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wardenparker · 4 months

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At First Sight

Alan McMichael x female Reader

Rating: G for General Audiences, but this blog is always 18+! Word Count: 3.1k Warnings: Alcohol, flirting, period manners, fluff, scheming family members, undesirable dance partners. Summary: Alan's sister Eunice is finally engaged and their mother is throwing a grand ball to celebrate. It is the last place that he wants to be...until he meets a young lady who wants to be there just as little as he does. Notes: It's been so, so very long since I wrote anything solo. Please be kind -- all errors are my own, and this is definitely not beta read. It's just a little piece inspired by my downtime at work and countless rewatches of Crimson Peak. Alan deserves some happiness, so I wanted to give him a bit. If there's interest I'll try to write more for these two, but I'll understand entirely if there's not. Thank you so so very much for reading! Dedicated to @julesonrecord for her tireless patience in putting up with me babbling about this character and how he deserved better. And to @ruflirtingwithme for always letting me keep Wade in my pocket wherever I go. There's a bit of him in this as well, for sure.

Despite the tailoring of his tuxedo, the familiar weight of the costume, and the well-traveled ballroom he finds himself standing in, Alan McMichael shifts uncomfortably. He’s lost weight this past year, worry and injury taking their toll, and the tailor assured him that it could barely be seen but took his jacket and the waist of his trousers in anyway. He isn’t as fit as he once was. He isn’t as strong. Not since he followed Edith up that mountain in England, only to bring her back down again to dual hospitalizations and true exhaustion. The doctors at the sanatorium don’t allow him to visit anymore .They say it causes episodes of hysteria.

So now they must live inside their own heads separately, and his mother has taken that as meaning it is time to push him to move on. “It’s for the best.” His mother had said. But Alan couldn’t be sure. Still, he was forced to resume his everyday life, and now it has been a full year since that fateful trip to Crimson Peak.

Eunice’s engagement has been a blessing to distract Mrs. McMichael. Her ploy to whisk her daughter off to New York City in the early summer had paid odd and now Eunice is engaged to the son of some banker who claimed to have an ancestor lead the charge at the Battle of Cowpens. They were all, Mrs. McMicheals told everyone in earshot, quite proud.

Now it was Alan’s turn to once again have marriage prospects pushed on him, and he stood in the ballroom ready to receive guests alongside his father with a false smile and a belly full of dread.

* * * * * *

“I thought you didn’t like Mrs. McMichaels?” The question hands in the air as you finish getting ready for the ball this evening. Spending the Christmas holiday in Buffalo with your aunt and uncle had been your brother’s idea – trying to see that you were taken care of without directly saying that having you in his house would be a burden. So you had reluctantly agreed, giving most of your staff the better part of three weeks off and taking only your maid with you to Buffalo.

It’s not that I dislike her entirely, dear heart,” your aunt Joan insists. “I adore her soirees.”

“How foolish of me.” It takes all your strength not to roll your eyes but your maid recognizes the expression and smiles privately. “I ought to have known. You and Uncle Christian will want to stay until daybreak, won’t you?”

“Certainly.” Aunt Joan quips, appraising herself in her vanity mirror. “Her cook makes the most divine fruit crepes.”

You could point out that her usual overt piety discourages desire and gluttony, but at near seventy years of age, your great-aunt has earned a little indulgence from life. Instead you hum a non-committal agreement and pick up your gloves., “Then it will be well worth staying until breakfast,” you encourage, offering her a smile instead.

“Indeed.” She seems most pleased at the prospect and shoes your maids away with finality. “Your dance card must be full tonight, child,” she warns with an alarming hint of mischief in her voice. “If we want you engaged before the worst of winter snows threaten to keep us all at home.”

* * * * * *

The McMichael’s ballroom shimmers with candlelight and each guest who is announced at the door is another jewel in the crown of the evening. Mrs. McMichaels flits about like a bird with a rare and precious seed, showing it off to everyone around her, and the guests who have eagerly arrived first bask in the shared glow of witnessing such good fortune. Fortunately, very certainly it is a fortunate thing, your Aunt Joan and Uncle Christian do not believe in arriving early to parties. They believe in leaving their home at the time the party is listed as beginning in order to appear both desirably busy and aloof, which means that your trio is squarely in the second half of arrivals to the McMichael house this evening. Even if it is only by a measure of twenty or thirty minutes, the less time you must spend with eligible men being foisted upon you, the better.

“Mr. and Mrs. Christian Tate,” are announced along with your name, and Aunt Joan practically shoves your out in front of them to make sure you’re seen. Not that anyone would have noticed you otherwise, so perhaps it’s wise. The peacock colored gown you chose shimmers softly in the gaslight, but the ballrooms of Buffalo do not have the large, expansive windows and glass doors that you are accustomed to in Newport. It is all mahogany and walnut paneling here, and all the ladies but you – in their pinks and creams and honey yellows – knew better. You will be lost in wainscotted corners in your deep blue, green, and purple hues. Though perhaps it is for the best. This is not your society anyway. You have no intention of ending your time in Buffalo engaged no matter what Aunt Joan might intend.

The two gentlemen at the center of the ballroom could not be anymore obviously father and son, but where the father jokes and jovially signs dance cards at praise of his skills in the country dances, the son seems dour and aloof. His pinched smile does not precisely forbid conversation but it certainly does not encourage it, and he all but sighs in resignation when your Uncle Christian seems happy to see him.

“My wife’s great-niece,” you hear him saying, just before you are shuttled forward again. “Visiting from Newport for the holidays.”

“A pleasure,” the man intones, though you cannot think he means it.

“Is it?” You offer your hand only because your aunt clears her throat so pointedly. But it is at this point that the skyscraper with blonde hair you are being introduced to chuckles. The sound is broken but warm, and you are not so displeased with being here that you miss the way his blue eyes sparkle like aquamarine in the flickering light.

“Perhaps,” he muses, catching the dance card dangling from your wrist before you can take your hand back. “Perhaps you are the first young lady to arrive tonight not to simper and curtsy over the supposed honor of being my mother’s guest. And perhaps I can recognize a fellow soul was was strong-armed into attending.” He looks tired, the heaviness of it hanging deep in his handsome features. Because yes, he is handsome. Intriguingly and admirably so. But that isn’t what is drawing you in to him like a rope tied into your ribcage that tugs you forward whenever he speaks. It’s something else. “Perhaps we will be allies tonight, you and I.”

“Allies?” You watch his hand as he claims both waltzes on your dance card, the first gentleman to do so and claiming what are arguably the most intimate of dances. “How terribly Napoleonic of you,” you droll in response.

He laughs again, a little more deeply, and shrugs his shoulders. “I would avoid the elder Mr. Davies if I were you,” he advises, clearly demonstrating his intent as that very ally he has claimed to be. “His wife passed last spring leaving him with three young children. He has become so desperate for a wife that he is inclined to propose to almost any new young lady he meets.”

“How very concerning for the young ladies.” You murmur back, glancing over at the man being subtly pointed out to you. He is squirrelish and balding, all the hair on his head seeming to have fallen to the bushy mustache adorning his upper lip. “Is there anyone else I ought to be wary of?”

“Oh, a dozen at least.” The mischief returns to this man-shaped mountain’s eyes and he offers you his arm. “It is well worth discussing. Perhaps over punch?”

“Mr. McMichael, I think you are using me as an excuse to abandon the receiving line.” You hum in amusement, not really able to say you blame him for such a thing. Or that you mind.

“Perhaps.” His grin has a shade of mischief and guilt to it. “But perhaps you are using me to avoid the attention of other guests who might bore, annoy, or otherwise rankle you, or even step on your shoes. Which I’m sure are quite beautiful and not to be defiled. This arrangement seems better for us both, don’t you think? I can promise you with surety that it has been more than a decade since I trod on a lady’s slipper at a ball.”

“I had intended to feign lightheadedness from the crowded ballroom halfway through the night,” you confess with a sly expression all your own. “Perhaps I still will. Or perhaps this mischief will prove diversion enough all on its own.”

* * * * * *

There have been many dances in your life that have made you terribly glad for the barrier of gloves between you and the man leading. Whether it was their manners that were unsuitable, the sweat of their palms, or some unsavory odor lingering around them like a drought-stricken pond, there seemed always to be some partners with whom dancing was as undesirable as an overturned stagecoach.

Tonight you fear it might be you.

Dr. McMichael — Alan, he has insisted that you call him Alan — is a divine dancer. The grandeur of his stature does nothing to inhibit his grace and as he twirls you both about the ballroom you have the oddest sensation of floating that has ever been. But as if grace and poise were not enough, the man has a damning and wicked sense of humour as well. It has taken only the smallest encouragement from you to earn you scathing reviews of the other partygoers from you. The descriptions have you nearly in hysterics in his arms, but worse yet is the way that he smiles. It is a sly and puckish expression that makes his eyes light and sparkle in the candlelight, and every time he aims it at you, you can feel yourself sweat in the most unbecoming and unladylike way.

Moist palms or a damp dress back do not make for a desirable partner, and all you can do is hope desperately that your gloves and corset are providing ample barrier so that he has no idea how deeply those smiles and jokes and bright eyes are affecting you.

“I must sound deeply cynical,” he comments after a pause. He has just told you the story of the two Misses Shrewsbury and their positively ghastly attempt at conning the attendants of a seance he attended in Albany some years ago. “I am not. Or at least I do not mean to be.”

“Is it society that you disapprove of? Or faith?” Neither question is a judgment on your part, but you tilt your head to him conspiratorially as you dance. “I have found myself weary of both in the past, that is why I ask.”

“It is neither,” Alan admits, though he does so with a wistful sigh. “I think perhaps I yearn for times past when I reveled in dancing and philosophical pursuits. When the contents of conversation at a dinner party provided fascination for days afterward.” Subtly, so that you can feel it but it is not seen to the plain-eyes observer, he shrugs. “Life soldiers on, I suppose.”

“It does.” You cannot dispute that, and you would not try. You know the trudging on of time as well as any other touched by tragedy. “May I ask what changed? Or is that impertinent?”

“It is not impertinent.” He casts his eye around the room then back down at you. “But I am afraid it is not polite, either. I would not shock you so, to tell it all. I will only say that I lost my dear friend very recently.”

“Then I am very sorry to hear it, but I have every belief in your humanity. Your taste for society, your faith, and your fascinations will return.” The look on his face says he wonders how you can be so sure, and you half-smile. The hint of sadness in your eyes keeps it from becoming full. “Take the word of an orphan of two beloved parents, Dr. McMichael. You will come back to life again after the loss of your friend. It may simply take time.”

“Alan,” he presses softly, reminding you of his insistence. “And I am sorry to hear of your sadness, as well. But it seems that perhaps God or the ghosts of our past have seen fit to introduce us tonight. Whichever it is that you believe in.”

“Whichever it is, I welcome their intervention.” It seems to you at this point that he does not care much for spiritualism or ghosts of any kind, so you will not speak your mind on that topic. As for God? His guidance has not been the one you sought in many years. No, tonight you will not give credence to any of it, if only to keep the mood light and perhaps make Alan laugh again. “I think, however, that I shall ascribe it entirely to my great-uncle. As he was the one to see us introduced.”

“So he was.” As the song ends, Alan bows quite deeply in deference to his admirable partner. “I believe I shall have to thank him for it.”

* * * * * *

“Why don’t I know the girl your son has been doting on all night?” Mrs. McMichael is behind her fan to her husband from the edge of the dance floor, inspecting the dancing and overseeing the needs of all her guests. Her guests. Which is why she is so perturbed not to be able to identify this young woman immediately. “Who is her family? She must be with one of your business associates, yes?”

“Let Alan flirt.” Edwin McMichael waves one hand dismissively, not even looking in his only son’s direction. “It’s good for him. He’s been too dour for too long.”

“I don’t care if he flirts.” Ellen ruffles, her lips pursed and ready for an argument. “So long as he flirts with the correct young ladies.”

“How do you know she is not correct?”

“Because I do not know who she is or who she came with.”

“She is Christian Tate’s great-niece.”

Ellen’s nose wrinkles. “The orphan?”

“The orphan with an eight million dollar inheritance and a palatial cottage in Newport in her name.” Mr. McMichael raises one eyebrow as he peers down at his wife, knowing precisely the sort of affect this news will have on his wife. After all, she married him for his fortune — why should Alan not marry a fortune as well? “Let Alan flirt. It makes him smile.”

* * *

He finds you again later, outside of the ballroom when you’ve wandered away to breath air that hasn’t come from the mouths of five other people first and doesn’t smell distinctly of stale cigars and brandy. He finds you when you are slumped, unladylike, in the window seat of his father’s library gazing out the window at the snow as it drifts lazily down from the pitch-black sky.

“I thought you’d run away on me.” His voice is light but the undercurrent of worry, or else embedded sadness, is there if you listen. Like a weariness that had taken hold in him sometime since the loss of his friend that he had not been able to shake. Rather than apologizing for it or paying it any mind, Alan simply holds out one of the delicate cups of mulled wine that he brought with him when he went in search of you. “I’m very glad to see that isn’t the case.”

“I had to make myself scarce from the quadrille,” you admit, having the good sense to look at least a little sheepish about it. “That Mr. Davies…the one you warned me about? He caught sight of the fact that I had been left out of the dance before and attached himself to me.” Though the conversation could not be considered so terrible to be characterized as harrowing or torturous or anything as dramatic as all that, you still had not enjoyed his overbearing presence and unfortunate lack of manners. “I’m afraid that I feigned a headache to excuse myself.”

He laughs. Truly and thoroughly, and from his belly. Alan McMichael laughs so entirely that you bury your face in one hand after you accept the offered drink from his hand and you sigh audibly. “I’m sorry…” he chuckles, gasping for a dramatic sigh when he can catch his breath. “ It’s just that you’re so terribly apologetic and sweet about it. No one would be cross with you for avoiding an impertinent man old enough to be your father.”

“I see you have not met my Aunt Joan.” With a dutiful but resigned sigh, you stand from your place of respite and sip the rather delicious drink that he has brought you. At precisely 4:02 in the morning it is both horrifyingly too late for such a drink and far too terribly early – a dichotomy that delights you. “She has done her best to see me partnered with every single man here tonight. It is only my ill luck that I encountered the only desirable partner so early in the night. To dance together a third time would expose us both to comment.”

“So?” Alan sips his own wine and gazes down at you curiously, wondering whether or not you actually give a damn about all of this convention and these rules that seem to have been mutually agreed upon by the same people who determined what food is served at each course at formal suppers. That is – someone very long ago and far away that no one can remember any longer. “I’d like to dance with you again. And you just said that you’d like to dance with me. So who gives a damn if someone talks about it?”

“Won’t your mother be cross with you?” He had said something earlier about his mother wanting him to dance with just every young lady at the ball tonight. And you know for certain that he has not just as you have not danced with every single man.

“My mother is routinely cross with me.” He admits, enjoying a laugh at the truth of it. “I try not to let it disappointment me too much.”

It is all you can do to consider him – broad shoulders stretching that jacket of his and bright eyes sparkling with mischief, the tilt of his smile and the invitation of his outstretched hand – before you are sighing in a rather dramatic show of resignation that barely shields the actual delight written on your face. “Very well,” you acquiesce, taking his hand and giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. “Let us be the object of idle gossip tomorrow. Let tongues wag. I will be gone in a week anyhow and that will be the end of it. For tonight, at least, we shall have a bit of fun.”

______

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#Charlie Hunnam #Charlie Hunnam character fanfiction #Charlie Hunnam fanfic #Alan McMichael #Alan McMichael x you #Alan McMichael x reader #Alan McMichael x female reader #Alan McMichael x f!reader #Crimson Peak #period romance #just some flirts #I don't even know what I'm doing

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lucrezia-thoughts · 3 years

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May I ask for a HC of what having sex with Alan Mcmichael is like?

Of course you may, love!! 💚

f!reader

Warning(s): 18+ only, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex (p in v), first time...

Dr. Alan McMichael is everything a well bred Victorian man should be; honorable, polite, refined... but he is also a perfectionist with a thirst for knowledge...

These needs and desires permeate all aspects of his life...

As a doctor, he has a logical and fundamental understanding of the mechanics of the sex act...

Underneath the proper exterior; however, he is a man desperate to experience the physical sensations he read about in his medical manuals...

He's also determined to explore the more "deviant" acts depicted in the salacious literature his brothers at university shared with him...

On your wedding night, he is so eager to consummate the marriage, his hands shake as they undress you...

When you are gloriously bare before him, he is completely overwhelmed...

He has a fervent need to explore every inch of you with his fingers... and his mouth...

As soon as his tongue touches the wet lips of your femininity, he's certain he'll never get enough of your taste...

He feasts upon your sex until your entire body is trembling violently... until your voice is hoarse... until you fear your heart may very well burst...

It is only when you can no longer hold your head up to meet his hungry gaze that he finally pulls his mouth away from your quim...

He very gently strokes the side of your face as he lines his weeping cock up with your entrance and slowly breeches your sex...

The hot, wet tightness of your cunt is too much for him to withstand, so he doesn't last very long before he is spilling his seed deep into your womb...

Once he comes down from his climactic high though, he's quick to withdraw and reposition the two of you... he's only just getting started employing and testing the carnal knowledge he's accumulated...

#lucrezia answers #hi friend!!#i 💚you #and so does neville nugget #female reader #smut #alan mcmichael headcannon #alan mcmichael x you #alan mcmichael smut #alan mcmichael fanfiction #alan mcmichael x reader #alan mcmichael x f!reader #charlie hunnam fanfiction

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rayslittlekitten · 3 years

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Hello to you ❤️ on this fine celebratory weekend 🥳 For your 500 followers ficlet challenge, may I please request a smutty ficlet with Alan McMichael (I watched Crimson Peak recently and okay so it’s not one of Charlie’s bigger roles, but oh is sweet soft Alan now one of my fave Charlie characters 💘) with the following gif

(gahh look at him looking all fine, clean and handsome whilst going about his working day 💓) and three words strip, shock, sweet.

I’d also be happy if you’d prefer the same three words with Will 😋, as I’m aware Charlie’s character in Crimson Peak wasn’t really one of the main ones.

Than you so much for your submission and as always for your support!! I always LOVE reading your comments! I am forever grateful for them. Hope this is smutty enough for you.

“Consummation”

500 Follower Ficlet Challenge Masterlist

A/N: Okay so I've only seen Crimson Peak once and that was when it first came out. I found it a little underwhelming. I had higher expectations because of some of the other Guillermo Del Toro movies I've seen. Hellboy and Pacific Rim are probably my top two. Charlie also had a tiny role. So if this seems a little OOC, sorry! This is like AU, reader is like Edith, but not Edith if that makes any sense. This is also my first time writing anything with Alan McMichael. Coulda did Will, but I like a challenge.

Rating: M

Pairing: Alan McMichael x F!reader

Contains: fluff, events leading to first time de-virginizing wedding night sex

Word Prompts: strip, shock, sweet

Alan has always been such a gentleman. Too gentle, some would say. He's just a wholesome, sweet, honest man. It's what most women yearn for in a man, in a friend, in a husband – except for the women his mother would set him up with. They wanted someone who is charming, passionate, confident, assertive. Dark and mysterious. Someone who can demand attention in a room by merely entering it. Alan are those things, but not in a self-absorbed way.

Mrs. McMichael never approved of you, but Alan didn’t care. He was drawn to you and saw something in you that he didn’t see in the others.

After pursuing you and getting to know you, he asked for your hand in marriage. Spinster, you say, Mrs. McMichael?

You’re both now standing in his bedroom – your bedroom too. This moment has been on your mind since you woke this morning. In fact, you were barely able to sleep. You have never been with a man before, just as he have not been with a woman. Both of you are nervous and excited to consummate your marriage.

After ridding of his suit jacket, he walks over to you and looks you up and down. You feel warmth on your cheeks as he soaks you in. You stay standing where you are and look back at him, not knowing what else to do.

“You look so beautiful in that dress,” Alan breaks the silence.

“Thank you, Alan. You look handsome in that suit.”

“But I would love to see the true beauty underneath all that.” Alan takes a step closer to you. He’s so close you can feel the heat emanating off of him. He reaches up to cup your face and he kisses you. Alan has kissed you before, but never like this. He’s kissing you with urgency and passion. It’s making you feel things inside of you that you have never felt before. He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you against his body. You also feel something rigid below your waist pressing against you. His hands travel down to your backside and he cups you through your white, puffy dress.

Alan pulls back from your lips and you are left breathless. You see a fire in his eyes you have never seen before.

“Turn around,” Alan tells you. You are shocked by his assertiveness. You do as he says and you feel him starting to unzip your dress. You let him strip you of your garments until you are wearing nothing but your jewelry. You turn back towards him, feeling vulnerable. Your eyes glance down to the front of his trousers and see a very noticeable bulge.

Alan takes in a sharp breath as he admires your naked body.

“Lay down.” Alan nods towards the bed.

You slowly walk over and lay your back on the cool bed and soft sheets. You watch him disrobe himself before he gets on top of you, ready to officially make you his.

#inbox #500 follower ficlet challenge #500 followers milestone #alan mcmichael #crimson peak #alan mcmichael x reader #alan mcmichael x you #crimson peak fanfiction

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hotdamnhunnam · 3 years

Note

Alan: crimson peak lips

(Again if you haven’t watched Crimson Peak, you can skip this or sub with a different character. He had a really small role in this anyways.)

Thanks for another fun request! ❤️

Drabble Fest Rules (3 words –> 💯word smut)

Drabble Fest Masterlist

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Dr. Alan McMichael (Crimson Peak) x F!Reader

crimson • peak • lips

♥️🏔💋

His golden mane is swept impeccably off to the side. Bow at his neck perfectly tied. White flowers on his sharp black jacket set just right.

Then you walk in and he has no hope to remain composed tonight.

That crimson dress, the sin that it suggests... the siren’s smile upon your lips, the sultry swaying of your hips... He’s never felt such primal lust consuming him from deep inside.

Before you even speak, his passion has already reached its peak... A fire of desire that he couldn’t fight, not even if he tried.

Such is the fire you ignite.

--- 💯 words ---

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the--blackdahlia · 7 years

Text

Beware of Crimson Peak Chapter 13 (Dean x Reader)

Title: Beware of Crimson Peak Chapter 13

Summary: An old manor in Maine holds many dark secrets. Can (y/n) and the Winchesters destroy the evil inside the house, or will it tear them apart forever?

Warnings: None

Dean was pacing the waiting room him and Sam were currently set up in. Anthony had went off to do something, Dean wasn’t sure what. Sam could see his brother starting to crumble. The last time they had been in this position, they had lost Bobby. He hoped that this wasn’t going to offer the same outcome.

“Should we call Cas?” Sam asked, watching his brother.

“No!” Dean snapped at him. He took a breath. “No. I don’t want him here and plus, he probably wouldn’t show up anyway. He always has more important things to do.” Dean kept pacing, trying to wear a rut in the floor.

It seemed like days to Dean, but it had only been a few hours. An older man in a white lab coat came into the waiting area. Dean hadn’t noticed him, but Sam did. He stood up and grabbed Dean’s arm to stop his brother from pacing. Dean was about to snap at his brother, but then he saw the doctor standing there. And they were the only ones in the waiting area right now, so he assumed he was here for them.

“I guess I don’t have to ask if you’re family of (Y/f/n) (Y/l/n).” He said. The boys might need a fake name, but she didn’t. She hadn’t done anything wrong except getting mixed up in their crazy lives.

“How is she doctor…” Sam started to say, realizing he didn’t know the doctor’s name.

“Just call me Doctor Al.” The doctor tried to offer a smile, but given the situation, it didn’t stick. “We can’t explain it, but her organs seem to be shutting down. There’s no reason to it. Her body temperature was just a little under what it should be, and none of her injuries were life threatening. How did those happen by the way?” He asked. Dean wasn’t answering.

“Urban exploration.” Sam said. And he wasn’t entirely off. “We found this abandoned house and she fell while we were exploring it.” Doctor Al nodded.

“I see.” He said, giving Sam the impression he didn’t totally buy his story. “Well, we’re trying everything we can. We have her on machines right now and are trying everything we can think of to help her out.” He saw the defeated slump in Dean’s shoulders and the tears in Sam’s eyes. “Would you like to go see her? I’m just warning you, she looked a little different with all the things she’s hooked up too…”

“Please.” Sam said, speaking for Dean. Doctor Al nodded and led the boys to (Y/n)’s room. Dean stopped at the door while Sam and Doctor Al made their way in. Dean’s eyes were wide as he stared at (y/n). She looked downright small in the hospital bed with all sorts of tubes and wires coming out of her. There was a cast on one of her arms, and if she would’ve been awake to see it, Dean would’ve decorated it for her. There was a large bruise on the side of her head and a gash that had been stitched up. Her ribs were wrapped up, some cracked and some bruised, and one of her ankles were wrapped up. But she was rapidly turning pale compared to what she had been at the mansion.

“Dean?” Sam said, turning to look at his brother. Dean just kept staring at (Y/n). Doctor Al watched the oldest Winchester. “Dean.”

“Huh?” Dean asked, finally pulling his attention away from the sleeping woman on the bed.

“You okay?” Sam asked. Dean just nodded and made his way over to (Y/n). Doctor Al was talking, but he didn’t hear a word he said while Sam absorbed it all. The old doctor bid his farewells and left the room. Dean set down in the uncomfortable chair at (Y/n)’s side. Sam sighed and took his own seat. “You sure you don’t want to call Cas?”

“Do you really think he’d show up even if we did call him?” Dean asked, bitterness strong in his voice.

“Dean, he’s our friend and he cares about (Y/n).” Sam said. Dean shook his head.

“I don’t care. We’re not calling him.” Dean played with (Y/n)’s hair. “We’ll figure this out on our own.”

****

Anthony sighed and set down in a pew in the chapel. He used to come in here every weekend to clean up and organize for Father Malone. Since he had taken full responsibilities for taking care of Edith, he hadn’t been around much. It felt like home, sitting in the pew, staring up at that golden cross. But after a while, he sighed loudly and held his head in his hands. Everything from his entire life was catching up with him. The last few days had been really hard.

And everything was gone.

“Rough day?” Doctor Al asked as he set down in the pew by Anthony. Anthony looked up at him and gave a bit of a sarcastic laugh.

“You can say that.” Anthony said, unable to look the doctor in the eye. It was silent between them for a minute before Doctor Al spoke up.

“How’s Edith?” He asked. Anthony sighed.

“Gone.” He said. The doctor’s looked over at Anthony. “Your new patient is the last victim of Lucille Sharpe. She got rid of her and Thomas and grandma went off together in a beautiful light show.” Anthony shook his head. “I’m surprised you didn’t feel the warmth grandpa.”

“I don’t feel much anymore.” He sighed.

“Well, that’s kind of your own fault.” Anthony said with a shrug. “You should’ve just stayed with grandma instead of letting her believe you were gone.”

“I didn’t want her to know about my own curse.” The good doctor was none other than Edith’s long lost husband Doctor Alan McMichael. “And obviously, I’m not going to be able to move on unless I can fix the girl.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Anthony asked.

“Well, after getting this information from you, I think that Lucille did something to her.” Alan explained. “Do you know what happened to her in the mansion?”

“Uh, before she passed out, she told us that Lucille tortured her and possessed her.” Anthony said. “And before you say it, obviously Lucille is gone or grandma wouldn’t have been able to move on.”

“Then maybe she put something on that poor girl when she possessed her. Or right before she left her body.” Alan thought aloud. “Just like she did to me when I buried her bones.”

“Is that why you never told grandma where you buried her and Thomas?” Anthony asked. That’s when he came to a realization. “You didn’t know about her curse at first, did you?”

“No.” Alan sighed. “She didn’t tell me until she was going grey. And I should have stayed with her when I found out about mine, but I just couldn’t. Because…” He didn’t have to finish it. Anthony already knew. Edith’s heart always belong to Thomas, even when she married Alan. And he was tired competing with the baronet

“What are you going to do?” Anthony asked after a few moments of silence. Alan sighed.

“I’ll fix this.” He said. He stood up. “I’m going to fix everything Lucille Sharpe has ever done.”

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