soothes them one by one.

Compared to his, your appendages are small and smooth. It astonishes him how a hard worker such as yourself has dainty hands. But he stands corrected when he feels a few callouses. Nevertheless, your hand fascinates him.

What would it feel like to hold both of your hands in his own?

The thought is cut short when he feels crescent marks on your palm. Court frowns at that and then at you. "Idiot.. stop taking on everything by yourself," he whispers and carefully holds your hand in both of his. "I'll be here for you, (Y/N). I am here. You just.. gotta see me."

For the second time tonight, Court has fallen asleep watching you.

And once again, you're the one to wake him. But not with a scream this time.

"Court," you softly call, tugging on his hands.

With his name like a feather on your lips, everything within him stirs wildly into life. But he doesn't show that effect you have on him.

He slowly rises from slumping on the bed. "Hey, sorry, did I scare you?" he blurts out with one eye still closed.

You chuckle. "No, you didn't."

"Get back to sleep. I'll just be here."

"Why don't you..?"

"Hm?" Court blinks at you curiously.

You fight back the blush, scoot further in the bed, and pat the space beside you. "I don't think you're comfortable there. Why don't you sleep here instead?"

He gulps. "Aren't you gonna ask me what I'm doing here first?"

"Will you answer me honestly? Or tell me to shut up and rest?" you question amusedly.

"Both?" he stifles a grin.

You shortly laugh before you tug him towards you. It doesn't take long for him to fold. Just you holding his hand is enough to make Court roll over for you.

He worriedly climbs in the bed—

"Oh, wait!"

"What?!"

"Let's switch."

".. Why?"

You redden. "I don't want you sleeping on my sweat, man! Understand?!"

He looks at you for a few seconds and sputters out a laugh. "Alright, fine," he says before you can chastise him for laughing. You scoot over as he rounds the bed, "There. Happy?"

"Very," you nod and settle down.

"Oh, wait!" he exclaims this time.

"What?!"

Court returns to his room to retrieve his clothes that you were going to wear later in the morning. "Change. You stink." he chucks them to you, sneering.

"Go away, then." you snarl.

"Like hell I would."

"Just turn around, moron!"

He obliges, snickering, and when he faces away from you, horrific realization strikes like vicious lightning across his chest. 

You're undressing. With him still in the room. And it's just the two of you. Has he mentioned that you're currently undressing?

His demons are biting into the side of his neck, yanking at him to look over at you. This is bad. His self-control is losing a lot of blood.

"Need any help?"

Yup, that's significant blood loss right there.

"No, I got this. Thanks, Kurt."

After an eternity (minute) of suffering..

"Done!" you exhale, relieved.

And so did Court. 

He rigidly gets in the bed without glancing at you. His self-control needs recharging, it doesn't help that you're half-an-arms length away. But even just a visual on you is lethal.

The two of you are staring at the ceiling. Until you turn your head to Court, just as he risks a glance at you. His self-control can't charge anymore.

You grin apologetically. "Sorry for keeping you up. Let's get some rest," and roll on your side, facing away from him. "Good night."

"Yeah, night." he replies, staring at your back.

Before horrendous thoughts can start invading his mind, Court notices something amusing. 

He stifles a grin, his shirt is like a blanket on you. The way it hangs on you with too many folds screams that you're wearing an extremely baggy top. It'll never not be entertaining to have you in his clothes. What's more, only ⅓ of your feet are sticking out the hem of his joggers.

This time, Court doesn't fall asleep watching you. Because with you up close, he's granted visual acuity to scrutinize you evenly.

Your hair doesn't appear damp despite the cold sweat you're experiencing from the nightmares.

The curve of your shoulder somewhat displays tenacity and elegance simultaneously.

How can such a tiny body hold so much strength and carry such burdens?

Eventually, the nightmares are back. And Court is ready for them.

As soon as you're stirring abnormally and moaning in fear, Court props onto his elbow and carefully grabs your shoulder. He calls your name, shaking you gently.

You jolt awake, breathing heavily. "Court," you look at him, the fear in your wide eyes diminishing gradually. "Did I wake you?"

"No," says Court, steeling his resolve. "Come here."

You almost didn't understand what he said. Until he pulls you to him. And you move compliantly.

Court shimmies his arm under your head, while the other clutches your waist, pulling you closer until there's no space between your back and his chest.

You stifle a squeak when he slips a leg between yours. "Sorry," he says in your hair, "Just gotta get this.."

He clasps the edge of the pillow with his toes and carefully reels it. "Lift your left leg up," he tells you, and you oblige. He leaves the pillow between your legs and grabs the one you lifted. "You can put this down now."

He helps you in setting your sprained ankle down on the pillow.

"Good girl."

Oh, damn..

Thank the heavens you're not facing him right now. He'd probably mistake your face for a stove.

"No nightmare is getting to you now."

"Huh?"

You feel him moving his face against the back of your head.

"I said," he pauses, voice low, breaths fanning on your ear. "No nightmare is getting to you now. Because I'm protecting you."

Your heart finds it hard to go back to its place after cartwheeling up your throat. And when it's reminded of the position you and Court are presently in, your heart threatens to roll out your mouth.

"The nightmares are in my head, though." you chuckle, placing a hand on the arm you're resting your head on, you reach for his hand. "Thank you."

Court watches, with fireworks gleefully exploding in his chest, as you intertwine your hand with his. When the festivities calm down, he gives your hand a squeeze.

"You're always welcome, (Y/N)."

A/N: these chapters will be all FOR NOW~ I am continuing this fic y'all, albeit it'll be from time to time (ehem month to month huhuhuhu)

The door to Chapter 18 is blocked

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[littlemissartemisia]

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Special interest? Triggered.

I will now talk about the movie breakfast club for 4 hours straight.