#God. Hunter feels his chest go so warm with each plant. He puts them on his shelf and tries to find out every piece of information he can | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

zmediaoutlet · 3 years

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in support of Texas relief, @romancewritingandwinchesters donated $20, and requested Sam and Dean waiting out a Texas storm with no electricity. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post.

(read on AO3)

When the snow starts coming down, Dean's not yet worried. He's driven the whole country at least five times; he can handle snow. It's when the temperature starts dropping fast that he pulls up, at the closest gas station, and fills the tank, and sends Sam inside for a few gallons of water and whatever food they don't have to cook. "I told you," Sam says, which frankly Dean thinks is a very smug and unattractive way of looking at the situation. "Remember, that front I was telling you about?"

"Yeah, but who thought it'd get this cold in Texas," Dean says, watching the numbers tick up on the pump. Shit, this is gonna be expensive.

"Oh, you know," Sam says, arms folded tight over his chest, stamping his feet by the car's rear door. "Meteorologists. Climatologists. Just that level."

Dean rolls his eyes, but Sam's turned away luckily and can't see it. Turns out Sam gets a little bitchy when it's this cold. They didn't really pack for it—this was supposed to be a low swing south to check a few harmless jobs, stuff that'd take Sam's mind off the whole soulless thing, a couple of easy wins and some weather a little better than February in South Dakota, but it's not working out that way. Fourteen degrees, according to the display on the Shell sign above their heads, and it's only nine at night.

The snow's already piling up, on the parking lot and in the street, making the nice local El Paso people drive under ten miles per hour and making the world seem—not-right. Alien. A cactus planted in the median glints with ice and Dean sucks his teeth, shivers hard. When the car's full up he recaps the tank and sets the nozzle back in place and then looks out at the frosted world. The black shine on the asphalt. "I don't like the look of that road," he says, after a second, and Sam follows his gaze and nods, immediately. "Tonight's not the night to get out of town."

"Texas blizzard on the highway?" Sam says, a little sarcastic, but shakes his head, more serious. "Yeah, it's gonna get a lot worse." His nose is pink from the cold. "Too cold for the car. Even if we still had that—remember, that awful pink blanket?"

"The one you totally ruined?" Dean says, and Sam grins, even if he shudders after. Sam ruined it by getting clawed up by a ghoul when he was twenty-three and trying to protect Dean from something he didn't need protecting from and then bleeding all over the damn blanket when Dean put him in the backseat to race him to the ER. Dumbass, Dean had called him then, but honestly not much has changed. Dean shoves Sam's side, shaking his head. "Why are we standing around here in the cold? Get in the car, let's go."

"You're the one who took forever with the gas," Sam argues back, but he gets in the car, so. Win for Dean. Beyond the win of having this Sam, this right good Sam, in the car in the first place—whole again, with the soul to make a context for the memories that make him Dean's brother.

They're not far off the highway so there'll be motels. The issue hits when they're driving—slow, painfully slow, crawling behind snow-caked Texas plates that don't know how to handle the weather—and the street goes suddenly dark, the lights crashing off in the fast food places and gas stations lining the road. "Shit," Dean says, checking the rearview, but luckily the truck behind him hasn't slammed its brakes and they're not about to be involved in a black-ice skid.

"You think—" Sam says, but cranes around and it's obvious. Some part of the grid, failing, and that's going to mean some panic and it's going to mean some accidents and it's also going to mean finding a place to stay just got a hell of a lot harder.

The kid at the motel they pick clearly has no idea what to do. It's a shithole, which is why Dean pulled in, and clearly there weren't too many customers to begin with. The lobby's dark other than a flashlight the kid's waving around while he explains in a panic that their electricity is out—"I can see that," Dean says, trying to be patient—and Sam finally leans over the counter, takes the flashlight out of the kid's hand, and sets it upright on the counter so it acts like a shitty lantern, filling the room with grey.

"Oh," the kid says, eyes gleaming big in the suddenly stable light. The kid—the boy. He looks barely older than Ben.

"Look," Sam says, while Dean's trying to shake off that thought. "We get that there won't be cable. We just need somewhere to weather it out."

"My register doesn't even work," the boy says, and Dean reaches into his wallet and peels out two hundred bucks and lays it fanned out on the counter. More big eyes—the room rate on the sign outside is forty-nine a night. "Oh," he says, again.

"Just give us keys, okay?" Dean says. "You can explain to your manager in the morning. How these weirdos paid a hundred, cash."

A blink. Maybe he's too young to realize he's being bribed. Sam sighs, and leans over the counter again. "We're taking room 13," he says, coming up with a key in hand. A physical key—Dean was right about the kind of dump this is. The boy opens his mouth and closes it, and Sam jerks his head at Dean before he gives the boy a half-smile, fake as hell. "Try to stay warm in here, okay?"

The Impala's already inch-thick with snow, outside. "Why the hell did that take so long," Sam mutters.

Dean snorts. "Thirteen?" he says, and Sam nods, folding himself back into the passenger seat for the short drive over—"Center room, more insulation," he says—and when they pull around to the odds side of the building he's right. The city's blanketed in dark and weirdly quiet, with the muffling of the snow, so it feels almost like opening up some hidden hunter's cabin as they unlock the room, unpack the car inside. Sam bought jerky, chips, iffy-looking gas station fruit, and Dean still has one lantern and two spare d-cells and a bottle of whiskey that's almost entirely full, and the water, thank god, is still running. "For how long, though," Sam says, so Dean drags a hand over his face and zips his jacket closed and goes down the row of rooms in the freezing dark to the one that's marked PRIVATE, and breaks in to find cleaning supplies that… clearly haven't been used in that long. Buckets, though, that he rinses out and then fills in the utility sink. Spare bedding on shelves above the laundry machine and he picks out two blankets, the shitty supersoft microfleece kind that have always been his favorite.

When he gets back, burdened like a mule, he finds the room—weirdly sort of homey. Sam's got the lantern on the rickety little desk and it's blasting white light up that wall, but he's lit their spare ritual candles, too, and put them on the nightstand, on top of the blank TV, the minifridge crammed up in the corner by the bathroom. It's warm inside, especially once Dean's got the door kicked closed behind him again, but it won't stay that way for long. "Laundry?" Sam says, and at Dean's nod he disappears outside too, and comes back with a pile of the thin towels in his arms, and packs them in against the bottom of the door, the base of the single-pane windows. The water heaters might be gas but they might be electric, too, and with no way of knowing they take turns in the shower, cleaning up fast. The water's still hot when it's Dean's turn and he luxuriates, for a minute that he counts off in his head, letting the weak stream melt over his shoulders and put heat into his bones, where hopefully it'll stay a while.

The bathroom's steamy when he gets out but it's already cooling fast. Not much insulation in the walls. He dries off scrupulously, trying to get off every bit of damp he can, and redresses by candlelight. Smells like beeswax, the hippie natural candles Sam always picks when they restock their kit. His soulless self didn't bother with that. What a weird thing to turn out to miss.

Back in the room, Sam's made a pile of their food on the desk by the lantern, and lined up the buckets of water by the door. Dean checks his watch: ten o'clock, and they're packed into this room like a bunker. Safe, as warm as they can be, clean and healthy and food to hand. Now there is, truly, nothing at all to do but wait.

"Not even wi-fi," Sam says, under his breath like he had the same thought. Dean huffs. Sam's mouth lifts on one side, wry. He sits on the end of one bed, hands folded between his knees, and gives a shrug. "Well. We got a night off."

They did. About time, too, with how they've been running lately. Sam making up for every bad thing his soulless self ever might've done, and Dean just trying to hold onto the bar so he won't fly off. First time in weeks that Dean's had Sam to himself without Sam searching for another job or trying to pin down his own sad timeline or his brain melting out his ear, and he almost doesn't know what to do with it. A bit of silence, between them, that stretches. Dean licks his lips. "Wanna play charades?"

Sam snorts. "You'd cheat," he says, and Dean smiles his most honest smile, and that makes Sam roll his eyes but smile a little, too. "How long do you think we have until it gets really cold?"

Dean tips his head back and forth, thinking. "It's—what, fifty degrees in here?" Sam shrugs. "I don't know. It'll be friggin' cold in the morning, but we won't freeze."

"Guess not," Sam says, but he's still just sitting there. His eyes on Dean, his body quiet. Dean pours them both cups of the whiskey and sits on the other bed, and Sam rotates to face him, and they toast each other with a rasping papery excuse for a clink and take a swallow each, and it sinks down to Dean's gut like fire, welcome with how chilly it is in here, and Sam's just… still looking at him. Like he's something worth looking at. Dean feels his face go warm and wonders if he can blame the whiskey.

"Hey," Sam says, cup held easy between his knees. "Tell me something."

Dean leans back. "What, truth or dare? We're a little old for that, don't you think?"

His legs are kicked out into the space between the beds. Sam shifts and their boots knock together. "Maybe you are," Sam says, and Dean makes a face at him. Sam smiles and takes another sip, watching Dean over the top of his cup, and after the slight pull at the sting he's still smiling, small. "This last year. Did you ever think about…" He shakes his head, looks down at his cup. Dean nudges his ankle to get him to keep going and Sam looks back up, his hair hanging a little in his eyes. "Did you ever want to sleep with—him?"

Dean's lips part but nothing comes out. He's genuinely surprised. Sam's eyes tighten, a tiny shift that's almost not visible in the dim combination of candle-and-lantern light. "No," Dean says, after a pause that's too long. Sam's head tips back, assessing. "No," Dean repeats, firmer. "It wasn't—right."

Sam hmms and Dean takes a drink. Truth or dare, he really ought to do his forfeit. It's not a lie, not really, but it's not—completely true. Robo-Sam never seemed interested and Dean was still half-caught with Lisa and Dean's a lot of things but a cheater's not one of them, and he'd thought—he didn't know. That Sam didn't want it anymore. Whatever fumbling they'd gotten up to, their drunken stupidity, the almost violent way it'd get sometimes, the way Dean would sink his nails into Sam's back and Sam would bite his throat and then the way, after, sometimes, Sam would look at him in the dark and Dean would think, god—

His cheeks are flushed, hot enough to feel in the cool air. "So," Sam says, after the moment's stretched out, "we never—even when I came back—"

"Not exactly trying to make it with my long-lost brother when my creepy resurrected grandpa's breathing down my neck, no," Dean says, and Sam grimaces but then laughs, and then bites his bottom lip. Still looking at Dean and Dean takes a breath, deep, and thinks, jesus. Eighteen months, more, since the last time, most of it with Sam walking around with no soul, and Dean caught up in a relationship that crashed and burned, and it feels—different. They're both different. Happened somehow when Dean wasn't looking but here's the evidence, in how calm Sam is, in how they're just—quiet, here, together. Something building slow, in the cold, with the snow sifting down outside.

Sam lets his lip go, slow, his teeth dragging white. His eyes drop to Dean's mouth, and lower. "I've got lube," he says. Dean blinks. Sam lifts a shoulder, almost apologetic. "Don't know from what, but it's in my duffle. I've been—wondering."

"Jeez, Sammy," Dean says, and has to laugh, too, kind of breathless. It's hot. Jesus, it's hot, hotter than it should be, to just have Sam say it flat out like that. Asking. "What, you want to huddle for warmth?"

Sam raises his eyebrows, glances sidelong at his bed. "I mean," he says, and Dean has to laugh again. "If there were ever an opportunity—"

Dean leans in and gets Sam's jacket in one hand, and pulls. Sam scoots forward easy, his knee sliding up against Dean's inseam, and it's—easy, weirdly easy, easy in a way it never was, to lean in and press his mouth to Sam's and have Sam just—kiss back, pressing Dean's mouth open right away and brushing his tongue over Dean's lip, slick and hot, his breath warm on Dean's cool skin. "Damn," Dean says, soft.

Sam smiles against his mouth and kisses him again, puts his chilly fingertips against Dean's exposed throat. "I mean, we don't have anything else to do, right?" he says, pulling back an inch.

Dean rolls his eyes and says, "You really gotta learn some better lines."

Sam presses in, kisses him again soft on the mouth. God, Sam's mouth. "I don't think I do," Sam says, hanging there, and Dean groans, pushes Sam's face away, thinks: yes. Yes.

He goes to the bathroom. Takes his time. The toilet, thank god, is still flushing, so the water lines haven't yet gone down. He runs the sink and wets a washrag and cleans up, and washes his hands, and then he licks his mouth wet and looks at himself, in the spotty mirror, the candlelight flickery and making his face strange. When he comes out Sam's stripped the bed closer to the door and the other one is spread with that bedding, the blankets Dean stole, and Sam's in the middle of taking off his belt, standing in his socks with his shirt off and his chest bare and his hair a little ruffled, and he looks up at Dean in the bathroom doorway and smiles, and lays his belt on the bare bed, and says, "C'mere," and Dean comes.

Sam's hands are cold and Dean bitches about that, immediately. "Shut up," Sam advises, and Dean says, "Oh, if anyone needs to—" and Sam kisses him, like Dean knew he would, so that's okay. Together they get Dean's jacket off, his flannel, his t-shirt, and he shivers but Sam's hands drag down his arms and that's so warm Dean can hardly stand it. He drags his fingers through Sam's chest hair—hair, when Sam had been so sleek before—and Sam kisses the top of his ear, weirdly affectionate in a way that makes Dean's chest hot—and then his fingers go for Dean's belt, his jeans, and Dean pushes him away an inch, then, taking a second to breathe.

Sam's—christ. Hot. His nipples pebbled up tight and his cheeks a little pink, even in the candlelight. "Gotta get my boots off, man," Dean says, and Sam looks down like he's surprised that an impediment to getting in Dean's pants might exist, and Dean grins, sits back on the bed. Okay, so. Sam's not suddenly a pure sex god. Somehow that's as much of a relief as the breathing room was.

He works at the knot of his laces. Sam takes the opportunity to strip off his jeans, and then there's his bare long legs, his boxer-briefs. His dick's thick in them, obvious, but while Dean's tugging off his second boot Sam skims them off and down and then he's just—naked, nearly all the way except his stupid black socks he always wears, and Dean huffs and says, "Sexy," dry, but then Sam's kneeling down in front of him, sliding his hands up Dean's thighs, and—well. Truth or dare. Dean wouldn't have to take a drink, this time.

The corner of Sam's mouth lifts and he unzips Dean's jeans, and then tucks his fingers into the waistband, and Dean lifts his ass up and lets Sam pull and Sam—takes his time about it, damn him, pulling down Dean's underwear too so the cold air ripples up goosebumps all the way down Dean's legs, freezing. Sam kisses Dean's chest, his nipple—Dean grabs Sam's head, surprised—and then ducks down, kisses the root of his dick and then sucks in the head, soft and warm, slick, so abrupt that Dean slams a hand down onto the edge of the mattress and his head falls back, his hips lifting. Christ, Sammy. A big hand circles around Dean's calf and Sam sucks, soft, while Dean's dick rises so fast he gets dizzy—and then Sam pulls away, the cold air hitting like a hammer, and lifts up with his mouth pinked-wet and says, "Get in bed," and Dean stares at him like a lunatic for a second and then, jesus, scrambles to obey.

He scooches in to the middle. The blankets are ridiculous, double-weight and heavy, but the sheets are chilly even through his socked feet. Sam climbs in after him and pushes right up against his back, his dick swelling up against Dean's ass, his body a hot shock among the cold. "You're a friggin' furnace," Dean says, and Sam snorts, bites soft at Dean's bare shoulder. There's a second of separation—Sam stretching away—and then Sam's back, under the blankets, kisses under Dean's ear, slides his hand over Dean's hip, down. Dean's breath hitches and he slides his leg forward. "Yeah?" Sam says, the idiot, and Dean says, "Duh, bitch," and there's a huff and then a muffled click and then Sam's fingers are slick, sliding up against his ass, pushing in.

Oh—god. It's been—since the last time. Dean turns his face against the pillow and pulls his leg higher, makes room. Sam's fingers, wet-thick, and the strange uncertain feeling of being broken open, how it pulls and worries, his body barely remembering what to do. Long time. Sweat breaks out at his temples, the middle of his back. He drops a hand to his dick and squeezes, letting it know something better's coming.

"You're tight," Sam says. Unnecessarily, in Dean's opinion. "You really, you never—?"

"Some things should be kept between a man and his hour-long showers, Sammy," Dean says, light, and it's not really true but Sam huffs another little laugh and kisses his ear, and Dean pops his leg up instead even though that makes a cool cavern of air under the covers, giving Sam the room to work him. He pushes back, pulls at his dick, works it fat, and against his ass Sam's dick feels full, ready. He always liked this part, the part where he made Dean want it. He turns his head and says, "Sam," and Sam lifts up and kisses him just like he wanted, his chest warm against Dean's shoulder and his fingers spreading deep, pushing the slick inside where they need it, and while he's kissing Dean and relearning every molar Dean feels the fingers slip out, rubbing instead at Dean's hole where it's hot now, wet, flexing. He drags in air through his nose and reaches behind himself, finding Sam fat and heavy. Thick. Jesus, he could never forget how thick.

"Ready?" Sam says and that's a stupid question. Dean tugs the blankets higher with his free hand, covering his shoulder against the cold, snubs Sam up against himself and then lets go, finds Sam's hip, pulls—and Sam takes over, holding Dean's belly as he pushes inside, and Dean tries to contain the flinch but can't and Sam kisses his temple, soft, and his ear, and his neck, and doesn't stop, bulling open that place for himself, splitting Dean wide. His pubes press against Dean's ass. Dean grips the pillow and lets his knee sink down and immediately what's already tight is tighter, closer. Sam grunts against him, slides his hand down to find Dean's half-wilted dick. "You feel—" Sam starts, but he squeezes Dean's dick instead of saying, and Dean's fine with that, he doesn't need compliments when he just needs Sam to—

"Move," he says, and Sam moves.

It's slow, from being on their sides. No real force behind it. Dean knocks Sam's hand away from his dick and Sam squeezes his balls instead, and then slips a hand to the inside of his thigh and keeps him close that way, locking Dean in place to be fucked. He's still tight but he's loosening up, from the thick rocking churn of Sam inside him, buried up to the root half the time, flexing in and making Dean stretch for him, forcing in that deep good ache of being open, slick for it. With the underhand grip on Dean's thigh his thumb slots in right at the base of Dean's dick, a soft dragging pressure every time Sam squeezes, and Dean can hardly think for how good it all feels. For how much he missed it and pretended for so long he wasn't missing it. Sam's other arm is tucked under the pillow, under his head, and he manages to shove the pillow away enough that he gets bare skin and bites there, soft in Sam's bicep, and Sam drags in air through his teeth and pushes in harder, the wet drag enough that Dean shudders, shoulders to hips, and Sam squeezes his thigh so hard that it hurts.

If it weren't so damn cold Dean would want to throw the blankets off—get on his back with Sam between his legs—lift up, ride, to remember the way Sam's eyes went so dark and hot and intense from seeing Dean get off on him. As it is he feels it building slow, the sweat between them starting to get oppressive, his throat a little abraded from the way Sam keeps dragging his teeth over it, his breath hot there where Dean's skin's so wet. He clenches inside, as much as he can when he's split wide like this, and Sam grunts, warm burst of air against the back of his ear. "Fuck," Dean says, squirming back. He presses his knees together and Sam feels even thicker, his hand caught between Dean's thighs. "Fuck, Sammy—"

"God, I want to come," Sam says, and Dean jerks, caught against him, his dick spitting. Sam worms his hand out and cups Dean's nuts, rubs warm at the root of his dick, his lips smearing against Dean's neck. "God, you're—are you close?"

"Out of practice," Dean says, breathily light, like that's even fucking remotely true. "Can't you tell?" Sam's hand pulls up, fisting his dick, and Dean arches as much as he can, shoving down onto Sam, his teeth floating on this feeling. His gut's molten. "Fuck—Sam, if you—"

"I have to," Sam says, thin, and pushes—Dean tips over and Sam slides, god, out, but in a second he's covering Dean's back and Dean's spreading as wide as he can and Sam slots right back inside, hard, and Dean drags in air against the mattress but doesn't really care, doesn't need it. Sam's pumping inside, fast and deep, the jolting drag of it sliding all over exactly where Dean wants him, and Sam's hands slip from Dean's sides to his hip to his shoulders, holding him in place, and Dean worms a hand between the bed and his dick and lets Sam shove him into his own grip, the rhythm perfect, perfect—Sam's mouth hot against the knob of his spine—and Dean comes pulsing into his own hand, his toes curling and his lips spread against the sheet and his whole body locking up, it feels like, tense, unloading—and Sam groans, shoves his hand between them to feel the mess Dean's making, says, "Fuck, you're—fuck, you're so hot, Dean, the hottest I ever—" and gets a hand on Dean's ass and pulls it wider, shoves in harder, for a shocking minute where it almost hurts except that Dean's so floaty and satisfied he'd take a knife in his flesh and wouldn't mind—and when Sam finally comes he presses right up inside and pumps it deep, forcing it in, and Dean sighs against the bed, overheated and wet, and lets go of his own dick enough that he can tangle his fingers with Sam's, slick, crumpled, bone to bone.

Sam's a deadweight on his back. Dean turns his face against the sheet and gets a pocket of slightly cooler air, content to take it. He squeezes Sam's fingers and in response Sam squeezes his hip, and then slowly, slowly, his lips brush the back of Dean's ear, and then Dean's cheek. "Wow," Sam says, quiet, and Dean snorts. A shift, inside, that makes Dean open his eyes wide—oh, he's open now but it feels—and one of Sam's knees slips over to the outside of Dean's, different leverage, as he pushes in again on all the wet he made, and in again, still thick. Dean licks his lips and it's so quiet he can hear the wet noise it makes—match, to when Sam pulls out—a spill, trickling down over Dean's balls—and then the squelch as he pushes back in and makes Dean grip the pillow, makes his nuts pulse in heated shock.

"I could go again right now," Sam says, low against his ear, entirely honest.

Dean has to take a deep breath. "Don't press your luck," he says, raw, and Sam laughs quiet, drags out again—still hard, christ above—and tugs at Dean's shoulder, and turns him over in a messy sheet-tangling pull, and gets them the right way around to kiss, full, open, Dean's hands on Sam's waist and the bed smeary and disgusting, between them.

When Dean pulls away, Sam's got his fingers curled around the back of his ear, his dick warm and full up against Dean's hip. He smiles, looking back at Dean in the barely-light. Dean smiles back, kind of helpless. "We really wrecked this bed," Dean says. Just for something to say.

Sam's shoulder lifts. "Heated it up, though," he says, and, well. He's not wrong.

The candles are still lit, and they'll have to take care of those so they don't burn the damn room down. The lantern, too—they shouldn't waste the batteries. There's a slit in the blankets somewhere, cool air pouring in over Dean's back, and he tugs, and Sam gets it and helps him smooth them out, making a cocoon for the two of them. The discarded lube bottle ends up under Dean's back and he slides it up under the pillow, for hopeful future use. Their socked toes bump together. Sam's nose is cold, where it bumps Dean's cheek, but that's all right. Dean's not in a state to mind.

"It's gonna suck to dig out the car in the morning," Sam says, out of nowhere.

Dean closes his eyes and pulls at Sam's waist, getting him closer. Sam's knee slides between his thighs. "That's what I missed about you, man," he says, drowsy. "You always know what to say to get me hot."

Sam snorts. His knuckles drag over Dean's jaw, safe and warm.

#ffcc #wincest #bedsharing #huddling for warmth #my writing

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supersupernaturalimagines · 4 years

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Christmas Delights

Pairing - Jack Kline x Reader

Summary - The holidays are approaching, and knowing that Jack hasn’t ever really seen just how excited people get for the holidays, you decide to take him on a special supply run.

Word Count - 1,767

Warnings - None! Except it’s November 1st, and I’m already posting a Christmas story.

“Now what’s the rule?”

You let out an annoyed sigh as Dean held the keys to the Impala in his grip, waiting for your response before he gave them to you. “Don’t do any damage to Baby whatsoever or there will be hell to pay.” You answered.

“Continue . . .” Dean said, gesturing for you to do so.

“Don’t mess with any of the music or radio presets.” You added, crossing your arms over your chest as Dean still held the keys out of your reach.

“And . . .” He said.

“Oh my god, are you serious? Jack and I are not going to do anything -”

“I’m ready!” Jack interrupted you, joining the two of you in the kitchen, his bright smile easing up your mood instantly. It was so easy to make him excited. Even if all you were doing was going on a supply run, he was eager to go. “Are you ready to go?” He asked you, moving to stand at your side.

You glanced over at Dean who was still looking at you, this time with a little smirk on his lips. “I promise all right!” You said, snatching the keys from him, and grabbing a hold of Jack’s hand. “Come on, let’s go.”

Jack looked confused at Dean’s amused look and your words, but let you lead him out the kitchen and into the Impala. As soon as the two of you were alone, you felt your annoyance vanish as Jack began to tell you all about the latest book he had been reading. You had taken it upon yourself to catch Jack up on popular culture, and he was taking to it well. So well in fact that there had been times when the two of you had stayed up talking late into the night about his favorite things. You couldn’t count the amount of times you had woken up on the couch with your favorite blanket thrown across your body after you had fallen asleep talking to him.

There was no denying that the two of you were close anymore, and because of that, you liked to team up, whether it was hunting or going shopping. So when it was your turn to go into town and get supplies, you asked him to come with you. He agreed at once. He loved to explore the towns that you were near and human behavior whenever he got the chance, so you knew that he would enjoy this trip in particular. “Wow . . .” He said when you pulled to a stop, staring out the window.

The whole street was covered in flashing lights and decorations ranging from wreaths to fake snow around some of the lamp posts. All of that seemed to pale in comparison to the large tree that stood in the center of the square. That wasn’t what was holding your attention though.

Jack’s eyes were wide in wonderment as he gazed around, attempting to take everything in from the car window. The smile that lit up his face was brighter than any of the lights flashing outside. It made a smile form on your own face, his excitement contagious. “What is all this?” Jack asked you, tearing his gaze away from the window to look at you instead.

“Remember how I told you that the holidays were coming up?” You asked him, then nudged his shoulder. “Humans tend to go all out for that sort of thing. Wanna take a closer look?” You asked, gesturing outside.

You didn’t need to ask him twice. Jack almost leaped out of his seat, and you struggled to catch up, trying not to giggle at how excited he was. As soon as you met each other at the front of the car, he took your hand in his own. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

“You’re welcome.” You replied, a genuine smile on your face now as you looked at him. “Now let’s go check it out before Dean thinks we’ve been gone for too long.” You said, tugging him forward and towards the Town Square.

While the holidays hadn’t been your thing in a few years, it was a whole different thing experiencing them with Jack who had never seen something like this. Instead of being filled with memories that upset you, it was as if you were seeing everything from a whole new perspective, just like Jack was. He asked question upon question for you to answer, and you loved how happy he seemed to be.

Happiness was a rare commodity for hunters after all.

“Did you celebrate the holidays when . . .” He trailed off, and you knew exactly what he meant.

You stirred your hot chocolate with your tiny spoon, poking at your marshmallows while you contemplated your response. “We did . . . what I remember was nice. A lot of family time. Relatives you saw once or twice a year all sitting around a table and catching up . . . looking at the Black Friday ads . . . all the old traditions you know? Along with some of our own.” You added.

His brow furrowed in confusion. “Your own?”

“Like . . . my mom did this thing that I thought was weird as a kid. I thought that everyone put a star on top of the Christmas tree.” You gestured toward the large tree at the end of the street, sparkling bright in the night with its large star on top. “It was what I always saw on TV, and that seemed to be what friends always had talked about. My mother on the other hand, insisted on a ribbon. A very large ribbon that took up way too much space and distracted from the tree all together. Of course now I realize it was more common than I thought, but still. It was our own.”

When you glanced back up at him, you noticed that he was smiling at you this time, in a way that made your heart do all sorts of funny flips and flops.

“What?” You asked, feeling the heat rush to your cheeks.

“I like when you talk about your family, and it makes you happy. You aren’t usually when you’re talking about them.” He answered, his words honest, and unaware of the brief stab of pain they caused.

It was hard to remember the good things after having to watch them die so brutally, so when you talked about your family, he was right, you weren’t happy a lot of the time. Now that he had mentioned it, you didn’t want it to happen again. You didn’t want a guilty emotion to ruin such a fun night for Jack. “You want to go for one more walk around before we leave? Dean’s going to think we’re up to something if we stay out too much longer.” You asked, changing the subject.

You couldn’t miss the concern that flashed on Jack’s face at your clear avoidance at the subject, but you were relieved when he didn’t pry, picking up your now empty cup and putting it in the trash can behind him as he took your hand once more. “I’d love to.”

As the two of you walked around the tree once more, the memory of your earlier conversation faded to the back of your mind, Jack’s warm body next to yours as you nestled your head against his shoulder, happy and content again.

____________________

Over the next few weeks, the days began to melt together as they often did when your little ragtag family were working on cases. It seemed that you were finally getting a break though after you woke up at a reasonable time without Dean or Sam banging on your door to get packed. Taking your time, and enjoying the deep sleep you had just woken up from, it took you a few moments to notice the present on your bedside table.

As soon as you did, you sat up so fast you almost had a head rush, tears flooding to your eyes.

There, taking up almost your whole nightstand, was a large bow. It was misshapen in some places, and covered with cartoon drawings of penguins, Santa Claus, elves and reindeer, but there was no mistaking what it was.

Or who had made it for you.

You grabbed the bow and ran out of your room, hurrying past Sam who was reading, Castiel who was watching television, and almost colliding into Dean who was carrying a large plate of pancakes. “Hey! Watch it!” He called after you, his mouth full of food.

Ignoring him, you didn’t stop until you found yourself in front of the place you knew that Jack liked to frequent and opened the door, biting your lip to control your tears when you saw what waited for you.

“Surprise!” Jack yelled, excited. “Merry Christmas!”

He had decorated the whole room with different colors of string lights, some large and oddly shaped and some small with flashing lights. There were also various plants, and ribbons hanging around in red and white, but the main feature of the room was the tree. It was rather small for a Christmas tree and leaned sideways somewhat, but you didn’t care. It was perfect.

And waiting right at the top was a large space set aside for what you were sure was the bow in your hand.

You couldn’t control yourself. You ran to him, throwing your arms around his neck and planting a kiss on his lips. Almost as soon as you had done it, you realized your mistake and pulled away as your cheeks flooded with heat. “Jack, I’m sorry I wasn’t thinking I’m just . . .” You gestured around the room. “This is so sweet of -”

This time you were the one surprised with a kiss. Jack tugged you back into his arms and was kissing you a lot more thoroughly than you had ever expected him too. Not that you were complaining. His lips were soft and smooth as they moved with yours and it felt like butterflies had erupted all in your stomach as his hands caressed your back in such a gentle touch. You couldn’t help but let out a soft sigh and try to move closer, feeling happier than you had in ages wrapped up in his arms with his lips pressed against your own.

The kiss had to end at some point though, and the two of you were breathless by the time that it did. There were matching smiles on your face as you looked at each other, and then Jack spoke up. “So, do you like it?”

Your smile widened as you answered him with another kiss.

#jack kline #jack kline x reader #jack kline x you #jack kline imagine #supernatural imagine

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gentlemancrow · 3 years

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Written in the Stars Will Have to Do

OK so I saw @hey-there-hunter ‘s JMart Wedding Challenge and I pretty much fan ficced immediately?? Like it was an instantaneous plot bunny that stabbed me in the brain and would not let me free until I made it exist. SO HERE YOU GO! Read it here or head on over to AO3 below! And enjoy some unapologetically aggressive fluff with weddings! Also subtitled someday Crow will stop abusing excessive astral imagery and symbolism for extended metaphors, but today is not that day.

Read on AO3 instead!

Written in the Stars Will Have to Do

Jonathan Sims always thought of himself as a man with a deep appreciation for the great literature of the world. A passionate turn of phrase, crystalline motes of clear imagery like snowflakes reflecting light in his mental scape, a devastating contemplation on the nature of good and evil in the hearts of all mankind, everything that could express the beauty and tragedy of the world in ways he never could. Prose was a bright paintbrush on a ragged canvas of the universe he had known from an early age was swathed in shadow and pain and evil, and those words on those pages, for at least a moment, were another world he could hold in his hands, could cradle and protect, could mourn. He liked the power of them as well, of the tinkling brightness of alliteration, the oaky sophistication of a well-aged metaphor, the evocativeness of the idiosyncrasy in a simple simile, laying bare truths in ways he never could have articulated for himself.

There was one thing he could not abide by in language, however, one cardinal sin liable to besmirch any piece of lush and sparkling verse or prose and taint it forever. And that was idioms.

Jon loathed idioms and their dismally quirky cliches dressed in familiarity’s tacky clothing almost as much as he hated spiders. Perhaps it was something about their reliance on common knowledge and repetition. He couldn’t bear reading the same book twice, or even a book that felt too familiar, it only made sense that hearing a hackneyed phrase repeated in that awful singsong sardonic tone of someone who knows full well they’re saying something asinine that has been repeated ad nauseum for millennia would scrape at the back of his skull and down his spine. They were too whimsical and blasé, crutch words for when one’s limited lexicon came up empty, or worse, for ill comedic effect. They reinforced that staunchly English notion of skirting about the true depth and breadth of emotion for clipped niceties and unfeeling banalities. Idioms to him were mere verbal window boxes, colorful and meaningless, dressings for untold disasters behind the shining windows they peacocked before.

He hated them all with vaguely equal rancor, but there was one he could definitely single out as the one he hated the most, and that was the one about hanging the moon. Such and such thinks you hung the moon, to me you hung the moon, and so on. This particular rhetorical felony attracted his wrath only marginally because any moon symbolism never failed to feel outlandish and infantile, a mawkish image of love and care rampant in nursery rhymes and cheap commercialized slogans for t-shirts and wall art. That was the least of it. He hated the idea of hanging the moon mostly because once, another lifetime ago now it seemed, Tim Stoker had lobbed it in his face in a fit of smoldering rage and he had been completely, complacently, ignorant of its magnitude.

Funny thing was, he couldn’t even remember what the actual fight had been about any longer. Though he could remember exactly where he was standing, cornered next to the file cabinet for the year 1985, January through February, and the label had been peeling up on the upper left-hand corner. He remembered he’d discovered a hole in the elbow of his jumper that morning and he had been obsessing over it all day, fussing with the dangling green thread and tugging at the knit as if it might magically close the wound. He’d put his finger clean through it with his arms crossed haughtily over his chest without even realizing he’d been fiddling with it when something flippant about Martin came out of his mouth. It hadn’t even been cruel, he couldn’t even remember how Martin had come up in the argument in the first place, he could only remember Tim’s mouth moving like he wanted to say something else, then him forcibly stopping himself before he snarled.

“Yeah well, god knows why, but he thinks you hung the moon, so you might try treating him at the very least like a human being once in a while.”

It was such a small thing. Small words for a small feeling cloaked in a chintzy veneer of idiomatic dismissal. A trembling little bird cupped in his scarred and battered hands and smothered. Or so he thought. Sometimes trembling little birds turn out to be phoenixes, and those who looked to someone else to hang the comfort of a wise, silvery moon in the sky already have the hammer and the picture wire at the ready.

As far as Jon was concerned, the moon only rose on their Somewhere Else because Martin deigned to pull the strings every night, not him.

It was Martin who brought him tea every morning, set it down on the breakfast table with that little flip of the tag and the deft, one-fingered turn of the handle toward him. It was Martin who scolded him because whites are a separate load, Jon, were you raised in a barn? Martin who talked him through every episode of the Doctor Who reruns that were the only thing their ancient aerial could pick up. Martin who planted flowers in the garden and brought muffins from the sweet old lady at the grocers because they traded baking recipes. Martin who still looked at him with diaphanous pools of ethereal moonlight in his eyes and his smile like he alone hung it in the sky over his head to wash him in its radiance.

Even after everything.

Even after it had been Martin who had to hold the knife buried in his chest as he lay gasping wetly for breath in an alleyway in Another Chelsea to keep the hemorrhaging at bay. Martin who had cupped his face in his bloody hands with tears streaming down his and forced him to focus, furious love blazing in his sea mist eyes as they locked with his, screaming at him and him only, heedless of anything else.

“Look at me. LOOK at me, Jon! Stay with me! Stay with me, DAMN YOU!”

Stay with me had not been a plea, it had been a command. He had never once said please because it was never an option. Shivering, breathing blood through his teeth, the streetlights a fading, star studded halo in Martin’s strawberry blond curls be damned, he was right. Against every tangled thread of fate twisted deep into his flesh, or perhaps because they had been the only thing that held his torn innards together, he made it to the part where he awoke a few fractured times to nothingness, and then to fingers he knew every inch of inextricably bound up in his and a fierce whisper in his ear.

“I’m here, Jon. I’m still here. I’ve got you. I’m going to fix this. I’m going to get us out of here. We’re going to be okay.”

It had been Martin who orchestrated their clandestine escape from the hospital the moment they both agreed he was well enough to survive under his rudimentary medical care and before the authorities got too invested in an urban ghost story of two men who didn’t exist. Not to mention one of which should, by all medical and logical law, be dead. ��It had been Martin who had stolen the necessary antibiotics, drugs, and wound care supplies, Martin who had picked enough pockets to buy passage on a midnight train to the only place they could think to go, and expressly told Jon not to ask where he learned how, even though he knew full well he would later. Martin who had fought for everything and kept him hidden and safe while he lay in a dingy hotel room somewhere in Scotland, drifting in and out of consciousness between kisses, cold compresses, spoonfuls of whatever he could get him to swallow and keep down, and desperate ‘I love you’s.

Martin had been the one who hung the moon even on the nights Jon couldn’t see it, just so he knew it was there, that the light might finally guide him home. Not him. He could have never done something so selfless and simple and beautiful. No not him. Not The Archivist. How could he have ever known that? Stupid, myopic, pedantic, all-seeing and blind. A blustering, sanctimonious Tiresias in a sweater vest and half-moon glasses. And how important was the moon, anyway that he was expected to hang it too? Would not night still come and the stars still shine? The stupid, vapid saying should have been about the sun anyway. Something that nourished and guided and warmed. Not the moon. Not the thing of night and hungry wolves and quiet loneliness. Not a thing of the darkness they fought and still not won, not exactly, not in a way that mattered. How could he have known the weight of such a thoughtless, frivolous, meaningless phrase and how far and how long Martin had borne it for him to protect he who hung his moon?

He could see the weight of it so clearly now. He could see it especially on the darkest days, which came, in grotesque mockery, the moment they found something like their safehouse and rest at last. Jon had conned his way into a job at the village library with an ancient head librarian who didn’t care much for too many questions, or background or credit checks, and was more than happy to pay in cash. With Martin’s help of course. Martin himself had taken up stocking at the village grocers, and their life had teetered onto something so close to quaint and normal it suddenly laid bare the gravity of the depths of darkness they had escaped.

No longer did they have to run, no longer did they have to fight, they could finally lay down the chase and curl in upon each other to lick their wounds in quiet. But without the driving, primal instinct to live, to survive, that ushered in the days where all the hurt came back to roost and brood and fester. The days where he couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed, or the days Martin couldn’t bear the sound of his voice, or the days they shouted themselves hoarse, stormed apart for hours then came back, silent and broken, red-eyed and exhausted to hold each other and weep into the spaces between neck and shoulder where it still smelled like love and home.

He could see so painfully clearly the toll following him to the ends of the cosmos and back had etched its marks into his goodness, his body and soul, see how often he would walk down the road from their cabin, just a little ways, to stand on the heather spotted hills and gaze out into the frigid infinity of the gray sea. Cold terror would grip him then, incite a desperate want to run after him, to throw his arms around him and bring him home, but also the fear it would only be to have him turn to mist and slip through his fingers forever. He always had a cup of steaming tea waiting for him when he came back, just in case.

But again, and always. It was Martin who would pick up Jon’s hands, kiss every slender, scarred finger through his tears and be the first one to utter ‘I’m sorry.’ Martin who told him with just a single scathing flash of stern blue eyes and not a single word uttered that he was certainly coming to bed and not banishing himself to the couch like an idiot. Martin who wrapped him in his arms and warmth and boundless love and reminded him, “One way or another. Together. That was the deal, right? You don’t get to back out now. No returns, refunds, or exchanges, I’m afraid.”

And even through the deepest sobs he would find the laugh Jon didn’t think was in him. Martin sifted through the mire and the muck and held fast to the tiny, shining things so easy to lose in the darkness. Things Jon was certain were lost forever, only to be reignited and hung in the brightening sky of their story. Even if they weren’t quite the moon yet.

It had also been Martin who, on a perfectly ordinary day, on a simple walk through the local farmers market, stopped to peruse one of the usual unremarkable stalls filled with crystals and oils and trinkets. Jon had wandered off to procure the parsnips and the strawberries, unrelated recipes Martin swore, he had been tasked with finding. When he returned he found him, a radiant monument tall among the faceless locals, rusty curls caressing his face in the salty breeze, carved of marble and rose quartz and gazing down at a pair of hematite rings on a velvet display box. His eyes were distant, but not in the enthralled, disembodied way they were when he looked at the sea, or the broken way when they weren’t speaking, but in the contemplative, regarding of puzzle pieces way when he would look into the fire during their talks and turn his words in his mind over and over again like a rock tumbler until they were polished just right.

“Getting into crystals now, are we?” Jon had joked, “Surely I’m not so dull to be around that that’s becoming an attractive hobby.”

Martin snorted and shook his head.

“Supposed to mean healing, or grounding, or something. Aligning your meridians, I think the lady said? Whatever that means,” he elaborated, reaching out to touch.

They clinked weightily together, thick and glossy and the dark astral gray of a moonless night. Martin turned over the card that went with them and read.

“’A grounding stone that belongs to the planet Mars. It strengthens our connections to the earth and aids the warrior on their journey. It is a stone of invincibility, but also fragility. It balances yin and yang energies with its magnetic properties for the perfect reflection upon one’s own soul, astral, physical, and spiritual.’”

“Hematite, is it?” Jon asked, “Also more commonly called bloodstone. You know if you scratch it, it leaves a red mark. Like it’s bleeding. Watch.”

He picked up one of the rings and firmly ran it down the corner of the card Martin had been reading from. Sure enough, the black stone had left a faint, but starkly crimson mark on the yellowed paper.

“It BLEEDS?” Martin exclaimed in horror.

“It’s just a kind of iron oxide, so, rust, basically,” Jon explained with a chuckle, “Kind of weirdly romantic if you think about it? This intimidating shiny black stone like armor, made of iron to boot, but with a bleeding heart at its core.”

“I just thought it was pretty, I didn’t know it bleeds,” Martin had laughed in that incredulous way he always did when Jon was telling him something he didn’t actually want to know, but appreciated anyway.

“I find that the strongest, prettiest things often do,” Jon had said in reply. He remembered saying that particularly clearly, waxing poetic, feeling a swell of affection for the hugely beautiful man he leaned against and was adorably aghast at bleeding rocks.

“Yeah, I reckon they do,” Martin murmured back.

And then his cheeks had flushed bright red under his freckles and the stone steps of his shoulders crumbled a bit under the crushing ancientness and vastness of what he had originally been pondering.

“So, I mean, before you spoiled it with the blood thing. I was thinking… Well, I was just having a browse and I saw these and I thought they were quite fetching, and then the lady told me they meant grounding and healing and a journey, like on the card. A-And there were two of them, all by themselves, and everything else was so colorful and flashy these were just so… Um. Maybe the blood and rusty iron thing makes it more poetic now, actually? I don’t know. Sorry I- This sounded so much better in my head.”

It wasn’t his fault, Jon remembered thinking. Martin couldn’t find the words because there weren’t any. Not in this universe or any other. Not for what they’d gone through, and especially not for what they meant to each other.

“I guess I was just thinking. If… I bought one. And wore it. Sort of like. Um. You know. Would… Would you-?” he had asked, his voice trembling.

Jon had never said yes, yes of course he would, faster or with more conviction in his life. And there was that look again, rising from the ashes, that flooding of golden, unbound love and light, of eyes turned sky blue, of looking at the man who hung his moon in the sky come back to him. He could still hang Martin’s moon all over again after so many nights of black clouds and darkness, even if it was only paper. They’d paid for the rings in rumpled bills, exchanged them right then and there, and kissed each other as the crowd of oblivious people in a world they did not belong in flowed like a river around them. Jon forgot the bag with the parsnips and strawberries.

But it didn’t matter. It didn’t even matter that Martin’s fit nicely on his ring finger, but Jon had to wear his on his thumb, and even then sometimes on a chain around his neck for fear of losing it. It didn’t matter that it was the closest thing they were ever going to get to a proposal and a wedding, consigned now forever to the shadows in a borrowed reality with only each other. Because it was theirs, and they could begin to figure out how their broken pieces fit back together again.

But like most things that don’t matter, it didn’t until it did.

It began as simple things. Seeing a wedding on some program they weren’t actually paying much attention to and Martin making a flippant, innocuous comment as he combed his fingers lovingly through Jon’s long and silvered chestnut hair in his lap about how he would have loved to have a cake that had a different flavor on every tier at their wedding. Just so everyone could have something they liked. And Jon woke up from his half catlike stupor and looked up at him with such aching regret as those words settled into the pit of his heart alongside ‘he thinks you hung the moon.’

And soon they began to gather a collection of completely innocent remarks that ran the gamut from ‘would they have worn black or white? Or one of each? I don’t know… does it really matter? And were these engagement rings or wedding rings? I don’t know. Neither? both? And do we say husband instead of boyfriend now? Fiancé? Whatever you want, Martin…’ To the heavier, cancerous weights that sank to the bottom of his gut, even below hanging the moon, like ‘I know Tim would have thrown the most amazing bachelor party for both of us, and his mum had always talked about him getting married someday like it was a farfetched pipe dream, but she would be happy for them, he thinks.’

He could never answer those questions. There was too much at stake, too much finality and familiarity in them, a strange weightlessness in a world that weighed far too much. The sun and moon continued their eternal dance of time, ignorant, unbothered, but Jon kept collecting those silent debts of normal life, secreting them away in a hidden singularity in his heart that only grew heavier and metastasized farther the more times Martin walked out at night, not him, beaming starlight from his eyes and his fingertips, to hang the moon again. So soft, so full of wooly cows and pink heather and the smell of tea and sea salt and Martin’s shampoo on the pillow next to him did it become, that it was almost inevitable that one morning Jon awoke absolutely convinced none of it could be real.

The moment he decided that, everything made so much more sense. He could breathe again. There was a reason he could never sit still, never just feel at ease or talk about the future like it was a real thing that could still happen. He knew why the silence made his brain itch and why he still glanced around corners and glowered at anyone who dared let their gaze linger on his Martin too long. Why Martin’s ring fit and his didn’t. There was too much debt to the universe to be paid, too many broken promises, too many corpses in his wake, he had done nothing to deserve this idyllic life of love and peace and smallness and Martin. It had to be Her doing, It’s doing, some carefully woven torture chamber that would lure them to the apex of their joy, the center of the web, where they would just be devoured over and over to empty husks and set up like chess pieces to fill with love and light just to knock down again. He wasn’t free after all.

Jon had been halfway into his coat and halfway out the door to do, he didn’t know, something, anything, to go to the library to use their computer and research something he didn’t know he was looking for when Martin had seized his hand and whirled him around.

“Jon. STOP. It’s over.”

And he’d stopped. He’d looked into those baleful blue eyes, fallen into their depths, landed on the precipice of madness, and broken. It wasn’t over. Not for him. He finally understood. It was still there. The Eye. It always had been. Though not really, he understood slowly as he wept on his knees in their doorway into Martin’s chest, it had indeed closed forever on him, but it lingered as distant static, like a phantom limb, a metaphysical itch that could never be scratched. Martin had cradled him close and listened, listened so patiently as he ripped the jagged black fear from the deepest, ugliest part of his heart, hauled it up bloody and messy from his throat and finally laid it bare for both of them to see. And when it was done and he couldn’t cry anymore Martin had locked eyes with him in a way that made him forget any others could have ever existed outside of crystalline blue and filled with moonlight.

“Listen to me. I know you think you have some cosmic burden to bear. That you’re still wearing some… some fucked up crown and sitting on a throne of skulls and death and eyeballs or whatever image you want to put there, and that you have to sit and hurt and watch over everything so it doesn’t happen again, but... Sorry, Jon, but that’s bullshit. It’s just a scar now. That’s all. Just like the rest of them. Ugly and beautiful and proof that you —Jonathan Sims— are still alive. And you are not The Archivist anymore. You’re just mine. My Jon.”

He’d held his Jon’s stunned face in his hands and peppered kisses over the pock marks in his skin, over the slash on his throat, the burnt fingers that still couldn’t bend quite right, even the one on his chest, the one almost always hidden by fabric but the one he didn’t need to see to find. His heart and fingers would always remember exactly where it was. And he’d kept his lips there a moment, then turned his ear to his chest and wrapped his arms around his waist to listen to his heartbeat like a trembling little bird.

“If I can hear it and feel it. So can you,” he whispered.

Unsteady fingers curled desperately into Martin’s silky locks, hematite loop cool against his scalp, “Thank you…”

Martin stayed for the kiss on top of his head he knew was coming and smiled.

“Okay, so it’s simple to fix if you think about it,” he murmured into Jon’s chest, “We just need that thing, you know? The thing that makes you feel like you’re still doing the thing, but you’re not. What was the word for it again? A placeholder? Like when you quit smoking and you hold a pencil or a straw or something that’s not actually a cigarette so you can wean yourself off the ritual?”

Jon blinked owlishly down at him as he dried his eyes.

“A… placebo? Are you talking about a placebo?”

“Yeah! That’s it! We just need to find you a placebo for Knowing things! That’s all. Like… reality shows, or-or zoo cams or something! We’ll figure it out together. Alright, love? I promise you. It’ll be okay.”

Jon was skeptical, so very skeptical, but if Martin was determined to find a balm to soothe his jagged, ontological scars he would happily play the part of lab rat for him. They’d tried a myriad things to replicate the feeling of Knowing and looking something deep within him still craved. The zoo and animal livestreams were a bust, cute and entertaining as they were, but animals weren’t ever the purview of The Eye and the camera itself was barely a scrap. Reality shows came closer, the more salacious the better, but even that temporary fix wore off when Jon’s disgust with the overall content and participants outweighed any benefit. Martin was just happy to have finally converted him to Bake Off, at least. They tried people watching in the square in the village, but it made Jon far too self-conscious and guilty. He used the binoculars exactly once, and that was to look at the cows in the fields, and the choose-your-own-adventure books Martin had been certain would strike a sagacious chord wound up in the donation bin at the library. But that was when he was struck with a bolt of genius.

Unbeknownst to Jon, which brought him no small measure of glee, Martin ordered, received, and then set up with a literal bow in their back garden the finest telescope he could afford on his meager savings. He’d researched for days, asked on every amateur astronomer forum he could find, and had it delivered to the grocers so he could make it a proper surprise. He’d even gone so far as to attack and blindfold a hapless Jon the moment he made it home from work on the day it was ready, and stood behind him giddily bouncing as he tore the tea towel away from his eyes.

“A… Telescope?” he’d blurted dumbly.

“Yes! It’s perfect, right? I asked around to find the one that had all the best features, and this one has the best overall magnification and the most lenses, but it doesn’t have the little satellite positioning thing? I figured you wouldn’t want that anyway, you always like figuring things out and finding things on your own better.”

Martin had been positively radiant. Jon had just stared at the gawping black tube and chewed the inside of his cheek as he processed what to say.

“I mean… thank you, Martin, really. It was a sweet thought, but if the binoculars didn’t-“

“Screw the binoculars! This is different!” Martin happily insisted, “You can look at so much more! Stars and planets and galaxies and what have you, and it can maybe be sort of like you’re looking for other worlds? Wormholes or whatever? Or signs of The Fears and where they’ve gone? Or even if the stars are the same here as they were back before? Space literally has so many things to LOOK at we can’t even count them! This has got to be it!”

Jon tried to smile and laugh and agree to try it out, at the very least, if only because Martin was beaming so sweetly with pride and hope. Though that first night he didn’t, ushering them back in with promises of tomorrow, Martin, I promise tomorrow. Tomorrow had been a lie. As had been the next night. In fact, it took Jon a full week to even remember they even had a telescope, and that was only after getting the smuggest, Cheshire grin out of Martin after casually mentioning there would be a visible, if partial, lunar eclipse that night. He’d relented, only because he’d entrapped himself, and they’d both bundled up, looked in the manual for the best size lens to view the moon with, poured a few glasses of wine, and turned their eyes to the stars.

Martin had gone first, gripping the eyepiece and adjusting the focus all the while gasping in awe. It was so beautiful he’d burst into poetry with a crooked grin.

“Art thou pale for weariness? Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, wandering companionless among the stars that have a different birth, and ever changing, like a joyless eye that finds no object worth its constancy? Sounds a little familiar, eh?” he joked, casting a wry look over his shoulder.

Jon rolled his eyes fondly.

“Gross. Keats again?”

“Nope, Shelley this time, and even he thinks you ought to have a look at the moon. I think you’ll find you have a lot in common.”

Jon had sighed obligingly and shuffled to the telescope, fully expecting to look at something bright and round with a bit of a shadow on it that was distinctly unremarkable, have another glass of wine, and then go back inside to snuggle by the fire. What he saw in that tiny pinhole of light pierced straight through the hazel brown of his eye and plunged him into another world entirely.

The sands of the moon glowed the purest white in the refracted light of the distant sun with which it waltzed. He could see in crisp, shadowy relief the innumerable scars she bore, the depth and breadth of Ptolemaeus, the boundless lonely flatness of the maria, named for the oceans they were once thought to be, an insult to the rock plains forged a millennia ago in birth by cataclysmic fire. Every crater remained wrought in perfect, frozen detail with no erosion or foliage to slowly heal them over, and she beamed them proudly, ostentatiously in her heavenly light. A hulking, ancient protectorate, hung by the hands of creation at the dawn of time for a fledgling planet, hundreds of thousands of miles away, and yet so crystal clear and unafraid as he perused her millions of years of cosmic sentinel through a lens. It was dwarfing, humbling, viscerally awe inspiring in a way he dared not voice for fear of snuffing out the fragile glow of wonder and excitement welling in his chest he had been so certain was gone forever.

Astronomy had never been something that had particularly interested Jon, back when his entire reality from the moment his childish hands had touched a single book was spent peering into shadows and watching his own back. There was no point in wondering what lay among the stars when danger and death lurked so close behind with slavering jaws ever poised at his throat on terra firma, but now. Now, he had been living in an alternate world, dimension, reality, somewhere, he couldn’t even say for sure. He’d been hurled potentially through the very stars that twinkled coquettishly above, flashed through their nebulous veils and curtains under their indifferent gaseous gazes, but seen nothing. Here was a vast expanse of complete chaotic indefiniteness inviting him in to see what few had ever seen, to guess and hypothesize and gesture wildly at secrets only the stars could keep. To Know.

Jon had jerked back so suddenly from the telescope to survey the entirety of the astral dome above them that Martin had choked on his wine.

“Jon? Are you quite alright?”

“Yes, I…” he’d murmured, only even half hearing that Martin had said anything at all, stars reflected in his wondering dark eyes, “I’m fine, I just… How… How much more can this see? How deep does it go?”

Jon hadn’t seen the victorious smirk on Martin’s face as he set down his wine glass and picked up the instruction manual and lens guide. They’d watched the rest of the eclipse, of course, marveling through the lens at the inky trickle of shadow over craggy white, but then they’d changed the lens to the strongest one, according to the guide, and spent the rest of the evening triangulating their position beneath their slice of the universe and plotting out the various stars, planets, and constellations above. Jon had even dashed inside to grab a mostly blank notebook and had filled several pages with notes and observations and things to research later, all while Martin held back tears watching him come so alive over a project he didn’t even know he needed. Eventually though, sleepiness and cold claimed him, and he kissed his beloved goodnight and left him, more than gladly, to ride out the intellectual flare up until it burnt both him and itself out.

Martin had no clue what time it was when he finally returned, and it didn’t even matter. All that mattered was at some point, a practically frozen Jon had climbed into bed, snuggled up close behind and wrapped his arms around him to kiss the back of his neck so softly like the wings of a butterfly and whisper.

“Thank you.”

Another victorious smirk and a loving murmur.

“Told you so.”

Where there had been nothing but an Eye shaped hole in him, scarred around the edges and aching in its vacuum, Jon had filled it with the names of nebulas and quasars, of the myth of Andromeda, and Orion, and Castor and Pollux, or Hercules, and why they had all been hung in the stars for eternity. The stories were much the same as he remembered, but he’d found slight eccentricities, tiny irregularities in the sky which fascinated him even more so. Night after night he would look at a different astral body, chart it down in his notebook, then come bounding in with starlight beaming from his eyes and his fingertips with some cry of eureka.

“Martin! Did you know here Polaris is in the south and Sirius is in the north?”

“Martin! Did you know the Andromeda Galaxy is actually a little closer to the Milky Way here?”

“Martin, you have to come see this! Oh, no it’s not weird this time, it’s just I finally got Saturn in the telescope and you can actually see the rings!”

His nightly herald would always be different, but Martin would always rise from the comfort of the couch, put his slippers on, and let Jon talk as long as he needed to about his latest discovery, watching him smile again while he, too, watched the matching smile it never failed to ignite illuminate Martin’s face and they lit each other up in the fused brilliance of a binary star.

Martin no longer hung the moon for Jon, he’d finally just up and quite literally given it to him, and there was no mortal way to repay him for that. Or so he’d thought. It came to him, as most flashes of brilliance do, on a night he hadn’t even been thinking about it at all. All he had been doing was sitting in a lawn chair with his telescope long after Martin had gone to bed, chewing his pencil idly, vaguely missing a cigarette and pondering notes on Vega and Lyra between watching it through his lens. He’d been stuck for days on Vega and its potentiality for another solar system and what that could imply for their new Earth and their new sun, as well as Lyra and the tragic tale of Orpheus and his doomed love. Even in their new reality he still turned back at the end of the story, still could not contain the roiling, effusive adoration to his own downfall.

Bitterness had risen like bile in the back of Jon’s throat as he replayed the myth again in his head, unsure why it was vexing him and rewinding in his brain so torturously. “Stupid, stupid man, if he’d only just…” he’d thought again and again, each time giving the star-crossed musician a different decision, a different choice, urging him down another path somewhere, anywhere along his journey, but in the end, he’d always looped back around to the original. It was the point of the story, after all. Not so much the love itself or even the loss of it, but the power of it over one man and the creation born from his mourning and eventual destruction. Patently Greek. But the chorus would always begin again in Jon’s head. If he’d kept his Eurydice, if his songs had been happy, if he hadn’t spent the rest of his life mourning so intensely he was eventually destroyed for it, would he have become the paragon of healing he was, the oracle, the lynchpin of the fate of the world he had eventually become? Which of them was the stupider man?

Jon was only mortal now, he was no longer all-seeing oracle and dark savior, he had no authority to say, but it was a trifle easier to ponder the hubris of Orpheus instead of his own. He couldn’t help but think, achingly, sometimes the heroes just deserved to pull their beloved from the pit of Tartarus, promise to love them for eternity, and then simply get married, ride off into the sunset, and live happily ever after. A story wasn’t a story if it didn’t write itself upon the very bones and sinews of its heroes, that was the law of the universe, but when the story was done and the cracks and fissures in their tissues had faded to myth and legend, what became of the heroes who did not die a tragic or heroic death and were not hung in the stars? What happened to heroes left behind? Twisting his bloodstone ring on his thumb idly as it caught the shivering fire of those stars in its dark mirrored surface, the musical arrow of the muses pierced his heart, wide-eyed in wonder. He’d asked the universe, but he already knew the answer. He’d always known. He knew, and he knew it with such clarion joy as he had never known anything before.

He could no longer be the man who hung Martin’s moon, he hadn’t been for a long time. That much was clear to him, but he could certainly do something else. Perhaps they had grown past the need for moon hangings in the first place. He knew how their story ended.

It took months of saving, secreting, preparation, and then finally just simply waiting for the perfect, clear night. The moment it came, the moment he knew it was the night, Jon struck without hesitation. Poor Martin wanted nothing more than to collapse onto the couch, into Jon, when he returned from a late shift at the grocers, but found himself instead stuffed right back into his coat with a picnic basket in hand and hauled out into the frigid night in a flurry of Jon with little time to protest. He bounded up the hill behind their little cottage beneath a perfect blanket of stars flaming coldly overhead, trailing Martin’s hand in his behind with his breath coming in silvery puffs of clouds, and paying no heed to the whining.

“Jon, whatever it is, does it have to be NOW?” Martin panted, “I am absolutely knackered and it’s beyond freezing and wouldn’t it be nicer just to curl up with a cuppa and fall asleep in front of Star Wars or something? Doesn’t that have enough stars and space in it?”

Dauntless, Jon only tugged harder.

“There’s tea in the basket, and I’ve seen Star Wars. And yes, it has to be tonight, it’s really important, I promise.”

“Look. I love you. So much. You know this, and please know it is with the utmost love and deepest affection in my heart that I point out that you say that every time, and you’ve still shown me Pluto like, a hundred separate times. While I quite like it, and I still feel sorry for it being bumped out of the solar system and all, it’s just a dot? How many times can you look at a dot?” Martin sighed.

His words finally threw a caltrop into Jon’s warpath, and he paused, turning over his shoulder woundedly.

“What? No, it’s not Pluto, I swear just- Please, Martin? I’ll never ask again if you don’t want to, but just for tonight, please?” he pleaded.

Martin winced, and immediately folded under the onslaught of doleful honeyed brown eyes under a nimbus of stars.

“Oh, lord there you go with the puppy dog eyes. Okay, okay fine, but there better be a nip of whiskey in this,” he chided lovingly with a gesture at the thermos in the basket.

The smile flared back to life brightly on Jon’s face as he turned back up the craggy little footpath to the top of the hill.

“Of course, hot toddy with tea.”

“Ooh, lovely, you do know me.”

The rest of the way was trivially short to the small, flat hilltop surrounded by heather where Jon had already set up a blanket and the telescope over a pristine vista of the dark line where the stars sank into the sea. He ushered Martin to sit down first, then perched on his hip beside him and poured him a generous helping of tea and whiskey from the thermos before pouring his own.

“Thanks, much. Right then, what exactly are we up here to look at that we couldn’t see from our garden?” Martin asked, accepting his cup of potent hot toddy and sipping it gratefully around the lemony steam that billowed up.

Taken aback by the sudden logic lobbed into the center of his romantic posturing, Jon looked momentarily stunned, as if someone had slapped him upside the head.

“Oh! Oh, um, well-! Ahah, that is to say- Uh. There is a reason for all this. It’s not that we couldn’t see it from our garden, we very much could have. B-But it’s so beautiful up here, and you can kind of hear the sea? And it’s nice and peaceful, and the heather is still blooming a bit and um…” he trailed off, cheeks burning.

“Okay…?” Martin probed, frowning a little.

“Er, actually... It’s less about the stars than it is- W-Well it is about the stars. Let’s get that clear. But to be completely honest I mostly just… I-I well. There’s something I need to tell you?”

Jon was ill-prepared for the look of abject horror on Martin’s face as he went paler than the moon overhead.

“Shit, what is it? Did you find something? You saw something? There’s been a sign of The Fears? Oh god it’s not HER is it?” he asked frantically, nearly slopping hot toddy all over his lap.

“What? No! No, none of that!” Jon spluttered, aghast.

Martin regained a modicum of color in his face and breathed in measuredly.

“Okay, so then what is it? Oh god, you’re not… Jon you’re not ill, or something, are you? Please, you can just tell me if-“

“No, I am not ill either, damn it, Martin! If you would just listen to me! I-!” Jon moaned exasperatedly, “I just wanted to do something… nice. Something nice for you. And nicer than I normally would because I am apparently much worse at crafting romantic moments than I thought and-“

“Wait…” Martin cut in, eyes gleaming with realization, “Jonathan Sims… Are you grand gesturing?”

“Well I am certainly trying but you are making it exceedingly difficult!” he retorted, red in the face and breathless.

“Oh my god, you are! I’m so sorry!” Martin laughed brightly, “Oh god Jon you poor thing I’m so sorry, I’m awful, I’m the absolute worst! No please! Don’t let me spoil it. Please go on.”

Grinding the heel of his palm into his forehead, Jon tried to summon the words again, only for Martin’s strong, warm hands to take it from him and tip his chin up to gaze into his eyes.

“Hey. Hey, Jon. Look at me,” he breathed, looking into his eyes idolatrously, “I’m sorry. I love you. You can tell me.”

Taking the steadiness from those clear blue depths he needed, Jon focused on them, on the strawberry blond curls tossing in the icy breeze, of the kiss of chilled pink under his freckles, and that eternal, sunshine smile.

“Okay,” he finally answered, smiling softly.

With a deep, shuddering breath, and a long swig of whiskey laced tea for good measure, Jon drew himself up and fished deep in his soul for the words he had waited a millennium to say.

“Okay… So here it is. Um… I’ve um, I’ve had a lot of time alone lately with my new hobby, as it were. So, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. A lot of it is overly complicated and ridiculous and doesn’t deserve to live outside of my head but… a lot of it has been about you, about us. And I know we don’t need to-to put a label on us or put us into a… a box or anything like that. But every time I look at this ring on my finger, I can’t help but remember we never actually talked about what they meant,” he began, holding out his left hand and fidgeting with the loose band around his thumb.

“Oh Jon, don’t worry about that. It was just me being a big sappy, sentimental dork. And if I recall correctly, we’d had a pretty awful row a night or two before, and I just wanted to feel close to you again, I guess? We both know what they mean to us. It doesn’t matter,” Martin assured him sweetly.

“Except that it does!” Jon insisted passionately, “That’s the point! You are a big sappy, sentimental dork, Martin. I bet you were the kid that had a dream wedding all planned in a notebook with pictures cut out of magazines and everything. I adore that about you, but big sappy sentimental dorks should have big sappy, sentimental moments like huge, expensive seaside weddings with three-flavor cakes and all your friends and family and rose petals and dove releases and whatever else your heart could dream up.”

Martin snickered and shook his head, charmed at least by the mental image of kissing Jon on a seaside cliff at sunset while doves flew in glorious formation around them and everyone they had ever known and loved cheered.

“Pfft, I don’t need a grand wedding and all that, I just need-”

“Me. I know,” Jon finished for him with a smirk, “I knew you’d say that. Maybe not. But you deserve one. And I know I don’t use that word lightly, but it’s necessary in this case. You deserve it. All of it. Me on one knee with a ring in a box, you deserve us picking out flowers and tuxedos and arguing over the font on the invitations. You deserve Tim’s awful bachelor party and laughing at me at the altar because I had to read my vows off a card and they’re still so stiff and awkward and they pale in comparison to the beautiful poem you wrote about me. You deserve smiling so hard your cheeks hurt and crying as we exchange rings. All of it.”

Martin weighed his words carefully on his tongue with a sip of his boozy tea to chase away ghosts of things that never even were.

“I mean, sure, not going to say I never wanted that. And I did have that stupid wedding notebook, by the way. But all that became a pipe dream the minute we wound up here, right? No use being upset about something that can never be.”

“That may be so, but the crux of it is… you also contented yourself with the idea of it never coming true not because we’re here, but because you didn’t think I wanted it,” Jon answered, his unspoken truth hanging heavy in the chill night air between them, “Every time you tried to tell me you wanted to be with me forever, I brushed it off and painted it gray and tucked it away and carried on the way we always were like nothing happened and it didn’t matter. Because it was alright, really, you were just so happy to have what we have, that I didn’t die in your arms that night, that we were still together after everything. That I at least kept that promise after I’d broken so many. You were so grateful just for what you were gifted after we thought we would end with nothing you didn’t dare think to ask the universe for more and I am so, so sorry it took me so long to see that, Martin. I’m so sorry.”

His voice broke. The breath caught in Martin’s chest as he reached out to touch his wrist comfortingly.

“Jon, I-“

“No, please. Please let me finish I… I can’t give you any of those things. I can’t give you our friends back, I can’t give you cake and doves and the sunset and crying through vows in front of the vicar. I can’t even give you an elopement at the register office because we still don’t legally exist. And I guess for a long time I resented myself for that. For all of it. For stealing that from you, for dragging you through literal hell only to give you a shadow of a life stuck here with me because I betrayed you. But- no stop, don’t say anything yet I’m not done. B-But now I finally realize. You’re right, Martin. You were always right. It doesn’t matter. Those things are all just… things. I said to you once, a long time ago, and I’m still not even sure if you really heard me, that I didn’t want to just survive. It was true then, and maybe it wasn’t true for a while, but it’s certainly true again. We did not fight tooth and nail to just survive. We fought to live, and live together. So what I’m saying is… I know now I don’t have to give you tuxedos and white roses as long as I give you something… Something to prove to you that you are my everything, my entire world, something to show you that I love you more than I have loved anything in my entire life. That I want forever with you. S-So I…” he trailed off, sucking in his breath to give his gesture of undying love the ardor and grandeur it deserved, “I bought us a star.”

The proclamation rang out like the toll of a bell, its gravity sonorous and quaking. Martin blinked.

“You… I’m sorry?” he squeaked.

Jon set his empty thermos cup aside, flailed his hands in the air and shook his head frantically

“I-I know, I know it sounds mental just hear me out!” he protested, “Technically I didn’t buy the star, if we want to get picky about it. I mean obviously no one can own a star. Just the rights to name it? It’s a thing you can do online. I was a bit gobsmacked it was real to be honest. I just had this silly idea when I was out looking at the stars. I was looking at Lyra and thinking about you and Orpheus, and I… W-Well I just typed it in, ‘can you name a star?’ and it came right up. Right then and there. It um… comes with… hold on.”

Remembrance placed a gentle bookmark down on Jon’s fluttering thoughts, and he rummaged in the picnic basket for a moment before pulling out a navy-blue manila folder covered in stars and full of the paperwork and certificates that had come with registering theirs. He handed it to Martin, who took it in place of his own empty cup, numb, muscles quivering under his jaw, and opened it to the glittering gold typeface that proclaimed ‘Congratulations!’.

“It comes with paperwork, too! See? So, it’s official, at least? The Jon-Martin star. Not a marriage license I know, but at least our names are together on something legal? Our real names? I figured even if we manage the fake identity thing we’d have to get married as not us. Not really. So… I-It could be like our marriage certificate?” Jon explained, chewing his lower lip.

Martin said nothing as his hand turned the pages of the documentation, his eyes distant in a way Jon had never seen before. Not disembodied and enthralled, not broken, not even regarding puzzle pieces.

“Oh! Um, also I-I got us a binary star. I forgot to mention that bit,” he went on, filling the sudden void, “It’s, ah- What a binary star is- It’s technically two? But they’re caught up in each other’s gravity and they orbit each other so tightly they look like one star together, one that just shines a little brighter. They’re bound together forever by the most powerful cosmic force in the universe. Just like us.”

Only silence answered, punctuated by one last crisp whisper of paper, and then the folder closing with Martin’s spread fingers atop it, bloodstone gleaming in the vivid pale light of the night. Jon’s heart pitched frantically in his chest, and desperate, stranded tears pricked at his eyes.

“I uh… I would have rather gotten us a whole constellation. Heh, you know? But they don’t do that, obviously,” he tried softly, his fingers barely brushing Martin’s knuckles, “They record heroes in constellations, after all. Great deeds, doomed romances, lovers who can be together no other way… That would have been a better way to honor us, I think. Our story. A-And who knows? Maybe back on our world there are a few new stars to remember what we did, to mark the place we left it, so that everyone we left behind can look up and remember us. They don’t know how the story really ended, and they probably never will, but we do. We do, and I want to end it right here, right now. With our star shining above us ‘and they lived happily ever after.’”

Martin still said nothing, but his head bowed, casting a slice of shadow over his eyes, and his shoulders quivered as a thin, bright line of wet silver trickled down his cheek. Jon felt the very sky shatter above and begin to crumble around him.

“Please… M-Make no mistake, Martin. P-Perhaps the gesture is silly and meaningless, but it was all I could think to do to go with everything I’ve said tonight. Martin… Martin, don’t you see? These are my wedding vows to you. This is me saying ‘I do’ and also ‘Martin K. Blackwood would you do me the honor of making me the happiest man in the universe?’ All at once. This is me saying I swear to you I will be yours, through everything, until the end of time. M-Maybe I wasn’t before. Maybe I was still punishing myself, but I’m telling you, I’m ready now to have my happily ever after. With you, Martin. If you’ll have me. If I haven’t-“

He would never finish. In a dizzying blur of blue folder, flashing hematite, and a wreath of golden curls, Martin kissed the words off his lips. He kissed him so hard and so fierce, through wracking sobs with his hands woven so raptly into his long, wavy locks he thought his lips would bruise and his fragile soul would finally shatter to pieces in Martin’s arms. Undone, all Jon could do was surrender and kiss him back with equal passion, thumbing away the hot tears as they spilled freely down his cheeks and anointed them both with their cleansing, hoary heat. Their lips parted and they panted softly against each other in the space between, each afraid to break the sacred, pulsing silence.

“You’re crying,” Jon whispered at length, “I’ve said something wrong. Martin, darling I’m so sorry. I never meant to-”

Martin laughed, raspy with tears, but ethereal, sparkling, like stardust floating on the breeze.

“People are allowed to cry when they’re happy you stupid, silly man,” he murmured in between kissing him again, and again.

“Oh. Oh.”

He kissed him one last time, that idiot man who always burnt the toast and always knew the facts but never knew what to say, who finally figured it out and bought him a star, and threw his arms around him, enveloping his slight, fragile form protectively in his embrace.

“I love you. I love you so much.”

Jon sank into that warm, familiar comfort and buried his face in his shoulder.

“I love you, too, Martin. I want to be yours for the rest of my life. I want to be me, I want to be us.”

“I know. I’ve always known. Oh god, you do know that right? I know that you love me, it’s written in everything you do and say. I have never, ever once doubted you love me with everything you are. Even in the moments I was afraid that… that maybe we just weren’t meant to be together, I still knew it wouldn’t be because you didn’t love me. Never because you didn’t love me. Just maybe that we didn’t fit together anymore,” Martin replied in a small voice through his tears as they spilled down his cheeks.

As much as he wanted to vehemently deny there was ever a chance they might have not fit back together again after they had both been so shattered, to kiss him and tell him not in a million years would there ever have been a future where they weren’t Jon and Martin against the world, Jon knew it to be inescapably true.

“I’m so sorry you ever had to be afraid of that,” he swore, digging his fingers into Martin’s back pointedly, “After everything. After we fought so hard to escape fear itself. That I almost let it truly win in the end. That I couldn’t just let go… Because… Because this was never about The Eye, was it?”

A heave of breath and its shuddering exhale shook Martin’s body free of lifetimes of grief, and fear, of ugliness carried far beyond the borders of their souls. His fingers curled tighter in unspoken reply.

“No Jon, no it wasn’t, but I’m so very glad you finally figured that out.”

“Me, too…” he whispered.

They held each other in the quiet wake of being a moment and let the astral plane wheel calmly overhead. An impatient star twinkled.

“Wait… you never answered me,” Jon finally said as he pulled back, sliding his elegant fingers down Martin’s strong arms.

“Huh?” Martin blurted, scrubbing under his eyes with the sleeve of his coat.

“About marrying me tonight. You never actually said yes, so…”

A twinkle in his eye and a slight mischief to his grin, Jon dove back into the picnic basket and emerged with a velvet ring box. Martin’s hands flew to his mouth.

“You didn’t.”

“Of course I did! Nothing fancy, but I thought it was high time to retire the blood rings,” he explained rising from his former perch on his hip to kneel properly.

The box cracked neatly open, and inside lay a simple, white gold band with a tiny circle of milky moonstone embedded in it on a midnight-blue satin cushion, blindingly bright against the dark. Martin sobbed joyfully all over again.

“So, uh… I suppose if it had just been us, if we’d just been together, without everything, and we’d arrived at this moment. I would have done much the same. I would have brought you somewhere beautiful, somewhere I could teach you some inane fact you didn’t actually care about, but liked because it came from me. Emulsifiers in ice cream and rum raisin…” they both snickered, “And I would have tried my best to make it into some sort of romantic metaphor but completely bunged it up and you would be laughing as I got down on one knee, just like this. And it would have just been simple. To the point. Just… Will you marry me? So…”

Jon assumed the traditional position, on one knee, arms outstretched, his every slender point a star in a perfect constellation of love.

“Will you marry me?”

Their eyes met, across a thousand different realities, across a thousand different worlds, carried on celestial winds to fall hopelessly, inexorably, into each other’s orbit.

“Yes, yes I do believe I will.”

With one last farewell kiss upon it for what it had meant for them both, Jon slipped the bloodstone ring from Martin’s finger and replaced it with the delicate band made of starlight. It took its place radiantly, and shone as Martin drew his hand back to admire it with an equally radiant grin before it dimmed with concern.

“But what about you?” he asked worriedly as he watched the old ring entombed lovingly in the box.

Jon only smirked and produced a second box from the basket, which he offered on his open palm out to Martin.

“Naturally, I got one for myself. Couldn’t pass up a chance to get a wedding ring that actually fits, could I? It’s just… Don’t you think you deserve to give it to me the way you would want?” he urged.

Martin took the box eagerly, biting his lower lip in thought.

“Not sure you want to give me that freedom. I had about five different ways of asking you in my head and all of them you would have hated so, so much. But I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t kind of the point,” he answered wryly.

Jon chortled.

“Sorry I, the unromantic one, sprung this on you, the romantic one. But I did want to surprise you. I-I mean you can still write me a vows poem later? If you want to, of course. I’d love to have it, even if I don’t actually get to hear it at our wedding.”

Martin’s face flushed immediate crimson and his eyes darted coyly away as he toyed with the wedding band box in his lap.

“Oh that? A-Actually I… I have it memorized, i-if you really wanted to hear it.”

“You- WHAT?” gasped Jon, his cheeks flushing in tandem.

“Oh yeah, I wrote my vows poem for you ages ago and I’ve gone over it so many times I know it by heart. It was comforting, okay? I-I’d read it again when times were good and I thought maybe you’d actually- um… a-and when times were not so good, when you were gone, in your own head, when I was afraid we were broken for good, whenever I needed it. I’ve read it over a thousand times and never changed a thing from the first time I penned it. Never needed to. I’m surprised I haven’t recited it in my sleep at this point,” Martin admitted sheepishly.

Jon’s entire body flushed with a solar heat that melted his joints and his heart into a swirling flare of adulation.

“I can think of no better way, then, to receive my ring,” he breathed, reaching out to cup Martin’s cheek in his hand, “I’ve had my turn, now it’s yours.”

In mirror ballets of love exchanges, Martin cradled Jon’s hand against his cheek as he spoke the first lines of the vows etched ever on his being softly into his palm.

“Let he who, shadow dwelling, must In paper, pen, and book be bound Shake off the chains of dark and rust And chart his own bright fate unfound.

Let he with lifelong burdens borne Cut paper wings with thread of gold And hand in hand, the sky forsworn Flit clouds and sun in laughter bold.

Let he whose blood and soldier’s ken The world did shield from dark and fear Heal fast those wounds, be whole again And sleep at last, held close and dear.

Bring him to me with spirit free With stars in eyes and music sung From lips a joyful promise be One soul conjoined, one fate’s thread strung.

Two hearts rejoice in love renowned. We lift our heads, alive, uncrowned.”

He waited until the last couplet to pull the ring from the box and slide it onto Jon’s finger where it too, fit perfectly, like it had always been there, and shone defiantly bright in the moonlight. Jon wept. He had been weeping since the first words of verse left his beloved’s lips, but seeing that ring like a piece of his missing soul returned to him undammed the tears effusively.

“God that was… Martin, I don’t have words. I-It was… so beautiful. You’re so beautiful. Thank you,” he cried fervently, “I wish I could tell you properly how much that meant, but I just-“

“Hey… That’s alright. I’m the words guy. You’re the emulsifiers guy. Making you cry is all I need to see to know how you feel,” Martin assured him warmly, reaching out to brush his tears away as he chuckled.

“Yeah… add this one to the running tally.”

“Oh, I have,” Martin snickered, “Speaking of! Now we’ve done the crying through vows bit. Shouldn’t we say the ‘I do’ bit, as well?”

Jon pursed his lips with a shrug as he reached out with his left hand to take Martin’s left as well, twining their fingers together

“Yes, I suppose we should. I don’t see why not. Well then, Martin, do you?”

“I do. And Jon, do you?”

“I do.”

“You may now soundly snog the groom.”

“Martin…”

The emphatic drawl of his name the way Jon only called it when he was frustratingly enamored of him perished gently against Martin’s velvet lips as they caressed his. They kissed slowly and reverently, sealing a pact ordained by the heavens long before either of them had seen the stars in the other’s eyes, lighting with white flame the torch to guide them for the first time, forward. They broke it only to punctuate it with two more featherlight kisses and a breathless laugh, bowing their foreheads together in deference to the forces of fate and the universe.

“I know this isn’t the wedding either of us ever dreamed of, but as far as I’m concerned, it was perfect,” Jon murmured, nuzzling closer into his husband, swaddling the new, fledgling and beautiful word in his heart.

“Well, hey, what is a wedding really other than just a formal declaration that this is it? This is us, we’re forever, no matter what. We did it. And you did it for me, in the STARS, Jon… Can we just remember that again? You put us in the actual stars. I am so writing a ballad for our constellation later, you do know this.”

“Oh lord. Of course you are. But really, it was the least I could do, after you’ve done so much for me, sacrificed everything for me. Waited for me for so long.”

“And you came back to me,” Martin reminded him passionately, “And I don’t just mean back to life, here, in this world. I mean you came back, Jon, MY Jon, the Jon I was in love with the moment I laid eyes on him. The fidgety and obstinate Jon who can’t make a decent cup of tea to save his life, who puts on two different socks in the morning because his nose is already in the paper or a book, who teaches me about bleeding rocks and binary stars and still reacts to the simplest acts of kindness like a warm cranberry orange scone without asking for one like they’re divine miracles he is undeserving of, who looks at me like I hung the moon or something every time. Even when I thought I was a complete and total waste of a human being, you, Jonathan Sims, the most beautiful, amazing, brilliant man to ever walk the Earth, looked at me like I hung the moon. And that was… Still is… everything to me.”

The heavens shifted, the stars wheeled, the last piece clicked smartly, smugly into place.

“W-What did you say…?” Jon asked with such urgency, grabbing his hands so fiercely, Martin startled.

“Wh-I-I don’t-? Which part? The moon hanging part?” he stuttered, rolling his eyes fondly as he realized mid-sentence, “Oh, right. Ugh, Jon are you seriously going to get after me about your weird vendetta against idioms at our wedding? Because if you are that would be annoyingly adorable and so intensely you and kind of perfect, but also can you not on THIS particular occasion?”

The laugh that tore from Jon’s throat was half mad, half euphoric as the weight of the moon lifted from his shoulders and became naught but an indifferent sentinel disc in the sky once more.

“No no no, it’s just… It’s funny, I had more than a few things very, very wrong for a very, very long time. That’s all. Don’t worry about it,” he explained, leaning in and pressing a delicate kiss to Martin’s forehead, “If you’re the one who hung the moon after all, then I suppose ‘written in the stars’ will have to do for me.”

Martin lit up with literary glee.

“Oh ho! Two space related idioms in one go? What a rare treat! Maybe this is your gateway drug into puns…” he teased impishly.

“Absolutely no chance in hell.”

They both laughed, laughed with the billowing icy breath that reached with victorious fingers up to the heavens. They laughed, messily sniffing back the pesky drip of tears and cold. They laughed with lightness of the encumbrance of hematite armor shed, its bloody protections no longer needed to cage wounded hearts and keep them safe and close. They laughed in breath and also in the dancing points of light in their eyes as they fell into one another free from gravity.

“So uh… Do I get to see my star tonight, or don’t I?” Martin finally remembered, relishing the utterly horrified yelp from Jon.

“Oh god I completely-! Y-Yes! Yes of course, it’s already set up at the proper coordinates!” he had already sprung to his feet, “Oh, though, hang on, it took longer to get to the star viewing part than I anticipated, so I might need to adjust it a bit. Oh! And I have a little strawberries and champagne, if you like?”

“I do like, please and thank you!”

Jon set to readjusting the telescope to the proper ascension and declination while Martin poured them two glasses of crisply bubbling champagne. They twined their arms to drink a toast from each other’s glass, ‘to us’ or ‘to happily ever afters’, or to several other messily rambled toast worthy sentiments. They couldn’t decide and toasted to all of it. They ate plump red strawberries and licked the juice from each other’s fingers as they looked at their star, which was, after everything, just a dot, just like Pluto, but Martin had to admit that he rather liked looking at dots after all. And that one was their dot. The warm intoxication of love and champagne begged for music, and someone fumbled in the cold for a wedding playlist on some app, somewhere, it didn’t matter, just as long as they could join hands, gaze into each other’s eyes and dance inelegantly, stepping on each other’s toes, under the umbrella of stars in a gentle rain of moonlight.

“I don’t see your problem with cliches, idioms and all that, really…” Martin mused at length, laying his head on Jon’s shoulder as they slowly spun to the rhythm of a longing ballad and the song of the sea, “Like this stupid, great song. They’re familiar and cozy and everyone knows them. They’re like… like old friends. Always there to rely on when we can’t come up with the words ourselves, because sometimes we can’t. And if something trite and silly sums up the way you feel, why not just let it be? Sometimes things are said over and over again because some truths are universal, you know? They’re just… human.”

Jon pressed a kiss into the mop of curls that tickled his nose and smelled faintly of toasted sugar and lavender and mused on all of the romantic cliches that had just passed through his mind unbidden. Who was he to deny he was but one star in the sky, a single gear in the grand mortal mechanism of the universe. If he had handed himself over to the humanity of it all instead of rusting, stopping, looking outside where there was never anything to see, perhaps he could have had this dance much sooner. It didn’t matter though, until it did, because that night Martin took his breath away, made his world go round, he was head over heels for his match made in heaven, and better than heaven, they were written in the stars.

“You know what, Martin?” Jon laughed in reply, “Tonight, being what it is, I am willing to concede. You are absolutely right.”

“I’m glad…” came the tender acceptance, followed by a distinctly puckish beat of silence, “Then does this mean I can I start saying love you to the moon and back?”

“Don’t push your luck...”

#The Magnus Archives #TMA #Magnuspod #JonMartin #JMart #jmartweddingchallenge #hey-there-hunter #Jonathan Sims #Martin Blackwood #Fan fiction

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voidstilesplease · 3 years

Text

in another life

part one

"We have a bit of a situation," is what greets him when Stiles takes the call. Mason sounds winded on the other side. "Are you almost in town?"

His eyebrows shot up, "I'm perfectly well driving in the snow, Mason. Thank you for asking."

"Stiles,"

He rolls his eyes, "Thirty minutes tops. You guys are making me feel warm, huh." Stiles disconnects the call and almost regrets his decision to come home early for Christmas, but it's too late to turn back now.

~•~

He parks outside of Scott's house - the official pack headquarters even if Scott himself has not returned from college yet. He promises to arrive in four days while Lydia has scheduled a flight for next week. Malia is stuck with papers and can't fly until the 23rd. For now, Stiles is responsible for the pack until Scott returns - he resents that. He should've gone home first and changed into comfortable clothes, but Liam has rung him up, frantic, two more times after Mason's call. They won't tell what the problem is. Stiles figures if it were a life-and-death thing, they wouldn't delay information. They are vying for the drama is what's going on.

Melissa opens the front door and beams when she sees him. She opens her arms wide for a hug, "Hey! Looking good, Stiles. FBI been taking care of you?"

Before he can reply, Liam appears from behind Melissa. "Stiles!" his face looks so harried, splotches of red appearing. "Sorry to interrupt, but you really have to see this."

Liam hurries back without checking if Stiles follows, but he scrambles after him with an apologetic smile to Melissa. The beta leads him upstairs to Scott's old room. From the hallway, Stiles can already hear two voices talking, sifting out of the open door.

"Look-"

"No, you look. I don't know why you guys took me here or why you seem so wary about me. But, Jesus Christ, for the hundredth time, I don't know you."

Stiles frowns, confused. One of the voices belong to Mason, the other-

He stops short by the doorframe, startled at the unexpected sight of Theo Raeken sitting by the foot of Scott's bed.

They haven't seen the guy since Gerard's plan to start a war between the supernaturals in Beacon Hills and the residents -and the subsequent flop. He left town less than a month after Tamora Monroe and her hunter lackey's escaped. They haven't heard from him since, and that had been two years ago.

Theo looks almost the same when Stiles last saw him. His hair is long, fringe falling to his eyes, and he has the same stocky build. His face scrunches in annoyance and impatience, and that's also not new. The only difference probably is his five o'clock shadow, reminding Stiles that he has also grown since then. He has always been clean-shaven.

Theo catches sight of Stiles by the doorway and his expression shifts to that of relief. "Oh, thank god, Stiles." He gets to his feet and crosses their small distance in two strides. Without preamble, Theo takes Stiles into his arms, clutching him firmly, as he buries his face in Stiles's neck.

Stiles is too stunned to push him away -and he should because there could be a dagger poised to pierce his guts any second now- but even Liam and Mason freeze in their spots. Liam snaps from his daze, and his eyes begin to glow yellow in a warning. Theo leans back and takes Stiles's face between his hands, ignoring the low growl coming from Liam. What's even more baffling is that he smiles. Theo Raeken smiles - not smirks, or frowns, or grimaces, but smiles. "You're here."

Mason finds his voice, "Wait. I thought you had amnesia and didn't know any of us?"

Liam retracts his claws and fangs when Theo turns back to them, seemingly unarmed. The beta scoffs, watching the way the chimera presses himself close to Stiles. For his part, Stiles is still recovering from the onslaught of uncharacteristic behavior from Theo and his blatant cluelessness of what's going on. It looks like the snow has given Stiles brain freeze from the long drive because he's only gawking instead of asking questions. The FBI should not hear about this.

"Of course, he forgets all of us, but not Stiles," Liam crosses his arms, a little bit of condescension dripping in his tone. "The ghost riders took him and basically erased him from existence, and Theo still remembered him, anyway."

Theo looks lost, trying to follow Liam's words, "Why wouldn't I remember Stiles?"

"Hm," Liam curls his lips. "Those were even your exact words before."

"Okay," Stiles says, having enough of this. He steps away from Theo, raising both his hands in a gesture of stop. He fixes his gaze between Liam and Mason. "What is going on?"

"I've been trying to ask the same thing," Theo interjects, scowling at Mason and Liam. "But they hardly speak to me and refuse to let me go."

Liam exhales, sounding exasperated. "He woke up in the hospital," he starts, ignoring Theo. "making a scene, insisting he shouldn't be in California, and that he was just in New York seconds ago."

"Liam's dad recognized him," Mason offers. "So he told Melissa who called us. Then, we collected Theo and brought him here."

Liam shakes his head, eyes on Theo. "But he keeps saying he doesn't know us, or even Scott."

"I don't," Theo steps forward again and tugs at Stiles's clothed arm. "Let's just leave, babe-"

Stiles promptly plants his feet to the floor and halts Theo, blinking rapidly. "Wait, wait, wait," he withdraws his arms and puts his hands in between them to establish distance. Theo has been evading Stiles's personal space like friends would, but Stiles draws the line at endearments. They're not friends, and he isn't a babe. "What did you call me?"

Theo frowns at him, a hurt look crossing his features. "Babe," he answers like it's not a questionable thing at all. "I called you babe."

"Wow," Liam scoffs, blinking in disbelief. "Not only are you amnesiac. You've also apparently gone mad."

Theo turns to Liam, getting a more violent shade of red in the face. He would've stepped towards him in a challenge had Stiles not intercepted him with a hand to his chest. Stiles is surprised that Theo even concedes. There's only a slight force in his touch that a chimera with superstrength like Theo can strike with no problem.

"I'll tell you what's crazy," Theo grounds his teeth, nose flaring at Liam. "I don't know what the fuck is going on or who the hell you two are. I don't know how I'm here. Some kind of-" he delays, struggling, and then spits out, "magic plucked me from New York, and put me on the other side of the goddamn State. I thought I was dreaming, but the nurses keep claiming to sedate me." his hands gesture back and forth at the two. "Then you strangers keep coming at me, saying my name like we knew each other, telling me I live in a car - I don't, okay? I have a fucking apartment in Manhattan. I live with my boyfriend, and Stiles and I were having a stupid snow fight when I lost consciousness and woke up in that damn hospital. That's what crazy is!"

Silence follows Theo's outburst. Stiles can feel Liam and Mason's eyes -and even Melissa's from where she's standing outside the room- on him. He only gapes at Theo's flushed face and heaving chest.

"Did you just call me your boyfriend?"

Theo transfers his eyes on him, looking gutted. "Of course, I did." His expression quickly morphs to worry, "Has something happened to you, too?" then his face falls in dread when he asks, realizing the situation. "You don't remember me?"

It sounds like Theo’s remembering the wrong things, but Stiles's only response is to stare. What's happening is too bizarre for his exhausted mind to process. He's glad that there's no maiming involved with this little reunion with an old nemesis, but he doesn't know what to do with all the touching and intent looking and the sudden selective amnesia.

Theo looks crestfallen for an awkward while before his face lights up again. "We have to call Tara. She-"

"Tara?" Stiles echoes loudly, rearing back and cutting him off in shock. "Your sister?"

He beams, nodding his head. "Good. You remember her. That's progress, I think."

Stiles blurts out before he can think to stop himself, "You think she's alive?"

Theo pauses. His smile slowly flattens out, until he frowns, eyes reflecting a little bit of alarm at the crass question. "Why wouldn't she be?"

And yeah, Stiles doesn't have enough brain cells to start explaining that.

Theo's confusion has to straighten out as soon as possible.

~•~

title from: The One That Got Away by Katy Perry

#steo #steo fic #steo ficlet #teen wolf #stiles stilinski #theo raeken #stiles x theo #parallel universe au #in another life #part 1 #fics tag #lol i'm trying to use christmas prompts for this #another sad excuse to write something

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daddy-deathslinger · 4 years

Note

If you still need something to write how about pre entity caleb getting to know his s/o and him getting jealous somehow? Sfw or NSFW is your choice Also I hope I did this right I'm new here (:

Hi there! Firstly, I want to apologize for this taking so long to write, I’ve had kind of a creative block lately. Secondly, thank you so much for the suggestion and I hope you will be pleased with the outcome! <3

“Call the Doctor!” - Caleb Quinn/The Deathslinger x Genderneutral Reader

Warnings: Fluff, slight gore

The first time you'd come face to face with the infamous leader of the Hellshire gang had not been what one might have expected. Rumors and gossip of the gang and its cruel members had reached your ears as well as the next persons, but you'd never really been one to fear gangs. You had treated many men and women during your time as a field doctor, some outlaws even. And even though alot of people could be very on edge while undergoing operation, you'd never feared for your safety. You had your pistol in your belt, but you've rarely had to use it. So, when you were called to the camp of the Hellshire gang, you weren't too nervous. Infamous or not, you were sure you could handle them. Your patient had turned out to be none other than the leader of the gang, Caleb Quinn. He'd gotten his leg mauled in a fight, and it had been looking pretty darn bad. But with the help of Quinn himself, who turned out to be quite the engineer and inventor, you had put together a leg piece of iron that you'd fastened to his hurt leg. The procedure had been long and painful, and Quinn had sworn he'd tear your arms of plenty of times but you hadn't let it get to you or keep you from performing your best work. You weren't one to be easily scared by outlaws, not even when his friends were watching you dig in his leg and cause him immense pain. You had stayed with the men for a few days, making sure everything worked properly with Quinn's new leg cast, and during that time you could almost have sworn Quinn had gotten easier on you. At first you had thought it had been all the whiskey he'd been drinking to null his pain, but just before you were about to leave them, he'd asked where you lived. You'd responded that you traveled around, but after a bit persuasion and a quite darling looking smile from Quinn, you'd revealed where you were heading next to rest and re stock your supply of medicine.

That led to now. The early morning sun was shining through the curtains, blinding you where you lay in the comfortable bed of the hotel. Next to you, still asleep and snoring, lay none other than Caleb Quinn. You looked over at the man, smiling at his long hair being all in his face and still a bit rough looking after last night's endeavor. The two of you had met up for a drink at the saloon. One drink had turned into ten and next thing you knew you'd found yourself in this bed, straddling Caleb's lap while undressing between greedy kisses. His leg had still hurt a bit, so you'd had to take the lead once things had gotten really hot. You had not minded this one bit, but you'd sensed Caleb not being too happy over being the more submissive part during your love making. You giggled at the memory, planting a small kiss on the sleeping man's nose before getting out from bed. As you got dressed, you heard the bed sheets rustle and turned around to see Caleb wide awake and smiling.

"Mornin' there, sunshine", you chuckled, and Caleb gave you a teasing grin before sitting up in bed.

"Such an early bird, gotta get used to that", he said, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed and starting to get up.

You buttoned up your shirt and started gathering your things, and then you finally processed what he had just said.

"Wait..." you turned around again, looking at him getting dressed. "What you mean by that?"

He looked up at you, giving you a small chuckle.

"Don't mind me, still drunk from last night it seems..."

But you wouldn't have any of that.

"No, no, I definitely heard you say something quite interesting", you grinned, moving closer to him with playfully crossed arms. "Mind tellin' me again?"

Caleb chuckled again, shaking his head.

"I was just thinkin'..."

"What?" you urged on, poking him in his stomach so that he let out a yelp and grabbed your hands tightly.

"No need to get rough!" he chuckled, then he pulled you in for a tight hug, meeting your curious eyes. "I was just thinkin', since we're both headin' up North and all... Might need a doctor close by, the boys do tend to get themselves into all kinds of hurts lately."

You met the dark eyes of the leader of the infamous bounty hunter gang, and had to blink a couple of times before being able to speak.

"You... want me to join you?"

You gave him a confused, yet very amused look, and he teasingly squeezed your ass in response.

"I haven't forgotten your excellent work with my poor leg, and how calm you remained during the procedure despite my death treats", he said, his gaze suddenly turning a bit serious. "You're the first person ever not to look at me like I'm a beast, and as strange as it feels to admit it I kind of want someone like that on my team."

"'On your team'", you mimicked, swatting him playfully on the chest.

Before you got to respond to his not so small request, a loud scream was heard from downstairs. You froze, as you recognized the scream as belonging to John, the keeper of the saloon you currently stayed in. In one swift motion you'd released yourself from Caleb's embrace, grabbed your medicine bag and hurried downstairs. As you got down, you were met by John laying on his back behind the bar, grasping for something to help him pull himself up. His right arm was a bloody mess, and you saw a shattered bottle of liquor on the floor next to him.

"Christ, John!" you exclaimed, quickly making your way up to him and kneeling beside him.

"How'd you get into this mess?"

"Fuckin' hell if I know!" John spat, swearing as you got out a pair of pliers and started removing the pieces of glass stuck in his arm. "Must've slipped on somethin', darn bottle fell out from my hand!"

"I got you, just lay still, will ya!" you said while reaching for a bottle of whiskey you kept in your bag for disinfection purposes. "This might sting."

The next second John let out a grunt of pain as you washed his wounds with the alcohol, but he kept still as you worked. You heard footsteps coming downstairs, and figured Caleb had joined you.

"I'll go ahead and put some bandages on the wounds, John, but ya gotta keep that arm steady, alright?" you instructed, and John let out a muttering swear but nodded.

As you started bandaging the arm, John grabbed your knee with his free arm to keep steady. You didn't mind, John and you knew each other well and you had gotten him patched up before. As you finished tying up the bandage around his arm, he let out a stuttering sigh and sat up straight.

"God bless ya, Y/N", he sighed, putting his healthy arm around you and giving you a tight hug. "I'd be a dead man by now if ya wouldn't be here for me!"

You laughed and hugged him back, then helping him get back up on his feet. As you turned around, you saw Caleb studying you with a peculiar look on his face.

"Too much blood for you?" you teased, wiping your bloody hands on your pants and putting back your tools in your bag.

Caleb didn't answer, raising his eyebrows and then turning away. You sensed something was wrong, and as he walked out from the saloon you decided to follow him.

"What's the matter with you all of a sudden?" you asked, walking behind him as he got up to his horse who he had tied outside of the saloon.

You grabbed his arm, forcing him to turn around and face you.

"Well? Cat got your tongue?"

Caleb let out a scoff and avoided your gaze.

"Gotta get going, I'm sure you've got your hands full over there", he said and nodded towards the saloon.

You burrowed your eyebrows in confusion.

"Well I'll be go-to-hell, what's that supposed to mean?" you exclaimed, only receiving a scoff from Caleb.

He still avoided your gaze stubbornly, and the reality of his mood suddenly dawned on you in a wave of relief and pure amusement.

"Hold on a second here", you said, trying to hide the smile wanting to creep up on your lips. "Caleb Quinn, are you jealous about me treating a patient?"

Caleb tried to look unbothered, but you saw you had hit the right spot. The small, embarrassed smile he tried to hide all the while still avoiding your gaze was a dead giveaway. You started laughing, embracing him in a hug and kissing his lips. You felt him laugh back into the kiss, and when you pulled back from the kiss you saw him smiling that oh so handsome, crooked smile of his.

"You've gotta get used to me treating folks that are hurtin' if I'm to come with you on the road, you know that, right?" you giggled, receiving a quiet smirk and another kiss from Caleb.

"Still drunk", he chuckled, receiving a scoff from you this turn.

"And you gotta work on your lying", you said, squeezing him tightly in a warm hug that he happily mirrored.

#dead by daylight #caleb quinn #the deathslinger #caleb quinn x reader #deathslinger x reader #dbd fanfic

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foreverwayward · 3 years

Text

“Wayward Hearts” Season 4 Chapter 4: In the Beginning

Summary: With Dean back from Hell, new questions bring new revelations. The hunters will begin to doubt everything they know, and will be tested in unimaginable ways as the eyes of Heaven fall on them. And as truths are revealed, the very fabric of their family may unravel in their wake. The question is, will Sam, Dean, and Riley be ready to take a leap of faith?

MASTERLIST

Word Count: 13,610 (damn)

Warnings: Language, violence

DISCLAIMER: any words or phrases in bold in the story are not my own and are credited to the writers of Supernatural.

**GIFS ARE NOT MY OWN**

It was still in the dark motel room, the soft sounds of crickets chirped through the thinly paned window. Dean’s arms were wrapped around Riley as she laid peacefully curled up to his side. Her head rested on his chest, her hand over his steady beating heart. Blissful and much needed sleep had finally found them.

The room was always so much more still without Finn around. But it gave Riley peace to know that he was safe back at Missouri’s once more.

As Sam grabbed his jacket, he hesitated with a pensive expression. His heart weighed heavy in his chest knowing the secrets he was keeping from the people he loved the most. And yet, it changed nothing.

Sam looked back to his sleeping siblings before quietly moving for the door. He turned the knob, watching for movement from the bed before slipping out into the darkness.

A groggy Dean hummed in his chest as he repositioned himself in his sleep, unconsciously pulling Riley closer to him.

Outside, the motel lights kept that dark night at bay as Sam made his way around the building.

A car purred in his direction, stopping at his side. He got into the passenger’s side without a word as the glow from the streetlamp lit up the driver’s face.

It was Ruby.

“Ready?” the demon asked.

With a soft fire in his eyes and determination on his face, he replied, “definitely.”

Ruby shifted the car back into drive and pulled out of the parking lot as the two disappeared into the night.

Back inside the motel room, Dean began to twitch in his sleep. Sweat beads began to build at his forehead as the muscles of his face scrunched as if he were in pain.

Flashes of Hell ripped through Dean’s dreams. The memories of his face and body covered in blood, his aching muscles failing to hold on, his screams echoing into nothingness as the unbearable agony tortured his broken soul.

Dean’s eyes opened wide as he gasped softly.

At that same moment, Riley shot up from her sleep, just as terrified and shaken as Dean was, though she didn’t understand why.

She turned to him and planted her hand firmly on his chest as she stared up at him. “...are you alright?” Riley asked as her voice trembled.

Dean swallowed hard, trying his best to keep the nightmares and memories that plagued him away from the woman he loved. “Yeah,” he answered in a gruff tone. “Yeah, uh--bad dream, I guess.”

“You’ve only been back a week, Dean…” Riley told him in a soothing, hushed voice. “Give it time.” She brushed her hand over his bed-hair. Riley couldn’t heal Dean from whatever had happened to him while he was gone, but she wasn’t about to let him do it alone.

Before he could respond to her, a husky voice came from beside the bed.

“Hello, Dean.”

The couple practically jumped as they turned in its direction.

There stood the angel Castiel. His gaze fell on Riley with a nod of acknowledgement. “Riley.”

Dean and Riley sighed as their nerves calmed and they sat up.

Annoyed, Dean asked, “what, you get your rocks off by watching other people sleep?”

“What is it, Castiel?” Riley blinked purposefully, trying to fully wake herself.

“Listen to me,” Castiel told them. His eyes were heavy with worry. “You have to stop it.”

With his brow scrunched with both fatigue and confusion, Dean made eye contact with Riley before questioning Castiel. “Stop what?”

The angel didn’t answer as he reached up both of his hands to place two fingers on each of the hunters’ foreheads.

------

Both Riley and Dean were sound asleep on a street bench. Their heads rested on each other with their bodies slightly slumped in exhaustion.

Loud tapping then suddenly stirred the couple from their sleep.

“Move it kids.”

Birds chirped and the midday sun shined down on the small town street. The two peered up with tired eyes at the voice that loomed above..

A police officer was staring down at them. “Move it, you two--you can't sleep here.”

Dazed and out of sorts, Dean asked, “okay...sleep...where?”

“Anywhere but here.” With nothing left to say, the officer continued on his way.

Riley ran a hand through her hair as she looked around. “What--how...where are we?”

“I don’t know.” Dean reached into his pocket to pull out his phone. As he flipped it open, the screen warned that no signal was found. “Perfect,” he muttered. “You got anything?”

Taking out her own phone, Riley sighed and showed Dean her screen. “Nada.”

Still rattled and uncertain, Dean looked around before spotting a diner across the street. “Come on.” Dean led the way with Riley in tow before opening the diner door for her.

The bell jingled as the hunters walked inside. It didn’t look much different from any of their regular pit stops on the road.

The jukebox in the corner was playing the Allman Brothers Band ‘Ramblin’ Man’. Riley didn’t even catch herself as she began to softly mouth the lyrics.

Moving on, they walked over to the counter to find open barstools. Riley and Dean were silent, still somewhat regaining their composure.

A young man was sitting quietly near Dean, reading the newspaper that laid in front of him.

“Hey, buddy,” Dean grumbled. “Where the hell are we?”

The stranger turned to him. He had dark, shorter hair with a strong jawline and kind eyes. “Jay Bird's Diner,” he answered with a hint of perplexity at the question before returning to his reading.

“Yeah, thanks. I mean, uh--city and state.”

With a soft chuckle, the man looked back at Dean thinking he was out of his mind. “Lawrence, Kansas.”

Riley practically did a double take. “I’m sorry, did you say ‘Lawrence’?”

“Fuckin’ angel,” Dean muttered under his breath.

Lowering her voice, she leaned in close to him. “What the hell are we doing in Lawrence, Dean?”

“Does this look like a face ‘in the know’?” he asked in a snarky tone as he pointed to his expression.

The gentleman looked at the two quizzically. “Hey, you two okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean told him as he put his face into his hand and sighed. After a second to himself, Dean could only reply, “tough night.”

He signaled to the waiter with a nod. “Hey, uh--two coffees here, Reg.”

Pulling the phone from his pocket once more, Dean showed it to the stranger at the counter. “Can you tell me where I can get reception on this thing?”

“The USS Enterprise?” the man scoffed with a smirk.

The waiter came over with two coffees in hand. He was dressed in 1970’s hippie-style clothing. His full mustache went down to the sides of his mouth and he wore a painfully patterned shirt, large glasses, and a fur vest.

Both Dean and Riley studied him with curiosity.

Dean brought his hot cup to his lips. Unable to keep his comments to himself, Dean teased,

“Thanks...nice threads. You know Sonny and Cher broke up, right?”

Snickering into her coffee, Riley sipped at the warm liquid. But both men at the counter exchanged a confused, almost shocked look.

“Sonny and Cher broke up?” the stranger asked with worry.

The counter went quiet as neither the two men or the hunters knew what to say in that awkward moment.

Riley and Dean met the other’s gaze with wide eyes before turning to look around the diner. All of the customers and waitresses are dressed in 70’s style clothing.

Once they peered back at each other again, the two mouthed in unison, “what the fuck?”

Riley pointed to the paper on the counter, asking Dean to peer over as she did the same. The headline read: ‘Nixon accepts resignation of top…’ with the date marked Monday, April 30th, 1973.

Trying to hide her sense of utter shock, Riley gripped Dean’s thigh under the counter, her eyes wide.

“Hey, Winchester.” An older man called out as he entered the front door. Both Dean and the stranger beside him turned to see a silver-haired gentlemen walking their direction with a massive grin. He took the hand of the kind man beside Dean and shook it happily. “Son of a bitch. How you doing, Corporal?”

“Hey, Mr. D.,” he replied with a friendly smile.

“I heard you were back.”

“Yeah, a little while now.”

The two men continued their conversation as Riley honed in on them.

Dean leaned in close, once more. “You picking something up?”

“I dunno,” she said with a click of her tongue. “But that guy seems so familiar…” Suddenly, the realization dawned on her and Riley’s face fell in shock. “Oh...my god.”

As the pleasantries between the two friends ended, the older gentleman pat the young man’s shoulder. “Good to have you home, John--damn good.” Mr. D then turned away to go towards his own table.

Coming to the same conclusion that Riley had, Dean’s focus became fixated on the man beside him. His brow was scrunched, his mouth slightly open in disbelief.

“Dad?” he questioned under his breath.

As John began to get back to his reading, he couldn’t help but see Dean and Riley staring back at him. It went quiet as the hunters sat stunned. “Do we know each other?”

Trying to compose himself, Dean tried to swallow his emotions. “I guess not,” he told him meekly.

As much as Dean had been keeping Riley from his thoughts, there were some feelings he just couldn’t hide. It was obvious to her how profound that moment was for Dean in seeing his father again. He was filled with such sorrow, confusion, and heartache; though there was a glimmer of joy that radiated from him.

The intensity of it all suddenly flooded Riley and she sighed. Trying to discreetly comfort Dean, she reached out to brush her fingers over his hand, lovingly.

John stood as he placed cash on the countertop. “Take it easy,” he said to them both before beginning to walk away.

All Dean could do was nod as he sipped his coffee. No words would do any justice.

Once at the door, John stopped and turned back to the hunters. And while Dean tried to grapple with the thoughts that raced through his head, Riley just looked back at John.

The two met eyes and he forced a smile before leaving out the door.

Dean didn’t say anything as he got up to follow John and Riley quickly joined him.

As they walked down the sidewalk, the two tried to remain inconspicuous, staying several yards behind John. Wherever he was going, they were going too.

At the end of the block, John turned a corner to go down a back alley. But as Dean and Riley reared the same edge of the building, they were stopped in their tracks when they saw Castiel standing in their way.

With a heavy and anxious breath, Dean asked the angel, “what the fuck is this?”

“What does it look like?” he retorted.

Riley gave him an exasperated shrug with her hands still in her pockets. “Well, it looks like we’re back in Kansas, Dorothy.”

“Is it real?” Dean couldn’t hide the nervous tremble in his voice.

Just as plain and stoic as he had been from the beginning, Castiel just stared back at him. “Very.”

“Okay, so what? Angels got their hands on some DeLoreans? How did we get here?”

“Time is fluid, Dean. It's not easy, but we can bend it on occasion.”

“Well bend it back or tell me what the hell we’re doing here!”

“I told you...you have to stop it.”

Exasperated with his vague answers, Riley jumped back in. “Stop what? Are we here to help John? Is something after him?”

A car horn blared behind them and the hunters turned to the sound. When they spun back around, Castiel had vanished.

Dean groaned. “Oh, come on! What, are you allergic to straight answers, you son of a bitch?!”

------

After searching the town, Riley and Dean finally found John. He was at a used car dealership talking to the salesman about a beige 1960’s Volkswagen van.

Riley grimaced. “I’m sorry, is John Winchester about to buy a van?”

With a grin that covered his face, Dean said, “oh, absolutely not.”

As he began to walk away, Riley noticed where he was headed and smirked as he leaned against the hood of a beautiful, black Chevy Impala.

Once the salesman left to gather the paperwork, John studied his new ride, knowing that it would be the first car for his new family. He grinned at the thought.

“That's not the one you want.”

Turning to the newly familiar voice, John saw Dean and Riley next to the car that would change all of their lives forever.

“You following me?” John asked.

“No, no, we were just passing by. We just never got to thank you for that cup of coffee this morning. I was a little out of it.”

He teased, “more than a little.”

“Let me repay the favor.” Dean tapped on the hood of the Impala with his knuckles. “This is the one you want.”

“Oh yeah? You know something about cars?”

Dean nodded his head. “Yeah...yeah, my dad taught me everything I know.” He grew nostalgic at the memories of him as a child when John would show him how to care for the beloved car. It was one of the rare moments where John didn’t yell or make Dean feel like he had somehow disappointed him. When they worked on the Impala together, they weren’t hunters, they were just father and son.

“He’s right,” Riley told him with a sweet smile. “This is a great car. Come check this out.”

As she opened the hood of the Chevy to expose the engine, John and Dean joined her at the side of the car.

“This baby’s got a 347 four barrel, 275 horsepower...I mean, if you give her a little love, she’s perfect.”

Dean couldn’t help his smirk. Hearing Riley talk about cars always brought a smile to his face. But hearing her talk about Baby reminded him of how much she truly belonged in their family.

With a surprised scoff, John looked over to Riley. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a woman talk about cars like that.”

“Well, I’ve been told I’m a bit of an enigma.” Giving Dean a small wink, she then turned back to John. “Anyways, trust us...this is the car you want.”

“You know,” John grinned. “You're right.”

Dean nodded over his shoulder at the van. “Then what are you buying that thing for?”

“I kinda promised someone I would.”

“Over a '67 Chevy?” he asked with a disbelieving chuckle. “I mean, come on. This is the car of a lifetime. Trust me, this thing's still gonna be badass when it's 40.” Again, Dean eyed the beautiful car and felt a swell in his chest.

Happy to have met the kind strangers, John reached out a hand. “John Winchester. Thanks.”

Dean took his hand in his and shared his greeting. “Dean...Van Halen--and thank you.”

Riley tried to contain her giggle and bit her lip, “Riley Munroe,” she told John as she too extended a hand.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

Suddenly, Riley froze. Her heart felt as though it had stopped beating, the air sucked from her lungs. Riley’s knees felt as though they would collapse beneath her and her mouth dropped a little in shock as her eyes shared the same expression.

“Rye…?” Dean asked, noticing the change in her demeanor.

He looked in the direction of whatever had caught her attention and was completely taken back when he saw a young Jackson Munroe walk out of the back of the dealership. He was in a dark blue jumpsuit as he wiped oil from his dirty hands onto a small cloth.

Whispering under her breath, she uttered, “oh, my god…”

Puzzled, John questioned, “is...everything alright?”

Without another word, Riley immediately began to hurry over in her father’s direction as she disappeared behind the main building. And though Dean was desperate to go with her, he wasn’t ready to leave John.

Around the back of the main building, Riley panted as she scanned around her. When her eyes finally landed on Jackson sitting on a bench, enjoying a quick break, she swallowed hard.

Everything inside her wanted to run to him. Her heart ached to hold him and never let him go, but she knew she couldn’t.

Riley took a deep breath and exhaled her nerves as she tried to steady her trembling hands. As she neared Jack, she stopped only feet away.

When he noticed her, he squinted in the sunlight. “Hello.”

“Hi…”

Riley couldn’t help but study him. She always thought her father was handsome, but seeing him in his prime practically made her beam. He was alive and well, his youth still glowing from him without years of hunting aging his soul. It was enough to make her head swim.

“I’m sorry, miss. Is there something I can help you with?”

Dumbfounded and at a loss for what to say, she stumbled over her words. “I, uh--I was just--um...looking for the, uh--restroom.”

“Uh--” Jack turned around and pointed to the back entrance of the building. “Just go in, make a left and it’ll be the first door on your right.”

She paused before responding. “Okay, thanks.”

Riley went to walk away but spun back around, unable to leave him just yet.

“Was there something else, miss?” His tone was smooth like velvet and gentle--just like she remembered.

“It’s just--you remind me of someone.”

“Oh? Well, I hope that’s a compliment,” Jackson chuckled.

“It is…” she smiled.

He looked at her with a similar expression. “You know, funnily enough, you actually remind me of someone too. I can’t quite place it though.” Jackson leaned forward, intrigued by the young woman. “Why do I feel like I know you?”

“Guess I must just have one of those faces.” Unable to help herself, she reached out her hand. “I’m Riley.”

Jack smirked as he shook her hand. “Jackson.”

Suddenly, a rush of connection blew through them like a current at their touch. There was an overwhelmingly powerful bond between them. Both their eyes slightly went wide at the sensation, unable to verbalize what they had just felt.

Flashes of memories washed through Riley like the coming tide. Images of love and laughter, of her childhood, and of their final moments together came to life as if she had lived them all once more with her hand in his.

“Are you--are you sure I don’t know you,” Jackson asked, looking at her with a sense of familiarity.

Pulling herself from the both beautiful and painful memories, she cleared her throat. “Yeah,” she said through an anxious, breathy chuckle, still trying not to show her heartache. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

As much as Riley wanted to stay with him as long as she could, she knew that Castiel had sent them back for a reason. Why she and Dean were there needed to be her focus and it tore at her gut knowing she had to go. “Well...I, uh--guess I should get going.”

“Sure thing. It was nice to meet you Riley.”

“Yeah...you too.”

When she turned to leave, Jack called out, “hey!” and Riley looked back at him. “That’s a great jacket by the way.”

“Thanks…” She gave a soft smile at his words. “My, uh--my dad gave it to me.”

“Well, the man has good taste.”

She nodded in response with a tight smile and went around the corner as quick as she could. Riley leaned against the wall as tears she had held back instantly spilled down her cheeks. As she began to sob, she covered her mouth, trying to stifle her cries. It took every ounce of strength in her to try to pull herself together.

Riley then looked in the window of a nearby car to see her reflection. She sniffled her emotions back and took a forced, deep breath. With her shaking fingers, she wiped away the tears under her eyes and tried her best to remove any traces of her pain.

As she found her way back to Dean and John, Dean shot her a concerned look. When his expression asked without words if she was alright, she just nodded.

Dean then somewhat reluctantly went back to his conversation with John. “So, uh--sorry about how weird I was this morning. Ya know, I've been hung over before but, hey--I was getting chills in that diner. You didn't feel any of those cold spots, did you?”

Looking back up from examining the car’s interior, still giddy with his decision to buy it, John answered, “nope.”

Riley stared off into the distance, lost in thought as Dean went on.

“I swore I smelled something weird too, you know? Like... like rotten eggs. You didn't happen to smell any sulfur by chance?”

“No.” John was growing more and more unsure of his new acquaintance.

Knowing Dean was about to blow their cover, Riley nudged him. “Dean,” she whispered. “Ixnay…”

But Dean still didn’t seem to know when to quit. “There been any cattle mutilations in town recently?”

“Okay, mister! Stop it,” John told him firmly.

When Riley gave him wide eyes, Dean muttered under his breath, “yeah, if only I knew what to stop.” He finally conceded. “Listen, uh--watch out for yourself, okay?”

John just eyed him uncomfortably. “Yeah, sure.”

Patting the beloved Impala’s hood once more, Dean turned to leave with Riley at his side.

“Think you could have freaked him out a little more, Dean?” she questioned.

“I know, I know,” he told her as they crossed the street. “But it’s not like ‘traveling back in time and seeing your dead father’ was in the manual or anything, Rye.” Dean instantly realized he had been so wrapped up in his encounter with John that he had yet to ask about Jackson. “Speaking of which…”

Riley shook her head, forcing a stoic expression. “Doesn’t matter. Right now? We gotta make sure nothing happens to John.”

The two looked back around to face the dealership once more to see John seal the deal for the car as he shook hands with the salesman in front of the Chevy.

------

After tailing John the rest of the day in a stolen car, Riley and Dean found themselves driving up a familiar road. The anxiety that Riley felt in the pit of her stomach made her left leg bounce as she nibbled at her nails.

Dean knew where John was headed as they watched him pull into the parking lot in his newly acquired Impala.

Once John had gotten out of the car, he hurried to the other side to open the door for a young blonde woman. He beamed as she took his hand and they went inside.

The two hunters just stared at the building, unsure of what to do.

It wasn’t how Riley remembered it. But as she stood to get out of the car, her eyes remained set on the diner--the diner she had grown up in and the only place she ever called home.

As she studied it all, Riley tried to grapple with the fact that the last time she had stood in that lot was the night of the fire. The aesthetics were different and the small restaurant was called ‘The Diner’s Club’, but memories came back to life and she shuddered at their presence. Riley could have sworn she could still smell the embers.

Dean went over to her with his gaze locked on the small diner as well. “You gonna be okay, sweetheart?”

“Let’s just get this over with,” Riley told him as she led the way up to the side of the restaurant.

Peering inside, careful not to be noticed, their eyes immediately went to John at a table with the beautiful blonde.

It was then that Dean knew exactly who he was looking at, and so did Riley.

“...Mom?” Dean asked himself.

Riley let out a small laugh of disbelief. “That’s--that’s Mary?”

Young Mary was captivating. Her hair fell in a Farrah Faucet style that framed around her face and her smile lit up the room. The chemistry between her and John was obvious; they couldn’t keep their eyes off each other.

“Dean...she’s beautiful.”

Dean scoffed with a grin. “Sammy, wherever you are, Mom is a babe.” As Riley’s neck snapped in his direction with a repulsed and judgmental look, he realized what he had said.

“...ew.”

“Yeah, I'm going to Hell...again.”

Riley shook her head as she grimaced. “I’m gonna pretend that didn’t just happen.”

Mary then excused herself from the table and went towards the back as Riley and Dean watched John.

Lost in their stakeout, the two didn’t even notice her sneak up behind them.

“Why are you following us?” Mary demanded.

Both Dean and Riley turned to the sound as Mary kneed Dean in the stomach before throwing him up against the wall. As she went to punch him, Dean dodged it, stepping sideways.

Anger filled Mary’s face. She was clearly well-trained and knew how to fight as her fists swung hard at Dean.

Disoriented and confused, Dean tried to keep her at a distance. “Are you crazy?”

“Woah, woah, woah!” Riley called out over the tussle, unsure what to do. “Hey, we can explain!”

Enraged, Mary spun around to swipe a punch near Riley’s face.

The hunter just barely moved away in time. “Jesus, lady!”

Dean took the opportunity to grab Mary’s arm, though she wouldn’t relent. The two were in a battle for the upper-hand as Mary continued her assault.

“You've been trailing us since my house,” Mary told him as she eyed Riley as well.

Finally able to get a hold of her, Dean pushed her up against the brick wall, holding her in place. “Okay, how about we talk about this, huh?”

“Let me go!”

The soft street lights pinged off a silver bracelet on Mary’s wrist that caught Dean’s attention. He honed in on it to see the charms that dangled from it; protective charms from the supernatural that no civilian would wear.

Dean released his hold on her with a trembling hand as he took a step back, shaken to his core. Almost afraid to ask, his voice went low with fear, “...are you a hunter?”

------

Quietly, Riley and Dean hid behind a large and overgrown tree near Mary’s house, waiting for her to come home.

“Hey, thanks for the help back there, by the way,” Dean sniped somewhat playfully.

Riley looked up at him before throwing up her hands. “What was I supposed to do, Dean? Tackle your mom?”

He gave an accepting expression with a nod. “Fair enough.”

The Chevy pulled to a stop in front of the house before John and Mary kissed each other goodnight.

After getting out, she then waved to him as he disappeared down the road.

Once he was out of sight, Riley and Dean stepped out from the shadows.

“Dean, right? And Riley?” Mary asked. “I'm not sure you should come in.”

“You can trust us. I mean, come on, we're all hunters, right?” Dean couldn’t help himself. He had to know more about her. Whatever was going on had to have something to do with Mary being in the life. “I mean, we're--we're practically family.”

Riley’s lips came together in a tight line at his words. She could feel the swell of emotions coming from Dean. The love he had for his mother, the anticipation that was eating at him, and the fear of the truth was all too obvious to her.

“Yeah, thing is, my dad, he's a little, um…”

“Oh, I gotta meet him,” he replied earnestly. There was no doubt in Dean’s mind that he had to meet the rest of the family that he had never known. What little he had been told about the Campbells and the truths that had been hidden all those years made him itch to go inside.

“You've heard of him?”

“Clearly not enough.”

------

Inside the Campbell house, Dean and Riley stood beside a somewhat hesitant Mary. They waited at a distance from Mary’s father as he sat in his recliner, flipping through his book. He wouldn’t even raise his head to look at them.

He was in his late 50’s, his mouth surrounded in salt and pepper scruff. Mr. Campbell had a receding hairline and wrinkles around his eyes, years of hunting weighing on his face. It was clear from the get go, he was not the type to make friends.

“So, you’re hunters,” Mr. Campbell started. “Well, tell me something, mister and miss hunter, you kill vampires with wooden stakes or silver?”

“Ah, trick question.” Riley smirked proudly. “You cut their heads off.”

Mary smiled at her answer.

With his hands still tucked into his leather jacket, Dean gazed down at him. “So, did we pass your test?”

“Yep. Now get the fuck out of my house.” Still never even peering up at them, Mr. Campbell went back to his book.

Riley looked up at Dean with a sarcastic smile. “Well, this is going great.”

“I don't trust other hunters,” he told them. “--don't want their help, don't want them around my family.”

After being quiet long enough, the woman setting the table behind them spoke up. “Knock it off, Samuel.” She walked up to the young hunters and smiled sweetly. Mrs. Campbell had a bob haircut, blonde like Mary’s. Her expression was gentle and understanding. “They passed your little pop quiz, and now I am inviting them to dinner. Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” Dean and Riley answered in unison.

“Good. I'm Deanna, you've met my husband Samuel, now wash up.”

As Mrs. Campbell retreated back into the kitchen, Dean and Riley shared a look of realization before he turned to Mary. “...Samuel and Deanna?”

She nodded in response before following her mother to help prepare the meal.

“Okay…” Riley started before looking up at Dean with a grin, “that’s adorable.”

------

Dean, Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, Mary, and Riley sat around the dining room table eating dinner.

It was awkwardly quiet before Deanna spoke up. “So, Riley--Dean, this your first time in Lawrence?”

Riley and Dean briefly looked at each other before he answered, “well, it's been a while. Things sure have changed...I think.”

“You two working a job?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Taken back, Samuel asked, “what's that mean?”

“It means we don't trust other hunters either, Samuel.”

“Hey, um--” Mary started as she swallowed her newest bite. “So, why were you following me and John?”

Riley wiped her mouth on her napkin. “We thought something was after your, uh--boyfriend. But we don’t think that’s the case anymore.”

Deanna giggled. “John Winchester mixing it up with spirits, can you imagine?”

Everyone noticed Samuel give a scoff at the notion.

“I saw that,” Mary said, confronting him. “That sour lemon look.”

Putting up a hand, Samuel told her, “now hold on, John's a really, really nice...naive civilian.”

“So, what? You'd rather me be with a guy like this?” Mary motioned towards Dean with a nod.

Dean's face washed over with a look of utter discomfort on his face as Riley nearly laughed into her drink. “What? No, no. No,” Dean told them adamantly.

Fed up with her family, Mrs. Campbell chimed in. “That's enough, both of you. We have company.”

When it went quiet again, Riley asked, “So, Samuel...what about you? You, uh--working a job?”

“Might be,” he said plainly.

Mary was growing more comfortable with their dinner guests and told them the truth. “He's working a job on the Whitshire Farm.”

Samuel shot Mary a displeased look.

“Whitshire…” Dean turned to Riley. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

“Well, it's been all over the papers,” Samuel interjected. “Tom Whitshire--got tangled up in a combine a few towns over.”

“That kind of thing happens.”

“So, why was he on it in the first place when his crops are all dead?”

After studying Mr. Campbell for a moment, Riley added her thoughts. “...demonic omens.”

“That's what I gotta find out.”

Wanting to know more, Dean pressed. “What about the rest of the town? Did you find anything on the web?” Realizing what decade he was in, he swerved his sentence. “...of information that you have assembled.”

“Electrical storms maybe.” It was clear that while Deanna may not have been an active hunter, she was kept in the loop on everything that was happening. “The weather service graphs should be here on Friday.”

Dean was dumbfounded when he put together what she meant. “By mail?”

“No, we hired a jet liner to fly 'em to us overnight,” Samuel sniped.

“You know, it sounds to me like we might be hunting the same thing. You know if we go in there in numbers, we could take care of this real quick.”

“He’s right,” Riley added. “The more of us that are on this, the better.”

Eyeing the two young hunters, Samuel appeared annoyed. “What part of ‘we work alone’ do you two not understand?”

------

The next day, Samuel and Mary had driven out into the country to the Whitshire farm. It was a two-story, pale blue home with trees scattered around, and a field directly across the way.

As they sat in their truck, Mary looked to her father, who was disguised as a priest. “And I'm here because?”

“Family business, Mary…” he told her. “Family.” Before getting out, Samuel grabbed a homemade treat from Mrs. Campbell to bring to the grieving family. “What? You'd rather be waving pom-poms at a bunch of dumb jocks?”

Mary immediately noticed a teenage boy leaning against a tree nearby. His head was hung with sadness as he rested beneath the shade.

As she began to walk towards him, Samuel asked, “where you goin'?”

“To do the job, Dad,” she smirked.

Knowing he had trained her well, Samuel left Mary to her task. He went up the steps and knocked on the door.

When the door opened, there stood Riley and Dean with the widow. Dean was dressed as a priest with Riley posing as a nun.

Not wanting to give himself away, but still frustrated with the young hunters, Samuel tried to keep his composure. “Father--sister, I see you beat me here.”

Dean smiled. “The Lord is funny that way.”

Staying in character, but enjoying the tension between the two, Riley feigned an, “amen.”

“Beth Whitshire, this is our associate--our senior, senior priest, Father Chaney.”

“Please accept our deepest condolences on behalf of the county diocese,” Samuel said to the widow as he offered her the baked goods.

“Thank you.” The widow was clearly heartbroken, her eyes red from crying and tired from a lack of sleep.

With her hands folded in front of her, Riley spoke softly. “Mrs. Whitshire was telling us all about Tom and how everything was normal and ordinary before his death.” She eyed Samuel as she relayed the information as discreetly as possible.

Nodding a bit, Samuel turned back to Mrs. Whitshire. “I see, so you didn't notice anything unusual, ma’am?”

The woman sniffled with an upset expression, practically bewildered by his question. “You mean like my husband’s guts fertilizing the back 40?”

Samuel stood stunned by her response in silence.

Looking amused with the situation, both Dean and Riley turned to leave.

“Excuse us,” Dean said, patting Samuel on the back before he and Riley walked off the porch towards Mary and the young man.

At a closer look, the Whitshire boy appeared to be nearly seventeen. He was blonde, tan from working on the farm, with piercing blue eyes.

Once the two had met up with Mary beneath the tree, she asked the teenager, “Charlie, would you like to tell the Father here what you just told me?”

“Dad drank sometimes,” Charlie admitted. “Sometimes he got rough with Mom.”

“And that's when the stranger came?”

He nodded sadly. “I just thought he was some Bible thumper, like you all. He showed up about a week ago.”

“What did he say?” Riley could feel the fear that spilled from Charlie. It was mixed with guilt and shame as his heart broke for his family.

“Did I want the beatings to stop? I just thought he was crazy, I didn't think--” Charlie’s voice trailed off. “And the next thing I know, Dad's dead. ...am I going to jail?”

Trying to ease his pain, Riley gently touched his arm. “Charlie, it’s not your fault.”

Dean grew more curious. “Did the stranger want something in return?”

“He didn't want anything,” Charlie replied.

“Come on, Chuck. He wasn't just handing out freebies now, was he?”

“He did say something about comin' a callin' ten years from now--maybe he'd want something then.”

“Something like what?”

“I don't know, okay?” The boy began to get choked up. “Look, I told you he was nuts.”

Mary motioned to Dean so they could speak in private. After they had stepped away, leaving Riley with Charlie, Mary asked him. “what do you think?”

Dean ran his palm down his face. “I think he just pimped his soul to a fuckin’ demon and doesn't even know it.”

As they returned to where Riley and Charlie stood, they listened to their ongoing conversation.

“So, Charlie…” Riley went on. “This stranger...what, uh--what did he look like?”

“He was about 5’10”, white--normal looking really.”

“Okay, do you remember anything else? Anything at all.”

Hesitantly, Charlie peered back at her. “There was one thing.” He stopped with trepidation before answering. “It's just--the light hit his eyes in a weird way and...for a moment I coulda sworn--”

“Were they black, maybe? Or red?”

“No...they were yellow--pale yellow.”

Riley and Dean instantly grew cold. Since that night at the Devil’s Gate, the two believed that they were finally free from the evil that had plagued them all their lives.

They turned to each other as their stomachs dropped.

Both Dean and Riley knew...the monster had found them once again.

------

Back at the Campbell house, Deanna worked in the kitchen making a large fruit salad as the others all joined around the table.

Dean practically slammed a large map down on the table top with anxiety pulsing through him.

Thinking that Dean was being reckless, Samuel sighed. “What do you say we just slow down and talk this thing through?”

“There's nothing to talk about,” Dean muttered with a heavy breath.

“Except you're saying it's a demon, and none of us has ever heard of a demon with yellow eyes.”

Standing straight up, Dean met his gaze. “Yeah, well, we have. This thing killed our families.”

“Just calm down, son.”

Riley chuckled somewhat condescendingly. “You just don’t get it, do you? Every single one of us is in danger and you and your family need to get the hell outta dodge.”

“Not until we know what we're dealing with here.”

“Sam's right,” Deanna told them as she came in with the freshly made snack. “It could be a demon, it could be a shapeshifter--it could be any number of things.”

Dean’s fear and panic matched the storm inside him as he barked back, “We know what this thing is!” As Deanna went back into the kitchen, Dean lowered his voice. “And I'm gonna kill it--that's all the goddamn talking I need to do.”

As he folded his arms across his chest, Samuel gave him a condescending look. “You're gonna kill a demon? How?”

Riley moved closer, her hand reaching out to pinpoint a spot on the map. “Daniel Elkins--a hunter. He lives in Colorado and he’s got something we need...a gun--Colt’s gun, actually. The Colt.”

“Yeah, I heard about the Colt--used to tell it to Mary as a bedtime story.”

“Yeah, well...we all know some bedtime stories are real, don’t we? And this? The Colt? It’s real.”

Both Deanna and Samuel turned to the other, unsure what to think.

Looking back to the others, Samuel stated his case. “Alright, say that it is. You got some kind of crystal ball telling you where this demon's gonna be?”

“Maybe we do,” Riley replied.

Dean took out John’s journal from inside his jacket that draped over a nearby chair. He then flipped it open on the table in front of them to a flagged page. “It's a list.”

“Of what?” Mr. Campbell asked, trying to be patient with the young hunter.

“My dad wrote down anyone he thought ever came in contact with the Yellow-Eyed Demon: who, where and when.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause the more he could learn about the son of a bitch, the more he could figure out why it killed my mom.” Dean’s voice went soft at the end of his explanation as Riley peered up at him with a heavy heart. It never got easier for either of them to talk about the loss of their families, no matter how much time had passed. He flicked through a few of the pages before pointing to a name. “Look, Whitshire Farm. I told you that name sounded familiar.”

“Whitshire Farms, that was two days ago. How the hell is that on your dad's list?”

“Uh...” Riley tried to find the right answer. “His dad was psychic--could see the future. But look,” she put her finger down on the paper at a date. “This says that shit’s about to go down tomorrow night.”

Samuel and Deanna gave a surprised look at her choice of words.

“Liddy Walsh in Haleyville.” Her eyes went back to Dean. “That’s only a few miles away.”

Deanna shook her head slightly at it all. When Samuel shared her expression, he looked back at Dean and sighed. It was obvious they didn’t believe them.

“I know you guys think we’re crazy,” Dean added.

“You seem like really nice kids, Dean but, yeah--you're crazy.”

“Yeah, maybe, but I know where this bastard's gonna be and we’re gonna stop it--once and for all.” Dean grabbed the journal and his jacket before he walked out of the room.

Left alone with the Campbells, Riley allowed herself to feel the doubt that weighed on them. She pursed her lips in thought as she went to leave the room. Riley then turned back to them with pleading eyes. “Samuel...please. For everyone’s sake, we need you to believe us.”

As she left the kitchen, Riley caught up with Dean as he went toward the foyer of the home. His eyes were settled on Mary who sat quietly in the living room listening to music.

“We’re shoving off. I just wanted to say, bye,” he said to his young mother with sad eyes.

Mary stood from her chair and tucked her hands into her back pockets. “Really? So soon?”

“Yeah--job to do. Hey, I wanted to--to tell you, you know for what it's worth. Um...it doesn't matter what your dad thinks, I like that John kid.”

With a sweet look, Riley added, “yeah, me too. I gotta be honest, Mary. I think you two were kind of meant to be.”

“You do?” she asked with a sweet smile.

“Hell, I'm depending on it,” Dean muttered to himself. He paused as he gathered his thoughts. “Um, can I ask you a question?” When Mary nodded, he went on, “what's he like? John.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

“I don't know,” Mary shrugged as she tried to hide her smile. “He's sweet--kind. Even after the war, after everything, he still believes in happily ever after, you know? He's everything a hunter isn't.” She took a beat before adding, “no offense.”

Dean chuckled. “Nah, none taken.”

As a thought came over Mary, she was too excited to contain it. “Can I tell you something?” Both Dean and Riley waited anxiously for what she had to say. “He's gonna ask me to marry him. Tomorrow, I think!” Mary practically giggled to herself, beaming with excitement.

The love and connection Mary had with John flowed from her. Riley stood quietly in a moment of peace as she basked in the warmth of the utter adoration.

Mary continued grinning from ear to ear. “Oh, Dad's gonna explode, but I don't care. I'll run away if I have to, I just…I love John, and…”

“And what?” Dean asked.

Her face somewhat fell as she grew more serious. “I wanna get out. This job, this life...I hate it. I want a family, I wanna be safe.” Mary paused in thought and her heart felt heavy in her chest. “You know the worst thing I can think of? The very worst thing? Is for my children to be raised into this like I was. ...I won’t let it happen.”

Blinking back tears at his mother’s words, Dean barely kept himself together. “Yeah…” He knew that Mary’s greatest wish would never come to be and that her worst fears would live and breathe in her sons.

The contentment that Riley had felt only seconds before faded away as she drowned in Dean’s heartache. He was breaking at Mary’s every word.

“Hey, are you okay?” Mary asked sweetly.

“Yeah, no, I'm--I'm fine,” he choked out. Dean peered down at Riley as if trying to draw the strength to keep going. When Riley reached out to touch his arm, Dean exhaled. A lump in his throat began to grow, making his voice low. “Hey, uh--Mary, can I tell you something?”

“Sure.”

“Even if this sounds really weird. Will you promise me that you will remember?”

“Okay.”

Dean was ready to sob right in front of her like a broken little boy, his eyes welling to the brim. His voice trembled as he looked into his mother’s eyes. “On November 2nd, 1983...don't get out of bed,” Dean pleaded. “No matter what you hear, or what you see. ...promise me you won't get out of bed.”

“Okay,” she told him, unsure of what to make of the stranger’s warning.

A tear he could no longer control ran down Dean’s cheek before he immediately dragged his hand over his face, wiping away his grief. He then feigned a broken smile before turning to leave.

Riley cleared her throat as she discreetly rubbed the tears away from beneath her eyes. “It, uh--�� she sniffled as she looked at Mary. “It was so great to meet you, Mary. Please...take care of yourself.”

“Yeah,” Mary told her. “You too.”

Once Riley had gone to the door and shut it behind her, she watched Dean who stood silently on the sidewalk. He was staring out vacantly into the night.

She knew how much pain he was in, how much he was suffering. Riley knew that Dean had dreamt his entire life that he would see his mother again; only for him to have let Mary go all over again.

Riley took her time finding her way to his side. “Dean…”

As he turned to her voice, his eyes were red, his face heavy with sorrow. “We gotta make all of this right, Rye.”

“Okay,” she said softly as she gazed up at his heartbroken expression. “We will.”

Dean nodded with a weak, “yeah.” He then cleared his throat and wiped away whatever sadness still dripped down his face as he went over to the driver’s side.

------

The night had engulfed the highway roads as Riley and Dean drove on. It was quiet in the car, both hunters were at a loss for words.

As Dean peered into his rearview mirror, there sat Castiel staring back at him. Dean inhaled sharply at the shock and Riley spun around toward the angel at his sudden presence.

“You ever get tired of sneaking up on people?” Riley asked in annoyance.

When Castiel didn’t respond, Dean looked back at him again. “Well, you're a regular Chatty Cathy.” Still reeling from everything, Dean needed answers. “Tell me something. Sam would have wanted in on this, why not bring him back?”

“The two of you had to do this alone, Dean.” Castiel’s monotone voice never seemed to fluctuate.

“And you don't care that he's tearing up the fuckin’ future looking for us right now?”

“Sam's not looking for you.”

“Alright, if we do this, then the family curse breaks, right? Mom and Dad live happily ever after, and--and, Sam and I grow up playing little league and chasing tail?”

Finally looking into the mirror, he replied, “you realize, if you do alter the future, your father, you, Sam--you'll never become hunters. And all those people you saved, they'll die.”

Dean paused. “I realize...” he said in a somber tone.

“And you don't care?”

“Oh, I care. I care a lot, but these are my parents. I'm not gonna let them die again. I can't. No, not if I can stop it.”

Fully on Dean’s side, Riley added, “he’s right. We’re not gonna let it happen.”

A thought that she had kept to herself urged its way up and out of her mouth until she could no longer hold it in. “And what about my family, huh?” Riley barked at the angel in the backseat. “Why isn’t there a plan to save them too? I mean, why am I even here?”

When there was no answer and she looked behind her, Castiel had already vanished.

She sighed, frustrated. “...feathery son of a bitch is really starting to piss me off,” Riley uttered as she folded her arms.

“Join the club,” Dean retorted.

-----

After hours of driving, the hunters had found themselves in Colorado at a familiar, remote destination just as the sun peeked over the hills. The mountains were eerily still as the wind softly whistled through the trees.

Elkin’s cabin had a different feel than it had on their last visit. The rooms hadn’t been destroyed in a tussle and the scent of a dead body no longer lingered in the air.

The living room was bathed in soft, morning light as the two quietly searched for what they had come for.

Dean knelt in front of a safe that sat on the floor and worked to get it open. It then clicked and he swung the door open to reveal the Colt inside. He then pulled it from the safe before he was tapped on the shoulder.

An anxious feeling had struck Riley. She scratched her nose to silently signal Dean to connect with her. Her expression was filled with urgency. “We gotta go, Dean. Now!”

The sound of a shotgun cocking came from behind them, causing them both to stop their movements.

“Hold it right there, friend,” a voice commanded. “Drop the gun, be on your way.”

Riley had her hands up slightly as Dean did the same. He then only pretended to lay the Colt on top of the safe before spinning around to point it at the man glaring back at him.

“Can't do it, Daniel,” Dean told him plainly.

It felt so strange to them both to be staring at the man whose body they had once found torn to shreds.

“Who the fuck are you two?”

“Hunters, just like yourself.”

“Oh, yeah?” Elkins asked, still aiming his gun. “Thieves’ more like it.”

Riley took a slow step forward, her eyes honed in on Daniel. “We don’t want any trouble, okay? We just need it for a couple of days, that’s all.”

“Not happening.”

Realizing he had to convince the hunter to trust him, Dean pleaded his case. “Look, I have a chance to save my family’s lives--my family. But I need this gun to do it.” And though he wanted to keep things from escalating, he wasn’t about to leave without that gun. “So, if you want to stop me? ...kill me.”

Riley swallowed hard at his words but stood her ground beside him, hoping that Daniel would understand.

As Dean looked at Riley, he motioned toward the door to leave. The two moved carefully toward the exit and past Daniel. They then turned back around to him as he lowered his weapon.

“There's some hunters in Lawrence, the Campbells.”

“Never heard of them.”

“...that's where she'll be.”

As they turned to leave, Riley offered a soft, “thank you.”

Elkins nodded to her before she and Dean walked out the front door, armed with the Colt once again.

------

Riley and Dean knew exactly where Yellow-Eyes was planning to hit next and drove as fast as they could to get to the Walsh family home.

It was night by the time they had arrived and the car they had hotwired screeched to a stop. They raced up the steps to an already open door and ran inside as Dean drew the Colt.

Their eyes immediately fell on the chaos in the living room. A weeping woman was curled up on the couch in terror while Samuel was pinned to a wall by an invisible force. Poor Mary was in a hand to hand fight with him and struggling to maintain her ground.

That was when a strange man turned in their direction, his eyes a piercing yellow that made their blood run cold.

“No!” Riley cried out.

The possessed man grabbed Mary and held her with his arm around her throat.

Dean shouted his command, “let her go!”

Yellow-Eyes smirked over Mary’s shoulder as he looked back at Riley and Dean. But his pleased expression fell once his eyes landed on the Colt.

Clearly surprised, the demon asked, “...where'd you get that gun?”

Dean cocked the gun and gave a nod to Mary. She then headbutt the man away from herself, giving Dean a chance to take the shot.

But before Dean could fire, black smoke poured like a powerful storm out of the vessel’s mouth. Evil sounds of shrieking screams swirled in the darkness. It clouded above them before then shooting into a vent in the wall.

The demon was gone, its vessel collapsing as the room went silent.

Dean’s head fell in shame at his failure. “Dammit,” he muttered under his breath.

------

The three young hunters walked out of the house onto the front lawn. Dean paced with nerves, while Mary stood frozen in the grass, unsure of how to cope with what had just happened.

“Mary, what else did he say to you?” Dean asked her.

“I told you, just that he liked me.” Mary stopped as a horrible thought made her shudder. She looked up at Dean with fear in her eyes as her voice trembled. “What did he mean by that?”

Neither Dean or Riley dared to answer her.

Samuel closed the front door behind him before walking down the steps to the others. “Liddy's a strong kid, she'll be fine.” He quickly went to Mary. “Are you okay?”

“No, Dad, I'm pretty far from fucking okay,” Mary barked back, clearly still shaken. “Can we go?”

As she left to get back in their truck, Samuel turned to Dean. “Nice job in there,” he told him.

“I missed the shot,” Dean said with shame in his voice.

“Take the compliment, son. I'm saying that I was wrong about you...both of you.”

Riley winced and Dean’s attention went to her. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure.” Riley touched her stomach. “I’m just really nauseous...kinda dizzy. I’m probably just tired. It’s fine.” Before Dean could argue with her, she then looked up to Samuel and changed the subject. “The three of us need to talk.”

------

After getting back to the house, Riley and Samuel sat at the dining room table while Dean paced.

“We have to kill this thing now, or Mary dies.” Dean peered through the front window curtains, worried they would be followed.

“What?” Samuel asked him with a shocked and firm voice. “How do you know that?”

Dean pulled out John’s journal from his jacket. “I just do, okay?” His nervous hands fumbled to open it as he tried to scan for something that could help guide them. Though Dean had read it a thousand times, there had to be something he missed.

“When?!”

“I don't know, maybe today, probably years from now, but it's happening--trust me.”

“So, what?” Samuel said with a hint of annoyance. “Are you some kind of a psychic now too?”

Riley sat quietly as she tried to hide her discomfort. There was an unbearable sickness in the pit of her gut. It felt as though all of her walls had come down. Something was wrong and it nearly made her physically ill.

Dean noticed her demeanor and sour face. “You good, sweetheart?”

She then turned to Dean. “Yeah, I, uh--I think I need to get some fresh air.”

“...you sure?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. I’ll be back in a bit.” Riley forced a tight-lipped smile at Samuel before going out the front door.

Once she had gone, it went quiet for a moment with neither of the men knowing what to say.

Dean knew he had to somehow get through to Samuel and did his best to level with him. “Alright, listen to me. Now, this is gonna sound a little...actually it's gonna sound massively, massively crazy.”

“Okay,” Samuel urged.

Dean paused. “Mary is my mother.”

“...excuse me?”

“And I am your grandson, and I know what the hell I'm talking about.”

Samuel looked back at him in utter disbelief. “You wanna run that by me again, son?”

“My real name is Dean Winchester. I was born January 24th, 1979. My parents are Mary and John Winchester.”

“I don't have to listen to this.” Sitting back in his chair, Samuel scoffed.

“Mary gets killed by a yellow-eyed demon in 1983, and I think that this--what happened tonight, I think this is the moment that he caught her scent. Now, if we don't catch this thing now, and kill it...and it gets away? Then Mary dies.” There was obvious pain in Dean’s eyes. His voice went low as he swallowed his heartache. “So I am asking you...please.”

------

Outside, close to the house, Riley grimaced at the sickness still swirling inside her. Her head was spinning and her body felt weak. And though the fresh air helped, her hands went to her knees as she doubled over, ready vomit.

She groaned. “Time travel does not seem to agree with me,” Riley uttered to herself.

It was then that she saw Mary sneak out from the opposite side of the house as the Impala came to a stop in front of the house.

Riley hurried to hide herself in the shadows among the trees. Quietly, she watched over John and Mary.

Mary ran to John and threw herself in his arms. She shook with anxiety as John took her by the shoulders, trying to ground her.

“Hey, you--you okay?” he questioned, deeply concerned by her demeanor.

“You promised you'd take me away.” Mary’s eyes began to fill with tears.

“Of course I did.”

“Do it now,” she told him adamantly.

Mary didn’t need to say another word. The fear in her eyes was too real to ignore. John opened the passenger door for her and shut it once she was inside. He then hurried to the driver’s side before starting the car.

Baby’s soft headlights lit up the street as she purred away into the darkness.

Once the couple had gone, Riley stepped out and sighed. Her hands sat in her jacket pockets as she stared down the road.

There was no denying the love that John and Mary had for each other, and it broke Riley to know the future had already doomed them both.

------

Back inside the Campbell home, Dean and Samuel continued their talk at the kitchen table. Dean did his best to convince his grandfather of the truth, no matter how insane it all sounded.

“How did I know about the Colt? Huh? How did I know about the Yellow-Eyed demon? Or where it would be? I'm not making this up, Samuel.”

Samuel sat quietly for a moment as he studied Dean. “Every bone in my body is aching to put you six goddamn feet under, but there's something about you--I can't shake it. Now, I may be crazier than you, son, but...I believe you.”

“Thank you,” Dean said with an exhale of relief.

“I mean, how do we find this bastard?”

“Right here.” Dean tapped the leather covering of John’s journal. “The list.” He opened the small book and began to skim through it.

“And with the Colt?”

“Yeah,” Dean replied, his eyes still focusing on the journal. He took the Colt out of his jacket and sat it on the table.

“Here, let me see it.” Samuel began to reach across the table towards the weapon.

Hesitating at the thought, Dean slid the gun further away from Samuel. “Sorry, I don't let anybody hold it.”

The older hunter chuckled in disbelief. “I'm your grandfather.”

“Nothing personal.”

“Sure it is...especially when it's me you're trying to kill.” And as he hissed his words, Samuel’s eyes began to glow a marble yellow.

The sight shocked Dean to his core as panic boiled inside him. He knew exactly who was staring back at him.

But before Dean could react, the demon raised his hand, causing the hunter’s chair to slide harshly across the floor before slamming against the wall.

Unable to move, Dean strained against whatever invisible hold had him in its grips.

“Future boy, huh?” Azazel sauntered over to him. “I only know one thing that's got the juice to swing something like that. You must have friends in high places. So...I kill your mommy?” The demon dipped down to get in Dean’s face as he smiled in the most sinister fashion. “That's why you came all this way? To see little old me?”

Dean’s face twitched with wrath. He could feel the fire inside him grow into a storm of violent hate. “Oh, I came here to kill you.”

“Hey, wait a minute, if that slut Mary's your mommy, are you…” he paused at the thought with a pleased grin. “Are you one of my psychic kids?” When Dean didn’t answer, Yellow-Eyes leaned in to sniff his neck. “No, not you. Maybe you got a sis...or a bro.” Again, the demon’s questions went unanswered. But, the twinge in Dean’s eyes let him know, everything was falling into place. “That's terrific--means it all worked out. After all, it's why I'm here.”

The front door opened as Riley walked back inside and the two turned at the sound.

As she stood in the entrance to the living room, Riley felt her heart stop as yellow irises glowed back at her. The evil that smiled at her sent shivers down her spine. And though everything inside her wanted to rip the demon apart, her instincts lied elsewhere.

“Dean!” she shouted.

Panting with worry, Dean cried out, “no! Riley, run!”

Without thought, Riley began to charge at the monster. But with another wave of his hand, Azazel flicked her across the room and against the opposite wall. She grunted at the forced impact while still trying to fight her way free.

The demon grinned from ear to ear as he looked at her. “Well, well, well. And who do we have here? ...Riley, is it?” Azazel took his time as he grew closer, stepping away from Dean.

“Don’t you fucking touch her!” Dean commanded.

Ignoring him as if he was nothing but a pestering fly, Yellow-Eyes stood directly in front of Riley, studying her over. “You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?” He took her chin in his hand and she flinched, trying to keep her eyes off of his.

Azazel then snickered as he leaned into her neck. He took his time inhaling her scent and a pleased hum came from his chest as he practically moaned. “Oh. Well this is a treat. I mean, Dean may not be one of mine, but you? ...I can smell myself inside you,” he seethed through his teeth.

Suddenly, Riley’s sickness all made sense. Her abilities had always become unbearable around Yellow-Eyes. She grew angry with herself for not knowing the monster had followed them back.

“Fuck you,” Riley bit back.

“Ooh. She’s feisty. I like it.” He paused, intrigued. “But...there’s something else.” Again, his face grew close to the nape of her neck only for his tongue to slowly drag across her skin.

Riley recoiled as every muscle in her body tightened, disgusted and violated. Behind them, Dean practically growled with rage as he still tried to free himself.

“Oh...my…” Azazel said with hunger in his voice. “What are you? Because, you...you’re downright delicious. I can see the strength you have--the raw power. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He moaned again, licking his lips as he pushed her hair behind her ear. “Like a diamond in the rough…”

Hearing him call her that again made tears pull forward in Riley’s eyes. She thought she was finally free of the demon’s curse, only for him to hold her at his mercy all over again.

“You…” Azazel chuckled happily. “Oh, I can tell--you’re gonna be my favorite.”

Desperate to get the monster off of Riley, Dean tried to regain his attention. “So, that's what this is about--these deals you're making. You don't want these people's souls.”

“No, I just want their children.” Yellow-Eyes peered over his shoulder to the trapped hunter. “I'm here to choose the perfect parents, like your mommy.”

“Why her? Why any of them?”

Azazel took his time taunting Riley, his fingers brushing through her hair. “Because they're strong.”

Quietly Deanna peeked around the corner of the kitchen doorway only to see her husband possessed, tormenting the young hunters.

The demon went on. “They're pure, and they eat their Wheaties. My own little master race--they're ideal breeders.”

Dean furrowed his brow at the thought of what that could mean.

“Oh, get your mind out of the fucking gutter. No one’s breeding with me. Though, Riley...?” His eyes bore into her as if trying to capture her soul. “Mmm, I'd like to make an exception.”

Furious, Dean tried to move again to no avail. As he stopped, he noticed Deanna watching from the next room. He knew he had to buy them time. “So, why make the deals?”

“I need permission.” Yellow-Eyes drug a finger from Riley’s jawline down toward her chest as Deanna snuck quietly into the room.

Riley kept quiet as the demon’s unspeakable and unholy presence crawled like bugs under her skin. It took everything she had to not panic. Her empathic abilities around Azazel were always unbearable and had her feeling as if she was on the brink of insanity.

“I need to be invited into their houses. I know, I know, the red tape'll drive you nuts. But in ten short years, it'll all be worth it.” Finally turning his attention away from Riley, Azazel went to Dean once more. “‘Cause you know what I'm gonna do to your sibling? ...I'm gonna stand over their crib and I'm gonna bleed into their mouth.” He peeked over his shoulder only momentarily back to Riley. “Just like I’m gonna do to your girlfriend.”

A rush of panic went through Riley and she froze as her eyes welled. There was no hiding it anymore, the truth about the demon blood had finally surfaced.

Dean just looked back at her, dumbfounded.

Yellow-Eyes went on. “Demon blood is better than Ovaltine, vitamins, minerals--it makes you big and strong.”

“So, what?” Riley taunted. “We’re just part of your pathetic demon army? Huh? That’s your master plan?”

Azazel scoffed. “Please, my end game's a hell of a lot bigger than that kid.”

“What end game?”

“Like I'm gonna tell you.” Yellow-Eyes stared at Dean with a proud smirk. “...or those dirty little angels sitting on your shoulder. No, I'm gonna cover my tracks good.”

Dean’s lips twitched as he practically snarled. “You can cover whatever the fuck you want, but I'm still gonna kill you.”

“Right. Now that, I'd like to see.”

Knowing what would happen decades later in that cemetery, Dean used it as fuel to face the horrific monster before him. His wrath filled the room, hate seeping from his pores. “Maybe not today, but you look into my eyes, you fucking son of a bitch...‘cause I'm the one that kills you,” Dean threatened in a dark voice.

Azazel was taken aback by Dean’s words and for a brief second believed the young hunter. But the demon refused to ever admit defeat and grinned malevolently as he laughed. “So, you're gonna save everybody, is that right? Is that it?” he teased. “Well, I'll tell you one person that you're not gonna save…” The demon pulled out a knife from Samuel’s belt. “...your Grandpappy.”

With a sadistic wink, Yellow-Eyes plunged the knife into Samuel’s abdomen.

“No!” Dean and Riley shouted.

A sudden shriek of pain and horror came from the kitchen. “No!” Deanna screamed.

Azazel turned to her as his eyes glowed a foggy yellow once more.

She threw herself to the ground, trying to reach for the Colt. But as she nearly grabbed it, the demon waved his hand, causing Deanna to be tossed like a ragdoll across the room. She cried out as she collided with the table before crashing hard into the floor.

Deanna’s lip dripped with blood as she used what little strength remained in her body to pull herself across her kitchen floor. She tried to escape, gasping for air as she crawled.

Still trapped, Riley felt Deanna’s fear become her own. Her heart raced in her ears and her body trembled. The physical pain she was in began to ache in Riley’s bones.

As Azazel slowly made his way toward her, blood pooling in Samuel’s shirt, Dean and Riley fought with all their might to get free. But all they could do was watch in terror as Yellow-Eyes grabbed Deanna by the head before snapping her neck.

The audible sound of her crunching bones made Riley scream out as if releasing Deanna’s final moment of horror.

Whatever force had held Dean and Riley at its mercy finally let them go. Dean rushed to grab the Colt as Riley ran to Deanna’s side.

When Dean ran into the kitchen ready to fire, Azazel had already disappeared. He then stopped as he saw Deanna laid dead on the floor, her eyes wide with fear.

Riley knelt beside her, tears falling down her face. “Oh, god…” she cried, covering her mouth.

A realization suddenly hit Dean like a runaway train. “Mary…”

------

Just off the highway, hidden below a high bridge sat a quiet river. The dark trees shaded the ground from the moonlight while only small beams soaked through.

The Chevy sat at the edge of the river with John and Mary sitting quietly inside. Their windows were down, a soft breeze coming from the water as a night bird sang nearby.

“I guess it's no secret why I brought you way out here.” John’s heart raced as he smiled at her lovingly.

Mary’s mind still rushed a mile a minute and her worries began to bubble to the surface. “John--”

He stopped her sweetly with a nervous breath. “I just--just let me get through this, okay?”

Knowing exactly what John had planned, Mary began to doubt it all. The idea of John being hurt because of the life she led was too painful. She wondered how selfish she was for dragging him into it all. “Okay, wait. There's things you don't know about me, John.”

John chuckled. “So?” He then reached into his pocket to pull out a small box. As he opened it, he revealed a modest, diamond ring and smile. “I will always love you for exactly who you are.”

Forgetting it all for just a moment, Mary let John’s love wash over her. She began to smile softly as they leaned in to share a kiss.

But before their lips could touch, a loud bang hit the side of the car before the passenger door was flung open.

There stood Samuel Campbell. “What did I tell you?”

“Dad!” Mary yelped in surprise. He then grabbed her by the arm and yanked her out of the car.

“Sir, just listen!” Getting out as quick as he could, John hurried after them.

“Ow! Dad!” Mary cried. “You're hurting me!”

John ran over in an attempt to pull him off of Mary. “Hey, take it easy!”

Samuel’s possessed vessel released Mary, only to grab John’s head. He then wrenched it sideways with effortless force, breaking John’s neck and killing him instantly.

As John’s body fell into the dirt, Mary let out a blood-curdling scream. “No!” She dropped to her knees beside him and pulled John into her lap to cradle him in her arms.

Mary looked up at the tall figure above her knowing that was not her father. “You killed him.”

The demon kicked at John’s lifeless legs and snickered. “Oh, not just John, sweetie-pie,” he taunted as he crouched next to her. “Mommy and Daddy too.” With an eerie smile, Yellow-Eyes unzipped his jacket to show Mary the knife wound in her father’s stomach.

Mary’s face went white as she shook.

“They’re all dead.”

Weakly, as she looked at her father’s mortally wounded body, she mewled, “...no…”

“Yup, afraid so. You're little orphan Mary now.”

“You son of a bitch!” she cursed through her tears.

“Oh, sticks and stones may break my bones,” Azazel then leaned in closer to her to hiss, “...and they won't bring your family back either.”

Mary locked eyes with the man that had stolen her world from her. She immediately felt revenge grow inside her. “I'll fucking kill you, I swear to God.”

“Oh, let's not get nasty.” The demon slowly sat himself down in the dirt beside her, his eyes sizing her up, filled with desire. “Now look, we both said some things that we regret. Let's, um--kiss and make up.”

Still holding onto John, Mary rocked him close to her as she wept.

“I'll tell you what...I'll arrange to have lover boy here brought back breathing.”

Afraid of the answer, Mary asked in a broken voice, “...my parents too?”

“Nope, sorry doll, that's not on the table.” Yellow-Eyes knew how to get under her skin and to get exactly what he wanted. “But, think about it--you could be done with hunting forever. The white picket fence, station wagon, couple of kids, no more monsters or fear. I'll make sure of it.”

“What?” She looked back to him, furious. “And all it costs is my soul?”

“Oh, no, you can keep your soul. I just need permission.”

“...for what?”

“Mmm, in ten years I need to swing by your house for a little something...that's all.”

“For what?!” Mary demanded.

“Relax. As long as I'm not interrupted, nobody gets hurt, I promise.” The Yellow-Eyed demon paused. “Or you can spend the rest of your life, desperate and alone.”

As Mary continued to sob, the demon smiled to himself.

“Mary? It's a good deal. So...what do you say?”

Just then, a deep and angry voice yelled out from the darkness. “No! Stop!”

Mary and the demon turned to the sound to see Jackson Munroe emerge from the night, a blade in his hand. He was panting as his heart raced, his fear barely hidden beneath the surface.

“Jackson!” Azazel said with a smile. “Been a while, kid. How ya doin’?”

Jack strained to keep his eyes locked with the demon as his ability made him feel the unimaginable evil that seeped through the vessel.

Ignoring the creature's taunts, Jackson looked to Mary. As his eyes landed on the body in her arms, he knew what was happening. “Okay, look--whatever he’s offering you, don’t take it. It’s not worth it.”

“Aw, don’t listen to him. He’s just a little upset with me is all.” Yellow-Eyes honed in on Jackson once more. “This didn’t have to involve you, boy.” At a closer look, Azazel could see the blade that glistened in the moonlight and snickered. “Is--is that a demon blade?” He laughed. “That’s not gonna kill me, kid. There’s no weaseling out of our deal, Jack.”

“I’m not letting you make any more goddamn deals, Azazel,” Jackson seethed. “I don’t care what I have to do, I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

“Mmm,” the demon feigned. “I don’t think so.” With yet another flick of his hand, Azazel’s incredible power flung Jackson away before he hit hard into the ground.

Yellow-Eyes refocused on Mary, who still sat in the dirt, holding the body of the man she loved as she wept. He sighed, contentedly. “Well, my dear. This offer is about to expire. Things to do--people to see.” The demon grinned. “So, do we have a deal?”

Just then, a beige, old car hurried in as its headlights shined brightly through the dark. Once it had come to a stop, both Dean and Riley anxiously scrambled out of the car. Their eyes fell on a young Mary, sharing a kiss with her possessed father and sealing whatever terrible fate awaited their family.

“No!” Dean screamed as he drew the Colt from his jacket.

As he aimed to fire, black smoke flew out of the mouth of the demon’s vessel. The evil that had occupied Samuel Campbell rushed into the air, only to disappear into the darkness. Immediately, Samuel’s lifeless body collapsed.

John let out a sharp gasp as his heart jolted back to life. Terrified and confused, he fumbled in Mary’s arms. “Mary?”

With a heavy exhale of relief, Mary pulled him in close. “John.”

Riley and Dean stood in place, devastated that they had failed.

A weak groan from nearby as Jackson weakly stood to his feet. His lip was bloody from the hit. As he looked on at Mary and John, his face twinged with emotion. Jackson’s jaw trembled with rage and defeat as he realized he had lost his one and only shot.

Both Dean and Riley turned in his direction and were stunned at the sight of him.

Riley’s eyes filled with tears. And though a million questions raced through her mind, she could only bring herself to utter a single word.

“...Dad?”

Before another moment had passed, Castiel appeared beside them and placed his hands on their shoulders.

------

Dean and Riley awoke in their motel room bed with a slight gasp. Immediately, their focus landed on Castiel who stood near the foot of the bed. The two then slowly sat up.

“We couldn't stop any of it. She still made the deal.” Dean stopped to look up at the angel. “She still died in the nursery, didn't she?”

“Don't be too hard on yourself. You couldn't have stopped it,” Castiel replied.

Riley appeared to be in a state of shock as she stared vacantly ahead. A tear slowly trickled down her cheek.

Dumbfounded by what he had just heard, Dean asked sharply, “what?” He stood to his feet, feeling confused and angry once more.

“Destiny can't be changed, Dean. All roads lead to the same destination.”

“Then why'd you send us back?”

“For the truth. Now you know everything we do.”

As she stood to her feet, Riley stared Castiel down. “Why?” she asked with tears in her eyes. “Why was my dad there? What the hell happened, Castiel? He knew Azazel!”

“Yes,” the angel told her. “Yes, he did.”

“Wh--” Riley struggled to find the words. “How?”

“We don’t know.”

“What do you mean ‘you don’t know’?”

“Riley,” Castiel started. “We don’t know what happened because your family--your bloodline, is shielded from Heaven’s eyes.”

“‘Shielded’?” Dean questioned. “Why?”

“We don’t know.”

Riley chuckled incredulously as her hands grasped into her hair. “Is there anything you do know? Or is this just one big game to you assholes?”

“No. This is far from a game.” Castiel’s ever serious expression sat on Riley. “And this is only the beginning.”

Scrunching his face in perplexion, Dean asked, “what the hell are you talking about? The beginning of what?”

Castiel looked to the other bed in the room. It was still made and clearly hadn’t been slept in. The hunters followed his gaze.

“Where's Sam?”

“We know what Azazel did to you and Sam,” he said to Riley. “What we don't know is why--what his endgame is. He went to great lengths to cover that up.”

“Where's Sam?” Dean repeated more firmly.

“425 Waterman.”

Instantly, Dean and Riley hurried to get on the road. As Dean grabbed the Impala’s keys, Riley threw on her jacket.

As the two hurried, Castiel continued to speak. “Your brother is headed down a dangerous road, Dean, and we're not sure where it leads.” He paused as the hunters turned to him and met his gaze. The intensity in his voice grew dark, chilling even. “So stop it...or we will.”

And as quickly as he came, Castiel was gone.

Not wanting to waste another second, Dean threw his duffel bag over his shoulder and went for the door. “Let’s go.”

His tone was slightly different and Riley could hear it. Too much had happened and too much had gone so horribly wrong. And now, Dean knew hers and Sam’s secret.

There was no going back. History had finally caught up with them, and had changed everything.

------

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kyber-kisses · 4 years

Text

Southern Nights (2/4)

Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: all of the feels, and fluff. Dean being the softest boi

Summary: After a situation with the BMoL, Dean finds himself running towards the person he fears for the most besides his brother. But even when he finds her safe and alive, he can see that something isnt right.

a/n: Ahhh so you know how i said it would be two parts? I lied. Its gonna be four. Anyways I hope you enjoy and feedback is greatly appreciated.

Part 1

You had been uncommonly quiet.

Throughout the day Dean had continued to watch you closely, like he could somehow piece together what was going on with you just by watching. Even after they had packed it all in for the night, you remained much more quiet than normal as you moved around the kitchen to make dinner. Every once and awhile you would hum along to a tune on the radio but that was about it.

“You okay, Dean?”

The hunter sat up straight at the sound of his name on your lips, his arms folded over the kitchen island. “Me?”

“. . .Yeah?” You paused cutting up an onion to look at him. “Who else would I be talking to named Dean?”

He swallowed before quickly nodding. “Yeah, yeah im fine. Why do you ask?”

Shrugging you went back to work, the sound of the knife hitting the cutting block muffling radio momentarily. “You've just seemed quiet that's all.”

“Me? You're the one that's been quiet all of today!”

You looked up from your work once more, eyebrows raised at Dean as you slid the contents off the block and into a pan. “I haven't been quiet. Ive talked to you and Sam today-”

“No that's not-” letting a hand slide down his face he stood up, walking around the island towards you. “I'm just saying, you haven't been as talkative as you usually are. You haven't cracked a single joke today. Not one.”

“I'm sorry?” you tired, not really seeing where Dean was going with this.

“You're always cracking jokes and making lighthearted comments. You haven't done that at all. Whats going on?”

“Why do you think somethings going on if im not telling jokes?” You laughed lightly, reaching around him for a pepper.

“Um- because that's who you are? energetic, lively, funny Y/N.”

“Well I’m sorry, I was a little busy helping you and Sam find your missing mother.” You began, your knife going through the pepper with much more force than needed as you began dicing.

“I just want to know if your okay, that nothings bothering you-“

“Dean, I am Fi--” Your words were stopped short as you yelped, knife dropping to the block as you drew your hand back. “Fuck-” sure enough you had managed to cut yourself, the blood leaving the slice in your finger to run down your wrist.

“Jeez, Y/N-” Dean was in action before you could stop him, moving forward to gently guide you towards the sink. “This might sting for a sec.” Flipping on the faucet he let your put your hand under the flow of water.

“Ive been through much worse, Dee. I think ill live.”

“Im sorry, this was my fault.” Dean sighed, inspecting the slice in your finger.

“Last time I checked I was the one wielding the kitchen knife.”

“I know- but I-” You pressed a finger to his lips, shaking your head. “Don’t. If you wanna really help me you can grab the first aid kit that's in the cupboard.” You nodded your head in the direction you were talking about. “Got it?”

“Mmmhmm.”

Lowering your hand you gave him a soft smile. Why was he always doing that? Blaming himself for no apparent reason. Putting your hand back under the faucet you focused back on the cut until Dean was back at your side.

“Will you at least let me patch you up? To make up for pestering you?” He tried, clicking open the lid and rummaging through it for bandages.

You let out a dramatic sigh before sitting yourself down on the kitchen island. “I guess . . .i mean, it is very hard to say no to that face.”

that got a chuckle out of the hunter before he slotted himself between your legs and carefully taking your cut hand in his to inspect. “I know, I'm a goddamn gift aren't I?”

“Oh, I wouldn't go that far.” You smiled, using your free hand to prop you up as you watched him disinfect and wrap the cut. Every once and awhile Dean would look up from his work, eyes finding yours before giving you an almost timid smile.

Bastard. He really had to stop doing that if the two of you were going to try to continue only being friends. You could hear the little voice in your head screaming arms length away! Arms length away!

At that same moment one Sam Winchester came walking back into the room, hair still wet from his recent shower. At the sight of the first aid kit and the scattered materials he paused on the other side of the island.

“What the hell happened?”

“You're brother stabbed me.” You stated bluntly, sliding back off the granite counter and bumping your chest against Deans as you did. Weasling past him you gave him a pat on the shoulder.

“hey, no I didn't!”

“That’s exactly what a person who just stabbed someone would say.”

“Why you little--” You cut him off yet again, this time handing over the kitchen knife to him with an amused grin. For a moment Dean could see the normal you again, and he couldn't help but smile back.

But something was still there. He could see it under your smile and the glint in your eyes.

“You goin somewhere?”

“Uh, yeah. I called dibs on the shower next. You two can finish up dinner.” Backtracking away you gave them both a wink before disappearing around the corner. Once you had vanished Dean let the facade drop before whirling around to look at his brother.

“What?”

Dean waited another second, making sure you were out of earshot before planting his palms firmly on the island. “Alright, tell me if I’m crazy— but Y/Ns acting a little off isn't she?”

“Off in what way?”

“Off in like- she’s not her usually energetic let’s go kill some monsters attitude.”

“I mean. . .maybe?” The younger Winchester shrugged, not quite understanding what his brother was getting at. “She did say she was spending the week resting up after that rugaru Hunt. She’s probably a little drained from that.”

Dean ran his palms down his face, “yeah, but think about it. Jody said she had been here for almost five weeks. Five, Sam! Five! When have we ever known Y/N to stay in one place for that long? Hell, even during thanksgiving last year she only stayed a few days before running off towards another case.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Dean. Maybe if you’re so worried about her just try talking to her?”

Dean sent his brother another glare. “Have you not seen me trying to do that all day? She just keeps acting like she’s fine- and I know for a fact that she is not.”

Shaking his head in defeat, Sam moved past his brother to continue making dinner. “She loves you Dean. Anyone can see it, and I know you can too. She’ll open up as long as you actually try. And if you love her, you will.”

* * * *

Thankfully Dinner had been more lively than the rest of the day. And for awhile you actually had managed to almost convince Dean you were fine. The three of you spending a good few hours seated at the kitchen table and reminiscing about days gone past. You were cracking jokes again, and laughing at his. From across the table Dean would watch as the corners of your eyes would crinkle and you would double over in laughter. If he could he would stay in this moment forever. One where you all were happy and full of energy.

and then that perfect little image had to fade.

It was almost like you ran out of steam or something because your laughter slowly pattered out and it was like watching you cave in on yourself. You became quiet again, losing yourself in thought as you washed the dishes. Dean couldn't stop himself from glancing over at you each time you passed him a plate or dish to dry. That dullness behind your eyes. Leaning backwards, he made eye contact with his brother. The younger Winchester slowly beginning to see what he was talking about.

“You know what, I can finish up here Y/N. You've already done so much for us.” Sam pipped up, putting a reassuring hand on your back.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Raising your hands in surrender you backed away from the sink. “Well then go for it I guess.” You sighed. “Ill be on the porch if you need me.” retreating from the kitchen once more, you paused at the threshold. “Dean, you comin?”

“Oh, uh- yeah. Yeah ill be out in a sec. Im gonna help Sam finish up.” Dean quickly stuttered. He watched as you gave him a puzzled look before walking away. Not a second later a soapy hand smacked the back of his head.

“Why'd you do that? That was probably the perfect time to talk to her.”

“I. . .Panicked?”

“You-” Sam paused, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You panicked? Since when do you panic around Y/N?”

“I don't know! Sue me!” Dean whisper snapped, rubbing the suds off the back of his head from where his brother had smacked him.

There was another round of silence before a grin slowly spread across Sam's face as he watched his brother. “God, you are so in love with her aren't you?”

“Shut up.”

“Its cute.”

“Dammit Sammy, I said shut up.” Dean growled, wiping his hands off with a towel before throwing it on the counter and walking out of the kitchen and in the direction you had gone.

Dean was expecting to have to search for you, but it only took two steps out the front door to find you. Between the string of yellowish porch lights and the yard lights in the planter boxes you were easy to find. The sun had set hours ago, but the night air was still warm, and the stars were brighter than usual. You were stretched out in the grass, drowning in the sea of life around you as blades of grass tickled the soles of your feet. You were fiddling with the dials of your old radio when you heard the bang of the screen door, looking up.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Sam again?”

“. . .Yeah.” Dean sighed, making his way down the steps before stopping and sitting on the last one. “But its nothing. You dont need to worry.”

“I always worry.”

“I know.’ He paused, watching as you sat up and swung your body around to face him. “You must really like it here.”

You shrugged, setting the radio down in the grass as some oldies playlist softly fell through the speakers. “Yeah. Its quiet here. Unlike every sketchy motel in America.”

“Yeah. You’re right about that.” He lightly chuckled, pausing only for a moment when you got up and moved to sit down next to him, hands wrapped around your knees.

The two of you sat like that for awhile, letting a comfortable silcen fall between you. No words spoken. Just easy silence. During that time it felt like the world had stopped. The only sound being the soft hum of the radio next to you and the even softer drone of katydids and crickets that seemed to come from everywhere. At some point a yellow tabby cat slunk across the grass just beyond reach of the porch lights, jumping up to swat at a lightning bug.

After a few minutes you spoke up again, your voice soft. “Thats another thing I like about you.”

“What?”

“Your a good person to sit with. You always offer silent comfort when needed. Sometimes before I realize I even need it.”

A small smile fell across his lips as he turned his head to look at you, surprised to find you already looking back. You were much closer than he originally realized, and he felt his breath hitch in his throat. You could feel his breath fan across your lips when he exhaled.

God, you were so close- so fucking close. The temptation to close the remainder of the gap between you had Deans heart doing barrel rolls. It was like some silence dance between the two of you, both set of eyes meeting before focusing on lips- and then back up to eyes.

And then the moment was severed when you pulled back, shaking it off.

Dean sucked in a breath after watching you for another moment. “You gonna really tell me what’s going on with you?” He finally spoke, making sure to keep his voice soft as yours, afraid to disturb the serenity laid out in front of you.Somewhere in the distance a dog barked.

“Does it really matter?”

“Yes. Because I’m worried and can see that you aren’t your usual self.”

You didn’t make eye contact, instead you kept your gaze on the tabby stalking through the grass. Why were you so afraid to say it out loud? It had been gnawing at you for days now but actually saying it? And to Dean no less?

“Dean, I think I’m gonna quit hunting.”

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inawickedlittletown · 3 years

Text

Is It Too Much To Ask For Something Good (4/4)

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Castiel

Summary: Maybe the problem was knowing that if he talked about it and that if he said it outloud with words that could be heard, it wasn’t only his anymore. Or that they had saved the world but nothing was alright. Not anymore. Not ever.

In the aftermath of defeating Chuck and bringing everyone back, there was still one thing that wasn’t set to rights. Castiel was still in The Empty. And Dean would never leave him there, even if it meant allowing Jack to change him.

Words: 2,331

Read on Ao3

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

He could still taste. It just wasn’t the same as it was before. For one thing, hunger wasn’t a thing so eating something didn’t quench any real desire. It wasn’t satisfactory like it had once been. Saltier and sweeter things had a better taste but Dean could also now name every single ingredient that had gone into something and sometimes he didn’t taste the whole component but each separate flavor. And then there was the molecule thing that Cas had been going on about because that was a thing and it wasn’t pleasant.

Sam thought it was hilarious and Dean thought he saw Eileen smiling too.

They spent the morning right into the afternoon together. Cas was never far and if they weren’t touching in some way, they were within reach of each other. Dean’s wings seemed to lean towards Cas, wrapping behind Cas or just pointing at him but always aware of where Cas was. Cas never seemed to stop himself from glancing at them or touching them.

A call to Sam’s cell interrupted their afternoon.

“It’s Claire,” Sam said and looked at them with wide eyes.

Dean remembered the day when they had driven to meet up with Jody and the girls. How Dean had left it to Sam to break it to Claire that Cas was gone. She had taken off as soon as the words had been said, only to return later and point at Dean and demand that he talk to her.

“Sam said you were the last one that saw him,” Claire had said. “What happened?”

Dean told her what he could. He held her when she cried and tried not to also break down into tears. Since then, Claire didn’t bring Cas up. She called when she needed help whether that be because what she was hunting and it was too much for her or because she needed them to look something up for her at the bunker. Dean had only seen her once since and it hadn’t been for long.

“We’ll meet you there,” Sam said. “Wait for us.”

“I figured that wasn’t something she should hear over the phone,” Sam said.

Claire wasn’t far. Dean was aware that he could have made it to her almost instantaneously, but driving his Baby was what he did, so he climbed into his car with Cas at his side. Sam and Eileen making the choice to drive separately. Dean was thankful for it. Dean had miracled Cas’ clothes clean after Cas asked with a bashful smile before they got into the Impala. Being able to do something like that for Cas had sent a warm jolt through him.

A couple of hours later they arrived at Claire’s hotel.

She would deny it later, Dean was sure, but her eyes teared up when she saw Cas right before she launched at him and pummeled his chest twice before Dean grabbed her around the waist and pulled her away.

“Cool it with the punches, will ya, blondie?”

“You told me he was gone,” Claire said accusingly at Dean. Her eyes flickered towards Sam too, but they settled on Dean.

“He was,” Dean said.

For some reason they didn’t tell Claire about Dean being an angel, but she did have a long conversation with Cas and afterwards when she hugged Dean afterwards, Claire muttered how happy she was that they were together.

It turned out that Claire didn’t need as much help as she thought, so because Claire demanded that Cas hang back, Dean stayed with him. Dean felt a little weird doing so when he had all the angel mojo at his disposal, but Cas pointed out that Dean didn’t want Claire to know about it anyway. Either way, they were a call away and Dean could fly them in if there was any real danger. In the end, he and Cas weren’t needed and it made Dean think.

It made him think about the life that he and Sam had led for so long. The constant moving and chasing down leads for possible supernatural threats. How never settling down had hurt any chance of a normal life. Even the Men of Letters bunker was so far away from normal that it couldn’t fully function as a home.

“What are you thinking?” Cas asked on the drive back.

Dean was considering the alternative. If he went back to being a human and he left the life. Perhaps not fully, but he might take it slower and be a resource more than someone out there putting his life on the line and doing the work. He could man those agency phones like Bobby had done. There were so many hunters out there. Younger men and women that could take on the mantle. Dean had no idea how Sam felt about it, but Dean could admit that he was tired. Of course, he’d tried the normal life once with Lisa and Ben and it had failed spectacularly. But it had worked in some ways and Dean had cared about Lisa and Ben both. It just hadn’t been enough for him.

“I’m just wondering if I’m really needed anymore as a hunter,” Dean said. “And if I could actually do it and walk away. Retire.”

“The world owes a lot to you, Dean,” Cas said and he reached over to grab Dean’s hand. “No one would blame you for walking away. Or for taking a step back and not chasing every hunt or hint at a problem.”

“I think we’ll have to talk to Jack,” Dean said. “We’ll have to go to him. But Cas, this affects you too. What do you want?”

“I want you,” Cas said without hesitation.

“I want you too,” Dean said and he couldn’t help but break out into a grin.

They left Sam and Eileen a note at the bunker and then Cas explained to Dean how to fly into heaven. And then Dean wrapped his arms around his angel and Dean was flying with Cas in his arms. They arrived in a clean, very white and empty room. At least, it seemed empty at first until Jack appeared, running towards them until he could throw himself at Cas who only just managed to keep his balance.

“You did it,” Jack said to Dean with an excited smile.

Jack showed them around and from the way that Cas reacted, Dean could tell that things were different. Things in heaven had changed. Dean hung back and watched it all. The man — angel — he loved and his son who was God and technically just a few years old. And maybe Cas belonged at Jack’s side in heaven helping with all the changes and making sure that Jack was making the right decisions.

“I don’t want it to be like it was,” Jack told them. “Everyone being apart. I want it to be open...like it’s supposed to be. A place to rest. To be happy.”

They met some of the angels and they gave Dean odd glances which Dean figured had to do with him technically being one of them now. Cas received shocked looks and more than one glare. Jack took them to The Garden. Dean had been there once before and the whole experience still felt more like a dream than anything. It didn’t look the same as it had back then. Now it was wild and huge. It just kept going and going and he imagined that it contained any and all plants. It was beautiful. He saw Cas stop at a flower he couldn’t identify, leaning in to give it a sniff and then he kept leaning there and Dean spotted a few bees that had caught his attention.

“So, you don’t want to be an angel,” Jack said.

Dean wasn’t too startled by him.

“I said yes because it was the only way to save him,” Dean said. “And not gonna lie, Jack, I feel great. And these wings are something else, but it isn’t me. Being human is more. Can you change me back?”

Jack nodded. “I can,” he said. “I wasn’t sure that you would want to give up all that power. But I know your soul and I know who you are, so it isn’t surprising.”

It was the right choice. He felt it in his bones. Looking at Cas, who had moved on to looking at other flowers and plants, it was easy to imagine him remaining in heaven and being in The Garden.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Jack said. “He will not leave you. You’ve made your choice Dean, but you have to know that he made his too. His grace is almost gone. He’s been falling slowly for so long and it’s all because of you.”

Cas returned to Dean’s side after a moment, smiling. “Figure everything out?” he asked.

Dean hadn’t realized that Cas had been giving him and Jack the space to talk.

“I want to go back to being human,” Dean said.

“Good,” Cas said and he linked their arms together. “And one day, when we come back up here, it won’t be like today.”

Dean couldn’t help but gasp. “Are you—”

Cas just nodded.

Dean flew them back to the bunker after Jack filled them in on all the rest of his plans and then told Dean that he didn’t need his help to become human again. It would happen on it’s own in a few days — maybe a full week or two — so long as it was what Dean really wanted.

It happened slowly, and Dean could tell he was changing almost entirely because of how food tasted and how he started to want food and sleep. His wings were one of the last things to go and having their weight removed from his back was weirdly freeing. Cas seemed more affected by them disappearing. Sometimes, Dean caught him reaching behind Dean as if to touch them only to remember a moment later that they weren’t there.

“Is that a thing for you?” Dean asked him one night.

Sam and Eileen had left the bunker on a hunt that Dean had declined to go on. The guilt that he’d expected to feel at that hadn’t hit and Cas’ grip on his shoulder had eased any bit of worry that had existed for him.

“What?” Cas asked. He was watching Dean make dinner from the table, but he got up to stand next to Dean.

Dean couldn’t believe that at one point in his life he had been annoyed by how close Cas got to him. Now, he wanted Cas as close as possible. Always within his reach.

“The wings,” Dean said. “You keep looking behind me or reaching for them.”

“They were beautiful. A reflection of you,” Cas said. “And they’re not fully gone yet. I can still feel them and see them sometimes. I give it a couple more days.”

“Are you upset that I didn’t want to stay an angel?” Dean asked.

One thing that remained from his time as an angel was some of what he already knew. One of those things was that Cas was his and he was Cas’ and their bond — their profound bond — it meant that there was nothing that could stop them from loving each other.

“No. You are human, Dean. The best human. If they were all like you, this world would be very different. But my wings are gone and one day I won’t even have what is left. I’m appreciating them until they are gone. That’s all.”

Dean kissed him. It was a quick kiss, a taste for what they might get to do later. Cas leaned into his space, he pressed kisses away from Dean’s lips, up his jaw to his ear and Dean wrapped an arm around Cas, bringing him close right against his side and breathing him. Sometimes, he was still surprised that he had him there at all.

“Sam texted earlier,” Cas said.

“Yeah?”

“They took care of the ghost. But, they wanted to let us know there’s a pie fest tomorrow.”

Dean dropped the spatula in his hand. “Pie fest,” he repeated. “And you’re only just now mentioning this? I think we have the location of our next date, Cas.”

Cas laughed. “I already told Sam we’d meet him and Eileen there.”

“Hell yeah, we will,” Dean said.

They shared another quick kiss. Dean had never expected to experience a relationship the way that it was with Cas. The ease that came with it that told Dean he was exactly where he should be. They had gone on a few dates since Cas’ return. Out to eat, or to the movies, bowling, and once — while Dean could still fly them places — Dean had taken Cas out to the beach. And those things were fun and doing them with Cas was even better, especially when he got to introduce Cas to something new.

And then there was the other aspects. The sex. Dean wasn’t shy about how much sex he’d had over the years and although it had happened very few times, sometimes it hadn’t been all women. With Cas, just like everything else, it was different. It meant more and it was satisfying because it brought them closer emotionally and physically. It was the most perfect thing.

Pie fest was everything that Dean had expected it to be and being able to fully taste all of the pies made it even better. Having Cas next to him and a tray full of plates of every pie that there had been and with Sam and Eileen signing at each other, Dean didn’t think he would ever feel happier. It was exactly how things should be.

When Cas touched his shoulder where his mark used to be, Dean reached for Cas’ wrist where his mark had been too and they smiled at each other. Things were good.

#supernatural #destiel #destiel fic #deancas #deancas fic #supernatural fic #fix it fic

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oberynmartell · 4 years

Text

» mine din djarin x reader

Din never realising that he could become so addicted to something as simple as your touch.

From the very first time you had touched him, when you had leaned forward and placed your bare palm upon his forearm, he was sure had was in love with you. He had been able to feel the warmth of your skin, even through the layers of steel and wool he had been wrapped in, the softness of your palm something he craved knowing, feeling against his bare chest, bare belly, bare cock. Beneath his mask he had licked his lips, schooling his heavy breathing into neutrality, and tried to get the image of your mouth around his cock out of his mind.

You always rested you hand on his shoulder when he was sitting and you behind him, a gesture of silent comfort and solidarity, a gentle reminder that you were there for him, with him. As he took his place in the pilot's seat you often laid your hand upon his knee or, if you were in a particularly teasing mood, on his upper thigh, your hands sweeping back and forth across his skin until he could feel tiny pinpricks of electricity jolting just beneath his skin.

You made him dizzy, made him crazy, made him feel like he couldn't breathe. And he loved it, loved you. Loved every time you came out of the refresher humming some song he had never heard of, loved the nights when he found you curled up tight as an air shrimp with the child's hands fisted in your tunic, loved when you woke up in the morning and padded over to him, all bare feet and bare legs, and wrapped your arms around his shoulders so that you could pull yourself into his lap.

There was just something about your touch that just set his teeth on edge. It was like he had to have you, any time he could, had to touch you, had to put his hands on you. Move his hands down your hips to pull your legs apart urge you down into his lap, pinch at your nipples and cup your breasts through your wrappings, slide his hands down your back to cup your arse in his big hands.

He loved the way you smiled at him so big and bright whenever he pulled you to him, the way your cheeks flushed so pretty when he made you come, the way you hummed softly into his kiss as though uttering a silent prayer to whatever God it was you believed in, whatever God it was he should be thanking for bringing you to him.

He was addicted to you, in every way a man could be addicted to a woman, and there wasn’t a single part of you that minded.

It had been almost two days since he’d had you last, and when he slides the ship into autopilot it’s like you can sense it, sense his need, sense the way his cock is already stirring at his breeches just at the thought of the way he would sink into you, the way he would bury his nose against your clit and make you scream loud enough to be heard in space.

You’re in his lap before he can even turn to face you, draping your arms around his neck and tugging lightly at the back of his hair with your fingers. His lips find yours with practiced ease, pushing against yours with what he hopes is urgency enough to show his need. He has to have you, has to be inside you or else he’ll go mad.

You’re nodding your head before he can even speak, sliding down his lap until you’re seated on the floor between his firm thighs, and you’ve pulled down a pillow from your seat at the helm to rest your knees upon. Din lets his head roll back, overcome with the sight, overcome with the way you lick your lips as your nimble fingers begin to work at his belt, and he’s thankful that he had thought to seal off the back of the ship where the child sleeps fitfully.

You kiss the head of his cock like an introduction, smoothing a thumb over the weeping head to spread the thick beads that dew at the slit you just cant seem to stop kissing. He grunts, his stomach tight, and he wants so badly to be naked with you, to be skin-on-skin with you. He tugs at your shirt impatiently and lifts it up over your head, glad to find you had yet to bind your breasts as you always did during your journeys to the outer rim.

He cups your breast gently as you continue to work at him, planting a set of warm, sloppy kisses against his cock that leave him breathless, and its almost too much, almost not enough, before you bend your head to take his cock into your mouth.

He groans long and low, your mouth so warm and wet and deep that its all he can do not to surge up from his chair and fuck your mouth until he comes down your throat like a spout. Instead Din grips the edge of his seat in a vice like grip, digging his fingers into the soft leather to keep from reaching for you. But as always, you can sense his desperation, reading his expression as easily as if you were reading one of those texts he always finds you curled up and reading before bed.

You push your head down lower, taking more more more of him until he can feel the head of his cock bump at the back of your throat, and you hum in satisfaction, making him cry out in pleasure. “Fuck—“ he gasps, breathless. He can feel every undulation of your throat as you continue to swallow and hum around his cock, your fist squeezing the base of him where he can no longer fit into your mouth. Your teeth scrape gently over him, just light enough to make him shiver, just light enough to make his orgasm begin to dance just out of reach.

He bites the tip of his finger with his teeth and pulls until the leather of his glove gives and begins to slide free, his fingers rough and callused as they slid up your back, rubbing gently at your hunched shoulder blades before moving back to their proper place at the back of your head, tugging just enough to show his reverent appreciation. His other hand reaches for yours as it rests on his thigh, bracing your weight against his as you suck him deep, and he tangles his fingers to yours, bringing the back of your hand to his lips to kiss and kiss and kiss you until his lips feel numb.

Your tongue worked over his cock from head to base, your free hand lowering to squeeze gently at his balls in the way you knew always sent him over the edge, your tongue running over the base of his cock. “Fuck.” he gritted, gathering your hair back from your face. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, you know that?”

Your eyes flick up to his and he almost comes tight then and there, trapped in your doe eyed gaze, watching as your eyes darken with lust and pleasure at the praise. “I’ve never known anyone like you before.” he confesses out of the clear blue, not even sure why he says it. His thumb traces over the back of your hand, as soft and tender and unassuming, as if you weren’t currently gagging in his cock.

“Of all the people I’ve ever met, you’re my favourite.” he says, and he smiles then, choking out a moan that contorts his handsome face into a look of pure ecstasy.

You bob your head down further onto his cock, your lips shimmering with spit and slick and so damned pretty that he wants to haul you up to your feet and kiss you all over. Your fingers are so soft against his, compared to his, as smooth skin and delicate features, without the calluses and scars so long as a bounty hunter had left him. He wants to kiss each one of your fingers in turn, each one of your hands, up each of your arms and elbows and arms and shoulders until he can follow the curve of your neck, the slope of your jaw, the perfect curves of your lips.

He presses a hand down on the back of your head when he feels his orgasm begin to sweep over him, the familiar liquid curl of pleasure flooding his system and rising up and up and up until it almost consumes him. You nod your head in acceptance and pull him deeper, feeling his soft head press into the back of your throat so far that you almost gag, almost choke over him, and his ego swells right there along with his pleasure.

He squeezes your hand softly when he feels himself coming, spilling down your throat as he has so many times before, listening to you hum tenderly as you continue to stroke him with your tongue, your teeth scraping over him in a way that has him yelling, his moans flooding the cabin like an alarm, and the sound alone brings goosebumps to your arms and wetness to your panties.

You pull away from him to nuzzle your cheek into his belly, kissing his bare hip where his breeches had been wrestled open.

“I love you.” you say, and the words make warmth flare in his blood like they do every time he hears them, every time you say them with that pretty smile on your face, that pretty blush on your cheeks, and he knows, he knows, just like he had that very first time he had ever clapped eyes on you, that he loves you too.

#the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x female reader #the mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #mandowhoreians #lets go girls!!#fic: the mandalorian #fic: the mandalorian x reader

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sohin-ace · 4 years

Text

Kakyoin - Your Highness

This is cross-posted from Wattpad and available on AO3.

Prince Kakyoin x Fem!Knight Reader

Thanks to @kookiraniiii on IG for letting me use her STUNNING art of Prince Kakyoin. It's beyond gorgeous.

In the eastern lands of Cerasus rules a magnificent King alongside his Queen.

They both had a darling child whose fate was to take the throne, marry a woman of his rank, establishing diplomatic alliances, and rule over the peaceful land.

That was what was written for him, but the young man had his mind set elsewhere.

In all of his years as a prince, he grew to fall in love with his personnal body guard, Y/N L/N.

Although forbidden, he couldn't help but think of her night and day, from the moment she swore eternal loyalty to him, and as she fought everyday for his safety, braving danger and dirtying herself so he could stay immaculate.

You were so beautiful in his eyes, no women of the court could compete with the raging fire in your eyes or the preciousness in your rare smiles. He couldn't care less for artificial beauty, frilly dresses and mondanities when you occupied his mind.

He sighed as he reminisced the little interactions you both had, glancing at each other across the throne room and how you both would 'negociate' to have you escort him here and there instead of another knight until they upgraded you to be his personnal body guard.

His mind raced again with thoughts of her as he daydreamed his way to his wide windows.

As Kakyoin looked out the large balcony, his eyes drifted from the colorful gardens to the stable where he saw you tending to your horse. He smiled softly and decided it wouldn't hurt to sneak out a little bit and come see you.

The red head arrived silently towards you. Not noticing his presence, you continued to feed and pet your mare.

"Not so fast, Athena!" You chuckled to her as she was munching on a carrot and Kakyoin relished in your bubbly laugh.

"Hello, Y/N." He greeted and you flinched at his deep yet soft voice as you turned around and saw him.

You froze for a milisecond before immediately scrambling on one knee, bowing your head and bringing a hand to your heart.

"Your Highness."

"Please Y/N, you don't have to do this. It's only me." He reassured with a gentle smile as you slowly got up from your bowed position.

You looked up at his violet eyes, then searched behind him as to check if he was alone, which he was.

"What brings you down here? Shouldn't you be in your chambers?" He rolled his eyes in answer which amused you.

"Each opportunity there is to flee my chambers, I take. I am bored beyond words."

"Hmm..." You tugged slightly at your mare's reigns. "Shall I take you for a joy ride, my prince?"

Your teasing voice and eyes made his heart skip three beats as he tried his best to not furiously nod his head in excitement like a small child on Christmas day.

"Okay. Hop on, please." You guided the very tall male towards Athena and helped him mount her.

You made sure Kakyoin was nicely secured and then gripped the reigns of your mare again, getting her to a walk through the gardens.

"Y/N," You hummed in reply, "Won't you get in trouble for this?"

"It's okay, I'm on my day off."

Kakyoin was shocked at your answer. "You spend your days off at the castle? You should go visit your family and get some rest!"

"Well... My family lives on the outer grounds, near the Grey Mountains. It would take a whole day to travel there and go back to the castle, so I just stay here."

"Oh... I see..." He looked away from you and back in front of him, a sad look gracing his features, "So you work even on your days off..."

"Yes, but it's fine, there is way less to do, and no pressure, I really get to rest. I basically don't do much beside protecting you..." You paused to look up at him. "Which is my sole purpose anyways."

You both exchanged a look and you smiled. "I would do it even if I wasn't a Royal Guard, or even if I was banned from the Kingdom."

Kakyoin blushed and immediately looked away. His heart beat quickened in his chest and he had to fight the stinging tears that prickled in his eyes.

It was so unfair. So unfair that you had to struggle so much with a smile and that he couldn't to anything for you. So unfair that you would blindly give your life for his sake. So unfair that you were meant to be apart, social norms binding his feelings for you unacceptable.

"Oh the gate is closed." You observed as you reached the limits of the Royal gardens.

You let go of Athena, trusting her that she wouldn't move, and walked to the closed metal doors. You turned around, glancing at Kakyoin with a smirk.

"Your Highness, let's elope."

He gasped loudly at your proposition. Surely you weren't serious, right? The scandalous idea of fleeing with you was at the same time exciting and terrifying. Before he could even answer, you giggled.

"I'm just kidding! You should see your face! Hahaha !" You turned back around to unlock the large door, thankfully missing the huge blush that currently burned his face.

He sighed a bit relieved, but was still confused at your current actions if you were joking.

"Y/N, why are you opening the gate...?" He stared at you as you approached him and took back the reigns.

You walked with him and Athena through the gate and officially out of the castle.

"I wasn't entirely joking, I'm taking you out to the Green Lands for a little while. There are some places I want to show you."

He looked visibly distressed as a bead of sweat ran down his forehead. He never left the castle before.

The farthest he's ever been was the Citadel where the Royal Family could be seen publicly in the Town Square, but even then, as a Prince, he wasn't allowed to these events very often, not until his corronation, that is.

"Don't worry, my Prince, there is nothing to fear. As long as you are with me, you don't have to be afraid."

Your reassuring words and sweet voice put him at ease. You were so brave and strong. He wished he could be fearless and fierce like you were.

And so, you walked through the trees towards the vast valley. Even with the sounds of mother nature around you, the woody scents and the breathtaking green view, he couldn't help but stare at you.

You weren't wearing your helmet today, which let him see your hair messily tied into a french braid. You were so beautiful, if it wasn't for that heavy armor, nobody would know you were a soldier, people would take you for a pure blood.

He minded your expression as you looked around. There was a hardened glint on your gaze. Even if you were relatively relaxed, he knew you kept your guards up, like a hawk hunting. Like nothing could escape your vision, not even the spirits dwelling in the forest.

He felt so safe around you, but he knew you kept all your burden to yourself. You had to carry so much on your shoulders but would never let it show. He prayed for your peace everyday.

"Let's stop at that pond, shall we?"

You helped him off your horse, holding his waist carefully as he climbed down. He could actually do it with no difficulty but he loved the way you cutely held onto him to prevent him for falling.

Athena was drinking while Kakyoin and you sat down by the stream, refreshing yourselves and watching the tadpoles wiggle in the water, giggling like children as they did.

As you two were relaxing, you heard a distant rumbling noise, which went unnoticed by Kakyoin. You perked up, and whipped your head around, searching the source of the noise.

You heard a sharp whistling sound, and immediately unsheathed your sword as you got up.

"What's wrong Y/N?"

Right as he asked that, an arrow landed right next to you two and he gasped.

"Damn it...!" You then noticed a group of armed men on the horizon.

"SET THE DUNES OF GOLD FREE!!! ALL HAIL THE LORD DIO!!!"

"Shit..." you gritted your teeth. You immediately turned to Kakyoin and pulled him to his feet, ushering him to mount Athena. "I don't even have my bow... God!"

"Y/N, what's happening?" Kakyoin asked as you helped him up.

Another arrow landed near you, then a second. At the third, Athena neighed loudly and you clicked your tongue. Being attacked was the last thing you needed today.

"The hunters of the Desert. They were sent by the King of the West, Dio Brando to spread the word of his domination, what a joke..."

As they came closer and their shots were getting more and more accurate, you removed your chainmail-doubled cape and wrapped it around the red haired prince, covering him entirely.

"Y/N..." He called your name worriedly and you secured the cape over his head before pushing him up on Athena.

"I won't let them harm you, my prince. No arrow will graze you as long as I am alive to protect you."

You climbed on your mare, right in front of Kakyoin and took back the reigns, turning Athena completely around. Kakyoin was surprised by the sudden move, but you then instructed. "Hold on tight!"

He obliged and wrapped his arms around your waist like his life depended on it, which it did. He leaned in against your back as you whipped the reigns.

"YAH!"

Athena then neighed and ran off at an incredible speed, barely dodging a bundle of arrows that planted on the ground near you.

Kakyoin's heart was pounding so hard in his chest, he was sure you could feel it through your thick gear. He kept his arms belted around you as he was shaken by the movements of your sprinting mare.

You seemed completely unfazed as you took swift turns and jumped over obstacles. Kakyoin buried his face on your shoulder.

He was a bit frightened, but at the same time, he knew he could trust you and he felt warm with your cape shielding him and your armored body against him. That was the closest he could conventionally be to you.

You eventually managed to lose track of the hunters as you stopped under a high cliff that shadowed the two of you, the sun now low in the sky.

He climbed off the horse right after you as you helped him down. He closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh but before he could even look at you, you collapsed to your knees in front of him.

"...Y/N?"

"I deeply apologize, your Highness! I put you to danger like a fool!" You fretted as you glared at the ground, unable to look at Kakyoin and hating yourself for acting so recklessly. "I will take any punishment...!"

His eyes widened in shock. Punishment? Danger? If anything, he should be thanking you.

Kakyoin kneeled down in front of you and lifted your chin up. You stared into his lavender gaze as he gently held your face, like you were some delicate flower.

"What danger are you refering to? I wasn't in danger at all, you protected me all the way." He spoke in a honey sweet voice as he lightly tugged on the heavy cape you put over him.

"But I- Your Highness-" You argued but he cut you off.

"Noriaki."

"Huh?"

"I told you to drop the formalities when there's only the two of us."

He stared at your e/c eyes and subconsciously got closer to you. Your breath hitched a bit as you put your calloused hand over his much softer one holding your face.

"Noriaki..." The way his name rolled out your tongue sent shivers down his spine.

How your voice was so gentle, hesitant almost, as his given name was forbidden from your mouth. God it was beautiful. He fell in love with you every passing second.

"Yes?" He breathed dreamily as he glanced at your lips, his prize, so close, right within his reach.

"We shouldn't..." You turned away a bit, glancing down. There would be consequences, you knew that.

"But Y/N, we should. Don't you want this?" He asked carefully, searching answers and consent in your shying eyes.

"I do... But... What about your title? You'll never be King if we..." You trailed off and he guided your face to look back at him.

"I don't want the crown, I want you."

With those confident words, he leaned in again, closing his eyes as he met your lips. You couldn't resist as you melted into the kiss.

You felt lightheaded and tingly at the sweet feeling of your prince kissing you so gently yet so passionately, his curly hair tickling the side of your face.

You didn't dare touch him any further as you were already comitting an unforgivable crime, but that didn't stop him from craddling your face in his hands, only to brush them to your neck and hair.

He wished this moment would last forever. It would probably be the first and last time he could do this. Getting out of the Royal Gardens was already a big risk, but this? This was thrilling.

You both could be killed if you were caught, but he didn't care. The only thing he cared about now, was the butterflies in his stomach and the deliciously painful throb of his heart.

You eventually parted for air. You let out a delighted sigh as Kakyoin panted slightly, still lingering against your lips, craving your touch and affection that he was so deprived of.

You looked at his red face and half-lidded eyes through your lashes. He wanted more, but you couldn't give him that, unfortunately.

"Y/N..." He whined softly as you pulled back.

You smiled at his needy tone and you flattened a stray lock of his hair, the previous run has had disheveled his hairstyle.

"It's getting late, everyone must be worried."

He agreed and you both got up. Good thing that you were more responsible than he was in these situations. He was about to tug your cape off of him and give it back to you, but you stopped him.

"Keep it. The sun is setting, it's going to be freezing."

He nodded and you helped him mount on Athena again and you joined him. Placing yourself back in front of him, he immediately held you as he did earlier, but this time, without the rush of adrenaline from being hunted down.

You trotted back towards the castle and Kakyoin admired the view around him. The valley was cast in a beautiful orange light. The stream shimmered with the sunlight and the birds flew across the canvas-like sky. He felt almost agoraphobic at the vast grounds that extended beyond his own vision.

"How is the view, my prince?"

"... Absolutely stunning..." He breathed out in sheer admiration.

He tightened his hold on you as he leaned his weight against you, keeping you as close to him as possible. You chuckled and leaned back on him as well, resting your head on his shoulder for a short while before looking back forward, loving the feeling of his arms around you.

He'll never be grateful enough for the adventures you brought him in. For the views and the sensations you blessed him with. For the love and safety you offered him.

He put his head on your shoulder and eventually drifted off to sleep, lulled by the horse's sway, the cold breeze and your reassuring scent. He dreamt of another life, another chance.

In his next life, he wanted to be a normal boy, going to school with other kids his age. No etiquette, no protocol, no prince, no kingdom, just normal people living together.

Where he would travel across the world with a group of friends from all around the globe, and where he could fight evil by your side, hand in hand.

Where instead of staying behind as you took the hit, he would be the one to protect you from the immortal being that threatened the world.

In his fantasy, you would be blessed by soulful spirits that granted you the strength that he didn't have now. And you would be allowed to be together, and love each other, with no one to tell you it was forbidden.

That was his ideal life.

If you're confused as to how the valley looks like, imagine the Hyrule Fields, that was my inspo.

I really love the Prince Kakyoin prompt and I'll do more, trust me.

Thanks again to @kookiraniiii on IG. Go check her out!

#jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo #jjba #stardust crusaders #kakyoin #kakyoin noriaki #royal au #au #prince kakyoin #x reader #reader insert #writing #medieval au #royalty au #kakyoin noriaki x reader #kakyoin x reader #jojo part 3 #part 3 #jojo no kimyou na bouken

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callmethehunter · 4 years

Text

New Robert Fan Fic: Maggie and Robert Part 3

Well, the time has come! My first posting of NSFW Robert Fanfic. Thank you once again to @firethatgrewsolow for help with edits and sanity checks. :)

As a recap, Maggie and Robert are talking and getting to know each other... Previously in Part 2:

[As he sings her a song….]

“She knew she was done for. His voice was ...she could not put words to it… his voice did things to her. How he climbed octaves effortlessly, sang with such feeling and passion. He was simply irresistible. Steve was but a distant memory as she adjusted her body to be closer to him, purposely grinding her ass closer to his obviously growing erection. Suddenly a wave pounded on the rocks below, drenching them in an instant and interrupting their moment.

They yelped in unison, jumped up and quickly but carefully made their way off the slippery rocks onto the sandy beach below. Dripping wet, they scampered toward the boardwalk slowing as they spotted a lifeguard tower not too far ahead. They both looked at each other.

“Robert! Let’s go there. We can sit on the ramp while we dry off, and you can serenade me.” she teased him as she led him by the hand in the direction of the tower...

Part 3:

In her hyperawareness, Maggie registered his doubts and added “Robert, you have a beautiful voice, and all I want is for you to remember me so I can get backstage when you’re rich and famous OK? So remember this face, “ she said as she pointed to herself. With that, she twirled like a ballerina, nailing a perfect pirouette in the air, and landed gracefully on the sand, before running towards the tower, her long wavy hair trailing behind her.

She looked so wild and carefree, he wanted to capture her and keep her to himself, -this gem of a girl, this diamond in the rough. He took off in chase, his long legs bridging the gap between them until he had caught up with her. Both of them were still laughing as they reached the tall wooden structure where lifeguards stood watch during daylight hours. Out of breath, they settled on the ramp looking out toward the ocean.

She draped her tanned legs across his, as he looked on approvingly, sweeping his eyes over them and back to her face. Her cheeks were rosy from the exertion and her brown amber eyes sparkled at him.

He’d somehow managed to salvage the joint and took a hit. He gently pulled her onto his lap, to resume the seating arrangement that had been cut short by the wave. He adjusted her body so that her ass was resting squarely on his thick thighs. They sat in this manner, their breathing getting back to normal from the run. The silence seemed natural and neither one of them made any move to fill the moment with words. She felt the warmth of his body transferring to hers, the breeze on her wet skin and hair. Each of her senses was in full alert.

Heat rippled through her as she felt an arousal so intense that she would forever remember that moment as encompassing the essence of what it meant to be alive and in line with the desires and intent of one’s heart. Waves of emotion overflowed, threatening to drown her and she was struck dumb, once again, unable to form words, staring down at his hand which had come to rest on her bare thigh.

His large, strong hand, with thick veins, the dirt under the nails and calluses on the palms spoke of hard manual labor which would explain Robert’s toned and muscular physique. She took that translucent hand into her own, kissed it reverently, and placed it against her cheek.

Studying it, she whispered, “Your hand is telling me your life,” vivid sensations, rapid psychedelic thoughts crowded her perception, and she heard herself saying, “Your hand is so big and strong. Like you.” She turned it over and saw his love line was deeply etched.

“Your love line goes on and on, it’s so thick and long.” she said as she traced it with her finger.

"Are you sure you’re talking about my love line, dear, and not… umm, something else?” he asked her with a barely contained smirk that accentuated his dimple.

“Robert!” She giggled as he tickled her in the ribs in jest. “Your mind is in the gutter.”

Robert took his other hand and glided it slowly up and down her thigh, marveling at its velvety smoothness, wanting nothing more than to continue the journey up to her warm, wet center, to gain entrance into her secret places. He would explore then taste her essence on his lips. His cock throbbed with anticipation, his fingers betraying his self control as they continued their gradual climb on her thigh. She is irresistible, he thought.

In her heightened state of perception, the ceaseless roar of the ocean filled her ears and seemed to mingle with the beating of her heart. Surely, this wasn’t real? The thought briefly crossed her mind that maybe she was tripping so hard that the scene existed entirely in her head. That she would suddenly blink and realize this was only a figment of her overactive imagination. But instead, as she opened her eyes, she saw Robert peering right back at her, his wet curls brushing against her cheek, his eyes full of an almost predatory and possessive quality that had not been there before, the alpha male with his intended mate, or the hunter with his prey in the sights of his gun.

Maggie, feeling a bit predatory herself, leaned hard into him and kissed him deeply, her tongue exploring his mouth. Their lips were locked tight, their tongues intertwined as she felt his hand moving up her leg. She pushed on his chest until he was laying flat on his back on the ramp.

As she straddled him, she took in the scene, the moment would forever be engraved in her memory. The vision of Robert laying back on his elbows and then supine; a cascade of golden curls falling all around him, watching her as she discarded her shirt. He fondled her breasts, given them a good squeeze.

Maggie trailed kisses across his chest, stopping to tease his nipples. When she reached his tummy she nuzzled the fuzz and began to kiss the contours of his V on either side. Painstakingly slow, enjoying every second.

Robert gave in to the sensations, running his hands through her dark, wavy hair. He grasped a lock and gently twirled it between his fingers, sighed deeply and let out a long breath; the alpha male finally subdued and in repose. The lioness crouched over him, suckling and nipping here and there on the trek down to his engorged member.

He thrust his hips, urging her on, and helped her undo the heavy silver buckle while she pushed his jeans down slowly, her goal almost in sight. As he wiggled a bit to allow for the fabric to stretch over his bulge, his cock sprang out as if in silent salute. Good heavens, he was well endowed! And so thick...Probably 10 inches of beautiful, hard cock. She felt herself ache at the very core of her being.

She finished nibbling his inner thighs and wrapped her full lips around his sensitive tip, sucking gently as she swirled her tongue around and around. Slowly bringing more of him into her mouth, she fondled his balls and lavished them with her attention as well. They were big, round, and heavy. She placed her tongue flat at his base and firmly licked the thick vein all the way up to the head. She flicked the foreskin, stretching it. Taking him in deeper and deeper each time, she held the shaft while she rubbed the tip on the inside of her cheek and repeated, until he moaned loudly.

She loved the feel of his hardness when she pumped her hand up and down his length, once in a while squeezing him...He was hard as a rock, glistening in the moonlight… and she liked it.

“Oh...mmmm- little girl,” he moaned with eyes closed, “this feels so good,” he murmured as he gently thrust his hips up and down, his cock hot and responsive. They were in sync, embroiled in the ancient mating dance that was as old as time.

“Maggie... mmm,.. I...I can’t take too much of that,” the words tumbled out, punctuated by his heavy breathing.

She slowed down, but did not stop, for she loved having him in her mouth, feeling in control and giving him pleasure. Even so, she did not protest as he groped and fondled her breasts, motioning her up to meet his hungry mouth.

While locked in a passionate kiss, Robert rolled her so Maggie was now the one lying on her back. He hovered over her, his flexed arms on either side of her, his long hair hanging low, as he began to plant a flurry of kisses down her neck, nuzzling and nipping at her until she felt delirious with desire.

Look at this hispanic fox, he thought as he watched her...her amber eyes half closed, lost in sensual pleasure. He attended to each nipple, bringing them to life until they were almost as stiff as his cock. Standing at attention, just the way he liked. His large hands enveloped them, squeezing as his mouth sucked. Her tummy trembled as his lips traveled downward.

She felt his hot breath even before his velvety tongue began exploring her folds, his long fingers at her entrance. He sucked on her clit as she bucked. He used his arm to pin her hips down and continued his sweet torture. She was beside herself.

Robert let her catch her breath. He took a firm hold of his cock and rubbed it against her opening, spreading her lips with it and thrusting just an inch or two into her core.

Good God, she wasn’t going to last much longer. Not at this rate. She pushed against him, grinding her hips; urging him to go deeper, but he continued to tease her with shallow thrusts, in and out repeatedly… until he paused.

“Don’t stop, please, don’t...stop!” she cried, as he hovered inches above her face, his blue eyes dark and stormy with lust. He did not respond but began to kiss her neck and rub and grind his manhood all over her pelvis and stomach. She could feel every inch of his formidable length, rigid and ready.

That just would not do, she frowned and he smiled decadently...She dug her fingernails into his ass, trying to push herself onto him. She needed to feel him, to feel every inch of his love, way down inside.

“So this is what you want, huh?.” He teased her a few times by going halfway deep. “C’mon then, little girl, push...Push me darlin..,” he breathed hot in her ear as she arched her back and felt his thickness and length completely fill her.

She moaned, “Ahh, yes, that’s it, Robert...just like that,” as she squeezed his ass and met his deep, measured thrusts with her hips. She brought her legs up and wrapped them around his torso, but the wooden ramp was too rough on her tailbone and she winced in pain.

“Oh Baby, are you OK?” his eyebrows furrowed with concern as he stopped. He was almost shaking with the effort and self control that it took him not to plunge into her one more time. But the last thing he ever wanted was to hurt her in any way. So, trembling with restraint, and breathing heavily, he paused.

Maggie opened her eyes, desperate for him to continue. “Pick me up, Robert, hold me,” she coaxed as she wrapped not only her legs but now her arms around his neck. He instinctively held the back of her thighs, hoisting her as his strong legs stood both of them up. His rigid cock bounced as he took the few steps with Maggie in tow. Shuffling as one, they reached the wall just a few feet away.

After he had her up against it, Maggie placed her hands on his shoulders for leverage while he tightly encircled her with his arms and entered her. No teasing, this time it was his whole length. She experienced once again the incredible feeling of fullness and depth.

“Oh my god, Maggie, you’re so tight,” he groaned as he rocked her upward and downward with each long stroke, her body against the wall of the tower, which was shaking to their rhythm.

She could feel the muscles in his chest and arms as he held her, and she rubbed her breasts all over him. She threw her head back, her breasts bouncing. He took the opportunity to suck on her exposed neck and lavish attention on her nipples, swirling and sucking until she thought she would burst.

“Squeeze me, Maggie” he panted into her ear as his pace became more urgent. His heavy breaths fanned the flames hotter and higher inside of her.

She felt the tremors of pleasure mounting within her, her breathing became erratic and she lost herself in an explosive orgasm that made her contract over and over again in ecstasy.

“That’s it, baby, Oh- Squeeze me ...hard,” he repeated with urgency as he sped up the pace. She did as she was told, clamping her walls down on his fat cock with each wave of release. Her body trembled as she rode him, his moans growing louder.

Robert was lost in the rhythm of their hips, smashing against one another, his manhood straining, pushing into her, he felt her walls constricting...he gasped and moaned finally giving in…”Oh..Maggie..Oh, I’m cumming baby.”

They were covered in sweat, their energy spent, and their desires fulfilled. For now. Robert rested his head on Maggie who was still wrapped like a koala bear around him. She found herself looking into Robert’s eyes, marveling at how they had been strangers a few hours ago but were now on this beach, intimately acquainted, their bodies entwined as one…

“One with cosmic energy!!” she whispered, smiling. Robert’s eyes widened, and he chuckled, “Oh yea? So you felt it too?”

He didn’t want to let her go, she felt so right in his arms, but he gently set her down on the ramp `and held her face tenderly in his hands, “This was a total bash, my love...and I hope it’s just the first of many…”, he paused then added “In fact, tonight might just be your lucky night my lady” he playfully curtsied and bowed as if to a queen, “for once I’m not sharing a room with my bandmate…” he trailed off, “you’re welcome to come and hang out, we could have a night-cap...”

She did not answer immediately, She turned away and looked back in the direction they had traveled; seeing the waves incessantly breaking on the Jetties, then further down towards the Bahia Mar, where Steve was regaling his captive, spaced-out audience with tales about himself.

“Robert, I wish I could go. I want to,.. but I can’t. I’m gonna be completely honest...Tonight was so special to me….But I’ve got my old man, Steve, back there” she faltered, then continued, “He and I are living together” she averted her eyes, “I can’t just disappear..I wish it were different, believe me.”Her answer took him by surprise.

It was unsettling to Robert, who was quite used to getting his way with the ladies, to be turned down...He felt almost rejected which was not a familiar emotion, as well as possessive. He pictured her with Steve and had to quelch his jealous streak. So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh? He thought to himself.

“If I can still take you up on your invitation to Tugboat Annies, I‘d love to go to your show,” she said hesitantly, hoping this would prove to him she intended to see him again, Steve or no Steve.

But the magic of the moments spent together seemed to dissipate, as Robert answered rather flippantly, “Sure thing, yea, stop by anytime. It should be a good crowd.” He started to pull away.

She caught a flash of ….something in his eyes before she replied, “Robert, listen, I am so into you, you are amazing and I want more than anything to see you again…”, she reached for his hand.

“Maggie, you’re amazing too, but you’re in a relationship. I don’t want to get in the middle of that,” he embraced her, holding her tight and said “maybe if it was a different time, different place...but” he trailed off, took her face in his hands and kissed her deeply.

The fire of desire rekindled deep in Maggie’s heart and her eyes welled up with tears of longing. But Robert pulled away from their embrace.He appeared to steel himself and just like that, his jovial demeanor resurfaced, the happy-go- lucky mask was back in place, as if emotionally detaching himself from the situation.

“Well, I guess this is it…” he looked into her eyes, bent down and gave her a final and quick peck on the cheek. “You better hurry back, Maggie, we wouldn’t want Steve to worry, would we?”

WIth that, he smiled, turned, and walked away towards his hotel. She watched him slowly fading back into the shadows, his golden mane of curls catching the first rays of dawn, his wide shoulders set. She felt an emptiness and sudden disillusionment. She knew it wasn’t just because she was coming down from the euphoria of the acid or the afterglow of their incredible time together…it was more than that.

As Robert’s silhouette grew smaller in the distance, she knew that she needed to see him again. She simply HAD to see him before he left for the UK on Saturday. He was magical. The passion and connection that she had felt with him during their brief encounter was exactly what was absent with Steve and what she deeply craved.

When she lost all sight of Robert, her eyes swept over the skies. The sun was beginning to rise, dispersing the quiet darkness of the night...a night she would treasure always. She sighed wearily, turning her back to that golden sunrise as she headed back home to a man she did not truly love or even respect.

To be continued…

#maggie and robert #part 3 #hope you liked it #:D #chapter 3 #fan fic #fanfic

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mail-me-a-snail · 4 years

Text

In the Woods Somewhere

the Hugo Wallace fic, as promised :3

tag list: @crypticphantom17 @immabethehero @iv0ry-keys

In the deep, secluded wood surrounding the small village of Honeycliff, which has quite the low literacy rate, there walks a Bird Man, using his lantern to guide himself through the night and ward off preying souls. He offers flowers and useful, charming plants, but never gets too close. He is kind. His voice sounds like the wind passing along the branches in the overhang, or as the frightened novice hunter told the townsfolk, the soft padding of a wolf prowling through the undergrowth.

The hunter tells them all about his encounter with the Bird Man in the town square, where any willing ear has formed a circle around him.

"First, a bloody plague," complains the farmer's wife, once the hunter finishes his story, "Now a bloomin' bird man in these woods. I don't want the kids runnin' around there no more."

"Perhaps he's our cure," the lumberjack suggests, "Them herbs might do us good."

"What might do you good, good sirs and madams," A new voice interrupts, his cane clacking against the cobblestone, "is keeping ten feet away from each other. This plague transmits through touch, don't you know."

"Docta Wallace," the farmer's wife exclaims, and that is indeed who the stranger is. "We didn't see you there. The hunter was just telling us a story about the Bird Man of the woods."

"The what of the woods?" Hugo Wallace, the plague doctor dispatched to Honeycliff a few months prior, swings his beak around to look at the hunter. He doesn't miss the big gulp that bobs the hunter's Adam's apple, even through the yellow tinted lenses of his goggles.

“The Bird Man, doctor," the man explains, and retells the story. Hugo fiddles with the raven topper of his cane. "I swear it on me mum's gravestone, Dr. Wallace, he's real! He has a beak like yours and this great lantern, bright as the sun, it is!"

"And on what night did you see this?"

"Last night, sir!"

Hugo's heart sinks, and then shoots up as he realizes what's exactly going on; they've mistaken him picking herbs in the dead of night as some sort of woodland monster. It all makes sense. He should say that it is actually him, but he doesn't. He feels that some sort of mystery would liven things up around Honeycliff.

"Fairytales," Hugo sniffs, "Pish-posh. If I were you, hunter, I wouldn't spread such stories. As the farmer's wife said, we have enough trouble on our hands—my hands—as it is with the plague. We don't need a corvid walking around on two legs as well."

"But it was real," the hunter shakes his head frantically, "Saw it with me own two eyes."

“Those two eyes of yours better be seeing the door to your home soon," Hugo turns to the townsfolk, who have since made the circle bigger. "That goes for all of you! You are to return to your homes. Contact is highly dangerous."

He taps his cane on the cobblestone. Everyone takes it as a sign to leave and they do, heads hanging and stomachs grumbling for the night's supper. The hunter trudges back into the woods with the lumberjack by his side.

Hugo sighs in relief.

"Bird Man," he scoffs, "Balderdash."

----

The lumberjack goes home. He tells his seven sons and his wife the hunter's story over supper. His wife barely believes it, while the two twins of the seven children are in awe.

The next morning, after school is let out, the lumberjack's twins tell their friends all about it. Being children, they believe that the Bird Man is real. They make up stories to scare each other, like the Bird Man being an actual raven who comes and steals people from their beds, or even that the Bird Man is a demon straight from Hell.

Sister Bellum, a teacher at the school, is shaken to her core when she hears such utterance, and she doesn't take it lightly. The children get a scolding and are sent home.

----

Hugo picks dandelions tonight. He has more than enough stores of yarrow and nightshade to last him a week. He thinks dandelions are beautiful. His lantern hangs from a stick, swinging as he walks through the woods. He ducks into a grove with curtain of lichen, spotting clumps of mycelium growing at the base of one of the trees. He puts the lantern behind him as he starts picking them gently.

He freezes when someone speaks.

"Oh, Lord—" a woman gasps, and the grass shuffles where she steps back. Hugo can't see anything but her silhouette from behind the lichen. But for the woman, she can see Hugo's large, sharp beaked silhouette against a lantern's light, like a shadow puppet show. "It's you! You are the Bird Man! I've found you."

Hugo pauses. He's sweating under his mask, more than usual. He tries hard to remember how the hunter described the Bird Man's voice; croaky and soft. It wasn't his fault he had had a sore throat that night.

"It is I," he croaks like a fat toad, "The Bird of these woods. What have you come for, human?"

"My husband is as dead as a nail," she says, "There's no joy in his eyes anymore! It is like he's lost the life in them eyes. He doesn't attend to the crops!"

Hugo realizes it's the farmer's wife from earlier. It sounds like her husband's drained of vitality. He knows just the herb. He digs around his bag and brings out a root of ginseng. He throws it onto the grass in front of her. She jumps back.

"What is it?" She asks.

"One of my herbs, my dear," Hugo explains, "It will revitalise your husband and bring him back to life, so to speak. It goes very well with tea."

"T-thank you," she stutters, "Truly, this is a gift from God. I will never forget your kindness."

Once she leaves, he comes out of the grove and puts his hands on his hips. "Bloody mess, this is." He shakes his head.

----

Another woman interrupts his foraging the next night.

"What is it?" Hugo croaks in frustration, "What do you want?"

"Not herbs, good sir," she speaks well, especially for a citizen of Honeycliff. "But...to keep good company."

“What are you saying?"

"You are an attractive mystery, sir, and I have...thought about you, so to say. In ways the church might have me hung for—"

Hugo's cheeks catch on fire as he blushes. "No, no!" He squawks, "I d-do not mingle with humans in such ways! Begone!"

"But..."

"I beg of you, begone!" He spreads his hands out like wings and curls his fingers into claws to make a big, scary shadow.

The woman turns tail and runs away. Hugo settles down, everything neck up completely warm with embarrassment. He can't believe it. He just can't. A mysterious stranger turns up in the woods and someone from town just wants to bed it? The plague has made everyone truly lose their minds, Hugo would say.

----

It is the baker that finds him the following night in the same grove.

"Mr. Bird Man," the baker greets politely, a hint of Scottish on the tongue. "I believe you know why I've come."

Hugo doesn't have to see him to know it's him. He's had the baker in his mind for quite some time. It makes his heart thump against his chest.

"And what is that, dear baker?" Hugo says over the sound of his heart shaking. "Herbs? A cure for your ailment?"

The baker, with his thick, muscular arms for lifting sacks of flour and rough, strong hands that he kneads dough with every day, and every one of those days Hugo watches from the bakery's display window, as the dough is folded and flattened and coated with flour then flattened again, always with those beautifully freckled knuckles worrying at it. The bread comes out golden brown and beautiful, because he's mastered his craft. Hugo longs for the days when he can go inside and actually pick up the bread instead of having it delivered to his house at the edge of the village. His hair is a fiery, shaggy red, like a sheepdog, as is his beard. His freckles are numerous.

"No. Not plants, not weeds." The baker wrings his hands. "I've come for you."

Silence. "What?" Hugo prompts, not daring to hope that he's asking what he thinks he's asking.

"I find you are rather a beautiful mystery. A mystery I would like to unfold, if you'd have me. Unfold, as in...You already know."

His heart explodes. He's dead, he's sure of it. This must be heaven. It's everything Hugo ever could've wanted.

And yet...

Even to the baker, despite the way he smiles so brightly and the charming puff of flour still in his beard, even to him Hugo (reluctantly) says, "No, thank you." As much as he wants those calloused hands to sandpaper his own and ruin him, he can't have it.

In the morning, the baker claims the Bird Man had sent him away with mysterious and supposedly blessed herbs. They weren't mysterious or holy; they were clumps of yarrow, corn mint, and dandelions. He doesn't expect them to know them, though. He never lets anyone see his medical process or stashes. Hugo passes by the bakery and is surprised to find it completely packed. Everyone wants to hear about the latest encounter with the Bird Man.

The doctor couldn't care less. He just wants a loaf of bread.

He's pissed about the whole affair and rightly so. He can't stop the thoughts of the baker that enter his head—thoughts that would make Father Avery and the Sisters thump him over the head with their bibles and have him pray for a month straight.

Hugo goes out again that night to the forest, picking another batch of herbs, mumbling angrily to himself the whole way.

----

It is a hodgepodge of people who visit him over the next few nights, an even balance of men and women townsfolk. Even the hunter was among them. He said no to each of their sexual advances, though some by personal distaste rather than touch aversion.

The ones he sends away spread all sorts of rumours.

The Bird Man's voice changes with your personality! Hugo had forgotten to do the voice a couple of times. He had been tired!

The Bird Man walks with a limp. He might've tripped over a rock trying to get into the grove one of those nights.

They are all very amusing, in retrospect. Still, Hugo thinks they're amusing in the silly, childish way. It's a lot of good fun, even with the embarrassment of the one thing they all want.

Eventually, the baker comes back, and keeps coming the next few nights.

He doesn't talk at first, but Hugo knows it's him by his large silhouette. Hugo sits and so does the baker, and they stare at the approximate location of where the other would be. They want to talk, but what is there to say? Hugo's already declined. Hugo cannot have him and vice versa. It's too dangerous. His clothes—they're filthy with sickness. He doesn't know what he'll do if the baker gets sick.

They see each other in the mornings and afternoons. The baker smiles at the doctor as he passes the window. It always does something funny to his stomach, but leaves a sour taste in its wake, like yarrow. He wishes they could stop playing this cat and mouse game. Hugo wants so badly to yell in the square that he is the fabled Bird Man, and it was nothing but balderdash this whole time, so the baker would snap out of it and fall in love with Hugo Wallace instead of this...shadow.

In that scenario, love is possible, and there is no plague. It amuses him to no end.

In the quiet of the nights, the time after, when Hugo heads home and lies in bed, staring up at his ceiling, he has...ideas.

Thoughts.

Thoughts of calloused hands holding his cheek like a warm ray of sunlight, ruffling his closely shorn, messy hair, the hair that his mother had affectionately told him reminded her of a, "Shaggy black sheepdog."

Thoughts of those hands holding his, fitting so perfectly; the doctor's palms were smoothened soft by leather gloves.

Thoughts of those hands going...farther. Holding him down by the wrists, taking what is theirs...ruining him entirely. If they can handle sacks of flour and turn dough into beautiful pieces of art, they can shatter Hugo into billions of pieces.

It's hard to sleep that night when warmth pools in the doctor's stomach and doesn't go away.

On the last night of the week, the baker comes again, but this time he speaks.

----

"A demon?" Hugo stands in his doorway, clutching his teacup tightly. "That's a little extreme, don't you think?"

Father Avery stands in his yard, looking very grim indeed. "A demon, Dr. Wallace, that's what this Bird Man is."

"He—it—hasn't hurt anyone!"

"Demons needn't physically harm mortals to be called demons. They are masters of influence—do you know what they're saying, the townsfolk, concerning the Bird Man?"

"What?"

"They are saying...well..." Now, the Father looks flustered, pink round cheeks pinker. "...they would very much like to invite the Bird Man into their beds."

"Oh, my." Hugo tries to act surprised. It's one of the mornings after he's been met with a crowd of townsfolk thirsting after him.

"It is sin, doctor! Sin! To practice premarital sin with a...a demon, of all things—why, it's preposterous. That is why it is a demon—it's an aphrodisiac!"

----

"It is a sin to love you," is what the baker says when he speaks, quiet. "That's what the church says."

"Then, do not commit it. You are not a man of sin," Hugo says, "You are a pure, kind-hearted soul."

"Then, I will pray," The baker speaks quickly, breathlessly, "I will pray every verse I know, that I've been taught. I will attend every one of Father Avery's less than joyful Sunday services and I will pray to God above for forgiveness. I'll spend the rest of my days as a man of God to repent for this sin that I am guilty of."

"What are you saying?"

"I love you, with all my heart. I do not know your name, or what you look like, but I love you."

"You love the mystery of me. The story. You don't love me." Hugo is ecstatic his hopes are true but would rather ingest nightshade than have this conversation. "You love this shadow—" he gestures to the canvas of lichen that separates them. "—not the man behind the curtain."

"...then show me. Show me your true form."

"Is that really what you want?"

"Yes."

Hugo takes a breath.

Another.

He turns off his lamp. The area grows dark around him. He faces the curtain of lichen and pulls it aside with one gloved hand.

In the woods somewhere, the baker finally sees the true form of the fabled Bird Man, and he gasps,

"Doctor Hugo Wallace. It's you—you were the Bird Man this whole time?" His hazel eyes are wide in shock and his bushy red eyebrows are raised. The surprise in his eyes reminds Hugo just how stupid the people of this town are—they couldn't even connect the dots.

"Do you still love me?" He finds himself saying through gritted teeth.

“I cannot believe this—"

"Do you still love me?" Hugo grips his cane tightly.

The baker furrows his eyebrows. He takes his time to answer.

"I don't know."

Hugo's heart sinks. "I thought as much," he mutters, and grabs his lantern and goes. The baker springs up to chase after him, but the doctor yells behind him, "Do not follow me! Tell no one of this."

A painful warmth is building behind his eyes. Fool he was to hope that love would stay true. In the woods somewhere, Hugo Wallace, puppeteer of the Bird Man and plague doctor, runs away and doesn't look back.

#plague doctor #plague doctor oc #writing #my writing #hugo wallace #mine

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there-must-be-a-lock · 5 years

Text

Marked (Part 18)

Dean x Reader

Word Count: ~4100

Warnings: none! A glimmer of hope, even!

A/N: Holy FUCK, you guys, I’m so happy with how this chapter came out and I’m so excited to finally share it with you. Like, I’m honest to god just PROUD and days like this make me want to keep writing forever. Took me a minute, but it was 100% worth it and I hope you feel the same.

All my love and gratitude and cookies to @dawnie1988, @dean-winchesters-bacon, and @stunudo. Sometimes when I lose track of this story, it helps to hear what somebody else has taken from it, like the new perspective is a mirror that lets me see it clearly from another angle. All the comments and analysis and encouragement helped more than you know.

Refresh your memory HERE.

Beautiful header by @seenashwrite!

Funny how bruises used to be trophies. I would catalog the marks after each night with Dean: two matching sets of fingerprints on my hips, tiny purpling bites down my neck, chafed skin on my wrists, mottled red patches on my ass, a road map of where his mouth and his hands had been. Bruises used to be our dark, sweet secret.

Sam had wanted me to wear body armor, the first day. Dean took one look at my face and shook his head.

“No use arguing,” he’d said.

Sam had sighed, exasperated, and hooked a foot around my ankle, lightning-fast, knocking me off balance. I hit the padded floor of the training space before I could blink.

It was mostly my pride that had taken the hit, just a few little bruises on my legs and my knees showing at the end of the day. Even with the mats on the floor, hours of repeating that exercise and falling in various ways had taken their toll. All I’d learned that first day was how to stand, how to hold my weight so that it was harder to knock me down; Sam said that was something.

Now, though, a week in, there was a tapestry of broken capillaries and yellowing contusions decorating my body, from the fading greenish welt on the side of my thigh (trying to dodge a staff), to the swollen red knuckles on both hands (just a punching bag, for fuck’s sake).

There was no delicious thrill in the base of my stomach when I ran my fingers over these bruises. I poked at the one on my leg, watching the patch of skin change color, the blood shifting under pressure, and I let out a wordless sort of growl at the ache. I didn’t want to hurt any more. I was fed up with pain.

These bruises weren’t trophies. They were lessons; each one marked a tiny failure, a time I’d been too slow or too weak, a moment of no, not like that, try again. No point in cataloging them. There would be more tomorrow.

I toppled into bed and fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. Bruised or not, I would wake up and try again.

-----

My days began to settle into a routine… a frustrating, exhausting routine that made me painfully aware of how long it had been since I’d exercised regularly.

I went running with Sam first thing in the morning, or at least tried to; even though he was holding back, slowing himself down, I could barely get through half of his usual route at first.

After a shower and some breakfast, I’d settle at the big table for a while and listen in while they answered calls, sometimes helping with research or fetching books but mostly just taking it all in: names of spells and sigils, demons and angels, names of hunters and witches and werewolves they’d worked with. It tended to leave my head spinning.

Sometimes, they’d get a call that required more than a phone conversation, and the two of them would leave for the day. Part of me relished the time alone. I’d curl up with a book, or spend some quality time with a punching bag, or sometimes I just took a nap. Part of me, though, couldn’t help but imagine what Dean was doing, and all the ways it could possibly go wrong. Those days seemed to drag on forever.

When they didn’t have anywhere else to be, we spent the afternoon training. Dean had decided that aside from learning how to shoot a gun, I should be able to disassemble, clean, and reassemble one with the precision and speed of a fucking Army sniper, or something. I had a sneaking suspicion that he really just wanted to do something that didn’t involve physical contact.

When we worked on hand-to-hand combat, my favorite, Dean hung back. Sam was the one who played the attacker, trapping me in different holds or darting around and making me trip over my own feet as I tried to land a punch. He made it look easy, but I learned all too well that it was anything but. No matter how hard I tried to follow Sam’s lead, my body just felt awkward; my limbs were too long, too heavy, always a few steps behind my brain.

Dean kept his distance. He was the one giving instructions, or reminding me to plant my feet. He always warned me before he came in close to demonstrate something. He’d let me know, giving me the chance to back away. He was so damn polite.

For the first couple days, I appreciated it. We were still awkward around each other. We circled each other cautiously, trying not to be in a room alone together, tongue-tied and uncertain as we adjusted to sharing space again.

After about a week, I started to get sick of him treating me like a porcelain doll. Everything we’d done together, and now he started to act like I was delicate?

Ten days in, it was driving me absolutely batshit.

“Magazine out,” Dean said encouragingly. “Ammo in. Other way.”

I let out my breath in an irritated hiss. I’d gotten distracted watching his hands again; there was something mesmerizing about the tiny practiced movements, fingers slotting bullets into place one after the other. I fumbled with the magazine and followed his lead.

“There you go. Now back in, and it’ll click… yeah. Now the slide.”

He made me feel clumsy. Maybe it was the comparison, trying to mimic the smooth, confident way he moved, but I had a feeling it was really just about his presence.

“Nice job,” Dean said, wearing the carefully neutral expression that meant he’d bitten back something snarky.

“When I suck, just tell me I suck,” I snapped.

“You’re getting better,” he insisted. I rolled my eyes and pressed my earplugs into place, blocking out whatever empty reassurance he was going to come up with next.

I turned to the target, aimed, and missed completely.

My skin itched like it had shrank in the wash; I wanted to run, scream, fight, fuck, something, anything for an outlet. It was a restless anger I was all too familiar with, and it didn’t usually end well.

Breathe.

Aim.

Fire.

Miss.

Fucking hell.

Aim.

By the time the magazine was empty, there was a little halo of bullet holes around the target. None of them had hit the thing itself. I set the gun down deliberately and pulled out the earplugs, raising an eyebrow at Dean, silently daring him to say something.

He knew better. His mouth twitched as he tried to hold back a grimace.

“Do you want to take a break?”

“What I want is to fight something.”

“It sounded like Sammy was going to be a little while, but when he’s done-”

“Dean. For fuck’s sake.”

He ran a hand through his hair and made a face. “Fine, just… fine.”

He followed me out to the gym, over to the padded mats on the floor, and slipped his hands into the funny flat pads we used for training, each with an image of a target in the center. I scowled, thinking of the targets in the gun range. Once my gloves were on I stretched a bit, rolling my shoulders, but I didn’t want to waste time.

He hadn’t planted his feet, hadn’t given any sort of signal, but I swung hard with my right arm and, without batting an eye, he raised a pad to take the hit. I put everything I had behind the next punch, from the left this time, but he still blocked like it was nothing. My sore knuckles smarted under the protection of the gloves.

“Just like that, right and left,” he said steadily. He held up the pads so that they were around chest level, within easy reach. “Try not to wind up so much, see how close you can keep your elbows. Aim for the center. And… right.”

I ignored his face, his blank, impersonal expression, and focused on my target, imagining that all my twitchy, sparking energy was centered in my fist. This time, when I hit the pad, I could see Dean’s arm take the impact, the pad giving an inch or so under the force of the blow. I grinned.

“Too slow,” he said. “Stop thinking so hard.”

I huffed out a breath and tried again, right and then left, striking with every bit of spite and frustration I could feel bubbling under my skin.

“Again,” Dean commanded, and I grunted at the next impact, harder, the sting of it in my swollen skin.

“Again.”

Right, left. I lashed out without pausing, right and left again, and again, and the blows started to land harder as my muscles warmed up, getting used to the pattern.

“Don’t stop,” Dean said quietly, and I let out a low, wordless grunt with the next impact, throwing myself into it, right, left, my world narrowing down to the mocking red targets, laser-focused on one and then the other, right, left, the sizzling rage in my chest, the thump when my fist connected, left, right, left, right.

My glove thumped against the pad and I braced for the next punch, gaze flicking left, arm snapping out. In the last split-second before I made contact, Dean spun out of the way, taking my target with him. I didn’t have time to process it before I was stumbling, fist swinging wildly into nothing.

“Too slow,” Dean said again, implacable. I growled at him, unable to form words, throat tight with rage. Whether I was angry at him (for that endlessly patient mask of an expression, for making a fool of me, for standing there so calmly while I was flushed and panting) or angry at myself (for being too slow and too weak and too fucking useless) I couldn’t say.

He was studying me as I caught my breath. It was such a familiar pose: head tilted, jaw set, sharp eyes that could see far too much.

It was the way he used to look at me when he was weighing commands, watching me strip down, determining how he was going to make me fall apart and then how he was going to put me back together. Even now, fully clothed, I felt too naked when he looked at me that way.

Fuck if I was going to let him see that, though. I crossed my arms and scowled.

“You look like a fuckin’... pissed-off goose,” he said, lips tugging up at the corners. I raised my eyebrows. He smirked, sticking his neck out as far as it would go, crossing his arms and wiggling his elbows like wings.

I laughed in spite of myself, just a little snort, and he did it again, taking a waddling step toward me. Giggles turning into full-blown belly laughs, breathless and almost hysterical. I hid my face behind my boxing gloves, trying to block out the image of him snaking his head back and forth in an oddly spot-on imitation of a goose.

“Fuck off,” I said, when I could finally control myself, but there wasn’t any heat in it. Dean was watching me again, head cocked to the side at the same angle, and he was smiling, warm and fond.

“What’s going on?” he asked softly. I felt the tension coiling up my spine again.

“Just…tired,” I muttered, defensive, and dropped my gaze to the floor.

“Don’t lie to me.”

The sharpness in his tone made me look up and meet his eyes again. I fought the urge to squirm under the scrutiny.

“I’m frustrated,” I started slowly. “I just… do you ever get those moods? Where you want to fucking… claw your skin off?”

He nodded, and there was a deeper sort of recognition in his eyes.

That was what had drawn us to each other, after all: that feral need to rip and scratch and tear, that self-destructive urge, the darkness that was a little more bearable when it was shared.

“You’re thinking too much,” he said abruptly. “You have to let go. Your body knows what it’s doing, your brain is just slowing it down.”

I nodded without really taking in the words and shook myself out a bit, rolling my shoulders, trying to get back in the right mindset.

“Ready.”

“Do you trust yourself?” he asked. The question startled me into stillness. I felt like a deer in headlights, trying to force an easy assent.

If you’d asked me a couple years earlier, I would’ve said yes, without hesitation. I used to believe in my own gut instincts. I could sense bullshit, an oncoming barfight, or a bad tipper a mile away.

I used to have all these structures, habits, patterns, beliefs about the world that I would’ve said were rock-solid. Dean and his sweet, sharp smile had knocked down the walls of my fragile little world.

I mumbled something indistinct, shrugged, and put my gloves up.

“Wait,” he said, and I met his intent stare. “Try something for me? I’m not trying to get all woo-woo new agey on you, I’m not gonna call it a fuckin’ meditation, but… I think this might help.”

“Okay.”

“Stand still for me. Hands at your sides. Take a deep breath.”

I gave him one last skeptical glance and did as he said, filling my lungs, letting the air leave in a slow hiss.

“Close your eyes.”

It was Dean, and it was me, and I didn’t have a choice, really.

“Imagine all that… that frustration. The itch under your skin. All that energy you don’t have a place for.”

I pictured it, the fizzle and spark, the way it felt like being plugged into an electric current.

“There’s nothing wrong with that. That’s you, that’s… you’re never going to get rid of that, not really. Stop fighting it. Stop trying to push it out. Keep it close. That’s yours.”

It wasn’t what I’d expected him to say. I lost track of his words for a moment, following the velvety-soft cadence of his voice instead, soothing even when I wasn’t really listening.

“Draw it in,” he said. “Draw it all in close. Down to your… center. Your heart, whatever you want to imagine as the core of your body. Just breathe in, draw it deeper.”

I imagined crackling lightning like an eddying wave receding out to the sea, pulling that electricity away from my hands, away from my skin, deeper into my rib cage where nobody else could touch it. It blazed, there, but in a calmer, steadier way, bright and unwavering.

“Take a breath,” he whispered. I felt my lungs expand, contract again.

We were still for a moment. I heard his breathing, synced with mine.

“Again,” Dean said. “In and then out again, nice and slow.”

I breathed and listened to Dean’s voice.

“In, out…”

I was in my living room again, forehead pressed to the rough carpet, naked and shivering.

My eyes flew open.

His mouth was a rosy-red O of surprise, and I knew he remembered, just as well as I did.

The moment froze, stretched, and my heartbeat galloped in my chest. Dean dropped his gaze. I drew a deep, unsteady breath.

“Let’s just-“ I started roughly.

“Don’t think so much,” he said. He wasn’t making eye contact, but his voice was firm, a hint of steel running through the words. “Trust yourself. Your body knows what to do.”

I tried to believe it. I bounced on the balls of my feet for a moment, loosening up, trying to regain that momentary feeling of serenity. Deep breaths.

“Okay,” I whispered, and focused on the red bullseye in the middle of the left practice pad.

“Don’t look at it,” he said. “Look at me.”

It took some effort. His eyes were too fucking green, almost too bright to look at.

“Center yourself,” he whispered.

I heard what he wasn’t saying: in, out…

“Don’t look away from me,” Dean said roughly. “Your body knows what it needs to do. Muscle memory.”

My body remembered him, too.

“Nice and sharp. And… right.”

Almost to my surprise, I made solid contact, and I had to fight the momentary urge to look, to confirm that I’d hit the target.

“Left,” Dean snapped. “Eyes on me.”

Another solid hit. I didn’t stop to think, didn’t try to aim or prepare, just let my right fist fly out again, a quick tight snap and a thump, and then left.

“There you go,” Dean said. I didn’t dare break eye contact to look at his mouth, but I could hear the smile in his voice; I knew that smile.

Left, right, leftrightleftright.

God, it felt so fucking good to just move, to take my brain out of the equation, let rhythm take over.

I could feel adrenaline taking away the sting of old bruises, feel my pulse kicking fast and hard under my skin. Dean’s eyes were sparkling. I couldn’t have looked away if I wanted to.

He didn’t give any warning, didn’t look or hesitate, just lifted one pad in the moment before my fist shot forward. It wasn’t a conscious decision to follow; my mind didn’t register the change, but something did.

“Don’t stop,” Dean ordered, low and proud, and a few beats later he moved again, this time letting the pad drop down. I didn’t miss, didn’t falter.

Sweat was starting to bead in my hairline. I was trying to keep my breathing even, but it was all I could do to take big ragged gulps of air. I could feel my muscles protesting, my shoulders starting to shake.

Left fist up. Right fist down. Right, left, never breaking the connection: Dean’s eyes, steady, meeting mine.

“Just a little longer,” he said. “You can do it.”

Right, left.

Each time, I wondered if this was going to be it, if my muscles would give, if I’d miss and stumble and fall.

In, out.

“You can stop,” he said, and I gritted my teeth, made my body cooperate, for one last thump.

It took me a moment to catch my breath; I had to bend over, gloves on my knees, sucking in oxygen. Dean dropped the pads and went to find a water bottle, and when he came back, I did my best to straighten up.

My arms felt like Jello. I was exhausted and trembling and out of shape, lungs burning, and I felt so fucking alive.

Dean was beaming at me, a thousand megawatts, blazing like sunshine. I waited for some sort of quip, an “I told you so.”

Instead he said, fierce and proud, “That’s my girl.”

Another time I might’ve brushed it off, but a little voice in the back of my head was whispering, your body knows what it needs to do.

I stepped forward abruptly and threw my arms around his neck, gloves and all. I pressed my face into the familiar contours of his chest and squeezed, hard, with every bit of strength I had left.

I could feel him startle, and I almost laughed at the idea that I could still surprise him and his lightning-fast reflexes. I heard the water bottle hit the floor and then I felt his hands, hot and steady and comforting on my back: so fucking good, so fucking right, and it was like coming home when he pulled me closer and held me tight.

Muscle memory. God, my body remembered him.

His breath tickled my ear, and his chest rose and fell, but the sigh was barely audible.

I didn’t want to pull away. I wanted the world to stop spinning for us, just a little longer. I wanted to stay pressed against him, breathing together, in, out… I wanted to pretend that this was still normal for us, that this wasn’t crossing every line I’d drawn in the sand to keep us apart.

I stepped back. The air felt too cold on the places he’d touched; my skin remembered him, and it had missed him.

There was nothing we could do to dismiss or deny the long, heavy silence that fell. I breathed, in, out, watched Dean’s chest rise and fall in sync, and fought the urge to cover my face.

We’d never been good at pretending with each other. His expression was raw and naked, almost too much to look at, hope and a bone-deep ache written in the lines around his mouth. I didn’t try to hide the mirroring ache he must’ve seen just as clearly in me. There was no point in trying to hide from Dean.

I watched the question cross his features like a shadow: are we going to talk about this?

I gave him a sheepish quirk of a smile. I had nothing to say.

The moment passed. The tension started to ebb away. He blinked, shifted, ran a hand through his hair.

“That was really fuckin’ good,” he said. His voice cracked, but the smile was genuine.

“You’re a good teacher,” I said softly. I picked up the water bottle and took a few careful sips.

“We should celebrate,” he suggested. “Ice cream? Should we see if Sammy wants to come?”

I studied him for a moment, but all I could see was that pure, fierce pride. I nodded slowly, and Dean led the way.

Sam was in the main room on his laptop, laughing at a staticky voice as he spelled something in sign language, rapid-fire gestures that I couldn’t follow.

“Talk to you soon,” he was saying fondly. He closed the laptop and turned to us.

For someone who could keep up a mean poker face, Sam was almost too easy for me to read, now that I’d had some practice. Everything flickered across his features, plain as day, and I could hear full sentences in a rapid-fire eyebrow raise, a twitch of a dimple, a crease in his forehead… unfortunately that went both ways. I could see him measuring, somehow, like the air between Dean and me had changed in a tangible, quantifiable way. I might as well have been wearing a neon sign.

“Progress?” Sam asked, with the barest hint of a smirk. We all knew he wasn’t talking about the training. I almost laughed.

“Breakthrough,” Dean said.

I turned to smile at him, felt like I was glowing with the warmth in his eyes. There were a thousand things I wanted to say, but I settled for, “Let’s get some fucking ice cream.”

-----

I stared absently at a yellowing bruise in the mirror and tried to remember a time, before Dean, when I’d felt real and vibrant and alive. I turned over old memories like I was leafing through a photo album, searching for color, but everything was drab and dull before he came along. He made my world brighter.

It wasn’t like he completed me, it wasn’t some sort of Hallmark bullshit, but I felt like I was really, truly present when he was around. I felt more like myself.

Something inside me had fragmented, on that night. Since then, for longer than I cared to admit, I’d felt distant and scattered, like a stranger in my own skin.

I flexed my fingers, watching my knuckles, the way they paled and then went deep, angry red, and I felt complete again.

Part of me wanted to analyze. Part of me wanted to press into each bruise, poke and prod, admire the shades of green and blue and black decorating my skin, trying to figure out what it all meant.

I used to wonder why I was… well, me. Maybe there was some bit of faulty wiring that sparked those moments of hot, restless anger. Maybe some little electrical impulse was misfiring, making me want things that I’d been told were dirty, different, filthy, wrong…

Colors would come and go, staining my skin and fading away. I would have more scars, someday. What was the point in questioning or cataloging? I couldn’t turn back time, couldn’t make my body smooth and pure and baby-soft again. Might as well embrace the marks, the flaws, the proof I had lived, the proof I was still alive.

Your body knows what it needs to do. I could hear Dean’s words as if he was standing behind me, whispering commands in my ear.

Trust yourself.

When Dean spoke, I listened. It was inevitable, like the tide moving with the tug of the moon.

Your body knows what it needs.

I clenched one bruised hand into a fist, and I savored the sting.

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