#quick add it to the list of things aces think are better than sex:
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“The LAST thing I need is DIRTY, dirty ~SEX~ RUINING my BIRD time!”
this is the sex-repulsed, bird-loving ace representation I needed, thank you brennan
#quick add it to the list of things aces think are better than sex:#the mere existence of birds#make some noise#brennan lee mulligan#asexual
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The Fabled A-spec Post I Keep Saying I’ll Make
Since I’m p aro on sideblog + community terms are unknown to people outside the community (as well as those inside the community due to the wipeout exclusionism on the website circa 2016-onward) so I figured I’d make a quick post to let people know abt some of the things I’ll be referring to!
Terms
Allo: someone who is not a-spec; used in front of -romantic or -sexual (ex. alloromantic) or used as a descriptor (ex. I cannot believe everyone else here is allo)
A-spec / Aro-spec / Ace-spec: abbreviation for the spectrum; A-spec as an abbreviation for the entire spectrum, aro-spec as an abbreviation for the aro spectrum, and ace-spec as an abbreviation for the ace spectrum
-> a note: can be written as a-spec or aspec, but due to screen readers/ what I’ve seen dyslexic a-spec people discuss, I use a-spec. I am not dyslexic nor use a screen reader, so I cannot comment on this, and feel free to correct me if I’m wrong
Qpr/ qpp: queerplatonic relationship/ quasiplatonic relatonship; queerplatonic partner/ quasiplatonic partner. Qprs do not have a strict set of rules, and as such are hard to describe. They are not romantic nor sexual inherently, though one could be. A qpr can be committed, married, and non-romantic/ non-sexual; they can look like a romantic relationship; they can include sex and sexual elements; they can appear casual; they can be monogamous or polyamorous; they can occur at the same time as a romantic relationship. They’re very moldable. They are a relationship that, as it comes from the aro community, is not inherently romantic, but goes above and beyond traditional societal norms for friendship (though, friends can do everything a qpr does and not be in a relationship labeled as other than friends). To get a better understanding of qprs, I’d suggest looking into community resources and finding other posts a-spec blogs have made about them. AUREA, or aromantism.org, defines them as “A committed non-romantic relationship that goes beyond what is the subjective cultural norm for a friendship. Levels of intimacy and/or behaviors between the partners involved often don’t fit the conventional standards set by society. Some QPRs can include sex and elements that are generally considered romantic. In practice every queerplatonic relationship is different. Abbreviated to QPR, and queerplatonic (quasiplatonic) partner to QPP.”
Squish: a catch-all term for non-romantic and non-sexual attraction; commonly mistaken for a crush
-> a note: there are many other words for different types of attraction (plush for queerplatonic attraction, swish for aesthetic attraction, etc) but squish is a catch-all and used most often
Peach Fuzz: a qpr that pretends to be romantic/ dating for any reason
Zucchini: an old term that became uncommon after exclusionism became widespread; another way to refer to your partner in a QPR (ex. This is my zucchini!)
Amatonormitivity: The assumption that everyone is looking for a long-term romantic relationship; the assumption that romance, marriage, ‘partnering off’, etc, is the only path someone would want to follow in their life
Queerplatonic / quasiplatonic: an attraction that is ‘non traditional’ and not romantic or sexual. A hard to define attraction that is different than platonic attraction but not romantic or sexual
Aplatonic: Someone who does not experience platonic attraction; also a spectrum called the aplspectrum; can be used as an identifier (ex. demiplatonic, greyplatonic, etc)
SAM: the split attraction model, which serves to split types of attraction (ex. aroromantic and bisexual as two different terms used at the same time)
Non-SAM aro, ace, etc: commonly used as Non-SAM aro. People who don’t use the split attraction model (ex. only identifying as aro/ terms related to aro and not ace/ allosexual)
Oriented aroace: a term for people who are aroace who experience another type of attraction larger enough to label it (ex. Lesbian aroace, pan aroace, etc)
Angled aroace: a term for people who are on the a-spectrum (grey, demi, akoi, etc) and who experience a type of attraction that is not romantic or sexual, and feels significant enough for them to label it (ex. see above, angled omni aroace, angled gay aroace, etc)
Relationship anarchy: the belief that no relationship is better than another; instead of a pyramid of relationships, they’re all equal. Not specific to the community, but often discussed
Romance/ sex repulsed/ averse: someone who does not want romance/ sexual relationships/ actions taken towards them. This can go from feeling uncomfortable to getting triggered by these actions. One can be romance repulsed and not sex repulsed, or sex repulsed and not romance repulsed, or both
R/s indifferent: someone who does not care one way or the other about romance and/or sexual actions taken towards them. One might be unwilling to do romantic/sexual actions because they don’t care, or, on the other end of the spectrum, might do them anyway even though they do not feel any real want to. On a spectrum and can apply in any combination, like r/s repulsed.
R/s favorable: someone who likes romantic/ sexual actions and wants to do them. Again, on a spectrum, and in any combination, like the two above. They might seek out romantic/ sexual interactions, enjoy them, and want a romantic/ sexual relationship, despite not feeling romantic/ sexual attraction
-> a note: be careful! Sex negative and sex positive are used to refer to whether you support those who are sexual or not (ie. sex workers, those who are in sexual relationships, etc) instead of whether you specifically feel repulsed/ favorable. Don’t mix the terms up, as they mean two different things
Voidpunk: a section of punk morals/ aesthetic not unique to the aro community but coined in it. The practice of rejecting ones humanity and reclaiming their inhumanity, specifically only to be used by groups that people use inhuman against; a way to cope with dehumanization from oppressors. Not specific to the aro community (also used by poc, neurodivergent people, etc, and the intersection of multiple identities that are called ‘inhuman’) but popular inside it
Soft Romo: a term used for anyone but most often on the aro-spectrum; for people who like to perform stereotypical ‘romantic’ gestures such as dating, etc. without wanting the high-energy kissing, holding hands, etc. A ‘low-level romantic relationship’, where performing high-level romance is not preferred or just not possible due to different aspects.
-> let me know if there’s anything you would like me to add/ explain!
Symbols
[ID: an image of two hands, palm up. The right hand is on the left, and the left hand is on the right. They are resting on a dark grey blanket, and there is a light blue rug behind them. On the middle finger of the right hand there is a black ring. On the middle finger of the left hand there is a white, almost transparent, ring. End ID]
Black ring: a symbol of the ace-spec community. Worn on the right hand, middle finger. A way of identification/ pride in public w/o displaying flags
White ring: a symbol of the aro-spec community. Worn on the left hand, middle finger. A way of identification/ pride in public w/o displaying flags
Cake: a symbol commonly used in the ace community, either as a joke (ex. This cake is better than sex!/ Cake will always be better than sex) or as a symbol
Arrow: a symbol commonly used in the aro community, drawing on the way the words ‘arrow’ and ‘aro’ sound the same. Similar themes (archers, bow and arrow, etc) can also be used
Ace card symbol: the ace of a card deck, commonly used as a symbol in the ace community. While the card usage isn’t often discussed, I’ve found sources discussing each meaning; Ace of hearts-> alloace; Ace of spades-> aroace; Ace of diamonds-> the ace spectrum Ace of clubs-> questioning. Draws on ‘ace’ and ‘ace’ word play; also used in jokes (ex. I have an ace up my sleeve/ Aced it!)
Yellow roses: a symbol commonly used in the aro community. Symbolizes friendship, using the symbolism in the yellow rose
Purple/ Green: the colors in the ace / aro flags, respectively
Yellow: the ‘color of friendship’. Commonly connected to yellow roses.
-> a note: there are many more symbols in each community; space ace, frogs for aros, griffins, dragons, etc. I’d suggest looking up symbols and finding some more yourself! These are just some common ones I have seen frequently
That’s all I can think of right now, but if anyone would like me to add on things / explain more my ask box is always open and I am always willing to edit. People in the a-spec community, please feel free to comment/ correct things/ add on things you feel like I’ve missed! While I did not do a list of identities, I did not want to leave out identities that are lesser known/ made fun of. Again, my ask box is open. I linked AUREA (linked to the FAQ) above earlier (linked to the home page), which is a great site for the aro community if anyone would like to know more.
#a spec wiggenstaffz#shiny's stone of farspeech#I’m dropping this post then disappearing my head is like wowoowwwhhauuughhhahahhh#let me know if y have any questions + corrections!#this ofc is ok to rn#rb*#much of this relates back to my thundermen but qpps n rainer hcs don’t test me I have the power
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Head, shoulders, knees, and toes, but don’t forget ankles
Got to my first request! The next few will be coming this week. Thanks for requesting and being patient. I love you all!
Summary: Y/N has been a pogue for only a few months. Keeping up with the pogues meant spending time with JJ and knowing all about his hook ups all around the island. JJ and y/n had no trouble admitting the other was attractive, but left it at that. It isn’t until JJ notices something on y/n body that surprised both of them.
A/N: I apologize again for the terrible writing. I’ve only started writing again after a few years. I’m sorry if you don’t enjoy it, I’m trying. Also not my gif! Credit is under the gif.
Warnings: smut, a bit of angst, swearing, un safe sex ( wrap it up kids), jewelry kink
Hanging out with the pogues came with a lot of advantages. You were always doing something fun and crazy, always in the know of everything going on around island. Keeping up with the pogues seemed liked a full-time job most days between all of John B’s spontaneous adventures and Pope freaking out about what you guys did the next morning. Sometimes you’d get a nice break when the boys would throw parties at the bone yard. Pogues, kooks, and tourons would flood to drink and have fun, especially with JJ Maybank. If it had a pulse, JJ would swarm to add that person to his body count. Kie had filled you in on each of the three boys when you met the group a few months ago, and almost everything she said has been proven right. JJ’s adventurous life style made it hard not to know where he’s been and everything he’s done. Whether you overheard conversations between him and John B, or the touron girls giggling in town over what they let JJ do to them the night before, you knew pretty much everything he was into. The list ranges from daddy kinks to choking, but nothing compared to the night you were trying to sleep on John Bs couch and you had to hear JJ pretending to be a vampire for over an hour. Your crush on JJ had been put to a stop after a few weeks of just listening to him talk. There was always some sassy banter between the two of you, with the occasional civil chats. You had no trouble admitting he was beautiful, but after knowing about every encounter, you decided you didn’t want to be another body count to JJ.
The pogues spent all say setting up for Pope’s surprise party. After all the shit he’s been through, JJ knowing the most, it seemed like the least everyone could do for him. For once, something was going right and smoothly for the pogues, not a trouble insight. Everything was ready to go until the power had gone out at the chateau.
“Can’t we have one nice thing?” Kie screamed into the air.
“It’s not that bad,” y/n said. “We have a few hours till the party. If we get a holder that is big enough and lots of ice, we can keep the food and drinks cool until we make it onto the beach.”
“Easier said than done,” JJ mumbled.
“Do you have a better idea?” y/n yelled in JJ’s face.
“Ok that’s enough you two,” John B interfered. “If one of you messes up Pope’s big night I’m dumping you at the Crain house and you’re walking back. Kie and I will head out for the supplies, and you two will stay here and get your shit together before Pope arrives.”
John B was the voice of reason in this group, and you hated it when he was right. You’ll just have to wait until he leaves to get a few good passes at JJ. Kie and John B had left 30 minutes ago, and with no AC and no breeze from the beach, the chateau was burning up. JJ was already shirtless, sitting on the floor, sweat droplets already running down his abs. JJ and Pope had a nice mid-section on them, but no other abs in the OBX can compare to JJs.
JJ was about to absolutely lose it. It’s a billion degrees in here and he’s stuck with y/n. Just when he thinks he’s starting to like her she has something to say. He’s found her arrival into the group difficult. This is not what he had in mind when Kie said she’s be brining a new girl into the group. He was busy daydreaming when he noticed y/n in the corner of his eyes. She was down to nothing but her bathing suit now. He’d seen her in her suit plenty of times by now but as he watched her shift, his eyes landed on her ankle.
“Is that new?” JJ’s mind asked him.
His eyes grew wide on that shiny material wrapped around y/n’s ankle. It looked so right on her thin ankle, connected to long tan legs. JJ had eyes, he knows y/n isn’t exactly ugly, but something went off in his head seeing her leg pointed up as she laid on her bank, keeping his eyes on her ankle.
“Hey-y y/n?” JJ stuttered. “What’s that on your ankle?’
“This?” y/n pointed. “It’s an ankle bracelet, you know a bracelet that you wear on your ankle.”
Normally this kind of response would’ve riled JJ up, but this time it went right over his head.
“Have you always worn that? It looks different? Does Kie or Sarah wear one because I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen one before,” JJ rambled.
“You’ve had to of seen dozens on all your touron girls,” y/n snapped.
“I’m pretty sure I would’ve noticed on before, but if you must know, I’m not really looking there most of the time,” JJ smirked.
“We live on an island, I’m pretty sure you’ve seen one before JJ.”
Without warning JJ scooted over and sat down in front of you.
“I know what it is y/n, it just looks different on you,” JJ said as he began to play with the piece around your ankle.
“I like it on you. It’s different,” he said softly.
“This is another one of your weird kinks isn’t it?” y/n asked in disgust.
“Y/n, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous,” JJ said.
“If I was jealous, I could’ve had you from the moment I met you,” y/n said confidently.
The room was now quiet. JJ hadn’t said anything else, which made the tension worse. He was just staring at you, up and down. He started to move, lowering his head to your feet.
“W-what are you doing?”, y/n asked.
“Proving you right, that you could’ve had me from the start,” JJ said.
JJ grabbed your ankle and began kissing on and around your bracelet. This was definitely a first for you, but there was something about the feeling of the cold metal and JJs lips on you. He paid more attention to your ankle and began working his way up to your inner thigh. Your hands made their way to JJ’s hair as he licked up and down your things. JJ’s head was in between your legs and you couldn’t fucking believe it. In just your swimsuit bottoms, you could feel JJ’s breath close to your core.
“JJ,” y/n whined.
“I know baby, me too,” JJ smirked.
JJ’s hands were circling all around your stomach and core. You made the deepest eye contact with him than you ever have before. It was a sweet moment between pogues in the midst of all the sex. You could feel his hand inching closer into your swimsuit bottoms, giving him the nod to proceed. JJ’s hand landed on you, all soaked and trembling. You knew JJ was skilled from all the chatter, but you can’t believe how much he’s affected you with so little.
“If you must know y/n, I never spend this much time,” JJ said as he kept his hands on your core.
“It’s always a quick tap and bounce. I never take the time to get them this worked up.”
“You know what the say JJ, hate sex is great sex,” y/n whined.
As JJ was working his hands and tongue all over your body, he still couldn’t believe that you were under him like this, that after all the name calling and bickering fights, a tiny ankle bracelet connected the two of you like this.
“I’m going to have to declare John B’s no pogue on pogue macking rule void for now, I need to be in you y/n”, JJ whined.
With both you fully naked now, there was only one thing to left. Both JJ and y/n could feel the sweat of each other, feel the hot air only made hotter by your activities, and especially JJ’s hot breath as he whispered into y/ns ear.
“I always thought you were beautiful. I was so excited when Kie brought you into the group, and then it all went downhill. I think we all know you threw the first insult so you have to continue to make it up to me baby,” JJ commanded.
So close to your entrance, something didn’t feel right to JJ.
“Not so fast baby. I’m going to need you to lift your left ankle up and keep it on my shoulder. Don’t move it until I tell you,” JJ ordered.
Upon placing your ankle on JJ’s shoulder, he slammed right into y/n, causing her to moan louder than JJ had ever heard before. Her nails were tearing up JJ’s back and shoulders as he was tearing into her.
“Every, thrust, is -for -all -the- times -I- wish, you were nicer to me,” JJ said in between breaths.
JJ was on cloud nine. Between your moans, letting him control you, and the sound of your ankle bracelet on his shoulder every time he thrusted harder, this has been the happiest he’s felt in a long time.
“JJ!”, y/n yelled, Y/n really didn’t know what to say. JJ was so rough but caring at the same time, lasting more than you thought. He was really taking care of you, unlike that random kook that was your first time a few months ago.
“Oh god y/n! I don’t know how much more I can last. I need you to finish with me!” JJ yelled as he brought his hands now to your clit.
“JJ my god, please don’t stop,” y/n yelled into the crook of JJ’s neck.
Before either of you knew it, JJ was spilling into you, your release onto his cock following. Pure, raw JJ has been in you in several ways today, dare you say your soul as well. Still in disbelief even after JJ pulled out of you, you stared into each other’s eyes as he laid on top of you.
“I’m not just saying this y/n, but that blew away every touron that I ever laid eyes on,” JJ complimented.
“You should know that I never hated you JJ. Moving here and not knowing anything about the future was the scariest thing I’ve ever done. It seemed easy to hate you because then at least I knew where you stood. Although I’m not sure what to think about that ankle bracelet kink,” y’n laughed.
“Well I hope we can change things between us,” JJ said cupping your face.
“I’d really like that,” y/n smiled into JJ’s neck.
“And I’d like it to” a feminine voice was heard from the back.
JJ and y/n turned around bright red to see Kie and John B by the door, grabbing each other’s faces.
“I’d like it to, so much,” John B said to Kie, clearly making fun of his friends.
“But seriously, we’d like it if you would put on some clothes, just imagine if it was Pope that caught you, “John B said.
Both you and JJ laughed at your friends reaction, getting dressed and following them out to the beach, into the first night where you and JJ wouldn’t hate each other.
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Ilia Amitola has captured the mind and heart of certain parts of the internet. She certainly seems well suited for adventure, given her storied backstory and her usage with the White Fang. But if we’re going to set her Dungeoning and Dragoning, we’ve got to come up with a good series of goals for her.
Fortunately for us, while Ilia may be a complicated character emotionally she’s relatively simple from a mechanical perspective. Sneakery and agility is our primary objective with this young lady, accompanied and abetted by her crafty skinshifting. Oh, and there’s the whip--an electric stunning swordywhip thing that needs to be able to zap and stop. Personally I’d also say she needs to dominate the dance floor--not anything strictly canon, but just a headcanon of mine. All that said, let’s get to it.
Point arrays are standard for good reasons, so we’ll take the standard option and put a 15 in Dexterity--very good at the hopping and the hiding. Wisdom will be next with 14 points, Ilia has a very good internal compass even if she supresses it sometimes. Intelligence and Charisma are at 13 and 12 respectively--she’s had an education, and she can be a good speaker when she doesn’t get emotionally tongue-tied. Constitution has ten points, because she looks pretty healthy all things considered, but strength is at eight--Ilia’s kind of small, which is good for sneaking but bad for lobbing boulders at peeps.
For any 5E aficionado, you’re probably thinking we’re going to make Ilia a Changeling. And... you’d be right! This gives her +2 to her Charisma (upping it to 14) and +1 to her Dexterity (upping it to 16). She also gets two skill proficiencies out of a list of four; I picked Insight and Persuasion, since she’s not really that good at Intimidating people and she’ll be getting Deception from somewhere else. Changelings are good at language, automatically knowing Common and two other languages of their choice; I’m guess that stint in Atlas taught Ilia the esoteric languages of Legalese and Technobabble. And then there’s the big reason we picked Changeling...
Okay, quick side note here: When I construct these things, I look for ‘closest fit,’ not ‘one-hundred percent exact.’ Ilia Amitola can change her skin color, hair color, and eye color. Changelings are full-on shapeshifters--sex, size, apparent species, if they see you they can mimic you to a hundred percent. Doesn’t affect clothes, mind, but the point is D&D Ilia is going to be a touch more potent than RWBY Ilia, if you decide to use her that way. This is a role-playing game, not a rule-playing game. Mmkay? Mmkay.
For Background, I dug around a bit and found the Secret Identity background from the Adventurer’s League. And frankly it’s practically built for Ilia: pretending to be an Ordinary Human in the land of Racist Humans Who Hate Nonhumans. She gets proficiency with Deception, Stealth, Forgery Kits, and Disguise Kits, as well as the feature ‘Secret Identity.’ Meet Aili Alotima, a definitely totally normal human who does not, we assure you, have any skill at forging legal documents she has seen before, and has a totally real history you can absolutely check if you’re curious. (And if you believed that sentence, Ilia is going to be wondering exactly why she needed to go to the effort to trick the laws in the first place.)
And now we get to classes. I’m sure you were all expecting twelve levels in Thief Rogue, but I’m pretty certain you’ll all be surprised by the eight levels in Kensei Monk. Well, most of you, anyway. Some of you? Look, Monks are a pretty agile class, and Kensei monks specifically come with a few things that will be crucial to Ilia’s build.
But before we get to that, we have to get to Ilia’s Ability Score Improvements. Twelve Rogue levels and eight Monk levels give her a total of six. Every ASI can be used to either get two ability points or burned to get a feat; we’ll be using half of them to add two points to Wisdom and three to Intelligence (upping them both to sixteen) and one to Dexterity (making it 17--don’t worry, that’ll get patched soon). The remaining three points will be burned for feats--Acrobat, Skulker, and Magic Initiate.
Acrobats gain proficiency in the Acrobatic skill, and +1 to their Dexterity--so now Ilia has a full Dexterity of 18. And, as a bonus action, she can make a DC 15 acrobatics check to ignore difficult terrain till the end of the turn. Skulkers are extra good at sneaking, being able to hide when lightly obscured, suffer no sight penalties in dim light, and their location isn’t revealed even when they miss with a ranged weapon. Not that Ilia uses a gun, mind, but she’s pretty good at the whole shadow-hopping thing, so that’s nifty.
Magic initiates, though, choose a caster class and pick two cantrips and a first level spell from their list. They can only cast the spell once per long rest, but we’re really only here for the cantrips (which can be cast at any time and scale based on total character level). Lightning Lure drags a target from fifteen feet away up to ten feet closer and does some shocking damage if they wind up within five feet--perfect for some zappery dragging. And Sword Burst is great if you want to knock back enemies right up next to you--they have to roll a Dexterity save or take a hit from Ilia twirling a sharp metal rope around herself. As to the first-level spell... well, Longstrider increases a target’s speed by ten feet for an hour, and it can be cast on self. Ilia is really, really mobile, so...
Rogues get proficiencies with Dexterity and Intelligence saving throws, Thieves’ Tools, Light Armor, Simple Weapons, Hand Crossbows, Rapiers, Short Swords, and Long Swords. They also get four skill proficiencies--Athletics, Perception, Performance, and Sleight of Hand fit Ilia the most. And with twelve levels of Rogue, she’s really benefiting from a life of skullduggery--Expertise in four skills (Acrobatics, Deception, Persuasion, and Stealth), Reliable Talent in every other skill she’s trained in, and Thieves’ Cant for reading and writing secret messages to those who don’t want to be seen. And of course Sneak Attack, which means she deals an extra 6d6 damage on ranged or finesse attacks, as long as she either has advantage or her target is being flanked.
And then there’s all the mobility options being a Rogue, and a Thief Rogue specifically, gives Ilia. Uncanny Dodge to half damage on an incoming attack as a reaction, Evasion to possibly neutralize damage from any Dexterity-Save based attack, Second-Story work that makes her climb speed equal to her land speed (as well as adding her Dex bonus to her jump distance), and Supreme Sneak gives advantage on Stealth checks if she moves only half her speed (which, with her Monk levels, is going to be pretty fast).
And of course, there’s Cunning Action. As a bonus action, Ilia can Dash (take an extra movement action), Disengage (avoid attacks of opportunity for the round), Hide (make a stealth check to, well, hide), and Aim (give herself advantage on her next attack if she hasn’t moved this turn). Being a Thief Rogue gives her Fast Hands, which means she can also use her cunning action to Use An Object, use her Thieves’ tools, or make a Sleight of Hand check. Mobile and able to exploit that mobility? It’s no surprise the Belladonna’s need better security.
But all that is defensive mobility and sneakery. If we want to talk about Ilia’s attack capability, we need to talk about her eight levels in Kensei Monk. Sure, being a Monk in general does give her some bonus mobility--her Unarmored Defense means her AC is ten plus her Dexterity and Wisdom modifiers while not wearing armor (so 17), her Unarmored movement gives her a bonus to her base speed while not wearing armor (+15 at level 8), her Slow Fall allows her to reduce falling damage by a total of five times her monk level as a reaction (that’d be 40 points), and her Evasion... is actually exactly the same as her evasion she’d get as a rogue, so that doesn’t stack.
Martial Arts gives Ilia a few benefits: she can choose to use Dexterity instead of Strength for unarmed attacks or attacks with monk weapons, the attacks do 1d6 base damage instead of their standard form, and if she takes an attack action she can make one unarmed attack as a bonus action. Speaking of which, Extra Attack lets her make two attacks per attack action, Ki-Empowered Strikes mean her unarmed attacks count as magical for the purposes of overcoming resistance and immunity to nonmagic damage, and Stillness of mind allows her to use an action to shake off being Charmed or Frightened. And that’s all before we talk about Ki features or anything regarding Kensei Monks specifically.
Monks get Ki points equal to their monk level, which regenerate on a short or long rest, and can be spent for various actions. Options are added as the Monk levels up, both from standard sources and from their path; Flurry of Blows allows a Monk to make two unarmed attacks as a bonus action immediately after an attack, Patient Defense lets them take the Dodge action as a bonus action, and Step of the Wind doubles Jump distance and allows the monk to take the Dash or Disengage action as a bonus action. Then there’s Deflect Missiles--technically a free reaction to any incoming ranged attack that reduces the damage by 1d10+Dexterity Modifier+Monk Level (so 1d10+12 for Ilia), but if that reduces the damage to zero, a monk can spend a ki point to throw the projectile back as a ranged attack immediately. Stunning Strike can be used to try to Stun a character with a melee weapon attack, which lasts to the end of the next turn, and Deft Strike (the only Kensei-related Ki skill we’re getting) allows a monk to add an additional 1d6 damage to an attack with a weapon.
Which leads us to the whole reason I picked Kensei monk. See, Monk Weapons are specifically shortswords and any simple melee weapons that don't have the two-handed or heavy property. Which doesn’t include whips. But Kensei Monks have, as the foundation of the whole class, the choice to pick other weapons as Monk Weapons--as long as they lack the Heavy or Special properties. At eight levels, Kensei Monks have a total of three Kensei weapons--one melee, one ranged, and one that can be either. So going for Whip and Scimitar for Ilia’s weapon, and Hand Crossbow to satisfy requirements, is a pretty good option.
Of course that’s not the only benefit. Agile Parry gives Ilia +2 AC if she makes an unarmed strike as part of her Attack action, Kensei’s Shot means she can take a bonus action to make her Hand Crossbow deal an additional 1d4 worth of damage, and Magic Kensei Weapons mean her weapons count as magical for purposes of overcoming resistances and immunities to nonmagical damage. And of course there’s Way Of The Brush, which gives Ilia proficiency in Calligrapher’s supplies--perfect for planting secret messages, forging documents, or writing hidden notes in her diary about how hot various ladies around her are... although that last one isn’t strictly canon, but you know, shippers gonna ship.
If we tally all this up, we have a woman with a base 45 running and climbing speed that can jump 12 feet forward and 7 feet up without effort, with Acrobatics and Slow Fall meaning she’s able to handle unusual terrain, and she can up that to 55 speed for an hour once a day with longstrider, as well as double the jump distance up to eight times before needing a rest. That makes Ilia fast, and she’s also hard to hit--unarmored defense gives her an AC of 17, plus 2 with Agile Parry, she can Dash or Disengage or Dodge at will, and even if you get past all that she’s got Uncanny Dodge, Evasion, and Deflecting Missles to reduce damage. Of course that’s assuming you spot her at all--Supreme Sneak lets her remain hidden at 22 feet speed--27 if she’s got Long Strider up--Skulker means she can hide when lightly obscured, such as by shadow, and combining her expertise in stealth with her shapeshifting ability means Ilia can slip in and out of scenes unnoticed.
And for those of you that want some damage, allow me to direct your attention to this combinatorial explosion: Martial Arts Whip, Extra Attack, Deft Strike, Flurry of Blows. That’s 1d6+7d6+1d4+4, then 1d6+4 , then 1d6+4 , then 1d6+4 , for a cost of two ki points. Even without Deft Strike and Flurry of Blows Ilia can hypothetically pull 1d6+7d6+4, then 1d6+4 , then 1d6+4, per round--or sacrifice that last 1d6+4 for a different bonus action. And Ilia can give herself advantage either with Aim or Stunning Strike; Aim only lasts for the current turn, but Stunning Strike lasts till her next turn and renders a target stunned for her allies to deal with. Throw in Lightning Lure for 4d8 damage to any target she draws to herself, Sword Burst for 4d6 damage to ALL targets surrounding her, and the fact the whip has the Reach property, and we wind up with a fighter built to manuver and manipulate her opponents around the battlefield.
So yeah, that’s Ilia.
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HI IM ANON THAT ASKED FOR HCS and i just wanted like hmm a general like hcs for the whole cast,, but i would gladly appreciate a ‘taro ramble too <33
okay, well, to begin with, i do have a post of drv3 character headcanons already, so you can go and check this post out for your outdated juice. i honestly made this post months ago though so a lot of the headcanons on there are. kind of wonky. i’m gonna go ahead and correct the ones that have changed real quick and then add on new ones.
- bi kaito and maki? LAME!!! kaito and maki are homoromantic asexuals and i don’t take constructive criticism. (bi kaito and maki headcanons are so valid i just prefer them as homosexual now LFKDSJFKJD anyway akamota rights)
- actually they’re all asexual? hehe. the love hotels aren’t real they can’t hurt me. i’m gonna list ace headcanons now
- shuichi: sex positive asexual
- kaede: sex indifferent asexual
- kaito: sex repulsed asexual
- maki: sex repulsed asexual
- miu: sex indifferent asexual (side note, if anyone comes at me for my ace miu headcanons i’m literally gonna commit a murder)
- kokichi: sex repulsed asexual (but good at repressing his sex repulsion)
- rantaro: sex repulsed asexual
- himiko: sex repulsed asexual
- tsumugi: sex repulsed asexual
- tenko: sex repulsed asexual
- angie: sex positive asexual
- kiyo: sex positive asexual (but experiences sex repulsion due to trauma)
- ryoma: sex repulsed asexual
- gonta: sex indifferent asexual
- kirumi: sex repulsed asexual
- kiibo: sex indifferent asexual
- um. i lost my train of thought. oh. okay. so i gave kokichi depression back when i made this post and i think that was a weird thing in particular to saddle him with. i don’t think kokichi is like, a-okay and all the time, but i think he tends more towards manic than depressive. which isn’t to say that he can’t be both, but there’s a vibe and kokichi doesn’t have it
- regardless i gave kaito depression. suffer bitchboy
- while we’re talking about kaito, HOO BOY, i am a kinnie. sorry about this, anon. kaito has asthma, which isn’t a kinnie thing, but he also plays the ukulele, which IS a kinnie thing. i mentioned that he can knit. that was true. he also bakes!!! and he has had a series of hyperfixations throughout his life in this order:
- disney movies (ongoing)
- pirates (elementary school)
- musical theatre (first year middle school)
- frogs (second year middle school)
- tennis (third year middle school)
- also kaito has a crush on ryoma! haha! did i mention i don’t take constructive criticism! anyway
- let’s talk about trans headcanons :)
- shuichi, kokichi, maki, kaede, himiko, and tenko are all binary trans no matter what work i’m writing them in. even if i don’t tag it and it doesn’t come up at all, assume they’re trans! because they are and i don’t take constructive criticism
- BIG fan of nb kiibo, rantaro, kiyo, angie, kirumi, and kaito. just, real big fan
- all trans headcanons are valid periodt!!! except transmasc tenko we don’t.... we don’t like that in this house. please take your transmasc tenko elsewhere
- while i do think that himiko’s master committing suicide was One Hell Of A Take on my part, i’m pretty sure he just left. he just ditched a child because she was better than him. that’s all. y’know that one oumeno fic where he dies and everything is nuanced? yeah. he was just, a shitty person, that’s all it was. i’m sorry himiko you deserved better
- ummmmmmm himiko autistic! himiko autistic. she cannot STAND the texture of denim or sweats, it is just. The Unhappy Texture
- delicately eyezooms. low empathy mugi? low empathy tsumugi? hewwo, low empa
- kokichii is very good with kids! just exceedingly good with children. it’s because he is one himself
- kaede has two dads :)
- himiko’s parents are divorced. she lives with a single mother. as one does from time to time
- rantaro, if he finds all his sisters, eventually settles down as either a teacher, a therapist, or a school counselor. so like the first two or a combination of them
- kaito knits under the bed. why does he do this? i don’t know. he doesn’t know. it’s a thing, just go with it.
- rantaro sees a lesbian and thinks, “hmmm. she could use an emotional support himbo” and then just does it. kaito does this too but he hyperfocuses on like. two or three lesbians at a time. rantaro spreads himself thin between the lesbians. amamota and lesbians guys get into it
- mwahahaha (pushes my amamota agenda onto you) they’re dating and in love!
- coffee headcanons :)
- shuichi: black. as black as his soul. which is to say very black. not because he’s emo he just likes the colour
- kaede: a bit of cream and sugar, nothing excessive. kaede stays up late on hyperfixation energy alone she doesn’t need no coffee
- kaito: a couple sugar cubes but no cream
- maki: ... a lot sweeter than she’ll admit
- rantaro: milk and sugar with a side of coffee
- gonta: gonta prefers tea! but he’ll take coffee when it’s offered, as gentlemen do. he likes it with a bit of cream, but no sugar
- kirumi: black.
- ryoma: black
- himiko: she prefers apple juice. himiko gets nauseous on coffee
- tenko: DOES NOT DRINK COFFEE!!! NO!!!! COFFEE IS AN ADDICTION IT’S BAD FOR YOU!!!!!!
- angie: angie doesn’t drink coffee either but when she does you have to fill the damn thing with mostly milk or she will be absolutely unbearable
- kokichi: you really wanna give this little adhd gremlin coffee? are you insane? (he’ll take it with an egregious amount of cream and sugar but he doesn’t mind it black)
- miu: black and like six or seven cups of it at a time
- tsumugi: a little bit of cream but no sugar!
- korekiyo: he really prefers tea but kiyo will take coffee either black or with a touch of cream
- kiibo: haha.... he’d like to know what coffee tastes like.......
- scent headcanons :))))
- shuichi: books, cinnamon, rose tea, coffee
- kaede: honeysuckle, morning dew
- kaito: axe body spray, banana bread, old spice
- maki: fresh snow, dry cleaners
- tsumugi: fabric stores, honey, lemons
- korekiyo: incense, perfume, old books
- kiibo: metal
- kokichi: linen, sugar
- rantaro: evergreen trees, fresh laundry, incense (finesses jim’s hcs)
- miu: coffee, machinery, rosemary shampoo
- kirumi: mild floral perfume, dark chocolate
- gonta: trees, camp fires, pine needles
- angie: paint, clay, daisies, salt water
- himiko: strawberries, clean laundry, hot chocolate
- tenko: cherry blossoms, tatami, maybe a little bit of sweat
- ryoma: mint, rubber
anon i probably have more but my spoon count just went down, i hope you appreciate this list, such as it is FLKSJDFKLSDJFj i’m!! really passionate about these guys. i’d also love to talk about rantaro’s specific relationship with each member of the v3 cast so like........ shoot me an ask if there’s interest i guess FLKDSJFLKDSJF
or if there’s interest in anything else!! i love answering these you guys are so sweet, tysm <3
#ndrv3#saihara shuichi#amami rantaro#momota kaito#akamatsu kaede#harukawa maki#k1b0#shirogane tsumugi#hoshi ryoma#iruma miu#yumeno himiko#chabashira tenko#yonaga angie#shinguuji korekiyo#ouma kokichi#gokuhara gonta#toujou kirumi#ndrv3 headcanons#drv3 headcanons#headcanons#long post#sexuality headcanons#trans headcanons#hoo!!!
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If you are doing requests, could you please do Prompt 36 with Ace/Maverick?
so this has taken a while, huh. i sincerely apologize, i’ve been swamped with school and a lack of motivation, but i think i’m back for the time being!! since i didn’t know which prompt list you were referring to, i’ve done prompt #36 from the two lists i reblogged most recently!! hopefully you’re still around to enjoy 💖💖💖
here are the prompts:
from a regular ol’ prompt list: #36 - “When you touch me, I feel a little less broken.”
from 50 reasons to have sex (aka smut prompts): #36 - Practice.
If you had come up to Erik a few years ago, and told him that in a couple years he’d be a part of an international anti-terrorism unit, and in that unit, he’d meet some sexy twink of a Norwegian that would immediately begin flirting (downright offensively he might add), Erik would start laughing. If you’d told Erik that this Norwegian would show up at his apartment, on the brink of a breakdown, and thrown himself into Erik’s arms, sobbing, Erik would’ve told you to leave him alone.
And yet, here he was. Months after what he affectionately refers to as “The day I realized Håvard looks hot as fuck when he cries, and the period of self-reflection that followed”. Months after finally accepting Håvard’s constant offers of “a night to remember”, much to Håvard’s (adorable) surprise and delight. Erik was laying in bed, arms wrapped around Håvard in a bear hug, with Håvard curled into his chest. Erik had just returned from a mission, and immediately after he’d opened the door, Håvard had jumped into his arms, kissing him all over. Now, Håvard was running his fingers up and down Erik’s chest. The gentle, repetitive motions reminded Erik of something he’d been meaning to tell Håvard for a long time. He cleared his throat.
“When you touch me, I feel a little less broken.”
Håvard was gazing up at him now, big blue eyes brimming with love.
“What’s brought this up? Do I need to be more careful with you? My little porcelain Erik doll?”
Erik sighed loudly, much to Håvard’s delight.
“And now the moment’s passed. Don’t complain the next time you try to be sappy and I respond with some stupid shit.”
Håvard was pouting now, turning the full force of his puppy dog eyes on Erik.
“Fine. I will be sappy as well, and then we will be even.” Håvard blushed deeply, “When you hold me like you are right now, I feel safe. When I’m with you, I feel like I can really be myself.”
Erik reached up and cupped Håvard’s face, brushing his thumb across his cheek. Håvard pressed his face into Erik’s hand, bringing his own up to hold it there. He settled back down into Erik’s embrace, still holding his hand to his face. As Håvard’s breathing evened out, Erik leaned down to press a kiss to the top of his head, murmuring a quick “I love you” into his hair.
In response, Håvard mumbles out a series of noises that Erik chooses to interpret as “I love you too”.
-
That’s prompt #1!! Next up: Prompt #2, this time they do the do!!
-
Håvard was plotting something, Erik just knew it.
They had been together for a few months, and Håvard already seemed- not bored, but unchallenged.
So, in typical Håvard fashion, a plan had been set into motion. Erik had no idea what it was, just that it had involved multiple trips to Doc’s office (concerning), a period of extensive note-taking (Håvard wouldn’t let him see what exactly was being studied so feverishly), and a seemingly unrelated obsession with Erik’s kinks.
Yeah, Håvard is definitely plotting something. And whatever it is, it can’t be good.
This thought process brings Erik back to the present, where he is staring Håvard in the eyes, mouth agape, trying to process what he’s just heard.
He collects himself and speaks before Håvard has the chance to drop any more bombshells.
“Okay, okay, hang on a second.” He rubs his hands over his face, pleading with the universe to make sense for once. “You mean to tell me that you’re a virgin.”
A nod from Håvard.
“And you’ve never been in a relationship that’s gotten as serious as ours, so you’ve never really considered sex with a significant other before.”
Another nod from Håvard.
“You’ve never even just...... hooked up with someone? Just for the night?”
A shake of the head, now accompanied by a cute blush.
Great, Erik thinks, he looks fuckable when he’s embarrassed.
“Why are you telling me this?”
Håvard clears his throat.
“I would like to be..... intimate..... with you, but I lack experience. So, I have been researching techniques, as well as things that you enjoy, but I still don’t know if I’ll be good enough.”
Good LORD, was he trying to kill him?! All of this plotting had been for Erik? God, Håvard could be sweet when he wasn’t focused on what others thought of him.
In the meantime, Erik had a very sexy and very nervous Norwegian on his hands, and he intended to assuade any fears of inadequacy he had.
“Håvard. You don’t have to worry about whether or not you’re good in bed. I love you for you, no matter how great your ass is.” Great, that got a giggle. Now to move in for the kill. “However, if you wanted to practice your skills in the realm of pleasure, then I’d be more than happy to model for you.”
Håvard’s eyes got big. He whimpered a little, squirming on the couch, and Erik knew he had him.
“Why don’t we start off with blowjobs? Today, I can focus on how to use your tongue to add to the overall experience. How’s that sound?”
Håvard moaned in agreement, nodding feverishly.
“Great. Go ahead and strip for me, pretty boy. Now, have you been tested recently?” Håvard nods as he struggles with his pants. Erik walks over and places a hand on top of Håvard’s, squeezing it reassuringly. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. This is about you getting more comfortable with sex, right? So just relax and let me make you feel good.” He leaned in for a kiss, and smiled when Håvard moaned softly into his mouth. “I’m guessing your tests came back clean?” A nod from a now naked Håvard. “Got it. I’m clean too, so we don’t have to worry about condoms or dental dams, but usually you’d want to have one or both before you do anything involving your mouth and another person’s dick, ass, or pussy.” Erik began stripping as well, quick and efficient, and soon he had a hand on Håvard’s chest and was pushing him back onto the couch.
“Now, you don’t need to be naked to have sex. But I figured today we would get to know each other’s bodies a bit more, so the less between us the better.” With that, he dropped to his knees in front of Håvard, rubbing up and down the other man’s thighs in an effort to calm him down and get him used to being touched there.
“I’m gonna start now. Promise me you’ll tell me if and when you want to stop.”
Håvard gulped nervously.
“Why would I want to stop? Will it hurt?”
Erik pressed a kiss to his knee, continuing his massage.
“No, it won’t hurt, but it might be a bit intense, and that’s completely normal. Just let me know and we’ll switch to something else.”
Håvard nodded, seemingly steeling himself for what was about to happen.
“Okay. I’ll let you know if it gets to be too much.”
Erik nodded, then ran his tongue up the length of Håvard’s cock, delighting in the loud moan he received in return. He set to work, rubbing his tongue over every bit of flesh he can reach. He pulls back for a second to lick his palm, then starts stroking Håvard while he explains what he just did.
“So, what I like to do is get everything nice and wet before I really get into the blowjob itself. There are a lot of ways to do it, including flavored lube, but right now I my tongue will have to be enough. You have such a pretty cock, Håvard. Such a cute little cock.” With that, he gets back to work, this time sucking on the head, working his tongue into the slit, and rubbing at whatever he didn’t have in his mouth. It had been a while since Erik had been the one giving head, but he had some experience. He could get used to this.
Meanwhile, Håvard was having a religious experience. He was trembling, trying desperately not to fuck up into Erik’s mouth without warning, but unable to collect himself enough to do anything but wail. Erik finally took notice of Håvard’s state, and pulled off.
“Hey. Do you want to come in my mouth?” Håvard’s cock twitched so violently it almost hit Erik in the face. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He chuckled, this time swallowing Håvard down to the hilt.
Håvard’s whole body seized up, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he wailed Erik’s name. Erik swallowed it all, then pulled back, grabbing a tissue to wipe his mouth before laying down on the couch next to a semi-conscious Håvard. He maneuvred them both so that Håvard could curl up on his chest. Håvard made a small noise of protest.
“Kjæreste, you’re still hard.”
Erik hushed him, wrapping him in a bear hug.
“You don’t have to worry about that, just rest now. I’ll quiz you on what you’ve learned once you’ve taken a nap.”
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Ziracona’s Writing Commission Info:
*CURRENTLY CLOSED*
I’ve looked at a lot of different people’s pricing options for similar work, and most people who offer writing commissions (or do freelance work) go off of a penny per word/$1 for every 100 words. I know that underpricing art is sadly prevalent and also very damaging to artists, and I absolutely don’t want to contribute to that in any way; however, my personal preferred writing style is just kind of naturally long, and I think my speed is faster than average, and so I’m going to experiment a bit with what seems equivalent to that for me, and right now I am going to be offering $1 every 400 words.
As far as what I write, I am open to writing for any fandom that I have solid firsthand knowledge of (so, probably if I blog about it a lot, it’s on the table, but feel free to ask about my knowledge of any). I don’t mind writing for other stuff, but I will charge a bit extra for the added research time.
Fandoms I’ve written for already include Dead by Daylight, Heavy Rain, Halloween 1978, Disney, Until Dawn, Nancy Drew, and Fallout 4.
ACTUAL COMMISSION INFO:
Price: $1 per 400 words. Any commission shorter than 400 words will still be charged $1.
Payment through paypal or venmo.
Half payment upfront, half on completion.
Right at the moment, since life is busy, I’m stopping commission length at 40,000 words.
For anybody curious about commissions but unfamiliar with my writing, here’s a link to my AO3. : ) (and for quick reference for content to price, the Halloween/Michael Myers fic Isolation is 15,355 words ($38.40), the entire Anna adopts Quentin fic Half-Life is 26,675 words ($66.70), the whole Heavy Rain fic The Third Person is 19,908 words ($49.80), and the Until Dawn one-shot Almost Gone is 772 words ($1.90).
THINGS I WILL WRITE:
Gore/Graphic Violence/Torture (never voyeuristically or as kink though—only as plot element/heavy situation for cast).
Trauma, Mental Illness, Drug Use, Self-Harm, Suicide, Abuse (again, as a plot element, not as kink or for pleasure), and Other Intense/Serious Situations.
Action/Fight Sequences.
Lore/Magic/Backstory.
First or Third person, past or present tense (although my preferred writing style is close third-person past-tense, and I’ll do that if you don’t specifically want something else. Can do 2nd person or unusual format like texts or journal style too if you want that 👍).
Fiction prose, Poetry, Song Lyrics, Screen or Stage Play.
NSFW. (Makeout, Fluff, or Heavy Petting are the same price as any other work, but I will charge extra for full length in-depth sex scenes. How much depends on length. Probably around +30% [IE + 3 bucks for a $10 story]).
OCs. (PRICING NOTE: If you just have a vague idea of the OC and I only need a few lines of detail and can just go wild with my own idea of what they’re like, the price is the same as normal. But, if you’ve got a well-established character, first of all props to you because that’s cool, but also I will charge a bit extra for such OCs the first time I write them, because I have to do extra work/research to get to know them well enough to write them as well as the rest of the cast. But, if you commission me for the same complex OC again, the price is normal after the first commission, because once I know the character, I know the character, and they’re the same amount of work as any other cast member from established canon. Charge for OCs will depend on how much time it takes to learn the information I need in order to write them correctly. Probably I’ll just charge minimum on that. US average is 0.12 cents a minute, so like, $1.20 per ten minutes spent learning how to write OC).
AUs or Canon.
Angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, found family, comedy, drama, pretty much any genre.
I hope this didn’t need to be said, but just in case there’s anyone wondering, I very much will write LGBTQA characters and relationships, including polyamorous ones and ace/aro etc purely platonic partnerships.
THINGS I WILL NOT WRITE:
Noncon or Dubcon.
Underage + Adult / Pedophilia (for obvious reason).
Characters/Relationships I personally am uncomfortable with or greatly dislike. (I don’t know if this would even ever come up—also, I don’t mean I won’t write something with characters I hate point blank—if you want me to write Adam Faulkner-Stanheight and Lawrence Gordon beating the shit out of John Kramer, I’ll under-charge you. I just mean I’ll have to hard pass on a request for happy domestic John Kramer and Jill Tuck AU because it would literally kill me to even attempt to write that. For the ‘uncomfortable with’ thing, I mean that there are some ships that I don’t think are like, de facto bad, or hate, or something like that at all, but that at the same time are ships I have personally been so inundated from my own first experience of that ship onward by gross versions of it that I would personally no longer feel comfortable portraying the ship. This is rare but I think there are...two? dbd ships I know fall into this category for me? And since I know I am most known for writing DbD, it seemed worth warning about.)
Canon characters wildly OOC, unless you’ve got a really cool reason, in which case, my interest is piqued. [Note: for DbD, with a few exceptions, I adhere p exclusively to OG canon, not ret-con, because OG was better. Feel free to ask or clarity though.] Also if you want OOC because you want screwball humor/crack, that’s totally fine.
Incest.
Abuse in any kind of a positive or romanticized/romantic light.
At present this is all that is coming to mind, but I may add more to the list as there’s probably stuff that should be here that I just haven’t thought of yet.
So there you have it! If you have any questions, for clarity or about a potential commission, feel free to send an ask or a message! I know this was kind of long, but I promise I’m not actually too scary.
I'm gonna start small, so as of right now, I'm opening 2 commission slots.
Thanks! ^u^
#writing#commission info#commissions#dead by daylight#dbd#writing commissions#writing commission#info#sorry to the person who asked half a year ago that this took so long my life went uh very chaotic for a while#but yeah anyway. offering some fic commissions if anyone is interested#fanfiction commissions
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All for Grant. >:3c
1) How do they respond to having a song stuck in their head? Does that happen to them often? “Oh God, not that one again” then begrudgingly play it til its out of his head.
2) How do they feel about confronting their friends when issues arise? He’ll only confront them if the situation turns absolutely dire/Grant thinks the friendship is on the brink of disintegrating. He’ll try to keep his own feelings close to his chest if he thinks it’ll lead to a confrontation.
3) When speaking to themselves in their mind, how do they refer to themselves? “You” and a buncha self-deprecating or self-preserving adjectives.
4) Do they enjoy wearing socks/stockings when they aren’t wearing shoes? Not really. Socks get annoying after a while.
5) Do they have any unappealing habits (ex: picking their nose, hawking loogies)? Does nearly nonstop self-hate count?
6) How do they cope with losing a game? Shrug it off and move on
7) How do they cope with losing an argument? Same as the last answer
8) How do they cope with losing a friend? Fuck him up entirely. Losing one if they part ways after a fight is right up there with losing his friends in that skirmish, so a lot of anger/grief goes internal and he either shuts down or turns the blame on himself.
9) How do they cope with losing a lover? Not as upset about losing a friend, but close. It takes him a while to decide he’s even worthy of love, so it’s an outlook of “they’re better off without me.”
10) Do they enjoy sitting on countertops? I wouldn’t say “enjoy” but he does if the place he’s in is cramped and the space allows for it.
11) How expressive is their face? Are they easy to read? Not very expressive/he usually keeps a neutral face, but he expresses himself a lot via expressions, so when he does react to something, a little goes a long way.
12) How do they deal with experiencing physical pain? He’s got a high pain threshold, so he basically just rolls with it.
13) Are they easily insulted? Not at all
14) Would they prefer to act or react? Depends on the situation. In general, react, if there’s an emergency or someone is in danger, then definitely act first.
15) How would they respond to performing on stage? The only way to get him up on a stage would be if you had to administer medical attention on a flat surface while he was unconscious. Can’t respond to being up there if you go out of your way to never get on a stage.
16) Would they ever wear perfume or cologne? When? What would the scent be? He’s not a cologne guy in the least.
17) Could their personality or interests be considered “flighty?” Do they change their mind/interests often? Not at all. He’s got a small handful of interests that never really change/suit him just fine, so he’s happy with them.
18) Do they daydream? Of what? All of the “what if”s if his life hadn’t gone to shit.
19) What is the most inappropriate thing they have ever done in public? Decked a guy in passing for poking fun at an injured homeless vet. It was an emotional day for him to begin with, and it’s not ‘inappropriate’ per se, but he’s still not entirely thrilled he did something that escalated that quickly.
20) What was their favorite toy as a child? Little He-Man figures that his uncles got him.
21) What was their favorite way to play as a child (ex: playing pretend, playing games with rules like tag,)? Playing pretend, though usually it was basically only half a game, because he’d pretend to be a rancher/cowboy in the Old West while helping out at his uncles’ farm.
22) How do the sneeze (ex: loudly, quietly, openly, into their elbow, hold the sneeze in)? Tries to be as quiet as possible, into his arm
23) When engaged in an irritating conversation, how to they conduct themselves? Lots of smiling and nodding.
24) What words make them cringe? “Purpose” , “square” (in a ‘town square’ sense), “guilt”
25) How do they feel in large crowds? Fairly comfortable, though the soldier in him is constantly noting how many exits are around/what have you in case of an emergency where he has to get people out.
26) Would they ever spend an afternoon in a library? What section would they spend the most time in? He probably wouldn’t, but if he had to, probably any place with the comfiest chairs.
27) Do they find it difficult to try new foods? Not at all, he’s willing to try new things right off the bat.
28) If a friend asked them to taste something and it turned out to be unpleasant, how would they handle it? Not let them see him struggle with it, keep his face/voice as pleasant as possible. He’d rather die than hurt their feelings. And he’d wait a few minutes/at least a couple of it’s a quick cooking process and make ‘harmless suggestions’ to try and improve the dish - but deliver the suggestions so blase so it doesn’t seem like he’s actively correcting them and they think it’s mostly their personal change, ie: “Oh, that could use... I don’t know, little something for an extra little kick” “Hmm. Oh, I could add more sugar, even out some of the bitterness!” “Perfect!”
29) Do they wear underwear? 100% of the time, yes
30) Can they pee in front of other people? Only people he’s close to/has known for years.
31) What story gave them nightmares as a child? When his parents talked about getting promotions and the like - which meant less time for him, so he’d dream about them leaving him somewhere/forgetting him/being all alone etc.
32) How would they respond to being handed an infant? Absolutely petrified. He would hate it, fear that he’s tainting the kid and try to hand them off to someone else the first chance they got. He’d definitely have to have someone right there next to him to reassure him that he’s being really good with them. Which is a crime because most babies usually immediately love him.
33) How would they respond to being asked to watch over a child for an afternoon? “Uuuuhhh is there.... someone... else? More qualified?”
34) Do they enjoy climbing trees? No. Doesn’t really see the point.
35) In which of their own skill sets do they have the most confidence? Why? Threat assessment while referring to people, because it’s what he was good at in the Army.
36) Do they enjoy receiving compliments? How do they respond to it? Laugh it off and be super dismissive about it. “Thanks, but not really.”
37) How often are they the one to initiate physical contact? Not very often. He’s got to be in a rare affectionate mood to initiate. If someone else initiates he’d be happy to go along with it, though.
38) Do they prefer salty or sweet things? Sweet
39) Do they get the urge to jump from high places? ... ... You all know the angsty direction I could take this which is ABSOLUTELY true, but for now I’ll say no and be lying through my teeth.
40) Have they every written a dirty letter and actually sent it? Not at all. Dirty communication of any kind isn’t his forte.
41) How would they describe their love life? “Non-existent and loving it” (John or Matthew walk by) “... ... Okay so that was an outright lie and I’m happy.”
42) How would they describe their sex life? “Not bad” - he borders on ace so it doesn’t happen much, which he’s absolutely fine with.
43) Do they hide objects? What and where? He doesn’t hide any objects. He figures he hides enough of his personal life, why add more things to the list?
44) What are their reasons for getting up in the morning (outside of achieving their main goal)? Again there’s a very heavy, very true, very angsty answer that I could go with, but for now - he doesn’t want to disappoint and/or worry Nic, John or Matthew, so he’ll get up for them, then genuinely enjoy the day just because he gets to spend time with them.
45) Who is their greatest confidant? Who confides in them? Nic. She was the first one in years to not pry into his life with annoying, over-asked questions. She didn’t constantly give him pitying looks either. She treated him like a regular person and let him come to her with details about his life, so she earned his trust and friendship, and that gives her confidant status. And it’s mutual for that reason.
46) What is something they’ve always wanted to do, but know they shouldn’t? Tell off his parents for being shitty people. He could, but there’s already been so much damage between them and done to himself he’s afraid he’d rip apart what shreds of a relationship they have left.
47) Is there someone whose laugh makes them laugh as well? Nic again, John on occasion, Whitehorse, Matthew
48) How festive are they on holidays? Depends on who he’s with. If he’s alone, he’ll be vaguely festive. Put him with Nic, or whichever boyfriend he has depending on the Universe, or his family he does have a good relationship with: “Hell yeah, give me that ugly sweater, Hell yeah I’ll help you with the ham, Hell yeah I’ll play Santa for the kids.”
49) How would they respond to their ears ringing for an extended period of time? Would drive him absolutely bonkers and he’ll try any trick in the book to make it stop.
50) How likely is it that they would be the first to point out a full moon or a beautiful sunset? He wouldn’t be the first to point it out but he’d be the first to notice it.
#Deputy Grant#Sad sad sad neutral sad ANGST neutral CHRISTMAS#is exactly how these answers go#amistrio
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Submission from @nellynee
oh thank you for this!!! im putting it under a readmore bc its long but you bring up some fantastic points i missed.
@nellynee submitted:
(meta points on your ACE post that can also be taken into consideration. Just a few things I’ve noticed that I can’t actually collect into cohesive meta enough to post, but I’ve never seen mentioned and I feel are important.)
On Tweek
A lot of modern Tweek meta take into account his drug addiction when trying to pinpoint which symptoms are mental illness and which are the drugs, and I’ve been looking further into that, trying to figure out what’s been going on. I have a pretty reasonable argument that all of Tweek’s symptoms are all his own mental illness, or alternatively, he’s recently became aware of the meth which is actually a lifelong problem, and is weaning himself off.
I don’t believe that meth was involved in the coffee of the town at all until season 2 at the earliest. We know in the season 2 episode Gnomes, from Mrs. Tweek’s speech at the end, that the Tweek’s make comparatively poor coffee, and we see many people jump away from it in favor of that with better taste. While foul tasting coffee makes sense if the drug is being added wholesale, due to the addictive factor of meth, I just don’t think it would have been possible to loose such a customer base if drugs were involved. (that being said, with the gentrification of the town, and more options for coffee, that seems like a reasonable place for the Tweek’s to have started. I haven’t pinpointed a specific point, but that seems the most reasonable)
What this does mean though is that it is possible that all of Tweek’s behavior in Gnomes, at the very least, was his own and not fuled by anything other than Caffeine.
(argument against. As you said in your own analysis, meth can be used as a treatment for ADD, and the Tweek’s are definitely the type to medicate their own child if they thought it pertinent. I find this actually most likely, and what I adhere to, but my first point still stands at a conversation piece)
I’ve never actually found evidence either, (though if there is some please tell me, it might just be the playthroughs I’ve seen) that Mrs. Tweek is aware of the meth in the coffee at all. All of the incriminating interactions go through Tweek or Richard, with her outside of the room.
additional point, we also don’t know what Tweek’s awareness of the situation is either. South Park likes to be very wishy washy about exactly what the children know about more adult topics like sex, politics, drugs, cursing, ect. It tends to vary episode to episode, so there can be arguments made that Tweek lacks understanding of what’s going on, that he’s transporting drugs and the like, but the opposite is true too. But in the end there are three possibilities. Either he isn’t aware and that’s that, he is aware and is actively partaking anyways, or is aware and has been actively avoiding it since the revelation.
Not all hard facts, but factors I haven’t seen brought up before and are interesting to consider.
That being said, my personal opinion is such. Tweek is on meth, and has been medicated by his parents in secret since or closely after a false diagnosis of ADD (his attitude towards coffee is to close to an addicts to sway me in this direction) but the coffee for public consumption is not tainted until gentrification starts in town. At this point I’m not sure if Tweek is aware or not. He’s to blase about hard drugs in his home and personal life to actually be aware of the implications of what’s happening given his usual responses, but I can’t believe that all the educational programs of the school and town hasn’t left enough of an impression for him not to connect some dots. Conclusion, he knows, but it’s been normalized in his homelife to the point of not setting him off. I have no evidence on this point, but Craig doesn’t seem like the kind of person to become loud over this sort of information. Just another shitty thing in South Park, and the thought of them quietly weaning Tweek off behind the scenes is pretty cute and sad.
For Cartman
This is something I haven’t posted at all, because it weakens Heidi’s character arc, and I don’t think Matt and Trey are immersed enough into the fandom to have done this on purpose, but there’s some interesting points so here we go.
Heiman and Creek are obviously paralleled for the last few seasons, but something I don’t see pointed out beyond the top obvious layer is how Heidi and Cartman are paralleled, but we see it VERY HARD in fandom reactions.
Fandom reaction to Heidi is almost identical to that of Cartmans. He’ start of funny/she start of kind and general well liked. They cross a moral even horizon, the fandom splits into those who bail and those who support, with more and more excuses made for morally ambiguous choices and more support for the positive ones. For Cartman, after so many season and so many morally wrong choices, this leads to a pretty intense fandom. Heidi’s is much more mild, but similar, and having seen the nice person she started out as, it paves the road for potential Cartman redemption, despite having done nonredeemable things. It makes empathizing with him easier, because we got a very condensed version of his own long arc to compare it with. It makes the argument that “it’s not all Cartman’s fault, he can’t help it.” a valid one.
In the end though, and I’m glad I waited to post the meta because the ending only cemented this, it came down to explanations vs excuses, and how those who are abused both have the power to stop the cycle and to perpetrate it. Heidi had explanations that she turned to excuses, and used those excuses to be awful. It’s not arguable that she was abused by Cartman, and even those around her, who were sick of her, still placed a lot of blame on Cartman. But she was able to make a choice to stop, to make an effort at least to stop.
And this is where Cartman is absolutely nonredeemable. Cartman has explanations for his behavior as well. Since the recent seasons a lot more meta has come out about the terrible abuses he’s suffered since an early age. But Cartman doesn’t have excuses, these are EXPLANATIONS.
The episode that hit this home the hardest, and by hit home I mean painted it on our walls with finger paint in big neon letters, was Tsst. It made a big deal of how Liane’s treatment of Cartman was very much a source of his behavior, but it was also Cartman’s own deep, personal choice to continue same behavior as well. In the end, they used Heidi to emphasis that point of self victimization for Cataman, and I feel like her arc was weaker for it.
About kenny
You made an ACE list for Kenny, and I feel like sexual abuse should be in there somewhere. Not in his own home, but a distressing number of his early season dialog is VERY sexual in nature, that speaks of an easy knowledge that you can’t get from anything other than experience. Again, I don’t feel like this was gained in the home. More likely or not Kenny, knowing at this point he was immortal and much more jaded, went seeing various dangers he knew would no longer affect his body once he died and came cross various sexual situations in that way. We know this is at least partially canon, as he does so with very gross or harmful behaviors in even latter seasons for a quick financial gain/high. for the first seven seasons of dialog, see here for what I mean
http://www.southparkcows.com/kennysays.html
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Next Generation
You know how in the movies the high school kids throw these parties with alcohol, sex, drugs, etc. Then they get busted by the cops. It wasn't until my junior/senior year that I learned that this was an actual thing. I thought it was all an "act" put together by Hollywood to get kids to never do it because it always ends in cops.
You could say I was naive, sheltered, lived in a strict home, was a church "goody goody". You could have called me any of those because they were all true to an extent. You could go ahead and add in your ideal, "had it all together" kid. I had it all together. I had all of the pain I was going through put together in this bottle in my core and pasted that smile on my face. So, yes, that fits my description too. I also "had it all together" because I wasn't coming to school hungover like the rest of my class. I could actually see the board at the front of the classroom without the lights worsening my migraine. I was also able to respect the teachers because their voice or strict rules weren't messing up my vibe as I came into class drunk or high as a kite. So yes, my life was put together.
Growing up I had no idea where these kids were getting the drugs and alcohol that I had heard about. No idea. I know now that they had it at their fingertips. Some kids grew up with that happening in their home. Some kids grew up with parents too busy to notice their kids found a way around them to get it. Even some grew up without parents or with some that could care less what they were doing. That is how they were able to obtain them and why we were getting lectured "Don't do drugs." And "Don't drink and drive." Because kids were doing that while I was just trying to make it to the bus on time and worrying if the boy on the first row would ever notice me. They had it right there at their fingertips. After I graduated high school so did I.
After I graduated I started working and it was like putting on a pair of "addiction glasses". Everything was in reach and easy to access. I knew never to touch drugs because jail was not going to be my friend. But alcohol was mine to obtain November 30 2013. But I still knew better. I still had my life together. That bottle in my core that helped me with that had been full since the fourth grade. Shaken up to no extent for the next twelve years. I actually believe that once that bottle was filled its contents spilled over into other bottles. So I was a six pack full of shaken explosives ready to bust. But again, I had my life together.
2014 hit and I was actually introduced to the wonders of alcohol. How each sip, drink, gulp, shot was like relieving the pressure in those bottles that made up my core. What alcohol did for me for the first time in my twenty-two years of life was easing that pain that I never thought would budge. The bottles stayed full, but every bit of alcohol was like a quick twist of the cap that let that air out just enough. It made my having my life together even more possible because that exploding feeling was gone.
I remember having the feeling of anxiety and depression all the way back at the age of four/five. My family was living in Kansas at the time. I remember the feeling of being left out because my teacher forgot to call me into the combined class project. I was doing everything I was asked, by sitting still and quiet, and yet I was still sitting all by myself watching the science project start without me. That is where a major fear/anxiety of being abandoned started. At the age of four/five. Alcohol made that feeling go away for the first time in almost twenty years. I use to cry before/during school, church camps, sleepovers because of this fear of not being picked back up or being left because they didn't want me. And all of those years that grew and shook those bottles up beyond belief were finally being relieved by this beautiful mind altering substance. I finally understood why we got lectured over not touching it for those twelve years of schooling.
I have heard many times growing up, and even today, "That is why you don't drink or do drugs. You will end up like that." All the while fingers being pointed in my direction or others. How slightly naive is that statement though. Do you know how many more times I have heard, "I tried it and didn't like it. So I never tried it again."? I'm not saying to let your family try drugs or drink so they personally can know that they don't like it. Some people can drink one beer and be done. Kudos to you. But I know that if I touch alcohol I will break out in handcuffs and there is more to it than drugs and alcohol being the bad guys. We have been over looking a deeper issue or issues that make them the bad guys. If we are being honest there are very few, and I mean very few, I have yet to meet one person, that put being an alcoholic or drug addict as one of there achievements. As one of their boxes to cross off their list as they got older. We don't wake up one day saying, "That is what I want to be when I get older. That looks like the life to live."
Put the drugs and alcohol aside and what is the issue at hand? What are the things that we find? Brokenness, loss, depression, anxiety, low self esteem, no identity, or loss of identity. We see things that when the first drink is taken, they start to disappear. The depression lowers, the anxiety lessens, the loss becomes whole as the mind altering substances mend them together. We never learned that all of the pain that's been bottled up since the age of four could actually go away. That there was a way to not live life at a constant eight out of ten on the depression scale. I didn't even realize I was living at an eight until this past March. I thought my "misery" was everyone else's "calm". Growing up I didn't know that there was help. I just knew what not to do. I knew not to touch drugs and alcohol. I did know to trust Jesus. But more than a decade of trusting Jesus and I was still at an eight. This trusting Jesus and reading His word didn't lessen the pressure in my core. I learned that alcohol did that. Seriously, no wonder I became an alcoholic.
We find that we think this is the solution to all of the bottled up things. Through the bottom of a bottle. Then through the next and the next until we pass out. Then when we wake up the problems are still there. So we start over. As much as we know there is more to life than this, the only thing we found that could possibly ease the pain and make it go away was this bottle of magical pressure relieving liquid. We need to actually show that mental health is an important thing. At an age that is appropriate for kids now, but young enough that they don't think that bottling it up or acting out is the answer. There is more to life than physical exercise and learning to achieve good grades. With younger people we need to make sure they know that it is okay to talk about their fears, anxiety, loss, self esteem or lack there of. We also need to make sure we have answers that have substance. More than just "Trust Jesus", but show them how to trust Jesus through their pain. We need to live a life of trusting Jesus to show them that it is possible. Not just by memorizing Bible verses. But living the Bible verses.
Sometimes you can't just pray away brain chemical imbalances. Trust me, I know first hand. Yes, it will bring a God given peace, but that imbalance is still there. I am on medication that a doctor gave me. A doctor that God put in place for me to have a chance at life. Just like God has given us therapists that can help us talk through things and understand things that our loved ones may not have the answers to. His word is there for guidance, but sometimes we need more help to understand it. That's why God gave us pastors and ministers. They study the Word so that we can more understand our great God. We have doctors in place to do the same for our brains and bodies. To better understand how they work.
In 1 Corinthians 12 it talks about how the body of Christ as a whole need each other. How we are all made differently and we can't be made the same otherwise we won't function. For those of you who don't believe that meds and therapists are important to the body of Christ, go ahead and cut off your big toes and let me see how good your balance is. Mental Health is so important. It's okay to not be okay, but it is more than okay to find help and talk about it. If you actually have your life all together and want to act that way, then good for you. But that also means that Jesus didn't come for you. He came to heal the sick and mend the broken. Don't bottle everything up because everything in that bottle is what Jesus came for.
This generation needs this. Some people may look at it and see that we are teaching them to be weak. We are teaching them to cry about every little thing that happens to them. No, we are teaching a generation how to ask for help when the only solution in the end may send them to the needle or bottomless bottle of despair. That may seem dramatic, but ask any of the people that I grew up with or saw me grow up in the church and ask them if they saw me ending up as an alcoholic. Ask them how many of them saw me ending up going to rehab for 90 days. Ask them if any of them saw me in the rooms of AA everyday so I can keep living?
I feel like we need to make sure we are sending out the message of asking for help as passionately as the revolution right now of needing a relationship with Christ over the religion that's being preached. We don't need to just send the message of don't do drugs and don't drink, but here is how to get help. Don't sin and don't do wrong, but here is Jesus and here is the solution to have eternal life. They go hand and hand. Jesus is the answer, but we need to activity show how to find him. We need to show how to not be drawn to the bottle just like we need to show how Jesus can fill our life so we don't feel like we need to. We need the action behind the message of finding Jesus. More than just for the eternal life. But so that we can show how He actually works in our everyday life. That's the relationship part.
There are deeper things that we need to reach than just how to not do things that may cause us harm. That's just religion right there. Rules. We need to help people see that there is a way of living more than being an eight for the rest of their life. That starts with showing them that they can ask for help. That is showing them that it's okay to not be okay. That's showing them that they are not alone in this fight called life. Then we can show them the love of Jesus through the word and through Him they won't need to find the endless bottoms of bottles. Because we showed them how to use the Bible as a guide. We showed them how to have that relationship with Christ. That relationship that gives them the strength to not search for it through cunning, baffling, and powerful life damaging substances.
It took me hitting rock bottom, wanting to die, having cops wreck my plans by knocking on my door, to find this peace through an actual relationship with Christ. We need to find a way to help people not have to hit that point to find this peace. This is what it took for me. And honestly I wouldn't change it. But at the same time I wouldn't wish this experience, pain, confusion, on my worst enemy. No one deserves to have a six pack shaken up in their core for 27 years. No one deserves to go through the last seven months of this thing called life I have endured. Like I said, this is the story that God has entitled to me and I wouldn't go back and change it. I wouldn't be who I am today if it wasn't for this life God has led and carried me through.
I just know that if we actually take action on showing people how to ask for help. If we actually show people how to search for Christ through everything then there may be a chance that less suffering will happen. There may be a chance that the bottom of the bottle may be less of a source of comfort for people. Life is life and stuff is going to happen, but there is a life, through Christ, that actually leads to healing. It actually leads to something greater than ourselves and that is worth putting the effort in to help others find it. Showing them simply that it's okay to not be okay. It's okay to be brave enough to ask for help.
Lauren Michele
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Always
***Special thanks to @marvel-ash for this beautiful graphic that I’m all heart eyes over! I’m in love with it! Thank you isn’t adequate!!! xoxo***
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Summary: Dean and the reader meet in a bar just days before he’s set to go get Sam and look for their dad. While he didn’t mean to drag her into the life, and he tried with all his might to keep her out of it, fate has other plans.
Word Count: 20k+ (I know, I know. @callmesweetheartifyoumeanit has officially dubbed me her Wordy Princess, a title I gladly accept. But really, I hope the word count does not deter you.)
Warnings: Major angst, smut (fingering, handjobs, unprotected and protected sex, etc.), language, minor canon divergence (i.e. Lisa doesn’t exist), but also the glory that is Dean through the seasons. I love this man, and this just intensified that for me.
A/N: This fic was for @lipstickandwhiskey ‘s AC/DC song challenge and the song I chose was Whiskey on the Rocks. Now, originally, this was going to be PWP, well, the closest I could get. But then, this fic had other ideas and here we are, 20k of plot. I would apologize, but well, this may or may not have quickly risen to my all time favorite fic, and I hope that y’all love it as much as I do. It’s also written in a style I’ve never written in: third person, present tense, and entirely from Dean’s POV. I happen to love it, I love the way it reads and flows, and I hope you do too. Enjoy!
Tags: At the bottom. Happy to add anyone to my tags list (I currently have an Everything, Dean, Sam, and Benny list) as long as you’re following me. Cheers!
The first time, Dean picks her up in the bar, using a cheesy half-assed pick up line, only half expecting her to be open to his advances.
But she succumbs to his smug grin in record time, pulling him into the bathroom minutes later and locking the door behind them, whispering ‘fuck me’ into his ear as he kisses down the column of her neck. He sucks a dark mark right above her pulse point, and he is more than happy and ready to obey. It's in the grimy bar bathroom, on top of the sink, just enough clothes shoved down and pulled aside to give access. It's handsy and furious, all teeth and fingernails, scratching and biting, grunts and growls of ‘more’ and ‘harder’ and ‘yes, right there,’ both chasing their release as if it were the last thing on earth they'd ever do. They still manage to meet it together, unable to keep their moans quiet, her hands clutching at his shirt, his buried in her hair.
It's all soft kisses and wandering hands after as he softens inside her, both oblivious to the pounding on the door, neither concerned that they barely even know each other's names.
“Wanna go back to my place?” she asks. And he smiles, the crinkles that are just starting to form near his eyes deepening.
“God yes.”
They face glares and grumbles as they leave the bathroom, neither giving two shits about it, racing out into the night hand in hand. Dean leads her to his car, the only possession and home he has. Before he opens the door for her, he pushes her up against the cool metal and glass, his lips once again finding hers, his hands finding the skin at the small of her back. He groans when her fingernails rake through the short hairs at the back of his neck, his hips giving an involuntary thrust forward so she can feel that he is ready again. But Dean doesn’t want this time to be quick and harried, he wants to take his time.
He pulls away, groaning as he does, and he opens the car door for her so she can slide in the front seat. He rounds the back of the car, unable to keep his eyes off the back of her head, more excited than he is willing to admit to get this girl in a more private place.
*
The second time is just a couple weeks later, and it’s a whole weekend in, just the two of them. It’s full of tangled sheets, long showers, breakfast with her wrapped in his overlarge t-shirts and Dean in just his jeans. It’s whispered promises between moans of pleasure and shouts of each other’s names. It’s Dean wishing more than anything that he could stay right here in her arms for the rest of his life. And it’s him wishing that he wouldn’t be wiping that smile off her face in just a couple days.
On the last night, the sky tinged grey outside, a tangle of sheets and limbs, they get to know each other better, sharing hopes and dreams and fears. She learns about his Dad traveling for work, that Dean travels for work as well, the family business he calls it. Dean is about to leave for California to meet up with his brother, Sam, then they will meet up with their Dad. He learns that she is working for an office, doing something she doesn’t love until she figures out where her passions lie.
“So, Sam, he’s your younger brother? And he’s at Stanford?” Y/N asks him.
“Yeah, he’s been there a couple years.” Dean tries not to let his annoyance show, but he’s not sure he does a good job.
“What happened? With you and Sam?”
“It’s nothing, just-”
“Doesn’t seem like nothing.”
At first he thinks she’s patronizing him but when he meets her eyes, he realizes it’s sincere. She really is curious, so he spills a little of the story; Sam deciding to leave for Stanford and the fight with their dad, how much Dean had missed him in the ensuing years, and how excited he was to see him.
They fall asleep that way, wrapped in the feeling of security and comfort, and wrapped in each other, the weekend drifting off in memories of bare skin and heated kisses, shut off from the outside world and every problem they ever faced in their young lives. Come Monday morning they both reluctantly dress and Dean packs, neither eager for whatever this was to end.
Dean kisses her, the kiss filled with longing and everything he wasn’t willing to say out loud and he knows she understands.
“Come back to me? One day?” she asks against his lips, her eyes still closed, foreheads pressed together, her hands fisting in the front of his shirt, and Dean can feel the desperation radiating off her.
His thumbs brush at the tears just making tracks down her cheeks and he pulls away so he can look in her eyes.
“Promise.”
Dean gets into his car that Halloween morning, his thoughts ahead to Sam, his heart back in her safekeeping.
But it would be two years before they saw each other again.
The third time it’s after he’s made his deal. Dean hadn’t realized how much he wanted to see her until he only has a year left to live. It’s been two years and for Dean, that is entirely too long. The first thing he does after Sam wakes up is get in his car and drive through the night and into the next day, showing up just outside her house the next afternoon.
He knocks on the door, not knowing if she is home or not, and not giving two shits if she’ll be mad at him for showing up unannounced. It had been a while since he’d seen her, too long if he’s being honest, and he’s also not sure of the reception he’ll receive.
He looks up as the lock clicks and then he meets her eyes, eyes that show shock but also pleasure at seeing him.
“Dean?” she questions, the crease between her eyebrows deepening. She’s beautiful, more beautiful than he remembers. She looks like she wants to throw herself at him, but also shut the door in his face and he can’t blame her for either feeling. But when she notices his red rimmed eyes and the week’s growth of scruff, she steps to the side. “Come in, please.”
He steps through the door, his size taking up most of the room in the small entry way, and before she can lead him into the living room, he loses his composure. He knows he has no right to, but he leans on her, his arms going around her shoulders, and he uses her for the support he feels he hasn’t had in years.
He feels her begin to sink down and he goes with her, sitting on on the stairs right inside her front door. She cradles him there, holds him and rocks him, and waits for him to be ready to tell her everything.
“It’s my brother, Sam…” he begins, but can’t get anything more out.
“Is he…”
“No, but we thought he was.” He can’t give her the full truth, can’t tell her that Sam had died and that he did what he had to and sold his soul to get him back. That he only has one year to live and he is scared as shit because he doesn’t want to die, doesn’t want to go to hell. “We just had a, uh, scare, but he’s alive, on the mend. But it fucking scared me. And I just, I had to see you.”
He turns in her arms and looks up at her, her fingers coming to his cheeks and brushing away the moisture lingering there, and his heart swells. He leans into her touch, his eyes closing for a moment. He’s desperate to be close to her, to feel her, all of her, desperate to get lost in her, but he doesn’t want to push, doesn’t want to cross an invisible line that could be there. It’s been two years and right now he’s not even sure why he came here, not even sure what he expected from her.
His eyes shoot open for a split second when he feels her lips connect with his, but then they close again as he deepens the kiss, his tongue licking along her bottom lip, her mouth opening to his silent request. His hands wander, gripping her hips and pulling her forward. She goes willingly into his arms, her legs straddling his hips, his arms encircling her waist and pulling her closer.
She breaks the kiss, but only to say the words he’s been waiting to hear since the last time they were together.
“Take me to bed,” she says against his lips, and he pulls back for a moment, the question in his eyes, a question she answers with a subtle nod. He stands with her in his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist as he takes the stairs two at a time. She kisses his cheeks, his jaw, his neck, every inch of skin her lips can find as he makes his way to the bedroom.
She works her hands under the shoulders of his jacket and he shucks it off one sleeve at a time, still supporting her weight, leaving the offending item of clothing in the hall. His hands grip her thighs as her hands find the hem of her sweater, pulling it over her head as he enters the room, dropping it to the floor. He drinks in the sight of her in just her jeans and lace bra as he lays her on the bed.
He pauses in that moment, pulling back from her a little, pauses to take in everything, pauses to make sure this is what she wants, that she’s okay with this, pauses because he’s unsure himself.
She sits up and takes a handful of his shirt, pulling him down to her. “Stop thinking, Dean, and come here.”
He’s sure those are the most beautiful words he’s ever heard, sure that for once in his life he’s done the right thing in coming here. He’s even more sure as her hands work under his henley, pulling it over his head and clearing everything else from his thoughts.
The only thing on his mind is her, here and now, and him with her. His focus sharpens, the grief from the last couple weeks fading away with the feel of her skin on his, her fingers running over his muscles, the taste of her skin under his lips, and the feeling of her all around him. It’s exactly what he didn’t know he needed, exactly what he’s needed for a long time.
Regardless of the fact that he only has a year of life left, he’s right where he belongs and right where he wishes he could stay for the rest of his short life.
There’s darkness. Cold, stifling air. And the feel of wood beneath his fingers. His throat is dry and raw as sandpaper as he coughs. That’s all that comes to mind at first when Dean wakes, and the next thought is confusion. This is not normal, not right, not what he’s used to. The fumble for a lighter, an instinctive reaction more than a conscious thought, has him realizing he’s not in hell anymore. At least, not the hell he’s used to.
“Help,” he cries, but it comes out as more of a wheeze than a word, so he tries it again without much success.
Fear sets in. Not the fear that he learned to feel over the course of his life as a hunter, the fear that made him better, stronger, more alert. But the fear inbred in him over the last who knows how many years. Except he does know how many years; there’s no way anyone would ever forget a second of what he has been through.
Dean tests the wood above him and dirt begins to fall inside on top of him and desperation sets in. He’s wondering at this point if this is a new form of torture, a new way of them getting to him. But he’d ended the torture, ended it with one little word. He can’t think about that now because he’s being suffocated by earth and he knows, despite the panic setting in, that the only way out of this is up. So he begins to dig.
His first breath of fresh air is almost intoxicating and dizzying and he looks around, shock overcoming him at the sight. Every tree in the surrounding vicinity is downed and he knows this can't be a good sign, knows this means him getting topside has grave consequences.
It’s a couple days before he sees Sam again, a couple weeks before he’s settled enough to think the unthinkable, to wonder.
“Hey, Sam,” he begins, afraid for the answer. “Did you tell…?” and he trails off, unable to even say her name.
“No, I didn’t. Just like you asked me to. She tried calling though.”
Dean ponders for a moment, stares at his hands that are clasped together on top of the grimy motel room table. Him and Sam have shit to do, angels to worry about, demons to kill, he can’t be thinking of a vacation, can’t be thinking of Y/N. The world needs him, now more than ever it seems. But Sam is two steps ahead of Dean and slides a paper across the table and under Dean’s fingers.
“Go, man. Bobby and I got this for a little bit.”
Dean looks up at Sam, the question unspoken and Sam just gives a nod, the answer he was hoping for. He doesn’t ask again, doesn’t hesitate before he has one hand full of leather and other full of keys and he’s all but sprinting out the door.
He drives through the night and into the next day, only stopping for gas when it’s absolutely necessary, managing to avoid a speeding ticket only by the grace of a god he doesn’t believe in and then he’s there. He’s just steps away from the one thing he couldn’t stop thinking about for forty years and the one thing he wished he could get off his mind. It’s within grasp.
But Dean can’t knock. He can’t work up the courage to lay eyes on her face or be able to feel her under his fingers.
He had never told her about hell, never told her what he was or what he did. It was for the better. But right before Lilith, right before that last fight to kill her and maybe just maybe be able to stay topside, he had told her he was leaving. For good. He’d said words he didn’t mean to drive the point home. He’d broken her heart and he’d regretted it far longer than any man should have to.
He’s vacillating now. Pacing. More circling really, her front stoop isn’t that large. He pauses every once in awhile, his fist held up, just inches from her door, but he never knocks. He never has to.
He can tell she’s in a hurry, she’s not even looking up as the door opens and she steps out, her hair in a flurry, arms full of books, when she runs bodily into him, a shriek on her lips. And he gets it, she didn’t expect anyone to be there, but when she looks up and her eyes land on him, she freezes.
“Um-” he says, but no other sounds come out. It’s like Dean has forgotten how to speak.
“No.” It’s a breath more than a spoken word, her shock so evident tears have started to collect in her eyes and he understands, he really does. If anyone had hurt him the way he’d hurt her that last time, he’d react the same way she’s reacting.
She fumbles with the books in her hands and he reaches to help her but she pulls away from his touch, jerks away before he can help.
“I, um-” she starts, but doesn’t finish the sentence, just steps past him without looking at him and all but tumbles down the stairs in an attempt to put distance between them. She takes a quick glance up at him, one that he almost misses, before getting in her car and driving away.
Dean slumps onto the top stair, head in his hands. That didn’t go as bad as he thought it would go, but not as good as he’d hoped for either. He ponders for a moment on what to do, stay or leave, before he lets out a soft ‘fuck it’ and stands, making his way to his car and getting in.
Before long he’s back, picking the lock and letting himself inside her home. It’s neat and clean, and smells faintly of sugar cookies and cinnamon. He sets his armload down on the table, adjusting it so the front side is facing the door, the card visible. He’s walking back out of the house when he spots it, sitting on a side table just inside the door-a photo of him and her. She’s smiling into the camera, eyes squinting against the sun, and he’s kissing her cheek. He picks it up and holds it closer, looking at her smiling face in the dim light from the street lamp, remembering that day like it was yesterday, and he smiles.
If after four months she still has this, he realizes there is more hope than he thought there was. He sets the photo down, making sure it’s back in it’s appropriate spot on the table, and locks up behind him and leaves.
It’s only a couple of hours later, Dean is sitting on the uncomfortable motel room couch watching reruns of ‘Three’s Company’ and nursing a bottle of his favorite beer, when a knock sounds on the door. Three little raps. He sets his bottle on a side table and walks to the door, checking the peephole before opening it.
She doesn’t look at him as she steps through the door, her footsteps sure, her back straight. When she turns to face him, her eyes are downcast though, and she’s holding the card he’d left.
“I didn’t expect you to-” he starts, but she interrupts.
“You remembered my favorite flower.” She looks up at him as she says it, interrupting him, and he notices the red of her eyes, mascara on the bottom lids.
“Of course I did.” And he’d never forget. He’ll never forget anything about her, not in a million years.
“But the last time-”
“I know what I said the last time, but, shit Y/N, I didn’t mean any of it.” He closes the gap between them, hands on either side of her face, and forces her to look him in the eye. “I didn’t mean a fucking word of it, and I-I’ve regretted it every day since. The last four months has felt like forty fucking years without you and I know ‘sorry’ isn’t even close to enough to-” He chokes on the words, can’t finish because there’s a lump in his throat and his eyes are burning with unshed tears of his own, mirroring the ones that are shining in her eyes.
He feels her hands grasp the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, their bodies pressed together. “Don’t fucking do that to me ever again, you got it?”
He doesn’t say the words that he knows she wants to hear, can’t bring himself to. It’s a promise he knows that he can’t keep, no matter how much he wants to. Instead he kisses her, kisses her deep, his fingers threading through her hair, trying to say everything he can’t put in words. He can’t promise he’ll never leave again, can’t promise to always be there, hell, he can’t even tell her what he is or what he does.
Instead he focuses on this moment right now, on the feel of her beneath his fingers, the way her hands are working under his shirt and against his skin, and the way she tastes.
And in this moment he makes one promise to himself: to keep her safe under any and all circumstances.
He inserts the key into the lock, grateful for the first time in weeks to be doing so. Not that he doesn’t legitimately unlock doors on a regular basis, opting for a key instead of a lock pick, but most of the time he is greeted with moldy showers, musty bedding, matted carpet, and decades old kitchenware. This time, however, Dean is greeted with clean floors, the smell of food cooking, homely lighting, classic rock playing softly in the background, and the knowledge that the bed will not only be comfortable, but full of her.
He sets his bag inside the front door and follows his nose to the kitchen and the sight that greets him is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
She’s wearing her favorite apron, pulling a pan of something out of the oven he’s sure will taste better than anything he’s ever eaten, twisting to set it on the stovetop and then grab a pie to put in, setting the timer as she does. His stomach grumbles at the sight of a home cooked meal and he feels his jeans grow a little tighter at the sight of her. He feels his heart clench, something it’s done a lot of recently, and he’s hoping that feeling doesn’t last long this time.
Things had been harried lately, what with the apocalypse and all, and he’s terrified of how it will all turn out, terrified he won’t be able to come back to this much longer. There’s been several times where he was sure he’d never lay eyes on this scene again, several times he considered the ‘yes.’ But it never amounts to that, and now Sam is saying ‘yes’ to Lucifer throw him back in the pit, and this is the last time the two people he loves most will be on the earth at the same time.
Dean saunters over, throwing his jacket over a kitchen chair, realizing that she hasn’t heard him over the music and her buzzing around the kitchen, but he’s okay with that. As she makes her way to stand at the sink, he comes up from behind, wrapping his arms around her waist and she jumps a little at the contact.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, and she swivels in his arms in a rush of excitement, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him closer.
“God, I’ve missed you.” And it’s breathy against his cheek, his heart again clenching around nothing.
Instead of returning the sentiment with words, he does what he’s been aching to do since he left her the last time. He presses his lips to hers, all but forcing her lips apart to push his tongue into her mouth. Dean pushes her up against the counter, crowds into her space and pushes one leg between hers, feeling her grind down against his thigh ever so slightly. She groans into his mouth and pulls away, leaving him aching for her.
“Dinner will get cold, Dean.”
He sheds his henley and undershirt, throwing them behind him unconcerned with where they land. “I couldn’t give two shits about dinner right now.” And he doesn’t. The only thing he cares about right now is her, hearing her scream his name, worshipping her right here on the kitchen floor. “All I want to do is fuck you, right here, right now.”
The whimper that leaves her lips and greets his ears is permission enough for him and he pulls her apron, along with her shirt, over her head, greeted with the sight of her black lace bra against the smooth expanse of skin. Dean likes to think that she did that just for him, picking out the lingerie specifically because she knew he’d be coming home tonight. She’s pulling at his belt buckle then, her nimble hands working his jeans open at the same time he gets the clasp of her bra undone, pulling the offending contraption from her body. Before he can think about his next move, she sinks her hand under the waistband of his boxers and pulls them down just enough to free him. She wraps her hand around his hardening cock, his hips thrusting into her fingers.
It’s a moment before he can think straight again, can urge his mind off the feel of her hand around him, squeezing and pumping lazily, a moment before his own fingers pop the button her jeans and sink past the lace of her panties and into her soaked cunt.
They both spend a the next few moments like teenagers in heat racing for a quickie before getting caught, jacking each other off in record time. After, Dean kisses her. It’s lazy, filled with emotion, emotion of the apocalypse and the last few days, emotion at the thought of losing Sam, emotion that he can’t share with her.
Instead of thinking too much about what he has to do in the morning, he instead focuses his attention on her, the woman he loves and has loved for years. The woman who has given him an escape from everything shitty life has handed him in the recent years. It’s all he can do.
When the kitchen is cleaned up from their escapades, his shirt now donning her frame, Dean only clad in jeans, and dinner also cleaned up, she pulls the pie over to cut and he watches her. Watches the sway of her hips as she moves, watches as his shirt snakes up a little and he catches a brief glimpse of her ass as she reaches for plates to dish the pie. Watches as she walks back over to the table and sets his serving of apple pie down in front of him.
Dean reaches for her, wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her into his lap, kissing the exposed skin of her shoulder where his shirt has slid down.
“Dean, what has gotten into you?” she asks, her hand cupping his cheek, forcing him to look at her.
“I’m thinking, uh, about quitting my job. Quit traveling. Settle down.” He waits. She stares. His heart pounds. Her eyes go wide.
“What’re you...are you...does this mean-” she can’t get full sentences out and Dean can see the confusion and distress, and dare he venture to say excitement, on her face.
“I was thinking about getting a job and an apartment here in town, be able to be closer, see you more, be with you more. Maybe have a real settled life for once...”
There’s a sparkle in her eyes and a small smile playing at her lips. “Ooooor...you could move in here?” It’s more of a question than a statement, and it’s his turn for his eyes to go wide and stare, shocked that the one thing he wanted the most, the one thing he was too afraid to ask for, she has just asked for.
“Are you sure?” he asks, waiting with bated breath for the answer.
She kisses him as her answer, her arms flinging around his neck and his heart again clenches, or swells, he’s not sure this time. Because, while this is one of the happiest moments of his life, it’s coming at an infinite loss, and that’s something he can’t forget.
“Thiiiis is K102, your home for Classic Rock and all your favorite Rock hits, it is 6:30 am on this fine Friday morning…”
Dean reaches over to silences the alarm clock and the grating voice of the morning deejay, groaning that it’s already another day.
“Let’s forget about today, cancel it all.” He smiles at her husky morning voice and buries deeper under the covers with her, determined to enjoy another few minutes of peace with the best thing that has happened to him in the last year.
One year, he thinks. It’s been one year.
In a way, it had been the most peaceful year of his life. He has a steady construction job, the nine to five kind of deal. He comes home to home cooked meals and his girl every night. Spends weekends going to baseball games in the summer, and snuggled up on the couch watching Netflix in the colder months. No monsters. No hunting. No stitching up various cuts with dental floss and a sewing needle. No blood stains to get out of favorite, old, soft t-shirts. No sleeping on hard motel beds or the front seat of the Impala.
No Sam.
“Y’okay?” She asks, looking up at him, resting her chin on his chest.
“Yeah, I’m good.” He reaches for her hand and brings it to his lips, grateful for the millionth time that he has her. “And I think you have the right idea, let’s cancel today.”
She smiles and kisses the hand holding hers and they both reach for their phones, sending the appropriate ‘I’m-sick-and-won’t-be-coming-in-today’ messages to their appropriate supervisors. Dean turns off the alarm again and they settle in for a good sleep-in, content to let the day decide where it will lead them.
It’s a morning of late sleeping, a homemade breakfast, a long shower together, enjoying the lazy haze of not having to be anywhere or do anything.
Dean fingers the key ring that holds the keys to the Impala, an idea coming to mind as he does. He turns, watching her slip a summer dress on, and then he walks over to her, slipping his arms around her waist from behind.
“Let’s get out of here,” he says, planting a kiss on her cheek and then on her bare shoulder. She turns in his arms, wrapping hers around his neck and going up on her tiptoes in order to give him a kiss.
“And where would we be going?” she asks him, the look on her face bright and happy.
“Nowhere in particular.” Since Sam had gone and done the swan dive, Dean’s world is limited to this one city where he goes to a respectable job every Monday through Friday and then comes home to her. After one year of this, Dean is itching to get in Baby and drive, no destination in mind, no time table, no limits. “Pack a bag,” he tells her as he turns to do just that, “let's make a weekend of it.”
She doesn't question him anymore as they both pack a few things and, within the hour, Dean is behind the wheel of his first love with his second love by his side, the windows down and a mix tape of 80’s hair bands playing in the background. And for the first time in a long time, maybe the first time ever, Dean feels at peace.
Hours later, she’s protesting, but Dean insists it will be fine. “Sweetheart, it's not that bad. It's one night okay, and I guarantee it's cleaner than it looks.”
They have stopped at a little motel in some one horse town several hours from home, after a day of letting the road be their guide, food at a little po-dunk mom and pop diner with the best burger Dean has had in a year, and she's protesting. Dean isn't sure she doesn't have a reason to protest as they walk in the room and flip on the lights, and they both freeze.
The carpet is matted and smelly, with a stain in the middle Dean isn't sure he wants to identify, and the one bed, which the lady told him was a queen, is barely bigger than a twin, with a blanket on it he is sure hasn't been washed in over a decade.
“Nope,” she states, spinning on her heels and walking away, “I will sleep in the car, thank you very much.”
And he can't say he disagrees. He's stayed in his fair share of dusty, dingy motel rooms, but this takes the cake.
Dean slides in behind the wheel next to her where she's sitting in the front seat, her arms crossed, staring straight ahead. The situation is so beyond comical that Dean does the only thing he can do and laughs. It's a full, throaty, head-thrown-back-tears-in-his-eyes laugh and he can't help but think about how good it feels.
“What is so funny, bucko?” She asks, and he calms down enough to look at her, sees that she's on the verge of laughter herself, that she's not nearly as mad as she's letting on to be, and he slides over on the seat enough to plant a kiss on her forehead, still chuckling a little.
“I just-In all my 30 years of sleeping in gross motel rooms, that is hands down the grossest. I don't even wanna know what diseases we'd catch in there.”
“And you were so sure…”
“I know, I know. C’mon, let's find another place.”
“Or…” she begins, but never finishes as her lips find his and he feels her hand grasp the back of his neck and pull him closer. Her other hand is already working at his belt buckle and he can feel himself getting hard, his mind wiped blank, the only thing on it being the feel of her moving against him.
He has the forethought to pull away, remembering they are in the very well lit parking lot of the motel still. “We gotta um, find a better, yeah,” he stammers, because now she's gotten his jeans unbuttoned and the zipper down, and her hand is working its way under the waistband of his boxer briefs. He slides back behind the wheel and she doesn't miss a beat, sliding with him, her fingers grasping at his cock, and it takes every ounce of willpower he has in him to get the car started and in reverse.
Dean manages to get them out of the parking lot and back on the road, his concentration waning as her lips ghost over the shell of his ear, her teeth grazing the lobe, her hand pulling him free of the constraints of his clothing and stroking him lazily. He searches in the dark for a turnout, frantic to find one soon, a dark street, anything. Because now he's slowly losing control and she's kissing down his neck, her thumb brushing over the tip of his cock, collecting the pre-come and using it to her advantage.
He finally sees an opening and takes it, even though it's nothing more than a break in the trees, but it's dark, and that's all he cares about in this moment. Throwing the car in park and turning it off, he grabs her hand, the one that has him in a frenzy, and pulls it away.
“You've got me,” he begins, kissing her deeply, “so worked up,” and he moves up her jawline to her ear, “I can't even think straight.” He kisses and nips down her neck as he pushes her back onto the front seat, her moans of pleasure as his hand works under her dress and finds the hem of her panties, working his fingers inside and dipping into the wet heat of her cunt, make him ache to be inside her. He dips his fingers in and out of her a couple times, swallowing her whimpers with kisses, but then neither of them can wait any longer and it's a scramble for the back seat in a flurry of clothes and the blanket Dean takes a moment to lay down for them. There's a pregnant pause, a moment where they look at each other and Dean is again grateful for this woman in his life. Her strength, her beauty, her love, her steadiness. He's not sure he could have made it through this year without her, he knows he would have gone crazy looking for Sam and gone absolutely mad with loneliness.
He puts that out of his mind as he reaches for her, pulls her into his lap where he's sitting on the back seat, pulls her close to him, her bare chest against his, her knees framing his hips, her hands in his hair as he plants open mouthed kisses on her chest and breasts, taking one nipple into his mouth, a shudder escaping her parted lips, her hips rocking and coating his cock in her slick where it's trapped between them. She lifts up, a signal he catches and is aware of, a signal she's given him a thousand times over the years, and he gives her what she's asking for, guiding himself to her entrance, both of them moaning as she settles her hips against his again, his cock fully seated inside her.
It's a lazy chase towards their release, neither wanting this moment to end, this perfect moment of togetherness. Dean feels that he's close, closer than her, when his thumb finds her clit and he circles it, feeling her clench down on him and gasp.
“C’mon, babe, you're right there,” he grunts into her ear, fucking up into her, his thumb still circling her clit and her orgasm explodes around him, her walls clenching down on his cock. He thrusts up one, two, three more times and he's falling over the edge along with her, groaning into her shoulder, her chest heaving against his, her breath hot against his cheek as they come down.
Dean places kisses along her shoulder and neck as their breathing calms, tasting the sweat of her skin on his lips, marveling in her perfection, fingers tracing circles in the skin on her back as she strokes the short hairs on the back of his head. She pulls back and before Dean can whine about the loss of contact, she kisses him, their lips slotting together perfectly.
“I love you,” she says against his lips, not for the first time and most certainly not the last, and his heart swells. He knows that he feels the same way, but those words have always been hard for him to say.
“I’d be so lost without you,” he says instead, kissing her again. He uses the blanket he laid across the back seat to wrap around them, taking advantage of it’s size and lying down with her across it. She burrows in close to him, her head tucked under his chin, and falls asleep almost instantly.
Dean sighs, listening to her even breathing in the dark, and a new feeling settles over him. It’s a feeling he hasn’t felt in a long time but he shakes it off and wraps his arms tighter around his girl and falls asleep with the memories of the story they wrote in the foggy windows that night.
*
“Thank you, officer,” Dean says, taking the card from him.
“Welcome, son,” he says back, patting Dean’s shoulder. “Let us know if you need anything else.”
Dean nods to the officer and heads back inside. They had come home Sunday afternoon, a haze of happy hanging over them after a weekend of adventure, to find the front door of their condo hanging wide open. After calling the cops and checking everything out, they came to the conclusion that nothing was missing, but a report was filed nonetheless.
He walks into the living room where she’s combing through things, doing a triple check, her features drawn and concerned. He walks over to her and pulls her into his arms.
“Who would break in and not take anything?” she asks, her arms going around him, her shoulders remaining tense.
“I don’t know.” He supplies, rubbing her shoulders to relieve the tension that is there, but he does know and for the first time all year he’s worried for their safety.
He goes to bed that night, not prepared at all for the upcoming work week, but not before he checks and triple checks the doors and windows, lifts the rugs by each of the outside doors to check the devil’s traps he’d painted there when they’d moved in, and checks his supply of holy water and his salt rounds in his rifle. He knows he’s probably just being paranoid, but he can’t shake the feeling this time, can’t shake that something is after him. After them. Quite possibly after her specifically, and he’s not willing to risk that.
It’s the middle of the night, three or four a.m., when Dean is startled out of sleep by a crash. He looks over to the other side of the bed, but she’s still sleeping peacefully, her breathing deep and even, so he doesn’t bother waking her. He reaches for his shotgun just under the bed and tiptoes downstairs, his senses heightened.
The rug by the front door is askew, the door ajar, and now his heart is pounding, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He fixes the rug and shuts the door, making sure the deadbolt is locked before he continues through the living room and into the kitchen. The back door and rug are out of place there too, and now Dean is nervous he missed something on his way through the house. He peaks out into the backyard, his gun held aloft, and finds nothing, so he comes back inside, righting the rug and shutting the door, flipping the lock home.
Dean does one more sweep of the house and finds nothing more out of place, so he heads back to bed, slides under the covers next to her sleeping form and tries to go back to sleep. But it’s the sleep from years gone by, the kind of sleep he’s not used to, light and unproductive.
When he wakes up in the morning and gets ready for work, every sense is on edge, every nerve tingling, and he’s unsure of what to expect from the day. But his eyes are peeled for the entirety of it, his instincts on edge.
At the end of his work day he begins to see signs of demons everywhere and he pulls his gun out from under the seat of his truck, tucking it in the back of his pants. There’s scratches on a telephone pole in their front yard, sulfur on the edge of a window in their garage, blood on the doorframe into the house where the door is hanging wide open again, and he bolts upstairs, looking for any sign of her. There is none. Things are overturned in their bedroom and he becomes frantic looking for her.
He exits the bedroom and makes his way down the hall, his gun held up, his vision starting blur. It’s then that he sees what he thought was impossible: Alistair is stalking up the stairs towards him.
“Hiya Dean, look what the apocalypse shook loose.” And he laughs, a full maniacal laugh. “You have fun sniffing that trail? Cuz I sure had fun patting you around.
“You can’t be...” his vision blurs again, the hallway spinning.
“Oh sure I can!”
“No…”
“Yeah, kiddo. The big daddy brought your pal Cas back, right? So why not me? Add a little spice to all that...that sugar.”
Dean does the only thing he can think of, he shoots. But nothing happens, he’s still there, stalking ever closer.
Alistair looks down at the gunshot wound, then looks back up at Dean. “Really? After all we’ve been through together?” He surges forward, his hand going around Dean’s neck, lifting him up off the ground and slamming him against the nearest wall. “You know, you’ve got a great little life here, Y/N, a pretty lady, real understanding like, isn't she?” He’s laughing again and Dean is losing air, struggling to take a breath. “And how do you keep your lawn so green?” he mocks. “I mean, c’mon Dean, you’ve never been what I call brainy, but did you really think you were going to get to keep all of this? You had to know that we were coming for you sometime pal.”
Alistair pulls Dean away from the wall, just far enough so that he can slam him back into it, Dean choking from the pressure on his trachea.
“You can’t outrun your past,” Alistair says, and Dean starts to see black spots and light popping behind his eyes.
And then he sees, for a split second, the thing that is even more impossible than Alistair, the one thing he’d give his life to see again.
Sam.
Dean gasps for air, sitting up off the hard cot, and he looks around at the dingy room he’s in, a far cry from his condo.
There he is again. Sam.
“Hey, Dean,” he says, nonchalantly, like he’s not just come back from the dead, like it hasn’t been a full year. “I was expecting, uh, I don’t know, a hug, some holy water in the face, something.”
There’s only one explanation for this. “So, I’m dead?” Dean says, more to the room than to Sam specifically. “This is heaven? Yellow eyes killed me and now…”
“Yellow eyes? That’s what you saw?” Sam asks, interrupting Dean.
“Saw?”
“You were poisoned. So whatever kind of crazy crap you think you’ve been seeing,” Sam says, pushing off the table and waving his hands around, “it’s not real.”
Dean runs through everything in his head, every moment from the last couple days, every sign he’d seen of being followed or the house being broken into. But then he wonders…
“So, then, are you...real? Or am I still…”
“I’m real,” Sam tells him. “Here, let me save you the trouble.”
Sam pulls out a silver knife and puts a slice in his forearm and then takes a swig of salted holy water, and Dean knows he’s trying to prove something to him, but Dean still isn’t sure how Sam can even be alive.
“All me. That’s nasty.”
Dean stands up. “Sammy?”
“Yeah, it’s me.” He responds. And then Dean can’t stop himself, he stands and walks towards him and takes him into a hug, grateful to just have his brother back.
They commiserate on how he’s back, how long he’s been back, and although Dean is pissed Sam has been back all year, Sam explains that he wanted Dean to have a normal life for once, to have peace. Sam tells Dean he’s been hunting, that he found family.
Dean is introduced to the Campbell’s, is shocked to find out that his mother had family they didn’t know about and also that his grandfather is alive. It’s all a lot to take in when Sam doesn’t even let him recover for even a moment before telling him what was after him. A Djinn, specifically the officer that had come to file the report on the break in at his condo. It had come for Sam and now it was after Dean as well.
Dean panics, thinking of Y/N, thinking of how he hadn’t seen her when he’d gotten home from work.
Dean rushes out, Sam hot on his heels, and they race off to Dean’s condo. He runs in, searches the downstairs and doesn’t find her, and then he takes the stairs two at a time and into their bedroom, calling her name the whole time.
“Dean, honey?” she calls, her voice laced with confusion, and it’s coming from the bathroom and Dean is there in mere seconds, pulling her into a bruising hug. “Ow. Dean, what’s wron-” but her words trail off, and when he pulls away to see the look on her face, her eyes are wide and she’s staring behind him.
Dean turns to see Sam standing in the doorway, watching them intently. Dean hadn’t even heard him follow him upstairs so he’s a little surprised himself.
“Um, sweetheart, I, uh…” but he can’t find the words. Can’t think of how to tell her that Sam isn’t dead. She knows nothing of the life, nothing about what goes bump in the night, and he’s not about to tell her now.
“No,” she breathes out, pulling out of Dean’s grasp backing away, her eyes still on Sam.
“Hey, it’s fine, he’s not-” but Dean isn’t sure what Sam’s not or is or how to explain it to her. But he reaches for her, puts his hand on her shoulder, tries to pull her toward him.
Dean’s heart breaks when she turns to him, her eyes still wide and scared, and she pulls away, backs up until her back hits the wall behind her. “Sweetheart…”
“No. Out, now.”
“Let me explai-”
“Explain what?” she says, her voice laced with hurt, her eyes filling with tears. “Explain how you fucking lied to me? How your brother isn’t dead? How he’s just magically back to life?” Tears are coursing down her cheeks now. “Either you worked some magic to get him back, which is highly unlikely, or you fucking lied to me for the last year. And I can’t believe I fell for it.”
Dean tries again, tries to go for her, touch her in any way, comfort her, his mouth working open and shut, but not finding the words to explain.
“No!” she yells, lurching out of his reach, and Dean knows that his own pained face echoes hers. “Get. The hell. Out!”
So that’s what he does. He leaves, and he tells her quietly he’ll be back the next day to get his stuff while she’s at work.
When him and Sam are back in the car and he’s trying to keep it together, his heart shattering as he leaves her behind, Sam speaks for the first time.
“Hey man, maybe it’s better this way,” he says. “Hell, you’ll draw the Djinn away from her and she’ll be safe. Plus, we could really use your help. Things have really gone to shit recently.”
Dean nods, the only thing he’s capable of doing right now, and stares out the window as Sam drives away, wondering if he’ll ever see her again.
He’s sitting in a dank waiting room, the thirty year old vinyl underneath him creaking as his knee bounces up and down, his nerves on edge, his eyes burning from unshed tears.
It’s been a harrowing 24 hours, nurses and doctors bustling around him and Sam, and one asshat claiming to be from donor services asking Dean questions he doesn’t want to think about, can’t think about. Dick Roman showing up and being, well, a dick. Sam has been withdrawn, occasionally trying to get Dean to talk, get him to have the ‘chick-flick’ moment. But he’s completely incapable, and in his grief, his anger is getting the better of him.
He fidgets with his phone, opening and closing it, scrolling to his contacts and down to her name, then closing it again, unable to make the call.
Y/N had made it expressly clear the last time he’d seen her, that day he’d stopped by to pick up his things, that she didn’t want anything to do with him, didn’t want to hear from him ever again. But in this moment, as Bobby is hanging on by a thread down the hall, hooked up to every possible monitor the hospital has, she’s the only person he wants to talk to.
Dean stands, unable to sit still any longer, and begins pacing a quiet back hallway, away from the hustle and bustle of the ICU, away from the noise.
He comes to a stop, leaning his back against the wall, every remaining ounce of energy draining from him and he slumps to the floor, his head in his hands. That’s when Sam finds him, tells him to come quick, and races back to Bobby’s room.
Dean watches his surrogate father’s eyelashes flutter, watches as his hand reaches for Sam and he pulls the oxygen mask off his face and tries to talk. Dean flounders for a pen and Bobby writes some numbers on Sam’s hand. And then the inevitable happens.
“Idjits,” Bobby says, a small smile on his face, his eyes fond and fatherly. And then his eyes fall shut and the monitor lets out one long steady beep and Dean knows this is it.
Bobby is dead.
He turns and walks away, his actions on automatic as he reaches the outside of the hospital and pulls his phone out of his pocket, the tears already streaming down his face. He presses and holds the appropriate number, not expecting her to pick up, but he can’t stop himself.
“Hello?” Y/N’s voice is like music to his ears, but it also breaks the dam he’s been painstakingly holding together inside.
Through his tears he finds his voice, “H-hey, I’m sorry to call like this, I know the last time-the last time you said…” he takes a deep breath, holding back the sobs that are welling up in his chest.
“Dean, what’s wrong?”
“He’s, um, Bobby is...he’s dead.”
She’d met Bobby a few times, he’d stop by their condo on his way through town that year occasionally when he was headed to or from a job, and she’d liked the crotchety old man. But Dean is under no impression that he’s able to tug at some heart string for her to show up.
“I’m so sorry, Dean.” And the line goes dead.
It could have been worse, could have ended in yelling and screaming, or she could have not answered at all. That’s what Dean tries to tell himself, that it was enough just to hear her voice.
It’s a long drive from New Jersey to Whitefish back to Rufus’s cabin after they give Bobby his hunter’s funeral, but that’s the only place they know of to go. Once there, the grief is overwhelming and Dean just sits, staring.
A couple days later he gets a call, an unknown number, but he answers it anyway.
“Hello?” His voice is hoarse from disuse, and he clears his throat, silence on the other end. “Hello? Anyone there?”
Nobody ever answers on the other end so he hangs up after a few more seconds and doesn’t think about the call again.
Two days later, Dean is sitting on the couch, pad of paper in one hand with scribbled notes on it, tumbler of whiskey in the other, contemplating the numbers that Bobby wrote on Sam’s hand right before he died. He’s startled from his contemplation by a knock on the door and he looks to Sam, both of them shocked. Nobody was supposed to know they were here.
Dean stands, grabbing his gun from the coffee table and holding it behind his back. He opens the door only enough to see through the crack and what he sees calms the pounding of his heart.
He opens the door wider, the view of her standing on the porch the best thing he’s seen in the last month, and then stands to the side, implicating that she’s welcome to come in. She does, however hesitant, she walks through the door, bringing with her a light he hasn’t felt since he last saw her.
Sam doesn’t say anything, just grabs his coat and the keys and leaves with a nod, leaving them alone.
Dean shuffles, unsure of what to say, and she stands just inside the door looking at her feet and wringing her hands. He looks her up and down and wants nothing more than to take her in his arms and cry like a little boy, but he knows he can’t.
“How’d you-”
“Tracked your cell.”
“That call, the unknown number...was you?.”
“Yep.”
Then there’s more silence, more shuffling, Dean rubbing his face, her fiddling with her keys.
“I’m sorry to show up unannounced,” she starts, but then hesitates, chewing on her words.
“You have nothing to apologize for.” And he’s never been more earnest about anything in his life.
“I just, I had to see you, know that you were-that you are okay.” And she finally looks at him, stops fiddling and shuffling, and Dean feels his world stop.
There may still be fucking Leviathans to deal with, they may still have to figure out what the hell Bobby’s numbers mean, and there may still be the bigger issue of finding out how to get rid of Dick Roman for good, but right here, right now, everything is okay, as long as Y/N is here.
She takes one small, furtive step forward and that’s all the permission Dean needs to close the small gap between them. And then she’s there, in his arms, and he’s finally feeling whole for the first time in over a year. He’s weeping openly, and when he takes a second to try and calm himself, he realizes that she’s weeping as well, both of them shaking in each other’s arms. He can feel her hands gripping the back of his plaid shirt like a lifeline, and he knows his grip on her shoulders is tighter than is probably comfortable for her, but he can’t let go, doesn’t want to let go.
It’s a while before they are both calm enough to loosen their hold, calm enough to speak.
“How…?” she asks through her sniffles, but she doesn’t need to finish the sentence, Dean knows what she’s asking.
And he has a decision to make, a decision that he’s vacillated on more than he ever wants to admit, a decision he’s always convinced himself he doesn’t need to make. But now it’s different.
“Gunshot. To the head.” And there it is, the honesty he knows she deserves.
“Fuck.” Her shock is apparent and Dean watches her deflate, watches the confusion on her face and the wheels turning in her head. She looks up at him, questions written all over her features.
Dean knows now that there is no going back, and he takes a deep breath and guides her to the well worn couch, shuffling aside papers and books to make room for her. He watches her eyes wander around the room, watches them flit over the papers on the wall, to the take-out containers and beer bottles on various surfaces, books piled on tables and chairs. Watches the crease between her eyebrows become deeper.
“There's some things you should know, that I should have told you years ago,” he begins, and she waits, so he spills.
He spills everything; from his mom dying and his dad’s vendetta, to Sam dying and him selling his soul, from him going to hell and then coming back again, to Sam also landing himself in hell, in the pit with Lucifer no less, and coming back soulless. He spills about monsters and demons and angels and hunting. He spills about Bobby and the leviathans and everything they are doing currently. He spills about Cas and Crowley and Dick Roman.
He spills everything.
And she listens without interrupting. He watches her as she does, watches her eyes grow wide and then narrow as she studies him, watches as she curls within herself, retreating from him, and then relaxes.
He's not sure what to expect from her when he's done. Anger? Hurt? Rage? Tears? Fear? That last one he isn’t sure he’ll be able to handle.
When he’s finishes, he sits, silence descending, and he waits. Waits for her to soak it all in, waits for her to be the first to speak.
He’s staring at his feet, his hands clasped together, knuckles white when she does.
“I believe you,” she says, placing a hand over his.
He looks up in shock, his green eyes wide, relief washing over him. Whatever reaction he was expecting, it was not this.
“What?” he asks, but not because he didn’t hear her, because he needs to hear the words again.
“I believe you,” she says again, and her features are soft.
He reaches for her for the first time since they sat down, since he spilled everything, and he clings to her, noticing that she’s clinging back. He pulls away, just far enough to look into her eyes.
“But...why?”
“Dean, honey,” his heart melting at the sound of his name coming from her lips, “I have no reason not to. And while I should be mad, pissed, furious even, possibly even scared, that you practically lied to me for close to eight years, I don’t have it in me.” She stops, looks into his eyes, a hand coming up to brush against his cheek and he leans into the touch, missing the way her hands felt on his skin. “I didn’t realize until last year, until-” but he can tell she can’t say it, can’t bring herself to relive the memory, “I didn’t realize how safe you made me feel. I’ve spent the last year and a half terrified, looking over my shoulder and hoping against hope that every call I get and every knock on the door is you. And I want to help, in any way I can. I want to learn how to be the woman that can stand by your side.”
It’s more than Dean would have ever hoped for, more than he feels he deserves if he were ever to be one hundred percent honest, but he doesn’t voice those feelings, doesn’t put into words how grateful he is for this perfect creature that has never done anything but love him.
So instead of voicing that, instead of putting his doubts at the surface, he buries them. And then he does what he’s been wanting to do since she walked in the cabin door-he kisses her. He kisses her with every ounce of feeling he’s got, winds his fingers in her hair and presses as close to her as he can, and even though he doesn’t believe that God is listening, he prays that he can keep her safe and that he’ll never have to let go of her again.
Again with the darkness. Again with the unknown. Again with getting topside and not knowing where he was. This time he at least has a direction, a purpose. This time it wasn’t such a shock.
Dean walks and walks, hitches a ride or two, gets himself from Maine to Louisiana in a few days and manages to find the right spot. Manages to do the spell right and dump the soul that has been camping out in his arm into the pile of bones he’s dug up.
“Wow, that was fast,” he says to the burly man behind him that is rolling his head back and forth and shrugging his shoulders.
“No thanks to you,” he replies, his accent thick and heavy. “The hell took you s’long?”
“You’re welcome,” Dean says before hissing, grasping at the cut on his arm. “Everything working?”
“Good enough.” He opens his mouth, his fangs appearing before retracting back into their sockets. “So, what now?”
“Like we talked about, I guess,” Dean answers.
The man nods, eyes downcast. “Then, this is goodbye.”
“Keep your nose clean, Benny. Ya hear me?”
Benny nods again before stepping forward and grabbing Dean’s hand in a handshake. “We made it, brother. I can’t believe it.”
They both smile and then give each other a back pounding hug.
“You and me both,” Dean says, and he’s forever grateful that not only did he make it back from Purgatory, but that he had Benny by his side the whole time.
They pull out of the hug, smiles still plastered to their faces.
“Go find ya girl,” Benny says to Dean, giving him a pat on the shoulder.
“I’m going to.” And there’s nothing in the world Dean wants to do more than see her, hold her. It’s all he’s dreamt about for a year.
He makes his way to the cabin in Whitefish, Montana first, the last place they had holed up, had some semblance of a home. But no one is there. It’s a couple days before he not alone anymore, before Sam shows up and Dean finds out that he hasn’t been hunting anymore, hasn’t even bothered to look for him.
“So, where is Y/N?” Dean asks, and Sam waffles.
“I, uh, I don’t know. After...after Dick and you disappeared, we split up. She wanted to look for you and I-”
“You just let her go off alone?!” Dean is furious. She’d only known about what lurked in the shadows for a few months before Dean’s ass had been lurched to Purgatory, and the thought of her out there alone terrified him. Especially with the target that had been on his back the last year or two.
“We always said not to look for each other,” Sam says, as if it’s some sort of apology.
“Yeah, and we always ignored that. So not only did you ignore that, but you also let Y/N go off by herself without any protection.”
“I’m sure she’s-”
“She’s what, Sam? Fine? Safe? Yeah, I doubt that.”
Dean spends the next day or two combing through phones, listening to messages that Sam was supposed to have gotten months ago. Several from Kevin, trying to get a hold of Sam and find protection.
And then he finds one from her.
“Hey Sam, it’s me, Y/N. I, uh, I don’t know if you’ll get this, but I think I know where Dean is. And I think I’ve found a way to get him back. Call me.”
Him and Sam spend the next few weeks combing the country for Kevin, while Dean keeps trying to track Y/N down at the same time. He calls all her numbers, but they are all out of service. He tracks her last license plate number and pulls up bupkis. Calls up every hunter he can think of and still no sign of her.
It’s not until after they find Kevin and Dean is starting to lose hope, starting to think the worst, that he gets a call from Garth.
“Hey amigo, I hear you been lookin’ for someone,” he’s says, cheerful as ever, grating right on Dean’s last nerve.
“Garth, hey, we actually already found Kevin, but than-”
“Nah, man, I’m talking about your girl, Y/N.”
Dean almost drops the phone at those words, demands to know where she is, yelling more than he should. As soon as he’s written down the address he’s bolting from the motel room, forgetting that Sam is in the shower, and speeding off toward the highway. He forgets about food and sleep, only stopping for gas, desperate to get to her.
He pulls up to the old house in Kokadjo, Maryland, parks the Impala and runs up the walk and take the stairs two at a time. He takes a moment to catch his breath, to realize she was just miles from where he came topside, and then knocks. When there’s not a response after a couple seconds, he knocks again, basically pounds, his heart pounding, afraid he’s too late.
He’s gearing up for another good pounding on the door, his fist held aloft in the air, when the door flings open and he feels something wet in his face. Dean sputters on the water in his mouth, catches his breath right before more liquid is flying in his face, this time bitter and soapy tasting.
“I’m not a demon, or a Leviathan.” He swipes at his face, getting the liquid out of his eyes so he can look at her.
And his heart skips a beat. She’s the most beautiful thing he’s laid eyes on in over a year and all his daydreams about her in purgatory come flying to his mind. He realizes his memory of her didn’t even come close to her perfection.
It’s then he realizes that she’s holding out a silver knife and he laughs.
“I’m not a shifter either,” he says.
“Well, can’t be too sure, can you?”
So he takes the knife and obliges her, pulls up his sleeve and cuts into his forearm, adding to one of the many fading scars there, and the fresher healing wounds from a couple months ago.
He looks up to see the relief on her face just before she splashes a little of each liquid on her hand and then takes the knife from him and adds her own cut to her forearm. When none of them sizzle and burn, Dean covers the space between them in one large stride and takes her into his arms. He breathes in the scent of her, the fresh, clean floral scent of her shampoo, the smell of her perfume. It’s all he can do, cling to her, the desperation in his grip real. He feels her shaking in his arms and if he weren’t so desensitized, he’d probably be sobbing himself.
They stand there, holding each other for what feels like an eternity before Dean speaks. “God, Y/N, I missed you,” he says into her hair, his lips finding her forehead, the top of her head, and kissing down the trail of tears on each cheek, before landing on her lips. He feels her lean into the kiss, feels her tongue lick along his lips and he opens to her. He feels her hands wrap around his neck to pull him closer and deepen the kiss. He obliges, pulling on her hips, his hands finding the skin at the small of her back and working up under her sweater.
He pulls away long enough to pull the fabric up over her head, her own hands quickly undoing the clasp of her bra and pulling it from her body, and then she’s back in his arms and she’s working at his jacket. There’s bit of a fumble when his jacket and flannel get caught on his arms and the both laugh into the kiss as he gets unstuck, but then her hands are on his skin under his shirt, they are cool and smooth, and everything else around him disappears.
When his shirt is off, he pulls her against him, the feel of her skin on his devastating and perfect, the smooth feel of her breasts against his chest erasing every bad thing on his mind he’s experienced in the last year. Then there’s the blissed out feeling of her hands working on his belt buckle and he doesn’t waste his time lifting her in his arms, her legs going around his waist. He doesn’t bother taking his time finding the bedroom, doesn’t bother even asking, he just lays her out on the table that’s five steps away, her back arching up as he kisses down her neck and chest, sucking a dark mark onto the top of one breast before taking the nipple between his lips, his teeth grazing the pert bud, his hand finding the other, taking the nipple in between his fingers and working her into a frenzy.
He feels her hips grind down on his, feels the heat from her cunt against his hard cock that’s bulging at the front of his jeans, the friction of clothing sending waves of pleasure through him. But it’s not enough. He works his fingers under the waistband of her leggings and pulls them down her body along with her panties, laying her bare before him. He’s practically salivating, desperate to taste her, but unsure if he can make it that long.
He reaches in his back pocket and pulls out a condom before kicking his pants and boxers off, her small hand wrapping around his length and pumping a couple times. It’s enough to make his mind go blank for a second, enough that his head falls against her chest, his own chest heaving. He finds his train of thought long enough to rip the packet open with his teeth, moving her hand away from him. He rolls it on, the only thing on his mind the all consuming need to be inside her, to hear her scream his name.
He knows he’s not the only one desperate for that feeling when he feels her hand back on his cock, guiding him to her entrance. He pushes inside her, slow and agonizing, reveling in the wet, hot feel of her, giving her a chance to adjust, leaning over her and placing open mouthed kisses on her chest again.
“Dean, babe,” she says, her voice husky with need and want, and she says the words she said the first time they were together. “I need you to fuck me. Fuck me hard.”
He nearly comes undone from those words alone, feels his breath shudder before he’s inching back, torturously slow, her hips lifting as her legs wrap around his waist, giving him the leverage to pound back into her.
“God, sweetheart, you feel so good.” And he repeats the action, feeling her fingernails clawing at his back, reaching for any sort of purchase.
He stands to his full height then, his hands gripping her hips to keep her still as he continues to fuck up into her, feeling her walls flutter around his cock. One of her hands wraps around his wrist, the other finding her clit, and Dean melts at the sight of her working circles around it.
“Dean, I’m close, just a little...harder,” she says, and he answers her plea, hooking one of his arms under her knee, the new angle giving him deeper access.
That’s when he feels the first clench down of her muscles around him, and he knows that she’s just a couple more strategic thrusts away from coming. He gives it to her, feels the table slide just the slightest bit underneath her with each one, but then she’s there, falling over the edge, her orgasm sending him into his, her fingernails digging into his wrist.
“Fuck, Dean!” she cries and drowns out his own groans of pleasure as he spills inside the condom, working them both through their release.
They both come down, Dean’s head again on her chest, her arms wrapped around him, fingers running through his short hair, as he softens inside her. He feels her pepper the top of his head with kisses and he lifts his head, his lips finding hers and kissing her deeply. It’s a moment he wasn’t sure he’d ever have again, a moment that he hadn’t let himself hope for during his entire year long stint in Purgatory. But it’s more than perfect and enough to pull him out of whatever darkness that was left in him.
*
“Purgatory? Purgatory?!” She asks, sitting up in the bed, leaning an elbow on his chest so that she can look at him.
“You heard right,” he responds tracing circles in her bare back.
They spent the day in bed, unable to stay apart, unable to keep their hands to themselves, but Dean wouldn’t have it any other way. It was was he daydreamed about on the particularly hard days in Purgatory.
“Purgatory. God, I knew it. I searched and searched, researched every possibility, and researched some more, trying to find a way in but never could. I’m so sorry.”
“Hey, it’s not your fault, love.” Dean takes a deep breath, needing to ask the hard question but not really wanting the answer. “What, um, happened with Sam after I…”
She looks away from him and he sees her mood change, sees the anger on her features. “I tried to get him to help, I called and called and didn’t hear from him for weeks. When I finally did, little shit said he was out, that he wasn’t going to look for you. I told him he was a fucking coward, well, screamed it at him actually. And then his numbers went defunct and I wasn’t able to get a hold of him. Hell, I don’t even know what happened to him.”
“He hit a fucking dog,” Dean says, and the bewildered look on her face makes him laugh, a genuine belly laugh.
“Excuse me, what?”
“It’s a longer story than that, but not worth telling,” he says, still laughing, mainly at the look on her face, the face he had missed more than anything, the face he was determined to never let out of his sight again.
“You did fucking what?!” Y/N was standing across from him in the library, a table between them, her hands resting on the back of a chair. He follows her eyes to where they are staring at the spot, the spot where the mark now rests emblazoned on his arm.
Dean takes a deep breath, steels himself for even more anger than before. “I did what I had to do, sweetheart. I made a fucking decision. Hell, it’s one that I’d make again and again if it means I can gank that redheaded bitch and end this shit forever!”
“Oh, well, excuse me! Excuse me for being concerned about your fucking well being. Excuse me for worrying about the fact that you have the fucking Mark of Cain on your arm, the oldest symbol known to man. I may not have been a hunter for long but…”
“That’s right, you haven’t been a hunter for long, so don’t fucking patronize me.” He’s furious and he instantly regrets the words, but there they are, hanging in the silence that now hangs between them. Her eyes are wide, tears spilling over onto her cheeks, and he wants to apologize, but he’s also prideful as hell and can’t bring himself to.
He sees the change in her features, sees the anger drain and a steely resolve take its place.
“You know what,” she says, and he flinches at the ice in her voice, “call me when my boyfriend comes home.” And he watches her retreat down the stairs and toward the bedrooms, flinching again when a door slams in the distance.
He’d known she’d be upset about the Mark, known that he’d face backlash about it from both her and Sam, but he hadn’t expected this. Sam had been shocked, but they had bigger issues between them, namely Dean letting him get possessed by Gadreel and the like.
But he had hoped Y/N would react different, even though he shouldn’t have been surprised at her reaction. When him and Sam had split up, he’d forced her to go back to the bunker, had told her that he needed to do some things alone and she’d be safer at home. She’d put up a fight, that he had expected, but this...this was bigger.
Dean takes a deep breath before walking over to the table holding the decanters and tumblers and he pours himself a finger a whiskey, downing it for liquid courage, and then he makes his way down the hall after her. He comes to a stop in front of room 11, their room, and he silently tries the doorknob. His head hits the wood when he finds it locked, a small thud sounding in the silent hallway.
“I know you can hear me,” he starts, not sure where he’s going with this, “and I-I just want to say I’m sorry.”
Dean has never been good at apologizing, never been good at getting the words out. He’ll apologize with actions, but he knows right now the words are more important than anything
He sighs, a heavy, dejected sound. “I’m sorry.” This time it’s more of a whisper, one he’s not sure she heard, but he stays where he is, his hand on the doorknob, his forehead resting on the door.
It’s soft, the click of the lock, but his ears have been trained for years to hear the smallest sounds, and he hesitates before trying the knob. It gives and he opens the door, not sure if he’ll face wrath or kindness on the other side of the door. But the sight that greets him almost breaks his heart.
She’s sitting on the edge of the bed and he can see the streaks of makeup on her cheeks.
He sits next to her and gathers her close under his arm, her head tucked under his chin. “I promise you, everything will be okay,” he tells her, kissing the top of her head.
“How do you know?” Her voice is thick, a sniffle following her question.
But Dean doesn’t answer, he can’t answer, because he doesn’t know. He just tightens his arms around her and hopes that he can make everything okay.
*
“Dean… Dean!” He hears the voice as if he’s under water, the ringing in his ears stronger than anything else he can hear. “DEAN!” He snaps out of it at that last one, Y/N’s voice breaking through the muddle and the ringing and he looks up, the look of fear on her face making him look around.
Abaddon lay beneath him, blood everywhere, her gut ribboned open. That’s when he takes in himself, the blade in his right hand covered in her blood, same with his hand, his left hand just as drenched, blood splattered down his front. He realizes then that he may of overdone things and then he understands the fear on her face. He’s been overdoing things for a while now, ever since the first time he held the blade in his hand, ever since he’d killed Cuthbert Sinclair with it that first time.
“Dean, hey, you can stop.” She’s kneeling at Abaddon’s head, eye level with him and his face falls, knowing how this must look.
He drops the blade, hearing it clatter the floor and stares at her, the ringing finally stopping, and his heart breaks as a tear streaks down her cheek. He stands, unable to make eye contact with her and he makes his way to the bathroom to clean up the best he can, not noticing that she’s following.
He sees her lean against the door jam of the bathroom, and as he turns on the water, she folds her arms across her chest.
“What?” he snaps, and it comes out harsher than he intended.
“Well, if that’s how you’re going to speak to me...” And he sees her turn, sees that she’s about to walk away, something that is starting to become all too common lately.
“Wait, wait, I-”
“What, Dean?” she says without turning around. “Wait for fucking what? Wait for you to stop being an asshole? Wait for you to stop pushing me away?” Her voice cracks on that last question, and he again knows he needs to apologize, needs to say the words but he physically can’t.
So he does the only thing he’s capable of and walks up to where her back is turned to him, puts his now clean hands on her shoulders and turns her to him, gathering her in his arms. It takes a moment with him standing here holding her for her to relax against him, takes a moment for her arms to go around him, her hands gripping the back of his jacket, her body slumping in his arms with sobs. He knows he’s breaking her heart, knows that what the mark is doing is tearing them apart. But Dean doesn’t know how to stop it, doesn’t know how to rectify it.
Instead, he holds her while she cries into his chest, holds her and feels her there, because he knows deep down that he’s not going to survive this fight. And as a tear of his own tracks down his cheek, he comes to the realization that they aren’t going to survive this fight either.
Light floods the room and he hears the creak of the shelves. Lifting his head, a smirk on his lips, he watches as they walk in the room. His eyes glaze over Sammy, carrying a small black pouch, rolled up and tied with a string, arm in a sling, and then over to her, carrying a biohazard cooler. His eyes don’t just glaze over her though, they land right on her and he sees the fear and heartbreak in her eyes, sees it almost radiating off her. He can also sense the sadness, the hurt, the loss of hope.
Her eyes are puffy and red, makeup free, her t-shirt wrinkled like she’s slept in it. He sees what the old Dean would have seen in her, sees what maybe he could see in her now, a fun night in the sack, a quick fuck and then he’s off. He still has the memories from before, still knows that the sex with her was good, but he’s not looking to make love and then spend the morning cuddling naked. Nope. Just a quick fuck and nothing more.
Well, once he’s not tied to this chair that is.
“Really?” he says, watching as they set their burdens down on the table that’s set up in the corner.
“For whatever it’s worth,” Sam says, his voice wry, “we got your blood type.”
“I know you guys think you’re gonna try and fix me,” Dean sneers. “But did it ever occur to you that maybe I don’t wanna be fixed? Just lemme go live my life, I won’t bother you. What you do two care?”
“What do we care?” Y/N snaps, her eyes now firey instead of forlorn and she takes a step forward. Sam rests a hand on her shoulder and gives her a look and she retreats back, doesn’t move any closer.
Dean is oddly satisfied with this situation, oddly satisfied that the woman that was once his girl has no courage to really face him, has no gumption to really tell him off. Maybe that’s because…
His train of thought is cut off as Sam begins sprinkling holy water around the room and saying an incantation in Latin, consecrating the ground inside the devil’s trap that Dean now sits in the middle of, and Dean goes back to musing about Sam attempting to cure him.
“You think I’m just gonna sit here like Crowley, getting all weepy while you shoot me up?” he questions, but it’s meant to be rhetorical. “Well, screw that. I don’t want this!”
“Yeah, we pretty much figured that out,” Sam throws over his shoulder as he prepares the first injection.
“You don’t even know if this is gonna work, do you?” Dean asks. “You know, I got a hell of a lot more running through me than just demon juice.”
“Mark of Cain, got it,” Sam shoots back, and Dean gives a half chuckle. He’s amused that Sam has taken over the brunt of the conversation, that she’s just sitting there listening, her eyes narrowed and downcast, arms crossed over her chest, leaning up against the table.
“That’s right,” Dean says.
“Buckle up.” And Sam steps forward, the first syringe in his hand, needle uncapped.
“Sammy, you know I hate shots.” Dean is hoping Sam won’t actually attempt to cure him, but he knows that hope is fragile. His eyes follow Sam, staring intently.
“I hate demons,” Sam snarks back, unflinching.
For a brief moment, Dean’s eyes go black and he yells, but Sam splashes holy water in his face to get him to back down and plunges the needle in his arm.
In the first instant there’s pain, pain from the needle being shoved into the muscle on his arm as Sam only half tries to aim for his vein, pain from it hitting too many nerves. In the second instant there’s fire hot heat that spreads from the point of impact through his whole arm as Sam injects the blood into his system.
“Look, we got a whole bunch more of these to go,” Sam tells him as he steps away. “You could make it a lot easier on yourself.” Sam is patronizing him now and beneath the fire that is spreading in his veins, he’s pissed off about it.
But the heat is spreading quicker, and before it becomes all consuming, he sees her cringe away, sees her turn her head so she can’t look at him anymore and sees her shoulders shake with a silent sob. It’s brief, but it’s there, a flash of guilt that he’s caused this, and then it’s gone and he’s in more pain than he’s ever been in his life, and that’s saying something.
He groans, grunts, and then yells, a deep, growling yell, sweat beading on his forehead, and then it subsides and he’s left sitting there, breathing heavy.
Sam turns back around and sets the needle down before looking up at Y/N, again setting a hand on her shoulder. Dean sees her shake her head and barely catches what she says before she hurries from the room.
“I can’t watch this.” It’s less of a statement then it is a lamentation, pain laced in her words.
But Dean’s focus is elsewhere, it’s on the dull fiery pain still running through his veins.
*
Hours later, after he’s escaped the ropes and the devil’s trap and chased Sam around the bunker with a hammer hoping to end this. And after Cas shows up and helps Sam get him tied back to the chair, his brain foggy, he thinks about how much he could use the next syringe to be filled with morphine instead of consecrated human blood.
But he sees the dark red fluid in the syringe through his haze of pain, and something inside of him is begging him to tell Sam to stop, to tell Sam he can’t take anymore, to cry and beg and weep like a little boy. But he doesn’t. He saves face, let’s Sam inject him, and the pain of this last one makes him fall into the darkness of unconsciousness and he welcomes it.
He’s not awake for the last of them, but he dreams while he’s out. Dreams of the good days…
There’s one of him and Sam as teenagers, reveling in their first real meal in weeks. Dean had snagged some money hustling pool at a bar he used a fake ID to get into, and then promptly bought them cheeseburgers, fries, and soda. The next one is of them in the car, laughing and singing along to the rare Bon Jovi song, the most serious thing on their plates being that they need to find dad.
Then it’s Y/N, the memories swirling. It starts with him showing up on her door after Sam did the swan dive into the pit, his pain and grief almost palpable, but then it turns happier. There’s the joy of them finding and buying their first place together shortly after, and how Dean had demanded that they christen the kitchen floor right then and there before they moved in any furniture. They’d spent all day chasing each other around the empty condo naked, fucking in every room, eating pizza delivery late that night, and then sleeping on their mattress on the floor of their bedroom, too tired to move in any other furniture. Then it’s more recent, their move into the bunker, finally having her know everything and being his true partner, just before he brought that all crashing down with…
He surfaces, the darkness dissipating, his eyes opening. He can feel the black fade away, sees the filter through which he’s gotten used to seeing the world vanish, and the fire along with it. And in it’s place, a heavy guilt, and a deep emotional pain.
He looks up to see Sam and Cas standing there, looks of deep concern on their faces, and he wonders for a second what the fuss is all about until he realizes he is the fuss.
“You look worried fellas,” he says, more to break the silence then to actually wonder what they are worried about.
That’s when Sam splashes him with holy water and guilt again washes over him. He’s not confused why, he remembers that he was a demon, remembers what the mark turned him into, but he doesn’t want to think about what he did when he…
“Welcome back, Dean.” And both Sam and Cas smile, a gesture that Dean can’t return, not yet.
Sam unties him and he feels the rope burns on his wrists itch and fester and he rubs at them.
“Where’s-?” but Dean pauses, unable to finish his question.
“Dean, I wouldn’t-” Sam starts, but he can’t finish either.
“I need to.”
Sam nods, understanding. “Room 20.”
There’s a sting of shock that she moved out of their room and next to Sam, but he guesses that he shouldn’t be that surprised.
Dean pats Sam on the shoulder, nods to Cas in acknowledgement, and leaves the room, making tracks for room 20, his heart pounding in his chest. Dean’s not one to get nervous, but this moment, this is definitely a moment to be nervous.
He approaches Room 20 and sees the door is ajar, soft light flooding out into the hallway, soft music playing from inside. Dean gets to a point where he can see inside the room and he sees that she’s sitting at the desk in the room, her back to him. He can’t tell if she’s writing or reading, either way, he’s grateful he can just watch her for a second.
It’s been over a month, almost two months, since the last time he’s seen Y/N, well, seen her when he’s not a demon, and the last time wasn’t pleasant. He’d made the decision to go after Metatron, very much against what she wanted, but he did it anyway. That last moment, with tears streaming down her face and her plea for him not to go hanging in the air, he’d turned without looking her in the eye, without telling her how much he loved her, without even kissing her goodbye.
As he’d walked into that homeless encampment, he’d regretted those actions, or non-actions. He regretted that he hadn’t had a chance to hold her one last time. Especially as the angel blade sunk deep into his chest, Metatron’s maniacal smile the last thing he saw before his world went black.
When he’d woken up a demon, all that regret and guilt had vanished, but now...now that he’s cured, it’s back in full force, back with a vengeance.
Dean finally reaches up and knocks softly on the door and sees her jump a little at the sound before turning in her chair to face him. He watches as her eyes go wide at first with fear, then with shock, and then her face softens a little as she realizes there’s nothing to fear anymore.
“Are you...cured?” she asks, her voice quiet, barely audible above the music.
“Uh, yeah, I guess you can call it that. I still have the uh-”
“The mark,” she sighs.
“Yeah.”
He’s not in the room yet, doesn’t want to invade her space without permission, so he’s waffling in the doorway.
Y/N gestures to the foot of the bed, inviting him to sit, so he does, his hands clasped together. It’s the only thing stopping him from grasping at her, from taking her in his arms and holding her as tight as he can. Especially when she stands, shuts the door on her way over, and sits down on the bed just a foot or two away from him, but still within touching distance. She’s so close, but he feels that she’s still so far away.
He clears his throat, stares at his feet, wrings his hands, and then finds his voice. “I’m sorry.” It’s all he can manage before he’s choking back tears and he tries his hardest to keep his emotions at bay.
“I know,” she says, and he gains the courage to look up at her and sees her swallow back her own emotions, sees the crease between her brows deepen as she studies him.
“I didn’t mean it.”
“That was the hardest thing to read from you, even though I knew you couldn’t be in your right mind when you wrote it. But given the conversation we had before you went to try and kill Metatron, and then that, it hurt more than anything else I’ve ever been through.”
He nods and thinks back to his thought process when he woke up as a demon, Crowley in his room, the blade in his hand. He’d first known that Sam would come after him, so he’d left him a simple note admonishing Sam to let him go. And then his next thought had drifted to her, and for whatever reason, he’d felt the need to go one step further.
‘I don’t need you, I never did. And I certainly don’t love you.’ he’d written, and now he regrets those words more than anything.
“God, I didn’t, I don’t...do you have any idea how much I regret that?”
“As much as I regret reading it?”
“So much more than that,” he says and he reaches for her hand, any sort of physical contact.
At first she’s stiff, almost not accepting of the gesture, but she doesn’t pull away. She relaxes eventually, gives in to the touch a little, her fingers curling around his. That’s when he feels the drop of something wet and he looks up from where their hands are connected to see tears streaking down her cheeks. He can’t resist any longer and he doesn’t care if she’ll fight him, he needs it more than anything, so he closes the distance between them and gathers her close to him. She comes unresisting, something that he doesn’t fail to notice, even though she’s shaking with sobs. He’s crying now too, clinging to the one thing he can’t live without, unable to keep his own tears from falling.
“I never meant it,” he says at one point, and he feels her nod against him, feels her fingers wind in the collar of his shirt, skin against skin, feels her body turn a little more, press a little closer to him.
And it’s all the permission he needs.
It’s furious and needy, desperate and frenzied, fierce and aching, that need to be as close as possible to each other, to feel all of each other. He pulls her into his lap and feels her arch her back, her chest pressed to his, her hips grinding down into his lap. But Dean’s mind is also racing, flying through memories of the last couple months.
“Dean,” he hears Y/N say in his ear, and he snaps back to the here and now, looking into her eyes. “I’m gonna need you to stop thinking and be here with me. Forget everything else, okay?”
Her hands are on either side of his face, her eyes wide, studying him. He clears his mind, focuses on her. He focuses on her straddling his legs, her knees framing his hips, her barely covered breasts pressing up against his chest and he feels the soft skin of her waist and back underneath his hands as they work up under her shirt.
His lips find hers again and his hands work at the buckle of her jeans before spinning on the edge of the bed and pinning her under him, from there it’s only a matter of minutes before they are both naked, both clinging to each other, both crying out in pleasure.
Dean pulls her close after, pulls the blanket up over both of them.
“Well that’s quite a way to say you’re sorry,” she says, a slight tinge of sarcasm in her voice.
“Hey, I said the words,” he says, playfully jabbing her side.
“I know, I know!” She’s squirming away from his finger and in the process she’s pressed up close to his side, skin on distracting skin. “Yes, you did say it. And you’re forgiven.” She’s looking up at him now, doe eyed and innocent, and his mind again wanders over the memories of when… “Dean, I know what you’re thinking abou-”
“No, you don’t,” he begins, but she cuts him off with a finger on his lips.
“I may not know details, but I don’t need to. You need to not dwell on it. If there’s anything I know about you Winchesters, it’s that you have a hard time forgiving yourself and moving on, even when those you’ve wronged have forgiven you. Well, I forgive you, I don’t need to know the details to do that. Consider the last couple months gone, wiped away, clean slate. Capiche?”
He falls in love with her all over again as she speaks, falls in love with this strong woman that he had the fortunate luck of running into in some run down bar ten years ago, falls in love with this woman that has become his home.
And before he knows it, the words are out of his mouth, words he doesn’t say very often, if ever. “God, I love you.”
“I love you, too, you know? And we’re gonna get through this, we will. I know we will.”
He’s not sure he believes her, but if he’s learned anything in his life, it’s that sometimes you need to rely on those around you regardless of how little faith you have in yourself. So he kisses her again, gets lost in the feel of her all over again, and tries to forget.
*
Dean picks up another armful of wood and carries it where he’s neatly lining them up, his anger boiling. If he would have known what was going on, he’d never have let it happen, never have let people he cares about this much put themselves in this kind of danger.
“Dean?”
He hears her voice, but chooses to ignore it, instead going for another armful of wood.
“Dean!”
This time it’s demanding, the tone she uses when she’s really pissed off, so he drops the wood next to the pyre, takes a deep breath, and then turns to face her.
She doesn’t say anything as she walks over to him, stopping directly in front of him and placing her hands on his chest. The first thing he notices is her hair is rain soaked and he wonders how long she’s been standing out here watching him. The second thing he notices is her bloodshot eyes and blotchy makeup, and his heart sinks. In his moment of furious grief, he’s forgotten about her, forgotten just how close they were, forgotten how hurt she’s going to be and he immediately regrets it.
“Dean, please, do not, I repeat, do not push me away.” Her eyes fill with tears, her chin quivering as she bites her bottom lip, trying to keep the overwhelming emotion from tipping over a cliff. “I...I n-need you.”
His anger and resolve crumble at those words and he gathers Y/N closer in his arms as she breaks down, his own emotions too close to the surface.
In the heat of the moment he’d placed some of the blame on her but as he had arranged the wood for the pyre, he’d realized there would have been no way she could have known, not with her reaction.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, half for his anger toward her, half for the loss she’s feeling.
“I’m sorry, too,” she says, and he pulls back so he can look at her too.
“What’re you sorry for?”
“Charlie was...she was like a sister to you, to me, to all of us, and I’m sorry we had to lose her like this, that you had to lose her. I can’t imagine how hard this is for you.”
He nods, because it’s the only thing he can do in this moment. That and hold onto his girl and hope that he never has to do this for her as well.
Dean sits in silence after Sam leaves, holding the Hand of God, and he thinks back over the day. He really had done nothing, just been there as a witness. And now to find out that Cas had said yes to Lucifer, that he had the chance to expel him and didn’t, that Lucifer had almost killed Sam...it’s all a lot to take in considering the circumstances.
Dean doesn’t know how to handle all of this at once. His emotions are all over the place, he’s on edge, he’s seeing a new low he’s never seen before. And he has no control over any of it, none at all.
Tears begin to make tracks down his cheeks as he hears quiet footsteps to his left. He looks up to see Y/N coming toward him. She doesn’t speak, just takes Sam’s spot next to him and lets the silence stretch on. It’s all he needs right now, though, her strength, her presence.
He let’s the despair go, lets it all out, everything about the darkness, Cas, losing the power from the Hand of God. His shoulders begin to shake and he feels her arms go around him, feels her hand on the side of his head and she gently guides his head to her shoulder. There’s a clunk on the dock as his hands let go of the Hand of God and he reaches to cling to her. He knows they must look a sight, the large man being comforted like a small child, but he doesn’t care. She is his lifeline, his anchor, his everything.
Dean is unable to find anything else to cling to, the last six months have been nothing but him feeling completely out of control, spiraling into an abyss. This Amara shit, the hold she has over him, it’s bigger than even him. And it’s not something he can just shoot, stab with a silver blade or decapitate. He’s floundering for ways to fight it and continually coming up blank.
He’s never felt this out of control, never felt this lost before in his life. He’s grateful she’s never blamed him for the connection with Amara, the connection that he wishes he could get rid of. It feels wrong, the whole thing, but she’s never once gotten angry about it. He can’t imagine what it would be like to have a less understanding partner in life.
And even though she hadn’t been particularly pleased with him traveling back in time to the Bluefin and to Delphine to rescue the Hand of God, he knew she at least trusted him, let him do this, because she knew he needed some semblance of control.
But now, he realizes he has none at all. But he has Y/N.
His breathing calms, the tears stop, and he sits up straight. She’s looking at him with concern but still doesn’t speak, and he’s okay with that since he’s not ready to talk about it himself. He leans into her hand when she reaches up to wipe away the tears from his cheeks, and he turns and kisses the palm of her hand. He nods to her silent question, the crease of her eyebrows and slight frown, the one that’s asking if he’s okay, okay enough for the moment at least.
And he is, in a way. He’s okay because of her. Without Y/N he can’t imagine how hard this would be. But he can’t let his mind go there or else grief will consume him again, so he just holds her close, tightens his arms around her, revels in the feel and comfort of her arms around him and the smell of her surrounding him.
In that moment, Dean sends up a silent prayer of gratitude for this woman, again to a God he’s not even sure is listening or cares, but he does it anyway. Does it because he’s not sure how he got to be so lucky, does it because he needs to have something to be grateful for right now, does it to remind himself there is something good in life.
*
A few weeks later when he almost loses Sam, almost loses his own life, he again clings to her, holds her close, let’s her act as his lifeline for the millionth time. She’s strong enough for both of them in a way that he needs more than air.
He knows that he scared her when he downed all those pills, knows that a fear of hers was very close to being realized, but she held her own and brought him back from the brink with the help of Michelle. But he sees the fear in her eyes buried under the relief, so he kisses her and holds her.
And again he says the same prayer of gratitude.
*
When they come up with the plan for him to be the bomb, for him to kamikaze his way to getting rid of the darkness, Y/N’s silent, not offering her two cents, just sits in the background and listens. He again sees the fear, but also steely resolve.
She sits next to him in the car and holds his hand when they drive to Lawrence so he can go to his mother’s grave.
She hugs him, kisses him, tells him she loves him, and doesn’t cry when he says goodbye.
He doesn’t see her breakdown as he walks away, sure that he won’t return, sure that this is the last time he’ll see her. Doesn’t see Cas hold her upright as her knees buckle. He can’t. He knows if he sees any of that, he’ll abandon the plan, he’ll turn his back and never defeat Amara.
And again he says a prayer, this time hoping beyond hope that somewhere, God, Chuck, is listening, that he’ll stop what’s happening. But he doubts it. This prayer is different. It’s pleading, desperate, and aching; a prayer that she’ll be able to move on, that she’ll find peace after all this, that she’ll remain strong. It’s a prayer that she’ll remember how grateful he was for her and how much he loved her. And underneath it all, it’s a prayer that he won’t die.
Dean hears the knock on the door but he doesn’t answer, just sits on the edge of his bed, tears silently streaming down his cheeks. The door opens, just enough for her to come in, but he doesn’t look up. He sees Y/N kneel on the floor in front of him so she can look him in the eye, but he shies away from looking at her.
“Dean, I’m so sorry.”
He had just watched Mary walk away. She’s just walked away from family, something he’s never even dreamed of doing. When Sam had done it a few years ago he’d never admit that it hurt, he’d just gotten pissed off and threw a few jabs Sam’s way about it every so often. But this, this is different. It’s his mother. It’s the one figure in his life he had wished more than anything to get more time with, and now that he’s gotten more time with her, she’s chosen to walk away, and he’s having a difficult time understanding why.
He looks up at Y/N, the one who has chosen time and time again to stay right by his side through thick and thin, the one he’s relied on in times when he’s had no one else. She’s there, her own pain etched on her features, but he knows it’s not for Mary, it’s for him.
Dean opens to her, cups her cheeks in each of his hands, pulls her close to kiss her, a kiss that says all the things he’s unable to say out loud most of the time.
“It’s not your fault,” he says after breaking the kiss, pressing his forehead to hers, his hands weaving in her hair.
“I know, but I’m still sorry. I haven’t seen you this happy since-I don’t know when. I know how much this meant to you-”
“Yeah, but I still have you.” He pulls back, looks in her eyes, tucking her hair behind her ears and sees nothing but love there.
“Still, I can’t replace Mary, she’s your mom.”
“We’ll get through it, Y/N, we always do. Even though I don’t understand it.”
He willingly lets her wipe the tears from his cheeks and smooth down his hair where he’s surely made a mess of it, let’s her ease him down onto the bed and pull him onto her chest, cuddling him close, comforting him. It’s not long before his arms are wrapped around her waist and his breathing and emotions are calming.
He falls asleep to her softly humming Desperado, and while he’s still angry, still sad, still blaming himself for his mom leaving, he’s got her. Even though it’s not everything, it’s enough, and he can get through this as long as she’s here.
*
The next time he sees Mary, he’s furious. Furious that she can drive to Canada for a fucking hunter’s funeral but not stick with her family, furious that she can barely even text her own kids, but yet here she is.
“Dean, honey, you need to calm down,” Y/N says, a hand in the middle of his chest, pushing him into an empty room.
“Well! What the hell else am I supposed to do? She’ll drive a gazillion fucking hours to get here for some unknown hunter’s funeral but can’t stick with us?!” He’s making a scene and he knows he is, but he can’t get over how fucking ridiculous this whole thing is. “I need some air.”
He steps past her, grateful that she just lets him go, and he aims for the front door, slamming it shut behind him.
Later, after he’s made his way back inside with the help of Billie, after they’ve gotten rid of the demon, after he’s made sure his family is safe, he sits against his car with Sam and watches his mom, Jody, and Y/N stand and watch the pyre, he’s grateful they all made it out.
He hears Jody tell Mary that him and Sam and are good men, the best men, and he sees Mary’s reaction towards that, her small smile up at a woman she’s come to admire in such a short time. Jody gives Mary a hug and then waves to him and Sam and walks to the cab that’s waiting for her. And then it’s just Y/N and Mary.
Even though Dean is far enough away, he can still hear every word, even though he pretends like he can’t.
“Mary, I want you to know, they love you, more than you know.”
“I don’t-I know they do, but-”
“But what?”
He laughs to himself at Y/N’s forwardness, always the one to call anyone on their bullshit.
“I don’t know.”
“Just spend time with them, they need you.”
“But Dean has you, and Sam has...well, they don’t need me that much.”
“You know, you left and they both holed up in their rooms for almost a week. Neither of them would come out for anything but food. I’ve never seen them act like such sulky little boys before. And while it was adorable, it was also heartbreaking. Just think about coming around more, think about spending time with them. I think if you do, you’ll realize they are still your little boys, still your babies.”
Dean hears her entire appeal to Mary and then watches as she walks over to him and Sam, her arms going around him when she gets close and he kisses her. She’s safe and alive and his, and god, that’s more than he deserves, but he’ll take it.
Mary is walking over to them when he looks back up and he pushes off the Impala to meet her in the middle.
“Breakfast?” he asks.
“Will there be bacon?” she fires back, a smile on her face.
“Fuck yes there will be,” Dean says, enjoying Mary’s eye roll at his language and hearing his girl laugh at the playful banter.
*
He walks into the bathroom in the hotel room they’d gotten for the night, grateful Y/N had decided to splurge on something a little nicer for the two of them for once. She’s brushing her hair, clad in just a t-shirt and panties, makeup free, and he leans up against the door to watch her.
She turns to face him, taking in his bare chest and flannel pajama bottoms, her eyes going a darker shade with lust. “How are you doing?” she asks, curiosity written all over her face.
“I’m good now.” It’s the truth, the honest to God truth. He sees her sweet smile and his heart about explodes.
Six weeks.
It had been six weeks and a couple days, and they’d been the longest of his life. Six weeks of thinking of Y/N every second and wondering if he’d ever get to see her, hold her, love her again.
He wasn’t sure he was going to survive that place, the silence, the solitary confinement, the complete helplessness. It was worse than anything he’d ever been through. And having Sam right next door but unable to communicate. He wasn’t sure how he’d come up with the idea, making that stupid deal, but him and Sam got out, no one he cared about or loved died, which was the biggest blessing of them all. It was so close to going south and he wishes he could forget the image of his mother willing to sacrifice her life for her boys all over again. But it all worked out. Everyone is safe for the night and he’s right where he needs and wants to be.
He doesn’t ever think he’ll forget that moment of coming out of the forest and seeing Y/N, the worry etched on her features falling away to relief at the sight of him. Each time he’s been separated from her and then reunited, he’s always amazed at her beauty and perfection, and this time was no different.
“I think I’ll keep you,” He says and he walks towards her, crowds her up against the bathroom counter and begins teasing her with soft brushes of his lips on hers, not fully going for a kiss, enjoying her chasing his lips.
“Whoever said I was yours to keep?” She teases back, but her voice is breathy and thick and he can tell she’s eager.
“I did,” he says and he feels her hands grazing up his biceps, leaving goosebumps in their wake, a small moan escaping her lips as his own seal over the spot behind her ear he knows drives her crazy.
That moan is all it takes for him to lose his mind with lust, lifting her up onto the bathroom counter, pulling her shirt off, her bare skin greeting him. All other worries are pushed from Dean’s mind and it’s just the two of them, the here and now, and he focuses on that feeling. The feeling of her soft curves under his fingers, the feel and heat of her as she wraps her legs around his waist and pulls him forward against her. He can feel the wetness of her arousal through her panties, can feel how ready she is for him in just a short amount of time.
Her hands working under the waistband of his pajama bottoms is distracting almost to the point of oblivion, pushing his bottoms over the curve of his ass and freeing his cock. Her hands grip his ass and pull him impossibly closer, grinding her hips down against his cock that is now trapped between them. It’s almost more than he can bear.
“Dean, babe, I need you. Now,” she says right against his ear, taking the lobe between her teeth as his fingers drag under the seam of her panties and through her slick folds. He finds her entrance and pushes inside her with ease, her shuddering breath in his ear sending chills down his spine.
“You’re so wet and ready,” breaths out his own voice thick and husky, his fingers pumping in and out of her slowly, torturing her.
“Dean, please, stop teasing, I can’t take it anymore.”
Her hands find his cock and she runs her fist up and down him a couple times before he feels her grab his wrist, trying and failing to pull his hand away from her cunt. He chuckles at her frustration as she desperately tries to fight for more friction against his fingers and not finding it.
“Dean, please, I beg you, fuck me.”
That’s all he had wanted from her, those words, words she’s said a thousand times throughout the 12 years they’d been together. “Why didn’t you just say so?” He teases, removing his fingers from inside her, swallowing her whimper at the loss of his touch with a deep kiss, his tongue chasing hers.
Dean grabs her by the hips and pulls her to the edge of the counter she’s on, rips her panties from her body and pulls her forward enough so that he can easily guide himself to her entrance, pushing inside of her, leaving her gasping at the feeling. As Dean pulls back a little and thrusts up into her, he thinks back on the years and all the times he’s had her as his own. It never ceases to amaze him how perfect she is, how perfect they fit together, how perfect she makes him feel, despite his shortcomings and faults.
His thrusts become stronger, deeper, her hips meeting his, Y/N’s fingers scratching the back of his head, combing through the short hairs there as he kisses down her neck, sucking dark marks there, marking her as his. He can feel that she’s close, can feel that he’s right there with her.
She cries out as her walls begins to flutter around his cock and it’s only a couple of thrusts later that he feels her fall over the edge, crying his name, her fingernails digging deep into his neck, and then he’s following, his own orgasm strong, his thrusts shuddering.
He kisses her in the afterglow, long and slow, his fingers wound in her hair, her arms wrapped around his neck. He pulls away to look at her, her eyes so full of love and admiration, something he at times doesn’t feel he deserves, but he’ll take it anyway. And as he lies in bed with her that night, the smell of her surrounding him, his arms tight around her. He realizes no matter what life throws at him; British Men of Letters, the United States Government, vampires, werewolves, zombies, ghosts, or ghouls, he’s got her. It’s more than he will ever deserve.
And, as always, it’s more than enough.
Feedback welcome and appreciated, as always! xoxo
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