#(I still feel bad for whoever had to count all of the cotton candy cocoons in 'Killer Klowns!')

[beatingheart-bride]

Dorian was far from the only one of them who had his moments of acting up, it seemed: it was amusing to hear about everyone's more mischievous moments, moments none of them were exempt from. Even June had had her moments as a girl: Emily couldn't lie, it was especially funny to hear about the rare occasions in which her calm, well-behaved mother-in-law had gotten into trouble as a girl.

"Well, I can't pretend I've never sneaked away with anything out of the kitchen," Emily admitted, rather lax as she enjoyed another bubbly sip of sparkling cider. "I can't deny I've always had a bit of a sweet tooth, especially as a girl. I was especially fond of these blueberry-filled bonbons that my mother had shipped over all the way from France. I always had a habit of sneaking off with one or two when no one was looking, but one night, when I was feeling especially daring, I waited until everyone was asleep and ran off with a whole box! The next morning, my parents found the empty box and wrappers scattered across my bedroom floor, and me lying in bed with the worst stomachache of my life. I was banned from having any sweets for two weeks, but honestly, I'd felt like I'd had enough sweets for a lifetime at that point!"

It hadn't been that big of an issue in the long run, but it wasn't exactly something she'd want either Lon or Erika to replicate. The last thing she wanted was for either of them to make themselves sick from too much sugar, especially with how much any sign of illness in her loved ones could get underneath their grandmother's skin. Thankfully, they had yet to do anything on par with stealing a whole box of chocolates as of yet, and hopefully they wouldn't for a long time!

@beatingheart-bride

June subtly glanced Elizabeth's way when she overheard her and Emily's conversation, taking a sip from her own sparkling apple cider as she mulled over these remarks quietly. She didn't want to jump to any conclusions, however (nor give voice to these conclusions either), and settled for setting aside her glass and contentedly leaning her head against her husband's shoulder as Dorian happily regaled the group with stories from his and Randall's youth.

"...I admit, the violin was never my preferred musical instrument," Dorian was saying with an impish grin. "I was good at it, but I just never thought I was destined to become a legendary violin player like my mother expected, and so I was always trying to find a way out of my lessons, and our sprawling garden made for an excellent place to hide. Admittedly, Beau knew it was where I'd go first, since Randall and his mother would be out there, but he'd seldom be too hard on me about it. He knew I didn't like the violin very much, and that I'd rather be outside with my best friend."

"Contributing to the delinquency of one of your own students, Mr. Ghast?" August chuckled as Beau came around to refill both Dorian and August's glasses (the Burke patriarch having decided to be daring enough to have a glass of wine with dinner). Smiling as slyly as the young master, Beau replied, "Only here and there-I knew what Mr. and Mrs. Gracey expected of their son, and so I tried to keep him in the classroom as much as I could, learning the violin, French, cursive, all lessons they wanted me to teach him...but what good was having a young friend on the estate if they couldn't play together?"

"A very good point," August admitted-all work and no play never did a young mind any good, he felt, and so he could get behind Beau allowing his young charge to run free and enjoy his childhood, especially with his grandson. It had to have been a pleasant change of pace for the both of them, given the lives they both led.

"And besides, Dorian didn't need my help in his delinquency," Beau chuckled. "Even before he met Randall, he was always very clever at sneaking out when I had my back turned and taking off down the hall to find some sweets and hole up somewhere I couldn't find him. Between the two of them, Dorian was easily the brains of the operation."

"Guilty as charged!" Dorian grinned, raising his hand as he added, "If anything, Randall did his best to keep us out of trouble, while I was the one trying to make trouble in the first place!"

[stubbornness-and-spite]

based on this post by @princeymust-slay​

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Characters: Patton, Virgil, Roman, Logan

Warnings: unsympathetic Virgil(kind of. his intentions aren’t bad but his actions are)

Genre: hurt/comfort, angst (mostly Patton angst but a small dose of Roman/Logan/Virgil angst too)

Word Count: 1800

Summary: Patton was having a good morning on the day the world ended. He had managed to make himself eggs and toast without burning anything that morning. He had greeted Roman and Logan when they woke up and made their way out of their rooms. He didn’t have anything pressing to do, so he’d decided to curl up with a blanket and watch some cartoons. He’d been having a really good morning, you know, before the world ended. Okay, so the world didn’t actually end. But Patton’s pretty sure he’s earned the right to be a little dramatic.

Notes: does not take into account the events of DWIT or SVSR or FWSA, takes place an indeterminate amount of time post-AA

~

Patton was making his way back to the couch with his favorite blanket that he’d grabbed from his room when he ran into Virgil.

“Hey, uh, Patton, can I talk to you?” Virgil asked, not meeting his eyes.

Patton nodded brightly and set down his cargo. “Sure Virge, no problem!”

“This is not gonna sound great, but I kinda need to prove a point.” Virgil still wasn’t looking at Patton and Patton was starting to get a little nervous. 

“Okay?” he said tentatively.

Virgil finally looked up, meeting Patton’s eyes with a determined look. “Can we sit down?” he blurted out.

Patton let out a breath. “No problem, kiddo!” He dropped down on the middle of the couch and gestured for Virgil to pick a side. Virgil flopped down on his left and leaned against the armrest. Patton smiled warmly at Virgil and grabbed his blanket to put on top of them. Virgil shook his head and gently nudged it away, so Patton wrapped himself in it like a cocoon.

“Are you doing okay?” Virgil asked suddenly.

“Yeah?” Patton said with a bemused smile. It had been a very good morning so far. “Why, is something wrong?”

“No,” Virgil blurted out, stumbling over his words slightly. “I mean, yes, but-” he sighed. “I have something to say, but it can wait. I don’t want to upset you, I just need to make a point.” 

Patton had to bite back a coo. Virgil was being so sweet and considerate! “I’m okay, Virgil. Go ahead.”

“Okay…” Virgil took a deep breath and let it out slowly before looking directly into Patton’s eyes and speaking softly and clearly. “You are so sweet and perfect and nice. You’re an angel, Patton. You are impossibly cute. You’re like a little puppy, everyone just loves you because you’re so cute. You’re like cotton candy, you’re so sweet. It’s almost too much, you’re so sweet. You’re never anything other than nice and sweet and kind. You’re absolutely perfect, Patton.” 

Patton’s eyes welled up before Virgil got through the second sentence. He knew he wasn’t actually perfect or an angel or any of the things Virgil said, but he tried so hard to be and hearing someone recognize that was more than he’d ever thought to ask for. He lifted his hand to his mouth to cover up a sob.

And Virgil’s face twists into a scowl. “That’s what I mean. See how frustrating and invalidating and condescending that is?”

Patton was suddenly thankful that he was covering his mouth because he couldn’t stop his jaw from dropping. He tried to say something, anything, but his voice caught in his throat. His already wet eyes well up even more as he tries to just say something. 

Virgil sighed. “Look, I’m sorry I said all that, Pat. It wasn’t fair, but I didn’t think you would get it if you didn’t understand how I felt.”

Patton felt like he was choking as he tried to force words past his lips. He squeezed his mouth shut and dropped his hand, shooting Virgil a pinched smile.

Virgil offered up a rueful grin. “I’ll talk to you later then?” he sighed. Patton just stared at him with wide eyes. “Yeah,” Virgil muttered. “Talk to you later.” He stood up stiffly and walked around the back of the couch, dropping a hand down to squeeze Patton’s shoulder gently. “Sorry, Pat,” he whispered as he sank out.

Patton waited until he was sure that Virgil had sunk out and couldn’t hear him anymore to finally let out the cry that had been blocking his throat and sob.

~

Patton wasn’t sure how long he sat there, shaking on the couch as his tears soaked through his hoodie. It might have been hours, it might have only been a few minutes.

He was startled from his spiraling thoughts by a tentative hand on his shoulder.

“Patton?” asked Logan, uncharacteristically unsteady. “Are you alright?” Patton took a shaky breath and Logan muttered under his breath. “Clearly you’re not, but I’m relatively certain that asking is the socially acceptable thing to do in this situation.”

Patton laughed wetly. “Just fine, Logan,” he replied softly.

 Logan sighed. “Falsehood. Would you like to be alone, talk about it, or have me sit with you?” he offered.

Patton bit his lip. He didn’t want to impose, but Logan was offering and he really wanted him to stay.

“Sit with me?” his voice cracked, but Logan didn’t comment, he just moved to join Patton on the couch, taking the spot where Virgil had been not too long ago.

“Of course.” 

~

“Did something happen?”

Patton had slowly moved closer to Logan, encouraged by his lack of protest and lack of movement to keep space between them. He had slotted himself under Logan’s arm and curled into his side. It almost felt like a hug.

“No, not really,” Patton said with a sigh. “It’s just... I know he means well and I’m not upset with him for it…” he trailed off.

“But?” Logan prompted.

“Virgil can be a little... blunt, you know?” Patton admitted, not looking at Logan.

Logan stiffened suddenly, his grip on Patton becoming purposeful rather than passive. His voice was thick and rough when he spoke. “Did he leave you here crying?”

“No!” Patton yelped instinctively. Logan’s grip relaxed. “No,” Patton repeated in a calmer tone. “No, I didn’t start crying until after he left.” 

“What did he say, Patton?” Logan asked. Patton shook his head and pressed his lips together. Logan patted his shoulder awkwardly, biting back the instinct to say ‘there, there.’ He had been told on multiple occasions that while the effort was appreciated, it was less than comforting.

“Do you think I’m cute?” Patton asked suddenly, his voice thin and quiet.

Logan bit back a scoff. “We all have the same face,” he reminded Patton.

Patton smiled weakly. “That’s not what I meant,” he explained. “Did you mean it when you called me adorable?”

Logan frowned and tried to recall the incident Patton was referring to. After a moment he remembered shouting, “We. Get. It. You’re. A-dor-a-ble.” when they were figuring out their Hogwarts houses. He hadn’t meant it as a compliment and something cold and heavy settled in his stomach as he realized that his comment that was meant to be insulting might have been one of the few times he validated one of the traits that Patton found positive.

“I- I am not in the habit of lying for the sake of other’s feelings,” Logan stuttered.

Patton’s smile softened. “I know,” he reassured Logan. “Do you think I’m sweet?”

“Yes,” Logan said, more sure of his answer this time and starting to understand the situation better.

“I’m sorry,” Patton muttered. “I don’t mean to fish for compliments.”

Logan blew out a frustrated breath. His confidence had clearly been mistaken for impatience. “Patton,” he said firmly. “I am...not good at knowing how to phrase compliments or when they should be said. That doesn’t mean I think they are untrue. I wouldn’t mind at all if you were to say the things you would like to hear and I will tell you honestly if I think they are true or not.”

Patton’s eyes, that had never fully dried, started to well up again. “Thank you, Logan,” he choked out. Patton hiccupped as his breath hitched and Logan ran his hand up and down Patton’s arm.

After a few minutes Patton spoke up again. “Do you think I’m kind?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think I”m nice?”

Logan frowned. “Aren’t those the same-” he cut himself off to address Patton. “Yes.”

“Do you think I’m cute like a puppy or a kitten?”

Logan bit his lip to stop a quiet, fond laugh from bubbling up. “On occasion. More often than not.” 

“Can I hug you?”

Logan stuttered, caught off guard. “I-yes.”

Patton crashed into Logan, throwing his arms around his neck and sobbing onto his back. Logan stiffened slightly, unsure of what to do, but held Patton, rocking back and forth slightly.

There was a sound of thundering footsteps as Roman burst into the room.

“I am-” he stopped suddenly. “Patton, are you okay?”

Patton looked up, but didn’t let go of Logan. “Doing better. Wanna come hug us?”

Logan could almost feel the intensity of Roman’s smile without turning to look at him.

“I would never turn down a cuddle pile,” Roman declared. He flopped down on the couch behind Patton and draped himself over his back, resting his chin on Patton’s shoulder that didn’t have Logan on it. Roman stretched an arm around Patton’s back and gently twisted his fingers into Logan’s hair. Logan jerked his head up and looked at Roman with alarm. Roman offered up a smile and started running his hand through Logan’s hair. Logan smiled back and put his head back down on Patton’s shoulder.

“Ro?” Patton said quietly after a moment. “Do you think I’m cute?”

Roman’s hand in Logan’s hair stilled and his grip on Patton tightened. “Yes,” he growled. “Who made you doubt that so that I may slay them?”

Patton giggled and Roman tensed because whoever had hurt Patton had no right to make him laugh.

“Please don’t slay Virgil, Roman.”

If Roman could have frozen twice or stiffened more, he would have. His mouth tasted bitter with the feeling of betrayal. 

“Virgil?” Roman choked out.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Patton said reassuringly. Roman wasn’t sure which of them he was trying to reassure.

“Patton, I think it would be best if you talk to him,” Logan said softly but firmly.

 “I don’t know,” Patton drew out. He took a breath and let it out. “Logan, I want you to promist me that you won’t tell him.”

Logan sighed. “He needs to know.”

“Promise me you won’t tell him,” Patton said with a bit more steel.

“We’re not going to stand by and watch him hurt you,” Roman said with forced confidence. It was Virgil. He wasn’t supposed to have to fight Virgil anymore, but this was Patton and Roman would tear down the sky for Patton.

“It’ll only hurt both of you more the longer you wait,” Logan cut in.

Patton pulled away from them and looked at them both. “Both of you,” he said firmly. “Promise me that you won’t say anything to him without at least talking to me first.” 

Roman sighed. “I can promise that.”

“Alright,” Logan said.

Patton smiled his million watt smile and Roman and Logan melted. “Thank you. I love you kiddos so much.”

Logan smiled softly. “We love you too.”

Roman grabbed Patton’s hand and pressed a kiss to his palm, folding up Patton’s fingers until Patton was holding the kiss. “We love you to the moon and back, Pat.”

[cherry3point14]

Driving Home For Christmas

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: Brush your teeth after reading.

Word Count: 8,972.

Summary: You’re on a case all by your lonesome up in a small town in Wisconsin. When it snows you’re more concerned with keeping warm than getting out of dodge which means someone gets snowed in on her own for Chirstmas. Or so you think.

A/N: Basically like there’s fluff, gruff and festive stuff. Enjoy.

Ao3 if you prefer Series Masterlist

“Calm down. The ghost is all taken care of and the very grateful Crewes family even gave me a candy cane for my trouble.” Sam laughs at you down the phone knowing that you probably asked for the candy cane. You did, but he doesn’t need to know that, they were more than happy to share after you saved their lives and all.

“When are you coming home?”

They’d been working a case out East and had finished up a day early. They were already back in the bunker, safe and warm. You, however, had taken a salt and burn up in Wisconsin. Except it turned out to be a cursed object since the guy was already cremated and, well, it took you an extra day to figure out what the damn thing was. Which was fine, really, except now you’re still in town when a snowstorm hits. Not that you’re telling Sam that. They’d both worry about you but really the snow isn’t that bad. Berta, the owner of the motel you’re staying in, brought you a space heater and extra blankets the day before. Because you’re the only dummy staying this close to Christmas. She’s literally giving heaters and blankets away since you're her only clientele. So, you have a plan. You’re going to build a hot box and wait it out, you’ll be back on the road in the morning. No need to concern their pretty little heads about a few flakes.

“It’s too late to drive anywhere after a long day saving lives and being a hero. I figure I’ll make a day of it tomorrow.”

Adding the joke means Sam doesn’t notice your worried tone as you peak out of the curtain at the powder piling high around the tires of your car. God, you were going to have to shovel that in the morning. Great.

“Ok, well get some sleep or something and call me before you leave tomorrow.”

His mother hen nagging comes from a place of caring so you don’t tease him as much as you normally might. Not when he doesn’t even know the reason he should be rightly worried.

“Sure, sure. Night Sam.”

“Night Y/N.”

As soon as the line goes dead operation get-this-chill-out-of-your-goddamn-bones begins. It starts by kicking the heater to life until it’s buzzing away and emitting a dangerously orange hue. Then you start the layering. First leggings with a long sleeved thick cotton shirt tucked in. Over the top of that a pair of sweats you stole from Dean a long time ago, along with a sweatshirt that drowns you. Thick, fluffy socks get slipped on and tucked in before the blankets start getting piled high. By the time you’re done the bed looks akin to a childlike fort but then you crawl inside, wrap yourself up and realize the comparison is all wrong. What you’ve actually built is a cocoon and you might never emerge from it.

Even with all the layers it still takes a while, maybe twenty minutes, to warm up against the chill of the snow as it seeps through the too thin walls. But when you do feel warmth sweep over your skin it all becomes worth it. If an extreme temperature is going to kill you in the night it’ll be heat, and what a way to go in a snowstorm.

When you open your eyes you’re still swaddled like a giant baby in your endless blankets. You’re warm, toasty and although you’re there’s a tacky film of sweat covering your body it’s still preferable to the temperature you know exists outside of your bed.

But sweat is not what woke you up. Neither is the encroaching cold. It’s your phone.

It’s buzzing away on the bedside cabinet as if it’s angry. It stops before you untangle yourself enough to stick an arm out but considering the ten missed calls on your phone someone certainly seems to be frustrated.

The small draft of cold air you let in by moving is refreshing against the heat of your skin. You’re considering unfurling yourself completely when the phone rings again, this time in your hand. His name pops up for what must be the eleventh time and you let out this resigned sigh. Dean doesn’t call this many times in a row unless it’s important, and at this point, he probably thinks you’re dead so maybe it would be kind to put him out of his misery.

“Hello?”

You can hear his relief as you answer, there this big exhale that’s rattled down the line, but then he obviously remembers why he’s calling and allows himself to circle right back around to frustrated. “What the hell? You ever heard of answering your phone?”

“Good morning to you too grumpy.” He won’t see your grin but you know it’s there.

“I’ve been calling for an hour.”

“I was sleeping.” He huffs at that and you can understand his annoyance. You normally only sleep so soundly in your room, shrouded in the safety of the bunker. Not at a motel in bumfuck nowhere.

“When were you going to tell me about the snow?”

You shoot upright like the question was shouted at you from across the room instead of echoed down your phone. You’re half expecting to see him standing there with coffee, breakfast and a scowl. He’s not.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You stutter out the lie unconvincingly.

He barks out this sarcastic laugh. “Take it you haven’t looked out of the window this morning then?”

Just like that, you don’t have a secret about the snow anymore, he does. You want to take that power away from him as quickly as possible so you roll out of bed and stumble to the still closed curtains. The line where the curtains meet gets brighter and whiter with each step. In reality, you’ve taken seconds to haul ass across the room but in your head, the hand that reaches for the material and pulls it back is achingly slow. A fittingly dramatic reveal for the amount of snow covering every surface outside. It’s easily 12 inches, maybe more. Probably, definitely more. There’s not even a flicker of childlike wonder in your eyes as you look out because your immediate reaction is how screwed you are. Your car, as beat up and shitty as it was, is fucked. You can only just about tell the general shape now. Not that you know where the road is. Where you could previously see it in your roadside motel now there’s just a postcard blanket of undisturbed snow.

“Fuck.”

“Yep.” Dean hums all too smugly reminding you that he’s still on the phone.

Your calves hit the bed as you drift backward, like moving away from the window will make the scene outside somehow different. “Shit. I guess I’m stuck here.”

There’s a flurry of emotions going through you faster than the snow that's blocked you in. You’d actually been looking forward to Christmas this year. Last year all three of you had been on a hunt, spending the 25th culling a werewolf pack. This year was going to be your first one without them tiptoeing around you. For once you don’t want to spend it alone and wrapped up in painful memories. And yet, you don’t really have a choice now.

“...you’re not getting away with it that easy.” Dean is rambling away in your ear and you haven’t listened to a word he said.

“Sorry, what?” That’s when you notice it, the rumble of Baby in the background.

He huffs and you can hear the sarcastic annoyance on his dumb face, “I said, don’t worry about it.”

Your tongue seems to have doubled in weight for how thickly you swallow, “Dean… where are you?”

“Passed Omaha about thirty miles back.”

“Dean.” The word carries a stern warning. You won’t be saved like some damsel in distress. You’ll be fine holed up in this motel room for a few days till your car, hopefully, reveals itself. Lonely and chilly but alive.  

“Y/N,” he replies, mocking your tone.

“I’ll be fine. There’s a gas station not far from here. I’ll make the walk there, stock up on food and wait until it melts enough for me to drive. Turn around and go home.”

Even as you’re saying it you’re dreading the idea of going outside. Unfortunately, Dean knows you too well, much better than you realize. “Open the door, sweetheart.”

“What?”

“Just do it.”

You want him to turn around so you play along. You whip the door open and close it just as quickly but it’s enough for crisp winter air to attack your face like thousands of pinprick needles all at once. “HOLY FUCKING SHIT.”

“Yeah, thought so.” He sounds satisfied that he’s made his point. “You’re not going anywhere. Get whoever owns the joint to get you some food, pack your shit and stay inside.”

“It’s a twelve-hour drive each way. And what am I supposed to do, just leave my car? I know you’re not going to drive Baby through this.” Even to your ears, your excuses sound pathetic and half-assed, but goddammit you’re trying.

“Good thing I drive fast. Your car was already junk, if you miss it that much I’ll bring you back when the snow melts. I’ve got it covered.”

Before you can say anything else the line goes dead. You know it’s not a service problem, he’s hung up. Probably with a self-satisfied grin and some comment to his empty car about him always being right.

He definitely knows how to piss you off before a twelve hours car ride together.

A deity somewhere is looking out for you, enough that the pipes aren’t frozen over and you’re able to have a shower so hot that your skin is scalded red. You dry your hair, make a big song and dance about getting dressed and then, as instructed, ‘pack your shit’.

As if she knows the exact moment you’re clothed and presentable Berta, the sprightly old woman that she is, knocks on the door.

“Oh good, you’re not dead!”

“Probably wouldn’t be opening the door if were.” The master key in her hand gets quickly stuffed back into her large coat pocket with your answer.

“Since you’re not dead, which I’m very pleased about, I wanted to invite you to spend Christmas with me,” her eyes have that softness people spare for the truly pathetic. “I know, I know. You were leaving today but by the looks of your car I’m guessing we’re gonna have a cozy little Christmas together.”

You could imagine Christmas with Berta. She’d probably out drink you and then start telling stories about the swinging sixties, scaring you for life. You’d have to extra nice to Dean when he gets here and saves you from the required therapy. “I appreciate the offer Berta but I’m still leaving today.”

“But-”

“My friend is coming to get me. He’ll be here later.”

She purses her lips suspiciously which makes the wrinkles around her mouth deepen, “a friend?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Coming to get you?”

“Yep.”

“Didn’t you say you live in Kansas?”

Too late you figure out where she’s going with this but you can’t think quick enough to back-pedal the conversation. “Yeah. I did.”

“So, you mean to tell me that a male friend of yours is driving all the way from Kansas, and back, on Christmas Eve no less, to pick you up during a snowstorm?”

You put your hand on your hip and shake your head at the meddling old woman, “it’s not like that, Dean’s just a friend.”

“Ohhhh,” she’s coos sounding like a police siren, “his name is Dean, huh? Dean’s coming to get you is he?”

Berta has been this forward since you got here. The night you checked in she asked you if you had a boyfriend because she has this nephew that you’d absolutely love. The first time you go and extend your stay she claps that you’ll still be in town and offers a date on his behalf. Now she’s got her talons caught into something else altogether.

“Yes, his name is Dean. He’s just a friend. I told him not to come but he’s about as stubborn as you are, so you can imagine how well that went down.”

She flashes you this toothy, knowing smile, “oh honey. That boy must have it bad.”

Berta doesn’t know what she’s talking about because Dean treats you like the sister he never had. But confused or not she's hit a nerve so you react with a lump in your throat and a hard set to your jaw, “goodbye Berta.”

“Yeah sure. Let me know when Dean shows up!”

She starts shuffling away, apparently completely unphased that you rejected her Christmas invitation. You shut the door before she comes back and makes you play truth or dare. It’s only in the warmth of the room that you notice how hot your cheeks are.

You’d been reading a list of top twenty Christmas movies on your phone when there’s a second knock at the door hours later. You snap your head up when, almost immediately, the wood is banged again. Harder and more urgently.

“Y/N!”

Your whole body breathes a sigh of relief, for you are saved.

Jumping up you pull the door open with a wide grin. He looks tired and frustrated with a thousand things, probably yourself included, but he still smirks at the sight of you.

“You came.”

“Told you I would. But we’ve gotta haul ass to make it back in time.”

You’re about to ask what schedule you’re on. Christmas starts when you’re all there and arguing over pancake syrup, so you can hardly miss it, but the question never leaves your lips. He strides past you and picks up your packed duffle, casts his eyes around the room to make sure you didn’t forget anything and starts leaving again. “Come on, we're burning daylight.”

His quick movements lull you out of the stupor you were momentarily in, “sure, right, let me drop the key in and I’ll meet you at…”

The word ‘Baby’ was on the tip of your tongue just as you look over his shoulder to see this truck. Big enough to be menacing, snow chains wrapped around the tires and, most importantly, a large bearded man in the driver's seat.

“What?”

He smiles, amused at the worry on your face, “Baby is ten minutes out of town since they haven’t plowed all the roads yet. Can you believe it, his name is fucking Michael?”

“Mike it is.” You wink at him before beginning the treacherous walk to the little office. The snow that has settled under the covered walkway outside your door is beginning to turn icy. Not all the way deathly yet but there’s a very real risk of falling on your butt in front of Dean, and now Mike, so you tread carefully.

Berta is relieved that you’re getting out in time for Christmas and she’s not shy about sticking her neck out to try and catch a glimpse of the fabled Dean. She hums approvingly and winks at you, which you roll your eyes at. She’s awful in that harmless interfering aunt kind of way and you play along, only because she’s agreed to keep an eye on your car till you make other arrangements.

Checked out you start trudging through the powder. In the parking lot where everything is still fresh the snow is deep enough to almost reach your knees. It doesn’t take long for a shiver to creep up your spine. The air is cold enough that every breath has an edge to it, a frosty after burn in your lungs. You focus on Dean standing by the truck waiting for you. He is the promise of escape from this frozen, lonely hellscape. Dean is snow free open roads and a milder Kansas winter.

Sure a lot of people would love a white Christmas, yourself included. But not to this excess. Not to the point where the weather becomes a prison.

Mike, for all his faults, and it really seems like the only one he has is being named Michael, isn’t a talker. It’s nice. For the ten solid minutes that he drives you out of town, you allow yourself your only actual enjoyment of the snow. You get to watch the picturesque yet dangerous conditions knowing that you’re leaving them behind. And eventually the further south and out of town you get the less snow there is anyway. It doesn’t disappear completely but you find yourself at a point where it feels manageable.

Dean has parked Baby in this gas station just before the exit to the interstate, which he assures you is snow free. Mike gruffs when you wish him happy holidays but you think that might mean ‘you too’ in his vocabulary.

The moment that you slip into the front seat of the Impala is the moment you’re already home. It’s cold inside the car as it’s been sitting here for half an hour and yet somehow there’s the slightest hint of heat. Like it’s imprinted in the leather over however many hours it took Dean to get here.

He doesn’t say anything when he slides in and starts her up. The silence throws you. It makes everything feel a little uncomfortable. In the truck the silence had been golden, you’d assumed Dean hadn’t been talkative because of Mike, Mike hadn’t either. There had been music that filled the quiet then. But the Zeppelin thrusting it’s way out of the cassette player now is at a low level. It’s turned down as if he wants to talk and yet, he hasn’t said a word.

Normally it’s either or. The music is either thumping at a volume where you know there’s nothing to say or it's at the volume it’s at now, and he’s a chatty Cathy. As chatty as Dean gets anyway. Today he has you in this limbo. If you were standing you’d probably be shuffling side to side awkwardly before running away but you’re in the Impala, at the start of a very long drive, on Christmas Eve of all days. You’re trapped and will be for some time.

You can’t go on like this so you just had to break the silence, right? All you had to do was pretend that you don’t notice the awkward atmosphere as he accelerates onto the empty highway, you could do that. Just start a conversation, any conversation. “Sam said you finished up early with the Rugaru?”

“He also said everything was fine when he spoke to you last night, but we both know that’s not true.” He snaps like the argument was waiting behind his teeth for you to say something first.

“What?”

“The snow was already pretty bad last night, I checked.”

Ok, so he’s pissed. He’s clearly been getting more and more worked up about this on the drive here. All you had to do was calm him down. “It wasn’t that bad it was just normal snow, I had no idea that it would-”

“Get you snowed in? Right. Because you’d have been able to drive that shitty car of yours through any kind of snow.”

That ticks you off a little, whether it’s the implication that your car is worthless or your driving. He’s not wrong about your car but he didn’t need to say it. “Excuse me. Didn’t see you driving your precious Baby into town.”

That’s it, hit him where it hurts. His car.

“‘S different. She’d have been fine last night.”

You scoff unsure if you’re angry or actually shocked, “do you really think I got snowed in on purpose?”

“I think you could have told us about the snow last night. I think you were trying to avoid-” he doesn’t finish, instead expelling a big, frustrated sigh.

His grip on the wheel loosens a little, which gives you a chance to see how tightly he’d been holding on. White knuckling it even. Then you notice the empty coffee cups strewn on the backseat. You start putting a timeline together in your head. He must have been driving at least a couple of hours, maybe three, when he called you that morning. Slowly you work out that this idiot has easily been driving for over ten hours straight, without a break. And it’s all your fault.

You look around to check for any other traffic before you carefully put a hand on his shoulder. He’s tense under your fingers like an elastic band pulled too tight, “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. Please pull the car over.”

The muscle in his arm loosens a little at your apology and then he turns to you with a confused expression when you ask him to pull over.

“What the hell?”

“Pull the damn car over now or I’ll make you!” The soft apology of your voice is replaced with a hard demand.

His eyes flick to the mirror before he swerves onto the side of the road. The engine halts and he turns his body towards you, possibly expecting a continuation of your argument. That’s when you get out of the car.

On the highway, this much further south, there’s hardly any snow. Maybe a light dusting on the ground but the road itself is clear, just wet. It’s still cold though, enough that you shiver as you stomp around to the other side of the car. It’s just, you can’t falter because of the temperature, not when his eyes are on you for every step. His unrelenting stare has to be what keeps you going.

At the driver's side, you yank the door open and stare him down from your standing position, “move.”

He opens his mouth to argue, even starts it off, “if you think I’m letting you…”

“I get it. You don’t need to take a break because you’re Dean Winchester or whatever. But here’s the thing, by my calculations you’ve been driving since, what, four? If you can promise me you took a break on the way here then you’re off the hook. Otherwise move over because I said so.”

For not being a parent you’ve got a surprisingly authoritative mom voice and somehow it works. He begrudgingly slides over to the passenger seat, silently answering you. Probably got his coffee at drive-throughs on the way and didn’t even stop to drink them, lunatic.

“A few hours that’s it.” He grumbles, which might well be threatening if half the tension in his torso hadn’t melted away already.

“Sure thing. Just get some sleep and I’ll wake you in a few.”

It’s probably a testament to your relationship, friendship obviously, that he actually listens to you. You steal glances out the corner of your eye as he shimmies down the seat until his body is slung low, his legs crossed over each other and his head bent against the back of the seat. The position looks too awkward for sleep but you know getting him in the back would be pushing your luck, besides you’ve seen him sleep in more cramped quarters before. Worst case scenario he’ll be grumpy when he wakes up but that’s pretty true of any time he wakes up.

Even with how tired he must be you're still surprised with how quickly his eyes close. One second they’re open and warily watching you drive and in the next second, he blinks them closed. Somewhere on a straight of road, you take a hand off the wheel to reach in the back, blindly searching for the thick, wool blanket kept there. Like a game of buckaroo, you’re careful to put it over him, one hand still on the wheel as you gently cover him with it a little at a time. The whole thing probably takes ten minutes but he looks so much cozier after you’re done that you smile out to the road ahead, pleased with your progress.

You keep the music low as you drive and try to resist watching him out the corner of your eye for too long at a time.

“Rise and shine sleeping beauty!” You sing-song loudly as you cut the engine.

Dean startles awake in a way that tells you he was a little more asleep that he intended to be. It’s cute. Not that he’s cute or anything, it’s just you know him well enough to know that sleeping while someone else drives Baby is not a trust he affords to many people. You’re smart enough to appreciate that.

“Where the fuck are we?” His voice is groggy even if his words are angry and you have to resist thinking the word ‘adorable’.

“Since you asked so nicely,” he pushes the blanket off of him suspiciously as you answer, “we’re outside Fort Dodge, I think, anyway we’re about halfway and I need food.”

Dean grins with sleep still clinging to the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, “it’s like you read my mind.”

“You were dreaming of me waking you up outside a Wendy’s?”

“Something like that,” he groans as he stretches his muscles the best he can in the confines of the car.

It’s not that you get distracted watching him stretch and it’s not that you’re wondering what he was dreaming about. You’re distracted by both and neither at the same time. And Berta’s meddling voice pops up in your head.

Eventually, Dean clicks his fingers in front of your face. “You ok there sweetheart?”

“Yeah, yeah! I’m fine, it’s just…” your sentence drifts off into nothing. You don’t know what to say. There’s nothing to say. No matter how long you maintain his expectant eye contact. “I’ll go get the food.”

The inside of the Wendy’s is as dead and depressing as a fast food place can be at nearly eleven on Christmas Eve. You were honestly surprised they’re still open. Thankful because you needed food, but surprised. They have your order ready in record time because what else are they doing? It’s just that as you’re leaving again, arms full of paper bags you notice Dean in the front seat of the Impala. Not singing along or tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to a song you can’t hear. He’s on the phone, a serious pucker to his lips and concern festering in his shoulders.

That’s not even the worrying part. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time you’ve heard about a case this late. The suspicious bit happens when he makes eye contact with you coming across the parking lot. He hurries a stern goodbye and hastily puts his phone away.

“Who was on that?” you’re careful to keep your voice measured and casual as you take your place in the passenger's seat. You pull the blanket he rejected up over your legs before you shove a burger into his hands.

“Nobody.” He answers too quickly. So suspiciously in fact that he notices his own mistake and tries to fix it before you say anything else, “Sam. It was Sam. Just meant that it was nothing important.”

Apparently, there's a back and forth game between you both. Moments of weirdness that the other doesn’t observe too closely. But what could Dean possibly have to be weird about?

The rest of the drive is comfortable silence and you’re starting to think his anger and your weirdness had been hunger in disguise. Like small children, you just needed to be fed. At some point, he tries to convince you to sleep for a while and you tell him to stop telling you what to do. It’s not a witty conversation for the ages but it restores a sense of normalcy inside the bubble you both exist in.

He turns the music up most of the way. The Impala cuts through the empty roads with a trail of guitar riffs following behind. Well, music and the rumble of the engine. If you were tired the combination might soothe you to sleep like it has before but all those hours stuck in that motel room felt like sleep, or sleepwalking. Even as it reaches the early hours of the morning you don’t close your eyes. You don’t want to miss a single mile marker.

About half an hour out of Lebanon is when Dean starts to get, well, twitchy.

First, it’s just his fingers. His index finger taps the steering wheel, annoyingly out of time to the song. It’s after four am though and he’s been on the road almost twenty-four hours at this point. You kindly ignore it no matter how annoying it is.

Then it’s these little noises he starts making. If you could squint with your ears then it might sound like the lyrics to a song. The kind of noise people make when they’re singing along and then they hit the second verse. Word adjacent noises. It’s just, again, not what the particular song playing sounds like.

You’re forgiving of these annoying ticks he’s apparently developed. Because that’s what you’re supposed to do at Christmas, or so the songs and TV specials tell you. Forgive and forget. Peace on earth. No matter how much you want to punch him in the arm and tell him to shut up, you probably shouldn’t.

Besides he’s just gone to extraordinary lengths to bring you home. Literally.

Finally, you reach a breaking point. His body seems to hum with broken energy when the sign for Lebanon shines under the headlights. You actually turn your head away from the window to look at him with a wary eye, like he’s a ticking time bomb.

“You doing ok over there?” the reference to his distance, all the way on the other side of the car, is more for your own benefit. Maybe the explosion won’t reach you.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be? I’m fine. What about you?”

Maybe he drank too much coffee. He’s been driving too long too. Or as much as he loves his Baby maybe he’s been trapped in her too long.

And all of these are still your fault.

“I’m good. Think I’ll catch a few hours once we get in. We might even get four hours in our own beds.” You let your forehead fall back against the cold glass hoping that the promise of his memory foam is enough to chill him out.

It isn’t. When you reach the familiar stretch of road when the bunker is hidden he pulls in but puts the car in park outside the bunker door. It’s not unheard of for him to leave her there if he’s planning on driving early in the morning but you’d have thought after an entire day that he wasn't going anywhere else for a while.

Whatever. His car, his rules. As you get out and start towards the bunker door he half jogs in front of you, “let me just get that for you.” His words make it seem like he’s going to, weirdly, hold the door open for you. What he actually does is push in front of you only to open just enough for him to stick his head through first. His whole body relaxes with whatever he sees and then he finally pushes the door all the way open.

The bunker is empty, quiet, only the hum of the electrics but that’s just white noise. It’s what you’d expect at almost four in the morning. It’s so absolutely ordinary that it only serves to make Dean seem even more certifiable.

“OK weirdo. I’m going to go sleep for a little while. Please don’t take any more of whatever crazy you’ve been dosing.

You’d fallen asleep easily. It hadn’t felt like you’d resisted being tired in the car but as soon as your head hits the pillow you felt cozier than you had in your blanket cocoon at the motel. Now that you’ve woken up you feel bleary and disorientated, the kind of muddiness you haven’t felt since you were a child where you sleep so deep that don’t know what day it is. How long have you slept for? Was it an hour or a day?

A quick glance at your phone tells you it’s just after 8 am so you haven’t actually slept through the apocalypse.

You’re slow to get out of bed and your movements are still sluggish when you do. For all of the build-up, for it being the reason Dean came to get you, Christmas is the last thing on your mind. Instead, you pinball your way around your room looking for one thing after another. Hairbrush, thicker socks, a sweatshirt, before you wander casually to the bathroom to brush your teeth.

It’s a normal Sunday until you finally step into the library. Sam is sitting with Jack on the sofa stringing popcorn and telling Jack to stop eating it before he has to pop another bag. Which tell you they’ve probably already on bag number two. There’s this tree that’s maybe three foot with nothing but a string of Christmas lights wrapped around it. It’s both tired looking but also heartwarming somehow.

You wander over to lean on the back of the sofa, dipping your hand into the popcorn bowl yourself and grinning at Sam as you do. “Merry Christmas guys.”

“Y/N! Dean said you wouldn’t be awake for a while. We haven’t finished decorating.”

“And we never will if people,” he pointedly stares at you, “keep eating the decorations.”

You throw a piece at Sam at watch with glee as it gets caught in his hair, “so what if I’m awake, can’t I help?”

Jack’s brow creases worriedly, “no, this is supposed to be a surprise.” Sam glares at him like Jack has revealed a secret and Jack seems to realize his mistake, “sorry I forgot,” he apologizes to Sam and then looks at you with a face that could melt an ice queen. “Merry Christmas Y/N.”

If he thinks wishing you a Merry Christmas is enough to distract you from the fact that apparently everyone in the bunker has been sniffing glue, then he’s right. Or at least you’re not caffeinated enough to investigate yet. You’d be back with coffee though, they could count on it.

As you walk into the kitchen you’re apparently mistaken for someone else but in Dean’s defense, he’s not looking at you while he flips pancakes. “Did you get the potatoes Cas?”

The only rational thing to do is lower your voice as low as possible and answer him with your best Batman impression, “I’m sorry Dean, they were all out of potatoes.”

You get your first gift of the day when he spins around so fast that he’s probably given himself whiplash, “Y/N?”

Once he’s confirmed it’s you with a brief visual inspection his face quickly cycles through annoyance and defeat before he settles into a warm smile, “morning.”

“What’s going on with your little helpers in there?” You wander towards the coffee pot as you ask, sounding only vaguely interested in an attempt to trick the information out of him.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” The hand not holding coffee rests on your hip, “because the littlest elf said something about a surprise and the much taller one gave him the look.”

You're watching Dean closely for the moment that he cracks. At first, you think it might not happen, he goes back to flipping pancakes nonchalantly. For a moment you wonder if you’re the crazy one because he’s that convincing. And then the word 'surprise' comes out of your mouth which makes his shoulders slump his head falls forward with a sad flop.

“I knew those idiots wouldn’t be able to keep their mouths shut.”

“To be fair Sam’s mouth was shut, it’s Jack, sweet and innocent cannot tell a lie Jack, that gave the game away. Come on, spill it.” You close the gap between you. Nothing to do with being near him. You like to be near the pancakes, and you have every intention of jabbing him in the arm until he tells you what's going on.

The secret is going to be some funny joke. Or a game. It’s not going to be a real thing. That’s why you keep rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet, impatiently waiting. It’s why you hum annoyingly and whine, “come on. Tell me.”

He very slowly puts the spatula down only to pinch the bridge of his nose, “the surprise is Christmas.” The confession comes out of him as more of a groan than words.

You still don’t understand what you’re missing here. “Christmas isn’t a surprise. It’s kind of this day every year.”

Another groan. You know he hates when you’re pedantic. He hates when Sam’s pedantic too but for some reason, you manage to tick him off that much easier. “I know.”

“So, it can’t be a surprise.”

“You said you wanted to do Christmas again so surprise we’re doing a Winchester family Christmas. My mom will be here later and there’s a ham in the oven and why do you think I drove eight hundred miles each way to pick you up yesterday?”

He makes some excellent points but you can’t make sense of them over the pounding in your ears. It takes a full minute before you realize it’s your own heart beating against your ribcage.

“I’m not a Winchester.”

“You’re as good as.” He answers quickly and sure of himself.

“A family Christmas?”

“You haven’t had one since you were a kid. We don’t exactly go caroling but we’ll eat.” A pancake is burning on the stove top but neither of you reacts. He’s turned his body towards you and you can’t stop looking at him, waiting for the punchline.

“You came to get me for Christmas?”

He nods, soft, slowly, “I’d do it again. Anytime, sweetheart.”

Your lips part if only a little. All the better to breathe and remember yourself. All the better to wake up from whatever dream you’re still having. Although, if it’s a dream…

You push yourself up onto the tips of your toes and press your lips to his. It’s quick and short. A second, maybe less, of feeling your mouth against his and then you fall backward, staring up at him with wide eyes. Shocked at your own behavior. The kiss is so chaste it could be familial, that’s what you’ll try to convince him off if you’ve misread this anyway, but then Dean stares at you like he’s forgotten his own name.

“I thought you were supposed to wait for the mistletoe?” Jack interrupts from the doorway.

Part Thee - Epilogue (coming 12/23)

5eva tags: @divadinag @darthdeziewok @fluentinfiction @witch-of-letters @supernatural-teamfreewillpage Dean babes: @thewinchesterchronicles @akshi8278