whatever-the-fucky-i-writes - Tumblr blog

[whatever-the-fucky-i-writes]

I Have Horrible Timing

I’m back from the dead. Hello. But only temporarily.

Life’s still keeping me busy but I thought I’d pop in to say that, even though it looks as if Tumblr’s going to hell in handbasket, I’ll be staying and continuing to write on here (or just say I do because I upload jackshit let’s be real).

I haven’t posted anything with a gif that would be considered explicit and I’m fairly certain nothing I’ve written qualifies either so I see no harm in staying.

But in case my calculations were off, I also made an AO3 where I will also post what little I write.

That’s all for now. Deuces.

[whatever-the-fucky-i-writes]

Okay so I’m a horrible liar

I’ve been doing alot of research and I’m realizing that my fic that I thought was coming along pretty well actually needs a ton of work. Like... major work. 

It’s a little out of my comfort zone for writing but I really want to be able to do this justice and not have it be absolutely shitty so I think I’m pretty much going to have to scrap what I have and rework it all.

On top of that, pretty much any consistent time I had to write is gone between work and classes so while I really will try my best to have it out sometime this century, I’m going to stop trying to give a time frame because I have no way to know if I’ll be able to stick to it.

I’m sorry if this comes as a disappointment to anyone, but I’ll continue to try my best.

[whatever-the-fucky-i-writes]

Coming Soon! (Hopefully)

Alright, so I’ve finished typing up the first part of my new song fic! It’s pretty much ready to go, I just have a few last edits to make. So hopefully with a light polishing, it’ll be up within the week!

I’m going to apologize again for how long it’s taking me. I pretty much have a couple hours two days a week to write and edit and stuff so that’s been hindering how much progress I’m able to make.

But the first part is almost done and I hope that makes up for it. 

[whatever-the-fucky-i-writes]

Upcoming Fic

So... it’s been a little longer than I intended, but have no fear! A new fic is on it’s way! I’ve been writing it out and it’s coming together quite nicely if I do say so myself.

I’m quickly learning that I’m a wordy-ass bitch so what I was hoping to be a short oneshot will probably end up being a mini-series. It’s looking like it’ll be around three parts long. I have some time tomorrow that I’m hoping I’ll be able to dedicate to writing some more so depending on how long the next section ends up being, I may decide to post it as a long oneshot. We’ll just have to wait and see...

But I’ve finished the first section and I’m in the process of typing it up (I wrote it in a notebook because the mood struck me and I didn’t have my laptop handy) so at least there’s that. Hopefully I’ll be able to have something up within the next few days. See you all then! (or not really, I don’t see people through this website that’d be weird meh whatever)

[whatever-the-fucky-i-writes]

So... What’s Next?

So now that I’ve finished posting my first couple series, what am I going to be posting now?

I’ve got a few smaller fics in the works, mostly a few oneshots based off of songs. Most of them are just outlines at the moment, although there is one I am in the process of writing out. I don’t know when that one will be done, although I hope it won’t be too long.

Just as a friendly reminder, requests are open so if anyone has any ideas they want me to write, just hit me up! I’m pretty open as far as what I’ll write and whom I’ll write for, my only big rule so far is that I don’t really want to write hardcore smut.

And since I’m a horrible human being, I’ll mention that I’ve had something big floating around in my head for quite a while. I’ve written out a few scenes so far, but it still needs a lot of work before I would be comfortable posting it so it’s not happening any time soon, but it’s out there.

[whatever-the-fucky-i-writes]

Shadows Dance - Part 4 (Final)

Word Count: 3,676

Pairing: Bucky x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Death, Mentions of torture, Blood, Swearing, One mention of drug use

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3

Series Masterlist

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters from the MCU.

Tags: @beccaanne814   @winterbvrnes

Author’s Note: This is it! It feels almost surreal? Idk, this was a WIP for so long and now it’s out there and it’s complete and it’s a definately a feeling I’ll have to get used to. Thank you all so much for the likes and reblogs and the support! It means so much to me! A special note for this last chapter - even though I based this series off a Linkin Park song, I may or may not have also taken a little inspiration for this last part from Javert’s song Stars and Javert’s Suicide (don’t worry, I don’t include any form of suicidal thoughts or actions in this fic, it’s just the song’s title) from Les Misérables. I hope you all enjoy this last part!

Previously: “Yes, a thousand times yes. I understand what I’m doing. I want this. I want… us. We need to be whole to do this.” The glass seemed to disappear as she said, “Then bring it here, sister.” You both walked the couple steps to each other as you met her in an embrace. You could feel her becoming one with you as a dark glow enveloped you both. And you knew that there was no coming back from this. You just hoped it worked…

         The whole thing felt like a few minutes to you, but in truth it was only a few moments. And when you opened your eyes, they were pitch black. You summoned all of what little energy you had left to turn around and knock Major’s gun away before you slammed your hand into his head and held it there, your palm in contact with the center. You concentrated on the bright energy at his center, making it flow out of him and into you, your darkness consuming it. After a second, it was over and his body fell to the floor, his skin a deathly grey as you took a deep breath, reveling in the energy you had consumed, now hungry for more. The agents who had simply stood there in shock now seemed to be coming back to their senses. A devilish smirk grew on your face. ‘Oh, this is going to be… fun,’ you thought. 

        Black energy swirled around your hands as you let your anger and rage at what they had put you and your Bucky through consume you, summoning forth the shadows and bidding them to do your will. Shadowy hands that resembled wisps of smoke emerged from the walls, pulling the soldiers into the blackness you had summoned, giving you their energy which you used to create shadow warriors all around you to fight the agents you could not. You began cutting down their ranks, each time consuming their energy. Some of them you simply shot, you had no need for their life force. But with others you indulged yourself, feeding the hunger which, in the furthest recess of your mind, you knew would become a constant companion in the times to come. But the hunger was all-consuming and you didn’t even register that fact. You just continued to feed and feed and feed. Any bullets that were fired at you were swallowed up by their own shadows. You and your warriors worked in sync. They held off the Hydra agents that attempted to get to you until you got around to killing them. And if they did happen to kill an agent, no matter! Their energy was simply transferred to you. And you couldn’t be bothered to see it, but all Bucky could do was watch you fight in both awe and horror. For you were truly a force to be reckoned with as you cut down every last Hydra operative.

        A few minutes later, all that was left of the masses of agents were their grey bodies strewn about on the floor. You looked around and marveled at your work, basking in the glory, your hunger finally sated… for now. You were so caught up in your reverie that you had completely forgotten about Bucky’s presence, until he shifted as he tried to stand up. Your head whipped to the side, your eyes still pitch black. All you could see was how bright his energy was, how it throbbed, beckoning to you as you slowly stalked over towards him. Panicking, he put his hands in front of him, pleading,

        “(Y/N), please, no. You know me! Bucky!” But his pleas fell deaf ears and you didn’t stop until your hand was just about to touch his forehead. Because just as you were about to drain him of his life, you looked into his eyes. Those eyes… you knew them… They would look at you warily from across the room when you first became a part of the Avengers. They would shine with laughter after you and him pranked Sam or Steve. They would always seem to sparkle whenever you two were just hanging out, watching a movie, reading books, or even just in each other’s presence. And they looked up at you now with unfathomable sadness and yet, somehow, understanding.

        “Bucky?” You muttered, falling to your knees in front of him, your hands going to cradle his face as the shadowy mists surrounding them dissipated and your eyes returned to their normal color. “Oh God! Bucky!” You quickly wrapped him in a hug, clinging on to him as if your life depended on it. Both your bodies shook with silent sobs of relief. Pulling back, your hands went back to his face as you apologized profusely, “I’m so so so so sorry! I could’ve killed you! I would’ve killed you!” You were on standing on the precipice of hysteria, in danger of falling off, until he raised his hands to stroke your cheeks as he wiped away your tears.

        “But you didn’t. We’re both still here. That’s all that matters.”

        “Please, forgive me.”

        “There’s nothing to forgive. Now what do you say we get the fuck out of here?” A small smile slowly spread across his face.

        “That sounds like a great idea. I don’t want to spend another minute here. Are you good?”

        “Yeah, I’m good to go.” However, as you both made to stand, Bucky faltered, falling back down to a knee. “Sorry, guess I’m not as good as I thought I was.” In his condition, he wouldn’t even make it outside the base much less back to civilization. Luckily, you’d just had an idea.

        “Do you trust me?” you asked, biting your lip.

        “‘Course I trust ya,” Bucky replied, sounding a little out of breath.

        “Just relax,” you said in a soothing tone as you slowly raised your hand to his head, eyes never leaving his, looking for a sign to stop. Once your palm was on his forehead, you closed your eyes and focused inwards, this time looking for a little bit of the excess energy you’d consumed, hoping you’d be able to find it. You thought you felt it mostly dissipate once you came back to yourself. After a little bit of searching, you finally found a wisp of it. Pulling on it as much as you could without losing it, you focused on drawing it out of yourself and easing it into Bucky. Starting to feel the transfer of energy, you continued pulling more and more energy from yourself until you ran out of surplus. Opening your eyes, you were met with those steely-blues looking intently at your face. You felt yourself blush before you pulled away, asking,

        “That feel any better?” He gave a slight hum in response as he closed his eyes for a moment and as he smiled a little. Opening his eyes, he said,

        “That’s much better, thanks.” Looking up as he rose to his feet, he continued, “But how are we gonna get out of here? The top is closed and I don’t really think wandering through this whole goddamned base until we find the exit is a very good idea.” You smirked as you simply held out your hand, saying,

        “Leave that to me. You just gotta trust me a little more.” He takes your hand, simply responding,

        “Always.” You walked with him in tow towards the wall, reaching out towards a shadow cast by the ramp as a shadowy hand also reached out towards you. As it pulled you and Bucky into darkness, you could see… well… everything. Or almost everything. It was as if you could see anything anywhere there was a shadow, as if you were standing in it, but more than that. It was as if you were the shadow. But you weren’t. And you knew you couldn’t lose sight of that fact or the consequences would be dire. You could feel Bucky holding onto your hand. You focused on that, using it as an anchor as you quickly sifted through everything. You could feel your grip on reality slipping a little as you continued to search for your desired location, you were having a hard time trying to focus on a single location, finally getting a glimpse of your room in the Avenger’s Compound. Grabbing onto that fleeting image, you pulled yourself towards it, almost as if you were flinging yourself down a hole into that shadow.

        You and Bucky both stumbled forward as you took in your surroundings. You were in your room!

        “Huzzah!” you exclaimed, throwing your arms in the air. Bucky only chuckled at your antics as he stepped forward and brought your hands down in his own. His laughter faded after a few moments as he became very serious, asking,

        “Are you alright, (Y/N)? And please be honest with me.” You sighed.

        “Can’t I at least take a shower first before you get all Mr. Serious-Business on me?” He failed to fight back a small smile as he huffed,

        “I suppose. How about you meet me up on the roof in two hours and then we’ll talk?”

        “Sounds great!” you responded. “Now get out of here, I can hear the shower calling my name!” He put his hands up in surrender, turning to leave as you landed a shove to his shoulder. You bit your lip as you watched him walk out because you had to admit it, that man had one fine ass. You heard him call from the end of the hallway,

        “And don’t worry about telling the others! I’ll take care of that!” Damn! You’d completely forgotten about the others… they were probably worried sick. That mission should have been a simple one, short and sweet, no more that a few days, tops. Instead you’d been missing for weeks. And now you’ll have to tell them about what happened… that shower was beginning to sound better and better. You gathered up some clothes to change into and a towel and trudged into your bathroom. Quickly stripping down, you turned on the hot water, mixing it ever so slightly with the cold until the temperature was just right. You stepped in and almost moaned at how good the hot water felt. You began scrubbing down your body, washing off all the dirt and blood, most of it your own. Looking down, you realized that all the wounds had closed up, leaving only slightly raised, light pink scars in their wake, probably side effect of all the energy you absorbed. Following that train of thought, you became still, just standing in the spray as the full magnitude of what you had done caught up with you.

        Oh God. You had killed all those people. Every. Last. One. Not that they weren’t all a little guilty since Hydra was not known for having stand-up people as its members, but still. They were people. They had had lives. Maybe families. And you had killed them in cold blood, without remorse. You let yourself cry. Not really mourning them, but rather mourning what you’d lost. Who you’d lost. You’d lost yourself, both metaphorically and physically. Before this, you had always avoided killing people. You’d hurt them to incapacitate them, sure, but you didn’t kill them unless there was absolutely no other option. You didn’t enjoy it. But this time, oh this time there was room to have avoided it. You could have made your shadow warriors simply chase the agents away, force them into other parts of the base. You could have killed enough to make the others run away in fear. Instead, you had slaughtered them one by one until there were none left. And the worst part? You’d enjoyed every minute of it. You had relished in their screams of terror and loved the rush of power that came every time you sucked the life out of them. 

         Your other half was right… you’d have to accept that that’s how using your powers made you feel. You hadn’t been yourself. Or maybe you just weren’t who you thought you were. The only thing that you knew for sure was that you weren’t who you used to be. You were different now. You had to live with the darkness… no, your darkness now. The water was growing cold so you quickly finished washing your hair and hopped out, drying yourself off with the towel and throwing on the clothes you had set aside.

        Casting a quick glance to the clock as you trudged into the, thankfully, people-free kitchen, you saw you still had about forty-five minutes before your rooftop rendezvous with a certain supersoldier. You walked through to the other side until you came to what appeared to a small pantry. But it was bigger on the inside than what you might expect and housed the entirety of the team’s *cough* Tony’s*cough* liquor supply. You walked to the back and grabbed a few twelve-packs of vodka-filled juice boxes. After carefully finding a way to balance them without dropping any, you began to make your way to the elevator. But as you passed once more through the kitchen, you noticed that the Sun had set and an idea began to take shape. ‘Can’t hurt to try, I suppose,’ you thought. 

         Bending the shadows outwards, you enveloped yourself in a blanket of darkness and envisioned yourself taking it’s hand, gently this time, walking slowly into the void. And this time the bombardment of images didn’t overwhelm you as much. Summoning all your willpower, you focused yourself entirely on where you wanted to be, the rooftop of the Avenger’s Compound. An image began to form in front of you and all you had to do was a take a step forward, gently pulling it around you until you felt the bite of a cool breeze on your face.

        You stepped forward, out of the shadow cast by the L-shaped protrusion of the compound’s ventilation system. You went around to the other side of the roof and sat down with your legs dangling off the edge. Pulling out one of the vodka boxes, you began draining them one after the other, knowing that no matter how many of them you drank you probably wouldn’t regret it in the morning, your tolerance was too high for that. But after you had downed somewhere in the neighborhood of ten, you slowed down, figuring that Bucky would probably appreciate being able to have some when he joined you. You thought back to what your double had said to you, and you were suddenly filled with a sense of panic. 

         Reaching inside yourself, you tried to draw out your light. And when you looked down at your hands, you were crestfallen. No light emanated from them. Looking inside yourself, you tried finding it again. Turning to your age old trick, you imagined a Sun within you and envisioned its light pouring out of you. But as you opened your eyes once more, you were again met with only darkness and disappointment. You had lost your light. You had killed it with your darkness. You knew you were reaching when you had tried to find your Sun, but instead you fell. You tripped and stumbled into darkness. 

         A few tears slowly ran down your face as you looked up to the sky. The stars seemed black and cold, offering you no comfort. And the pale moonlight gave no warmth as your Sun’s beautiful rays once had. And the final startling realization was thrust upon you, the Sun had set for you. The shadow of what had been your day embraced your world in gray. The world you had known was lost in shadow.

        A loud banging swiftly pulled you out of your thoughts. Twisting around, you felt a small smile pull on your face as you saw Bucky unceremoniously flop out of the vent, lacking his usual grace. You even giggled a little as he quickly rose to his feet and dusted himself off. You offered him a vodka box as he sat to your right which he gladly accepted. You slowly leaned over so your head was resting on his shoulder as you both sipped your vodka. His response was to wrap his arm around you so your head was lying closer to his chest as he ran his hand up and down your left arm in a soothing manner. You closed your eyes and reveled in his warmth as you felt him place a kiss on top of your head and then linger there, stealthily using the moment to inhale the scent of your shampoo that he secretly adored, resting his cheek on your head. No words were needed as you two sat there in a comfortable silence.

        However, after a few minutes of this, you broke the silence.

        “I’m scared.” You felt him place another kiss on your head and suddenly it was like you couldn’t stop all your thoughts from spilling out, “It’s just that simple. I’m scared shitless. I’m scared of myself. I’m scared of my powers, of how they make me feel. I’m scared that I’ll lose myself again, that I’ll hurt someone I care about. I’m scared of telling the team, of them seeing me differently and treating me differently. I’m scared that you’ll see me differently, that you’ll treat me differently.” After a moment of silence, you quietly added, “I’m not just scared… I’m terrified.” You felt him slowly tilt your chin up so you had no choice but to look into his eyes.

        “Doll,” he started and you didn’t know that that one word could possibly be said with as much emotion and affection as he put into it, “nothing will ever change how the team treats you, how I treat you. You’ve changed and we’d be blind fools not to see that, but that doesn’t mean you’ll be any less like family to them, any less of a… friend to me.” He took a deep breath and seemed to steel himself as he continued, “And these past few weeks have made me realize something. Each mission could be our last. And I know that we all knew that when we joined the Avengers, but this is different. I’ve been stabbed, punched until I was black and blue, hell, I’ve been shot for chrissake! And yet I have never been as goddamn afraid as I was when that man was threatening you with that gun. I was petrified with absolute terror. Because some asshat was threatening you. You who has been there for me. You who never treated me any differently from anyone else, who knows when I just need a little space, who knows when I just need to be held. You who has seen me through my nightmares despite the physical danger it puts you in. Oh God, this is getting long winded. What I’m trying to say is that… well… I think — No! I know… I love you, (Y/N). And I know this is probably the worst time I could have chosen to tell you this because you know with your whole just accepted my dark side thing being pretty fresh, but you have the right to know.”

        And placing a gentle kiss on your lips, he said, “And you don’t have to say anything back. Not right now, not ever. But just know that I love you with all my heart. I always will. And I’ll still be here for you. I’ll still be here for you if you need someone to cuddle with. I’ll still be here when you need someone to hug you after your nightmares. I’ll do whatever you want me to, be whatever you need me to be. I’ll be just your friend if that’s what you want, I’ll be your lover, and if you need space and time, I’ll gladly give you those as well.” Gazing into your eyes, he stroked your cheek as he murmured, almost as if it was a thought that wasn’t supposed to be said aloud, “You look so beautiful in the moonlight.”

         And as you looked into his eyes, you thought that surely if this wonderful human being, who knew all about demons within, who continued to fight his every day, could still love you after witnessing the destruction and horrors you had caused firsthand, then maybe, just maybe you could learn how to love yourself again too. You would learn to fight your demons just as he had learned to fight his. Placing your hand on his cheek, you pulled him back as you eagerly kissed him again with all the love and admiration and affection you had held for him for the past couple years. After a millisecond of hesitation, he kissed back with a fervor that conveyed just how long he had wanted this. 

         And, oh God, you must have died because Bucky was kissing you back and it was heaven. His lips were softer than you had ever imagined and you couldn’t get enough of it. And when you combined that with the slight scratch of his stubble, you’d be lying if you said it didn’t make your head swim. When the need for oxygen overcame you both, you reluctantly pulled away, resting your forehead against his.

        “I love you too,” you said quietly, placing a slow, but brief kiss on his pink, slightly swollen lips. “And I want this.” Another languid kiss. “I want you.” One more in case you forget what his lips feel like within the next second. “I want us.”

        “Then you’re my girl, doll,” Bucky said with a smile, kissing your forehead as he pulled away. “And I’ll be yours,” he added with a contented sigh. And with that, a comfortable silence fell over you both as you turn back to watching the stars, your hands resting together between the two of you. You once again turned to the multitudes of countless stars in the sky, they seemed almost… different. Yes, different was the word. They’re weren’t brighter, no, not by any means, and they still seemed cold. And the Moon’s pale light didn’t offer any more warmth than it ever had. It was still just an echo of the light that only a few hours ago had filled the sky. But as you looked up at them, you saw, for the first time, the fantastic and wondrous beauty that lay within the darkness that was only possible during their reign over the night.

THE END

[whatever-the-fucky-i-writes]

Shadows Dance - Part 3

Word Count: 2,228

Pairing: Bucky x Fem!Reader

Warnings:  Death, Mentions of torture, Blood, Swearing, One mention of drug use

Part 1   Part 2   Part 4 (Final)

Series Masterlist

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters from the MCU.

Tags: @beccaanne814   @winterbvrnes

Author’s Note: Hi guys! Sorry that it took me so long to post this part. My life just got super busy and I never had the energy to post this. Oh well! I have the energy now so here we are! Another special thanks to beccaanne814 for her continued support! Your kind words never fail to bring a smile to my face. One more part after this!

Previously:  Addressing you next, Major continued, “Tell me what I want to know, and this won’t need to get messy.” You looked over at Bucky. His posture may have been that of a defeated man but his eyes still held fire burning softly behind those steel-blue eyes. They begged you to just give in, save yourself with the knowledge that whatever happened afterwards would surely not be as bad as what would happen if you refused. Your eyes swept over his face, taking in his haggard but still handsome appearance, memorizing every detail. Oh, how you longed to run your hands through his hair again. You looked down at your hands which had been resting palm up upon your thighs. An idea came to you, and, while you knew it would be the only way out of this situation, part of you didn’t want to go through with it. But you had to. If you wanted to escape, if you wanted to save Bucky, then you had no other choice…

         It had become obvious very early on that you were no ordinary child. Light seemed to emanate from you in your moments of happiness and laughter while shadows seemed to dance when anger and rage overtook you. Your parents, bless their souls, persevered through the first few years when there was no way to teach you how to use and control your powers. But once you were old enough to understand what they were saying, they knew that it was time for you to learn how to control your abilities. They just wanted their daughter to be able to lead a normal life, to be able to interact with society without being afraid of hurting people (they had a few burn marks left from your tiny hands that would never go away and they didn’t want you to fear human contact for lack of control of your gifts). One of your parents knew of a place in Nepal where there were mystics and sorcerers whom they believed could aid you.

        And so it was on the eve of your sixth birthday that they moved with you to live at Kathmandu with the sorcerers there and the Ancient One. Your parent had once been a student there, but had left after realizing that that life was not what they truly wanted for themselves. You trained for months in gaining control over your light. You would be homeschooled in the normal subject matters, progressing quite quickly you might add, during the day, and then each afternoon, at around three o’clock you would go to your training room to train with the Ancient One. But during your sessions, one thing had become very apparent to the her. You, as you were, would never be able to control your darkness. While the full extent of your powers were not yet known, she knew that the darkness would ultimately become the source of much destruction if you could not control it. And it wasn’t for lack of trying, you put your all into everything you did, gave 110%, maximum effort. So naturally, this lack of progress frustrated you. It took much less effort to call it forth! So shouldn’t it also take much less effort to control?

        Time passed, but even after three years, while you had mastered your light, you still could not even begin to control the darkness. However, you and the Ancient One had both come to a realization as to why that was after one of your sessions. She had summoned the likeness of a person made of energy for you to practice using your darker powers on (your powers only worked on people). They had fought well, but you had ultimately won, and your hand hovered over their forehead, poised to finish it, when you hesitated, just as you always did. You lowered your hand in defeat as the person disappeared. You stood up straight, looking towards the Ancient One.

        “You hesitated,” she said in a slightly accusatory tone, “You cannot hesitate. If you hesitate, you are unsure. You must be sure, your will must be strong, if you are to ever control the innate power that exists within yourself.”

        “There has to be some other way to do this!” you fought back, “I know it’s not a real person, but I still can’t do that!”

        “Can’t? Or won’t?” she retorted, taking a step forward.

        “Won’t! Okay! I won’t do it! No one deserves that! It’s cruel! And I refuse to be cruel!” As you shouted, darkness spread over your eyes, turning them completely pitch black. Black energy began to swirl around your hands as something that felt like electricity crackled along your arms and across your skin, and the shadows in room began to writhe, as if they were trying to take the shape of something. Shaking your head, you calmed down and your eyes turned back to their normal color. “I refuse to become a monster,” you said meekly.

        “Then it is as I feared,” she said, using a gentle tone now, “Your inability to control the shadows stems not from a lack of adeptness, but rather from a mental barrier. If you think of the shadows as a separate entity, your refusal to acknowledge their power and accept their influence has led them to refuse to heed your commands.”

        “How can I possibly accept that part of myself when all it can cause is hurt and destruction?”

        “I don’t know. Do you think you could ever find it within yourself to accept the full extent of what you can do, both with light and with darkness?” You stood in thought for a moment before responding,

        “No, I don’t think I’d ever want to. I don’t want to hurt people like that.” It wasn’t just the fact that you feared what you could do to people with those powers. No, you also feared what they did to you. The few times you had any sort of semblance of control… you hadn’t felt like yourself, you’d felt like a completely different person. The feeling of the power on your skin… the feeling of actually using it. You… you liked it. Hell, you loved it. But when all was said and done, you’d look back on those moments and you couldn’t understand what possessed you to ever feel that way.

        “Very well. Then there is but one thing I can do for you to help you.”

        “What is it?”

        “I could create a barrier within your mind, sealing off your darkness… and the person you become when you use it.” Once she observed your shocked look (you had never told anyone about how you felt while using them), she continued, “I know that you feel as if you become someone else while using those powers. I just want you to understand that if we do this, it really will be as if there are two people within your head. They’ll both be you, but they’ll be different. Do you understand?”

        “Yes, ma’am.”

        “We shall discuss this further with your parents, but I just want you to know that while they can give their consent and support, I shall honor whatever decision you make. It is your mind and you shall be the one who has to live with the consequences.”

        “Thank you,” you said with a slight bow as you left the room. A couple hours later, during dinner with your parents, you brought up the idea of the mental wall, asking for their opinions. They exchanged a look (you swear they must have an mental radio; it’s like they’re always thinking the same thing when you’re involved) before one of them says,

        “Neither of us thinks this is a really good idea. This wall is just a way of running away from the real problem.” Almost as if they’re finishing the thought, the other says,

        “But if this is what you truly feel is best, we’ll be right there with you. We’ve only ever wanted what’s best for you and for you to be happy. Whatever you decide, we’ll support you. One hundred percent.” You nodded as you left the table. You needed time and space to think this over.

        Later that night, you lay awake in your bed, thinking over the pro’s and con’s. This mental wall would allow to live without the fear of losing control of the darkness you could command, something you desperately wanted. However, your parents were right. This wasn’t solving your problem, just avoiding it. You were awake well past midnight until you had your answer.

        Accompanied by your parents who had once again pledged their unwavering support after you informed them of your decision, you began your training session the next day by saying, “I want to you to create the wall.” You don’t remember much of what happened next, you were unconscious for most of it. You were taken to a secluded room where you’re told a ritual was performed. The first one was just a preliminary wall, the Ancient One explained. Your other self would need to learn to control the shadows before she felt comfortable putting the real wall in place. The next year’s worth of training was spent teaching your other half to successfully control the darkness as well as teaching you, or well the half of you that controlled your light, to be able to meditate to locate the wall within your mind. When you asked why you had to learn, the Ancient One gave some excuse that seemed to satisfy you, but truly she perceived that someday you may have need of your darkness, or you may simply be ready to accept it, and she wanted you to be able to utilize it should that time ever come. Finally, when all your training was complete, another ritual was performed and the actual wall was put in place. You left shortly after, with teary goodbyes and the promise to not be a stranger and visit every once in a while.

        You look at Bucky’s face one final time, reminding yourself why you’re doing what you’re about to do.

        “Sorry, fucking dickhead, I’m still not telling you jack shit.”

        “Then you have sealed your own fate.” He presses the barrel a little harder before you blurt out, pretending to be afraid for your life,

        “Can I just have a minute please?” You imagine he narrows his eyes a little before he accedes, saying,

        “Very well, if that is your last request. You have one minute.” You close your eyes as time seems to slow down. You focus your mind inward. Everything around you fades to black, fades to nothing. The barrel of the gun? Not there. The coldness of the hard stone floor on your threadbare knees? It’s not cold, but it’s also not hot. It’s as if you’re not kneeling.

        When you open your eyes, you are within your own mind. In front of you is a wall made of black metal that looked suspiciously like The Black Gate of Mordor. It goes on for as far as you can see to either side. You place your hand on it and give a little push. Nothing. Not that you really expected that to work but it was worth a shot. You pound on it, shouting to no one in particular.

        “Hello? Is anybody there?” Suddenly your fist goes right through it and you fall, disappearing into it somehow. You’re falling, falling, falling, until, suddenly, … you’re not. You’re standing facing… yourself? As you moved closer, so did she. You walked until when you reached out, you should’ve touched her. But instead it was if there was a wall of glass between you two. Looking around, your side was completely white and you could see a soft glow emanating from yourself, no doubt your eyes were glowing white as well. Her side was completely black and her eyes were pitch black. Shadows swirled around her hands. You were pretty sure who this was, but still you asked, “Who are you?”

        “I am you.” She answered with an air of mystery, “Or, at least, I’m a part of you. I’m your other half. I’m the manifestation of what you feared as a child and what you fear now.”

        “You’re the darkness…”

        “Correction! I’m your darkness!”

        “What difference does that make?” you asked incredulously.

        “Oh, my dear, it makes all the difference. You always tried to distance yourself from me. You never would acknowledge that I’m just as much a part of you as your precious light is. I know how you always thought of it as your light while I’m just the darkness.”

        “Well what did you expect me to do?! I was a child! And we enjoyed doing those things to people! How could I ever live with that?! I had to separate us!”

        “No! That’s what you’ve never understood! You didn’t! You didn’t have to do anything! You would’ve learned to live with it, in time. We would’ve been whole! It surely would have been easier to learn then than it is now. But that’s the whole point, isn’t it? To put off confronting me until the absolute last possible moment?” This was messed up, how were you making yourself feel guilty?

        “I guess it was.” She sighed.

        “It’s all in the past now, I suppose. Now we’re in a pickle and you need my help. That’s why you’ve come here, after all these years?”

        “Yes, it is.”

        “Then you are prepared to accept me? To accept all of what we feel when we use our powers? All of what happens?”

        “Yes…”

        “You understand that there’ll be no going back from this, once that wall is down, it stays down. And you understand that, thanks to your actions, our darkness can no longer coexist with our light? You understand what that entails?”

        “Yes, a thousand times yes. I understand what I’m doing. I want this. I want… us. We need to be whole to do this.” The glass seemed to disappear as she said,

        “Then bring it here, sister.” You both walked the couple steps to each other as you met her in an embrace. You could feel her becoming one with you as a dark glow enveloped you both. And you knew that there was no coming back from this. You just hoped it worked…

To Be Continued...

[whatever-the-fucky-i-writes]

Shadows Dance - Part 2

Word Count: 2,634

Pairing:  Bucky x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Death, Mentions of torture, Blood, Swearing, One mention of drug use

Part 1   Part 3   Part 4 (Final)

Series Masterlist

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters from the MCU.

Tags: @beccaanne814   @winterbvrnes

Previously: The only way out was through a door that opened from the outside, a buzzer letting the guard outside know when someone wanted to be let out. So in order to get out, you needed someone else to come in. You managed to maneuver the knife out from under your arm and made quick work of the ropes that were holding you in place. ‘Time to go to work,’ you thought as you swallowed heavily, preparing yourself mentally for what was to come.

         “Oi! Guard! You still out there?” you shouted at the top of your lungs.

        “Quiet in there!” came his quick response accompanied with a few bangs on your door.

        “I think fucking not, you cockwaffle! Hey, sorry about that whole nut-punching you with my face, no hard feelings, big guy. Or should I say little guy? Wasn’t really much of a nut-punch now that I think about it, there was practically nothing there to hurt!” You could hear him mutter something into a walkie-talkie as you smirked. And sure enough, a few minutes later the door opened to reveal a new torturer, this one the stereotypical burly guy, at least 6’4” with tattoos for days and a shaved head. Ah, men and their fragile egos, always so reliable. He cracked his knuckles as what was surely meant to be a menacing gesture as he stalked towards where you were pretending to still be strapped tight to the chair. And even though you made sure to look afraid and remorseful on the outside, on the inside you were smiling like a maniac. He was clad in nothing but some jeans, boots, and a tank top, leaving no room for hidden weapons. As he got closer, you began to mutter under your breath.

        “What’s that? I can’t hear you,” he taunts, stopping a few feet in front of you. He’s met with a few moments of silence. Unbeknownst to him, you were simply steadying your nerves. “Not so chatty now, are we?” he continues.

        “I said, didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s unwise to come unarmed to a knife fight?” Your question came with a sudden rise to your feet. A quick flick of your wrist brought the knife into the right grip as you threw it with all your might, embedding itself right in his throat. Falling to his knees, you reveled in the look of shock that adorned his face as he slowly and unceremoniously fell forwards face-first onto the floor. Retrieving your knife, you quickly cut Bucky lose, carefully laying him down onto the floor, making sure to avoid irritating as many of his injuries as you could. You tried not to focus on how your hands became stickier with his blood or on how it seemed to cover almost every part of him and yourself. Instead, you focused on your mission. You walked over to the door and took a moment to calm yourself before you pressed the buzzer.

        “Done already?” the guard asked jeeringly, foolishly looking straight ahead, “I would have thought the bitch would’ve lasted longer than that.” His taunts were cut short as you quickly slit his throat. His body fell to the floor with a dull thud. You almost dropped the knife in relief, thinking yourself in the clear for the moment. Unfortunately for you, his replacement rounded the corner just as he dropped dead. Acting on instinct, you launched yourself at the new guard. Aiming for his legs, you took him out at the knees, knocking him straight onto his back. However, he recovered quicker than you anticipated, barely giving you time to draw the knife before he had you flipped underneath him. Scrambling frantically before he could pin your arms, you slit his throat as well, his blood pouring down onto your face, covering whatever skin wasn’t already caked in your own blood. His body fell on top of you, a heavy dead weight that knocked the wind out of you. Rolling him off of you, you stood up and made your way quickly back into your room, picking Bucky up and maneuvering him into a fireman’s carry across your shoulders.

        You carried Bucky as you attempted to navigate your way through the winding corridors. How the Hydra agents ever learned to get around without getting lost you couldn’t imagine. You did this for what felt like an eternity, not helped in the slightest by the fact that every time you ran into a stray Hydra agent you had to take them out without any weapons, having had to drop the knife so you could pick Bucky up. Normally that wouldn’t be a problem, but, after what you would later find out had been weeks of grueling, horrendous torture, taking down even one agent was beginning to become a grueling task. And picking Bucky back up afterwards was getting harder and harder. You knew you couldn’t carry on like this for much longer. If your hands weren’t full with keeping Bucky’s right leg and arm securely over your shoulders, you could loot some weapons off their bodies, but as it was you couldn’t carry them and carry Bucky. Curse him for his beefiness! It did not make your job of carrying him around while he’s as useful as a ragdoll any easier!

        But nevertheless you pushed on. You had to. For him. For Bucky. Your Bucky. You couldn’t bear to see what kind of new torture they’d inflict upon him if you didn’t get out of here. If you didn’t escape. If you failed. It didn’t help that you were too weak to use your powers… well, part of your powers. But you refused to go down that path. You had discovered your dilemma while fighting the first agent you had encountered. You could produce a blinding light in your palms that would burn your opponents when you touched them or you could create a flash that would at very least blind them until you could take care of them. Your eyes would glow with light as well. And while you had been successful in calling forth some light, it was dim and barely left a red mark on the Hydra agent. And for how much energy it had cost you, it wasn’t an option for fighting the rest of the agents. That left you with your close-quarters combat training, your wit, and whatever was around you to fight your way out of the base. And just your luck, you happened to be held in what had to be the barest Hydra base you had ever seen. Seriously, all the walls were a dull dark grey, the only embellishments were the occasional grime smudge on wall or metal door. Would it kill them to hang a painting or two, maybe a few directional signs: this way to the exit, this way deeper into this shithole.

        And thus you continued. Taking out the agents who had the misfortune of being in your path and trying your damnedest to not end up going in circles. Finally, after what felt like a million eternities, you finally came to a giant cylindrical room that had to be at least 3,000 feet tall. (You had been to Dubai once for a mission and had the privilege of seeing the Burj Khalifa. This room was easily taller than that, it was all just underground.) Peeking inside, you could see a pretty rusty metal ramp spiraling up the sides with flat parts every so often where there a door was located. Looking up, you saw the sky for the first time in ages, taking a millisecond to yourself to bask in the light of the Sun, if not it’s warmth. The top of this room, which was probably some sort of repurposed missile silo, was currently retracted. Looking at the ramp once more briefly, you figured you could probably manage to carry Bucky up it, it wasn’t that steep.

        ‘Time to leave this hell,’ you thought. Unfortunately for you and your supersoldier accessory, just as you crossed through the open door an alarm started blaring as all the lights became red. The screeching of metal on metal could be heard throughout the room and probably throughout most of this base as the top slowly slid shut. Realizing going up the ramp was a lost cause, you quickly ran into the room to look for another way out. Standing in the center of the room, you could see two other doors, one to your left and the other to your right. Unfortunately you could also see the Hydra agents running down the hallways so you turned around to go back the way you came, only to see even more Hydra agents. Looking up you, could see agents pouring out of all the doorways along the ramp.

        “Oh, now you guys all decide to join the party!” you muttered under your breathe, “You fella’s couldn’t’a waited like maybe a few more minutes?” There were hordes of agents surrounding you and lined all the way up the ramp, all with their guns trained on you or at the ready, prepared to fight. You carefully moved Bucky from your shoulders to the floor below. Gently laying him down, you smoothed his bloody hair back as you left one kiss on his forehead, looking down at him tenderly and lamenting all the love and affection you’d probably never get to share with him when he was… you know... conscious. You allowed yourself one moment to dwell on that before your gaze hardened and you stood, albeit wearily with slouched shoulders. One soldier made his way through the those crowded around you, the alarm now silent but the lights still red. He must have been some person of authority as his presence seemed to part the sea of agents around you. You watched his approach, sizing him up even though you knew whatever fight you would have with him would be very short lived. Finally, he arrived in front of you and the path behind him closed. A couple of tense seconds followed before a smirk grew on his face as he said,

        “I do not believe we have had the pleasure of meeting, Agent (Y/L/N)—”

        “Just (Y/L/N), dickwad.” You had been a top agent at SHIELD for many years but you preferred not to reflect on those years much. You had, unfortunately, been used all too often to further Hydra’s goals while it was an unseen parasite within SHIELD. And to that end, you had stopped using your title of Agent.

        “Ah, but that is so informal,” he continued unfazed, although there was a barely recognizable undercurrent of irritation at being cut off so abruptly making itself known through a slightly thicker Russian accent, “If you do not wish me to call you Agent, then how about Colonel (Y/L/N)?” So the prick had done some research into your past with the Marine Corps. You hoped he was slightly intimidated by your track record. It was pretty impressive if you did say so yourself. That was even before SHIELD or the Avengers. After that… well let’s just say it had to be stellar.

        “Whatever floats your fucking boat, dickhead,” you replied. You acknowledged that calling names was probably petty and not such a good idea. But you were tired and you just wanted to go home so your filter was understandably malfunctioning.

        “Then we are decided! You may call me Major!” he said with false enthusiasm. “But titles aside,” he continued with a condescending tone, “I really must know, did you find your accommodations really that displeasing? We have tried our best to make you feel at home in our humble base. Why would you want to leave?”

        “You know damn well why I’d want to fucking leave, you asshole,” you grit out through clenched teeth.

        “Ah, I see. Well, you must understand, you put us in quite an awkward position. You have the information we need, but you refused to share with us when we asked nicely so we simply had to resort to more… unsavory methods of persuasion.” They had been asking for security passcodes, safe house locations, the usual things any big bad organization would want. And they surely would’ve been asking about the location of the book containing Bucky’s trigger words had they known about it, not just any Joe-schmo knew about those and you were thankful that this base was not run by someone privy to that knowledge. Not that it would’ve helped them at, not only were his trigger words gone, but the book was burned with it. But they wouldn’t have any way of knowing that so you’re just thankful it didn’t make your torture any worse than it was. It was still excruciating, but, hey! It could’ve been a helluva lot worse. You were just thankful that they had focused mostly on “persuading” you, probably either because they figured Bucky would be tougher to break or because you mouthed off more. Either one really.

        “I will never tell you fools anything!” His eyes went ice cold as his face lost any traces of humor.

        “Very well. If our methods thus far have been unable to persuade you… Someone make sure our guest does not move.” Two people rushed forward from the mass and held your arms on either side of you as two little red dots appeared right over your heart, one probably on your forehead too. It wasn’t really necessary, you didn’t really have enough energy left to fight them. He stalked around to where you had laid Bucky, pulling out a syringe full of a clear liquid inside. Taking off the little cap on the tip, he bent down and unceremoniously stabbed it into Bucky’s neck and completely emptied it.

        “That should wake our other guest up. Not enough to make him fully mobile of course, just enough so he can see and hear what’s going on.” A moment later he groaned as he started to stir. “Make sure our friend has a good view.” Two other agents came forward and dragged him to his knees, holding him by his upper arms so despite his growing awareness, he was still painfully slouched forward.

        “(Y/N),” he mumbled as he picked his head up groggily, his eyes slowly opening. Major walked back around to you until he was behind you.

        “On your knees,” he ordered.

        “You kinky son of a bitch, I don’t like you like that,” you replied with maximum sarcasm. If this was happening, you were at least going to go out mouthing off to the fucker. Your friend who enjoyed wearing red spandex would’ve been very proud.

        “You bitch. I. Said. Kneel.”

        “To which I shall always say: Go fuck yourself.” That must’ve finished off what little patience he had as he pressed the barrel of a gun to the back of your head and kicked the back of your knees, forcing you to fall to the ground. He began to address Bucky,

        “Soldat, I would like you to watch what happens next very closely. Your friend’s continued refusal to comply with our wishes has become most tiresome. But, I am nothing if not generous. She has one final chance.” Addressing you next, he continued, “Tell me what I want to know, and this won’t need to get messy.” You looked over at Bucky. His posture may have been that of a defeated man but his eyes still held fire burning softly behind those steel-blue eyes. They begged you to just give in, save yourself with the knowledge that whatever happened afterwards would surely not be as bad as what would happen if you refused. Your eyes swept over his face, taking in his haggard but still handsome appearance, memorizing every detail. Oh, how you longed to run your hands through his hair again. You looked down at your hands which had been resting palm up upon your thighs. An idea came to you, and, while you knew it would be the only way out of this situation, part of you didn’t want to go through with it. But you had to. If you wanted to escape, if you wanted to save Bucky, then you had no other choice…

To Be Continued...

[whatever-the-fucky-i-writes]

Shadows Dance - Part 1

Word Count: 1,564

Pairing: Bucky x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Death, Mentions of torture, Blood, Swearing, One mention of drug use

Part 2   Part 3   Part 4 (Final)

Series Masterlist

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters from the MCU.

Tags: @beccaanne814   @winterbvrnes

Author’s Note: AND HERE WE ARE! The original reason for making this darn blog! [Cue Thomas Sanders Voice] Story Time! So the amazing winterbvrnes was having a writing challenge and I had been toying with the idea of actually writing something rather than just creating stories in my head that will never have the honor of meeting the lovely Ms Paper. The basic premise was that you take a line from a song, book, poem, whatever you want and write a story about it. I decided to go for it, choosing the line “Sometimes goodbye's the only way. And the Sun will set for you." from the song Shadow of the Day by Linkin Park (a song that I may or may not have listened to on repeat while writing this whole thing). And even though they ended up taking down the challenge and later leaving Tumblr, I decided to still write this story. And so ten months later, my first (on purpose) fanfic is finally done. Infinity War wasn’t out when I started writing this so there’s no spoilers or anything from that movie in here. I’ve split it up into four parts and I’m going to try and exercise what little patience I have and try to not post them all in one go. Part two will probably be up within the next few days.

And I just want to give special thanks to beccaanne814. I am so thankful that she decided to read this, and her kind words and support gave me the extra boost I needed to actually put this out into the world. If you don’t already know of her, you should totally go check her out; her writing’s amazeballs!

So without further ado, here is my Bucky x Reader series, Shadows Dance.

        You had joined the Avengers a few years ago. After Steve’s half of the Avengers had fled, Tony had started to compile a list of special individuals whom he believed had the makings of potential recruits. However, that wasn’t the reason you were recruited. Were you on the list? Yes, your exemplary background as an ex-Marine and the fact that you were pretty dang smart ensured that, and having powers didn’t hurt either. No, the reason you were recruited was that you actually saved a few Avenger butts when they found themselves in a sticky situation at a Hydra base that you had infiltrated while working with Nick Fury in Europe. And after you’d finished saving their asses, you just had to come back to the compound for celebratory drinks. And, after Tony talked it over with you and Fury, you all decided it would be beneficial if you stayed.

        And after a brief adjustment period, you began to fit right in. You could keep up with Tony and Bruce’s scientific ramblings so you would often find yourself wandering down to the lab on restless nights to keep Tony company and provide second (or third) opinions on whatever gizmo or gadget he was working on. Your main sparring opponents were Nat and Steve, but you would also face Clint and Sam to shake things up sometimes. All in all, you got on well with everyone on the team, aside from Bucky. He wasn’t that good with new people yet so your interactions were often spent in silence, or very near to it. That’s not to say you avoided him, you could often be found watching TV in the main room together, but you didn’t push him to talk to you; you figured that when he felt comfortable enough, he would talk. And about half a year later, talk he did. After you got over what felt akin to shock at his first attempt at initiating conversation with you, you would talk about anything and everything. You two were like peas in a pod and he became your best friend (but you’d never tell Tony that — his fake offense would be unbearable.) Your room was just down the hall from Bucky’s so you’d often find yourself comforting him after nightmares, and he found himself doing the same for you. And on the weekends when you guys weren’t running missions, you’d often have movie or TV show marathons in each others room. And that’s how things were for the next year and half-ish. 

        However, after Bucky and the sweet art student (she had to be the nicest human being you had met outside of the Avengers) broke up, you became very conflicted. You felt bad because your best friend was hurting and you only wanted him to be happy, but you also felt… relief? And that’s how you realized that what had once been platonic, for you at least, had become romantic. But your friendship with him meant the world to you so you kept your feelings a secret so as to not jeopardize that. You didn’t want to fuck it all up by revealing your feelings and having him not reciprocate which would lead to inevitable awkwardness. So you resolved to only be there for Bucky in his time of need and to simply stay his friend. 

Two Years Later...

         You had a bad feeling about this. The rest of the Avengers were out on other missions, leaving you and Bucky to respond to a tip from somewhere in eastern Europe. Some stoner had been wandering through the woods after some… recreational activities when they had seen “strange military-looking trucks” heading further into the woods. Now, normally people wouldn’t give too much credence to what the high youngster had said, but the area they described was home to a known, although thought to be abandoned, Hydra base. You two had quickly loaded up the Quinjet with all the necessary supplies and your suits and taken off. Bucky locked in the auto-pilot sequence and turned around. You tossed him his suit with a nod of your head as you both turned around and got dressed.

        “You good?” he asked as you propped your foot up on a seat and hunched over to begin to lace the tac boot up.

        “You can turn around,” you responded. Finishing with that a few moments later, you straightened out, almost feeling a sense of comfort in your suit. Your ensemble consisted of black tac boots and pants, not unlike Bucky’s, and a long-sleeved black spandex shirt underneath a bulletproof vest. Nat had tried to convince you to wear a catsuit once, but you only got as far as putting one on and deciding it was definitely not for you. It clung in all the wrong places and you could just feel the major wedgie waiting to happen.

        Well, turns out you had pretty great intuition because, wouldn’t ya know, your bad feeling had meant something. It meant that you and Bucky had been dumbasses for going in alone. Your intel and surveillance had grossly underestimated the total population and size of the base. It was supposed to be mostly abandoned, intel telling you that there was nothing more than a ghost crew present, just enough to keep it running. And Bucky’s reconn indicated that those numbers should have been right. It was supposed to be relatively small, a few hallways, a few rooms, a lab or two with a central control/security room, nothing major. Instead, you got a sprawling, underground maze of hallways that all looked the same and countless rooms with iron doors with as many agents as you could possibly squeeze into the place. Screw base, this was a stronghold. And you and Bucky had gone in with a carefully laid plan that had fallen into pieces when confronted with their overwhelming numbers. Needless to say, the two of you were captured, and, recognizing who Bucky was and inferring who you must be, they decided to hold off on killing you until you answered a few of their questions while strapped to some pretty sturdy-ass, cold, metal chairs.

        Day and night bled together, the lines between dream and reality, waking and unconsciousness were blurred by ever-present pain. After, oh gosh you didn’t even know how long it had been… you decided to call it a long while, a rookie guard had made the mistake of standing too close to you while overseeing one of Bucky’s sessions. The guard had turned as Bucky passed out, his head slumped forward onto his chest. ‘Sick fucker,’ you thought, ‘wanting to get a better view of someone else’s torture. What would your momma say?’ 

        But lucky for you, his desire to get a better view left the side of his leg exposed to you, allowing you to see the knife he kept strapped there. You quickly formulated a plan, knowing you had to act before the guard turned his back towards you completely. So even though the angle wasn’t quite ideal, you reeled back and with all your might head-butted the guard right in his balls. As your chair began to fall forward, you twisted it so that your hand brushed his leg, allowing you just enough to time to snatch the knife out of its holster without him noticing. While he was caught up in his pain, you slid the knife underneath your arm, trapping it between your forearm and the arm of the chair. Just as you finished, the torturer, who had quickly strode over from where Bucky was strapped to his chair with a malicious glint in her eyes, was picking your chair back up, slamming it back onto all four legs. Your eyes met those of the guard, who was looking at you with enough vitriol that you almost felt insulted. It wasn’t your fault they had lousy spacial awareness. The contact was cut swiftly as you experienced a different kind of contact. Namely that between a fist and your face. You could taste blood as your head snapped violently to the side. Waiting until your vision stopped swimming, you wearily turned your head back, already able to feel a nasty bruise forming thanks to a probably fractured cheekbone. Man, that lady had one hell of a right hook. 

        And that was only the beginning. The pummeling that followed was nothing short of absolutely brutal. As she left the room, leaving you and Bucky alone in the room you were being contained in, the guard was forced to reassume his position outside the door. You lingered on the edge of passing out, whether it was from pain or exhaustion, you didn’t know. But you knew you had to stay awake. And, though you dreaded what would happen if this next step went wrong, you knew you had to get someone to come back in there. The only way out was through a door that opened from the outside, a buzzer letting the guard outside know when someone wanted to be let out. So in order to get out, you needed someone else to come in. You managed to maneuver the knife out from under your arm and made quick work of the ropes that were holding you in place. ‘Time to go to work,’ you thought as you swallowed heavily, preparing yourself mentally for what was to come.

To Be Continued...

[whatever-the-fucky-i-writes]

Shadows Dance - Masterlist

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Bucky x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Death, Mentions of torture, Blood, Swearing, One mention of drug use

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4 (Final)

[whatever-the-fucky-i-writes]

Caught Somewhere in Time - Masterlist

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: None (Maybe a very slight OFC x OMC)

Main Characters: Sam, Dean, OFC - Andi, OMC - Max

Warnings: Mentions of injury, Mentions of death, Swearing

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9 (Final)

[whatever-the-fucky-i-writes]

Caught Somewhere in Time - Part 9 (Final)

Word Count: 828

Pairing: None (Maybe a very slight OFC x OMC)

Main Characters: Sam, Dean, OFC - Andi, OMC - Max

Warnings: Mentions of injury, Mentions of death, Swearing

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3   Part 4   Part 5   Part 6   Part 7   Part 8

Series Masterlist

Author’s Note: Phew! This has been a few wild hours on my end! This is the final part in this series. And as of right now, I don’t plan on ever revisiting this one. However, maybe if someone down the line really wants me to, I could revisit this character. In other news, after this comes my Bucky series! Hopefully it won’t take me 10 days to get around to posting it like it did for this one, but it might be a few because my life gets busy and then I just don’t have the energy. I’ll get around to it eventually, though. Anyways, thanks for reading this far! I hope it wasn’t complete and utter trash.

Disclaimer:  I own none of the characters from Supernatural, only my OFC and OMC. Also, the plot line is basically a mash-up of a couple different episodes so I don’t own those either.

Previously: (Dean’s POV)   “Et volo huius.”. I light a match and toss it in. Andi’s voice and mine mix together as they echo and boom through the warehouse. Fire erupts from the outline of the circle, forming a wall of fire around the circle. And with that, Andi, an AJS Model 16, two bags, and three partially full bottles of alcohol appear in a flash of blinding light.

         Almost as soon as I appear, I feel myself taken into an extremely tight embrace. I smell leather and gunpowder. Dean. I hug him back, never wanting to let go. But I do, only so I can go embrace Sam. No words are exchanged. No words are needed. I put my bags in Baby and turn to the brothers saying,

        “I think I’ll take my bike to the bunker. And when we get there, there’s one last thing I’ll need your help with.”

        It takes the combined efforts of Sam, Dean, and I two weeks to track down Max. As soon as we get the news, I’m off in my Chevelle as fast as the thing can take me. I pull up to the retirement home, a little apprehensive. What if he doesn’t remember me? What if he’s died since the record we found online? What if…? What if…? I walk in and ask the nurse at the front desk for Max Harvelle. She asks me why I want to see him.

        “An old family friend,” is all I say. She instructs me to his room. I enter and close the door behind me. It’s a friendly little room with a bed in the corner next to a window with light streaming in through it. There’s a figure lying in it, looking out the window, hooked up to an IV and a heart monitor. It turns to face me as I close the door. I see a familiar set of grey eyes looking at me.

        “Andi!” Max says excitedly, but lacking the vigor of his youth.

        “It’s been a while,” I say with a smile and a laugh. He laughs at this too. I sit down in a chair next to his bed. “How’ve you been?” I ask. “Did you live a good life? Did you ever get married? Have kids? Did you reconcile with your brother? Did you-”

        “One question at a time,” he says, a happy glint in his eyes. “I’ve been well, overall. I have lived a long, full life. Yes, I got married. A lovely lady by the name of Lorena. She passed about twenty years ago. We had four children together, three boys and a girl, Cassandra.” Tears spring up in my eyes. He named his daughter after me. He continues, “Yes, I reconciled with my brother, just like you said I would. He’s gone too now, though. About ten years now.”

        “Did you miss me?” I ask, a little sheepishly.

        “Of course I missed you,” he says, “You know, I’ve been very ill as of late. The doctors say I don’t have long, but I’m fine with that. I’m 104 and you want to know why I’m still here? Why I haven’t given up and gone to be at peace with the rest of my friends and family? Because I’ve had this to look forward to, to hang on for. I’ve missed you so much and I have waited all these years just so I could see you again. It has been so long.” A few tears begin to run down my face. I realize the heat’s cranked in this place and I’m quickly overheating. I take off my jacket and hang it over the back of the chair I’ve been sitting in. I lean forward and hold his hand in mine. He squeezes it lightly.

        “You’ve made a new addition to your tattoo collection, I see.” I’m wearing that same Metallica tank top that he last saw me in so he can see all my tattoos. I’d gotten it while waiting for a search to run this past week. “Pretty boy,” he reads. “Awww, you think I’m pretty?” he asks in the same tone he used in what’s been only a week for me, but decades ago for him, batting his eyelashes in the same manner.

        “Of course I do,” I say, “You’re my pretty boy.” The heart monitor’s beeping slows down. I turn to face it with shock. I turn back around to look at Max. He’s fading, and even if the heart monitor wasn’t telling me, I’d still be able to sense it. These are his final moments.

        “I’m glad I get to spend my last moments in this life with you,” he says, his voice eerily quiet. “Goodbye, Andi.”

        “Goodbye, Max,” I say, my voice cracking, tears rolling freely down my face. His hand goes limp and the heart monitor stops beeping, letting out one monotonous tone.

        I sit in the room for hours, staring blankly out the window. He’s gone and I feel alone. Once I finally feel relatively close to feeling well enough to drive without putting others in danger, I head back out to my Chevelle. I slide in the driver’s seat and start her up. As I turn onto the highway, my journey home beginning, I turn on the radio. I cruise down the highway, AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” blaring from my speakers.

THE END

[whatever-the-fucky-i-writes]

Caught Somewhere in Time - Part 8

Word Count: 1,098

Pairing: None (Maybe a very slight OFC x OMC)

Main Characters: Sam, Dean, OFC - Andi, OMC - Max

Warnings: Mentions of injury, Mentions of death, Swearing

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3   Part 4   Part 5   Part 6   Part 7   Part 9 (Final)

Series Masterlist

Author’s Note: We’re almost there because this is the second to last part!

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters from Supernatural, only my OFC and OMC. Also, the plot line is basically a mash-up of a couple different episodes so I don’t own those either.

Previously: I turn on the radio and a song comes on, I recognize it from some movie I’ve seen, “Viper” by Dixieland. “To get you out of your slump, Doctor Singer has prescribed a little bit of dancing,” I say with a smile. I extend my hand to him and he takes it. We dance to various songs for the next hour or so. At the end of the final dance, he says, “Thank you, Cassandra. Really. I needed that.” He pulls me into a tight hug. I stand frozen for a second in shock, but return it once I regain composure. As he releases me, I say, “Call me Andi.” I lay down on the couch as he walks over to his door. “Night, Max,” I say, sleep already pulling me under. As I drift off, I hear him quietly reply, “Good night… Andi.”

         I’d spent most of the day sleeping, a rarity given my habit of waking up at 0500, but it was a welcomed gift. Max had shown me around Chicago and I’d had a wonderful day. It was going on 1700, and we were sitting in his apartment, both reading, when he spoke up, saying while rubbing the back of his neck, one of his nervous habits I’ve picked up on,

        “Since you’ll be gone soon… I was wondering if you...maybe...wanted...to have a night of proper dancing?” He adds hurriedly, “Not that last night wasn’t fun. It was amazing. I just wanted to know if you wanted to go to someplace with an actual band?”

        “I’d love to, Max,” I say enthusiastically with a smile. I look down and remember that I don’t have the right kind of dress to dance. My fed get up wouldn’t cut it and the dress I wore last night is too long for the kind dancing I think we’ll be doing. He sees my hesitation and says,

        “Don’t worry about your clothes. You don’t have to change. If you’re leaving, then you don’t really have to worry what other people are thinking.” That last sentence comes out of him with that same tone as before. I can tell now; it definitely holds a note of sadness.

        “Cool,” I say, getting up from my seat on the couch. I walk over to the table where he’s sitting and, pulling him by his hand and forearm, say, “Let’s go!” We walk down the street and into a bar. What strikes me first is the aroma. It smells of smoke and and beer, but it’s a smell that I’ve grown to love. The interior is breathtaking, but not in an over-the-top way. There are lights hanging from the ceiling, giving off a soft, friendly orange-tinged light. There’s a bar to my right with stools lining it on one side and an alcoholic's paradise on the other side. There’s a bartender, a younger man with black hair, checking on an old man who’s nursing his tonic and gin. There are other couples sitting at the bar, talking and laughing. On my left, there’s a dining room. Booths with leather upholstery line the walls and small dining tables are towards the interior. Straight ahead, there’s a dance floor with a raised stage behind it. There’s a band getting ready to play there; I see their sign says they’re Big Bad Voodoo Daddy. One of them says into the microphone accentedly,

        “Movers and shakers, we’re going to get you off your rears. Maybe you’ve heard ‘bout this guy. His name’s Jack. You all know who I’m talking about? Swell! Because it’s time for Jumpin’ Jack!” The drum starts with a funky beat and a trumpet fall. The saxophone and trombone join in, giving the place a whole new life as the jazzy swing music plays. He pulls me out onto the dance floor, my hands in his. He starts dancing and, even though I’m not a good dancer in my time, much less this one, I join in, feeling carefree and light. I let the music take me where it may and I enjoy every second of our hours spent dancing together. The night was magical and as the last song finishes, he pulls me into a tight hug. I want to stay in this moment forever.

        But now I’m standing in the warehouse. And it’s time to say goodbye. Inside my spell circle are the AJS Model 16, my bags containing my stuff, and the three bottles of alcohol Max had insisted be mine after last night.

        “Do you want me to find you in the future?” I ask.

        “That’d be nice,” Max says, tears seeming to threaten his grey eyes. We embrace once more.

        “Goodbye, Max,” I say.

        “See you later, Andi,” he replies. We release each other and he steps back to the wall. I walk out the center of my spell circle and count down to 2300, the time I’d told Dean to start the ritual. The clock strikes the hour and I begin to recite,

        “Viatori ego sum. Semitam calcandi supra tempus et spatium ego. Et ambulabo in finem; ut sumonitor meum.” I throw the hemlock into the rusted bowl in front of me.

Dean’s POV

        I’d found the instructions in a metal box in the center of the circle. After having read them carefully over and over, memorizing them, and spending the day making sure everything was right, to the letter, and repainting the time-faded spell circle, the time had finally arrived. Just as Andi instructed, I start to recite the incantation at exactly eleven, standing on the x she painted for me just outside the spell circle,

        “Sumonitor ego sum. Semitam calcandi supra tempus et spatium vos. Et ambulate in finem; ad mihi.” I toss the hemlock into a rusty bowl next to me.

        “Cupio ad iter a tempore ad tempore invicem. Send omnis quae in hoc circulo ad circulum sumonitor meum. Mea enim esse integrum et totum.” 23:02 rolls around and next in goes the wolfsbane.

        “Iter facio a tempore ad tempore invicem. Send omnis quae in circulo vos ad circulum. Habes es integrum et totum hic.” I add the wolfsbane to the mix at 11:02.

        “Mitte ad ego ad sumonitor meum.” Rabbit’s foot. Poor little guy. Always gets the shaft. I can hear what sounds like Dean’s voice softly speaking.

        “Me concalo vos ad me.” In goes the foot of the poor little rabbit who got the short end of the straw in this deal. I could swear I hear Andi’s voice in the room, quietly chanting.

        “Quia viatori ego sum.” A strand of my hair goes in next. Dean’s voice is louder now.

        “Quia sumonitor ego sum.” A piece of my hair is next. I hear Andi’s voice loud and clear now.

        “Et volo huius.” I light a match and toss it in. Dean’s and my voices echo through the warehouse. Fire erupts from the outline of the circle, creating a wall of fire around me. And with that, me and everything inside is gone in a flash of blinding light.

        “Et volo huius.”. I light a match and toss it in. Andi’s voice and mine mix together as they echo and boom through the warehouse. Fire erupts from the outline of the circle, forming a wall of fire around the circle. And with that, Andi, an AJS Model 16, two bags, and three partially full bottles of alcohol appear in a flash of blinding light.

To Be Continued...

[whatever-the-fucky-i-writes]

Caught Somewhere in Time - Part 7

Word Count: 3,677

Pairing: None (Maybe a very slight OFC x OMC)

Main Characters: Sam, Dean, OFC - Andi, OMC - Max

Warnings: Descriptions of injuries, Mentions of death, Swearing

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3   Part 4   Part 5   Part 6   Part 8   Part 9 (Final)

Series Masterlist

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters from Supernatural, only my OFC and OMC. Also, the plot line is basically a mash-up of a couple different episodes so I don’t own those either.

Previously: “There are a few museums around here that have some historical exhibits. Maybe one of them has some swords?”  “Maybe,” I say, “How many are there?”  “Four in the area.”  “Okay. Well, write down the addresses of the two you don’t want to check out and I’ll take those. You check out the others and we’ll meet back up here when we’re done.”  “See you soon,” he says while pulling on a jacket. We exit the building and leave to go to our destinations.

         It’s around 1500 when I meet Max back at his place.

        “No luck on my end,” he greets me, “Any on yours?” I show him the katana. “How did you-?” I cut him off by holding up my hand and saying,

        “You don’t really want to know unless you want to possibly get arrested for being an accessory to burglary. Let’s get this party started, shall we?” I grab the book from the table and we walk into the bathroom. I turn the shower on slightly enough that it’ll count as the mountain stream, but not so much that we get soaked. “Hold this in the water,” I instruct as I hand Max the sword. Once the sword’s under the water. I begin the blessing. I recite it perfectly, not one sound out of place. As we walk back out of the bathroom into the main room, Max says,

        “I still don’t get why it’s killing off the relatives instead of the people that forced Mr. DeWinter out of his own company.”

        “Well, his widow said he loved it most in this world aside from her so it’s probably killing the things they love most so they truly feel how he felt. Eye for an eye and all that crap.”

        “That makes sense. If that’s the case, then our job’s a little easier. There’s not many other people left alive for the Shōjō to bump off. More like just one. Amy Pond. While I was waiting for you to get back,” he says, handing me a newspaper, “I found our ticket to the gunshow. Looks like the people at the brewery are having a gala to celebrate their successful sale. Says everyone will be there, including Amy. We’ll just have to tail her until we see the Shōjō. Then we can swoop in and kill it.”

        “As much as I hate using civilians as bait,” I reply, “that seems like our best option so I’ll roll with it. Just one catch. One of us will have to get drunk so they can see it otherwise we won’t be able to see it and if we both get drunk, then we’ll have no way to get back here safely. Walking back’s out of the question. The paper says that it’s happening at the brewery and that’s miles away.”

        “We’ll worry about that later,” he dismisses with a wave of his hand. “Am I correct in assuming that aside from that outfit you wear when you’re pretending to be FBI you have no clothes from this time?”

        “You would be correct,” I mumble, already sensing where this is going.

        “Then it’s settled,” he says with a clap of his hands, “We’re going shopping. I know a place uptown that sells dresses. I think we should be able to find something for you there.” I groan. He just laughs and says, “Come along Cinderella. Time to go shopping for the ball.”

        Shopping didn’t take too long and with Max’s help I picked out a dress that wouldn’t stand out too much and was loose enough that I could hide the katana under it. I was now changing into said dress in the bathroom in the apartment and securely strapping the katana onto my right leg. I put the blade pointing upwards so the bottom of the dress could conceal the hilt. I look in the mirror one last time. My dress is made of cream colored satin until the loose-fitted sleeves where it becomes a sheer material. There’s a black band that goes just above my waist that makes the bottom of the dress more free flowing. It has a deep v-neck that barely comes back up to cover my shoulders. As pretty as this dress is, I still dislike dresses with a passion. My hair looks fine. I’ve let it hang free, too lazy to try and style it. I walk back out to the main room where Max is already dressed in his black formal suit.

        “So, which one of us is lucky enough to have some fun tonight?” Max asks.

        “Seeing as how I’ve been through your liquor stash, I know you have nothing near strong enough in here to get me plastered,” I say, “so it looks like you get to have all the fun tonight.” I deftly toss him a bottle of Seagram’s and say, “Start drinking, pretty boy.” After he downs a few gulps, he says,

        “Awwww. You think I’m pretty.” He bats his eyelashes exaggeratedly.

        “Shut up,” I say, lightly punching him in the shoulder, “Let’s get going” He downs the rest of the bottle quickly and follows me out to his car.

        We arrive to the gala on time, but there’s no sign of the Shōjō. Somehow, we end up out on the dance floor, dancing awkwardly to some song I don’t know.

        “So, how’d you get into hunting?” Max asks. He’s doing surprisingly well considering how much whiskey he’s downed.

        “You first. Who died and made you a hunter?” I deflect. I don’t want to talk about that right now. Even after all these years, it’s still a touchy subject that I avoid talking about even with Sam and Dean.

        “Nobody. I saw a vampire munching on some poor fella years back and caught the bug. Haven’t stopped since.”

        “That’s nice when you compare it with the alternative” I say. Max suddenly stops dancing.

        “I see it,” he says, nodding over at it.

        “Let’s go,” I say. He holds my wrist and guides me through the masses of people that came. We continue further into the brewery. Making our way into the factory part of the brewery, we try to keep up without alerting it to our presence. We round a corner and a confused look comes of Max’s face.

        “It’s not here,” he says. That’s when we hear a bloodcurdling scream pierce through the air. I’m thankful there’s so much noise coming from the party that they can’t hear that. We run towards the scream. I see Amy looking at something, terrified for her life. Poor kid must still have enough alcohol in her system to see what’s coming after her. I pull out the katana and lunge at the spot Amy and Max are looking at. It turns around and bats me into the wall like I weigh nothing. I pick myself back up quickly and jump in front of Amy, ignoring the complaining of my head and bones.

        “Where’s it at, Max?!”

        “Swing left!” he yells. I swing and miss. It claws me across my left shoulder.

        “My left,” he corrects. I swing again and miss again. This time the claw leaves a gash along my right side.

        “Three o’clock!” I swing, but hit nothing. I swing a few more times, hoping to hit something. All I gain is a few more scratches on my arms and a few on my back.

        “Six o’clock!” I turn around and yell to Amy,

“Down!” She ducks and I swing. I feel the tip make contact with something. I pull back and stab straight through it, the middle section of the blade distorting. I let go and the sword stays suspended in what I see to be the air. After a fraction of a second, it appears. It has sickly white skin and its lips and hair are black as well as the skin around its eyes. It screeches in anger and disappears in a flash of light, the sword clattering to the ground. I tell Amy to go back to her mom and just as she’s about to leave, she turns around and says to me,

        “Your secret’s safe with me.” She runs off and I smile a little. She’s such a sweet kid. I hope she turns out okay. I pick up the sword and walk over to Max.

        “How ‘bout we get the hell out of here?” I ask.

        “That sounds swell,” he says. We head out a back door to the car and drive back to the apartment in a comfortable silence. Once we make it inside the final door, I grab my bag and make a beeline for the bathroom. I needed to get out of this dress and assess my wounds. I undo the band just above my waist and throw it on the floor. I pull off the dress and place it next to the band. I kick off my shoes and look in the mirror. The cut along my left shoulder as well as my arms shouldn’t need stitches. I grab a small mirror I see laying out and use it to look at the cuts on my back. Same story; they just need to be cleaned. I look down to my right side. That’s a whole different story. While the other cuts have stopped bleeding, this one hasn't. It’s also deeper than the others. I’m going to have to stop the bleeding and stitch it up. This is going to suck. I throw on my sports bra and jeans that were in my bag and call out to Max,

        “Hey, Max! Do you have a first aid kit?”

        “Let me see what I’ve got!” he calls back. After pushing the door open, I grab a towel and apply pressure to my bleeding side.

        “Bring me something metal and a heater too!” I say to him as he enters the bathroom. He sets a small box down on the counter and heads back out again. I open it up, careful to keep pressure on my side, and dig around. I pull out a needle, some thread. “Some alcohol too please!” I add to my list of things for Max to grab. He returns a minute later with fire poker, a blow torch, a roll of paper towel, and a bottle of vodka. “Thanks,” I manage. He nods his head and walks back out. I take pressure off, throwing the towel into the sink, the vast majority of its fabric stained bright red. I pick up the poker and rinse it off in the sink, drying it with another towel. I set it down and grab the blow torch. I manage to start it and pick the poker back up. I hold it in the flame until I see the first two inches of the tip begin to change colors. I turn the torch down until it’s barely on and set it down. I take a steadying breath and hold the poker against the gash in my side. I grit my teeth, jaw clamping down, stifling the groan that manages to make its way out. I move it to the next two inches of the gash and hold it there for a few more seconds, doing this five times total until the whole thing has been cauterized. 

        I set the poker back down and turn up the blowtorch. I run the needle through it a few times before threading it. I set it down and turn the blowtorch completely off, I don’t need to be burning down a building today. I pick the needle up and carefully stitch myself back up, looking in the mirror to clearly see what I’m doing. When I’m finally done, I take some of the paper towel and open the bottle of vodka. What a waste, I sigh internally. I wet the paper towel and dab it over the stitches, making sure the area’s disinfected. I place a large white bandage over it and pack the supplies back into the little box. I do this with the rest of my cuts aside from the ones on my back, minus the bandages. Not wanting to irritate those more, I decide to skip the Henley and just stick with my Metallica tank top. I gingerly put my hair up into a ponytail, trying to be careful not to split my stitches. I walk back out and plop myself down on the coach, no intention of leaving it for the rest of the night.

        “You look like you need a drink,” Max says, pointing at me from the chair he was sitting on by the table. He gets up and walks over to the kitchen area. “What’ll it be?” I think back to what I saw of his liquor stash earlier.

        “Double shot of whiskey, throw in a shot of Stolichnaya, and a shot and a half of Everclear,” I respond after a little contemplation.

        “You sure?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow, “That seems a little strong.”

        “Trust me,” I say with a sarcastic chuckle, “I ain’t no lightweight. I can handle it.”

        “Whatever you say,” he says. He walks back over to me about a minute later with a glass and the three bottles. He hands me the glass and pull his chair over. “Now spill,” he says as I take a sip of the cocktail. It burns slightly on its way down. “I told you my story, now tell me yours. How’d you get into hunting?”

        “Family,” I say bluntly. Seeing that I’m not going to elaborate any further, he tries a different avenue of questioning.

        “Let’s talk battle scars,” he says, “I’ll start.” He gestures to a faint line going across his forehead, “See this? My brother convinced me when we were younger that if I jumped off the stairs, I could fly like a bird. Me being the clumsy person I was, I mucked up the landing and ended up hitting my head on the edge of the coffee table at the bottom of the stairs.” He laughs, looking down at his hands folded in his lap, muttering “Good times” under his breath. “You next. What are those above your eyebrow?” he asks, gesturing to the three lines that run from my left hairline, across my forehead, two of them stopping just above my left eyebrow and the other running just past it. I down the rest of the mixture, pour myself another, and down that one too before speaking.

        “There was this small town in the Midwest. A series of locked room murders so my father and I went to check it out. We thought it might be a simple salt n’ burn, or maybe a coven of witches at most. Once it became clear there was no ghost to be ganked, we tracked down the place where the ‘witches’ were staying. Turns out is was full-on demons, not witches. There were three. I fought with one, my father with another. In the meantime, the third one had time to go over to the black altar they’d set up and summon a few Daeva’s. They’re Zoroastrian demons, known for being basically demonic pitbulls. He finished the ritual just as me and my father managed to exorcise the demons we were dealing with. We couldn’t see them, only their shadows, which makes sense in hindsight. They are shadow demons after all. Anyways, they started to attack. I barely managed to get over to the black altar and knock it over, releasing the Daeva’s, who didn’t like being bound, on their former master. Once they ripped him to shreds, the started to come after us. We’d already began to make our way out of the building, but they caught up with us. I got knocked out against a wall. I came to a few seconds later, but that was long enough. They gutted my father and were turning on me when I managed to light one of the flare’s that happened to be in my pocket. I had to pick up my father and carry his cold dead body out to my ‘71 Chevelle. After that, I got the hell outta dodge. I’ve only been back once, a few weeks afterwards to get my father’s ‘86 Sierra Grande.” I finish my narrative by pouring myself a double batch of my motley cocktail. “Rule #1 of hunting I suppose. You can’t save everybody.”

        “Well that got really dark really fast,” he says, trying to bring a bit of levity to the situation. He scans my arms in another attempt to get my mind off the sob story that is my life. “Can you explain your tattoos to me?” I put my glass down and begin. Gesturing to a band of tattoos that wraps around my left bicep.

        “This is for a band. You wouldn’t know it because it hasn’t been founded yet, but each symbol represents one of the band members.” Gesturing to each sign respectively, I say, “Jimmy Page, John Paul Jones, John Bonham, and Robert Plant.” I continue, “I was raised into hunting,  but before the incident with the Daeva, I’d never been overly enthusiastic about it. I’d actually enlisted in the Marine Corps when I was 18. Turns out I’m a really good shot, became well near the best sniper they had. I got this tattoo with the rest of the people in my patrol.” I point at the tattoo directly below the band before pointing to scripted writing along my left forearm. I say, “This is a phrase that was on a very important gun, but it’s also a really cool passage from Psalms 23. Non timebo mala. I shall fear no evil. Kind of fits the profession, right?” My mood’s already lifting. “The rest of these on my arms are mostly unimportant, just part of my sleeve. There are a few wardings and charms hidden here and there though.” Tapping the iconic decorated pentagram on the left side of my chest, I say, “This one keeps demons out.” “ And these,” I point to a list of words on the right side of my chest, “represent my friends from my time. My bitch. My jerk. My idjit, and my assbutt.” Things go silent for a moment, the only sounds coming from me sipping my drink, before he asks, quieter this time,

        “When are you going back?” I hear a certain tone in his voice, could it be sadness?

        “Tomorrow night,” I reply. He gets up and grabs a beer from somewhere. He comes back and sits next to me on the couch.

        “Cheers,” he says, raising his bottle with a sad smile, “to your last night in good ol’ 1947.”

        “I’ll drink to that,” I reply, clinking my glass against his bottle and downing the rest of my drink. I refill it and sip on it a bit before he asks once more,

        “Do any of your scars have good endings?”

        “Sure,” I say. I point to the one running across my left cheek, laughing a little. “I got this from one hella pissed off werewolf. I was protecting a couple of young sisters whose hearts were about to become puppy chow. He was so pissed off…” I need a break from laughing, “It was freakin’ hilarious! I don’t know why! But it was!” I calm down after a few seconds, saying, “I saved them. And that’s why I stuck with the life. Because losing my father brought home the agony of losing a loved one and I made a vow that if it be within my power to do so, I will spare as many people as I can from that feeling until it’s from a non-monster related cause.” I let a  silence hang for a few seconds before picking back up.  “Now that I’ve spilled my soul to you,” I say, turning to him, “who’re those people in the picture in your bedroom?”

        “That’s my father and my brother,” he replies.

        “Are they hunters too?” I ask.

        “No,” he says, “I never wanted to drag them into this. My father was getting on in years when I first got wind of the supernatural, so he wouldn’t have made it too far in terms of being able to keep up. As for my brother, I want to protect him. If he gets dragged into this life, the chances of him living beyond the age of forty take a nosedive. I don't want this life for him.” I nod at his reasoning.

        “I understand,” I say, “Are you two close?”

        “We were,” he says sadly with a sigh, “We’ve drifted apart in recent years. My life and his tend to keep us far apart. About a year ago, we had a really big fight. It was so stupid. I can’t even remember what it was about, but we had it, nonetheless. After that, the rift has only seemed to become bigger. I hope he lets me have the chance to make it up to him someday.”

        “I’m sure you’ll reconnect,” I say,  laying a comforting hand on his shoulder, “Family sticks together through thick and thin. I’m positive you’ll be close again someday.”

        “Thanks,” he says with a soft smile. We sit like that for a moment or two before I remember to remove my hand. I look down at my empty glass. What number was I on? I think I’d drank somewhere in the neighborhood of fifteen. I could keep this up for hours, but I decided not to. No use getting drunk over a few sad memories.

        “Well,” I say, getting up and taking my glass and the bottles back over to the kitchen, “that’s enough DMC for one night.” I turn on the radio and a song comes on, I recognize it from some movie I’ve seen, “Viper” by Dixieland. “To get you out of your slump, Doctor Singer has prescribed a little bit of dancing,” I say with a smile. I extend my hand to him and he takes it. We dance to various songs for the next hour or so. At the end of the final dance, he says,

        “Thank you, Cassandra. Really. I needed that.” He pulls me into a tight hug. I stand frozen for a second in shock, but return it once I regain composure. As he releases me, I say,

        “Call me Andi.” I lay down on the couch as he walks over to his door.

        “Night, Max,” I say, sleep already pulling me under. As I drift off, I hear him quietly reply, “Good night... Andi.”

To Be Continued...

Courtesy of Google Images, here’s the cars I mentioned

1971 Chevelle

1986 Sierra Grande

[whatever-the-fucky-i-writes]

Caught Somewhere in Time - Part 6

Word Count: 2,460

Pairing: None (Maybe a very slight OFC x OMC)

Main Characters: Sam, Dean, OFC - Andi, OMC - Max

Warnings: Mentions of injury, Mentions of death, Swearing

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3   Part 4   Part 5   Part 7   Part 8   Part 9 (Final)

Series Masterlist

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters from Supernatural, only my OFC and OMC. Also, the plot line is basically a mash-up of a couple different episodes so I don’t own those either.

Previously: (Dean’s POV)  “Well!” I say excitedly, feeling extremely hopeful, “What are we waiting for!? Let’s go!” We pack everything up in record time and burn rubber on our way to the warehouse.

Andi’s POV - 1947

         After I finish preparations at the warehouse, I meet up with Max at the brewery. It’s a giant building in the center of the manufacturing district. Its outside is a dull grey with giant windows running the whole vertical length of it. I can see giant distillers inside and about every little thing one could possibly want to make beer. I see Max’s car and walk over to it. He steps out in full FBI wear and greets me with a smile,

        “What took you so long? I’ve been waiting here for the past 20 minutes.”

        “Sorry,” I apologize, “Making an extremely complex spell circle that has to last for over half a century and preparing lots of extra ingredients after having to conduct another ritual beforehand on the chance that my friends will get my message is so easy babies in Walmart could do it and it doesn’t take that much time. I have no excuse whatsoever for why I’m a little late.”

        “Walmart?” he asks, arching an eyebrow.

        “Giant store where you can buy practically anything,” I explain. I open the door and usher him through with a wave of my arm and a slight bow while saying, “After you.” We’re greeted by a secretary the moment we set foot inside.

        “We’ve been expecting you,” she says with a smile that makes me want to gag. Seriously, how does her face not get stuck like that? “Please, follow me.” We follow a few paces behind her. She leads us into the office part of the building and them into a meeting room where three people sit. The man on the left has white blonde hair that’s shorter on the sides and probably in back with the top slicked back, deep brown eyes, and wears glasses. Next to him is lady who has fiery red hair that just brushes her shoulders, green eyes, and a dash of freckles. On the far right is another man who has dark brown hair styled like Max, parted to a side and slicked down on the shorter side and across on the top, and dark blue eyes. The blonde man stands and extends his hand saying,

        “Hello. I’m Mr. Alex Schroeder. This is Ms. Francis Pond and Mr. Ryan O’Doherty. Welcome to DeWinter’s Brewery.”

        “Thanks. I’m Agent Smith. And I’m Agent Jett. ” we say as we introduce ourselves, shaking his and his associates hands. A black box catches my eye. I sneak a closer look. It has red writing in what appears to be Japanese. I can’t read much from here, but what I can sounds a little odd to be putting on a gift given of good will. Just as I’m about to ask about it, a little man from the 13th precinct knocks on the door. I turn around and let him in. He says in a slightly breathless tone like he’s been running,

        “I was sent to fetch Agents Smith and Jett at once.”

        “Is something wrong?” Ms. Ponds asks in a very worried voice

        “I don’t know,” the little man admits, “I was just the first person Sergeant Barnes saw and he sent me to bring them to this address.” He holds up a small, folded piece of paper. “Could you please come with me?”

        “My partner and I must discuss this before we proceed so if you will excuse us,” I say, grabbing Max’s arm pulling him out of the room and down the hallway a little bit. Once I’m sure we’re out of earshot, I say, “I’ll go with the guy and you stay here and interview them. But when you’re done, I want that black box they’ve got sitting there. It looks suspicious and I think it’s worth our time to check out. We’ll meet back at your place, yeah?”

        “Sure thing,” he says, “See you in a little while.” We walk back to the meeting room. Max reenters and I turn to leave with the officer.

        “What’s the address?” I ask.

        “Can’t I just escort you there?” Tiny, my nickname for him in my head because I can’t just keep calling him the little man, asks.

        “I am perfectly capable of taking myself places,” I say sternly, “So, please, just give me the address and you can be on your way.” He acquiesces and hands over the piece of paper.

        “Thank you,” I say, turning on my heel to walk back to my bike. I am so bringing that thing with me when I go back. I manage to navigate to the address, and hop off the bike. As I approach the house, Sergeant Barnes appears from the house. He walks over and shakes my hand.

        “Agent Jett,” he says solemnly, “I’m glad you could make it. Where’s your partner?”

        “He and I were speaking with the founders of the brewery when your messenger came. He stayed behind to continue our interview while I came here. Why did you need me?” I respond.

        “I really wish you didn’t have to be. There’s been another victim. One Mr. Rory Pond.”

        “Is he the founder Ms. Pond’s husband?” I ask, confirming what I’m already 99% sure of.

        “Yep,” he says with a frown, “His cause of death appears to be the same as the others. He was found inside, dead on the floor of his dining room.

        “Who found the body?” I ask.

        “His daughter Amy was the one who found him. She was the only one besides Mr. Pond and a neighbor in the house at the time.”

        “May I talk to her?” I ask.

        “I don’t know,” Barnes trails off, “She hasn’t said a word to anyone since the neighbor who was visiting called us. She’s been through a lot and I’m not sure if it’s wise for her to talk…”

        “I understand that she’s been through more in the past few hours than anyone her age should have to deal with in years,” I say understandingly, “but I really feel like I should at least try to talk to her. She might be the break in this case that you and I need and I need to at least try.”

        “I’ll take you to her,” Barnes sighs, “Go easy on her, okay?” I pat him on the shoulder, saying,

        “Don’t worry. I won’t upset her more than she already is.” He leads me into the house. It’s not small, but not huge either. I follow him into a room to my right. There’s a large couch with a coffee table in front of it and a recliner. Light from the morning Sun is streaming in through a window to my right and to my left, I see the dining room. There is blood creating a red puddle on the dark mahogany-colored floor. There are two glasses of what appears to be orange juice on the table. Scratch that, one’s a screwdriver; it’s slightly lighter in color. I turn my focus back to this room. A little girl, not more than ten, is sitting on the couch. She’s the spitting image of her mother, aside from her eyes. Where her mother’s are green, her’s are a bright blue. She’s just sitting, looking down at her hands. I signal Barnes out of the room. He gets the memo and leaves. Once I hear the front door close, I ask softly in a comforting tone

        “Amy?” Her eyes flick up momentarily before going back down to her hands. I pull the coffee table a few feet back so I can sit on it and face her without being in her personal space. “My name’s Ellen.” I feel kind of bad lying to the kid, but I’ve learned never to use my real name on a hunt, no matter who I’m speaking to. “Do you want to talk about what you saw?” I tentatively ask, walking on the proverbial eggshells. I didn’t want to upset her more, but I need to know what she knows. She shakes her head. “I’m just here to help you. I’ll listen to whatever you say,” I say, trying to comfort her. Apparently it does the trick because she says softly, barely above a whisper,

        “It was a monster.” That’s a start. I think about the victim’s and the way they died. Something with claws seems like it’d be a good match. Before that, though, I should probably make sure she doesn’t think that I think she’s crazy.

        “I believe you, Amy. Did it have claws?” I ask, still speaking softly. She nods her head. Yes. “Did anyone else see this monster?” She shakes her head. No. “How come you’re the only person who could see it?” She shrugs her shoulders, but looks down like she’s hiding something. “Why, Amy?” I keep my tone at the same level, making sure not to sound forceful.

        “I drank a grown-up drink,” she blurts out.

        “Like coffee?” I ask. She shakes her head again. I think about the other victim’s. They all smelled like alcohol. “Like booze?” I ask.

        “It was an accident,” she defends, “Don’t let them arrest me!” That explains the screwdriver and orange juice. Her father probably made that for himself, but she drank his drink instead of hers. The glasses were similar. I give her a reassuring smile and say,

        “Don’t worry. They won’t arrest you. Your secret’s safe with me. Thank you, Amy. I’ll find the monster and I’ll make sure it never bothers you again.” I stand up and put the coffee table back where it was. I walk out of the house and up to the Sergeant who’d been standing nicely outside.

        “Did she say anything to you?” he asks.

        “Not a word,” I lie flawlessly, walking over to my bike.

        When I get back to Max’s apartment, I realize I don’t have a key. I try the door and ,luckily, it’s unlocked. I step through the first door and try the second. That one’s locked. I pound a fist on the door three times. The door creaks open to reveal Max wearing a cream colored button up shirt done up to the second to last button with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, black suspenders, a pair of light gray slacks, and polished black shoes. His hair is slightly ruffled, telling me this is his casual look rather than being slightly dressed up. He steps aside to let me in. I see the black box sitting on the table.

        “You got it?” I ask. I must have sounded surprised because he responded,

        “Did you ever doubt me?” I chuckle softly, but don’t give an outright response. I sit down and pull the box over to myself. It’s smooth black surface shines in the light. It’s got white writing on its lid and in the center is a strange white face that looks like it’s out of an ancient Eastern Asian painting. I pull the lid off the top. Inside, sitting in a bed of straw, is a cream-colored bottle that’s slightly bigger on the top than at the bottom. Its top is, or was I should say, sealed with red wax. The bottle had obviously been opened. I take a closer look at the box. This is when I’m glad I did my little bit of globetrotting. I translate the text with ease, but that is not the feeling that comes over me by the time I finish. I look up at Max who’d moved onto the couch and was reading over a normal-looking book.

        “Well,” I say, accenting the word, “I think I figured out what we’re hunting here. The box says, ‘What you took will be taken from you. Like and eye for an eye.’ The rest of the writing is a little bit worn off so I can’t make out the exact words, but paraphrased it says that the bottle inside contains a Shōjō.”

        “What’s a Shōjō?”

        “Beats me,” I say, putting my hands in the air. “You wouldn’t happen to have any Japanese lore books sitting around, would you?”

        “As a matter of fact,” he says, getting up from the couch and walking over to one of the bookshelves, “I do. Here.” He places two books in front of me. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

        “No,” I sigh, “Not really unless you happen to be able to read Japanese?”

        “‘Fraid not,” he says while sitting back on the couch and picking up the book he was reading, “Look’s like you’re on your own on this one. Sorry.” He gives me a joking smile that says he’s not really sorry at all.

        “Liar,” I say squinting at him. I return my focus back to the books and begin. I make it through the first book in a couple hours. I look up at the clock as my stomach rumbles. It’s approximately thirteen hundred hours. I retrieve some food from my bag of food, snacking on that as I start to translate while skiming the next book. I’m about halfway through when that word reappears. Shōjō.

        “Found it!” I say with a genuine smile. “A Shōjō is basically a Japanese booze monster. The legends say that if you had consumed enough alcohol, then you could see one skulking around the breweries in Japan. They’re not known for being friendly. It says that with the right spell box, you can harness one to do whatever you want. I’m assuming that’s our spell box and since somebody opened up the bottle, they released the Shōjō inside.”

        “A monster that you have to be sauced to see. That’s a first for me,” he states. “Can we kill it?”

        “Yep,” I reply, “It can be killed. But that’s where this is going to get hard. You can only kill it with a samurai sword consecrated with a Shinto blessing done by a Shinto priest in a mountain stream.”

        “Well that’s just swell! How’re we supposed to find a Shinto priest and a mountain stream! We’re in the middle of Chicago!” he exclaims.

        “Calm down,” I say. “In my experience most of that stuff’s just for poetic glamour. One does not need a priest and any type of running water will do. It’ll just be the getting the sword that’ll be tough. Any ideas?”

        “There are a few museums around here that have some historical exhibits. Maybe one of them has some swords?”

        “Maybe,” I say, “How many are there?”

        “Four in the area.”

        “Okay. Well, write down the addresses of the two you don’t want to check out and I’ll take those. You check out the others and we’ll meet back up here when we’re done.”

        “See you soon,” he says while pulling on a jacket. We exit the building and leave to go to our destinations.

To Be Continued...

[whatever-the-fucky-i-writes]

Caught Somewhere in Time - Part 5

Word Count: 1,176

Pairing: None (Maybe a very slight OFC x OMC)

Main Characters: Sam, Dean, OFC - Andi, OMC - Max

Warnings: Mentions of injury, Mentions of death, Swearing

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3   Part 4    Part 6   Part 7   Part 8   Part 9 (Final)

Series Masterlist

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters from Supernatural, only my OFC and OMC. Also, the plot line is basically a mash-up of a couple different episodes so I don’t own those either.

Previously: I need to get a message to Sam and Dean, I think, But how? I think it over for a few minutes before an idea dawns on me. I know where they should be in the future, so I’ll just leave them a message from here in the past! I can write them a letter and leave a marker there for them to see in the future! Although how I’ll get their attention is another matter. I look up for inspiration. Nothing. Down in desperation. Something. I look next to the spell, there’s another spell for illuminating writing when exposed to moonlight on specific days, handy for witches trying to be secretive. And their secretiveness is my fortune today. But I’m halfway across Chicago from where they are. I’ll need a ride. Max picks that moment to wake up; I can hear him through the door.        “Hey Max!” I call. “What?” he calls back groggily. “Know any good places to score some wheels?”

         I roll up to the familiar house on my “new” AJS Model 16. I cut the engine and walk up to the house. I’m lucky. The owners seem to be out. I quietly pick the lock and make my way inside. I go up the staircase and over to the room we were sleeping in. I lay down on the right wall where Dean was and look around. The sun’s starting to come up so I use that light as a basis for where the moonlight should land. I look down and there’s a spot right in the line of sight that should be easily illuminated by the moonlight. I grab the small bowl of whatever it was that I’d made from the spell and dipped my knife into it. I etch into the floor subtly so it’ll hopefully go unnoticed by the residents for the next sixty-ish years, but enough that the spell should work. I do a simple chant and at the end burn a piece of paper with two dates written on it. I wrote down the day I got sent back in case they went to bed that night and the next in case they lay down after midnight. Unfortunately, the spell has a limit of two different days so I’ll have to hope they decide to go to bed that night and not pull an all-nighter like they’ve been known to. I clean up and leave promptly. I don’t want to get caught by anybody. As I kick the bike back into action, heading for my next stop in my plan to get back home, I hope against the odds that Dean got my message.

Dean’s POV - Present Day

        Andi’s running at the guy. We call out for her to stop, but we’re too late. She tackles the guy just as he stands up from draining the guy now laying mummified at his feet. A red energy surrounds them both. There’s a blinding red flash, and then… they’re gone. Both the man and Andi are gone.

        “Son of bitch!” I yell, running to where they were. I run down the alley a ways more, but deep down, I know it’s useless. She’s gone. I return to Sam, who’s still standing by the mummy. He has a lost look in his eyes and I know that he’s feeling just like I am. I run a hand nervously through my hair. I try to say something comforting to Sam, to let him know that she’ll be okay, that we’ll be okay, but all that comes out is, “I don’t think that was a witch.” Sam lets out a little of his signature RBF as if to say,

        “No shit, Sherlock”. I ask, “What do you think we should do now?”

        “I think we should probably head back to the house,” Sam replies, “We have all our stuff there and it’ll be easier to do anything once we’re back there.”

        “Okay,” I say with a clap, “Hop in.” We hurry back over to Baby and high tail it back to the house. We unload and sit down at the table where just the previous night we had all sat together. Her chair sat empty, like a taunting reminder of how wrong it was that she wasn’t sitting there. “I think our first move should be to find out what took Andi. We find out what took her, we find out its weaknesses. We find out its weaknesses, we find out how to make it bring her back,” I say with false confidence. I’m confident that it should logically work. I’m not confident that it’ll actually work. Things never seem to go our way in scenarios like these. “Can you remember anything she was working on earlier?” I ask.

        “Not a thing,” Sam says defeatedly, “I mean, I know I should. But I can’t for the life of me remember a damn thing.”

        “I suppose we’ll just start from square one then,” I reply, clapping him on the shoulder. We’re at it for the better part of two days, Sam pouring over lore book after lore book, me on the internet. And guess what we come up with? Jack-shit. I feel my eyelids starting to feel heavy, but I try to hide it. I need to stay up so I can be of help. I hate feeling helpless. I guess I don’t do such of good job at hiding because within a few minutes Sam’s saying to me in a concerned tone,

        “Dean, you need to get some rest.”

        “‘M fine,” I manage to get out, “I’m not tired.” I yawn at the end of that sentence. Damn body. Always giving me away.

        “Yeah,” Sam says, RBF coming back, “right. How ‘bout you go upstairs and get some shut eye while I stay down here and research. I’ll wake you up in a few and we’ll switch. Sound good?”

        “Fine,” I grumble, seeing I’ve lost this argument. I trudge heavily up the stairs and into the room. I practically fall face first onto my bed roll. Just as I’m about to close my eyes, I see it. There’s something glowing on the floor. I make my eyes focus. It’s a word.

DEAN

        I pull at the floorboard, immediately seeing that it’s missing a few nails. I pull it off with ease, and stuck to the bottom of it is an envelope. I rip it open and read the letter over a few times. It’s about time something finally went our way! Finding renewed vigor, I practically run down the steps.

        “Read,” I order Sam as I toss him the envelope. He reads aloud,

HELLO BOYS,

MISS ME? HOW’S IT GOING WITH YOU TWO? I’M DOING WELL, IF YOU WERE WONDERING. THE ONLY THING REALLY NEAR TO BEING WRONG WITH ME IS THAT I’M STUCK IN 1947. I’M NOT ALONE THOUGH. I’VE MET ANOTHER HUNTER, MAX. HE SEEMS PRETTY COOL. DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME. ON TO BUSINESS THOUGH. I’M PRETTY SURE THE GUY WHO SENT ME HERE WAS CHRONOS. I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE THINKING, BUT DON’T GO AFTER HIM. YOU COULD SUMMON HIM, BUT IN ORDER FOR ME TO COME BACK WITH HIM, I’D HAVE TO HAVE HANDS ON HIM AT THE EXACT MOMENT YOU SUMMON HIM AND HE’S ALREADY LONG GONE HERE. I’VE GOT A DIFFERENT IDEA THOUGH. I’VE ATTACHED A COPY OF A SPELL I FOUND THAT SHOULD DO THE TRICK. ALL ASPECTS HAVE TO BE EXACTLY THE SAME ON BOTH OUR ENDS. BUT NO WORRIES. I’VE GOT IT COVERED. ALL YOU TWO HAVE TO DO IS BE THERE AT THE RIGHT TIME AND DO THE RITUAL PROPERLY AND IT’LL ALL WORK OUT. FOLLOW MY INSTRUCTIONS, WHICH I’VE LEFT AT THE WAREHOUSE, AND WE SHOULD BE SEEING EACH OTHER SOON ENOUGH. BELOW IS THE ADDRESS TO THE WAREHOUSE WE’LL USE. SEE YOU BOTH IN A FEW DAYS.            

-ANDI

        “Well!” I say excitedly, feeling extremely hopeful, “What are we waiting for!? Let’s go!” We pack everything up in record time and burn rubber on our way to the warehouse.

To Be Continued...

Here’s the motorcycle I mentioned in this part (Again, found it on Google)

[whatever-the-fucky-i-writes]

Caught Somewhere in Time - Part 4

Word Count: 6,272 (I’m sorry)

Pairing: None (Maybe a very slight OFC x OMC)

Main Characters: Sam, Dean, OFC - Andi, OMC - Max

Warnings: Mentions of injury, Mentions of death, Swearing

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3   Part 5   Part 6   Part 7   Part 8   Part 9 (Final)

Series Masterlist

Author’s Note: Obviously, this is a longer part. Sorry about that. When I was doing my light editing, I couldn’t find a good spot within here to split it up and I’ve decided to have faith in my initial ruling. None of the other parts are this long, I promise.

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters from Supernatural, only my OFC and OMC. Also, the plot line is basically a mash-up of a couple different episodes so I don’t own those either.

Previously:  “Son of a bitch!” I say under my breath. He’s gone. I walk up to where he was and look around. He’s nowhere to be seen. Just as I’m about to give up hope, I hear a sickening scream. It’s coming from within the alley, I run towards the sound. I can hear Sam and Dean running not too far behind me. I turn the corner of the alley. That’s when I see the poor homeless man lying there.

         I solemnly walk out of the alley. I come out onto a bustling city street. People are walking left and right, cars are driving by. I quickly duck back into the alley, looking down at my attire. I’ll probably stick out like a sore thumb. I take a deep breath, steeling my nerves.

        Come up with a plan, I tell myself, Find a store. Figure out when you are. Get some food. Figure out the rest from there. I hop out of the alley and once more onto the busy sidewalk. I turn and begin to walk with the flow of the traffic quickly. A few people look at me weirdly, but I ignore it the best I can, keeping my cool. “Thank God,” I whisper to myself as I see a gas station up a ways ahead. I pick my pace up a bit. Once I finally step inside, my eyes immediately find a newspaper stand. I pick up a copy and take a look.

        The date reads November 16, 1947. Well, this just rocks, I think, the thought covered in a thick layer of sarcasm, I’m stuck in freaking 1947. Ughhhh… I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose between my thumb and index finger. I feel a massive headache coming on. Focus, I internally tell myself, What’s the next part of the plan? Get some food. I browse around for a few minutes. One benefit of going back this far is that all this stuff is much cheaper. I buy myself a small stockpile of food with $10 out of the $20 that I found stashed in one of the inner pockets of my coat. I tuck the newspaper in the bag with my food as I step back outside. I look up and down the street. I see a park about a block and half up the street. I walk over and sit on one of the benches there. I pull out the newspaper as I begin to munch on the first thing I saw in my bag. I flip through the pages absentmindedly until something catches my eye. A report on a recent death... or deaths I should say. It didn’t say how the victims died exactly, just that it was “unusual” and that the police were basically chasing their tails.

        Could be my kind of thing, I think, nodding to myself, Couldn’t hurt to check it out. Might as well get something done here seeing as how I don’t have the slightest idea as to where to start to try and get myself back home. I look down at my attire. But first, I’m going to need a change of clothes. I look up and down the street once more. Damn, this street has everything doesn’t it? I think upon seeing a clothing store. I throw my uneaten food back in the bag and tuck the newspaper in there as well. I cross the street and walk into the building. The walls are lined with clothing as is the rest of the place. I browse up and down the aisles made by the racks of clothing. I end up picking out a pair of black dress pants with a matching black button up shirt, and a pair of killer black heeled boots. I buy these with another $3, leaving me with $7. I walk over to the register to purchase the clothes. Again, another strange look from the lady checking me out, but I brush it off. She hands me my new clothes in a bag and I take them over to one of the changing rooms where I change into them quickly. 

         I exit the store and look back at my newspaper. It seems that the murders fell under the jurisdiction of the 13th precinct. Lucky me, it even lists the address of their building. I stop a random guy on the street and ask politely for some directions. When he’s done, I give him a rare, courteous smile, thank him, and begin my walk. It takes me about half an hour of walking to get there. Just before I enter, I remember my badge. I quickly retrieve it from within a pocket in my trench coat and stick it in one of my pant’s pockets. I look around a bit and find a secluded place to stash my bags. I’d hate to rouse suspicion in a place full of armed people. That probably wouldn’t end well. I walk back over to the doors and take a deep breath before walking in. I enter in a cramped room. It has a high ceiling with marble floors and walls. There are two hallways leading up the sides at the opposite end of the room and in the space between them, on the wall, is a giant sign with the emblem the Chicago PD. Desks line the floor in rows with one big gap going up the middle to a row receptionist’s desk. I make my way up to the receptionist. I hope I don’t look too out of place.

        “Hello,” I say to the nice, middle-aged lady, “I’m Agent Jett with the FBI.” I flash my badge, not long enough for her to read the date of issue, which is some forty years in the future.

        “Oh!” she says, “You must be the partner of the other guy who just got here. I knew it was odd that he was by himself. Don’t you guys usually have partners?”

        Okay, I think to myself, This puts a twist in things. Say no and it looks suspicious. Say yes and we could get caught and thrown in jail for fraud. I make my decision.

        “Yes,” I say cordially, “that’s my partner. Could you please direct me to him?”

        “Sure thing,” she says, smiling and gesturing to her right, “Go down that hallway and up the stairs. Get off at the first landing. From there, there will be directions to the homicide department. He should be talking with Sergeant Barnes. Have a nice day!” I make my way down the hallway and up the stairs, following all her directions. I walk into another room with more desks. I see a man in a grey trench coat that looks like it’s made of wool. He’s got a matching grey fedora on with black leather gloves. I can see the top of a white dress shirt peeking out around the collar with a blue tie. He towers over the short guy he’s talking with, looking like he’s around 6’2”. As I finish sizing him up, I think,

        Now or never. It’s showtime. I plaster on a convincing, if fake, smile, walking over and addressing the guy in the trench coat as I say,

        “Sorry I’m late. Got caught up in some nasty traffic. I’m Agent Jett. I see you’ve met my partner. Nice to meet you Sergeant Barnes,” I say, pulling out my badge once more and then shaking his hand.

        “Agent Jett. It’s nice to see you got here in one piece. I was just talking with the nice Sergeant here and he was telling me about that string of deaths we’ve come to investigate.” He’s playing along. That’s either a really good thing or a really bad thing because he’s either a fellow hunter who doesn’t want his cover blown or a real FBI agent who doesn’t want to make a scene.

        “Sure was. Say, are there many women like you?” The Sergeant asks me bluntly. Some people have no appreciation for tact.

        “No,” I reply, “There’s not that many of us, but we manage to keep up with the men.”

        “Huh,” he says, assessing me.

        “Could you please continue?” my “partner” asks.

        “Sure. I’m not really sure what to make of this. The people at the brewery really want some closure, but I’m afraid I can’t give them any. Do you want to examine the bodies?”

        “Yes,” I say, “That’d be really helpful. Could you instruct us the ME’s office?”

        “Sure thing,” he says. He gives us detailed instructions and even goes so far as to write them down for us.

        “Thanks,” the guy and me say at the same time. Weird.

        “Oh,” he says quickly, seeming to have remembered something, “If any new information should be brought to light on the case, contact me here.” He hands him a card with an address on it. The Sergeant nods and we turn around and start to head out. Just as we enter the hallway, he looks around quickly. Seeing nobody, he tries to slam me into the wall. I duck and pin him up against the wall, holding a knife that I’d been smart enough to strap on my leg earlier against his throat.

        “Who are you?” he spits at me.

        “Agent Jett,” I reply, the lie coming out easily, “I should be asking you the same question. You’ve got sideburns that extend below your ear, which is against real FBI policy. You’d have to have them trimmed before you were even let out in the field so you’re not real FBI. And if you’re not FBI, then who are you?”

        “I’m a specialist who knows a few things about some things. I’m here to help,” he says after a few seconds of consideration, raising his hands in surrender.

        Great, I groan internally. I’ve heard Dean and Sam give that line plenty of times. Another hunter. Whatever, I suppose. “Sorry about this,” I say. I don’t really mean it.

        “About what?” he asks right as a press the knife into his throat a little. I’d had that knife custom made to meet all my hunting needs. Forged from silver and iron with some salt and holy water mixed in. A little blood begins to leak out of the small cut. No reaction. I lower my knife. “You’re not a monster so I guess that’s good. My name’s Cassandra Singer. What’s yours?”

        “How do I know you’re not a monster?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. I roll my eyes saying,

        “This is made of silver and iron forged in salt and holy water.” I slice the palm of my hand, proving my humanity. He nods before saying,

        “Max Harvelle. Even though this is my case, you’re already here so why don’t you stick around and we’ll work this one together?” he replies.

        “Works for me,” I say nonchalantly, “Let’s get going to the ME’s.” As we exit the building together, I turn and say to him, “Do you mind if I grab my stuff first?”

        “Not at all,” he replies in a businesslike manner, “Lead the way.” If this guy was going to be so formal about this, it was going to be one long hunt. I duck into the alley and retrieve my bags. “Here,” he says, “You can place these in my car.”

        “And where might that be?” I ask.

        “Follow me, m’lady,” he says with a comical bow. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. “I parked it right over here,” he says, gesturing to a car that’s parked right in front of the precinct. I’m met with a  black and dark blue ‘35 Triumph Gloria Vitesse. “Bought her for a steal,” he says proudly, “Reinforced her until now she’s like a tank. Your bags’ll be safe in here.” He opens up one of the doors and steps aside. I place my bags in the back and step back. He closes the door and locks it. We head one building to the left of the precinct and walk through the glass doors. The inside walls are white tiles and the floor is a dull gray. The front room is small. It has a few chairs lining the walls, a door on the back wall, and a few feet to the left of it is a desk with  young man sitting at it. He looks up from the newspaper he was reading and asks us,

        “Who are you?” We pull out our badges simultaneously.

        “I’m Agent Smith and this is my partner Agent Jett. We’re with the FBI,” Max lies smoothly. I wonder how long he’s been at this. He doesn’t look a day over 30, if that.

        “Okay. How can I help you fine officers of the law today?” the attendant replies.

        “Is the medical examiner in?” I ask, “We’d like to take a look at a few bodies.”

        “Let me check,” he says, his boredom dripping from every word. “HEY DOC!” he bellows over his shoulder, the extreme loudness of his voice seeming out of place in the quiet building.

        “WHAT IS IT NOW ARTHUR!” echoes from behind the door.

        “He’s here,” Arthur tells us calmly, “Would you like to speak with him?”

        “Yes, that would be really helpful,” Max says with a forced smile.

        “THERE’S SOME PEOPLE FROM THE FBI HERE TO SPEAK YOU!” Arthur shouts over his shoulder once more.

        “WELL WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR YOU FAT-HEAD! SEND THEM BACK HERE ALREADY!”

        “The Doc will see you now,” Arthur says, getting up from his chair, “If you’ll please follow me.” He opens the door and walks us down a hallway and past a few doors to the last door on the right. “He should be in here,” he says, promptly leaving. We step inside to a pristine, but sparse office. There are no windows and only a few pictures on metal desk to the right of us. Behind the desk are a few filing cabinets and a very small bookshelf that has few medical-looking books on it. A middle-aged man sits at this desk. He has red hair with gray around his temples and ears and glasses pushed down his slender nose. His cheeks are slightly sunk in, making him look older than he probably is. He’s wearing a suit underneath a buttoned up white lab coat. He looks up from the book he was reading, closing it and setting it down.

        “I’m sorry about my assistant,” he apologizes, “I would have thought it would have gotten through that thick skull of his that the FBI get sent straight back. Oh well. No use wining about it now. What’re your names?”

        “I’m Agent Smith and this is my partner Agent Jett,” Max says, repeating his line from before.

        “Okay Agents Smith and Jett. Welcome to the Chicago PD’s 13th Precinct Morgue. What can I do ya for?”

        “We understand that the bodies related to the brewery case are being held here?” Max says, “We would like to examine them.”

        “I’ve already completed my reports. Wouldn’t you rather look at those?” he asks back.

        “No offense, but we’d like to conduct our own investigation of the bodies. But if you don’t mind giving us your reports, that would be helpful too,” I say.

        “No, I don’t mind,” he says, turning around. Muttering names under his breath, he searches around through his filing cabinets and pulls out four manilla folders. He hands them to me, saying, “I’ll show you to the bodies.” We walk out of his office and enter the room directly across his hallway. The floor is the same gray color as the rest of the place, but the walls are no longer white. Instead, the walls are stainless steel with rectangular doors of varying sizes. There are a few autopsy tables going down the center of the room as well. There are lights hanging from the ceiling, bathing the room in a pale white light. “Let me see…” he trails off, “C4, D10, M3, and Z9…” He pulls open various doors around the room. These should be the corpses you’re looking for. I suppose I’ll leave you to it. If you should need anything, don’t be afraid to holler. Have a lovely day.” Once he’s left the room, Max turns to me and says,

        “He seems oddly perky for a guy who’s surrounded by death.”

        “No, he’s not,” I mutter kind of under my breath. Seeing the quizzical look I’m getting from Max, I elaborate, “I saw the extensive collection of empty and full bottles of Jack in his trash and where he thought people can’t see them. He’s not ‘oddly perky’. He’s hammered.”

        “Hammered?” Max asks.

        “Umm…” I say, searching for an equivalent, “Sauced?”

        “Oh,” Max replies, realization dawning on his face.

        “Yep, Doc over there’s got a bit of a booze issue. Anyway, you take those two over there and I’ll take these two?”

        “Sure,” Max says, “Mind giving me their files?”

        “Catch,” I say, tossing the files in rapid succession at him. He catches one in each hand. He’s got good reflexes. He walks over to the bodies and pulls out an EMF meter. Nothing.

        “Mind if I use that?’ I ask.

        “No problem,” he replies, “Here.” He sets in on one of the tables. I pick it up and run it by my bodies. Still nothing. “No EMF so it’s not a ghost,” I say, setting it back on the table.

        “Their hearts are still intact and it’s not the correct lunar phase either so it’s probably not a werewolf,” Max adds, moving on to his second body.

        “No bite marks and plenty of blood left in them so not a vampire either,” I say back.

        “Wait, did I hear you right?” Max asks, not looking up from the body he’s examining, “You said vampire, right? Aren’t those extinct?”

        “Nope,” I say impassionately, popping the p, “Just laying low is all.”

        “No hole by the base of the skull so also not a wraith,” Max chimes in, “Besides, those tend to stick to looney bins and psych wards. Doesn’t seem to be any of the usual suspects.”

        “No, it does not,” I say, accenting each word. “Nothing seems too out of place besides one gaping hole right clean through their midsection. Have you talked to many people yet?”

        “I really don’t think this is the best place to discuss this,” Max says, eyes darting over to where the doc’s office is. “He might hear. Speak of the Devil.” The Doc peaks his head through the door and says,

        “I don’t mean to be impolite, but you guys came in kinda late and it’s basically time to call it a night. Are you done with the bodies?”

        “Yes, I believe we are,” Max says.

        “Thank you for your cooperation,” I say as we walk out. Once we’re standing by his car, he says, “Where are you staying? I could drop you off there if you want. I’ve got to get a few things and then I’ll swing around.”

        “Ummm…” I trail off. It now occurs to me that I don’t have a place to stay. The look on my face seems to give me away.

        “You don’t have a place to stay?” He asks, quirking an eyebrow.

        “No, I guess not,” I say, looking down and to the side as if the smudge on the sidewalk has all of sudden become very interesting.

        “Well,” he says, his face looking as if he’s thinking something over. “I suppose you could stay with me for tonight.” I consider his proposition for a moment. I don’t really have any other options. The nights are usually too cold to spend outside this time of year. But on the other hand, I just met this guy and I don’t exactly trust him that much. It’d be very awkward, at least for me. Just for tonight.

        “Sure,” I say, looking up at his face, “I suppose I could do that.”

        “Now that that’s settled,” he says, opening the passenger door, “Your chariot awaits you.” I internally smile at his attempt at lightheartedness. I hop inside. He closes the door and walks back around to the driver side. We take off and start winding down an impossible number of turns and streets until we stop at an older looking apartment building on the edge the industrial district. The faded red bricks are cracked, the rough wooden window sills are rotting, and the windows themselves are smudged with soot and dirt. The cement steps that lead up to a front door that looks like it’s barely hanging on to its hinges are ridden with cracks and have whole chunks missing from them. The sad thing, I realize, is that I’ve lived in worse places on hunts. “I’ve got to pull ‘er ‘round back,” Max says, “This is a bit of a sketchy neighborhood and I prefer to keep this car in good condition. Can you just wait for me out front here?”

        “No prob, Bob,” I say, grabbing my bags from the back and stepping out of the car. Max pulls away and turns around into the alley next to the building. I stand there, in the light of a single lamp post casting a soft orange light on the street and sidewalk around me. I hadn’t noticed how dark it had gotten; I could see the Sun setting behind of a few buildings, the most vibrant reds and oranges light up the horizon with hints of pink. After a few chilly minutes of waiting, Max emerges from around the corner with a rucksack slung over his shoulder and begins to ascend the stairs to the door. I follow suit and am greeted by an entryway that seems to be in a slightly better condition than the exterior of the building. It’s a narrow hallway, barely enough room for one to walk down, old, dark, wooden doors with faded bronze numbers line the walls. At the end is a spiral staircase that leads upwards. 

         We begin our ascent up the stairs. We pass by twelve floors before we finally reach the top floor. We trudge all the way down to the end of the hallway. Max pulls out a key from his coat pocket and shoves it into the lock, turning it. We step inside, into a small room that was probably meant as a place to hang coats and place shoes. Instead, there’s a reaper trap on the floor and a devil’s trap on the ceiling. I see some other sigils and wardings painted on the walls. Most people wouldn’t see them because the paint’s the same color as the walls and floors, but I can see it in the right light because the new paint of the wardings is oh-so-slightly lighter than the aged off-white of the walls. In front of me is a door that is made of what looks like solid iron. I can see small granules coating it, salt I presume. Max pulls out a huge key and shoves it a hole in the door. He turns it slowly and with a groan, the door unlocks. He stuffs the key pack in a pocket and shoves the door open with his shoulder. “Nice job you did on the place,” I say as we step through the doorway.

        “Thanks,” Max grunts back as he pushes the massive door back into place and slides the humongous deadbolt back into place after turning on the lights. We stand there awkwardly for a few seconds and I take the time to check out his apartment. We’re in the main room. I’m facing the way we just came in and in the corner behind me and to my right is a counter, an oven, a refrigerator, and a sink. There are some dirty dishes sitting in the sink with some clean ones on the side and a few empty beer bottles laying around as well. On the wall to my right, about ten feet over from the kitchen, is a door. I don’t know where it leads, but judging from the lack of bed and bathroom in the room I’m in, that’s probably where it leads. The whole half of the room to my left is a living space with a couch, a recliner, and a few bookshelves stacked to the brim with books of all shapes, sizes, ages, and language. There’s also a table over there with a few chairs around it and a lamp sitting in the center. The furniture all looks a bit rundown, which seems to fit the apartment. There are cracks in the wall and the walls are stained and dirty. Max clears his throat, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck while gesturing around with the other and says, “Well...Umm… Yeah. I apologize for the state of the place. It’s not everyday I entertain guests.”

        “It’s fine,” I say, brushing off the apology, “I’ve stayed in motels and houses much worse than this. This is like a five-star hotel compared to the place I was just staying in.” I set down my gas station bag and ask, “Do you have any place I can change? This whole FBI get-up thing is kind of uncomfortable.”

        “Sure,” he says, still rubbing the back of his neck. He gestures to his left, my right, and says, “The bathroom’s through that door on your left.”

        “Thanks,” I say. I open the door and step through. I was right. That door did lead to the bedroom. While the floor of the main room was a dark oak, this had short carpeting on its floors. The walls are a light gray, and there’s a small bed on my right side, the long side of it flush against the wall. A window is over it, letting in the pale moonlight. The room is sparse. Aside from a photo of Max with an older man and a man about his same age, there are no personal effects. There aren’t many clothes hung in the closet on the wall opposite the entry door. I think I see a false wall panel in the center, but I’ll leave Max’s privacy as intact as possible. I am his guest after all. I turn into the bathroom quickly. It’s better than some I’ve seen, but not by much though. The whole ambiance of the place is that it needs to be cleaned. I’m sure if he cleaned this it wouldn’t be so bad. I pull out my clothes from my bag and look over my options. I don’t think wearing the tank top would be appropriate. Besides, I’m not that comfortable with him anyway. I settle on just wearing my Henley with the jeans. I look at myself in the mirror. I frown. I’m not exactly sure if I’m right, but I’m pretty certain most women these days didn’t have tattoos winding up their arms. There’s also a few buttons undone at the top. I really wish I knew more about the standards of this era. 

         Ultimately, I decide I’m too lazy to fix anything so I just leave the sleeves rolled up so they’re more like ¾ length and leave the top few buttons undone. I fold up my new FBI outfit and place it inside the bag with the rest of my clothes from my time. God, my time. How I was really missing that. I redo my ponytail that I’d taken out earlier and head back out. Max is sitting at table. I think I see him raise an eyebrow slightly at seeing my apparel, but he says nothing aside from, “You done?” I nod. “Swell,” he says, “I’m going to take a shower. Make yourself at home, I guess. Mi casa es su casa.” He heads off through the door and I sit down on the couch. I sigh, looking over at his bookcase. In the back of my mind, I register the sound of the shower turning on. I wander over, running my fingertips along the dusty backs of the aged books. I stop when I reach one in Greek. I hadn’t really stopped to think much about how I got here. I figured Chronos had something to with it because, besides angels, who, by the way, don’t emit a red light when time traveling, he’s the only thing out there with enough mojo to swing this. I think again to myself,

        I hate gods. I grab the book open and flip through until I find a page with the top labeled χρόνος, which I roughly translated to Time, aka Chronos. I skim through, thankful that years of hunting and research have given me a basic understanding for the classic languages. I find nothing of particular use so I put the book back. Maybe I’m not looking in the right book, I think. That seemed like more of a reference book; I needed an encyclopedia. I skim through the rest of the bookshelves and find a stack of Greek books from throughout the ages. I lay them out on the table and start reading. I’ve got multiple open books laying out across the table. I’m so engrossed I don’t hear Max reenter the room. I don’t realize his presence until I hear his voice come from behind me, asking,

        “Why’re you so interested in Chronos? You don’t think he’s causing the deaths, do you?” I sigh, rubbing my hands on my temples.

        Damn it, I think. I’d really hoped to avoid this conversation. But it’s better to come clean I suppose. “This is going to sound really crazy. At very least, pretty messed up,” I say to him, only slightly turning my head towards him over my left shoulder.

        “We’re hunters,” he states, “If you haven’t noticed, our lives are pretty much ground zero for crazy and pretty messed up.”

        Here goes nothing, I sigh to myself internally, No use in going soft, I suppose. Turning around to fully face him, I look him in the eyes and say, “I’m from the future. 2016 to be specific. My friends and I were tracking a string of deaths where all the victims were mummified. Long story short, it was Chronos, I tackled him as he was glowing with his red time energy, which apparently means he’s traveling, so I inadvertently hitched a ride to 19-freakin’-47 and I’m stuck here for who-knows-how-long now. I’m so interested in him because I’m seeing if there’s anyway to hitch a ride back or reverse this or something. I’m so interested because I just want to go home.” That last sentence comes out more as a softly spoken afternote that I actually hadn’t meant to say aloud.

        “Oh,” he says, at a loss for words, “Where- I mean- When you come from, is there a lot of this… time… travel… stuff?”

        “No,” I reply with a light laugh, “There’s only about 3 things that can do this without a blood spell.”

        “If there’s a spell that does this,” he asks, “then why don’t you use that to go back?”

        “Because when I said blood spell, it’s not just what you have to write it in. It’s the destination. It takes you to your nearest living blood relative, which I’m all fresh out of. Long line of only children plus people who didn’t have kids equals me, literally the only member of my entire bloodline left alive on the face of planet Earth,” I say with a bitter undertone.

        “Oh,” he says again. Something flashes behind his eyes and he’s striding over to the bookcase. He runs his finger back and forth, pulling out a few books here and there until he’s at one of the thickest. “Here,” he says, setting the stack on the table, “These are some of the grimoires I’ve collected over the years from various witches. I know some of them could pack a real punch so maybe there’s something in these potent enough to get you back.”

        “Thanks,” I say, giving him a grateful smile, “I think, though, that I’ll leave this research for a little later. There are people dying and we’re on the case… So, what do you know?” I listen attentively while quickly bookmarking all my pages and setting the grimoires as well as the Greek books in a stack over by the couch.

        “Well, for starters, the people that are getting bumped off are all someway connected to the founders of this local brewery called DeWinter’s Brews. One of the co-founders, a Mr. Jonathan DeWinter, who also happened to be the brew master, died recently. Some sort of stress induced heart attack. I talked to his widow. She said he traveled a lot for work; that the company was like his baby, his most prized possession, second only to her so he’d said. She says he was the one of the kindest individuals you could ever hope to meet. The company’s going the through the process of selling out and, since he was apparently unwilling to let it go, the other three voted him out of his own company. His wife said that there wasn’t any bad blood, though. According to her, he even bought them a gift, a bottle of saké if I remember correctly, on one of his last trips to Japan to show them his forgiveness. I was going to go talk with the other owners tomorrow. The victim’s are Miss Florence Creighton, girlfriend to Mr. Ryan O’Doherty, Mrs. Thelma O’Doherty, Mr. Ryan’s mother, and Mr. and Mrs. Schmitz, the parents of Mrs. Francis Pond. In related news, Mr. Pond’s parents also recently died, although they check out as normal deaths. Like I said, the victim’s connections to each other is their affiliation with someone who’s a founding member of the brewery. Their causes of death are all the same, massive trauma to the abdomen. The sciency way of sayin’ that they got their guts punched out. There is one other strange similarity, though it’s above my pay grade. They smelled like alcohol, like they’d been buzzed when they died or something. That’s pretty much everything I got at this point.” I sit in silence for a few more moments, mulling the new information over.

        “I’m at a loss,” I say at last, “I don’t think I’ve ever taken on anything like this. I suppose going to see the other co-founders is our best move at this point. I’ll go with you tomorrow to interview them. That okay?”

        “Yeah,” he says, standing up, starting over to the bedroom door, “sounds swell. I think I’ll call it a night. Good night, Cassandra.” He’s halfway through the door when he finishes. He turns around and gives me a little smile before stepping through and closing the door behind himself. I sigh and turn back to the stack of books. I skim through the Greek ones, though they yield no new information. I put them back where I found them on the bookshelves and start going through the grimoires. This turns out to be more time consuming than I expected. I only make it through a few before I look at the clock sitting on the counter in the kitchen. It reads twenty-two hundred hours. It’s not like I haven’t stayed up longer, but I’d need my energy tomorrow so I needed some good rest. I lay down on the couch, getting mildly not uncomfortable. I close my eyes, but after a while, it becomes clear that this is bound to be another insomnia-fraught night. I roll over and grab my phone and earbuds out of my bag. I put the earbuds in just as a light rain starts; a November rain. I start a random song up and lo’ and behold, none other than my favorite Guns n’ Roses song comes on. I laugh a little at the coincidence. The rain plus the soothing beginning of the song are lulling me into sleep in record time as I’m fading into sleep.

        I awake to darkness. I groggily sit up and quietly trudge over to the clock. I can barely read it, but I can still see it says 0500 sharp.

        Right on time, I think sarcastically to myself. I really wish I’d been able to shake that habit after these years, but no dice. I wander over to the table and turn on the small lamp sitting on it. I pull up a few of the remaining grimoire’s and begin my search once more. Thank God this one’s in Latin. The other one was Romanian and that was really starting to get taxing to translate. After sifting through about half of one, I see a spell that catches my attention. I read it closer. This could definitely be of use. The name of the spell alludes to something in the neighborhood of “The Spell of the Traveler”. I nod, thinking, This could work. But there’s a catch. There’s always a catch. It’s a two party spell. One group is the person or persons traveling and the other group acts as an anchor for the first group. A traveler and a summoner.

        I need to get a message to Sam and Dean, I think, But how? I think it over for a few minutes before an idea dawns on me. I know where they should be in the future, so I’ll just leave them a message from here in the past! I can write them a letter and leave a marker there for them to see in the future! Although how I’ll get their attention is another matter. I look up for inspiration. Nothing. Down in desperation. Something. I look next to the spell, there’s another spell for illuminating writing when exposed to moonlight on specific days, handy for witches trying to be secretive. And their secretiveness is my fortune today. But I’m halfway across Chicago from where they are. I’ll need a ride. Max picks that moment to wake up; I can hear him through the door.

        “Hey Max!” I call.

        “What?” he calls back groggily.

        “Know any good places to score some wheels?”

To Be Continued...