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uncouth-the-fifth · 1 month

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pythia, a supernatural rewrite. bloody mary, rough draft.

read it on ao3.

words: 6k notes: hi y'all! yes, you read that chapter title right - this is a little unconventional, but since I've unfortunately shifted hyperfixations and have drifted away from SPN, I thought I would post what I have for the next part of pythia. since I'm moving into resident evil land, I'm not sure if I'm going to come back to this fic—but I absolutely didn't want to leave you guys empty-handed!! I'm so so sorry that this fic will go unfinished (for now), and I'm so grateful to those who were along for the ride with me. I have so much love for all the people who motivated me through writing this fic. all of you are beyond kind!! and I hope you enjoy this dose of pythia content, featuring some of my notes and process-work, lol. I only had a few heavy chunks of the beginning written, but the prose for this chap (ironically) started to get into the meat of what I really wrote this fic for—psychic bullshit between reader and Sam. It was just too plain juicy to not share!! All of my spn fics will remain up, but if you keep up with me, expect lots of Leon Kennedy bullshit and tomfoolery. Again - thank you so much for your endless love and support, I had so much fun writing what I could of season one!! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy this unfinished chunk of silly/ansty Christmas drama :)

EAU CLAIRE, WISCONSIN - Dec 21st, evening.

Sam drops the stack of glossy, brand-new legal pads into his lap, and flashes his brother a plain smile. “Thanks, Dean. I needed more of these.” From your spot seated on the living room rug, you twist your rings and wait for Dean’s witty reply. With all those notes you’re always makin', Sammy, I’ll hafta buy you some for New Years, too. You wait for him to make a crack about the gift he got Sam, something about diaries or his brother’s girly handwriting.

Instead, Dean shrugs, “Well, then there ya go.”

Voila. And with that, the feeble threads you’d tried to braid into a proper Christmas are cut. Without a word, your Mom picks up the little wooden jewelry case the three of you had thrifted her and recedes into the dark hallways of the house. Dean peels himself out of his seat to clean up. Sam sighs, picking at the plastic seal around his legal pads. Hilariously, this all plays out while Paul McCartney chimes about what wonderful Christmastime he’s been having from the radio in your kitchen.

Technically, you hadn’t just been celebrating Christmas. No, you managed to completely bomb both Christmas and the sacred Winter Solstice sabbat that the Proctors had been celebrating for a bajillion fucking years. The special sabbat that would have a real spiritual effect on you for the next couple months.

You’d given it a good ol’ college try. First, you’d painstakingly picked out gifts for the boys and your Mom. Good ass gifts, too, that you’d been hiding in your duffle since summertime. Hell, you’d been looking for the Eagles album you bought for Dean in tape form for at least two years. (Cool, Dean had said, half alive in his armchair after your chupacabra hunt in Illinois. He was at the ugly front end of a cold. He’d sniffled, Don’t have this one.) And knowing that this would be Sam’s first Christmas without Jess—the one person who had given him any kind of good holiday when he was away from home—you’d poured extra love into his gift, too.

He’d been begging you to read Frankenstein since high school, and you’d dodged it because sometimes books that pushed too far into the “classics” category could lose you. Mary Shelley got a little wordy at times. But you were a big girl with a big brain, so you’d read the whole thing for Sam… and annotated the whole thing for Sam…

He’d taken one look at your labor of love and murmured, “Good. Glad you read it.”

…Yeah. You had half a mind to check if he’d been replaced by a clone, hearing that. Fifteen-year-old Sam would have melted into a babbling, ecstatic mess if someone had carefully combed through one of his favorite books and shared their thoughts on it with him. Bare minimum, you figured he’d at least enjoy having his own copy of Shelley’s work. All his other books had been lost in the fire.

But you’d given the book to a Sam who was twenty-two, not fifteen. Fine. People changed.

The boys being a collective bummer was something you could deal with. Sam was always sullen around the holidays, and you couldn’t exactly be mad at Dean for being exhausted after a stressful hunt. But your Mom…

Beth used to make Yule her bitch. When you were a kid, come December 1st, the Proctor House could easily have been the center of all Wicca celebrations in the world. If working retail during the holidays tested one’s love for festive music, then the non-stop winter songs bouncing off Beth’s vinyl player would’ve made Santa beg to hear something else. Every room would gush with the smell of evergreen branches and holly. Your family’s altar, the home of all the love and joy for the season, would be lush with offerings and presents. The candles you lit as a family to welcome the light of the new year would glow in a neat row—your little silver candle, your mother’s tall red one… and the biggest. Your Dad’s.

Now, your Dad’s candle was tucked away with the rest of the unused decorations in the attic. From your spot on the floor, you couldn’t help but stare at your piss-poor excuse for a family altar. Beth hadn’t “had the time” to find the table runner your great-grandmother had embroidered just for that space. The small bouquet of mistletoe you’d brought sat pathetically on the wide, barren surface, framed by your family’s dollar-store candles: silver for you, red for Mom, and twin green candles for the boys.

It was stupid. Really, you shouldn’t have cared so much. You were almost twenty-five, and the older you got the less people cared about silly, trivial things like a single holiday out of the year. That was just a fact of life.

Still, an ugly ball of bitterness sat in your gut. She couldn’t have tried to decorate? Even out on the road, you’d still found ways to make today a little special for the people you loved. Did she really have such little strength left in her? You’d dragged the boys up to Wisconsin with you so your Mom didn’t have to be alone. Was it really that impossible, after eleven whole years without your Dad, to try and be happy?

Fuck this. Yule isn’t over yet. There’s still time for you to squeeze some life out of today, and you’re going to start straight at the source. You find your Mom in the kitchen, mindlessly swiping invisible crumbs off pristine counters. When she senses you paused behind her in the kitchen doorway, clutching in both hands the gift she got you this year, the radio suddenly needs to be toyed with. Then cleaned. There are gray strands in her hair that shine like tinsel in the low kitchen light.

“Hey,” you say, your voice bright and christmas-card perfect. “I don’t think I got to say thank you for the gift.” (You did. More than once already.) “It’s been a bit since I read this one.” The gift in question is your Dad’s second edition print of The Shining. It’s even older than you are, with soft, petal-thin pages that reek of that wonderful old book musk. Rolling the flexed and cracked paperback between your hands, your Gift automatically picks up the distant echo of the hands that had touched these pages when they were new.

When you were little, you’d always found it kind of strange that your Dad considered this book his favorite. He was a sweet, soft-spoken person, and the mental image of him indulging in uncensored horror novels didn’t mesh with the Ray preserved in your head. Having since grown up and read it for yourself, you understood that it was less about the gore of the Overlook and more about “the shine;” the array of psychic abilities that kept five-year-old Danny Torrance alive through the book.

Years of having book-club with Sam had trained you to form cultivated opinions about the stuff you read, but The Shining existed in a realm that made it hard for you to describe how you felt about it. See, you had Danny Torrance’s shine—on the same level, too, enough shine to power the decades of ghostly ballroom parties and mob conspiracies inside the Overlook for a century. Seeing your Gift put onto a page so nakedly and cinematically made you uncomfortable. Yet, feeling the weight of your father’s book in your hands, standing in the kitchen he hasn’t touched in a decade, you know that it must’ve comforted him. Back then, surrounded by a psychic mother-in-law, girlfriend, and daughter, it would've been impossible to survive without a little shine of his own. You’re sure that your Dad's Gift was faint and unimpressive next to the psychic blackholes of your Mom and Grandma. Just enough to know if you’d skinned your elbow or had a nightmare. On the days that you came home from school tear-streaked and ruddy-faced, Dad would be waiting on the porch with soup.

You can still feel the faint psychic imprint of one of his whiskery kisses on your face. You don’t have many vivid impressions of him left to feel; none that haven’t been rubbed again and again, like the hollow of a fingerprint smoothed into the face of a rock over time.

Your Mom gives a non-committal hum at your attempt at conversation. Not because she doesn’t care—you can feel how much she cares from across the room—but because she’s tired. Adult Tired, like when she’d turn down your pleas to play together as a kid. Not tonight, baby. Momma’s exhausted.

“Mom,” you say, sounding as glossy and clean as a brand-new cookie tin. You open your mouth to say more, maybe to start in on one of your long-winded book-rants that had everyone wondering where Sam had suddenly appeared from. You know the answer, but you ask anyway, “This was one of Dad’s favorite books, right? I vaguely remember him talking about the hedge animals.” Beth accidentally hits a button as she’s dragging a rag over the shiny front of the radio, forcing Paul McCartney to have yet another wonderful Christmastime. She doesn’t look at you.

“Yup. But you knew that already, honey.”

C’mon. Nothing? She won’t even throw you the smallest, most pathetic olive branch? A psychic battle occurs. You get so frustrated all at once that your throat closes up, and that frustration balloons out into your family kitchen like the expansion of a bomb. You push. There is no give. The bubbling stormcloud of grief and loss hanging around Mom is there, then it’s not. The side of the kitchen your mother stands on is suddenly a void of absolute nothingness, empty of any feeling whatsoever, good or bad. She’s cutting you off from reading her—and protecting herself from your explosive emotions, as per usual.

Beth keeps cleaning the radio, her back to you.

Your rage bubbles out of you all at once. One day! One day out of the entire fucking year, the day your Dad always made special, and she can’t even pull herself together for that. You know you should be a good daughter and empathize with the woman who made you, but you’ve been a good daughter about this since you were twelve years old. Eleven Yules have gone by since your Dad passed. Just for one measly moment, you want to talk about him like he’s not a corpse rotting in the living room.

And the worst part is that Mom knows that. She’s known you’ve felt that way all day, a slow-bubbling pot building to a boil across the room. The two of you can always feel each other. You’re the only two who can; she’s the only other radio tower that can receive your station in its purest quality, and yet she has the gall to shut all her signals down.

“Fine!” You burst out, making the conversation physical.

It should feel good to yell, really. After the slow, ungratifying day you’ve had, you’ve been a shaken soda bottle waiting to implode. Instead, since you’re the crazy person yelling at nothing for no reason in the kitchen, your anger booms out of you and fizzes out in the same breath like a faulty firework. Fine. Fuck all of this. If you can’t beat em’, join em’. If everyone’s determined to rot the day away, then you’ll go wallow in self-pity the Proctor-Winchester way, too. Merry fucking Christmas, and a happy fucking Yule.

There is no satisfying door to slam on your way out of the kitchen. You take a sharp right down the front hall, hoping to veer up the stairs and slam your feet down on every single step up to your room. If your Mom wants to live forever in the year your Dad died, by all means—you’ll even bring home your thirteen-year-old self and her childish tantrums, just for time-accurate ambiance. Sam’s standing frozen just outside the kitchen archway, and you catch his deer-in-headlights look as you go peeling around the corner. You’re still keyed up with enough lashing rage to spare, so seeing him, just as hollowed-out and not there as your Mom, only feeds your pyre.

As you get to work thoroughly stomping the staircase to death, you hear him go into the kitchen and ask Beth about soup for Dean’s sore throat.

Upstairs is even more painfully quiet. Through the floor, Paul McCartney muffles down to a cheery mumble. All old houses shift around a little, but yours settles like it's alive, clicking, creaking, swaying. You don’t look at the portraits of Proctor women up the stairwell. The dusty grandfather clock in the hall watches you with its stained glass face, and you’re so lost in your own head—

—and Dad’d be so pissed we didn’t decorate the altar or listen to the Tull Christmas album, he’d riot, he’d talk some sense into her—wouldn’t think any of this is stupid— —that you don’t hear it when it chimes. Muscle memory plants you right in front of your bedroom door. Having a good cry under the covers sounds like a perfect end to the night, right? And yet you stop. Your hand drops on the knob and stays there, unmoving. Maybe it’s your Gift, or good old-fashioned human instinct knowing when something in the home has been nudged two inches to the left, but the air in the hall tastes staler than usual. A draft? Your gaze is pulled all the way down to the opposite end of the hall, where the untouched, stately storage room door is ajar.

Your Mom probably left it open. Maybe she’d gone in there to hunt around for all the heirloom Yule decorations, only to rediscover Dad’s football memorabilia or Dad’s engraved cigarette case and go bolting out of the room. —everything’s different without him, Sam and Mom and Dean too. So am I. Everything’s twisted—without him— Still riding the whirlwind, you stomp from one end of the yellowing, starry zodiac carpet (Aries) to the other (Pisces), the floorboards squeaking under your weight. You push the door and it goes shuddering into the darkness. This was one of many rooms in the house that Mom had banished you from as a kid, mostly as a way to shoo you away from the hunting world. It’d given you this insatiable fascination with it as a result, but when you tug the chain to turn on the closest lamp, what it illuminates doesn’t come close to the spectacular stories you’d made up in your head.

It’s just a room. It has windows and shelves and old things, some from your childhood, some from your Mom’s. Some from even further back than that. The closest fascinating thing is a shiny gold blob poking out of your baby things, which turns out to be Sam’s eighth-grade mathlete trophy. You had no idea what possessed Mom to come up here so often. There was no way she wasn’t in here at least a couple times a week; the tall metal storage shelf where she immortalized your Dad’s things was never dusty, and yet the whole room reeked of rotting books and insulation. You shove the box with Sam’s trophy aside with your foot until it skids out of your way, and then send the heavy door shut behind you with a wall-shaking bang.

A flurry of dust hails down from the ceiling. You cough through the cloud, wandering in your blindness towards the neat row of plastic storage tubs labeled with your Dad’s name. Clothes. Misc. Books. Maybe that’s where Mom had gotten your new copy of The Shining from, halfway through one of her sacred meditations over Dad’s things. You drop a hand onto the cold lid of the tub. Nothing, not even the slightest psychic imprint, reaches back.

What is she even holding onto anymore? You try the clothes next. The rounded corners of this bin have been scuffed gray from how many times it’s been pulled off and then pushed back on its shelf, again and again. The case feels as lifeless to you as it would for anyone else, but you try your luck and slide it out onto the floor. It comes loose with a solid thud.

When you were old enough, Beth would sometimes send you up into this room to grab things (spell ingredients, books you didn’t keep downstairs). You would run full-tilt right up until you hit the storage room door, then pass inside like a stranger in a dangerous realm, watching where you stepped and always, always keeping your Dad’s shelf in the corner of your eye. On brave days you would pick up his silvery cigarette case and roll it between your palms. It grew harder and harder to feel him each time, the ghost of him whittled down like a rock made round by the current of a river.

When you crack off the lid, you expect some kind of smell. You don’t remember what he smelled like, but you have a few guesses—cheap, vanilla-sweet aftershave, or maybe the woody stale smell of cigarette smoke you know you shouldn’t love. Maybe both. It doesn’t really matter. The neatly folded stacks of your Dad’s old shirts and jackets don’t smell like a damn thing. You dip your face into a holey band-shirt with the sleeves scissored off, but all that comes back to you is the rotten smell of dusty insulation. He’s here—he’s right here in front of you, right in your fucking hands, and yet the whole world is dead of him. You can’t sense even a sliver of him left.

The same old reservoir of despair pushes and pushes at your composure, wiggling through your cracks, widening them with a hundred thousand tons of pressure bearing down on you a minute. It is a day by day task to handle the reservoir. You like to think you’re good at handling it, at patching the cracks as they come and letting them breathe when the moment calls for it. But when you lift your face from the bin, the leak springs—really, genuinely springs, like it hasn’t in years.

You fall back onto your haunches, swallowing back sudden stinging tears. The bin and its askew lid go shrieking back onto the shelf with a lash of your foot.

The music downstairs stops. You can’t tell how long it’s been.

When his death was fresh, and you were stuck deep, deep within the reservoir, you’d wondered if it would always feel this way. It got easier, right? And in many ways it had—on most days you could talk about your Dad without it hurting, letting the dam’s water run. The battle was still there, but it was a burden you were proud to carry if it meant his memory lived on in you. He would want you to be happy, your Mom used to urge. So you gave being happy your best shot, loving and giving as much as you could.

That’s what frustrated you so endlessly about your Mom. She’d been right; your Dad would’ve wanted the two of you to move on, and yet she still entombed herself in the bottom of her reservoir far too often. There was no release, no acceptance with her. The dark part of you that wanted to pass blame wondered if this was all because of John, and how well Winchester grief happened to mingle with a Proctor’s. How would your mother’s life be different, if the evil that’d taken Dad hadn’t been put down a week later? Would she be just as hellbent? With your knees sore from pressing into the floor, you knew the answer. You knew if the thing that’d taken Sam or Dean from you was right in front of you, you’d chase it until you were in your own grave. You knew that even after it was dead, you would be digging your nails into the backseat of the Impala and clawing for every psychic molecule of them left in the leather.

And that’s what scared you—was she just going to be chasing Dad forever, til’ there wasn’t a wisp of him left in the world to feel?

Something dawns on you, thudding through your mind like a rock dropped down a chute. With limp hands, you slide The Shining towards you on the worn wood floor, part the pages with your thumbs, and press your nose into the binding. There’s the smoky, earthy scent of old paper first… then something just underneath the surface that no one but you and your Mom can pick up.

Old books. Yes. Yes, that’s what Dad had smelled like.

You’re seated on the floor of the storage room, back pressed to one of the ancient metal shelves holding up your gramma’s VCR collection, when a blot of the future is tossed at you. Cheap deodorant and lemon cough drops.

Around a minute later, the stairs beyond the door squeak under someone’s weight. Even without the roulette glimpse of the future, you can tell by the footfalls who it is. Heavy knuckles rap the door and come straight in without waiting for an answer. Behind him, the silence of the rest of the house is even heavier.

You try to sound like a reasonable adult, but the mopey teenager slips out anyway. “Thought you were sick, Dean.”

He artfully dodges your point. (Dean is, after all, a master of the craft.) You don’t look back at him, but the lemon cough-drops glimpse you got of him creates a clear picture: Dean’s whole body listing into the door frame, one hand on the knob, his face lacking its usual color. His cheeks have graduated from stubbly to scruffy, neglected. “Hey,” he says. It’s the, okay, you’re done cooling down, let’s have a grown-up conversation kind of hello.

You don’t know what to say back. You’re not sure if you can have any kind of conversation right now.

Dean rolls with it, trying to decide if this silence is begging for a subject change or a heart-to-heart. You’re not sure what he goes for when he says, “I had an idea.” “Did it hurt?” You joke. Jokes you can do.

There’s his opening. After a beat, you’re—

—fucking lobbed with a foam football. Like you’re fucking twelve. Dean’s throw arcs straight towards your head and bounces clean off the top, a perfect spiral. You yelp in outrage, and before you can think you’re following where the stupid ball went so you can clock him right in the face with it. Asshole. It loop-de-loops on the floor around an old dining chair, and you clamber on your knees to fish for it.

Just when you get the toy in your hands and you’re about to demolish him with it, Dean ducks behind the doorway, chuckling, “Woah! No face shots! You wouldn’t bash a poor, sick guy’s face in, would’ja?”

God. You can’t fucking believe him. If anyone else did that…

You lower your hackles and drop the foam toy into a basket, far out of reach of congested troublemakers. When his shining eyes appear in the slit of the doorway again, your cheeks are aching with an impossible smile. “You’re lucky it’s Christmas, loser. What is it?”

Dean hesitates a moment more, just in case you’ve got something else to throw at him, then joins you in the storage room with the evil little oily smile you love. The same dust cloud that got you earlier descends on him in a rough coughing fit, but this lets him get a good look at the little mess you’ve made: the book on the floor, your Dad’s things open and askew. When he clears his throat for the last time, he looks pained.

For your sake, you pretend it’s an empathetic kind of pained. And you know that’s a part of it—Dean doesn’t enjoy seeing you and your Mom like this. But it’s an unfortunate fact of your life that you will have four times as much context for him than he will ever have for you. Just breathing the same dusty air as him, you know he’s been nursing a sinus headache since Monday, one that’s made his head feel like it’s chock-full of stuffing, and that Sam made him canned chicken noodle soup—and at first he felt a little smug making Sam play nurse, until he stewed on it more and—

—hate it when he gives me that dead-eyed look, like he can’t even pretend to care anymore. Like he’s just dragging himself through this for our sake. Poor kid scares the shit outta me. Is this how it’s always gonna be? Sammy aching over her, night after night after night—

You know just touching the bins holding your Dad’s things that on a icy February afternoon in 1994, fifteen-year-old Dean had picked up the plastic tubs for your Mom from the store.

So when he gives you that pained look, you know it’s part-concern, part-fear. If this is what you look like eleven years after your Dad’s passing… if John never comes home from his hunting trip, is this what Dean will become? The loyal son, waiting and waiting on that porch for a man who would never come home?

Your whole life, you’ve felt like you were becoming more and more like Dean; lately, it feels like he’s becoming so much like you. Your last four years on the road together had slowly but surely melded you together.

“Okay, so, Yule’s a fire festival, right?” Dean grasps around in his memory for the yearly history lesson your Mom gives about the Wicca calendar. “Uh, we lit candles… I thought about burning Beth’s Muppet Christmas CD with my lighter a couple times. That’s about all the fiery, burny-stuff we did today.”

“I love the Muppets Christmas album,” you pout.

“After the millionth partridge in John Denver’s goddamn pear tree, you’d change your mind,” Dean swears. “But I was thinkin’—we got the firepit in the backyard, marshmallows, and I think I could put together some vodka shots. Then we can blow em' out and eat em' with the s'mores.” Your eyebrows raise. Only he, of all people, could take your sacred family traditions and twist them into such a wonderful, stupid-ass thing. Maybe it’s ridiculous, but… there is chocolate and graham crackers downstairs… and with how cold it is outside, a fire would be perfect… It’s the best blend of weird Proctor-Winchester traditions you need to save Christmas and Yule. Dean takes your silence as glowing awe. “Exactly. I told you, I'm a fuckin' genius. Helluva way to start the wiccan year, right? You in?”

You’re well aware that this is an elaborate plan to coax you away from your moping. Still, it’s just too Dean to turn down. “...Hell yeah.”

At first R hopes that it’s just her and Dean, and that Sam and Beth keep their grief to themselves. But then she realizes how cruel and selfish she’s been—everyone grieves in their own way, and just because she works through it by talking about it doesn’t mean it will work for everyone. It’s not good that Beth is holding on so tightly to her loss, but that doesn’t mean R wants to leave them out.

Lead this into a touch of psychic!Dean and how he has a teeny tiny second sense for what she needs, just like her Dad did. Just enough shine to get by.

R and Dean come downstairs and invite Sam and Beth to their campfire 😀

Or, at the very least, all the psychic happenings in the house echoing between them; if Dean's sharper instincts were as psychically heavy as a shadow falling on grass, then Sam's Static was six feet of snow in an arctic blizzard.

It tingles all the way up to your shoulder when Sam touches you. And that, oh, that was a whole new can of worms. As they get dressed for the snow outside and assemble the s'mores and flaming shots, you try not to head down that train of thought again.

Every time you’ve glanced at Sam these past few weeks, you’d been unable to hide from what you’d sensed there—from what you’d seen in the demon, and what you now knew to be completely and utterly true after reading its mind.

Sam had It. The Gift, the Shining, whatever the fuck you wanted to call it. Not the vague imprint of psychic-ness from loving one or sharing the Impala with one for four years; full-on, unlatched, REDRUM, I-saw-it-before-it-happened psychic abilities. In the weeks you'd had to sit with that revelation, you'd poked carefully at Sam from afar. Obviously, you knew what a fucking psychic felt like. The five-year-old Sam who'd cut Dean's gum out of your hair had not been psychic. Yet this Sam, twenty-two with three-fourths of an ivy league law degree under his belt, was as psychic as a fucking—well. You. He was just as psychic as you.

Without even a sliver of the same control or even understanding of—of what he had, yes, but you were confident that if Sam was pushed, he could reach into your mind just as easily as you could reach into his. There had been a shift, then. At six, having gum cut out of your hair, you had been decidedly less psychic than you were at twenty-four. So Sam had gone through the Proctor Rite Of Passage; some terrible moment had cut him deep, deep enough to pull a new kind of blood to the surface. After Jessica, he had been... yeah.

It was fucking crazy. And yet it also slotted perfectly into some of the weirder things you understood about Sam; about who he was now and the vague, strobing flashes you got of his future. It freaked you the fuck out. Did Sam know? Did anyone know, besides you? Had your Mom recognized that spark in Sam, the same way she'd seen it in you? Had John?

And the plain existence of the Gift in Sam begged the question—why? Had he just happened to drop from the tree as a different kind of apple? Or was this something you could trace back to his mother, the same way it traced back to yours? Had Mary…?

The implications of that took pretty much everything you understood about Sam and Dean’s life, lined it up on the chopping block, and cleaved it in two. Needless to say, thinking about it made you sick. How could you even begin to bring this up to them?

You cursed your abilities with all you had. There were nights when you sat on the bathroom floor, wishing you could dig in with your nails and rip out whatever had put It in your head. Never in a billion fucking years would you have wished It upon anyone else; especially not Sam, good, selfless, wonderful Sam, who already ached so deeply for other people. Seeing their future, too? And even more often, seeing it and being helpless to change it?

He used to cry over squashed spiders as a kid. You'd felt a whole lot more than just spiders die.

…Beside that shuddering horror was another, far more selfish feeling. As scary as the implications could be, when you thought less about the Winchester family and more about your relationship with Sam, you were… excited. Relieved, even.

There were only four people in the entire world that you could share your Gift with. One of them has been six feet under for over a decade. Your Gift was a clingy, possessive creature, too. It was maybe two steps shy of being an eldritch horror. It poked through Dean’s dreams when you slept beside him, sucking them up like cigarette smoke. It breathed down Sam’s neck wherever he went. If you wanted, no one could lie to you—all punchlines and stories were spoiled for you, you knew when people found you annoying or pretty or stupid. If that particular Proctor gene had skipped you, then maybe you’d be able to form relationships with people where you didn’t immediately, intrinsically understand who they were and why. Dean would say, You need a drink. You would know without asking that he meant, You scare the ever-living hell out of me n’ I know I can’t hide it from you. Fucking hell, kid, I wish I could.

You knew you were a freak. The tiny human vessel for the lashing, bubbling, soul-melting, cosmic weight of a star about to bloom into a black hole. Only your mom would ever understand what it felt like to exist on the fringe of time, between the exhaustive influence of the past and the vast, spotty expanse of the future. You were a tool to men like John; an anomaly for men like Bobby; and a responsibility to men like Dean.

But Sam… Your best friend Sam, he’d always tried to understand. Maybe he’d never fully get it, but the point was that he tried to. You remembered sitting with him on the curb outside your old high school, the concrete thrumming with music from the junior prom you’d both left behind inside.

How either of you had gotten dates was a miracle. You, the class weird-freak-emo punchline, and Sam, on his fourth round being the new kid that year, were two peas in a pod. Your date had never picked you up; Sam’s had escaped with her friends long before their first dance. Neither of you were very broken up about it.

The future had sprawled in front of you that night as clear as could be. You must've sat and talked on the curb for three straight hours, pressed together at the hip with Sam’s blazer around your shivering arms.

He was always beautiful in the boy-next-door kind of way, dimples popping with every good smile and freckles rising out of the too-short sleeves of his button-up. But that night he’d been fucking Helen of Troy, and the roar of the past and future slowed to a halt around him.

Do you really see the future all the time? Every second? Sam had curiously tilted his head, sending a gleaming swish of chocolatey hair out of his eyes.

Swallowing hard, you’d hesitated, Not every second. But a lot, yes.

Again, the head tilt, then the swish. His gaze was innocent and intrigued. No existential dread, no sweeping sense of fear. Just plain curiosity. Not even morbid curiosity. Sam had asked, What about right now?

Sam’s cologne—oh god, his cologne—was steaming off his borrowed jacket and floating around your head in a wonderful rosy fog. You’d poked at the future. Sometimes things came back, sometimes they didn’t. That night, the future had come back tasting like Sam’s vanilla chapstick and junior prom punch, and your face had gone up in flames just sensing it. He’d waited for an answer. You’d blurted out the plain truth: In a minute or two, you’re gonna kiss me.

This kind of absolute, unshakable certainty about the future had made other hunters’ blood run cold. You’d braced yourself for Sam’s displeasure or worse, his fear. But instead, there were those dimples again, and Sam had the gall to bat his lashes at you and delightedly ask, Really? That’s what the magic eight ball has to say?

His big hand had dropped onto your knee and you’d squeaked out a shrill, Signs point to yes!

Sam loved the stupid magic eight-ball joke. You could feel him smiling about it as he kissed you, kissed you, hand-on-knee, his face tipping down to yours, the shitty school punch staining his lips as the two of you connected. At fifteen and sixteen respectively, this was the first kissing that either of you had ever done. It’d been wetter and warmer than you’d expected, and Sam’s vanilla chapstick had left the slightest print on your mouth, one that your tongue swiped over obsessively for the next month. Your Gift had chased him for weeks after that, silently and invisibly swarming him every time he entered a room.

Back then, your mind had been on the Curse. But now, you thought about what had led to the kiss in the first place. Sam hadn’t kissed you on a night when your Gift had been crammed down deep where it could bother nobody but you. He’d instead chosen the precise moment where your Gift was most raw, one of Its fingers coming down from the sky to press against the pulse of the future. It was small, but at a time in your life when you’d wanted to claw your Gift out with your bare hands, Sam had gotten the smallest glimpse of It and had fallen in love.

You couldn’t help but see this thing inside him, his Static, and feel the exact same way. His powers were twisted and unavoidably demonic, and yet you kind of loved them. It made perfect sense to you. No one really understood you like Sam did. Now, it's clear why.

tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration @stoneyggirl2 @urm0mmmbbg @mulattomoon @poeticsorcery @deansapplepie @rennydenny @babydollfoster @badlandsbrunette @hallecarey1 @pplanetcaravan @notanotherthembo

#uncouthspn #spn #supernatural #sam winchester #user uncouth #sam winchester x reader

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wardenparker · 2 years

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The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Dating Your Ex - ch 2

Marcus Pike x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

When Marcus unexpectedly runs into his ex-wife he is plunged into a world of complications where rekindled attraction and deep-seated insecurities reign. Unfortunately for him, it is also a world where his ex-wife is not the only ‘ex’ around, as a new case crosses his desk that will require all hands on deck. ✨💖Inspired by and based upon absurdthirst’s Tequila💖✨

Rating: Mature, but this blog is always 18+! Word Count: 6.7k Warnings: Mentions of: divorce, collegiate Greek life, underage drinking, food/alcohol consumption. References to sex and attraction. Summary: Dual attempts by you and Marcus to avoid drinking alone lead to you drinking together. Notes: The tension is building bit by bit! Please enjoy this chapter with a dose of “Tequila” by Dan + Shay 🥃

If things at work are relatively normal after having talked to Silvia yesterday, they have gone haywire at home. You had ended up spilling the whole story to your sister on the phone last night when she called to catch up and finished the night with too much alcohol and too little to eat all over again. And if that wasn't bad enough? It culminated in every dream you had last night starring Marcus in different ways. Because of that, tonight you decided to take yourself out after work. Being the last to leave the office, you had grabbed your sweater and headed down to your favourite restaurant with weekly live music to see if you could snag a table. Proper 21 is always busy but tonight it's packed, leaving you to happily accept the small high-top table in the bar area where you can watch the live band play and enjoy some indulgent food - and not drink an entire bottle of wine just because no one is there to stop you. It's craft cocktails and gourmet eats, or as you like to call it: self-care.

Marcus sighs as he bellies up to the bar, his suit jacket draped over the back of the chair, his sleeves rolled up, and his tie loosed with the top two buttons blessedly undone. He doesn't want to go home just yet, the prospect of a lonely weekend not appealing. The dreams he's had for the past two days have been vivid. Making him plunge into the past and even pull out the album that had been carefully stored away in a box in his closet. Last night had been too much scotch and too many memories to make his couch a safe retreat. The live music and generally ready to greet the weekend atmosphere of the bar was just what he needed. The bartender walks up, lifting his chin in greeting as Marcus slides his card across the wood top to start a tab. "What'll you have?" He asks as he snaps up the card to input into the system. "Uh...give me a Blanton's on the rocks with an orange twist." Marcus decides as he looks over the options available. "Thanks."

"Sure." The bartender nods and moves away, only to get pulled aside by a waitress a second later. She whispers in his ear and points out the table she's taking care of, and he nods - returning to Marcus a minute later with the ordered bourbon as well as a shot of Don Julio with a slice of lime wedged expertly onto the rim. He sets both down in front of Marcus and offers the man a smile. "Can I get you something to eat?"

Marcus's mouth goes dry, the scent of the tequila invading his senses and he's instantly transported back to his favorite memory of you. Wearing nothing but your panties and that t-shirt. That gorgeously faded Chi Omega t-shirt that he had insisted you keep. His socks, large on your feet and pulled up high as you tilt the bottle back and take a healthy swing of Don Julio, straddling his waist as the two of you lay back in his bed at the frat house. "I'm sorry." Marcus shakes his head and pushes the shot back towards the bartender an inch. "I didn't order this."

"Lady did." The bartender tells him, nodding behind him to where you are sitting - alone at a table for two with your own shot of tequila beside your cocktail. It's an olive branch - or maybe an agave branch, except agave plants don't technically have branches. Either way, it's an offering. One that you couldn't resist sending when you saw him walk into the bar.

Sighing, Marcus nods at the bartender. The first damn woman to buy him a drink in two years and it has to be tequila. He picks up the shot, ready to turn around and bring it over to the lady for her to enjoy, to explain that he didn't drink tequila but he stops short when he sees that it's you. Pausing for a moment, he swallows and gives himself a small nod before he continues on to your table. "Second time in three days." He hums as he sets the shot down on the table in front of yours.

"I think I'm supposed to say something about gin joints, but I have to admit I never really developed a taste for gin at all." It seemed like fate to you when you saw him walk in the door. Like the universe was trying to let the two of you be as mature as Silvia had been when she walked into your office yesterday morning. Maybe if you got a little closure, you wouldn't be constantly looking over your shoulder any time you went out around the city. Waiting for the other shoe to drop could be exhausting. "Do you...maybe want to sit? We could have dinner together if that's not too weird for you."

Marcus loses the ability to speak for just a moment before he nods, turning back to get his whiskey and his jacket to bring over to your table since it makes more sense to not be at the bar. It's only a few steps, a few moments away from your presence but he's quickly back at your table. He pulls out his chair and sits down. "I have a confession to make."

"Well shit, alright, let's get down to the nitty gritty." What else can you say? You're the one who invited him to join you, after all. "What is it?"

Marcus shoots you a grin, appreciating the way you could always cut through the bullshit. "I was going to turn down this drink. I don't drink tequila anymore."

"Neither do I." You can admit that freely, only pausing when the waitress brings over a menu for Marcus and drops off the order of Poke Nachos that you had gotten for an appetizer. Once she's gone again, you shrug a little. "It reminds me too much of you. Too many memories."

"Same." He admits it readily. "Every time I see you." His finger toys with the shot glass before he picks it up. "To seeing you for real." He offers as he holds it up to touch to yours.

"As weird and unexpected as it is." Tapping your glass to his, you both down your shots and reach for your lime slices as if drinking tequila were comparable to riding a bike. "Well shit," you laugh, shaking your head at the sour bite of citrus on the end of the stinging liquor. It's delicious, and better for the fact that he's actually there. "I really forgot how good tequila is, I guess."

"I didn't." He murmurs softly, plopping the lime down into the empty shot glass and swallows as he looks back down at his other drink. He's never forgotten how good it was, just like he's never forgotten how fucking gorgeous you are. Seemingly even more so now.

"I don't know why I said that." You really don't, and you shake your head at yourself a little before reaching for your cocktail. "I haven't forgotten anything. I just..." A sigh-groan hybrid escapes your lips and you avert your eyes, barely able to look at him at this point. He had been positively dreamy as a young man, but now that he was grown and matured? Somehow he's gotten even more attractive. "I was hoping to make you smile, I guess."

It's surprising that you want him to smile, but your confession makes it happen. Warming him that you still care. It's slow and subtle as he watches you squirm slightly. "That's easy for you to do, sweetheart." The endearment comes easily and now it's his turn to squirm as he realizes it's not entirely appropriate anymore.

Sweetheart. Between that and the tequila, you're nineteen years old all over again. "So..." Nudging the plate of nachos toward him a little, you pick one up and try to pretend like this isn't the most unexpected meal you've had in your entire life. "How have you been, Marcus?"

He snorts and shakes his head, leaning forward and plucking a chip up and looking over at you. "I'm the Director of the Art Crimes division for the FBI, so professionally, I'm doing great." He tells with a proud smile. "But I don't have Doctor in front of my name like you do."

"Well, I liked school a lot more than you did." Marcus had never been a bad student, but you definitely enjoyed academics whereas he had merely tolerated them. "Art Crimes, huh? I guess you didn't hate that Art History class you took with me, after all." Director of an entire division, wow – and yet, of course Marcus would have succeeded when he put his mind to it. He was, and apparently still is, an unstoppable force.

"It's interesting." He gives a small shrug, as if it's no big deal. "I always did like paying attention to the details."

"Director of an entire division? I'd say you're very good at the little details." You shiver a little despite yourself and hope he doesn't notice - Marcus's attention to detail was relevant to everything in his life. Especially the bedroom.

He flashes you a grin, shrugging his shoulders again and only allowing himself to preen slightly at your praise. "I have my moments." His voice dips down slightly, remembering the times he had been very detail oriented with you. It had made for some very vocal nights. Vocal enough that he had been encouraged to move out of the frat house so the others didn't have to hear you scream his name.

"Your family's good?" His parents were sweethearts, always supportive of their kids even if they didn't necessarily agree with their choices, and that had definitely included his decision to marry you. They hadn't tried to talk the two of you out of it but they had counseled a long engagement, ultimately deciding to just go along with things when you and Marcus were too blinded by young love to wait. It was encouraging when they had finally embraced you fully, and his mother had turned out to be a good friend while you were together.

Marcus sighs slightly, picking up his drink and taking a large sip before he answers your question. “Dad had a stroke about five years ago.” He tells you. “He’s – they live in a community where they can help mom with him.” He feels guilty that he doesn’t visit as often as he probably should, but D.C. was closer to Florida than Texas.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry to hear that." The immediate instinct to feel like an idiot for asking has to be tamped down. This is basic catch-up stuff. Questions that have to be asked. It's not like all of your news to great stuff, either. "Your brother and sister?"

“Good. Mandy got married about six years ago.” It had been a bittersweet event for him, but he had plastered a smile on his face to keep everyone from bringing up his own failed marriage. “Already have a niece and nephew. Twins.”

"Congratulations." The two of you are slowly eating your way through the nacho plate when the waitress comes back to take your dinner orders. Once dinner is decided on, you take another sip of your drink and continue on. "My sister got married, too. Three years ago. My nieces are two years and six months." If he had managed to escape the comments and snide looks at his own sister's wedding, you'll be envious. You had months and months of passive aggressive crap and shitty comments whispered behind your back to deal with.

“I bet your mother was in fine form.” Your mother hadn’t cared for Marcus, or you getting married, but she hadn’t liked the idea of you divorcing more.

"She actually tried to talk Leah out of having me as a bridesmaid," you snort, rolling your eyes at the memory. "So that I wouldn't jinx my baby sister's marriage. Obviously Leah told her to go to hell, but that was an ugly series of conversations."

He rolls his eyes and snorts. “Well, if it makes you feel better, my mother still asks if I’ve heard from you when we talk.” He huffs. “I think she prefers you over me sometimes.”

"Well shit, next time she asks, you can actually say yes." Annie Pike was - despite any reservations she may have had - an absolutely lovely woman and the best mother-in-law you could have asked for. "Actually, will you tell her I said hi? I still make her cheesecake recipe a couple of times a year and it..." It was bittersweet, reminding you of such good times and making your heart hurt at the same time. "It's always a big hit."

He groans at the thought of your cheesecake. He would never admit it to his mother, but yours was better. “I will.” He promises, shooting you a grin. “She will ask how you’ve been. Want to know all the details.” He taps the table. “So for her sake— are you seeing anyone?”

"Ah...no, actually. The last guy ran for the hills about...eight or nine months ago?" Straight for the big guns, that was typical of Marcus even if he claimed to be collecting tidbits for his mother. "Let's see...after we...well, you know what happened. I came to DC for grad school. Then Paris for a few years to get my doctorate from the Sorbonne, and now I've been at the Smithsonian for about six years."

“Wow.” He shakes his head, surprised he hadn’t learned you were here. It had taken a lot of willpower to keep from misusing government resources to see what you were up to. “That’s amazing. I know you always wanted to study in France.”

"Yeah, it was—" Stunning. It was an absolutely beautiful experience that came with a freedom you had never felt before and gave you more confidence than you had ever known you were missing. And yet? Every single day, there was always something that reminded you of him. "It was pretty extraordinary. Y-you would love it there."

Marcus’s smile is bittersweet. “I was in Paris five months ago.” He admits. “A symposium for art crimes hosted by the Louvre.” It had been stunning and it had taken a lot of effort on his part not to think about you. He had chosen to focus on his failed relationship with Teresa. It was almost easier.

"So then you know." The number of times you had wandered the crowded galleries of the Louvre wishing he was beside you was too vast to count, but that was years ago. You had tried to convince yourself that you had moved on from all that. Apparently, you are an even bigger liar than you thought you were, but you keep the smile plastered on your face. "What else will Annie want to know?"

He chuckles and reaches for another nacho. “I don’t know, you tell me.” He doesn’t mention kids, knowing that if you didn’t have a boyfriend, it was unlikely you had changed your stance on kids.

"Let's see." Humming to yourself like you're pondering the secrets of the universe just hoping that he'll laugh at your overly serious expression, you're rewarded with a cracked grin and another soft chuckle. "I'm a much better cook than I used to be, she'll be glad about that. And from time to time I lecture at George Washington University." Your life is your work, and you did that fully intentionally. There's no use updating him on the random seasonal illnesses or the fact that you still wish you could have a dog. And there's really no point in talking about the change in how you look at relationships these days. Things are a lot different on the other side of thirty.

“It sounds like you have everything you want.” Marcus is proud that you’ve accomplished what you wanted. You have the life you imagined. The one that didn’t have a place for him in it. “She will be proud of you.” He hums, finishing his drink and when the server comes back over, he orders another.

Following his lead, you order another cocktail as well, and swallow a uniquely remorseful sigh. "I'm sorry about Silvia," you tell him honestly, wishing that second Aperol Spritz was already in your hands. "She told me what she decided to do."

Marcus shrugs, there was nothing he could do about it. “It’s fine.” He cracks a sardonic smile. “Just another page in the woe begotten tale I call my love life.” He jokes.

"I'm sorry." It's repetitious, but at least it's honest. Marcus only used to use that tone when he was particularly hurt about something and didn't want to show it. "If it makes you feel any better, my love life is in shambles, too. But for me I guess it's karma."

“No.” He shakes his head and wishes he had his drink in his hand. “You don’t have anything for karma to come back on you. Unless you were a bitch to the last guy? But I can’t see that happening.”

It shouldn't surprise you that he's still so nice even after you pretty much ripped his chest open with a divorce-papers-induced paper cut, but still you have to wonder at it a little. There's no one in the world like Marcus Pike - and no one knows that better than you. Since you're the asshole that let him go. "The last guy was military. Couldn't wrap his head around the fact that I wasn't willing to follow him base to base."

He snorts, his smile slightly brittle. “You’ve never been one to follow.” He reminds you, the arguments about ‘where to go from here’ seem like they were yesterday as the rose-colored glasses gave way to post graduate reality. It hadn’t mattered that Marcus had put his own dreams on hold for a year to get a job while you finished college, there wasn’t room for compromise on your future.

"Yeah." You huff, nearly snatching up your drink when the waitress comes over and sets it down along with your dinner and Marcus's refill and food. "Look where it's gotten me," you add, the hint of cynicism distinct in your voice.

“Thank you.” Marcus thanks the woman and turns back to you. “Yeah. Because being a director at the Smithsonian is nothing.” It’s slightly ironic that he’s arguing for your decisions, but he had always focused on the good. Maybe that was why things never worked out for him, but he can’t help who he is.

"It's about as nothing as being a director at the FBI." But the real nothing about it is that you go home alone every night to your apartment wishing that you didn't have a horrific habit of pushing away everyone who tried to get close to you. "I—I'm sorry. We can talk about something else. I'm sure you didn't plan on having dinner out tonight so that you could listen to your ex-wife wax philosophical."

Marcus snorts and picks up his glass. “To be honest, I was avoiding going home like the plague. It’s why I was here.”

"At least we match in something," you try for the joke, realizing secondarily that you also match in job titles. Director Pike and Director Pike. It's silly and it makes you chuckle under your breath.

He’s always liked your laugh, reminding him of the times he would hear it. Your leg wrapped around his hip, fingers brushing that sensitive spot just under your right breast. His cock twitches and he reminds himself that all of that ended years ago. He takes a bite of his dinner to ground himself, looking up at you again. “Hopefully Silvia didn’t scar you too much with her girl talk now that you know it was me she was seeing.”

“No.” The smiles come a bit easier as the two of you dig into your dinners. Some of the awkwardness has begun to dissipate and you’re left with a feeling of nostalgia and warmth in your chest. And a little bit between your legs, too. Because Silvia hadn’t held back on details. “You got rave reviews, by the way,” you tell him with a smirk. What you hadn’t told Silvia since the revelation of her beau’s identity was that most of those things that she loved were things you were around for the origin of. Most of…there were a couple of things mentioned that now have you intrigued.

Marcus flushes, feeling the heat creep up his cheeks and tries to tell himself that if his girlfriend - former girlfriend - had to gossip about how he performs in bed to his ex-wife, he can only be grateful that it was bragging. “I’m sure it was not as intriguing when you found out it was someone you’ve taught.” He huffs, still rolling his eyes at the irony.

“Technically I’ve taught both of you.” It makes you chuckle again, the breathy sound swallowed up by a grin when you glance up and see how red his cheeks are. Marcus could never really pull off a poker face when he was embarrassed - blushing gave him away. Twelve years later and it’s still cute as hell. “I mean, she was academic lectures in a classroom, but still.” You shrug as if it’s nothing, but can’t resist adding: “Besides, she definitely mentioned a couple of things that you must have picked up after me.”

Marcus bites his lip, the only thing preventing him from offering to show you those things. The two of you had always been very sexually compatible and he had never had a moment where he was uncomfortable in bed with you, even during the inevitable embarrassing moments that can happen. The two of you had just giggled like only those completely in love can and moved on. “Yeah, well….”

“Hey, no, I’m glad you’ve had good things in your life and made good memories.” It would be hypocritical and dumb to be jealous about. After all - you were the one who ended things. There’s no reason for the small pangs of jealousy in your gut right now. They’re there, even though they shouldn’t be. But thinking that all those years could have been filled with you and him makes you ache even more now that he’s right in front of you. “You deserve to be happy. Th-that’s half of why I did what I did.”

Marcus’s jaw clenches slightly, and he looked down at his plate. There’s a sarcastic retort on his tongue that, while you might deserve it, it would ruin the friendly atmosphere. Instead, he exhales slowly and flashes you a grin. “You know me, always happy.”

“Right.” Having dug your own hole, you can’t be upset that you no longer have the privilege of seeing into Marcus’s second layer of emotions. You gave up the right to being his confidante when you gave him back your rings. You did it to yourself. “They probably still tell stories of the Sunshine Frat Boy of Kappa Sigma.”

“Yeah.” He lets out an amused chuckle. “What other couple went into their divorce together?” He asks as he cuts another bite of his steak. “Or go home together for one last night before leaving?” There hadn’t been sex that last night, he couldn’t do it, but there had been a lot of hugs and reassurances. The false promises of staying friends, keeping in touch. Things that both of you had needed at that time.

“If I tell you something, can I ask you to be honest in how you reply and not just polite?” He had almost been honest with you, but you don’t know if you might have lost that privilege as well. Either way, you’re feeling the need to be extremely honest with him right now and you don’t exactly know how it’s going to go.

“Okay….” He’s slightly wary of this, but if you ask for honesty, he’s going to give it to you. Marcus isn’t deceptive by nature for the most part, but sometimes he doesn’t say what he’s thinking. Apparently that had been one of the issues you had with him towards the end. “Go for it.”

“I—” Pinching your eyes shut for just a moment, you look back up at the broad shouldered, gentle giant of a man that Marcus has grown into and sigh, nearly laugh at yourself for finally admitting it. Words you’ve never even said to your therapist, let alone to yourself or a friend. “I’ve really missed you. That’s all. I just want you to know that.”

He almost laughs, but he catches himself. Because your eyes are earnest and you would think he was laughing at you, instead of laughing because he’s felt the exact same damn way since the day you packed up your car and drove away. The morning after the papers were filed, the morning after you were no longer his wife. “I’ve missed you too.” He admits huskily. “I’ve had to— I’ve thought about looking you up several times, but I couldn’t do it.”

“Same.” It’s a goddamn relief to get off your chest, and hearing that he isn’t angry anymore is like a gift you don’t deserve, but it’s clear in his voice. “I figured you’d be remarried with a couple of kids by now and I didn’t want to interrupt your life.”

Marcus huffs and shakes his head. “Haven’t been too lucky. Was engaged about a year ago.” He confesses, thinking about the entire debacle with Teresa. Part of him – and his therapist – thinks it’s because he saw a lot of your spirit in her. “For a week and a half?” He nods. “Yeah.”

“A week and a half?” Your eyes open wide in surprise and you sink a little, feeling like you’re exactly what your mother always said – a jinx. “Fuck. I—I’m so sorry, Marc.”

"Not your fault." He shrugs, reaching for his whiskey glass. "I jumped in too far too fast like usual and ignored the neon light red flag that was being waved." He huffs to himself about everything he had talked over with his therapist. "She chose the guy she needed to be with and I came to D.C. Well, technically I was already here when I got the message."

“Any woman who lets you get away is an idiot.” You huff, sighing slightly. Full disclosure – complete honesty – was something you believed in wholeheartedly and always had. Marcus’s tendency to just leave out details so as not to upset people had been one of the only things that really bothered you in your marriage. Aside from the larger problem of realizing that you were far too young to settle down and give up your career dreams to start having kids. So tell the truth is exactly what you’re going to do now. If it’s the last chance you ever get to be honest with him, you want it to count. “Trust me, I’m the biggest idiot of all of them.”

"You were just doing what you thought you needed to." It's a defense he's used a thousand times to his family, to the friends that you had together when they found out that you had left him. Even as hurt and upset as he had been, he hadn't let anyone talk bad about you. Not around him. "As long as you're happy, that's what is important."

“You’re a good man.” He always had been, of course. Even as young as you were. But that doesn’t stop your heart from hurting knowing that you are your own worst enemy. You’re the reason you lost him, plain and simple. No one else to blame. “You always have been. I just hope you’re happy, that’s all. You deserve it.”

He snorts slightly. “Apparently not good enough.” He replies flippantly before he can stop himself. There’s a three second pause where he’s completely silent before he speaks again. “Sorry…. you don’t deserve that.” He offers, lifting his napkin out of his lap and wiping his mouth and setting it on the table. “I’m going to the bathroom before I manage to shove the rest of my foot in my mouth.” An embarrassed flush is on his cheeks as he stands up.

“I absolutely deserved that.” The correction is gentle, but you shrug when he stands up. There is nothing you deserve more than to be put in your place by the man you walked out on. “If you want to leave, I understand. You don’t have to excuse yourself politely and then slip out.”

“I’m not—” Marcus shakes his head, unable to put into words his feelings and simply turns and walks towards the bathrooms. His suit jacket is still on the back of his chair.

You sigh when he walks away, looking down at your plate and force yourself to eat. Looks like it’s going to be another bottle of wine alone with your feelings tonight and you should eat something before that happens.

In the bathroom, Marcus splashes water on his face, staring at the reflection in the mirror critically. “Fucking cut it out.” He hisses to himself. “She’s being polite.” The truth is, it hurt to see that while you had your career, that was it. That your job could satisfactorily replace the amazing relationship that he thought the two of you had back then. Shaking it off, he strides back out and sits back down quietly. “Sorry, I’m back.” He murmurs.

“I’m sorry I got sentimental.” It’s half-assed, and you hate yourself for it, but seeing him again has made you feel things you never thought possible. That you never let yourself think were possible.

"Nothing for you to be sorry about." Marcus ignores his whiskey and reaches for the wine glass filled with water. "I – it's issues with me."

“Who says people don’t get more fun after thirty?” It’s a horrible joke, but it’s all you’ve got right now if you’re going to do anything but still your guts to him at this table. It’s like you lost your filter somewhere along the way.

"Yeah." It's horrible, but he can't help but crack an ironic smile. "Heartburn, creaking joints, hangovers and the sinking realization that you will die alone." He takes a large gulp of his water. "Just a barrel of laughs."

“You’ll find someone.” He will, because it’s Marcus and he’s amazing. He’s sweet and handsome and genuinely a good man, and apparently really fantastic at his job If they went and made him director of a whole department. You, though? It’s relationship purgatory for you. Because you’ll never find anyone as good as Marcus Pike ever again and there’s no way he’ll ever take you back. So maybe it’s about time to get some plants and call it a day.

Marcus sighs and shakes his head. "I found someone." He knows he should shut the fuck up. You don't want to hear about his relationship woes, he needs to talk about this with his therapist. His sliver of rationale is that you opened this door when you admitted that you missed him. "I found her when I was fucking nineteen and I fucked it up and lost her." He looks up from his water to look into your eyes, his own shimmering with emotion.

“Well shit.” That takes the wind out of your sails in a way that nothing else really can and if you didn’t have a personal rule against crying in public you would probably be in instant tears. As it is, you kind of feel like you’re shaking a little, but you’re going to blame that on the chill in the air tonight even though you’re nowhere near the door of the restaurant. “I—d” Breathe, goddamit. “You didn’t fuck it up, Marc. I did.”

"No." Marcus shakes his head. "I must have fucked up. I must have made you feel like it had to be me or your dreams. Somehow. Because all I knew was that I was dreaming about our future together and you were dreaming of yours and it didn't include me." His voice cracks slightly and he swallows down the urge to ask you what he did. It's probably what he always does, move too fast – take over and make plans.

It’s a gut punch, and you absolutely more than deserve it. But that doesn’t stop you from wishing you could evaporate into thin air right here in the bar. “I didn’t—we were so young,” you murmur, eyes dropping to the table when you can’t even look him in the eye. “I heard you saying all these things you wanted and I just…I didn’t even know what I wanted. It was like I hit panic mode when you started talking about kids and I didn’t think I could have both.” As an adult in therapy, you’ve worked through a lot of your hang ups and misconceptions from growing up. Realized that you were wrong. That you hurt him and yourself because you didn’t have the emotional maturity to all the hard questions and only jumped ahead to incorrect conclusions. “You were dreaming, but I heard plans. And I just— I should have talked to you. So when I say it’s not your fault, I mean it.”

“I lied to you.” Marcus admits softly. “When you left—I told you I had plans to hang out with my frat brothers and shoot some pool.” He huffs slightly and picks up his drink. “I crawled inside a bottle of Don Julio for three days and had to delete your number so I didn’t call you to beg you to come back.”

“I pulled over on the drive to DC to cry so many times that I arrived in commuter traffic.” Your own voice is as quiet as his, since he knows exactly what that drive should have been. Three hours from the apartment you had shared outside the UPENN campus turned into more than seven on the road because you just couldn’t see two feet in front of you through the sheets of tears.

Marcus sighs and shakes his head, wondering why the hell you had even left if it had been so hard for both of you. "We make perfect sense." He jokes, wanting to make smile.

“At the risk of being incredibly cliched, do you want to get out of here?” You’ve finished your meals and most of your second drinks, and it’s obvious that this conversation is a lot more personal than just two people catching up after years apart. “I live pretty close, and…” Shrugging, you hope you can make it sound friendly instead of like you’re trying to get him alone. You’re hopeful, not delusional. “I have cheesecake in the fridge.”

"You know how I feel about cheesecake." He offers as he nods, reaching for his glass to drain the last swallow of Blanton's from it and set it down. "Let me pay, since you're providing dessert?" It might be old fashioned, but he wants to buy you dinner.

“Yes, but!” The smile on your face is small but glowing, feeling that forbidden hope somewhere in your chest that you know you don’t deserve but you can’t ever seem to banish. “If we survive tonight without deciding never to speak again, you have to let me pay for whatever we do next time. Deal?”

"If you insist." He can't help but grin as he pulls out his wallet so he can pay for the meal the two of you had managed to muddle through.

Outside on the street you stuff your hands in your sweater pockets and actually let yourself smile. “Did you drive? I can give you my address for your gps or you can follow me back. Whatever you prefer.”

"I—" Marcus rubs the back of his neck and looks around. "I took a cab." He admits with a grin. "I had planned on needing an Uber to get home if I'm honest."

“Ah.” He was planning on doing his heavy drinking out, while you had planned on doing yours at home. “In that case?” You nod to your left and turn in that direction. “My car is parked a block away.”

He gives you a small smirk and a half shoulder shrug. "I really didn't want to go home." He reminds you as he walks alongside you towards your car. It's gotten dark out, the streetlamps making it a pleasant walk along the sidewalks.

“I get it.” He’ll see the empty wine bottles in your recycling when you get back to the apartment so there’s no sense being coy about it. “What do you drown yourself in these days? Since it’s not Don Julio anymore?”

“Whiskey, red wine. Hell even champagne is fine, scotch on the rocks.” Marcus shoves his hands in his pockets. “I— fuck, I wrote a song about it.” He confesses.

“You did not?” Your head pops up from digging through your purse for your keys in surprise. “I—I didn’t know you were still with your band.” Those cheaply recorded CDs are still in the bottom of your Marcus Memory Box, neglected but not forgotten. He was an amazing musician, and you would be lying if you said you hadn’t contemplated popping up at a show several times over the years.

“Not anymore.” He doesn’t have time anymore, although he misses it. The song had been written on a whim, during one of those moments here he needed to get his feelings out and when he showed one of his frat brothers who had loved it enough to pass it along. The fact that it had become an actual track on an album was still surreal to him.

“That’s a shame. I know I’m biased, but I always thought you were great.” Coming up with your keys, you unlock the city-appropriate-sized forest green Mini Cooper a few feet ahead of you as you and Marcus walk side by side. “It’s a short drive. Only about fifteen minutes from here.”

“That’s convenient.” He walks around the car and opens the driver’s side door for you. Something that his father had taught him to do no matter who was driving or who the lady was to you. Old school manners that he enjoyed.

“Still a gentleman.” Not that you ever doubted it. Some things never changed – and this is just basic to who Marcus is as a person. You thank him and tuck into your little car, only having to wait a few seconds before he gets in beside you and you’re pulling into nighttime traffic with ease.

Marcus looks around your car, smiling at the necklace that is around the rear-view mirror. It had driven him crazy when you would do that because it would invite someone to break into your car, but you always insisted it was because you had forgotten to take it off.

“At least there’s no bumper stickers on this one,” you defend, smirking slightly when you see Marcus eyeing your necklace and trying not to laugh. He was a stickler for safety – and always insisted that the stickers gave away too much information about a car’s owner to potential criminals. He had given you so much grief about the huge amount of bumper stickers on the rear of your first car that you never put them on your second. And by the time you got your third - this one - you’d realized he was right. They really can give too much away unintentionally.

“Small steps then.” Marcus laughs and looks around the neighborhood, noticing that you aren’t too far away from his own. Only about twenty-five minutes away. “It’s an easy target.”

“Good thing my building has impeccable security, then.” Pointing it out before you turn into the side street, you immediately head into the underground parking for your building and punch in your unique renter code. There are a fair few government employees in this building, and you pay a decent premium for the extra security, but it’s worth it to feel safe.

“That’s good.” Marcus heartily approves of you making sure that you are safe. He had honestly worried about it when you two divorced but had realized it wasn’t his concern anymore. It hadn’t stopped him from putting pepper spray in your bag before you left. It hadn’t stopped him from worrying. From wanting to take care of you.

------ Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @katheriner1999 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @hardc0rehaylz @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear

tCIGtDYE: @missmarmaladeth @afro-hispwriter @rosmarinus @mythrielofsolitude @jxvipike @avaleineandafryingpan @hnt-escape @supernaturalgirl20 @scorpio-marionette @bobafvcker @midnightevermore @dinoflower @pearl-aqua-tears @itsbaehyungbitch @pepperminticedcoffee @anticipayosbot @girlofchaos @speedynana @loveslide @noisynaia @just-here-for-the-moment @goodgriefitsawildworld @curiouskeyboard @iarellanouus @mymistery09-blog @seasonschange-butpeopledont @thenightdreamsballad @pondsofravenclaw @sherlock221b114679797 @pimmyxyone @theredwritingwitch @ghostinhours @timpletance @strawberryjamcheesecake @amb11 @a-little-shade-of-kiki @wildemaven @tuquoquebrute @supernaturalgirl @ellenmunn @iceclaw101 @toxicfrankenstein @catsandgeekyandnerd @missmarmaladeth @theincredibleinkspitter @agiroflee98 @lyonessofnarnia @we-could-have-been @totostits @scorpio-marionette @kikis-writing-world @trappistmonksofthefuture @danichz @88dragon06 @scorpionerd myrealmofchaos @movievillainess721 @firekissed13 @qseomik @acollectionofcells1 @captain-of-my-game1992 @alician87 @lovesbiggerthanpride @justgonewild @hiyorinatsuki @pinkrosethorne @apocalypticwafflekitten @groovycass @rebel-fanfare @d0cthunder @gooddaykate @purplerain04 @astridflowers @purplerain04

My Masterlist!

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal character fanfiction #Pedro Pascal fanfic #Marcus Pike #Marcus Pike x reader #Marcus Pike x you #Marcus Pike x female reader #Agent Marcus Pike #ex wife reader #The Mentalist #Mentalist fanfic #unexpected reunion trope #Sunshine Frat Boy of Kappa Sigma

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jerrykinoff · 8 months

Text

Tommy Cash x Deutsche Bahn - Vice September 2023 interview

translation under the cut

Public transport turned Tommy Cash into a train

We visited the trap wonder child at a shoot and talked about his legendary transformations.

Just a while ago he was strolling barefoot on the gray stone floors of Platform 2 at the Berlin Spandau train station, now his feet are being put in the giant Balenciaga rubber boots. Tommy is sporting an old conductor uniform, tight middle part and two braids plaited up until the very ends of his hair when I intercept him for an interview in between the shoots. We are at the set of a rather bizarre ad shoot for the “Zukunft Nahverkehr” initiative with the slogan #mobilityisahumanride. The trap wonder child is playing the main role in it and with the help of a few spritzes of perfume (“Ö de PNV”, get it?), he transforms into a very delighted S-Bahn train which is dispersing the exhaust gas with taekwondo moves and in which people are feeding each other pickles.

What does this all mean? The future will be better, when we use public transport more often. But it also simply means: We can finally look forward for a full dose of TOMM¥ €A$H, in all of his absurd glory in the form of the ÖPNV ad and the trending reels from Paris Fashion Week, and soon, finally, in the form of a new album. He is working on it every second and is now using every break during the shoot to re-listen to a track with an AirPod in his ear and a smile on his face. This week, he still has two video shoots ahead of him and in November he’s going on a tour with Oliver Tree. They both not only like making music together, they also share a tendency for absolute randomness and creating things which nobody could expect. Like turning yourself into a human train, or, a “human ride”. Or a vagina.

VICE: Hi Tommy. Today you are becoming a train. Could you tell us about your first time, about your first transformation?

Tommy Cash: It was in 2016, back then I dropped a music video in which I became the intimate area of a lady. That’s how it all began and since then I have been turning myself into all sorts of things.

How did playing a role of a vagina feel?

Oh. It was brilliant. It felt good.

How did you prepare for it?

I was just being myself.

Are you coming up with all these ideas on your own?

For the most part, yes. I am, so to speak, an orange. You can make juice from oranges, you know? But that entails a lot of different types of work. I could probably press out all the juice by myself, but I like having an input from styling, hair and camera people, etc. when shooting videos. The camera person, for example, knows which shots will look the best and can change things, if needed. But it’s still my juice.

And the juice is tasty. When could we look forward to the new album?

Soon. We are working on it in full swing. Somewhere in December, but the rollout begins soon, during the coming weeks. We should know exactly when around my birthday. My birthday is on November 18th.

Ah, you are a Scorpio. Makes sense. Is there a song on the new album, which you are most excited about?

Yeah, especially some collabs. The track for which we are shooting a music video tomorrow became a kind of a proper anthem. Scandinavian brothers who find each other. I’m really looking forward to playing it live. [Author’s note: the feature with Käärijä “It's Crazy It's Party” came out in the meanwhile and it kicks ass.]

When you’re looking for feature partners, what matters to you the most?

They can’t be too clean, polished. For me, art means being free and taking risks. It’s important to me that we have the same worldview, the same sixth sense. They need to be open, for whatever happens. only then something magical can be created.

Collabs or not, you are in fact taking some risks. Do you have any advice for those, who do not trust themselves that much?

Oh yes: just do it! Don't give a fuck about anything. Stop overthinking. Most people are nice. The percentage of people who will try to discourage you or write nasty comments is very small. It’s fucked to not make something because a couple of people said so. They are only scared of what you can achieve.

There are very few negative things to be found about you on the internet. I looked extra hard, but the people are simply obsessed with you!

Ah, it should be a love-hate relationship. There always has to be a few people out there who hate you deeply. The most should of course love you. The most important thing is that the people feel something when they see you.

And you offer them quite a lot too. You dress well, you model, you dance and then of course the music. Is there anything you are bad at?

Tennis. And I was a very bad boyfriend for some time. But I’m working on it now.

Yeah? How’s that going?

Since then I have been pretty good.

What makes you a good boyfriend?

Time. I think, as time passes, you learn from your mistakes. It sounds cheesy, but when it comes to relationships, I have already grown up.

I’m glad. I think we should all work on this in the future. Speaking of the future, or rather about the “art of the future”, NFTs - you already have fingers in the game, correct?

Correct, “me in gold”. Sold for 1,3 million. I only played along because I respect the artists a lot. It was for an art gallery in Estonia. Actually I’m not really into the whole NFT and AI thing. Physical art is more of my thing. I like what people can make, not computers. I find that somehow boring. People teach computers to think like people and then they run on some sort of a god complex. That’s why we, people, are much cooler than computers. I don’t get this “virtual art”. There are other advancements which interest me more.

Like, for example, the future of mobility? What does it look like for you?

I have thought about this already. I’d like to get a horse and a carriage and use it as my only way of transport. I live in Tallinn. The distance between places there is manageable, it could work. Horses are a greener solution than fossil fuels or lithium batteries. We focus so much on the future, that we often forget what used to already work very well in the past.

What is public transport like in Tallinn?

It’s pretty good. You can easily get to most places with a tram, trolley or a bus. But there is a lot of construction work going on, the streets are dug over. You can barely get from point A to point B. You need to ride around the whole city. But this does not affect me that much, because I’m a homebody. When I’m not traveling for work, I like staying home and being comfortable. But the people there make an effort to use public transport more. This is good. For the planet.

Like your horse carriage! I’d like to grill you a bit more about your viral moments at Paris Fashion Week. Which outfits, looks, characters were your favorites? How do you even call it?

So some people call it “performance art”, but i just say “outfit”. Sounds better. My favorites? They are all number one. But I can pick a top three for you: paparazzi, bed and the muscle suit. They really stick to your memory. There are, however, looks which were not posted in full. Even more shocking ones. One time I went naked, but as a lady. I just changed a body part.

I’m asking myself which one. Did it hurt?

No, it’s back to the way it was, so all is good.

That’s reassuring. How do you even come up with these outfits?

Mostly because of boredom. Everyone looks the same at shows. Like mannequins. For us, these events are like masquerades. We want to make them exciting ourselves. At the end of the day, we go to these shows to be seen. Paris Fashion Week wasn’t really Paris Fashion Week, but it was “Tommy’s Fashion Week”because we just appeared everywhere. You could not miss us. That was so fun.

Appearances, album, shoots, releases, tour, …With everything that’s going on with you right now: Are you not crazy stressed?

It’s so stressful, all the time. Sometimes I forget everything and then I’m happy. But most of the time I am only stressed. There is always something I’m working on. And everything happens at the same time.

How do you deal with it? Do you have any tips on how to chill out?

You can’t really chill out fully. I would have to be a guru or a pope to rest on my own. I can’t do that. But I would simply say to try to live more in the moment and don’t forget to have fun. Even if this is something I’m still bad at.

I hope that this too will get better with time for you. That leads us back to the catchphrase “better future” and of course you as a human train. [The producer is standing at the door and pointing at her clock] Tommy, I wish you lots of fun during the rest of the shoot!

#sorry for any mistakes #none of these languages is my native one lol #tommy cash

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