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ffakc · 3 years

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Puppy Love - a Jeffrey Dean Morgan fanfiction

@negans-attagirl @iluvneganandjamie @happysgal

It was a partly cloudy, brisk spring day. It was just warm enough to go without a jacket here in upstate New York. Jeff and I had planned the perfect day date on his property. We have been together about seven months now and life couldn’t be more perfect. I had just finished up packing our Mediterranean inspired spread. I snapped a quick photo and sent it to my Jeffrey.

“Italian subs, Greek pasta salad, roasted red pepper hummus with pita bread, baklava, and tiramisu. Anything else? I’ll see you soon!”

“Stomach’s growling already. I’ll be out back, just let yourself in. Xxx.”

I shoved some toiletries and comfortable clothes in my overnight bag. I snapped the picnic basket shut and headed to my car. Any time I thought about my Jeffrey, my whole body buzzed with excitement. I felt like pinching myself, Jeff was my dream come true. He was everything I ever wanted and needed.

I pulled up to Jeff’s farmhouse. His front door was unlocked like he said it would be. Honey’s “woo-woo-woo!” adorable howl-bark echoed through the house.

“Hi, Honey! Where’s Daddy?” I ask her and ruffle her scraggly ears, her teddy bear like eyes closing in bliss. She scampered to the back door and I follow her to the massive pastures. Jeff was tossing hay over the fence to the donkeys.

“Paxton, buddy! Leave some for the rest of them! Good lord, you pig!” Jeff laughs and turns to me. “Hey, baby!” I set the picnic basket down and fling my arms around his neck with a kiss.

“I’ve missed you,” I rest my forehead against his.

“I’ve missed you more, doll. I’ve also missed your cooking, sweet girl,” Jeff smiles. He looked so damn good in his farming clothes, redefining the phrase “ruggedly handsome” with his cuffed flannel and salt and pepper scruff. His top buttons were undone, exposing his masculine chest hair and the few necklaces he wore daily. Bandit came bounding over and jumped between us.

“Hey, boy!” I laugh.

“Someone doesn’t like me getting all the attention!” Jeff exclaims. “I can’t get a hug from my girlfriend? Rude!” he teases the fluffy monster. “Do you see that huge tree over yonder?”

“It’s beautiful,” I reply, clutching the basket so the dogs don’t get a snack.

“That’s the spot,” Jeff takes me by the hand and we make our way across the property. The alpacas stared at us intensely.

“Are they going to spit on me?” I joke.

“I told them to stay on their best behavior because we had a guest coming!” Jeff gestured to the checkered blanket he had laid out and ice bucket with a bottle of sparkling wine and two glasses. He opens up the basket and cracks open the hummus, dipping his finger in and licking it.

“At least grab some bread, you animal,” I playfully punch his shoulder, ripping off a piece of pita and dunking it in the rust orange colored deliciousness.

“Sorry, Mom,” Jeff jokes. “Wow! Is that homemade?” I nod. “Delicious, absolutely delicious. Ooh, I like the little bite to it!” I take the sandwiches out of the wax paper. “Ah, ah, ah! Go on! Get!” Jeff scolds and shoos the dogs away. “You’d think I never feed them or something!”

“I don’t mean to brag, but I made the pesto mayo on these sandwiches too,” I say, sipping my wine. I take a bite of the chilled, tangy pasta salad.

Jeff sinks his teeth into the sub. “Baby, that’s so fucking good,” he rolls his eyes back in pleasure with a mouthful of food. I kiss his cheek sweetly. “God, you sure know how to treat your Daddy right. I don’t deserve you, you know that? You’re too damn good for me, sweetheart.”

“Oh hush,” I kiss my boyfriend. He closes his eyes and deepens the kiss, running his fingers through my hair. Jeff’s eyes shoot open at the sound of Bandit barking loudly.

“Hey guys!” Jeff calls out to the puppies. “Those aren’t dogs, they’ll kick the shit out of you!” they weave in and out of the alpacas’ legs. We eat our meal and laugh as they pant wildly and chase each other all over. I pack everything neatly back into the picnic basket. Dark clouds begin forming in the distance.

“I admire their energy!” I remark, rubbing Jeff’s knee and finishing off my drink.

“I know, right? My ‘get up and go’ got up and went years ago! I swear, the moment I hit forty, my body sounds like Rice Krispies when I get out of bed,” Jeff chuckles and kisses my forehead.

“What are you, eighty?” I tease.

“Hey, you’ll get there someday, youngin! You agreed to date an old fogey! Shit, I feel a few raindrops, maybe we should head inside. But first,” Jeff rises to his feet and suddenly pulls out a pocket knife.

“What are you doing?” I stare at him, puzzled.

“You’ll see,” Jeff says. He carves into the tree. “Ah, there we go.” There was a heart with our initials in it. Three magic words escaped his lips, “I love you.”

“Jeffrey,” I sigh as thunder rolls above my head. That was the first time either of us had said that and it felt so... right. I stand up and wrap my arms around Jeff’s neck, his cowboy boots making him tower over me. He places his cowboy hat on my head with a grin. “I love you too.” The rain suddenly began pouring down.

“I’ve always wanted to do this. Kiss me in the rain, pretty girl,” Jeff pulls me against him as our clothes get soaked. My heart flutters in my chest. I never wanted to let him go. He picks me up and I wrap my legs around his waist. Jeffrey made my life feel like a cheesy romantic movie and I loved every single minute of it. A crack of thunder scares the dogs away and Jeff sets me down.

“I think that’s our cue to go inside,” I chuckle. Jeff grabs the picnic basket and extends his hand.

“Run!” he shouts as if we were in an action movie and laughs. He takes me by the hand and we trample through the mud to the farmhouse. The dogs shake and run around the living room. I hang Jeff’s hat on a hook by the door and he drops the picnic basket on the counter. He takes me into his arms and kisses me deeply.

“I love you, I love you. God damn it, I fucking love you,” Jeff whispers against my lips. I run my fingers through his sopping wet hair. “I used to think ‘love at first sight’ was a myth before I met you. If I don’t get to put a ring on that finger of yours, I don’t even want to get married, baby girl.”

“I can’t wait for that day. I love you too,” I sigh longingly, looking into Jeff hazel eyes. I press my lips to his and push him against the kitchen counter, a groan escaping his lips as I rub myself against the crotch of his pants.

“Mmm, going to make me make a mess in these jeans like a teenager,” he chuckles, “God, I want you so bad,” he begins removing his belt.

“Take me, Jeff,” I whimper. Jeff pulls my skinny jeans down aggressively and bends me over the counter. Thunder rolls outside as the cold granite against my stomach gives me chills.

“Look at these lacy black panties,” Jeff growls, “Someone knew Daddy would be fucking her good.” His words instantly make me even more aroused. Jeff’s slender fingers slide over my outer lips, slowly brushing over my clit, “So wet and I’ve hardly touched you. That’s my good girl.” I whine as Jeff slides in with a gasp. He grabs my hair with one hand as his thrusts start gentle and rhythmic. “Oh god, baby doll. You feel so good.”

“Right there, Daddy,” I moan. My older man knows just the right spots to hit.

“That’s it, baby. Take all of me,” Jeff groans as he goes deeper. He pulls my hair and rasps in my ear, “Whose pussy is this?”

“Yours,” I can barely speak, my legs are shaking.

“I can’t fuckin’ hear you, sugar,” he nibbles my neck as sexy smacking sounds fill my ears. “Whose pussy is this?” Jeff moans a little louder.

“Yours, Jeff!” I exclaim. “My body belongs to you, Jeffrey! Oh god, fuck me!” I gasp.

“I love when you beg for me,” Jeff remarks. “I’m so close already, sweetheart. I love you so much.”

“I love you,” I reply. He flips me over as the lights flicker with a loud crash of thunder.

“Look at me,” Jeff cups my cheek and kisses me. “Oh Princess, you’re beautiful,” he gasps. “I’m going to- oh sweet Jesus, baby doll!” a deep growl resonates in his chest as he finishes deep inside me. I whimper as my nether regions throb, leaking with Jeffrey’s hot, sticky juices. “You’re mine,” he smirks.

“And you’re mine,” I pant, scratching his gray beard as he rests his forehead against mine. I scan over Jeff’s gorgeous face, everything about this man was absolutely beautiful. He peels me off the counter and his lips crash into mine.

“Forever and always, my gal,” Jeff sighs lovingly.

#denny duquette #fanfic #fanfiction #greys anatomy #jeffrey dean morgan #negan #the walking dead #older man younger woman #john winchester #supernatural

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akjensen-writes · 4 years

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holdin’ out for a hero

short story - wlw [Whitney/Taylor]

TW - suicide idealization (brief)

“That’ll be 13.95.”

Taylor says it automatically, feeling more like a robot than a person. She waits patiently as the customer across the counter inserts their card into the reader. It buzzes several times before the card is removed. She glances at her watch as discreetly as possible. Her red cashier’s vest reads ‘I dig Mr. Pig’ and if that isn’t bad enough, she’s got another three hours left until the end of her shift. An end that can’t come soon enough, for so many more reasons than sheer boredom.

Thursday nights at the Piggly Wiggly, aka the Pig -- pronounced “the Peeg” from the heavy accents of the locals -- are never very busy. They carry the same droning, languid feeling that Taylor can hear coming from her own voice, and she spends more time staring at the clock and contemplating her own existence than actually doing anything.

She’s been here for four years, which is approximately three and a half too many, with no escape plan in sight. The pay is dismal, but it’s a job, and in a small southern town, that’s really all she can ask for. But she’s trapped, and every day the walls seem to close in on her a little more. If this is the best she can do, then she isn’t sure what the point is anymore.

Chris, the cashier in the next lane, methodically swipes product across his counter with mind-numbing precision. Cereal, beep. Bananas, beep. Eggs, beep. All in a steady, even rhythm. Boring, beep. Useless, beep. Taylor taps her fingers on the counter. The same ‘80’s mix of songs rotates over and over again on the dated speakers. She wonders how many times she’s listened to it all the way through at this point. A thousand, maybe. She knows she can recite every track, sing every lyric, and that in and of itself is nothing to be proud of.

Bonnie Tyler’s rasping voice cuts into the silence. I’m holdin’ out for a hero ‘til the end of the night.

“Aren’t we all, Bonnie?” Taylor mutters to herself. “Aren’t we all?”

Tonight is the night, she thinks, as she plasters a smile on her face and hands the change over to her customer. Her lane is once again empty. The fluorescent lights buzz above her as she stares into space. Tonight is her last shift, for good. Tonight is her last anything. She’s going nowhere, and doesn’t even have the energy to care about it anymore. It’s not like it would matter. She could disappear off the face of the Earth and she doubts anyone would so much as blink.

It isn’t sadness, really. It’s just nothing. Deep, dark, nothing.

“Hey Taylor, I’m headin’ out.” Derek, the weekday manager talks as he’s coming around the corner. He always does that. He starts his sentences while he’s at odd places in the store, appearing just as his thought trails off. His beady little eyes dart around nervously as he glances at her register. It’s a silent reminder to thoroughly count the money before she turns over the key. He’s nice enough, Taylor thinks, even if all he does is sit in the back room and watch reruns of old ‘90’s cartoons. Nice enough is all it takes in this town, apparently. But a small pang of sadness hits her in the chest as she thinks about the fact that she’s never going to see him again.

“Have a great night,” Taylor says, nodding at him, trying to commit his squirrely features to memory. He has a small chin and scruffs of facial hair that he only keeps to look older than he really is. These are the two distinguishing features that stand out as somewhat noteworthy. In that moment, she feels sorry for him. “Thanks for everything, Derek.”

She feels weirdly nostalgic, nudged on by the anticipation of tonight being the end of everything. Derek has done exactly nothing for her, except leave her alone, which she supposes is something to be thankful for. He narrows his eyes in suspicion as he looks her over.

“Uh, sure,” he replies, frowning. “Just don’t forget to lock up, okay?”

It’s such a trivial request, but it fits, somehow. Don’t forget to lock up. Don’t make a mess. Just get it over with quickly and be done, will you? We don’t have any time for this.

Taylor almost smiles.

The sound of a throat clearing breaks the moment. She turns her attention back to her line. JenandJudy are standing there, wearing identical flannel shirts, staring at her with sweet, expectant smiles.

“How’s it goin’?” they ask, together in perfect unison. Taylor nods at them and starts scanning their items. A case of beer, and a bottle of whiskey. They’re probably going to the woods for a bonfire.

They all went to high school together, and at one point, Taylor assumes Jen and Judy were separate entities. But for as long as she can remember they’ve been together, their names a one word anomaly. JenandJudy. They’re the kind of lesbians that have now merged identities so ferociously, there’s no telling where one ends and the other begins. It’s borderline creepy, the way they almost look like twins at this point, but no one ever comments on it out loud. Taylor assumes that’s just what happens when you fall in love, but something about it seems a little...much.

Not that she would know.

“You should come to the clearing,” Jen suggests, with Judy nodding emphatically. “We’re headin’ there in a few.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Taylor verbally agrees, while mentally declining. The clearing is a dump, almost literally, where everyone in town gathers as an excuse to do something other than sit at home. Taylor hasn’t been there since she was 15. JenandJudy smile, satisfied at doing the bare minimum in extending the invitation.

Judy’s arm stays protectively around Jen’s waist. She watches her with starry-eyed fascination as her girlfriend pays. ‘Look at this incredible specimen!’ her eyes seem to exclaim, like it’s the singular most fantastic thing she’s ever witnessed. ‘She pays for groceries better than anyone I’ve ever seen! Can you believe it?’

Taylor snorts to herself. She isn’t mad, or even put off by it. It must be nice to have someone who thinks you’re fascinating, even when there’s nothing remotely amazing going on. The jealousy is warm and cozy, like a blanket she can pull snugly around her shoulders in her hour of need.

“See you later!” they announce, gathering their alcohol and heading for the door. Taylor waves a final goodbye.

“How do you tell them apart?” a voice teases from somewhere behind her. She turns, and instantly she’s met with bright hazel eyes that seem so sharp, they could probably dissect her right where she’s standing. Taylor swallows several times, unsuccessful in her attempts to get her mouth working properly. She smiles weakly, shrugging. “I’m just kidding,” the blonde stranger says, running her fingers through her hair. Taylor catches the way her slightly tanned cheeks flush, and a warmth runs through her chest.

“It’s a good question,” Taylor says, glancing back out the door where JenandJudy have just left. “At this point, I don’t think I can.”

“Fair enough,” she giggles, and Taylor’s heart, inexplicably, flutters.

Sexy customers are not really a thing at The Pig, and when it happens, it’s almost like spotting a unicorn. In all the years Taylor has been working here, it’s only happened half a time, and that’s because the woman in question was wearing so much makeup that Taylor couldn’t make an accurate assessment.

She’s suddenly acutely aware of her horrifying vest, and the fact that her brown hair is disgusting, all matted and greasy against her scalp. Of course this would happen tonight, of all nights. The final night. Why couldn’t she have made an effort, just this once? Maybe she should have planned better. But she knows no amount of planning would ever prepare her to lock eyes with someone as stunning as the girl in front of her now.

She adjusts her dark framed glasses and tries to focus on doing her job without saying anything horrifying.

There are only two items to scan: a sympathy card and flowers. Taylor glances up at the stranger and notices her wringing her fingers together, looking around the store with a sort of forlorn expression. She clears her throat.

“These are really pretty,” Taylor offers, gesturing at the flowers as she scans the other item. She doesn’t know why she comments. She usually makes it a rule not to get involved in other people’s purchases. It’s none of her business. Whenever she goes shopping, she’s so conscious of what’s going through the clerk’s mind that she almost can’t stand it. But this feels different. Magnetic, somehow, like she’s drawn to this girl, like not saying something is a worse transgression. Besides, she started it. The conversation feels like it has to go somewhere.

“You think?” the girl replies, taking them with a skeptical smile. It’s a lavender themed wildflower bouquet. Classy, in Taylor’s not-so-expert opinion. “I wasn’t sure.”

“They’re great,” Taylor assures her.

“They’re for my friend,” the girl explains. “Her cousin died, and I wanted to stop by and do something nice for her, you know? But I’m the worst at these things. I never know what to freakin’ say.”

“Sometimes just showing up is enough,” Taylor says, and she means it with everything she has. She wishes more people would understand that. Just being there means everything.

“That’s a good point,” she replies, looking thoughtful. “It’s always nice to know that people care. I wish we didn’t always wait for funerals to show that to each other, you know?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“It’s too late, and then what?” the girl asks, almost exasperated. “It’s not fair. People should just be nicer to each other.”

“They should,” Taylor agrees, her heart pounding as they make eye contact. The girl smiles, a dazzling, dreamy smile, and Taylor’s insides melt. “She’s lucky to have you.”

The girl takes her change and shrugs. As she gathers her items, she pauses and nods at Taylor again. “Thanks for listening to me ramble,” she says. “Genuinely. I haven’t come to this grocery store before, but I just moved from across town. I think this is going to be my new regular spot. I’m sure I’ll see you around soon.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Taylor promises.

Her eyes follow the girl to the exit. She watches her carry her items carefully, her other hand fishing in her jeans pocket for her keys. Taylor stares long after she’s gone and decides that maybe, just maybe, she can hold on for a little longer.

----

The charming stranger returns a week later, on an unassuming Tuesday evening to do a routine stock of groceries. Taylor is working, holding on to the hope of being able to see her again. If that makes her pathetic, then she’s already mostly made peace with that. She sees the stunning blonde sashay in around 7pm, wearing the exact same outfit as she wore when Taylor met her: a red zip up sweatshirt, white tshirt, and jeans that seem to be tailor made for her. Taylor’s mouth is instantly dry, her insides pulsing like the walls of a night club. The girl glances at her phone with a focused expression, before placing it in her pocket.

Taylor wonders idly if she normally shops on off hours like this, but she supposes she’ll figure it out sooner or later. That’s the thing about always working at a place so integral to people’s lives: the routines become part of her. She knows Mr. Jensen, the math teacher, always shops on Wednesday mornings because he has two free periods and hates crowds. He stocks up on Folger’s coffee like they’re going out of business, and he has a particular affinity for Corn Flakes cereal.

Taylor can tell you about most of her regulars. She knows their preferences, their routines, their schedules. She even knows their moods. An extra bottle of wine for the dark haired lady who works downtown? A rough week. Lactaid milk for the balding guy that lives in her apartment complex? His mom is coming to town.

All this without saying much more than “paper or plastic?” and “did you find what you were looking for?”

“Hey!” a now familiar voice announces. Taylor turns, and once again is taken by mystery girl’s marvelous hazel eyes. She’s smiling like they’re in on a tremendous secret, even though there’s nothing coincidental about running into her here.

“You’re back,” Taylor greets, trying to keep her voice steady, like she hasn’t been counting down the minutes until she could see this girl again. She absolutely has, but no reason for her to know that. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Yup,” the girl says, piling her items on the conveyor belt. “Most importantly--” she reaches into her cart and picks up a bottle of wine. A red blend from Napa. That tracks. Pretty girls from out of town drink smooth red wines. Everyone knows that.

She slides over her ID and Taylor scans it quickly. Not too quickly to notice her name, though. It’s like a slight-of-hand card trick, the way she does it without moving her eyes. The result of years of on the job training. She can’t say the Pig didn’t give her at least one weirdly applicable skill.

The blonde’s picture beams back at her. Whose DMV photo comes out this gorgeous? Taylor bites her lip as her gaze flickers to the flawless face in front of her. Nice to meet you, Whitney Matthews, of Cherry Grove Court. According to her license, she’s 24 as of April 4th, making her two years older than Taylor. She slides the ID back and rings up the rest of her items. The haul is mostly produce, almond milk, eggs. She’s clearly a responsible eater, one of those people who seem to be into wellness. She probably does yoga. Taylor sneaks a glance at Whitney’s legs.

Definitely yoga.

There’s a few frozen pizzas and a surprising appearance from a large bag of skittles. Taylor grins as she rings them up.

“I love skittles,” Whitney says with a teasing smile. “Don’t judge me.”

“Who doesn’t love skittles?”

“Thank you,” Whitney nods, approving. She grabs her bags and puts them back in her cart. “Same time next week?” She chuckles when she says it and Taylor’s cheeks flush, as if this is a standing date the two of them now have.

With a nod she replies, “I’ll be here.”

Whitney gives her a little wave, and Taylor wonders if she’s like this with everyone. Is she a serial conversationalist, making flirtatious small talk with every clerk in town? Or is this something a little more significant?

She knows what she wants the answer to be.

---

From then on, every Tuesday, like clockwork, Whitney comes into the Pig and does her usual shopping trip. She always seems to wear her signature red hoodie and jeans, like she’s got her own version of a grocery uniform-- only hers isn’t mortifying and ugly. Quite the opposite, if Taylor has anything to say about it. It’s casual and sexy which is a combination only Whitney can pull off with such ease. She usually has her hair up in a ponytail, but sometimes she comes in with wavy, sunkissed locks, and Taylor can’t seem to shake the desperate need to run her fingers through it.

Today is a skittles day, which means Whitney’s in a good mood. These are the weeks Taylor loves the most. This is when Whitney gives her teasing smiles that stay on her face a little longer than usual, and offers tidbits about her day. She’s a nurse in the orthopedic wing at the hospital, she says, and this week she got to scrub in on a really complicated sounding surgery. A knee reconstruction, or something. It’s so impressive that Taylor almost forgets she’s supposed to be scanning groceries, lost in the idea of Whitney out there doing good, saving lives. She feels inadequate in comparison, but can’t seem to dwell on it while Whitney is here looking at her like she’s the only person in the world she wants to talk to.

Sometimes, on weeks like this, she’ll share her weekend plans, or talk about something she’s planning to cook. She likes to go hiking, which isn’t a surprise. She also loves Italian food. Taylor listens and catalogues everything in a mental Whitney spreadsheet that she keeps in her brain, in case she ever has a reason to need it.

She hopes one day, she will.

Some weeks, though, Whitney only buys the staples, and her smile is a little slower, her eyes a little muted. She’s more tired, or stressed, or something that Taylor can’t detangle, and those are the weeks Taylor wishes didn’t have to exist. On those days, it’s almost like the little light in Whitney flickers, too exhausted to be kept on at the normal brightness she exudes. She quietly greets Taylor, and thanks her when the transaction is done. She puts her bags in her cart and slowly shuffles out of the store, leaving Taylor alone with nothing but Bonnie Tyler crooning in the background.

Turn around, bright eyes.

“Shut up, Bonnie,” Taylor mutters, disappointed.

---

Taylor tries to avoid working Saturdays because the Pig turns into an overrun madhouse of exhausted mothers, screaming children, and bleary eyed white collar workers who can’t sneak away from the office any other time to do their shopping. The lines are nonstop. The shelves are in a perpetual state of near-depletion. Everywhere she looks, it’s a disaster, the store ground zero of a perfectly executed attack.

But the extra cash is necessary if Taylor is going to go back to school. She decides to get serious about it on a random night when her shift ends. Whitney had been in, elated from a successful day caring for a patient with a broken leg, and something in Taylor just clicked. Maybe this isn’t everything her life has in store for her. Maybe the Pig isn’t her last stop.

Nursing probably isn’t a good fit, she’s squeamish around needles and doesn’t think she can handle that much potential death. It’s ironic, considering her state of mind a while ago, but the two ideas remain disconnected. She considers teaching, or journalism, or maybe even accounting. She’s always been good with numbers. The options are suddenly endless.

She’s giddy at the prospect, and it seems to overflow into her work. She’s chatting with customers for no reason today -- asking more than the obligatory questions, and even going so far as to compliment a lady’s hair cut. Everything feels brighter, somehow.

The morning goes by in a blur of produce codes and aisle clean ups, but the pace is strangely satisfying. It’s already 2pm by the time she checks her watch, which is astonishing. Her face hurts from smiling at so many people, but that’s a nice problem to have. She turns her attention to the next customer and her heart catches in her throat.

“Twice in one week, lucky me,” Whitney says cheerfully, smiling a hundred watt smile as she places the divider on the belt to separate her items from the person behind her. “How ya doin?”

“Great,” Taylor squeaks, her voice cracking horribly. She clears her throat and studies Whitney’s stuff. A birthday cake and some wine. Taylor’s stomach drops. She glances at her watch. April 4th. “How--how are you?”

It’s Whitney’s birthday, but she doesn’t want to bring it up. She doesn’t want to explain why she knows it, why April 4th is ingrained in her memory. It isn’t for any creepy reasons, honest. She just finds Whitney fascinating on every level. And a little sexy. It’s not a crime to be invested.

Whitney shrugs. “Oh, you know, doing okay,” she says, and it isn’t very convincing. She looks suddenly defeated, and Taylor wants so badly to help.

“Got any plans tonight?” she asks, hoping it might coax something out of her. She wants Whitney to be doing something extraordinary, to have a day that celebrates her, the way she deserves. But her demeanor stays reserved.

“Dinner with my parents, and my sister,” she says softly. “Nothin’ crazy.”

“And cake, of course.”

“And cake,” Whitney agrees. “Of course.”

The receipt is printed, and Taylor finally cracks. She wants to ask about her family, about her sister. Is she older or younger? Is she anything like Whitney or completely the opposite? Does she get along with her family?

“Is it your birthday?” is all she asks instead, the only question she already knows the answer to. She blinks at Whitney carefully.

Whitney’s cheeks flush as she nods. “The cake gave it away, huh?”

“Maybe a little,” Taylor replies.

“Pretty sad, I know, buying my own cake,” Whitney shrugs. “It kind of snuck up on me this year.”

“No, it’s not sad,” Taylor says, trying her best to reassure her. She carefully places the cake in a bag and gently ties the top. Their hands touch as Whitney takes it, and a jolt goes through Taylor’s core. She swallows heavily, trying to gain her composure.“This way at least you know you’re getting one you like, right?”

“Very true,” Whitney finally smiles. “Something about bakery frosting, I swear. I don’t even care what kind of cake it is, but this frosting is addicting. My mom is probably baking something, so she’s going to be so pissed.” She laughs at that, and Taylor joins her, for the simple fact that Whitney seems to finally be cheerful.

“I hope you have a really great birthday,” Taylor says, handing her the receipt.

“Thanks,” Whitney takes it, her nose scrunching as she smiles. “I’m glad I saw you.”

Whitney exits, and Taylor’s eyes follow her for a few seconds. She wonders, briefly, if Whitney is happy.

---

Conversations have never come easy to Taylor. People are fascinating, but only from a distance. She likes to observe, to formulate an idea of a person curated from the tidbits they choose to share. She’s always been told she’s a great listener. Mostly, it’s because she doesn’t have a choice. She doesn’t want to say something stupid or awkward and disrupt the connection she has with someone. Instead, she nods along, perfectly content to absorb whatever people feel like sharing.

Whitney doesn’t seem to mind Taylor’s silence. She’s warm and genuine, always patiently nudging the conversation ahead and navigating when Taylor prefers to coast. Granted, they don’t sit down and have long heart to hearts, but their connection is purposeful. They speak with intent; Whitney always seems to focus on Taylor and only Taylor when they speak. She isn’t on her phone or reading over her shoulder or flipping through a magazine. She even goes as far as pausing on unloading her groceries in order to finish her thought, or wait for Taylor’s response. She’s probably the worst to stand behind in line, because she never seems to be in a rush. She simply exists in the moment, thoughtful and patient and kind, allowing herself to simply be.

Their routine continues week in and week out. Whitney comes into the store, seeks out Taylor’s line, and pauses to catch up. They’re cautiously toeing the line from acquaintances to almost-friendship, a gray area that Taylor knows is going to eventually require a leap. But just seeing Whitney’s face light up when she holds up two bags of potato chips one Tuesday night in late May is enough for Taylor to be grateful.

She’ll take Whitney in any form she can get, even if it’s just as the adorable customer with the dazzling eyes who gets overly excited about a potato chip sale.

“Buy 2 get 2, I’m so freaking pumped!” Whitney exclaims, placing them down on the belt and grinning in triumph. She doesn’t usually buy chips, so Taylor’s eyebrow raises in question.

“What?”

“You don’t usually buy them,” Taylor shrugs, scanning the package. Lays BBQ and Wavy. Interesting.

“My friend is having a barbecue and I’m on snack duty,” Whitney says, surveying the rest of her items with a frown. She places her hands on her hips. “What am I missing?”

Taylor follows her eyes and takes note of the contents: several kinds of dips, and what looks like one of each type of chip flavor the store carries. She shakes her head and grins. “Did you leave any on the shelves?”

“Very funny,” Whitney rolls her eyes.

“Sweet tea?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t see it,” Taylor frowns, searching again.

“What?” Whitney tilts her head thoughtfully to the side before her eyes widen. “Oh! Sweet tea. Sweet tea! I thought you said sweetie.”

Whitney’s cheeks flush, and the muscles in Taylor’s stomach clench at the unexpected endearment. She’s warm and tingly all over, and might actually pass out, now that she’s processing the whole exchange. Whitney reacted so naturally, like tossing out ‘sweetie’ is just something they casually do.

Taylor chuckles, shaking her head. “They basically sound the same, yeah,” she agrees, and Whitney holds her hand loosely over her mouth.

“I’m an idiot,” she says. “No, I don’t have sweet tea. Should I?”

“Sort of a requirement around these parts.”

“Dang, the more you know.” Whitney glances at the drink aisle and back to Taylor.

“No worries, I’ll go get it for you,” Taylor says, already turning toward the aisle. She slips past several customers and heads for the back of the store. She could navigate with her eyes closed, but she still picks up the pace so she doesn’t keep Whitney waiting. She grabs the biggest one she can find and heads back to her register.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Whitney gushes, and Taylor feels her cheeks burn. That’s her, the friendly neighborhood sweet tea proctor.

“It’s not quite the real deal, but it’s damn good,” Taylor says as she rings everything up.

“The real deal huh? You’ll have to tell me how to do that,” Whitney says. She places her card in the reader and grins. “I’m obviously not from here originally.”

She has a smooth accent, but not one Taylor can easily place. Her voice isn’t nasally like a northerner, but she talks faster than most of the people around here. It’s actually been driving Taylor crazy for weeks.

“Where are you from?”

Whitney gives her a teasing smile, her full lips twisting as she grins. “Guess.”

Taylor thinks about it more. Their eyes meet and her heart flips, the way it always does when Whitney’s around. She squints and sighs. “California?”

“Nope,” she replies, her smile radiant. She’s positively giddy at the idea of this game. “Guess you won’t find out.”

Taylor holds out her receipt. Whitney reaches for it, and Taylor pulls it back at the last minute. “How about now?”

Whitney’s mouth hangs open playfully as her eyes widen. “Taylor!”

She almost drops the receipt. It’s the first time Whitney says her name, and it sounds incredible coming from her lips. She has never been more thankful for her ugly name tag than right at this moment. She wants to ask her to repeat it, to find some way for her to say it over and over and over. Taylor. Her name is suddenly majestic.

Whitney grabs the receipt, catching Taylor in her tailspin. She flashes it in victory. “Don’t worry,” she says, leaning forward slightly. “I’ll tell you sometime.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Taylor says as Whitney gathers her bags. “Bye Whitney.”

“Later, Taylor,” she replies with a sweet smile, and Taylor’s entire body vibrates with something magical.

---

The summer is a whirlwind of activity. Besides the holiday rush, this is the only other time where Taylor notices a deluge of milestones. Graduations, weddings, christenings, all seem to be taking place in June, July and August. She recognizes Mrs. Johanssen from the library, coming in for a graduation cake. It’s for her son, she beams, he’s graduating from college, can you believe it? Taylor smiles and rings it up, sending her on her way with congratulations.

Mr. Hood, the hulking owner of Smash Fitness, comes in one morning for a dozen pink roses and a pink balloon. It’s for a christening, he says, blushing. His muscled hand is surprisingly gentle as he cradles the stems of the flowers. His arms practically burst through the sleeves of his suit. His baby girl, he gushes. Did she want to see pictures? Taylor obliges, and smiles, and wishes him the best. His eyes are misty as he thanks her and heads out on his way.

It’s a strange phenomenon to be present for the significant events in people’s lives without really knowing them. But Taylor shares something with each and every person, experiencing pieces of their joy as if she’s actually present for their celebrations. It’s one thing about this job that she’s grateful for. There’s an unexpected connection now, and that makes it mean something.

Whitney comes into the store more often, celebrating her own set of milestones. Taylor watches day in and day out as she buys graduation cards, and birthday cakes for family members, and a wedding card for another cousin. The wedding is going to be in Napa, she tells Taylor, starry-eyed. Isn’t that cool?

Taylor smiles, thinking of Whitney in a beautiful bridesmaid’s dress. Not the kind that awful brides make their friends wear so they look frumpy in comparison. But the real classic kind, a deep blue or a maroon, maybe, that would fit her like a glove and make her tan skin look incredible. She nods along with Whitney’s excitement, hoping for pictures, even though she knows that’s far fetched.

Taylor gives her the receipt and her bag and wishes her a great trip. She feels the way Whitney keeps her eyes on her as she starts to ring up the next customer in line.

“Can I text you?” Whitney asks softly, so softly that Taylor almost thinks she’s imagining things.

She turns to face her, and sees Whitney’s hopeful smile as she holds out her phone. “If you want,” she says. “I thought I could send you pictures from the wedding.”

“Yeah,” Taylor says. She has to shake her head to make sure this is really happening, but then she nods, taking Whitney’s phone. She puts in her number and hands it back. “I’d love that.”

“Great,” Whitney says, staring at her phone briefly before nodding, satisfied. “I’ll do that then.”

For the first time in months, Taylor catches the music on the speakers.

Somewhere just beyond my reach, there’s someone reaching back for me.

---

The following Tuesday, or Whitney day as Taylor secretly refers to it, is awful, because Whitney is out of town. She wakes up in a sour mood, despite the fact that they text now, which is a significant step in a fantastic direction. It just isn’t the same, knowing she won’t see her face in person, or get to listen to her talk about her day with a wry smile, or get teased for still not being able to guess where she’s from.

The day is long, but at least Whitney is diligent with her messages. That’s one thing Taylor was happy to discover with this whole development. Whitney doesn’t just text -- she writes. She sends her silly messages, almost a stream of consciousness that Taylor can actually picture her saying in person. It makes getting through her shift infuriating, for the simple fact that she can’t focus enough to reply. Even though that’s absolutely all she wants to do.

She asks for Taylor’s opinion on Wonder Bread, and what there is to wonder about, but then she answers her own question since she’s clearly sitting here wondering about it. She asks about Taylor’s work schedule. She tells her about the California weather. She sends a picture of a palm tree. She apologizes for sending so many messages.

Taylor quickly sneaks a look at her phone and tells her it’s okay. She likes them.

Finally, she sends a picture of her in her dress. Taylor’s face blazes. Whitney’s hair is done up in an elegant updo, a few pieces curled perfectly to fall along her cheek. The dress is magnificent -- a coral color that makes Whitney’s eyes pop. She’s got a sly teasing smile, like she wants to appear unsure that looks amazing, but knows she looks beyond.

“Dammit,” Taylor mumbles to herself, closing her eyes and trying to keep steady. It’s all she can do to stay rooted to the spot instead of hopping on a flight to who knows where California and trying to find her.

“You have beautiful eyes,” she replies, which doesn’t convey what she wants to say at all. In a fit of embarrassment, she pockets her phone.

The week is painfully slow, but somehow, they make it to next Tuesday. Taylor is on her “lunch” break, a 4pm slot that is closer to dinner, but no one cares enough to be technical about it. She’s sitting at one of the tables by the deli, which she does on occasion when the store is slow. The employee break room is dark and depressing, with a TV that only plays 3 channels, 1 of which is Fox News on repeat. She’d rather face awkward conversations and customer questions than Tomi Lahren, thank you very much.

She feels someone standing near her and she glances up, practically choking on her sandwich when she realizes it’s Whitney. She’s radiant, smiling like she’s got a trick up her sleeve and Taylor is so overjoyed she almost stands up to hug her. She isn’t much of a touchy feely person, but Whitney has her head spinning in so many directions, she might just make an exception.

“Hey!” Whitney exclaims, claiming a chair for her own and plopping down. “Can I sit here?”

“You already are,” Taylor says, chuckling. Whitney rolls her eyes.

“Smart ass,” she says.

“You’re here early,” Taylor says, checking her watch.

“I didn’t go to work today,” Whitney says, shrugging. “I took an extra day off. Jet lag is a bitch.”

Taylor nods as if she understands, but she’s never been out of the state. She takes a sip of her soda to try to steady her nerves.

Whitney taps on the table nervously. She’s fidgety, and gorgeous, and Taylor wants to just reach across the table and hold her hand. She doesn’t. She knows it would be weird, or something. It’s confusing. She’s pretty sure Whitney feels the crazy connection between them, but it’s also something she’s going to have to act on. Taylor doesn’t want to make anything uncomfortable.

“I’m not really good at this, and I know I should have done this a long time ago so I’m just going to ask--” Whitney starts, her eyes darting from the table to Taylor and back down again. “Um--”

“Yes.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask yet!”

“I feel like I know you,” Taylor replies, shrugging. She doesn’t care what Whitney is going to ask. She already knows her answer is always going to be yes.

Whitney pauses. “Yeah,” she agrees, an airy chuckle escaping her lips. “I feel like I know you, too.”

“So what were you going to ask?” Taylor’s stomach is in knots, but the good kind that comes from anticipation and excitement.

“Oh right,” Whitney bites her lip, like she’s trying to keep the words contained before blurting them out in an incoherent jumble. “Would you want to go out sometime?” Another breath. “With me, I mean?”

As if Taylor would want to go out with anyone else.

“It’s still a yes,” Taylor says softly. Whitney meets her eyes and a look of relief passes over her face.

“Yeah?” Whitney scrunches her nose and grins. “When’s your next day off?”

“Tomorrow I finish at 3,” Taylor says. “I’m free the whole night.”

“Tomorrow it is,” Whitney slaps the table with a snappy grin and stands up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a ton of shopping to do.”

Taylor nods her goodbye and takes another sip of her drink.

Forever’s gonna start tonight, Bonnie Tyler exclaims. For once, Taylor thinks she might be right.

---

The most disorienting experience is shopping at another grocery store. Their layout feels twisted and wrong, the lights a weird, new-age dimness that makes her forget what time it is. Taylor peruses the aisles slowly, going over her list with precision.

She doesn’t like to shop at the Pig too often since she knows everyone there. It just turns into an hour of unnecessary conversations then two hours of jumping in to actually work, even if she’s off. Tonight she’s on a schedule. She only has a few hours before her night class at the community college. She’s almost finished with her first year, which is crazy. Accounting, which is smooth and satisfying, the numbers crisp and clean and honest.

But she’s also taking creative writing, too. She has too many stories to keep in her head.

The frozen aisle is up next. She places three frozen pizzas in the cart, grinning to herself. They taste like cardboard, but she isn’t going to complain. She stocks up on almond milk and eggs, and gets all the fresh produce. Her phone buzzes in her pocket. It’s Whitney, reminding her about dinner tomorrow, as if Taylor could ever forget. Tomorrow is Whitney’s birthday, and she’s been planning a weekend trip for them for months. She’s going to surprise her and take her to Florida where, it turns out, Whitney is from. It only took several agonizing months to pry that information out of her, but Taylor finally landed on a quality guess.

She thumbs through several cards, none of them saying exactly what she feels, but she ultimately settles on one with two puppies. Can’t ever go wrong with puppies. She tosses in a bag of skittles and heads for the check out.

The clerk is a quiet girl who smiles at her briefly before scanning her items. Taylor fixes her shirt, a nervous habit when she doesn’t know whether to make conversation or not. She absentmindedly fiddles with the buttons, wondering if this shirt is hers or Whitney’s. It doesn’t really matter.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” the girl asks, her bored eyes still focused ahead of her, trained on the screen.

“Yeah,” Taylor says, confidently. “Yeah, I did.”

#og writing #short story #wlw #writeblr #authorblr #taylor x whitney #practicing all sorts of stuff #shameless plug for bonnie tyler because i do what i want #writing #fiction

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lr-supernaturaladdict · 6 years

Text

Abomination Ch. 03

Summary: What happens when the girl sent by the king of hell falls in love with the Winchester who refuses to love. What happens when she gets rejected by the older Winchester and she releases her inner demons. What’ll happen when the boys find out shes really a demon/angel hybrid after only finding out herself shortly before. Even being raised by the king of hell to know you were at least half demon didn’t prepare you for the roller coaster of loving and hating Dean Winchester. You only just begun to realize how much of an abomination you really were.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Chapter 3: Angel

Word Count: 3534

Warnings: Some Swearing

We were on the road for about 4 hours when Dean finally decided it was best to stop for gas. “Alright, everyone outta the car.” Dean said as he turned the key in the ignition.

“Ugh,” you stretched your arms and sat up from where you had been laying in the back seat. “Why are you choosing now to stop, I told you I had to pee an hour ago, you dick.”

“Need gas,” he was already at the gas pump getting ready to fill up the impala when you got out. “By the way sweetheart, you might wanna fix the shirt. I love seeing your ass and all, but I don’t think the little kids in there should see that much at their age.”

Your eyes opened wide realizing the shirt had risen up your back and quickly pulled it down as far as you could. “Mother fucker,” you basically yelled at him as his lip curled in a snarky smile. “You know all too well this is your fault, if you would have just let me bring back up clothes.”

“Not my fault you got your clothes covered in blood. Should have been more careful, princess,” the smirk that was present on his lips was just making you increasingly more angry.

Before you could respond you felt a large hand on your shoulder stopping you. “(Y/N), I have a pair of sweatpants you can put on until we get back to the bunker,” you turned your head to look up at the tall figure standing next to you. Sam was looking down at you smiling gently, his dimples defined on his cheeks. “I should have offered sooner.”

You smiled at him. “You’ve already been nice enough to lend me a shirt, you don’t need to do that.”

He let go of your shoulder and moved to the trunk of the car. “I know,” he said as he glanced back at you, opening the truck to pull out a pair of sweatpants from his bag. “I’d feel bad if anyone got the wrong idea.”

He held out his hand to hold them out to you and you blushed slightly taking them. “Thank you, Sam. They might be too big but they’ll work,” you quickly put them on and rolled the waistband as much as you could to keep the pants up. You looked down at your feet seeing that the pant legs were still past them.

“We’re almost home, you won’t have to wear ‘em that long,” Sam chuckled softly as he watched you bend down to roll up the pant legs.

“They’re perfect, just gonna grab my shoes and my phone before I head in. You guys need anything?” you walked past Sam and back to the back seat of the impala.

“Nope, I’m good,” Sam just held up a granola bar from his pocket as you turned back around to face him.

“Alright,” you leaned back against the side of the car and put your shoes on. “Dean?”

“Nah, I’m good. Just hurry it up sweetheart,” you looked back at him in time to see he had already finished putting the gas cap back on.

“Be back in a flash,” you smiled at them both before quickly making your way to the bathrooms that were on the side of the building. Your phone was off since yesterday before the hunt so you decided now was a good time as any to check it.

As soon as you had opened the door to the bathroom and shut it your phone started going off with notifications. You couldn’t help but sigh, it was always when you couldn’t talk when you were the most popular.

You did your business and washed your hands before looking at all the missed messages. The first one that caught your eye was from Charlie, your best friend.

“(Y/N), is everything okay? I haven’t heard from you in a few days.”

You chuckled softly, you and Charlie didn’t have a lot in common but you were both absolute nerds. That’s why you were such great friends, that and she cared when you didn’t message her for weeks at a time.

“I’m fine, just been out hunting with the boys. Glad to know that if you’re texting me you’re good.” you responded. She was the only person you really talked to that the boys knew about, even if they always tried to snoop on your phone and laptop.

You closed out of her contact and looked at the other messages. The next few that caught your eye were from your dad's mother, Rowena.

“Tell your father and those boys of yours to leave me alone. I love you darling but I can’t have them always asking me for favors even when it involves you. - Regards”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, love was something she had no idea how to feel. Your dad often told you stories of when she would try to sell him for three pigs, but went on about how he was a handsome child worth more.

You looked at the next text from your loving grandma. “Almost forgot to mention, I’ll be in Florida for the next few weeks. Figured I’d let you know so you can tell your father, I’d rather not talk to him right now. He’s still upset about the whole trying to kill him thing.”

You just shook your head and thought to yourself. “Yeah I would be too, you may be a witch but you don’t have to act like a bitch.” You didn’t even bother responding to her and just closed the message.

You noticed majority of the few that were left from your dad, dear old dad always did love to check in but before you opened his you noticed one from Castiel. You couldn’t help but smile, he rarely ever called you let alone texted, normally he would try to call the boys.

“(Y/N), when will you be returning. I found some movies that I thought you might like, one I’ve actually happened to watch before. I think you would like what the pizza man does to the babysitter.” you had to fight yourself from laughing. Castiel was innocent and you loved him for that reason alone, hell you may be part demon but you always had a soft spot for him. You remembered Sam telling you about how Cas’ only experience with sex was that porno and the chick that killed him.

You just shook your head smiling and responded. “We will be home in a few hours. Just, uh, don’t start watching that one without me. Okay?” You knew all too well it was porn, but you also knew how much you enjoyed watching it with others. You’d never admit to it though.

With how often Cas did things like this, especially in attempts to make you happy you couldn’t help but think about the first time you saw the blue eyed angel.

….

You woke up in the motel they were staying in after meeting the boys at the bar, they offered to let you stay with them due to the fact you were “Shit Faced”. You knew you could hold alcohol better than most but you needed to get an in with the boys, they loved a damsel in distress.

You faintly remember once you got to the motel they offered to let you wear their clothes, you almost refused but remembered you didn’t want to sleep in the tight ass dress you had on the night before. Which would explain the over sized green flannel you had on with only your panties on underneath.

“(Y/N), glad to see you’re awake,” you were sitting up at this point rubbing your eyes.

“I feel like death,” which wasn’t an understatement, you knew all too well how it felt to be on the brink of death. Never really understood how your body could heal the way it did, even after being stabbed in the heart with an angel blade, more than once.

Your eyes had barely adjusted when you felt a cold breeze next to you. “Who is this, Dean?”

“Her names (Y/N), thought you could tell being an angel and all,” he answered. He sounded far away, almost like he was outside but he was only on the other side of the room.

When you finally got your eyes fully adjusted you saw and man in a tan trench coat standing over you, he was tall much like the brothers but not as much. He put two fingers on your forehead and looked at you with a puzzled stare. “I can’t, I can’t even read her thoughts,” he slowly removed his hand and looked at you questioningly. It took you a moment before you could fully take him in, he was attractive. His messy raven black hair was brushed back and had slight volume to it. His eyes were a piercing blue that seemed to be even prettier than Deans emerald greens. His jaw was defined with light scruff and his lips were plump but almost chapped. “What are you?”

“Excuse me?” you stood up quickly, almost daring to get in his face. He was the angel your father had warned you about before letting you leave the confined space of your room, in hell. However, he did also make sure you were highly warded so you wouldn’t be detected. Looks like it worked just fine.

“I can’t read your thoughts and I can’t tell if you are human or not,” he tilted his head slightly to the right, squinting his eyes in your direction.

“Well sweetie, I promise you I’m nothing special,” you smiled innocently at him and reached up to pat his cheek. When your hand made contact with his skin you felt a light spark rush through your blood and quickly pulled away. You looked at your hand and then looked up to make eye-contact with the blue eyed angel. “I’m just a little ol’ hunter,” you shook your head and lifted the shirt you were wearing and pulled your panties down slightly to give him a look at your anti-possession tattoo. Luckily it was no longer red so it didn’t look fresh anymore. “See?”

His cheeks quickly flushed pink and he turned around quickly to face Dean. “So, are you going to tell me your name, oh angel of the lord.”

“My name is Castiel,” he began to walk to the other side of the room where Dean was sitting.

“It’s a pleasure Castiel,” you smiled sweetly in his direction and moved to the bathroom of the room. “And by the looks of it, you and Sam saw the tattoo last night while I was changing?” you looked to Dean before walking into the bathroom.

“Yeah sweetheart we did, figured you were a hunter like us,” he said before taking a long drink from his coffee.

“Well you figured right handsome. Did you also figure out I knew you weren’t real agents?” you were in the process of searching the bathroom for your discarded dress. “Stark and Banner, I mean really. I’m not dumb, Iron Man is one of my favorite Marvel characters. Not to mention I’ve seen the news, knew you were the Winchesters”

“So you’re a nerd too?” you could hear the smirk in his voice.

“Some might say that,” you just shrugged to yourself when you finally found the dress hidden on the floor behind the door. “Helps make me more of a catch to a variety of people, men and women alike my friend.”

You shut the door softly before starting to unbutton the flannel shirt you had slept in. You heard a slight choke and then a chuckle from the other room. “Did you just say women?”

“You’ve never heard of someone being bisexual? It’s all about pleasure for me buddy,” you chuckled softly to yourself as you finished pulling off the flannel and putting your dress back on from the previous night.

You looked at yourself in the mirror and attempted to fix your hair when you heard the faint knock on a door. “Dammit Sammy, did you forget your key?” Dean huffed and got up from where he was sitting to go and open the door for his not so little brother.

Just as Dean opened the door for the hotel room you walked out of the bathroom. The brothers were talking quietly to themselves before turning to face you. Your eyes darted between the hazel and green eyes staring at you. “Everything okay boys?”

Sam cleared his throat while his eyes took in the way your dress hugged all the right places. “We have to take care of some things for the case we were working on, do you have anywhere you need to be? We can drop you off on the way.”

You smiled gently at the younger Winchester. “I appreciate the offer Sam, but I think I’d like to get to know your angel boy a little better if that’s alright,” you looked back to Castiel innocently.

Before Sam or Dean could protest Castiel spoke up, seeming almost excitable. “I can take her where she needs to go when she asks, I don’t mind staying.”

Sam and Dean glared at Castiel for one moment before looking to each other. It was Dean who spoke in his gruff, husky voice. “Yeah, okay. We left a card on the table for you (Y/N). Call us if you ever need anything,” he smirked slightly and you looked into his eyes, it almost looked as though his eyes were filled with lust and something else. Could it have been jealousy. No, not possible, he’s Dean freaking Winchester.

“Sure thing Dean-o,” you couldn’t help but smirk back at him. “Stay safe boys, I’m sure we’ll see more of each other real soon.”

You heard them both chuckle softly before turning to exit the room, finally leaving you alone with the angel. You couldn’t help but test your limits of the warding. If dad wanted you to stay with the Winchesters you had to get past their guard dog.

You turned to face the angel who had a serious look on his face, although you could see his eyes glancing up and down your body. “So angel boy, what do you do for fun?”

…

You were quickly brought out of your memories by a loud thump on the outside of the door and a deep voice. “YOU ABOUT DONE IN THERE?”

You shook your head and opened the door quickly. The man outside who had been knocking was taller and much wider than you. He had a full face and a dark salt and peppered beard. “All yours big boy.”

He scoffed and walked past you practically slamming the door shut. “YOU’RE WELCOME ASSHOLE,” you couldn’t help but yell and slam your hand against the door hard. The only reason you stopped was because you hear a soft crack. You realized you probably should break the door down just because he was an asshole, so you huffed again, kicked the door softly and walked back to the boys.

You were about halfway back to the impala when you heard your phone ring, recognizing the ringtone you quickly looked around to see if the boys had seen you and ran back to the other side of the gas station. Catching your breath before answering the call.

“Hello?” you kept your voice low incase someone could hear you.

“Hello Kitten,” you rolled your eyes at the pet name the british voice on the other line called you.

“What do you want Crowley?” you said irritatedly.

“Now is that anyway to talk to your father?” you could hear him making a tsk tsk tsk noise on the other end.

“Now is really not a good time, we just finished the hunt. Had my phone off and hadn’t had time to answer your texts. What do you need so urgently?” you rolled your eyes when you heard him chuckle.

“Can’t I just check in with my favorite person to make sure she’s alright, what kind of father do you take me for (Y/N)?”

“The kind that used to be crossroads demon.”

“Right, anywho. I just wanted to check to make sure the boys don’t suspect what you are, I heard about the little incident with the vampires, love,” his voice sounded sincere.

“No, but even if any of them did. Dean didn’t seem to mind last night.” you smirked slightly remembering the events of the night before in the hotel room.

“Oh yes, almost forgot that squirrel was the one you decided to bed with. You realize we once had a bromance, it’s quite awkward for me.” you could almost hear the disgust in his voice.

“Well for starters, Dean was a demon then and now he’s not. He may still have the mark which makes him more of an asshole, but that’s beyond my point. Human Dean and you never had an actual friendship… But who knows, maybe I’m just fucking him out of spite to piss you off,” you chuckled softly.

The was silence for a minute before you heard a sigh and a soft laugh on the other end. “You are your father's daughter.”

“You taught me so well, but anyways I’m fine. They’re fine and we’re on our way home, I’ll text you when I’m out of sight from the boys. Let me know if you have any other things you need taken care of in the meantime,” you looked around your surroundings before making your way back to the front of the gas station, knowing the conversation was almost over.

“Will do my pet, stay safe.. I love you,” you could hear him faintly say the last part.

You shook your head and giggled slightly at his awkwardness. “I love you too, Daddy. Bye.” you quickly hung up when you saw Dean standing next to the impala looking at you.

You looked around but didn’t see Sam anywhere, but as you got closer to the impala and Dean you felt a strong hand touch your shoulder, making you jump.

“JESUS FUCK,” you turned around quickly with your hand over your heart and saw the 6’4 moose standing in front of you hunched over laughing. “You ass.”

“I’m sorry, (Y/N), really,” he stood straight slowly, looking down at you trying not to start laughing again.

You glared at him so hard that if looks could kill, Sam would have died right then and there. “It’s not okay, one bit.”

He chuckled softly and leaned down so his lips were only about an inch from your ear, you could feel his warm breathe against your neck and if made chills run down your spine. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” his voice was husky and thick. It almost sound as though it was laced with lust. “Also, whoever your Daddy is, he’s a lucky guy.”

Before you had any time to process what Sam had said he was in the passenger seat of the impala, smirking at you. You must have looked as confused as you felt when you looked over at Dean, who looked just as dumbfounded as you. He shook it off quickly though, not knowing truly what his little brother had said to you. “Come on (Y/N/N), let’s go.”

As you walked over to get into the backseat of the car you couldn’t help but get lost in thought. Did Sam really just say that? Did he hear your conversation with Crowley or just that last part? Would Dean be upset if he knew Sam had said that to you, would he be jealous?

You shook your head quickly as you slid into the backseat and watched Dean start his baby. You had to know what Sam meant, just not with Dean around. Dean could get upset and hurt Sam for talking to you like that, but what if worse then that, he simply didn’t care. What if you were just an easy lay to him? No that couldn’t be the case, could it? You and Dean had been only sleeping with each other for the last 8 months, at least you were only with him. Were you only a piece of ass to him? So many questions you had to get an answer to.

You sighed and leaned against the window of the back seat and stared into the sky. You just hoped what you thought wasn’t true, you knew if he hurt you, you wouldn’t be able to control the demon inside anymore. It made you wonder, what made it so easy to fight it before you met the Winchesters. You needed the truth.

You needed to know who your real mother and father were, even if it meant hurting Crowley. You needed to know how to fight the urges that just kept growing. The blood lust, the anger, it all kept growing. You needed to know why it was getting worse the longer you held it in.

You needed to know what truly made you such an abomination.

Chapter 4

Masterlist

#dean winchester/reader #Dean/reader #Castiel/reader #Cas/reader #sam winchester/reader #sam/reader #daddy!crowley/reader #Crowley/Reader

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gkingoffez · 7 years

Text

Itchy

Fandom: Red vs Blue

Words: 1,230

SPOILER WARNING: For RvB Season 15 Episode 5: Previously On

“But that wasn’t even the weirdest thing that happened. Wash. Grew. A beard.” - Carolina

“You know, now that things have settled down a bit and we’re not currently in the middle of any military conspiracies, planetary civil wars or any other crazy schemes, I think I’ll grow a beard,” Wash declared one morning at the communal breakfast table, as he scrubbed curiously at the stubble clinging at his cheeks.

“You? A beard? No way, that’s crazy,” Carolina replied with an amusing tone from across the way. She took a sip of her coffee and grinned at him over the brim of her mug.

“Wow, thanks for the support there, Lina. I think I could pull it off, though. Tell her, Sarge, I could pull off a full grown beard. I got pretty close when we were with the Feds.”

Sarge looked up from his newspaper and peered at Wash over his reading glasses. No one quite knew how the old man was able to find a newspaper on an isolated island on an isolated moon, much less one made of actual paper when they were living in a purely technological age, but both teams had just learned not to question it.

“Sure you can, Wash. A beard is the ultimate show of manliness! Any man who’s worth his manhood has a manly beard, just like Abraham Lincoln or Tom Hanks in Castaway. Everyone except Grif, of course.”

Sarge angrily point his thumb at Grif, and the orange soldier looked up from his overflowing bowl of Lucky Charms (that was somehow mostly marshmallows) and proudly ran his thick fingers through his own scruffy beard.

“If it didn’t eventually start catching on the helmet, I would never shave at all,” Griff said, blissfullt

“Well, can you at least wash it every now and then? I keep finding crumbs in it and it grosses me the fuck out,” complained Simmons from the chair beside him. The half-cyborg was scrolling down a datapad, and hadn’t looked up at all.

“You say that about everything about me,” countered Grif, turning and waving his spoon.

“That’s because you’re a goddamn pig!”

The two began bickering as they were wont to do.

Wash, far too used to it, turned to his fellow teammates.

“So what do you think, Caboose, Tucker? Think I’d look good with a beard?”

“Will you find a parrot and start talking like a pirate?” Caboose asked with enthusiasm. He took a large gulp of his orange juice and stared down Wash with wide blue eyes.

“Caboose,” Wash sighed like an exasperated parent, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “I keep telling you, there probably isn’t any buried treasure on this island, and if there was, I’m sure between the water park and the Great Dinosaur-Robot War it would have been unearthed already.”

“But if we can just find the big X on the ground somewhere, I’m sure we-!”

“Tucker, your thoughts?” Wash interrupted, turning to the other soldier who was leaning casually back in his chair.

Tucker shrugged into his own cup. “Could be kinda hot, I guess.”

“Alright,” Wash declared to the room at large, throwing out his hands and grinning. “Looks like it’s decided, I’m growing a beard!”

No one answered. Carolina huffed with amusement and shook her head. Grif and Simmons continued arguing, ignoring Wash completely.

It had been a while since Wash had last shaved his face (counting days wasn’t exactly a priority on their island, although they did occasionally consult Lopez’s internal clock for reference) and he was feeling… actually pretty good. A decent amount of scruffy brown and patchy grey hair now adorned his face, and Wash was quite proud of it.

He stood outside the shared red and blue base they’d constructed from the burned remains of their nice old bases, helmet off and just enjoying the sun as it crawled towards the horizon. He ran a hand across his new beard. There was no denying that it made him he feel grizzled and manly (not that he’d ever let Sarge know that, he’d never hear the end of it), and it even matched surprisingly well with the scars on his face. Wash was quite liking the aesthetic of it all. He was considering investing in a flannel shirt and an axe.

But it also had the downside of making him look far, far older than he actually was.

“What’s up, grandpa?” came Tucker’s voice from behind him. Wash sighed.

“Please stop calling me that,” he said, resignedly.

Tucker came up behind him and threw an arm around Wash’s neck, grinning a face-splitting grin at Wash’s raised eyebrows.

“Aw come on, gramps, lighten up,” said the teal soldier. Wash rolled his eyes at him, fondly.

“I think it’s long enough to be considered an actual beard now. So come on, tell me what you think now?”

Tucker narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and darted them up and down Wash’s face, appraising it. He reached out and gently turned the ex-Freelancer’s chin towards him, brushing his own gloved hands across the beard as well.

“Is it ‘hot’ like you thought it was gonna be?” asked Wash.

“Oh, hell yeah,” his boyfriend replied. “Hot as fuck, dude. I was kinda worried you’d turn out looking like a hobo, but nah. One last test, though.”

Tucker pulled Wash’s face down towards him, and roughly kissed the ex-Freelancer’s cheek. Wash felt heat rise in his face, while Tucker recoiled with a look of disgust.

“Okay, not doing that again. Your beard is fucking itchy, dude, I think I’m gonna get rug burn by just by looking at it.”

Wash blinked and then scoffed.

“What are you talking about? It’s not itchy, it’s magnificent. Manly, like Sarge said. How can you say it’s itchy, why would you say that?” said Wash defensively.

“Dude, just feel it. You know I’m right.”

Now irritated and offended, Wash pulled off his glove and once again ran his fingers through his (not itchy, definitely amazing) beard.

“I just don’t know what you mean, it feels fine,” Wash retorted. He crossed his arms resolutely, trying to ignore the slight scratch that he now felt on his jaw. Tucker wasn’t right.

“Stop pouting and just admit it, Wash,” Tucker said to him with a triumphant grin. He clapped Wash twice on the shoulder and turned to walk away.

“I am not pouting,” pouted Wash after him. He decided against childishly stomping his foot to accentuate his point. That would not help his argument in the long run.

“You are, and it’s fucking adorable you big doof!” Tucker yelled over his shoulder.

Wash harrumphed. He turned back to survey the landscape before him, from the green hills to the blue sea, the scorched remains of their old bases right down to the scarred valley still littered with rusting robot bodies and the occasional dinosaur bone. This island had been good to them over the last few months.

He took a furtive look around to check no one else had snuck up on him, and when he found no one he reached up again with his bare hand and rubbed at his face.

“It feels…” he announced to the island at large, trying to come up with the right adjective. Bristled. Wiry. A feat of manly testosterone.

“…itchy. God, it is itchy,” he conceded. He scratched at the scruff with his bare fingers, and then glanced over at Tucker’s retreating back. “…goddamnit, Tucker.”

This whole episode had me in stitches. I love it and I just had to write some Tuckington about the beard thing.

Gah, RvB15 is so good so far! Unfortunately, some fuckery has gone down with my FIRST subscription so I haven’t seen the latest, but still! New writer’s doing good.

#red vs blue #agent washington #rvb15 #lavernius tucker #rvb #my writing

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