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cambria-writes · 2 years

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hello!

totally forgot to update here last week. woops!

word count: 2,607 rating: T, each chapter rated individually warnings: swearing, afab original character, second person pov, i don’t think there’s anything but please lmk! previousnext

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕾𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓: 𝔖𝔲𝔩𝔭𝔥𝔲𝔯

You wake up too early. Grab your phone, heart jumps in your throat. There's a message from Patrick Jane. Almost forget to check the time. No one who got shot should be up at seven in the morning. Resign yourself to your fate; probably wouldn't be able to go back to sleep if you wanted to.

Getting up and opening the curtains is a harder task than it has any right to be. Your left thigh smarts something awful. Your arms are still covered in red and purpling marks. Peekaboo's claws, though pretty blunt, still packed a small punch.

Showering this morning means wiping yourself down with a soapy rag and washing your hair in the sink. Despite everything, you don't actually look like too much shit. Wash your face. Pick some baggy sweatpants and an old band shirt.

Look at the time on the microwave. Almost eight. Time for coffee, then.

You make a point to avoid your phone.

You sink into your couch with a mug of coffee. (Black, two spoonfuls of sugar.) Pull your laptop back into your lap, turn the TV on for background noise. Some morning show or whatever.

You spend the better part of your morning googling the CBI agents you saw yesterday for lack of anything better to do.

Jane's enjoying a cup of tea on his Couch when his phone rings in his pocket. Bemused, he answers without looking at the caller ID.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Benraft?"

Lisbon looks at him like he's grown a second head. 'Skye?', she mouths. He nods patiently.

"Really? ...I see. No, nothing to worry about. I was just curious, you know how that goes." Weaves a coin through his fingers. "Well, I'm not at liberty to say right now. Have you tried reading your cards for it yet?"

Lisbon's expression is that of defeat. Throws her arms up and declares that she has better things to do than wait around for him to schedule a date. Or whatever the hell it is he's actually doing. She walks out with a huff.

Jane places his teacup and saucer on his desk and slowly gets up.

"Listen, I need you to do something for me. Can you go check your mail?"

You count your blessings when the elevator actually works. You would probably have cried if you had to walk down the stairs to the apartment lobby. Collect your mail when you get there, but don't look at it right there. As instructed. Limp back to the elevator, back to your apartment. Lock, chain and bolt it shut.

Your hands shake. This is ridiculous. You were asked to go get and check your mail for anything odd or out of place. Commonplace shit. No reason to get all up in arms about it. No reason for your pulse to be as fluttery as it is.

Jesus, you might be becoming an adrenaline junkie. Bad news.

Shake your head, go back to the couch. Most of the mail is spam. Adverts for local eateries, something about a chimney sweep. (Whose bright idea was it to leave a pamphlet for a chimney sweeper in an apartment complex?) A phone bill, a letter without a return address, a delivery slip from the nearest post office, and a letter from a friend in North Carolina.

Honestly, nothing much out of the ordinary there. More paper than you usually get on a Saturday (or is it Sunday? Does it matter?) but otherwise perfectly normal. Until you get to the letter with no return address. You discover it's sealed with yellow washi tape at the back. For some reason, it puts ice in your veins.

Your Millennial Instincts dictate that you should take pictures of the front and back and send them to Mr Jane. The message takes a while to send, but when it does you toss your phone on the couch to your right. What the hell. You throw the letter on the coffee table in front of you. Burry it under newspapers, flyers, opened and unopened mail. Do your best to forget about the nasty feeling it leaves you with.

Doesn't take five minute for your phone to vibrate with a message. Another five and you're dressed and clambering into a dusty blue Citroen.

You can't catch a break. Little less than two hours later and you're back at the CBI. Brought the strange letter with you, handed it off to Agent Lisbon. Hands it off to a lab tech to see if they can get prints off it.

You are very acutely aware that literally everyone is playing this down. Keep hearing that It's No Big Deal and It's Probably Nothing and Just A Prank. You believe exactly none of it. Mr Jane's countenance is enough to set you off. Everyone else's expressions are just confirmation.

Wow, they're all really shitty liars. Makes you feel a little better, maybe.

Agent Van Pelt takes you to one of the interrogation rooms. Reassures you, says it's just for some privacy. Not that you care, really. It's all whatever at this point.

"Jane mentioned he found yellow tape on the back of your shoulder yesterday. Do you remember anything about that?" Silently thank whatever deity for Van Pelt's soft spoken voice. Doesn't do much, but calms your nerves a little bit. Takes the edge off.

Play with your fingernails on the table. You frown at your hands. Try to remember. "I mean, not really? It might have been one of the EMTs, or maybe the nurse at the hospital. Those are the only people I can remember touching me at all. But that's..."

You trail off. Don't need to say it; Grace's expression tells you what you need to know. You clear your throat, scoot closer to the table to lean on it.

"Look, I know this isn't a super good situation I'm in, but no one's telling me shit about it. I'm assuming I'm like, a target or something? Right?"

Van Pelt frowns. Hit the nail on the head, then. You sigh. Your breathing is shakier than you'd like it to be.

"Why though? I mean, this is just. This is unreal!" You toss your hands out, leans back into the chair. "Just yesterday I was /shot at/ because I happened to recognize a kidnapped dog, and now I'm being target by, like. By what? Another serial killer?"

"We don't have any confirmed murders yet," Grace offers quietly. But that just seals it; you are effectively being targeted by another crazy person.

Cross your arms and run your hand through your hair. Not sure if you feel like screaming or just not breathing. You heart feels like it's thumping away in your throat. Wait, no, you definitely feel like crying.

"You're going to be fine, Skye," agent Van Pelt offers, extending her hand to you, palm on the table. "We'll find who's doing this and we'll keep you safe."

Scoff. "Yeah? What about the other people this creep's been after? What are they even doing?"

Silence. Great. Perfect. It's not murder, but it's something that no one seems to be comfortable saying out loud. Just great. Lean forward, elbows on the table and face in your hands.

You hear the door open, blinds rattling. Agent Van Pelt puts a warm hand on your shoulder before getting up and leaving. Someone else takes her place. Take a deep breath and look up. A mug of steaming tea in placed in front of you.

You don't stop yourself from crying.

"You're wondering why you." It's not a question, but Jane lets you nod before continuing. Gallant. He takes a moment before answering. You stared through the mug. "Most likely to taunt the CBI," he shrugs a shoulder.

You want so badly to be angry at his nonchalance. Just don't have it in you. Take a sip of the tea. It's nearly scalding, but drinkable. Chamomile; figures. What a jerk.

"What..." Deep breath. Compose yourself to try and avoid sobbing. "What exactly has this person been doing?"

Again, thick discomfort. Not so much in Mr Jane's expression as it just hangs in how tense you both are. You expect the answer when he says it.

"Kidnapper and rapist." Choke on a... something. Not quite a sob, not quite a scream. His voice is quiet when he continues. "She keeps them in a remote location. We found one of her escaped victims a few weeks ago. By the time we went to investigate she'd already emptied the place and moved on. The victim had signs of being tortured."

"Oh my god." You repeat yourself. Again. And again. Your hands shake horribly. Tea spills onto your fingers. Breath quickens. You know this is a panic attack; you know your thoughts are spiralling and repeating themselves but.

But the release of it feels like something you need.

You promptly lose consciousness to Jane trying to calm you down.

You're on a beach.

You have no memory of getting there. And you honestly have no idea which beach it is. You don't remember ever seeing something like it. The shore runs for miles on either side of you. Cliffs behind you. A small cabin on the edge, just behind you. Steps carved into the stone of the cliffside.

Your feet dig into the sand as you make your way to the first stone step. The ascension is steep and tedious. You're winded by the time you make it to the top. The view is... Strange. You can see the curvature of the earth, but it's too pronounced.

Take out the phone in your back pocket. Check the time. 11:28AM. Look at the horizon. Back at the time. It's completely illegible.

Alright. You're dreaming. Good to know.

The cabin is entirely made of logs and looks nearly perfectly square. The front door has a small circular window in it. A small lantern with a lit flame hangs up to the right. It casts a strange gleam on the brass doorknob.

Take a deep breath. This is just a dream.

Probably.

Knock three times. No answer. Knock again and call out. No answer. Find the door unlock when you turn the knob. Open the door as you normally would.

Thirteen women stare at you, eyes white and mouths agape. Let go of the doorknob, spin on your heels to run.

A woman stands directly in front of you. A yellow bandana covers most of her face. All you can see are her near-black eyes. She grabs you by the shoulders. Fingers dig into the flesh of your biceps.

You can't scream.

You wake up digging your heels into a mattress and shoving yourself backwards. Straight off a table and into someone's chest. Scream and try to fight arms away, end up landing (painfully) on the floor.

The arms won't leave. Feels like there are too many hands grabbing at your. Too many to fight off and there's just—

Ice cold water in your face. Down your neck, your back, covering your scalp. Gasp for air, sit up, try and wipe the water off your face. Comb through your hair to get it out of your face. Finally take in your surroundings.

"I-I'm sorry I didn't know what else to do." Mr Jane take a knee next to you. Hovers uncertainly, arms out to help without knowing how.

"It's fine, Jesus, I'm sorry, did I hurt you? Oh. Fuck, shit." Reach a hand to his left cheek. Red, already swelling a little. "Oh god I'm so sorry, you need ice on that--"

Motion to get up, but a hand on your shoulder keeps you sitting on the wooden floor. Jane stares at you intently. Alright, then; uncertainty out the window, it seems.

"I'm fine, Skye. Are you okay?" The genuine concern confuses you. Frown, but nod.

"I mean my lungs feel like they're about to fuckin'. Combust. But wait nevermind I dreamt about something doyouhavepaperandapencil?"

The words spill out of your mouth all at once and you trip over yourself at least twice. A paper and pen are provided to you.

Unfocus your eyes, hunch over the paper and start sketching. The cabin, the cliffside, the steps. The sandy shore. And, as best you can, try to draw the woman's eyes. The small knick in her left brow. The crows' feet. The bandana. Scrawl the numbers 1128 somewhere in a corner.

Mr Jane stays quiet the entire time. You can almost feel him frowning at you. Straighten your back when you're done. After a second, add an arrow pointing to the bandana and quickly write 'yellow'.

Mr Jane stands so quickly it nearly makes you jump out of your skin.

"That's what you dreamt of?" Points at the face; what little you could draw of it.

"Yeah, it was. There was a cabin and I walked in and there were so many women? There weren't dead but they kind of. They felt dead? And when I turned around and this is who was there are she grabbed my upper arms—"

You grab a spot high on your bicep and wince. Freeze for a moment, pull your collar down to see. You don't need to see the four other bruises to know they're also there.

There's a neat, thumb-sized bruise just near the inside of your arm.

You stay upstairs with Jane for a while. Gets you a bottle of water rather than tea. You appreciate it; the cold water is much more satisfying. Lets you calm your nerves before going down to see Lisbon with your rough sketch.

It's not spoken but it's understood between the lot of you. On the spot, dreaming of a wanted criminal is strange. Extremely out of the ordinary. But once you start thinking about it as you slowly walk down the stairs to the main office space for the CBI, you can see the logic and reason behind it.

You met the woman yesterday. That much is certain. And she most likely directly mailed the letter to you as well. (Which, unfortunately, didn't seem to have any trace of a print or DNA whatsoever.) Maybe your subconscious mind figured out which EMT or nurse it was. If they had a face mask on you /would/ only remember the eyes. Might have even recognized her as a threat without consciously registering it.

Which would then explain why you dreamt of her.

Still, it's uncanny how you dreamt of the exact amount of women who were taken. Try not to think too hard about that.

Sit down at the far left end of the old leather couch. Nurse your water bottle slowly. Try not to pay too much attention to what agent Lisbon is talking about, or the odd glances you get from agents Rigsby and Cho.

Toe off your shoes and pull your feet up on the couch. Hug your knees. When you moved out to Cali this is not the life you thought you'd signed up for. Sigh and play with the bottle cap.

Mr Jane sits net to you, blue teacup and saucer in hand.

"Did you ever visit that log cabin?" Doesn't look at you when he asks.

Shake your head. "I've only ever been to public beaches." You look at Jane's wrist for the time. Nearly 4PM. How long were you out?

Jane hums. You can almost see where this is going.

"Lisbon!" Puts his cup on his desk. "Call me if you need us." Extends his hand to you.

You pray you won't spend hours on the road again, but take it regardless.

𝓣𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽

@fucklife-or-me @yearningforsappho

Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged next time!

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scripted-downfall · 1 year

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umm could i ask what do you think about the famous "winchester codepency" ? really want to hear your answer since you have nice posts about supernatural, but it's fine if you don't want to answer.

Yeah, no problem! (And thank you for the kind words! It's been a rough couple of weeks --- months, really --- so it's nice to hear... thank you :) )

I will say: I'm not an expert in psychology, but I'm pretty sure that the term "codependency" is usually being used in a context that changes its meaning from its denotation. Most times I've seen it used, people mean it more as Person A and Person B are both unhealthily dependent on each other and less, as I understood it the term: a one-sided relationship in which Person A enables Person B's self-destructive behavior at their own detriment. Honestly, I think the latter definition is usually more applicable. However, there are elements of both --- and, honestly, they've got a fusion of the two going, so separating them isn't necessarily beneficial --- so I'll worry less about terms than about giving my thoughts as well as I can.

I don't think people who've looked at my blog will be at all surprised to hear that I think that the relationship is very one-sided in Sam's favor... but I also pride myself on tending towards objectivity, so I'll even say that it's unhealthy for both of them. Indeed, half of their conflict stems from the results of this; Dean was raised with the maxim of protect Sammy (and the slightly less important follow-up of protect everyone else too), so he did... and this means that he tends to base his self-worth around his success at those things. This also means that Sam's been very sheltered for a lot of his life --- as much as Dean could manage --- so he's repeatedly shown hating things that emphasize his age (visible in the flashbacks that show him eager to know secrets and go hunt, "Sammy is a chubby twelve-year-old; it's Sam.", so on and so forth) and is overall shown as being on a quest to prove that he doesn't need that level of protection. It also means --- since he's been raised as the protected one of the family --- that he has a tendency to act as though he's right in any given situation, even when he's not. And since John's rarely if ever present (or dead, depending on when in canon we're talking), and Dean's got his life based around Sam, that lesson isn't really unlearned most of the time. When it is, it only feeds into his desire to prove that he's capable/not the one who needs to be protected, and the cycle repeats.

This isn't healthy for either one --- albeit in different ways --- even when they're both intact. A lot of the time, these instincts are at cross-purposes. Dean's over-protectiveness rankles Sam's sense of independence; Sam's desire to leave in turn injures Dean. Or, at other times, one is forced to pick between what's best for them and what satisfies their instincts (e.g. Sam gives an ultimatum about Benny and Dean cuts off --- pun unintended; sorry folks --- one of the few healthy relationships he has; Sam can't lose Dean, so he goes through with trying to take off the Mark, and this means that Charlie dies and, subsequently, the Darkness is released; etc).

And that's just if the status quo is intact; when the other dies, this codependency can't be maintained. Dean's got his entire life built around the idea of protect Sammy, but he can't protect Sammy if Sammy is dead. (And, if Sammy is dead, he obviously had to screw up somehow, so clearly he's gotta fix it.) Thus, he sells his soul. Thus, he is probably willing to make a deal (though he doesn't have to since Michael already intervened). Thus, he gets Walt/Roy to kill him, too. Thus, he makes a bad decision and sticks by it. Thus, he kills himself to negotiate with a reaper. Because if he doesn't... Sam's gone. And Sam can't be gone. He's the certainty, the one who's gotta be protected. The sole exception to this is "Swan Song", when Sam has actively asked him to try and move past the tendency to sacrifice --- themselves and others --- for each other... and even then he's Very Unhappy (cue drinking, guilt, PTSD, so on and so forth).

Sam, meanwhile --- through his afore-described a) desire to not be treated like he's a child and b) tendency to assume he's right --- kinda flies off the handle. It's not a consistent flies off the handle --- by which I mean, how he goes a bit bonkers changes from time to time --- but he always does. Usually, it's in a violent way, though that isn't always true (see: Purgatory). In "Mystery Spot", he's desperate to bring back his brother; he spirals into borderline psychopathy in an effort to do so, and is shown to --- at least to some degree --- care less about potential collateral damage. When Dean went to Hell (and, thus, getting his brother himself back seems like an impossibility), he a) finds a figure from whom to seek approval (thus fulfilling the desire to be right and recognized as such) and b) starts drinking demon blood (thus fulfilling his desire to be powerful/not need protection). When Metatron kills Dean, it's not yet impossible for him to be brought back, so Sam immediately becomes willing to make a deal with Crowley; when Dean's already back but they're still separate, Sam snaps back into violent self-assuredness (e.g. being willing to get Lester to sell his soul, etc.) The sole exceptions are when Dean goes to Purgatory and the finale death... and these seem to largely be an exception from the rule, or due to an explanation I haven't yet devised. (Though it does bear mentioning that the latter has him still getting as close to his brother as he can by sitting in Baby.) I might have more to say about this whenever I get there, but for now they must remain in a sub-category.

(It occurred to me about halfway through this beast that you might have meant the term as a euphemism for W*ncest... if so, I, personally, don't ship it and never will --- frankly, their relationship is unhealthy enough as brothers, much less more --- but it's not something I ever really address in my posts.)

I hope that answers your question well! Those are just my thoughts --- and, while I hope they're coherent, I did just kinda word dump onto the page with what sprang to mind at the time... I might have forgotten to say something --- but I hope they seem accurate... Thanks for the ask!

#answered asks #scripted downfall asks answered #i always come when you call (sd)#anti wincest #only a bit but ya never know #anti sam winchester #only a bit #but look:#can ya blame me for being paranoid about tagging after last weekend?

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